“I never felt so alone [or insert here]”, he wrote. Wrinkling his face, he immediately tore out another sheet of paper. The wire basket held over a hundred scrunched balls of white, abandoned pieces of his soul.] He paced up and down the same stretch of the room, feeling the cold tiles on his bare feet. “Inspiration….inspiration….inspiration…” The blank pages glowered accusingly, the white surface deflecting the harsh glare of the fluorescent bulb onto his weary face, acting like bleach on his bed-raggled, gold hair. “You’re useless,” they mouthed, mocking him. “Two months, two months and not a word. Absolutely pathetic.” He flinched, and then sighed for the thousandth time, proceeding mindlessly to prepare breakfast – ramen noodles. The only food he’d ever known since leaving the orphanage four years ago. But food was no matter to him: living alone gave him the quietness he needed to write. “Inspiration...inspiration...” *** There was none. After cursing the vacant void that was his mind, and his heart, he sighed – again – resigning himself to the worn chair by the window. The grey skies provided him with no comfort, and his grey-blue eyes glared blankly. A storm was brewing. The red brick-lined building across the street was like any other. Nothing peculiar. Nothing inspirational. Nothing at all… Suddenly, a small figure caught his eye. A lone young woman sitting by the windowsill across the grey street...her eyes gazed up at the grey skies contemplatively...her sweet smile captivated him. Long, glossy-black strands of hair framed her glowing, olive face. What captivated him the most, though, was her smile. It was unlike any of the other few smiles he had seen in his life, almost convincing him that she was an angel – who... ... middle of paper ... ... the empty bench behind to creep back into the shadows of his apartment. He would write one last word… “Sit.” That was not the word he wanted. He placed his hand on the cold knob of the door. “Please sir, take a seat.” This was not the voice in his head. He turned around, curious. It was a lone woman, perhaps about forty years of age, sitting neatly on the bench he had just left. He wondered what she wanted, when a flash of hazel caught his eye. His blue eyes widened as shock, revelation and joy hit him all at once, and a million questions filled his mind. But he did not speak, instead letting her wan, angel-smile satiate him with memories. He wanted to embrace her, but she seemed to be signalling him to leave; it was time. He would do as she pleased. Content, he turned around to return to his apartment, not noticing that the image of the woman had disappeared.
In short, this is a story of a random meeting of two strangers, and an attraction or feeling that is overlooked and ignored. A man describes a lady such that you could only envision in your dreams, of stunning beauty and overwhelming confidence of which encounters of the opposite sex occur not so very often. The mans attraction is met by a possible interest by the lady, but only a couple flirtatious gestures are exchanged as the two cross paths for the first time and very possible the last.
Her bedroom was closed but with an “open window” (463), with a roomy armchair she sank into. As she is looking out the window she sees “the tops of trees,” “new spring life,” “breath of rain was in the air,” and she could hear a peddler below in the street, calling to customers, and “patches of blue sky showing” (463). The author depicts in the previous sentence that when she uses “breath of rain was in the air,” rain is more like a cleansing so she could be feeling a sign of relief but can’t recognize it. She sat with her head on the cushion “quite motionless,” except when a sob came in her throat and “shook her,” like a child “continuously sobbing” (463) in its dreams. The author uses imagery in the previous
“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.
Eating different cuisines and trying new dishes at a variety of restaurants is an important hobby in Ashley’s life. In the future, Ashley hopes to go into the field of marketing or advertising, and hopefully specialize in food. But no matter what job she pursues, she hopes to have her own children (she is hoping for two) and a joyful family. The first thing she teaches her kids will be to always try new things and be accepting to the unknown. That is the one thing she regrets from her childhood. Not being more open-minded and unwilling to step out of her comfort zone. But despite this, her childhood has shaped who she is today. By pushing away vegetables and having a constant craving for macaroni and cheese, the cheesy pasta dish is now the single dish that can cheer her up when she feels defeated or disappointed. It is the comfort food that will remain a part of her life. Throughout Ashley’s life, she has always wondered why certain foods triggered certain emotions. Why does macaroni and cheese make me feel so cheerful? And why is it that this dish is what I rely on when sad? Her curiosity for the deeper meaning of food has grown throughout the years, but what has risen to a new level is her true passion
Ralph walked into the small cafe shop down the street and sniffed the espresso-filled air. He was five minutes early. Ralph ordered a small cup of hot chocolate and seated himself near the window. The weather looked depressing. Fat pellets of rain dropped from the sky hitting every exposed object in its way. The bell chimed indicating that the someone came into the cafe. Ralph looked up and gulped. He looked the same, but slightly maturer and older. Dark circles surrounded his eyes and his face seemed more chiseled in. He walked up to Ralph’s table without ordering anything.
The part of her hair gave birth to a running red river, so deep and rich and full of life it could call to mind in certain individuals of a sanguine cascade down stairs. The shape of her forehead, coupled with the delicate white of her skin, cast upon the room like a crescent moon. Then her face, the most angelic face, one of innocence and childhood ardor, had hints of lust carved into the creases around the eyes and besetting the lips. Her eyes were what she unaf...
