It was late and the house was silent. Tom came home from work late a lot, so the silence was expected. By this time, Marie was in bed and his dinner, the evening newspaper, and the mail were waiting for him on the table. Tom closed the door and walked down the short hall to the kitchen. Everything was set on the table. He quickly looked through the mail and went over to the bin to throw an unwanted advertisement away. Tom noticed a crumpled piece of his wife’s stationary inside. He picked it up and opened it. It read: My Dearest Tom, I’ve been a good wife; attentive, loving, dedicated. Even after the accident, I stayed with you because I thought I loved you. I did at first, but now loving you seems a very silly notion. I will be ending my live at ten-thirty. If you care to say goodbye, come to me at the Manhattan Bridge. Your wife, Marie Tom stared at the paper for a few seconds, dumbfounded. A thousand thoughts went through his mind. What is going on? Why was she planning to do this? He look quickly at his watch. It was 9:50. Tom grabbed his coat and left his apartment. “Sto...
Tom is a very ambitious person when it comes to his work. He is caught up in getting a promotion from work by doing a project. Tom just focuses on the “big picture,” which is his future, rather than the “small picture,” which is what his wife is doing. This trait changes at the end when he decides to go to the movies with his wife. When the paper flew out the window for the second time, he realized that he can do the paper over again but he can never take back that one specific night he could have spent with his wife.
She ignored all the deep breaths she was neglecting herself of and continued the story, which I thought would never end. “Of course the poor man handed the letter to me faster than a bullet. The envelope was spruced up with blue ink specked with ‘I’s’ dotted with hearts. And on the corner was a tiny lipstick stain that she kissed with the small lips of her. The servant hid it with his thumb, it made me furious. I practically ripped the envelope in half for what I can remember. My anger and pettiness got the hold of me- I read the first line- ‘Dear Tom, you ought to come visit me soon, I’ve been rather lonely in the last few weeks.’- I was absolutely furious. I threw the letter through the window, and off the balcony. I hoped it had floated on the bay and sunk deep down and dissolved like it was written on toilet
Mr. Pontellier was a very demanding, know it all, kind of man. He expected his wife Edna to come to him at every beck and call. He never let Edna make any decisions of her own. For example, Edna couldn’t sleep one night, so she grabbed a shawl and sat at on her porch for a few early morning hours while her husband slept. He awoke, without her beside him, and demanded that she come in and go to bed. Why couldn’t she stay out on that porch and dream of good thoughts? She was a very unhappy woman, and many nights, she would cry for hours about her unhappiness.
Crossing the porch where we had dined that June night three months before, I came across a small rectangle of light which I guessed was the pantry window. The blind was drawn, but I found a rift in the sill. Tom and Daisy were sitting across from one another at the kitchen table. They were engaged in a conversation.
“Bye kids make sure you have everything ready and on the table when we are back from the harvesting autumn day parade make sure you have applesauce for the baby alright bye love you make sure you don’t set the kitchen on fire.
Fourteen years later, twenty-three-year-old Jane was selling furniture at the Sitka market. Jane was on her way to go take out money from the local bank, on arrival she gave her name and soon discovered her parents had kept a safe deposit box. She was granted permission to look at its content. When she opened it papers tumbled out and landed on her feet. One stood out from the rest. It was the original deed to her parents
When looking back over her life, so far, she says not a bad life. Then again she’s not done yet and hopes to have another good ten years. I leave you with her life’s message.
One hot and sunny summer day, Juan and Emily were walking down a forest path near Mr. and Mrs. Delgado’s house. Welvin, the mail boy, passed by on his bike and threw a letter with a big red stamp at Mr. and Mrs. Delgado’s yard. Juan knew this usually didn't happen unless it was for a very important reason. After that Juan and Emily took a bus back to their house and as they were on their way, they passed by Bill’s trailer and noticed that Isabel and Carlos were also there and decided to get off there to have a conversation and tell them that Mr. and Mrs. Delgado had gotten an unusual letter.
David staggers into the kitchen of the old wooden home where his wife is washing the dishes. As she scrubs a pot he can see that she is raw with exhaustion and jittery with coffee. David holds the letter out to his wife, not wanting to meet her eyes. He stammers that it’s time to move and sell the farm, ashamed that there is no other option. When his wife lifts her head from the notice, the turmoil he was feeling was not reflected in her face.
