The warm sun emerged over the top of the hill. Its warm rays stretched across the field, drying the dew. As if on cue, the rooster roared out a loud “COCK-A-DOODLE-DOOOOO!” summoning Farmer Joe out bed. He stumbled through the screen door in dusty work boots, boxers, and white tank. His long hair was disheveled and as he slumped into the rickety, porch rocking chair, he guzzled down 3 beers in a matter of seconds. Farmer Joe closed his eyes and let the warm sunrays wash over his skin, hoping it would subdue his hangover. As he was starting to drift back into dreamland, his wife, Myrna, came busting through the screen door. With a screeching “YEEEHAWWW” she karate kicked the door open, yielded a rifle up to her shoulder, and fired a round into the open yard. Myrna was dressed in some cutoff jean shorts, the left side longer than the right, a pink camo sleeveless shirt, and work boots. She had an athletic build and stood on the porch with a lit …show more content…
They hopped out of the truck and went straight to the bar. Farmer Joe and Myrna drank with the other locals; they put down shot after shot and chased them with beer. After a couple of hours, Myrna was throwing her drunken limbs about on the “dance floor” and Farmer Joe is shouting “Country girl, shake it for me!” Hearing this, Myrna is infuriated by her husband’s sexist comment. In her rage, Myrna threw Farmer Joe across a table, stormed out to the truck, and left him at the bar. Several hours later, Farmer Joe stumbles home with a ripped shirt and no hat to find himself locked out of his house. The house was dark, but Farmer Joe knew that Myrna was still awake. Therefore, he bent down to collect some pebble. After falling on the ground a few times, he decided that he had enough pebbles and began tossing them at their bedroom window. As the pebbles gently tapped against the window he sang, in the words of Taylor
The Horror story of “Diary Of A Haunting” was written by M. Verano. The main character is Paige. Paige is very capable of what she believes in. She also is very strong and fearless and curious about what is going on in her house. The theme of my book is “If You Have Something To Say, Say It.” I believe that Paige knew something was going on, but she was too afraid to say it because she was soon to know if her family would think shes crazy. Since she didn't say anything things got worse. I believe it is important to speak up if your know that something is wrong.
The Haunting of Hill House is a gothic horror novel written by Shirley Jackson. Supernatural occurrences take place within the house revolving around Eleanor. Eleanor is a thirty-two-year-old woman who never once has felt the sense of inclusion. Eleanor seems to never recall the feeling of delight in her adult years due to the fact that she was a caretaker for her now deceased Mother; who took away most of her freedom by being incredibly restrictive. Dr. Montague, a doctor that specializes in analysis of the supernatural rents Hill House, a supposedly haunted house. During the renting period, Dr. Montague begins an experiment inviting individuals who have had involvement in abnormal events
cold, harsh, wintry days, when my brothers and sister and I trudged home from school burdened down by the silence and frigidity of our long trek from the main road, down the hill to our shabby-looking house. More rundown than any of our classmates’ houses. In winter my mother’s riotous flowers would be absent, and the shack stood revealed for what it was. A gray, decaying...
The Haunting of Hill House written by Shirley Jackson, and Tony Burgess’ People Live Still in Cashtown Corners, are horror novels. Both evoke fear in readers in dissimilar ways. The Haunting of Hill House takes readers on an ominous journey that creates feelings of uneasiness, while Burgess’ novel has a direct approach to create fear, right from a rampant killer’s point of view. Despite the differing approaches on the classic genre, Jackson and Burgess demonstrate that horror stems from isolation. Isolation negatively affects mental health, which produces petrifying chaos and destruction of oneself and others.
The past few weeks had been hot, dry, and rainless. A drought. Rain had not fallen for three months. Though, despite the drought, the O’Leary family had been having an exceptional October. The O’Leary family consisted of Mrs. O’Leary, her husband and 5 children. Mr. O’Leary worked as a laborer, as Mrs. O’Leary kept with the cows and the children. The family was on welfare, but were livng pretty fair lives, and Mrs. O’Leary was selling fresh milk on the side. A small way to make some more money for her family.
