Original Writing The winter was reigning in full swing, freezing mercilessly everything
in its way. It was the dead of night. The air was very still – the
wind had veered to north and stopped suddenly, bringing clear skies
with the clusters of celestial bodies in the ever-expanding scenery of
the universe. There were no lights on the lake; Only the wash of a
pale moon outlined the ice-encrusted shore. Everything appeared to be
in harmony.
Then, a sound rent the air – someone was there; Someone who had come
here to dominate the place rather than live by its rules. Blasts of
the wind began to sweep across the lake as if it was telling the
intruder to leave at once. The trespasser, a young man, skated slowly
and without joy, feeling cheated and deprived of the feeling he’d been
expecting.
He was no more than a pair of eyes in the darkness. He was tall and
lean with translucent skin over exquisite bones that gave him high
cheeks and set off his enormous green eyes. His lips were ridiculously
thick, bluish in a way due to exposure to the bitter cold. His hair
was champagne-blond, in fact, because of gloomy surroundings, it
looked more like a big snowball stuck on his head. Behind this
lushness of personality stood Tim himself, unmoved by his own image, a
cool film of indifference over his gaze. Sometimes people would be a
little startled at a stray sympathetic gleam in Tim’s thickly l...
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... away, crawling his way back to safety. Behind him the silence was
broken by a harsh cracking of branches and the hasty shuffling of an
eerie shadow moving through the trees like a restless spectre roaming
the world aimlessly. Tim’s body slackened and his pendulous legs began
to give way.
The silhouette of someone or something emerged suddenly from the
trees. Tim turned, saw slivers of moonlight move across his face, saw
the girl’s face bob upright, eyes still open in a horrified gaze, saw
blood frozen to her cheeks and the corners of her mouth, saw…
Suddenly, everything went pitch-black. Tim reached out, fell. Saw
nothing.
Then, like ice suddenly placed on a burn, he felt the pain of his
flesh vanish, felt himself drawn under, deeper into a dreaded void
where his mind stopped, frozen in mid-thought forever.
“A stronger light pressed upon my nerves, so that I was obliged to shut my eyes. Darkness then came over me,
He was tall, moderately good looking with slicked back brown hair and brown eyes. He was lean and frail and looked like a shadow at times.
It was a gloomy night, the moon and stars seemed to be hiding away, lurking behind the thick mist that was carried through the marshes, and who could blame them on a night like this. The bitter wind was swiftly blowing, creating tiny water ripples throughout the mire. The air was fresh and clean this night, and all was as silent as could be.
Original Writing - The Conflict He could hardly see anything. It was dark, wet and the
enveloped by the black of the night; he stood at the top of his drive
For centuries, views of the world and its inhabitants have been expressed through various ways of art or philosophy. These views can often be related to the seeking of truth to the creation of life, politics, or the problems of the world from before, now, and after. Accordingly, it is by paintings, books, or music, that words or images have an abundant effect on people. Society indicates that knowledge is power, so then why are we sometimes burdened with the errors of generations before? The quote, “writing in English is the most ingenious torture ever devised for sins committed in previous lives. The English reading public explains the reason why,” by James Joyce; points out that any novelist, historian, or author writing about our previous failures as humans in history affects any reader in a way that brings up painful memories and leaves the reader with past knowledge. To be honest, I had to grab a chair and think for what seemed like hours before I could actually comprehend what the quote was saying. I thought to myself, “How can writing about the past bring pain to the reader? I understood how writing can bring knowledge to a person, but how can it affect anything in the present?” As Vladimir Nabokov said, “In reading, one should notice and fondle details.” So, I opened up my mind and started to analyze the quote. Then, suddenly it clicked! In The Prince by Niccolò Machiavelli, Machiavelli has a similar style to this quote in which he explains that any prince should not select anything else for study but the art of war. He declares through studying the histories of the art of war, “A prince will learn of many illustrious men’s causes for victory or defeat; therefore, avoiding the latter and imitating the former.”(Machiavell...
Nihilism- Original Writing Nihilism as a philosophical position is the view that the world, and especially human existence, is without meaning, purpose, comprehensible truth, or essential value. It is more often a charge leveled against a particular idea than a position to which someone is overtly subscribed. Movements such as Dada, Deconstructionism, and punk/black metal/ death metal/ metal/goth have been described by various observers as "nihilist". Nihilism is also a characteristic that has been ascribed to time periods: for example, Baudrillard has called postmodernity a nihilistic epoch, and some Christian theologians and figures of authority assert that modernity and postmodernity represent the rejection of God, and therefore are nihilist.
I'm going to get my hair done later on so I better get mum to make an
two hands just to hold it, it was so big let alone attempt to break
been left open and as he shut it, he looked out at the city lights.
He was strong and his black hair hung over his brown forehead. His eyes were warm and fierce and bright and his moustache was thin and coarse.
out a chorus of 'Happy Birthday!' from them and Alem ran for a hug. He
…..War was severe. We had no food for more than a day. It was very
He stands in the dark, lingering. Always linger. Faceless, but his cold, menacing eyes illuminate from the depth of the abyss.
I stepped into the middle of the road and just stood there, the lights stretching in either direction, glowing in the deep chilly air. I could see my own breath, could feel my own warmth as it formed right there in front of me. Behind me, our house looked dark, faint lingering of I'd walk a million miles, and I wasn't even sure if it was really playing or if I was imagining the familiar, the same way a bright light remain when you close your eyelids, the way I imagine that the sight of an eclipse would burn its image into your eyes forever(pg.75).