Three houses down from my own dwelling was a dingy, white shack of a residence. The windows, smeared with dirt, were always dark and absent of any activity; however, today the windows reflected blinking lights of red and blue. One officer lumbered towards the run-down house, while his partner hovered near the vehicle. Thaddius Clutch, a lanky young man with dark and shaggy hair, sat in the back with his head bowed. Unkempt grass loomed over the sidewalk where Mrs. Clutch stood as the officer approached her.
Peering out through my window, I watched Mrs. Clutch press a hand to her mouth as wrinkle contorted over her forehead. The officer spoke to her as if a burden weighed down on him, leaning back on his heels and resting his hands on his hips. He gestured to the vehicle containing Thaddius occasionally, and Mrs. Clutch’s shoulders began to tremble. This continued for a few more minutes before the officer retreated back to the car, disarmed the lights, and pulled away from the curb with Thaddius still in the back. Mrs. Clutch remained on the lawn for quite sometime. My heart went out to her, yet I couldn’t remove myself from the window, rather I just watched as she cried before dragging herself back into the house.
Persistent murmurs buzzed through the halls the next day of Thaddius scandal with the police. A perk of living in a small town was everyone knew your business typically before you even did. In this case, speculations of Thaddius’ arrest ranged from the most innocent of delinquent acts to some high-class felonies.
“I heard he snatched a woman’s purse at a gas station.” said one boy.
“He threatened the woman with a knife, right?” questioned by another bystander.
“No!”cried Alice. She flicked her hair ba...
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...on the sidewalk. I was ready to apologize, but the words died at my lips as I looked up. It was Thaddius. Anger lit up his face, but it softened once he recognized it was me. There was a cigarette pinned loosely between his lips, but he took it in his fingers and flicked it away. Slowly his eyes connected with mine, and the world seemed to slow. I saw a familiar glow in his eyes, yet they belonged to the face of a stranger. Perhaps I couldn’t stand Alice or anyone else who slandered Thaddius’ name because he reminded me of myself. He reminded me of everyone. He reminded me of the individual who had fallen because no one was there to help. He couldn’t face or conquer his demons like others could.
“I like your freckles.” I blurted, attempting to kill the silence between us.
His eyes found my shoes as a half-smile graced his lips.
And he still liked my sneakers.
Diane Urban, for instance, was one of the many people who were trapped inside this horror. She “was comforting a woman propped against a wall, her legs virtually amputated” (96). Flynn and Dwyer appeal to the reader’s ethical conscience and emotions by providing a story of a victim who went through many tragedies. Causing readers to feel empathy for the victims. In addition, you began to put yourself in their shoes and wonder what you would do.
Her description is full of emotional words and phrases which enable the reader to feel indignant about the case’s verdict-Nelson is convicted of vehicular homicide following the death of her son. Malchik emphasizes that “[T]he driver who had two previous hit-and-run convictions pleaded guilty,” but the mother who lost her son is forced to be jailed for a longer time. This part of description shapes a poor image of a mother who in order to feed her tired and hungry children, has no choice but to jaywalk. The author explains to the reader that Nelson chooses to jaywalk not because she is crazy, but because of her mother’s identity as well as lack of safer road for them. The purpose of the author is touching readers to sympathize with the mother, assuaging the mother’s guilt, and proving that walking should be human beings’ freedom and liberty. Adding to this idea are words and phrases such as, “instinctive,” “injustice,” “the narrowest,” “lost right,” “Orwellian fashion,” “more treacherous,” “laziness,” and “scorn” (Malchik). All of these emotional words are awkward for Americans. As the author indicates, “[T]he ability to walk is a struggle, a fight, a risk”, which can help to arouse readers’ awareness of protecting their lost opportunities and rights. Apart from these, at the end of the article, Malchik uses several imperative sentences like: “Open your door; go for a walk; feel the spring”, to strengthen the tone. It is also an effective way to attract readers and create strong emotional
At this point, the speaker's newfound empathy toward the killer prompts his diatribe about American support of capital punishment. He begins with a hypothetical portrayal of an audience chaotically discussing the meaning of the word "kill," each person exclaiming "how they spell it" and "what it means to them." Subsequently, he recounts a story about insensitive reporters at a hanging, followed by a claim that "we throw killers in one grave / and victims in another. We form sides / and have two separate feasts." While the speaker may seem to be utilizing the description of the audience and the story of the reporters in order to denounce the mindset of his peers, he is in fact condemning his own former mentality. By denying five times that he is a witness, the speaker avoids the guilt that results from involvement in the death of another man. Through his repeated use of the phrase "I am not a witness," he essentially enables and catalyzes the execution of the killer, dismissing his humanity and conforming to the opinion that he deserves to be killed; however, once the speaker recognizes his fault and his conformity to this mindset, the tone of the poem suddenly shifts. The speaker's empathy for the killer reaches its maximum when he fully understands the pain of the condemned and finally sees the killer as his equal, which prompts his own admission of guilt and prior indifference: "I am a
*the narrator is looking back on what he has once witnessed long ago, and it's haunting him, makes him feel guilty and ashamed.
