The narrator returns to his family's estate after 20 years to find it in a state of decay and neglect. The once well-kept drive and bushes are now overgrown, and the iron gate is covered in vines but still stands imposing. Beyond the gate, the estate is almost impassable due to tall grasses and shrubbery. The manor house is in ruins, with walls collapsing, the roof mostly fallen in, and debris everywhere. Although saddened by the changes, memories flood back to the narrator as he explores the remnants of his childhood home.
a couple discover each other as they explore an unending house of mysterious people and places in this prose poem story of a relationship's unraveling.
a couple discover each other as they explore an unending house of mysterious people and places in this prose poem story of a relationship's unraveling.
Slides for the first meeting of the course 'Big Data and Automated Content Analysis' at the Department of Communication Science, University of Amsterdam
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One Stormy Night
One Stormy Night Original Writing
The sudden, swift, severe summer storm caught me totally unaware. I was walking down Old tree Road when the clouds started to build. I looked around as I huddled under a large, dead oak tree. Almost all of the houses on this abandoned street were too badly damaged for me to take shelter in, except for the one.
The house loomed impressive and morbid in the greenish black sky. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the house. The windows were broken, but the superstructure seemed to be in good condition.
I was becoming soaked as I pondered upon my dilemma. Whether to stay under the tree and risk getting hit by lightning or should I go into that old house,...show more content...My lantern, my best friend at the moment, showed off ancient paintings of a red haired man with angular features and a host of antiques. Over a marble fireplace, in the far side of the room, hung a silvered mirror with plump, little cherubs surrounding it.
Crash. I jumped and almost dropped the lantern. My heart stopped as I listened for another sound. The silence throbbed in my ears. I stood at the bottom of the staircase. The sounds had come from upstairs. I swallowed my fears and climbed the stairs.
On the second floor, I found a bathroom so obsolete that it didn t even have any running water. I left it undisturbed. I found several bedrooms laden with cloth covered antiques, moth ridden clothes that may once have been beautiful.
At the end of the second floor, I found yet another stair well. This one was dark and coated with lacy spider webs. It led to what must have been a children s play area at one point. There was a play room that
Slides for the first meeting of the course 'Big Data and Automated Content Analysis' at the Department of Communication Science, University of Amsterdam
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✅ Quality
You get an original and high-quality paper based on extensive research. The completed work will be correctly formatted, referenced and tailored to your level of study.
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We value your privacy. We do not disclose your personal information to any third party without your consent. Your payment data is also safely handled as you process the payment through a secured and verified payment processor.
✅ Originality
Every single order we deliver is written from scratch according to your instructions. We have zero tolerance for plagiarism, so all completed papers are unique and checked for plagiarism using a leading plagiarism detector.
✅ On-time delivery
We strive to deliver quality custom written papers before the deadline. That's why you don't have to worry about missing the deadline for submitting your assignment.
✅ Free revisions
You can ask to revise your paper as many times as you need until you're completely satisfied with the result. Provide notes about what needs to be changed, and we'll change it right away.
✅ 24/7 Support
From answering simple questions to solving any possible issues, we're always here to help you in chat and on the phone. We've got you covered at any time, day or night.
One Stormy Night
One Stormy Night Original Writing
The sudden, swift, severe summer storm caught me totally unaware. I was walking down Old tree Road when the clouds started to build. I looked around as I huddled under a large, dead oak tree. Almost all of the houses on this abandoned street were too badly damaged for me to take shelter in, except for the one.
The house loomed impressive and morbid in the greenish black sky. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the house. The windows were broken, but the superstructure seemed to be in good condition.
I was becoming soaked as I pondered upon my dilemma. Whether to stay under the tree and risk getting hit by lightning or should I go into that old house,...show more content...My lantern, my best friend at the moment, showed off ancient paintings of a red haired man with angular features and a host of antiques. Over a marble fireplace, in the far side of the room, hung a silvered mirror with plump, little cherubs surrounding it.
Crash. I jumped and almost dropped the lantern. My heart stopped as I listened for another sound. The silence throbbed in my ears. I stood at the bottom of the staircase. The sounds had come from upstairs. I swallowed my fears and climbed the stairs.
