Through the hazy panes of the car, my eyes squint through the screens brightened by ancient bulbs of warm familiar light.Within the house I spot grandma, in her tiny delicate frame, hobbling towards the kitchen whilst her husband sat with his back against the wall, captivated by the tv screen.Alongside the house lay the cherry blossoms, hanging low in the breeze of the dusk of day, floating almost like miniature parachutes towards glacial grounds.The trees appeared much more frailer than I recalled.Yume’s large radiant eyes look out from the misty car window and points to the archaic tree with intrigue.
I recall the time when we had dug up the damp soil of our lawn to plant the cherry blossom.
“The blossom,” Grandpa murmured “will be the focus of your wandering compass, a location where you can always come back to”.The smooth texture of the soil fell through the gaps of my fingers, the rich loam had smelt pungently of fertility. “We will strengthen it with our love,”Grandpa reassured. “It’ll grow,just like you, I promise.”His eyes glimmered with certainty
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“I will not allow this!” he
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...
It was a spring afternoon in West Florida. Janie had spent most of the day under a blossoming pear tree in the back-yard. She had been spending every minute that she could steal from her chores under that tree for the last three days. That was to say, ever since the first tiny bloom had opened. It had called her to come and gaze on a mystery. From barren brown stems to glistening leaf-buds; from the leaf-buds to snowy virginity of bloom. It stirred her tremendously. How? Why? It was like a flute song forgotten in another existence and remembered again.
Was Eleanor mentally healthy or unhealthy? In the book The Haunting of Hill House, written by Shirley Jackson, the main character was Eleanor Vance. She was a 32-year-old woman that showed signs that she was mentally unhealthy. After receiving an invitation to stay at Hill House from Dr. Montague, a stranger to Eleanor and the rest of the invited guests, she made the carefree decision to accept the invitation to the comfortable country home (2). She felt as though Hill House was her calling, even though she had never laid eyes on the property and had no knowledge of what to expect. There was no way to know if the doctor could have been a psychopath that wanted Eleanor for some crazed morbid “experiment,” yet she had
The first thing I thought about after finishing the story was how routine the old woman’s trip to town was. The walk is described as a long dreaded walk through countless fields and an endless line of forest trees. In describing her routine I will point the different quotes and given situations that made me see a link to our societies circle of life. Her innocence can be seen as the representation of a child. As she walks she bends over and sips from a nearby stream she sensed, “sweet-gum makes the water taste sweet”. (A Worn Path, 1276) Here her curiosity also shows a strong relation between the child-old woman analogies.
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.
Filban said the home had a yard that was overgrown. “The trees and bushes were overgrown, and the house was dark,” Filban said. “And the windows were covered.” She and her sister slept in the front bedroom of the house. She remembers the bedroom having a large, floor-to-ceiling window. She said you could look out and see the wra...
“We walked through a high hallway into a bright rose-colored space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house” (7).
Shirley Jackson knows how to weave a very good story, and though there are no conclusions, this was still an immensely satisfying read that sent many a shiver down my spine. While we all need homes and family to get by, Eleanor seems unable to function in any situation outside of a home. She is unable to go out and make her own home, and, like a child, she requires the home of another person to shelter and protect her from the terrors that truly get under her skin, like the real world. So Hill House becomes an attractive alternative, a place to make a home. When the others make Eleanor leave the security of Hill House, fear is what ultimately drives her car into that tree. In the end, Eleanor becomes her own haunted house of fears.
Once one got nearer, the archway opened up until one could see the whole front of the house in a somehow eerie way. Around the windows grew ivy and creepers, twisting their way up to the roof in a claw like fashion. The windows themselves were sparkling clean, but the curtains were drawn in most of them, even though it was almost noon. The doors were of solid pieces of dark oak and the two windows above it seemed to give the whole house a rather formidable look.
In Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, he details virtues as a way to the greatest end, happiness. It is important, therefore, to understand what exactly virtue is and how to acquire virtue. Through his logic, Aristotle reveals that in order to acquire virtue, it must be practiced, like practicing an instrument in order to gain skill. However, one must practice the virtue correctly, so it must then be determined what each moral virtue is exactly. Aristotle understands moral virtue to be a mean, not an excess of a quality or a deficiency of a quality. In the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle describes two virtues in detail as a mean: courage and temperance.
Inside the nicely decorated room with taupe walls just the perfect hint of beige, lie colorful accessories with incredible stories waiting to be told. A spotless, uninteresting window hangs at the end of the room. Like a silent watchman observing all the mysterious characteristics of the area. The sheer white curtains cascade silently in the dim lethargic room. In the presence of this commotion, a sleepy, dormant, charming room sits waiting to be discovered. Just beyond the slightly pollen and dust laden screens, the sun struggles to peak around the edges of the darkness to cast a bright, enthusiastic beam of light into the world that lies beyond the spotless double panes of glass. Daylight casts a dazzling light on the various trees and flowers in the woods. The leaves of fall, showcasing colors of orange, red, and mustard radiate from the gold inviting sunshine on a cool fall day. A wonderful world comes to life outside the porthole. Colossal colors littered with, abundant number of birds preparing themselves for the long awaited venture south, and an old toad in search of the perfect log to fall asleep in for the winter.
a dull grey colour as if it had lost the will to live and stopped
The tree is very much like a queen, wearing its dress of leaves. I would not reach out and touch it—because it would be rude. At the shoulders of the tree—the branches fork off into three directions. The thick branches hold up more green leaves—the delicate kind—shaping the head of the tree like a mushroom. The tree resembles a green Queen Amadalia—young and bright. When I looked up at her, you see the sunlight reflect off her hair—the leaves—creating a peaceful glow. It blurs everything, however, and I had to stop looking. The wind does blow the leaves, but it is so lightly that you can barely tell. The fountain near by spurts out water in this direction.
On the edge of a small wood, an ancient tree sat hunched over, the gnarled, old king of a once vast domain that had long ago been turned to pasture. The great, gray knees gripped the hard earth with a solidity of purpose that made it difficult to determine just where the tree began and the soil ended, so strong was the union of the ancient bark and grainy sustenance. Many years had those roots known—years when the dry sands had shriveled the outer branches under a parched sun, years when the waters had risen up, drowning those same sands in the tears of unceasing time.
The last thing was when we were all in the garden and this was describing my childhood.