I awakened to the echoes of a million bullets hitting the ground. Fascinated and enchanted, I stood as the cold drops danced in the air and the fog covered the nearby buildings. It complemented the faint, city noise. I walked to my opened window as the crisp October air welcomed me with a grin. Raindrops fell from the dreary sky. It hadn’t rained in Lourdes for one hundred years. The drops of water tickled my nose for the first time as the golden sun threatened to tear into the gloomy, pillow-like clouds. Why would the government keep us from this? The weather control prevented rain, snow, or any weather without fail for one hundred years. For some reason, the rain help me feel at peace. I marched downstairs and out the door in my government issued night clothes toward my best friend, Wren’s, house. On the way there I heard a muffled cry near the bushes, behind her house. The leaves cracked and rattled as Wren threw a ball of paper at me.
“I thought that if I forgot about it, it would just go away,” Wren cried. “I guess I was wrong,” I uncrumpled the thick, letter and read it. The letter from Governor Cinder stated that Wren had been chosen to be part of the The Cure. The same operation my brother, Dante, died from two years ago. The Cure is a vaccine designed to help people live longer and be healthier. Those who recently turned
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Then, they deleted my records. Aspyn Birch: deceased. I thought there was a ninety percent death rate. Why are they saying I’m dead? A machine then directed me to a cube-like cell with completely white walls and tiles. Suddenly, a medic wearing a green scrub walked in carrying a single syringe on a metal tray. The needle that could end my life. The medic saw me eyeing the needle, my hands shaking. “Don’t worry, you’ll be okay. I promise,” he assured me as he injected the needle into my arm. I felt my consciousness fading away and my mind shut down. Am I
Gasping. Fresh air fills your chest. Scaldingly cold. Opening your eyes, a blinding white room occupies your vision. Again. A profluent voice issues into your head, “You have been revived by your loving government. You have experienced a near death experience. Please remember than intentional deletion is not permitted in Australia. If you wish to be deleted, please present your application to a local branch.” Slowly, you heave your new body off a coroner’s table. The world sways slightly. Fixer drugs do that to you. Wandering through a hallway filled with debris, you reach the high arcing front door. Barely impressive anymore, you pass under the crumbling masonry without a second glance. On the street, the soft cascades of a thousand footfalls
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...
Healing A Wounded Heart by William Orem story starts by, telling readers what happened during a quiet summer evening in 1893 and what happened right before Dr. Daniel conducted the surgery. While the story by K12 book, tells about the second year of the civil war in 1862 and why Dr.Daniel working at a hospital was special during this time. Daniel Hale Williams and Freedman’s Hospital By K12, gives readers more information on how he changed medical care. “One reason was that Dr. Williams insisted on cleanliness in the hospital. The operating rooms were scrubbed with antiseptic to kill germs and bacteria before each procedure. The staff was required to change their outside clothes and wear freshly cleaned clothes while at work in the hospital.
In the film 28 Days, Sandra Bullock plays Gwen, a troubled alcohol and drug addict, who is required to complete 28 days in rehab or prison time after a troubled incident under intoxication. With prison being a choice nobody wants to take, Gwen chooses rehab in order to help herself stay out of prison and attempt to relieve herself from her addictions. Throughout her time in rehab, film viewers can understand a type of drug treatment program an addict can go through. In the film, the program features a way for addicts to change whether in the end they succeed or fail and have to try again.
Baym, Nina, Arnold Krupat, Robert S. Levine, and Jeanne Campbell Reesman. "The Storm." The Norton Anthology of American Literature. 8th ed. Vol. C. New York, NY: Norton, 2012. 557-61. Print.
In the midst of a gentle rain while these thoughts prevailed, I was suddenly sensible of such sweet and beneficent society in Nature, in the very pattering of the drops, and in every sound and sight around my house, an infinite and unaccountable friendliness all at once like an atmosphere sustaining me, as made the fancied advantages of human neighborhood insignificant, and I have never thought of them since. Every little pine needle expanded and swelled with sympathy and befriended me. (88-89)
I peered around through the rain, desperately searching for some shelter, I was drowning out here. The trouble was, I wasn’t in the best part of town, and in fact it was more than a little dodgy. I know this is my home turf but even I had to be careful. At least I seemed to be the only one out here on such an awful night. The rain was so powerfully loud I couldn’t hear should anyone try and creep up on me. I also couldn’t see very far with the rain so heavy and of course there were no street lights, they’d been broken long ago. The one place I knew I could safely enter was the church, so I dashed.
A shrill cry echoed in the mist. I ducked, looking for a sign of movement. The heavy fog and cold storm provided nothing but a blanket, smothering all sight and creating a humid atmosphere. The freezing air continued to whip at my face, relentless and powerful. Our boat, stuck in the boggy water. Again a cry called. Somewhere out there was someone, or something.
