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More handpicked essays just for you.
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The Devil’s Playground
Slowly the snow drifted along the sidewalks and streets as he strolled down his own path. Following no particular way but his own, he traveled. Knowing not his destination but only his outcome. His ideas were changed, his beliefs were diminished to that of nothing and his perception of reality was turned upside down. All he knew now was himself and that of his tendencies. His own nature was the only real and raw thing that he was able to hang on to. A life of mistreatment and abuse, his last actions displayed his true feelings.
"I should have stopped you in the womb. When I had the chance I should have taken it. YOU, were my worst mistake."
"LEAVE! Nobody here wants you nobody here cares for you and there is no place for you. Hide yourself somewhere and do the world a favor."
His mother screamed constantly, shaming him to that of nothing but guilt of being alive. It was a common ritual in his OLD household. Then tonight, with the quick flick of a wrist and the glisten of rose red, the shaming ended. The guilt stopped. Then with two more quick and swift movements he finished off what was left to remind him of his past. What would have been witnesses were nothing more than cold and bludgeoned heaps.
Ryan lived on the outskirts of the city. Wandering from house to house throughout his childhood he knew not much of the meaning of family. His parents were constantly sending him to foster families for a few weeks at a time then taking him back, only to get a few more pleasurable meetings with him. He was unwanted by all but himself and ignorant to the idea of remorse. He always knew one day, he alone, could stop all his pain and all his suffering but he wasn’t concerned with that right now. In fact, the only things that crossed his mind were, "Right foot, Left foot." It was all he thought of and it was all he spoke of as he walked.
He carried the rose red razor in his right hand and his left was clenched tight. His knuckles as white as the snow that surrounded him. His pajama pants and white tee shirt were all he wore. No shoes to protect his feet from the harsh winter cold and snow and no hat to warm his freezing head.
He fig-ured that the normal half hour walk home might take as long as two hours in snow this deep. And then there was the wind and the cold to contend with. The wind was blowing across the river and up over the embankment making the snow it carried colder and wetter than the snow blanketing the ground. He would have to use every skill he’d learned, living in these hills, to complete the journey without getting lost, freezing to death, or at the very least ending up with a severe case of frostbite be-fore he made it back to Ruby.
Consequently, Andy’s soul withered further into hopelessness as each and every person who came to his rescue, turned their backs on him. Through a final desperate ambition, Andy broke free of the bonds that were pinning him down: “If it had not been for the jacket, he wouldn’t have been stabbed. The knife had not been plunged in hatred of Andy. The knife only hated the purple jacket. The jacket was a stupid, meaningless thing that was robbing him of his life. He lay struggling with the shiny wet jacket. Pain ripped fire across his body whenever he moved. But he squirmed and fought and twisted until one arm was free and the other. He rolled away from the jacket and layed quite still, breathing heavily, listening to the sound of his breathing and the sounds of rain and thinking: Rain is sweet, I’m Andy”. In these moments, Andy finally overcame his situation, only in a way not expected by most. Such depicted scenes are prime examples of human nature at it’s worst, as well as the horrors that lay within us. However, these events, although previously incomprehensible by his limited subconscious, led to a gradual enlightenment of the mind and heart. Furthermore, the experiences taught him
“It was a large, beautiful room, rich and picturesque in the soft, dim light which the maid had turned low. She went and stood at an open window and looked out upon the deep tangle of the garden below. All the mystery and witchery of the night seemed to have gathered there amid the perfumes and the dusky and tortuous outlines of flowers and foliage. She was seeking herself and finding herself in just such sweet half-darkness which met her moods. But the voices were not soothing that came to her from the darkness and the sky above and the stars. They jeered and sounded mourning notes without promise, devoid even of hope. She turned back into the room and began to walk to and fro, down its whole length, without stopping, without resting. She carried in her hands a thin handkerchief, which she tore into ribbons, rolled into a ball, and flung from her. Once she stopped, and taking off her wedding ring, flung it upon the carpet. When she saw it lying there she stamped her heel upon it, striving to crush it. But her small boot heel did not make an indenture, not a mark upon the glittering circlet.
An example of the cycle followed by her father, his father, and his father before him is told when Blunt recalls a major blizzard in December 1964 that trapped the family and some neighbors in their small homestead. She unemotionally describes how her father simply proceeded to go through the motions of keeping the pipes from freezing, calmly accepting the fact that he could do nothing as the storm progressed and he could not prevent loss of a of their livestock. Or how when he first ventured out to check on the animals in their nearby barn and nearly lost his way back in whiteout conditions. Later, when the storm passed, she told of playing amongst the frozen corpses of the cattle, jumping from ribcage to ribcage, daring her older brother and sister to cut off pieces of the animals, all with the calm acceptance that this was so normal, nothing strange about it.
