young woman “afflicted with a heart trouble” (15) and the cause was unknown. One day‚ Mrs. Mallard was given horrific news of her husband’s death by her sister Josephine and Mr. Mallard’s friend Richard. The news was broken to her softly. She wept tears of sorrow in her sister’s arms before going upstairs to her bedroom. In her room she sat in this comfortable recliner facing the wide window. While sitting in her recliner‚ she sobbed a bit more “as a child who has cried itself to sleep” (15). As the
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I’m glad he did. He cried while he told me‚ and I held him. We sat like that for at least 10 minutes‚ him crying‚ me doing my best to comfort him. When he was done‚ he cursed. I asked him why he thought he shouldn’t be crying‚ and he told me‚ “Tears are a sign of weakness‚ and I am not weak.” There was a long pause‚ and then I asked him a question. It was a simple enough question‚ but the answer meant a lot to me. “So‚ I’m weak? I cry often enough‚ does that make me weak? ” As soon as I’d said
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’Tod‚ please‚please don’t tell me that you have forgotten about us? Please‚ I beg you ‚ Tod‚ Tod......’ sobbed Emy furiously. ’Excuse me‚ miss‚ i’m sorry but i really don’t know who the HELL YOU ARE!’ SAID Kelvin Kent‚ the manager of the Jed Hotel. How could I possibly mix with a filthy little ugly bastard like you? Stay out of my way and i do not want to see you again!’ remarked Kelvin sacarstically while scrolling down at the wailing Emy. ’And wait a minute‚’ said Kelvin when he was about to
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9/11 I was late again. I remember rising from my slumber with great regret and ordering my zombiefied body to make its way toward the bathroom. I hated my job‚ it’s not like I was important just an assistant‚ running around being everyone’s slave and taking orders. And what made it worst.. It was my first day at this new job in the north tower of the world trade centre. The time was half eight when I finally managed to start making my way towards the tower. I had to scurry though large crowds of
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The theme for Halima Bashir’s story Tears of the Desert : Survival in Darfur is “How are we shaped by society?”‚ society does not shape us‚ or who we are what so ever‚ I will prove this by using real life event s from this story. Firstly‚ in the story Halima belongs to a culture called Zagawha‚ they live in a small village in Darfur where everyone knows about everything‚ everyone follows the same rules. Halima despite what the society of her culture says goes to school in a Arab village where they
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When people try to describe O. Henry’s writing style‚ they always use the term “smile with tears‚” which implies his twisted way of thoughts and endings about every story. These stories usually end in a humorous but also cruel kind of way. It’s absolutely useful to elevate the artistic thought in writing a thoughtful story. To better understand the brilliant plots of his twisted endings let us begin with one of his most famous stories‚ The Cop and the Anthem1. In this story‚ the main character
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my mind for a never ending period of time. That night was not the same as the rest of the days in my life. Instead of going to bed‚ that night I was standing in the middle of the road‚ in complete terror. My heartbeat was accelerating with fear and tears were rolling down my cheeks as I saw Emily taken away by the ambulance. The house‚ which I was standing in front of‚ was burning as fire engulfed it from all sides. There was fire everywhere. The roof was on fire‚ the doors and the windows
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On August 15‚ 2007‚ my older brother‚ Lucas‚ suggested we go to the corncrib. I agreed and we walked across the farm to flip the lock and open the large white doors. I followed him inside‚ and hence there being no windows on the lower level‚ it took my eyes awhile to adjust to the darkness. I heard Luke’s voice somewhere to my left‚ and glanced over my shoulder to vaguely see him climbing up a ladder. Having never been inside the corncrib before‚ I blindly followed him. My eyes stung as they adjusted
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Meow. I hear an imaginary cry. Meow. There she goes again. I wish she were real‚ and that other people could hear her too. Meow. Are you hungry? Thirsty? Lonely? It could be anything‚ but really‚ I have the power to decide what she is feeling. If she was hungry‚ I could pretend to give her some fish. If she was thirsty‚ I could pretend to give her a bowl of milk. It’s all pretend. It had to be. After all‚ I didn’t have the responsibility for it to be real back then. But still‚ I carried
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What need you‚ being come to sense‚ But fumble in a greasy till And add the halfpence to the pence And prayer to shivering prayer‚ until You have dried the marrow from the bone; For men were born to pray and save; Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone‚ It’s with O’Leary in the grave. Yet they were of a different kind‚ The names that stilled your childish play‚ They have gone about the world like wind‚ But little time had they to pray For whom the hangman’s rope was spun‚ And what‚ God help
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