As an exploration into the ways shamanism is shown in movies and dramas along with comparing and contrasting how shamans are shown based on gender and time period, three pictures have been chosen. The Wailing, a movie, involves a male shaman in a modern time period in the countryside of South Korea (Suh). Secret Healer, a historical drama, centers around shamans who help the queen conceive children as well as try to help take care of one of the children who is cursed due to black magic (Suh). How pop culture depicts shamans today and in the past provides insight into whether or not Koreans think the average person would believe in shamans and how shamanism is viewed in their minds. Beginning with The Wailing, the film is not a positive depiction of shamans.
The Medicine Man The film “Medicine Man” gives a very clear indication of the consequences of habitat destruction. In the film, a professor and his research assistant set out to find a plant that holds the cure for cancer, only to have it destroyed by land clearing in the Amazon Basin. The land clearing also severely disrupts the peaceful, sustainable lifestyle of a tribe of natives and a huge amount of flora and fauna. It shows us the damage we wrought with our deforestation on a slightly exaggerated, nut no less effective scale.
It had been reported that, “Numerous people have told of hearing their doctors or other spectators in effect pronounce them dead” (Moody Jr, MD, 2015, p. 17). This is an out of body experience. Each reported feelings of peace and quiet, which transitioned into a bad buzzing noise. After proceeding through a tunnel, they have an “encounter with a very bright light” (Moody Jr, MD, 2015, p. 51). Questions resound around a reflection of their life, what they had learned during it, and if it was worth it. Invariably, each of the subjects’ encounter a border at which they are told they need to go back. “Considering the skepticism and lack of understanding that greet the attempt of a person to discuss his near-death experience, it is not surprising that almost everyone in this situation comes to feel that he is unique, that no one else has ever undergone what he has” (Moody Jr, MD, 2015, p. 83). Naturally, the outcome of this experience has an effect on the lives of those experiencing it.
I was the first person to ski off of the chairlift that day; arriving at the summit of the Blackcomb Mountain, nestled in the heart of Whistler, Canada. It was the type of day when the clouds seemed to blanket the sky, leaving no clue that the sun, with its powerful light, even existed anymore. It was not snowing, but judging by the moist, musty, stale scent in the air, I realized it would be only a short time before the white flakes overtook the mountain. As I prepared myself to make the first run, I took a moment to appreciate my surroundings. Somehow things seemed much different up here. The wind, nonexistent at the bottom, began to gust. Its cold bite found my nose and froze my toes. Its quick and sudden swirling movement kicked loose snow into my face, forcing me to zip my jacket over my chin. It is strange how the gray clouds, which seemed so far above me at the bottom, really did not appear that high anymore. As I gazed out over the landscape, the city below seemed unrecognizable. The enormous buildings which I had driven past earlier looked like dollhouses a child migh...
When one fells lost, every drops of the rain fall to the ground like the sound of a sigh. In fact, those idle thoughts are not unwarranted, all those boundless assumptions which look like mental patients’ action are not insane； they’re caused by unheard and lonely. Because of lonely, it dresses the rain a cloth of cold and
I slowly trudged up the road towards the farm. The country road was dusty, and quiet except for the occasional passing vehicle. Only the clear, burbling sound of a wren’s birdsong sporadically broke the boredom. A faded sign flapped lethargically against the gate. On it, a big black and white cow stood over the words “Bent Rail Farm”. The sign needed fresh paint, and one of its hinges was broken. Suddenly, the distant roar of an engine shattered the stillness of that Friday afternoon. Big tires speeding over gravel pelted small stones in all directions. The truck stopped in front of the red-brick farmhouse with the green door and shutters. It was the large milking truck that stopped by every Friday afternoon. I leisurely passed by fields of corn, wheat, barley, and strawberries. The fields stretched from the gradient hills to the snowy mountains. The blasting wind blew like a bellowing blizzard. A river cut through the hilly panorama. The river ubiquitously flowed from tranquil to tempestuous water. Raging river rapids rushed recklessly into rocks ricocheting and rebounding relentlessly through this rigorous river. Leaves danced with the wind as I looked around the valley. The sun was trapped by smoky, and soggy clouds.
The sunset was not spectacular that day. The vivid ruby and tangerine streaks that so often caressed the blue brow of the sky were sleeping, hidden behind the heavy mists. There are some days when the sunlight seems to dance, to weave and frolic with tongues of fire between the blades of grass. Not on that day. That evening, the yellow light was sickly. It diffused softly through the gray curtains with a shrouded light that just failed to illuminate. High up in the treetops, the leaves swayed, but on the ground, the grass was silent, limp and unmoving. The sun set and the earth waited.