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A narrative about a christmas tradition
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A narrative about a christmas tradition
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Blissful Thinking
The sun had begun to risen, the sun's radiant beams of light glimmering along the dainty snowflakes swirling throughout the chilling air outside. The sunlight directly basked along Luciel’s sleeping figure, his silky covers surrounding his frame. A deafening sound could be heard on his bedside table, erratic beeping could be heard from a small round clock beside him in the shade of a blue pigment. Luciel groans in annoyance of the ringing slowly encompassing the small clock in his pale fingers, quickly pressing the off button with his ring finger silencing the noise.
After placing the clock back down Luciel exhaled sharply, he sits up on his mattress his eyes glancing around the room taking in his surroundings but
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The girl’s cheeks flourished with a soft pink pigment matching her dress almost entirely.
“I-I mean what’s your name miss?” his voice shaky trying to regain his comfort.
“It’s Mc, oh and thank you for the compliment Luciel.” Her beautiful smile was seen again but slightly faded seeing Jumin enter the room his suit fixated perfectly. He seemed to glow under the light of the chandelier. “Ugh, he always had to be the center of attention,” luciel had heard Mc’s thoughts once again his eyes glancing at the her head.
“Welcome you two! To my Christmas at my estate!” His deep bt velvety voice seemed to rang out, Luciel didn’t care much for the broad entrance but only glared at Jumin’s cat in his arms. Her name was Elizabeth the III a white persian cat, with bright blue eyes. The cat’s collar was filled with diamonds glimmering brightly. That cat was always pampered and spoiled rotten.
Jumin made haste over to the two sitting on a plush cream colored couch, “can he put me down already?” the cat’s thoughts were heard in Luciel’s head. What is happening to
It has been too long since I last wrote to you, so I thought I would inform you on momentous events that happened in my life in the last little while. The previous time I heard from you was when Gabriel turned three. I can’t believe he is about to become a teenager now. My goodness, time flies by so fast. I was so ecstatic when I saw your prior letter arrive in my mail.
Oh dear! I can't believe what I just did, it was so hilarious, I hope
I also don't own the idea, it was requested to me by the wonderful Amanda. Thank you so much! I hope I did this idea justice.
At the same time: Snap-Whoosh-Growl-Snap-Whoosh-Growl! Return with a fierceness, causing the rest of the men to separate into two groups with some moving to the left in search of the origin of the beastly sounds and the others moving to the right, combining their numbers with those searching for their missing brethren, while Gottlieb stays behind.
The fourth was furnished and lighted with orange—the fifth with white—the sixth with violet. The seventh apartment was closely shrouded in black velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the walls, falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the same material and hue. But in this chamber only, the colour of the windows failed to correspond with the decorations. Its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their performance, to harken to the sound; and thus the wal gay company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused revery or meditation.
Names Holden Caulfield, grew up in NYC. But I have an idea, how bout we skip the part where you pretend you actually care about that stuff. Just know this, it’s my senior year and this would be my 8th school I’ve been too. You’d think, and hope, that maybe the reason I’ve been to so many schools is because of better reasons than being kicked out. But no, there’s no other reason, so how about we pass the part where you judge me and pretend to feel so sorry, especially because I really don’t feel like talking about it.
We’re halfway through the show and we’re about to sing “Little Things” and I get this idea. “To make this song even more special, we’ll each pick one of you to come up here with us.” After I finish the room goes insane and the lads look confused. So the band starts to play and we begin to look. Zayn and Harry were the first to find their girls in the first row, but Louis, Liam, and I took our time. This was my perfect move to find her and I know where she sits. When I was holding those small hands her bracelet said “Row K Seat 3”, so that’s where I’m looking. “Niall what’s taking so long it’s not like you’re looking for the one.” Harry joked and the crowd went wild. But I am, there’s something about her that makes me crazy. “I found her.” I reach out for
You spy with your possibly (or-possibly-not-so) little eye, a YOUNG MAN who happens to be asleep at the moment. The CLOCK that stands next to this man’s bed has just struck twelve, though whether it’s the night or the afternoon, the clock doesn’t bother with. It’s job is simply to tell the time and it feels that it’s doing that just fine enough for now. But the beams of sunlight shining through the window solve this problem for you. This young man should’ve been awake hours ago, it seems.