On the second floor, I found a bathroom so obsolete that it didn t even have any running water. I left it undisturbed. I found several bedrooms laden with cloth covered antiques, moth ridden clothes that may once have been beautiful.
At the end of the second floor, I found yet another stair well. This one was dark and coated with lacy spider webs. It led to what must have been a children s play area at one point. There was a play room that
The 2018 issue of UMLÄUT literary journal edited and published by the Creative Writing department of San Francisco Ruth Asawa School of the Arts High School
Last Tales of Monkey Island - Full English Version - The unofficial 6th, and ...Danilo Lapegna
So 8 years ago I decided to personally write to Dave Grossman, Ron Gilbert and Tim Schafer, in order to get ideas about a possible, novelised, sequel to "Tales of Monkey Island". Only Grossman answered me, and after countless weeks of work integrating his ideas into my plot, "Last Tales of Monkey Island" was born.
- A full-length adventure-and-humour story in 18 chapters, written with some Dave Grossman' ideas, and meant to be the sixth and FINAL chapter to the Monkey Island saga.
- Tries to go in depth into the Monkey Island lore, explaining mysteries like the Voodoo Lady "secret plan", as only partially revealed in Tales. And also to playfully fix little continuity "inconsistencies", like the Monkey robot, Herman being Horatio, Crossroads vs. Big Whoop, and a few others.
- Lots of black and white and full color illustrations, from some fantastic artists who helped me, and I'll never be thankful enough for.
- The story starts a few years after "Tales of Monkey Island", it's a direct sequel to. Guybrush is alone, crazy and wasted on Scabb Island as something horrible happened to him and to the Tri Island Area. Elaine is dead in a mysterious accident, and a new military force called "The Triad" is now ruling the seas, with the only goal to eradicate piracy forever. How's he going to save the Caribbean this time?
Carrizo
BY CRISOSTO APACHE
For Edgar
The submarine’s inside was dim.
— Ryūnosuke Akutagawa, tr. by Will Petersen
in my youth, I hitched a ride to San Diego, across
chirping desert and distant night, I gazed upon a slow-moving
dark, encasing a convex cerulean cavity
each night, I stood beneath the sky for hours mesmerized
at the perplex reformatory, twinkling lights of broken
glass fragments spreading against a glistening sunset
a faceless man behind a lost reflection of glass
at a drive-up window informs me,
too bad, you know nothing of your own past
how far will I walk against the night?
conforming to a captivity I had never realized
some years later, under the kitchen table, they all huddle,
as the rampage continues toward the back of the house,
a clash of debris from the other room recoils
and broken sounds escape the barricade of doors
I remember I returned in 1970,
all they remember is me sitting at the edge of my bed,
with the war still in my hands
Anasazi
BY TACEY M. ATSITTY
How can we die when we're already
prone to leaving the table mid-meal
like Ancient Ones gone to breathe
elsewhere. Salt sits still, but pepper's gone
rolled off in a rush. We've practiced dying
for a long time: when we skip dance or town,
when we chew. We've rounded out
like dining room walls in a canyon, eaten
through by wind—Sorry we rushed off;
the food wasn't ours. Sorry the grease sits
white on our plates, and the jam that didn't set—
use it as syrup to cover every theory of us.
When Roots Are Exposed
BY ESTHER BELIN
I.
The empty of stomach
manifests silence
a stillness
that levels
coffee in a cup
and in a respectful manner
allows steam to penetrate
the surface.
Reversal of action
has created my sandstone canyon
rooted cedar and sage at my feet.
This movement is where
a tranquility stems.
II.
When my child creates
bubbles through a soapy wand,
I occupy the action of fate
that bursts the perfect form.
A halcyon absorbed
nesting within
the existence of the form
that no longer exists.
The formless form
is where my mind floats.
III.
It is easy to give form
especially with English words
a promotion of mechanical ligaments
binding spirit with assembly-fabricated molds.
Just as my hair poses an appendage of my brain
my tongue poses an appendage of my heart.
I cannot classify this thought as a typewritten symbol.
