Winchell nervously looks at the clock on the wall‚ which is directly in front of him‚ peers through the glass panel at his left into the engineer´s booth‚ and then glances around the room. It is thirty seconds to nine. A studio visitor‚ seated in one of the four chairs alongside the wall‚ coughs‚ and Winchell looks up anxiously‚ He reaches for the water pitcher‚ fills a paper cup‚ and takes a quick swallow. The buzzer sounds on the keyboard in front of the announcer as the engineer signals fifteen
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the ground‚’ Nero observes to SH as they are being bundled ever further down a winding tunnel. From somewhere the MC’s voice‚ ‘Look‚ we wanted some razz-matazz out there tonight‚ but things are not really working out. You’ve at least discovered that Story Hunter is not dead meat.’ With frustration shining through in voice SH complains‚ ‘Yeah‚ it is all well and good to have found me‚ but now we have lost Buiteboer to the netherworld‚ it seems.’ The MC sounds unconcerned about Buiteboer’s whereabouts
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pinkish-red one said calmly. “A bear?!” the tall‚ thin one and short round purple gems shouted in unison. “What if it hurts us? What if it hurts Steven?!” the thin one shouted back. Again with the steven? Whats up with him? Is he special or something? Soda thought. The branch that soda was on started to crack more. She tried with all her might to not let it fall‚ she even used her powers to attempt to hold it up; but alas‚ her trying cut short‚ and she fell to the ground. Fast. “ACK!” The blue gem shouted
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Betrayal of Freedom Here I am again; working for another rich family to do their labour. I hate having no freedom. I have been owned by different rich families ever since I was born. I am now 16‚ 17 in a month‚ I think. I kind of lose track. I never met my parents. They were slaves for other folks so I guess I won’t ever get to meet them. I don’t get jealous of the rich families though. They got no respect; the young spoilt‚ spiteful children treat me like a piece of shit on their shoe. I can’t do
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They were not criminals and if they signed the paperwork they were agreeing to be just that. Mother refused to sign as a show of dignity and pride. These attributes are nonmaterial things that the guards could not take away from Lina’s mother. This story is about compassion‚ determination‚ love‚ hope‚ and miracles. I chose compassion because of the shocking ending in which the guard is the one that really helps the prisoners to survive. Even in the face of total hopelessness‚ there are people who still
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to the racist nature of the Europeans who colonized Canada. The main character in the story‚ Big Tom‚ appears physically and mentally worn out by his life. At the beginning of the story‚ the reader gets a sense of bitterness with how he perceives his life. Despite living in poverty‚ he appears to be a caring father. The reader senses Big Tom grappling with his Native identity when he tells his infant son a story: “his voice slid awkwardly through the ageless folktale of his people”. It is as if Big
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following structure to help you. Introduction • This should briefly explain a bit about Maupassant and the Gothic genre; you could comment on whether you think events in Maupassant’s life influenced his work. • Briefly introduce the story. Main Body of the Essay: • The preparation questions you did should provide a good starting point‚ remember you are focussing on how the language creates atmosphere and tension. • There should be lots of P.E.E. paragraphs here‚
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I believe that if I set my mind to something I can do it. Anyone can do this. Just setting your mind to something and going through with the comment to that‚ you can do anything. My story starts out with how I learned how to Juggle. Friday night it was 4th Friday for businesses downtown. My store which is The Red Peppermint had a juggler come to help bring in customers. We were slammed! Thanks Mr. Juggler! When he was there he asked us if we knew how to juggle. All three of us said “no”. So he
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Loss is often sudden and painful‚ like a kick to the gut‚ but the pain eventually fades leaving you with only a memory of the past. Sometimes‚ though‚ it is not a kick. It is a rusty razor gash that opens up your belly leaving you desperately trying to stuff slippery innards back into a yawning wound. Even when it heals there remains a jagged scar and a dull ache as lingering reminders of what has been lost. I once counted Professor Gregor Szaranev as a close friend. I suppose I still do even though
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picture all in my head‚ like I was watching a movie. Then she began repeating the story she had just told me‚ and I realized that she was merely talking to herself. Although this discovery disenchanted me at first‚ I soon realized that‚ although the woman was talking to herself‚ she still had so many fantastic stories stored in her mind. The residents of the home all had some life flittering in them and numerous stories to share; they just need someone to listen to them. After my experience at the home
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