Dramatic Monologues The dramatic monologue features a speaker talking to a silent listener about a dramatic event or experience. The use of this technique affords the reader an intimate knowledge of the speaker's changing thoughts and feelings. In a sense, the poet brings the reader inside the mind of the speaker. (Glenn Everett online) Like a sculpturer pressing clay to form a man, a writer can create a persona with words. Every stroke of his hand becomes his or her own style, slowly creating this stone image.
I awoke early this morning under the most curious of circumstances, the events of which I shall relay to you now. As you know, my partner Quill Stonedew and I have heard reports of poachers ensnaring the sacred unicorns indigenous to the beloved forests of Corelle. So, as a ranger, and sworn protector of the forest, I hatched a plan to catch a few of these lowly menaces red handed. With Quill's help, I set up a fair number of traps scattered throughout the forest. Nothing lethal, of course. Just a series of ropes and pulleys, to create snares. We got to work quickly, and were able to lay all our traps in less than two days. Our traps are sturdy, and if activated, the snares would lift the poachers high into the trees. Any hope the poachers may have of escaping would prove impossible. Because these traps were intended to catch the abysmal poachers, not innocent animals, we took care to place the devices where we knew the unicorns were not likely to tread.
All that could be heard was the distant wail of an ambulance siren, which rent the bitter evening air like a butcher’s knife through a carcass. It would’ve been hard to believe that only minutes ago the place had been alive with crowds and commotion and excitement; for now it stood empty. It seemed that time itself had stopped: that every clock, timepiece, wristwatch in the world had ceased to tick.
This passage represents the cat as the family’s pet. Instead of referring the animal to “cat”, they instead refer it
It was a warm midsummer's day in a small village just outside of Wales. The village was quaint with not even a hundred people. Like any small village everyone knew everyone and things never changed. Everything remained the same from the crops grown to the people who lived there, except for one man. His name was Nathaniel Daly.
Faint, distant voices echo through the dense, plastered walls. Only seconds later, I hear the ear-splitting clamor, resonating from my jet-black alarm clock. Twisting and turning around, fighting my way through the entangling satin sheets, I find my way to the source of the bellowing sound, and then I clumsily hit the snooze button. Eight peaceful minutes pass until the same obnoxious sound calls out again. This time, I willfully hit the tiny, round off button. Stretching my stiff arms towards the stars, and yawning like a bear after waking from a long, deep hibernation, I stumble out of bed and put my fuzzy, red and black ladybug slippers on my tired, cold feet. A look of horror appears on my face when I see my frazzled hair in a far away mirror. Regaining my composure, I continue onward to the subdued, vacant bathroom, to get ready for another unpredictable, manic Monday.
When discussing the poetic form of dramatic monologue it is rare that it is not associated with and its usage attributed to the poet Robert Browning. Robert Browning has been considered the master of the dramatic monologue. Although some critics are skeptical of his invention of the form, for dramatic monologue is evidenced in poetry preceding Browning, it is believed that his extensive and varied use of the dramatic monologue has significantly contributed to the form and has had an enormous impact on modern poetry. "The dramatic monologues of Robert Browning represent the most significant use of the form in postromantic poetry" (Preminger and Brogan 799). The dramatic monologue as we understand it today "is a lyric poem in which the speaker addresses a silent listener, revealing himself in the context of a dramatic situation" (Murfin 97). "The character is speaking to an identifiable but silent listener at a dramatic moment in the speaker's life. The circumstances surrounding the conversation, one side which we "hear" as the dramatic monologue, are made by clear implication, and an insight into the character of the speaker may result" (Holman and Harmon 152).