An ideogram of essence
cultivates my stillness to action.
ANWR
BY SHERWIN BITSUI
When we are out of gas,
a headache haloes the roof,
darkening the skin of everyone who has a full tank.
I was told that the nectar of shoelaces,
if squeezed hard enough,
turns to water and trickles from the caribou’s snout.
A glacier nibbled from its center
spiders a story of the Southern Cross,
twin brothers
dancing in the back room lit with cigarettes
break through the drum’s soft skin—
There bone faces atlas
a grieving century ...
I think I discovered magic at the same time I discovered I could hide in the garden and be away from the fighting inside my house. I grew fairy flowers from seed beneath the pine trees. No one else ever saw them, but I knew they were there.
I can’t help but wonder if there is a little girl sitting in the backyard where I used to sit, thinking about magic. If she’ll choose something completely different than I did
to help her get through her times of sorrow. A child’s sorrow can be loud or it can be so quiet you can barely hear it. You have to use magic, otherwise you’ll miss it completely. You have to see what’s not there.
The Wells Branch Community Library in Austin, TX, hosted a writing contest in November, 2009 (National Novel Writing Month). Here are the four winning compositions!
1. There is an uneasy calm, except, for the occasional crackling of haphazardly strewn, auburn leaves under my heel. The once
pruned bushes on either sides of the drive-in are now an overgrown mass of scrub. In complete disarray, the thick
undergrowth and winter branches supply all the requisite ambience of the disturbed.
Even the tarmac that often served as an excellent cycling ramp is broken in several places displaying years of neglect.
Abandoned and deserted, it was dying, slowly in time.
However, the one thing that remained the same that wintry November morning twenty years later was the acrid smell of dried
leaves and the refreshing chill of that winter air. I trudged ahead fully immersed in memories barely able to believe the sight
that spread before me. I never thought I would see it in such a deplorable condition. Nevertheless, I walked on guided by the
footfalls of the caretaker.
CHAPTER: 1 THE IRON GATE
My mind is now a kaleidoscope of the past, a whirl of colors and emotions. Each step bringing back a flood of memories from
the past, exciting yet intimidating. Twenty years have passed since I stepped foot on the manor, I still recall vividly those
countless moments fighting over who would open the gate when father came home. Here I was on the other side of the gate
wishfully thinking I was a little boy once again.
The gate had been shut for years .This was evident from the fact that vines and creepers intertwined with the now weak iron
bars .It was impossible to open it without first getting rid of the foliage. Nevertheless, after a little slash and cut, the vines gave
way. The passage of time and the constant corrosion of rust bore on the metallic frame. The iron bars had become brittle
braving the ravages of time, and taking on years of rain, hail and storm. Still, what struck me was that it stood proud and
imposing as ever, though on the verge of collapse. I felt a lump in my throat, an uneasy knot in my stomach. A trip down
memory lane was not very comforting and I had yet to see what lay beyond this Iron Gate. I was certain that the whole place
was in shambles, dilapidated, but the difficulty was dealing with the barrage of emotions and unpleasant memories that
brought along with it. Twenty years and this had to be it! There was no turning back. I had come too far to back out.
While I was absorbed in thoughts, I saw the caretaker reach for his pockets and after fumbling for a moment, he produced a
rusty looking key ring filled with odd-looking keys. He seemed to know which one for which because it did not take him long to
find the right key. The decisive moment had finally come. If I was ever a bundle of nerves this had to be it. With a heavy heart
and a deep breath, I told him to go ahead.
It took a moment to get the chains off the lock; it took even longer to turn the key. Obviously, no one had passed through
them for years. There was a click and the key turned much to my surprise. The caretaker swung open the gate and the rusty
hinges squeaked to life.
I was right after all. Nothing quite prepared me for the sight that caught my eye. The whole estate was in disorder. It was a
jungle out there because I had to wade through the tall grasses and undergrowth to move ahead. Flashes of images swept past
me and brought back faded recollections of growing up running around the estate and enjoying the freedom of youth. A numb
sensation surged through my body. Time had taken a toll on the estate. The house was never like this. There were better times,
better moments and certainly better memories associated with it. The distant voice echoed in my head as I heard mother
calling out for lunch on the greens just outside the house. I thought I heard mothers’ voice or did I? Every glimpse was
torturous, as each fragment of the past juxtaposed itself with the present.
