The roads were snowed over, but my F350 4x4 went through it like an ox pulling a plow through a field. I didn’t like winter travel, but “The Farm” was only open one day out of the year. The Farm was an auction house that only had one sale. And to get in, you had to be willing to travel on two day’s notice. No one knew when the sale was until the day before, and in order to get an invite, you had to know somebody. And the somebodies you had to know were extremely shady characters, but they also knew how to run a business out of the watchful eye of big brother. So when my text came in with the details, I cancelled my appointments for the following day and headed to the bank. The transaction I would make tomorrow would require cash. Lots and lots of cash. Cash I had. …show more content…
It’s an extra perception of sorts. No, I can’t read minds or anything. But I can see through a boy’s soul. I can tell by looking at him if he’s out to please me or care for himself. I can tell if he is someone who will run. I can tell if he is someone who will steel from me before he goes. Most importantly, I can do all of these things without so much as a word being spoken. Simple body language. It’s something I picked up on the poker circuit in Vegas many years ago. It served me well then. It serves me well today. People have always been surprised about how much I could tell about them just by face to face meeting before we spoke. And the boy I would be looking for tomorrow morning would be no different. Wyoming is a long way from Dallas, and in snow, it’s even longer. As I pulled out onto route 59 between Cher and Secret, what little traffic I had enjoyed the company of before quickly left and I was all alone on a two lane road that only had one town on it for the next five hundred miles. The snow fell harder and harder and if there were a place to pull over and get a room for the night, I probably would have done it, but there was nothing but me, the mountains, and the
In 2013 Dodge Ram Trucks made a commitment to raise one million dollars for the Future Farmers of America. Dodge deemed 2013 to be “the year of the farmer” (Christian posts). During the fourth quarter of Super Bowl forty-seven Dodge aired a two minute and forty-two second tribute to the American farmer. The commercial “Farmer” was a slideshow that depicted American agricultural life. A speech given by Paul Harvey was used to narrate the tribute. As the commercial begins Paul Harvey’s name is printed onto a picture of a solitary cow standing in a frozen field. Then a picture of an old church is displayed and Harvey’s first words are: "And on the 8th day God looked down on His planned paradise and said, 'I need a caretaker!' So, God made a farmer”
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.
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.
I knew it would happen. As much as I tried to stay optimistic, to put off my feelings of suspicion to an old man's negativity, I knew that this case would cost me something more than just my reputation in the town and that didn't even really matter. In Maycomb, reputation is a day by day concept. Sure, we have more than enough of our fair share of immovable gossipers, and drama kings and queens looking for a story to spread. But in everyone's own mind, if you did something stupid, immoral, or just mildly humorous or entertaining, it was the talk of the town and you were judged terribly for a few days, a few weeks tops. Then the whispers, and glances faded to conversations over coffee, and deep inside jokes. My reputation didn't bother me one bit.
A young man by the name of Billy Weaver was reported missing this morning; he is seventeen years old. He stayed at the Bed and Breakfast last night and didn’t report to the office where he was suppose to be. Here is what Billy had to say. "I arrived around 9:00 pm and asked The Bell Hop for somewhere good to stay. The bell hop told me to go to the Bell and Dragon, but then I seen the bed and breakfast. I remembered when I stayed at one, how there was darts and beer, and a lot of people hanging out. I went to the Bed and Breakfast, and seen the owner, Evelyn she was a very nice and sweet old lady at first. Then I could tell something wasn’t right but I though she had something bad happen to her like she lost a son in the war. Then I noticed
Camp Green Lake. A place to build 'character' for juvenile delinquents. As if. Sure, juvenile delinquents are there and they do their time but building character? No way. At Green Lake you would imagine a beautiful Lake with lush green surroundings, and that was once there but now it's all gone. Now all there is, is dry land for miles, a detonation camp full of boys, and a heap of holes. You see, the boys at Camp Green Lake dig a hole every day to build 'character'. 5 foot deep and 5 feet in every direction, no matter how long you were out in the heat for. There's only one rule at Camp Green Lake, don't upset the Warden.
“[I] have a wife as miserable as [myself], [we] are so miserly that [we] conspire to cheat on eachother.” (Irving 1).
My feet ache. My ears ring and my hands sting from the cool steel handle of my sidearm I ripped off the body of a collector. I don’t know why they’re coming after me--I had paid my rent in full a whole day before the cut off date--and yet here they stand, poised outside my door with automatic rifles screaming “Heretic! Death to the false Prophet!” I didn’t have a clue to what they meant. Maybe they were referring to the shrine I had created in the attic of my townhouse dedicated to Silvus, the deity of lightning. Probably not, though. Maybe they mixed up my house with the Joi dealer next door.
“Ugh.” I muttered, staring at the ceiling of our little cave. There were cars crossing every second, ready to fall through and smoosh us like the penny on the train track, and I traced their imaginary path across the metal and cement with my eyes. “I know I said it first, but I don’t want to talk about the next generation. Our generation is still the next generation, and I really don’t want that to change. I want us to always be the next generation.” I bit my lip and watched the shadow of Carter walking off to piss into the stream. My voice dropped until I was whispering, hiding my words from the echoes of The Cut. "I wish, when somebody wrote the story of my life, it actually had a plot. You know? With an enemy and a beginning, and an end. You know... interesting. But it's just us,
Hello, I am Piggy. Thank you all for attending today. In this very moment we are going be remember a littlun from the island. The boy with the Mulberry birthmark was one of the only littluns we could keep up with because he stood out. He was truly sweet and caring for those around him. I remember when he was the first littluns to let us older boys know that the beast was in the forest. I know that he didn’t intend to spread fear amongst the rest of the littluns, so I respected him as being brave because he wanted to protect those around him. It was quite hard. What would you do if you were surrounded by a bunch of littluns that were crying because they thought there was a child eating beast on the loose? He only did what he thought
Life isn't fair, it isn't kind, nor just. In my opinion, many people don't get what they deserve and many people don't deserve what they get. Like me, I don't deserve to be rotting in Azkaban for a crime I didn't commit but here I am. Wasting away, never to have a happy thought again. I'm only twenty and been here since I was 18, I had only been out of school 3 months before I was thrown in here. Sometimes I wish I had died, it's better than living here. I had no trial, no nothing they just assumed I did it and threw me in here to die. I may not notice everything, but I know something is going on. Almost every day some Aurors march past my cell and are taking someone with them. Then 2 days later they come back and return the person and they take someone else and the pattern continues. I have noticed that judging by their steps they go to the far back and are working their way towards the door. My cell is right in front of the door so, whatever they're doing I will be the last to know. Almost everyone comes back except Draco Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Malfoy were never brought back. They weren't here long anyway.
This area of the world is so foreign to my Oklahoma life; it infuses me with awe, and with an eerie feeling of being strongly enclosed by huge mountains, and the mass of tall trees. However, when my foot first steps onto the dusty trail it feels crazily magical. The clean, crisp air, the new smell of evergreen trees and freshly fallen rain is mixed with fragrances I can only guess at. It is like the world has just taken a steroid of enchantment! I take it all in, and embrace this new place before it leaves like a dream and reality robs the moment. As I turn and look at my family, I was caught by my reflection in their impressions. The hair raising mischief in the car was forgotten and now it was time to be caught up in this newness of life. It was as if the whole world around us had changed and everyone was ready to engulf themselves in it. The trickling of water somewhere in the distance and the faint noise of animals all brought the mountains to
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.
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).