“The room was silent. His heart pounded the way it had on their first night together, the way it still did when he woke at a noise in the darkness and waited to hear it again - the sound of someone moving through the house, a stranger.”(4)
This short story revolves around a young boy's struggle to affirm and rationalize the death and insanity of an important figure in his life. The narrator arrives home to find that Father James Flynn, a confidant and informal educator of his, has just passed away, which is no surprise, for he had been paralyzed from a stroke for some time. Mr. Cotter, a friend of the family, and his uncle have much to say about the poor old priest and the narrator's relationship with him. The narrator is angered by their belief that he's not able, at his young age, to make his own decisions as to his acquaintances and he should "run about and play with young lads of his own age ..." That night, images of death haunt him; he attempts make light of the tormenting face of the deceased priest by "smiling feebly" in hopes of negating his dreadful visions. The following evening, his family visits the house of the old priest and his two caretakers, two sisters, where he lies in wake. There the narrator must try and rationalize his death and the mystery of his preceding insanity.
As he falls into a silent shell, filled with visions of killing his mom. He struggles desperately with the haunting truth. Reaching deep into his self he musters enough courage to go on.
He is escorted down to a room with handcuffs on both arms and feet. The tension in the room causes nervousness and a stirring in his stomach, which entombs his dinner from the night before. He is told to take a seat. Still in doubt of his fate he notices the witnesses and their various expressions. His family is grief-stricken, a sharp contrast to the family of the brutally murdered, for which he was found guilty of. If only they knew what he knew; for they would not be strapping him into the chair, soaking a sponge, and placing it on top of his head along with the metal skullcap. If they knew the truth there would be someone in his place today. But alas, the truth dies along with the innocent.
Robert Frost is an iconic poet. One of his most well-known poem is titled “The Road Not Taken”. This poem is about the narrator monologue about his travels and choices he faced. It opens up with the view with a fork in the road where two roads take different routes. The narrator must choose which road he will take. The narrator describes his setting vividly of the woods that he is traveling in and the choices he must make, such as “Yet knowing how way leads on to way, / I doubted if I should ever come back.” (14-15). The roads are not only literal choices, but also figurative choices. As they represent all life choices one must make in their lifetime. Frost uses multiple elements within his poem to bring the meaning of it to the reader’s attention. This poem is a metaphor for the choices people must make in their lives and how those choices impact their lives forever.
Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken” and “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” show the readers similar struggles of life. “The Road Not Taken” is about taking control of one’s life and living it aside from how others live theirs. While “Stopping by Woods on Snowy Evening” shows the desire for rest. Sometimes people regret the possibilities of the road not chosen, sometimes people feel proud about the road that they
“The Road Not Taken” examines the struggles people run into when they come to a place in their life where a life altering decisions has to be made. The man who is described in this poem is traveling when he comes upon “two roads diverged” (1). He then has to choose which path he will take to continue on his journey. After standing at the diversion for a while, he knows he has to make a final decision. One path was worn down and “bent in the undergrowth” (5), so he took the other path, which was described as “perhaps the better claim/ Because it was grassy and wanted wear” (6-7). The man of the poem begins to ponder about a time when he will be telling his story of the path he took. Although we are not sure if the man regrets his decision or is relieved, he lets us know taking the road less traveled “has made all the difference” (20).
"I regret putting so much time and emotion into one person, when that one person should have been me."
Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken” and “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” provide us contrasting and sometimes similar glimpses of life. “The Road Not Taken” is about taking control and living life. “Stopping by Woods on Snowy Evening” entails the desire for rest, perhaps due to the speaker’s feelings of weariness from facing life’s struggles. The poet also explains the tough choices people stand before when traveling the road of life. Sometimes people regret the possibilities of the road not chosen, sometimes people feel proud about the road they have chosen.
“But look at me- I’m a failure. I have less or no friends. I don’t get enough time to do the thing I like. Love is an impossible possibility for me. I have lost respect. Sir, there is nothing left to sacrifice at all!” I exclaimed.
In the poem “The Road Not Taken”, author Robert Frost uses the simple image of a road to represent a person’s journey through life. A well-established poet, Frost does a proficient job of transforming a seemingly common road to one of great importance, which along the way helps one identify who they really are. This poem is one of self-discovery. Frost incorporates strong elements of poetry such as theme, symbolism, rhyme scheme, diction, imagery, and tone to help create one of his most well known pieces about the human experience.