Synopsis: We open on ALEX THIRIET as he begins his monumental journey, his first onlooker stares on in awe as he jogs down a Parisian Highway. Credits roll over a montage sequence— Alex and his mother have been running together for his whole life. We cut to an office in a New York High Rise. Alex meets with the CEO ANDRÉ SILVA. While the details of this legal conflict are somewhat cryptic to an outsider, one thing is clear; Alex is here to put the final nail in the coffin of Mr. Silva’s career, while his boss/father ARTHUR THIRIET, proudly watches.
The Elizabethans thought of it merely as "a wittie and pleasant comedie" ; Samuel Johnson remarked that "all the editors have concurred to censure [it]" ; and William Hazlitt opined, "If we were to part with any of the author's comedies, it should be this." It was not until well into the twentieth century that Love's Labour's Lost really came into its own, and this fact alone may be enough to make a case for it as Shakespeare's most forward-looking play. It is its ending in particular, an unexpectedly grim conclusion in which nothing is actually concluded, that has appealed to modern sensibilities and made Love's Labour's Lost the Shakespeare play for the twentieth century. Trevor Nunn makes this point emphatically in a recent National Theatre production that presents Love's Labour's Lost as a tale of society's passage out of the nineteenth century in the devastation of World War I. Though neither this idea nor any other aspect of his production is entirely novel, it emerges as possibly the darkest interpretation of the play yet presented, taking the disturbing qualities that have so delighted modern audiences and pressing them to their limits and beyond.
I wearily drag myself away from the silken violet comforter and slump out into the living room. The green and red print of our family’s southwestern style couch streaks boldly against the deep blues of the opposing sitting chairs, calling me to it. Of course I oblige the billowy haven, roughly plopping down and curling into the cushions, ignoring the faint smell of smoke that clings to the fabric. My focus fades in and out for a while, allowing my mind to relax and unwind from any treacherous dreams of the pervious night, until I hear the telltale creak of door hinges. My eyes flutter lightly open to see my Father dressed in smart brown slacks and a deep earthy t-shirt, his graying hair and beard neatly comber into order. He places his appointment book and hair products in a bag near the door signaling the rapid approaching time of departure. Soon he is parading out the door with ever-fading whispers of ‘I love you kid,’ and ‘be good.’
She slammed the door behind her. Her face was hot as she grabbed her new perfume and flung it forcefully against the wall. That was the perfume that he had bought for her. She didn't want it anymore. His voice coaxed from the other side of the door. She shouted at him to get away. Throwing herself on the bed and covering her face with one of his shirts, she cried. His voice coaxed constantly, saying Carol, let me in. Let me explain.' She shouted out no!' Then cried some more. Time passed with each sob she made. When she caught herself, there was no sound on the other side of the door. A long silence stood between her and the door. Maybe she had been too hard on him, she thought. Maybe he really had a good explanation. She hesitated before she walked toward the door and twisted the handle. Her heart was crying out to her at this moment. He wasn't there. She called out his name. "Thomas!" Her cries were interrupted by the revving of an engine in the garage. She made it to the window in time to see his Volvo back out the yard. "Thomas! Thomas....wait!" Her cries vanished into thin air as the Volvo disappeared around the bend. Carol grew really angry all of a sudden. How could he leave? He'll sleep on the couch when he gets back. Those were her thoughts.
Mrs. Park’s parents died in a car accident while she was in her last year of college. When her husband died after five years of marriage, she couldn’t give her heart to anyone else however she had a daughter to raises. This house, she grew up in and later raised her family in. Mrs. Park and Jane were realtors until her daughter married and moved away to start a furniture store with Bill. She wasn’t disappointed that her daughter was too busy to come visit because she received a call or a letter from her daughter every week. But she did confess once that
As usual I woke up to the sound of my father pounding on my bedroom door, hollering, “Get up! Get on your feet! You’re burning daylight!” I met my brother in the hallway, and we took our time making it down the stairs, still waking up from last night’s sleep. As we made our way to the kitchen, I thought about what to have for breakfast: fried eggs, pancakes, an omelet, or maybe just some cereal. I started to get hungry. As usual, mom and dad were waiting in the kitchen. Mom was ready to cook whatever we could all agree on, and dad was sitting at the table watching the news. The conversation went as usual, “Good morning.” “How are you today?”