Her ability to use incredibly graphic details poetically just enhance the experience for the reader. Her car ride is a solemn one, and readers are introduced to the disturbances inside of the car as well as outside. Olds is able to express to readers the issues her father has with drinking while associating it to the death outside of the car as well. She is able to bring readers into the dark car with her, witnessing the wreckage, the cars strewn over the highway, and most importantly the body of the woman. While the accident wasn’t any fault of the car she is riding in, she is up front with readers how her father is not quite sober, and just missed hitting someone himself. Olds is able to use the graphic imagery of the accident and the somber interior of the car to express the family struggles she endured as well. Sheltered by her mother from the scene outside, she is left reflecting on the life that is represented on the road. Readers can feel the dark turn of her thoughts as she compares the carnage on the road as “…glass, bone, metal, flesh, and the family” (Olds). It is this ending in which Olds allows readers to understand the complexity of feelings that were associated with the accident on the dark rain covered highway. Reflecting on the
In the commencement of the story, the narrator is shocked and in disbelief about the news of his brother’s incarceration, “It was not to be believed” (83). It had been over a year since he had seen his brother, but all he had was memories of him, “This would always be at a moment when I was remembering some specific thing Sonny had once said or done” (83). The narrator’s thoughts about Sonny triggered his anxiety that very day. It was difficult to bear the news of what his brother had become, yet at some point he could relate to Sonny on a personal level, “I hear my brother. And myself” (84). After the news had spurred, the narrator experienced extreme anxiety to the point of sweating. Jus...
Watching as Judge Hunter enters the courtroom, Jerry thought about the power one single man had over so many people’s lives. I wonder if he ever considers the enormous power he possesses. When the deputy called the court to order, Marlene walked in dressed in a baggy orange jump suit. Jerry questioned, “How could a woman like that murder her mother?”
Carver progresses the narrator’s tone throughout the story, from disdainful to cautious to introspective by developing his relationship with Robert, and forcing them to interact with each other, to express that false presumptions about strangers, based on someone else’s experience or stories, can be misleading.
Looking back on the death of Larissa’s son, Zebedee Breeze, Lorraine examines Larissa’s response to the passing of her child. Lorraine says, “I never saw her cry that day or any other. She never mentioned her sons.” (Senior 311). This statement from Lorraine shows how even though Larissa was devastated by the news of her son’s passing, she had to keep going. Women in Larissa’s position did not have the luxury of stopping everything to grieve. While someone in Lorraine’s position could take time to grieve and recover from the loss of a loved one, Larissa was expected to keep working despite the grief she felt. One of the saddest things about Zebedee’s passing, was that Larissa had to leave him and was not able to stay with her family because she had to take care of other families. Not only did Larissa have the strength to move on and keep working after her son’s passing, Larissa and other women like her also had no choice but to leave their families in order to find a way to support them. As a child, Lorraine did not understand the strength Larissa must have had to leave her family to take care of someone else’s
“Wilson,” I called out, receiving no response. “Wilson?” He stayed slumped in the chair, eyes casted on the ground, refusing to make eye contact or any other sign of acknowledgement. “Wilson!” I yelled, causing him to flinch, his eyes finally meeting mine. There was sadness clear as day in his eyes, but no, he did not deserve to be sad. He did not have any reason. He didn’t love her. He couldn’t provide for her. Not like I could- or would.
Allowing readers to glimpse her own story as she painfully evaluates her role as mother side by side with historical accounts of other women's experiences provides an avenue for understanding that leads to compassion. By the final chapter, instead of falling into the expected trap of revulsion toward Joanne Michulski's heinous crime, Rich's empathy provides the reader with the insight to realize both the complexity of Michulski's situation and to feel comp...
Wilson, M. & Clark, R. (n.d.). Analyzing the Short Story. [online] Retrieved from: https://www.limcollege.edu/Analyzing_the_Short_Story.pdf [Accessed: 12 Apr 2014].
As I walked out of the courthouse and down the ramp, I looked at my mom in disappointment and embarrassment. Never wanting to return to that dreadful place, I slowly drug my feet back to the car. I wanted to curl up in a little ball and I didn't want anyone else to know what I had done. Gaining my composure, I finally got into the car. I didn't even want to hear what my mom had to say. My face was beat red and I was trying to hide my face in the palms of my hands because I knew what was about to come; she was going to start asking me questions, all of the questions I had been asking myself. Sure enough, after a short period of being in the car, the questions began.
Most women in Mrs Mallard’s situation were expected to be upset at the news of her husbands death, and they would worry more about her heart trouble, since the news could worsen her condition. However, her reaction is very different. At first she gets emotional and cries in front of her sister and her husbands friend, Richard. A little after, Mrs. Mallard finally sees an opportunity of freedom from her husbands death. She is crying in her bedroom, but then she starts to think of the freedom that she now has in her hands. “When she abandoned herse...
There is also a little growth in these cracks, that I am almost positive goes unnoticed for the majority of the time. Each and every component on this sidewalk represents me as a person. Every individual has a beginning that starts the mold of their individuality. This specific sidewalk starts neat and clean, and appears as if nothing has ever harmed or disrupted its’ peace. It is just like I had hoped my life would stay. The troubles of life had a different opinion. Such a time had existed where I did not have to ever have the concern of someone looking at me funny because I might have said something that had upset them. Constant anxiety did not whisper in my ear whenever I opened my mouth. Responsibility that I had inflicted upon myself did not exist. I would be able to tell you exactly how I felt and be able to explain in detail my reasoning behind why I felt that way. I viewed my own life and everyone else’s through optimistic eyes. I was untouchable. Little did I know that all of the optimism would only last but for a season, and that my mind was about to discover the different levels that it has of its’