The Amityville Horror The Amityville Horror House located at 112 Ocean Ave looks like an ordinary house, but on the inside lies the horrible events that took place early in the morning of November 13th, 1974, when Ronald DeFeo Jr shot and killed his entire family. DeFeo claims that voices in the house were telling him to kill his family. People in the town say that he was insane and had mental issues, which is their reasoning for why he killed his family. He was found guilty of six counts of second-degree murder.
It was a typical day until it happened. It Was a sunny day filled with warmth. The mesquites with their unpleasant stings woke me up. I was full of energy and felt like this morning is the best of all my mornings. That was probably because of how I hadn’t slept the day before and was tired. Opening the big window was first on my list. Getting breakfast was the second step and the most important step of all. Fresh eggs from my brown feathered hens were soft surrounded by goat cheese, and well cooked toast. Ordinarily,The place was mute. Only the sound of the wind shaking the old wood was heard. Living on this big plantation sometimes became boring. The indistinct voices of children playing in the distance are some of the only noises of people I hear. There was a battle going to happen tomorrow and therefore, I was trying to make this day a good one since it might be my last one. The day was going normally so far until someone came to my door. The guy rode horse and was very tired. It seemed as
Anyway, she had heard that a boy and his mother were moving into the neighborhood. "What fun," she thought. The locals were becoming used to her daily antics. What she didn't know, was that they would be moving into her wonderfully dilapidated house, to turn it into a cozy tearoom. If they had known it was more "Dilapidated," than "Wonderful," they probably would've chosen a different spot, but the man who they had bought it from had insisted, that with a little work it could certainly be converted into a beautiful tearoom fit for a queen. And sure enough, they came straight to her house and barged right in. Straight away the mother started to clean, and the boy began to make a fire, Right under t...
Reality fades to fancy as I open my front door. All that my hazel eyes can see is the neighbor’s back towards me, as the smell of his decaffeinated coffee drifts my way. Everyone is living the American dream with their imaginary white picket fence and their evenly cut lawn. I search for the blue scrunched up New York Times bag, but instead my hand grabs a clump of grass. I find the newspaper sprawled on the blacktop driveway wet and torn-the delivery guy has poor aim.
a dull grey colour as if it had lost the will to live and stopped
Over the years I have bought and collected all sorts of silly items to decorate my room. There are posters as tall as you stand, several black lights, and a bumping stereo that all give my room its unique style. Although my room is very small, it easily holds all the stuff I need to relax and feel right at home.
I attended a meeting at Borough of Manhattan Community College on Thursday, March 20, 2014 regarding Women’s Heritage History Month. The Workshop was sponsored by Marcus Dargan, Speech, Communication and Theater Arts Department. There was a panel of people debating the play, including Marcus Dargan who graduated from BMCC as a Theater major.
Sitting on the porch waiting for Michele, tall, southern, red haired and fiery, I have to do much needed laundry at her house where the wash is free and the dryers do not charge by the minute. I am down to my second and third wearing of jeans and socks are scarce so sandals in cool weather are necessary. Basking in the delicious intoxicating sunlight, this is one day in the unusually cold Florida February that my toes are not blue and numb from wearing sandals. I rest my twenty-two-year-old English filled head against the siding on the porch and wonder; “Does it get any better then this?”
In small town Carbondale, Kansas sits a little three bedroom ranch style home eight houses north of the Santa Fe Trail Middle School. For many years this house was filled with life but now lies there silent, lonely, and abandoned longing for the return of the pitter-patter of children’s feet running through its halls. What was once known as the house with the artwork on the garage now blends with every other house on the block. It’s amazing how a house that was so hated for so many years could now be missed.
It was a crisp Spring Saturday afternoon in Pictured Rocks, Munising Michigan. The trees were budding, the birds were chirping. We arrive at camp, unload the quad from the truck. We put our gear into the log cabin right in the middle of nowhere. Cj, a wild, funny kid my age, and I, a adventurous, 14 year old kid, had to build a fire in the wood stove to warm the bitter cold cabin. Meanwhile our dads go for a walk around the cabin to check for animal or human invasions. Chris, a ambitious worker, and outdoor smart man, got the rods and bait. My dad, Tim, a jokey stream fisherman was in for a treat going to the big lake, got the drinks.