A decaying stack of wood jutting amid the grasses caught my attention. Insects scurried out as I dug my cane into the wood
trying to recognize the familiar pieces of wood. It was one of the many benches dotted across the estate. I had often sat on one
of them daydreaming, just staring into the clouds, and wondering what lay beyond them. Did God really live up there? I
remember mother tell me so. For a moment, I had thought I was alone. All this time I had not really noticed the caretaker. He
looked at me and saw the pain in my eyes; Old Jo knew what was going through me. Kindly he advised that we should go on.
It had been twenty long years and each step faltered as I tried to put things together in my mind. It could not have been so long
ago I reasoned. All the same, from what I had seen, it was enough to convince my stubborn self that so much had changed.
Time had effaced everything. We walked on ducking under overgrown bushes and brushing aside tall grasses. It was getting
more and more difficult to advance. Every now and then old Jo would help free myself from the thorns tugging at my
shirtsleeves and trousers. After much struggle and cutting our way through the near impenetrable fortress of shrubbery,
things started to look a little better. The path got much thinner, vision clearer and eventually just ahead over the grasses, I
could see the dark broken silhouette of the manor overlooking the entire estate. I made my way slowly and retrospectively.
In another period, there used to be a beautiful garden and particularly in this part of the year, poinsettias sprinkled the manor
prettily in full bloom. Much of the estate bathed in a stunning crimson backdrop, a spectacle that has long been lost in time. Old
and badly in need of repairs, the manor stood like a weary soldier waiting for the end to come. Much of the walls were falling
apart and plants had grown into the bricks. Ferns and shrubs adorned the stony facade obliterating all evidence of its former
glory. There were neither windows nor doors. Large irregular holes in the walls suggested the same. A great deal of the roof
had come apart, whatever little remained looked as if it would not hold for too long. It was just a matter of time. Everything
was in ruins. I was not quite sure if I made the right decision to come back for there was nothing now except, rekindling
memories of a bygone era.
2. Still I could not bear but to see it one last time. There were far too many bittersweet memories associated with it. I walked
over to the crumbling edifice and stood on the paved courtyard; the pungent stench of decay filled the air. The place was
reeking of bird droppings and years of accumulated filth. It was just nauseating.
By now I had been in the manor for quite a while, it would soon be dark. Already the retreating sunrays cast long and dark
shadows on the walls. As if, the place was not already disturbing enough. Not that I was scared but it was, I must agree, eerie
and unnatural. A moment passed as my eyes tried to get used to the darkness. I strained to see ahead to avoid stumbling on
any obstacle. From the faint light of the setting sun, I noticed the entrance to the house, dark and illuminated in places. I got a
weird feeling of some unnatural energy beckoning me in. A slight breeze blew outside, stirring leaves and scattering them
around. Far into the distance, a soft cacophony of birds broke the silence. Night was fast approaching.
The inside of the manor was a wreck. It was difficult to see or move without brushing off the thick layer of cobwebs that were
all around us. Teeming with spiders, weaving intricate designs, the abandoned place seemed a perfect breeding ground. It was
disgusting to pass through, with the webs getting in your face, and hair and all over. Once having got rid of the webs, visibility
was much improved.
There was nothing much to see of the house. Like an archaeologist examining the remnants of a lost civilization, I delved into
the past, in thoughts long forgotten; trying to remember what was this place. I could not venture into the other rooms. Years
had made the place unstable. It was dangerous to explore the area. The rotting planks were too weak to support the weight.
One wrong move could prove fatal. Besides I was not to keen to look around. This place was giving me the creeps. From where
I stood, I noticed that the stairway was broken in places, and that there were no railings at all. It must have come apart a long
time ago.
I stood for a long moment allowing my tired mind to sink in, whatever I had absorbed. Everything seemed to be a figment of
my imagination. It felt only yesterday that I had been here.