The plaid shirt was covering my tank top‚ the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and the collar soaked with sweat. The faded red had been stained a dark crimson from the sweat pouring off me. I threw another bale onto the hayrack‚ straw getting caught in my shirt. I grabbed the open front of my shirt and shook free the straw. I rubbed the sleeve of the plaid shirt across my brow‚ to wipe away the sweat. I grabbed the final bale off the last hay rack of the day and threw it over the side‚ towards where
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When I finally arrived at one of the camps later that night‚ I gratefully sat down on a fallen log that had been pushed around the fire and gulped in some much needed air. The camp was just a small clearing off the road. A fire pit sat in the middle with about ten logs around it. There were no tents or signs of shelter aside from a couple of low hanging branches that could provide some protection from a light rain or a particularly bright sun. A thin river ran at the far end of the camp‚ which was
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Ghosts A Domestic Tragedy in Three Acts by Henrik Ibsen Translated by R. Farquharson Sharp A Penn State Electronic Classics Series Publication Ghosts: A Domestic Tragedy in Three Acts by Henrik Ibsen‚ trans. Farquharson Sharp is a publication of the Pennsylvania State University. This Portable Document file is furnished free and without any charge of any kind. Any person using this document file‚ for any purpose‚ and in any way does so at his or her own risk. Neither the Pennsylvania
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As rain poured down in thick blankets over Lazy Town‚ faint‚ muffled breaths could be heard from deep within the lair of none of other than the owner himself‚ Robbie Rotten. His plump‚ rosebud like lips rested half an inch apart to allow air in and out while he slept‚ giving him the most kissable look in the entire world. Not to mention the small strand of saliva slowly rolling it’s way down Robbie’s cheek onto the presumably silk covered pillows (only the best kind of fabrics for the number one
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thrill dragster because we have never been on the roller coaster and the line was really short. We were talking on the way to cedar point if we were going to ride the top thrill dragster. “If the line is shorter than last year we will try to get on the top thrill dragster”‚ said my aunt Mel. “okay but if we don’t get to ride it this year i want to next year”‚ I said loudly. “Like I said corbin if the line is short we will”‚ my aunt Mel said. “Okay” I said. My mom and brother went to the millennium force
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it was a cold grey day in late September. The weather had metamorphosed overnight‚ when a backing wind brought a granite sky and a mizzling rain with it‚ and although it was now only two fifty-seven in the afternoon the ashen hue of a winter evening seemed to have closed upon the hills‚ cloaking them in mist. It would be dark by five o clock. The air was clammy cold‚ and for all the sealed windows it still penetrated the interior of the carriage. The leather seats felt damp to the hands‚ there must
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Absolutely nothing in this known world can break the silence—the room was lifeless. The floorboard painfully cries under the teacher’s fantastic high-heeled shoes; it invades the monastic stillness. Under the scrawls of a madman‚ written in a jet-black marker that has seen the end of its days a long time ago‚ slivers of the once pure whiteboard remains. My eyes dart towards the window as I stare at the barren tree branches; they shiver‚ afraid‚ in the thick cold and velvety air of winter. As my stoic
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Sawtooth Wilderness of Idaho. The jagged‚ irregular peaks of the ridges surrounding the lakes form the horizon. Mt Cramer towers over the rest at an elevation of 10‚715 feet‚ the second highest mountain in the range. Each of the three lakes has a short outflow into the next‚ eventually reaching the South fork of the Payette River. The drainage from the upper lake tumbles over a twenty foot cliff‚ forming a stunning waterfall and a rewarding site for the weary backpacker. The lakes appear as though
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Thus‚ comfortably seated with a pen on hand in the warm confines of my bed room‚ I started to pour down my thoughts into writing‚ quietly praying that he will be able to know‚ at least the extent of my emotions… Briefly written in a small parchment‚ I folded the paper into four and noticing how it started to our heavily outside‚ I pulled out my drawer and produced a red folded
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Le Fou was a spectacular musician who loved to perform in front of spectators‚ and he loved playing all assortments of instruments. But by far‚ his favorite was the harp. Le Fou was infatuated by all string instruments‚ almost to the point of insanity. He enjoyed the feeling of the soft but coarse cords against his fingers. So when Le Fou heard the rumor of the golden harp he was obsessed‚ he had to find this “magical instrument”. Fortunately‚ Le Fou was born into a wealthy family and had inherited
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