Drip drop‚ drip drop… the young blonde haired woman was slumped on the fresh‚ bottle green grass in her local park which was bleached in sunlight; she felt the sizzling summer heat as tiny droplets of sweat trickled down her face. She lazily turned her face upwards to see the fierce August sun glaring down at her from the cloudless sky. Urgently trying to find a way to avoid the scorching sun‚ her eyes locked onto a monstrous tress with its branches twisted like distorted limbs reaching out to her
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without getting married”‚ however‚ they should be allowed to honor their relationship just the same as anyone else in the greatest way our society has to offer. There is no reason why two people should not be married based on their sexuality. If a man and a woman can marry because they are in love‚ why shouldn’t’t homosexuals who are able to love just as much as heterosexual people‚ be allowed to legally show their love for one another? Denying homosexuals the right to marry is a prominent form
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"The Sniper‚" a story about the Irish civil war‚ was Liam O’Flaherty’s first published piece of fiction. It appeared in 1923 in the London publication The New Leader. Over the years‚ it has been reprinted several times‚ and as of 2004 it could be found in O’Flaherty’s Collected Stories. "The Sniper" helped set O’Flaherty firmly on the writer’s path. Upon reading it‚ Edward Garnett‚ an influential London editor‚ recommended a publisher bring forth the novel that O’Flaherty had just completed. Thus
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with your eyes closed. They said that once you opened them‚ she would be sitting in the rocking chair before you‚ her face burned and bloody and wretchedly gesticulating as she stared into your soul. I had never done the deed. I had only heard the stories. And there I stood‚ receiving the peer pressure that we were all so quick to inflict on others‚ but cringed inside when it was brought down upon us. There I stood‚ searching my mind for any excuse to not cross Mountain Avenue that Saturday night.
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Tories who were loyal to the British. The argument seemed to go on forever. Papa finally ended the conflict by saying: “Once again John Warren‚ I thank you for doing a service for my family by protecting my daughter from harm. I know you are a kind man. We are friends and I know deep inside you that you always know what the right thing to do is. Now if you are still the John Warren I know I trust
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A late December night Like many other nights; it is late and I am tired‚ leaving the bar after my shift and driving home. It must be close to 4o’clock in the morning now; the roads are covered in snow like a cozy white blanket on a cold black night. I seem to be alone on this two lane highway; my headlights are the only ones shining‚ like two beckons in a lighthouse searching for others in the dark. The roads have just been plowed‚ very little is on the pavement but the snow is falling fast‚ within
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Tell a True War Story Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried is a work of metafiction that manages to test fiction in its very nature through the chapter‚ “How to Tell a True War Story.” The blurred line between reality and the imagination is explored by the given account—the reader is alienated and forced to think‚ does the truth matter in a war story? This chapter alternates in narration between O’Brien as a soldier and as a storyteller‚ examines the duplicity of whether story truth or happening
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The lights dim as the home team bursts out of the locker rooms doors like a dolphin bursts out of the water for a fresh breath of air. The floor then became filled with six foot men in jerseys and shorts; often you would see what seemed like a short man compared to the other tower-like bodies but that made an interesting contrast. You hear the screeching of the shoes grip as a player went up for a layup; men clapping their hands so they can go for their shot. The coach yelled at the team to run drills
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hills of South-East Wisconsin. My Great-Grandparent’s farm has always been a very special place. It is also a place to go to find peace and serenity when life is overwhelming and hectic. My Great-Grandfather hand built the humble‚ white‚ two-story farmhouse that sits on the corner of their two hundred acre farm in the late 1930’s. It has a tall-blackened brick chimney that they use to heat the house. There is a grand wrap around porch that is decorated with rocking chairs and assortments of
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Several years ago I made a trip to Cape Town South Africa‚ and it was one of the most memorable trips of my life. The excitement of the unknown grew with each passing hour spent in the air‚ high above the earth. Though my sons and I had a planned five day excursion‚ I still couldn’t stop wondering what might still lie ahead. Would it be something about this new culture I was about to experience; or would it be something more‚ something about me? After clearing customs and retrieving our luggage
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