With nothing else to do but care for her child, Desiree and her son would get dressed, and go into town to say hello to people every day. Desiree would dress in a long graying white gown and her son in a proper tan colored suit. After they made their usual rounds of Hello, a strange young man, came up to them. He had on a beige, velvety, expensive suit, and was unlike any man Desiree had ever seen. He had light brown hair, fair skin, and emerald green eyes. The man said to Desiree’s son with a gleam in his green eyes “Hello, I am Gabriel ...
He had an ice cold glass of sweet tea in one hand, and the newly opened letter in the other. Sitting out on the porch he looked at the majestic rolling hills that surrounded him. The sound of muffled crickets in the long green grass, and the joyful noise of children laughter. The sun was high, it was such a beautiful day. With a big sigh the man took a small drink of his iced tea. He could smell roast cooking and a new loaf of bread in the oven, with all these great things in his life why was he suddenly not happy? He heard a sweet voice calling from the kitchen that dinner was ready and to come inside and serve him food. When he didn’t appear in the kitchen right away his wife came out on the porch. She didn’t have to ask what was wrong
Mr. James Duffy is a lonely man who is not incredibly fond of the Dublin suburbs. He lives in an old, dismal, threadbare house with a black iron bedstead, an iron washstand, some chairs, a coal-scuttle, a square table, and a fender and irons. Compared to a blissful home of the present day, one may suppose that someone presently died in Mr. Duffy’s house. One day, he was sitting at a Rotunda, next to a lady, Mrs. Sinica, and her spawn. That one meeting would be the launch of something fresh for the both of them. Mrs. Sinica would either meet Mr. Duffy at the park gate, or somewhere in town, or she’d bid him over to her house. Mr. Sinica encouraged his visitations, thinking that Mr. Duffy was after his daughter’s hand in holy matrimony. All of the instances he spent with her influenced his life, and he started to live somewhat different than previously. During one of the meetings, Mrs. Sinica got slightly frisky, and Mr. Duffy left and has no communiqué with her for a week. He eventually requested her to meet up with him at a cake shop where they strolled around for some hours conversing. A few days after the two arranged to sever their interaction, he obtained his music and books from Mrs. Sinica. Several years passed, and Mr. Duffy never heard from Mrs. Sinica again. He wrote more seldom than before, and kept away from the concerts for fear that he would see her. One late afternoon, as he was analyzing a newspaper editorial, he observed an article about the “DEATH OF A LADY AT SYNDEY PARADE” and forced himself to continue. Once he read the subsection, and realized that the deceased woman was his old companion, something arose in his stomach that didn’t seem familiar to him. He deemed strongly that she had not only degraded herself, but him as well. With this in mind, he came to a public-house for some hot punch, and entered the park gate and strolled under some emaciated trees, and desolate valleys, as the two had done four years earlier.
As he stared at the ceiling, color returned to his face, numbness replaced with a warm sense of existing, the touch of the cool air against his skin. He looked at his hands. They were calloused and raw, nails gnawed to the quick, fingerprints lost among countless scars and burns. He grimaced. They didn't let him care for his hands, which was silly; he was a musician and he needed them to
Rain had begun to fall again. Thick drops of water fell slowly and then all at once, hitting the tin roof of Susan Mallard's Seattle home. Once again, she was sitting in her armchair reading whatever book she had plucked from her shelf without looking, turning the pages absently as the rain poured harder around her. Despite, this being a nightly routine, she never actually read the books, she would sit for hours looking at what might as well have been empty pages. Written words contained no essence for her anymore, she had pondered over them for years and had bled them dry of any meaning they had. Presently, they were only empty carapaces, open outlets for Susan to exist inside her own head. Consequently, this was always difficult on nights
The men left and the house was left alone for a month’s worth of sunsets before that day came. It was demolition day. The house didn’t notice the bulldozer pulling up to it, smashing down the high grass that had protected it for so many sunsets. It did not notice the odd shovel-claw burying into it, tearing it to pieces. It did not notice the rusted mailbox getting smashed, and it did not notice the stable pieces of the fence being forced to break their bonds. It did not notice when the bulldozer left hours later.
She continued to live her life, but this time she wasn’t looking for something anymore. She lost her spark, her spunk, her fire. But one day, she saw the person who once broke her heart and she felt indifferent. She felt no melancholy, she felt no ire, instead, she just felt calmed.
“Eva come inside!” shouted Jeannine. I was sitting on the porch watching the neighbors play around in the street. I got up and headed inside, Jeannine was making soup for the millionth time. We didn’t have much, just bread and some vegetables from the pitiful garden. The house was very worn, and rustic looking. Hinges were almost falling off the door. I sat down at the table quickly. She handed me a bowl of soup graciously.
Every year a percentage of women who build a career and climb up the ladder constantly grow. Often girls after graduation prefer a career to a family. In most cases, the reason for this is the desire to ensure life, improve their status in society. However, in the workplace woman faces challenges that require immediate solutions. Professional activity is one of the spheres of self-identity, personalization. While managing professional work a woman has the opportunity to discover and develop the abilities, personal and professional qualities to achieve recognition of her originality, significance for other people and for society as a whole. A special role is played here by the quarry. In the modern sense the career is a kind of search for own self, own way. On the one hand it means that a person could realize him/herself, and on the other - that the work done is highly appreciated. Considering a career in a woman's life pointing out the complexity and diversity that it has for a woman is rather important.