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Essays on symbolism in literature
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Essays on symbolism in literature
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As the 104th moves on from their real first test of battle, Stash is relieved he made it out of there alive. One thing for sure that this first battle taught him is always to be aware of what is around him. He told himself, just like in training, he can’t take his eye off anything from this point forward. He now knows this is real. There is no going back now.
The man looked onto the battlefield close and far as the dirt landed and slid off his face the sound of bombs were muffled the cries of men were sharp and penetrating he stood over the breech with such comfort while a hundred thousand fear riddled eyes stared from behind he turned his face deep wrickled and rugged filthy his eyes with dark bags underneath from nights with no sleep but the faces he saw were much different men no more than 30 with their whole lives maybe not even 10 minutes ahead of them he's seen it a hundred times before he knew these men were divided they were there together but they were going in it alone with this in mind the man stared back and spoke "At the edge of our hope... At the end of our time... WE CHOOSE TO BELIEVE
As I entered the room, I was immediately drawn to the gold leaf accents in the room. The green
Silk coats with brass buttons gleamed in the summer sun. Gaudy colors flashed in the volunteer firemen's parade The bright red and yellow felt pressed hats like poppies and daisies in a field, each painted with elaborate insignias and company emblems. I had not seen such a pageant since the war began, when fresh faced young boys marched out to defend the Union. Some returned men, hardened and roughed by conflict, if they returned at all. Oswald, my husband, stood at my side and complained loudly about the volunteer firefighters.
The devastation behind the soldier stood on the edge of his mind, but nevertheless was not in his thoughts. The man standing in front of him dominated his thoughts and instigated a war deep within the soldier. The man was plain on all accounts; he was middle-aged, wore glasses, had a receding hairline, but his image was now stained in the soldier’s memory. This man merely wanted to get by, most likely to confirm the death of a loved one, but no matter how many times the soldier thought about it, he would never know exactly why. The only knowledge that burdened the soldier was his duty, and his duty was to keep this man at bay.
Dear Mother, It’s has been indisputable here in the trenches, I’m in dire need of new socks. The doctors say they might have to amputate my foot if my trench foot gets any worse. Also if you could provide me with some next time you send me a package I would be beholden to you. In addition to the already gruesome situation, the rats have begun to eat the dead in no man’s land, and steal my bread when I’m not looking.
They trudged through the vast land, hopeful of assistance nearby. The sun harshly beat down on the troop without any second thoughts of sympathy. “Keep going! We’re almost there.” exclaimed Ernest Warner reassuringly, the leader of the troop.
That was during the hour that I was the most confused and mixed the real deaths of the soldiers with that of an imaginary private. He died in a story about WWI. Thirty-six years have passed since I stood in that darkness, which was mitigated by an outside light. Tonight, I remember the silence I shared with the dead. I rise and face my life for no other reason than I was young once like those I stood guard over, and for them who died for God knows what, I wish to give back the year 1971 along with the clouds, the rain, and the dampness, soaking my boots.
It's dark colored wood made it almost invisible in the room, complex carving and writing made this clock far from the ordinary, his eyes followed the interesting carving to the pendulum which had been replaced by a shiny sharp ax. The moonlight bounced of the polished head of the ax. Ricocheted light from the ax made his eyes dawn on a hidden arcane box, the box was on a old rustic desk that was pushed up against the wall. Aged light brown wood made up the desk, deep ridged crack in the fragile desk made it seem as if it were to collapse at any time. He grabbed the box and wiped the dust off, the box was very old and soft, he opened it and a small little ballerina started to twirl around as musical bells started to ding within the box.
In the Eyes of The Misfit A shirtless man wearing glasses is searched through an old pickup for an old time capsule that he had left long ago. He exited the car, and leaned on the hood of the old rusty old truck. The blood red sun was dying in the background behind him. Trees hover over him as giants. They protected him from the razor blade fragments of sunlight.
Henry and I, walked swiftly to the middle of the camp. I read his mind and could hear that he didn’t want to be late, just in case they punished boys for being late. Henry and I, stood side by side and waited for other boys to show up. Within five minutes, the entire field was completely full. About one hundred men equipped with electronic guns and dressed in black equipment marched around rows of boys.
“The Yellow Wallpaper” is a semi-autobiographical short story by author Charlotte Perkins Gilman that was initially published in 1892. The story follows the narrator, a mother, living in the 19th century who had been prescribed the oppressive rest cure by her physician who also happens to be her husband. The rest of the cure requires her to isolate herself from society within the walls of a room and eventually begins writing a diary in secrecy. Her slow spiral into insanity leads her to become unphased by the bars on windows but obsessed with a yellow wallpaper which she goes to great lengths to describe in utter detail. She begins seeing strange patterns on the wallpaper that slowly get more and more strange and intrigue her more and more, enticing her to rip the wallpaper off which she was beginning to despise more and more as a
Though many know that gender inequality take a toll on women’s lives, they do not know the extent of the harsh reality women have to face on a daily basis. Charlotte Gilman shows in The Yellow Wallpaper the brutal effects gender inequality has on women. The short story explains the rough story of a young girl who is disrespected by her husband and society because of her gender. Constant torture and continuous pain takes a toll on her daily life and health causing her to go insane. Her insanity leads her to not know who she is and what her purpose is anymore.
After a long wait for 1 hour, I pushed the tall door to enter. I looked around and saw serene teal walls. Elegant and exquisite painting hung on the wall so that they surrounded fawn-coloured leather couch. Next to it was a colossal window displaying an alluring view (Nature paints the most astonishing paintings!) The mountains - in the distance - reached the faint spread of clouds.
I grew up in a small town, where houses are seen obtuse and spiritless outside. Inside, it is surrounded by grayish walls and most parquets are just sand and gravel which prompts us to nervously step on each fragmented roads all the way throughout the voyage. At nightfall, so much obscurity covers our entire little town. No light would defeat the darkness. There are not much street lights, only the million glittering stars and the silver moon which gives us the courage to continue life.