Task description: This week during Writing, we are learning to create tension and suspense in our writing. We are also learning to identify features of creating tension and suspense & use them in our writing. After that I completed the task, and I posted it on our blog. I enjoyed this task very much, and I hope to do more like this soon. Hope you enjoyed. Please leave a comment; thank you for visiting my blog.
💸The Next Victim💸
💸The Next Victim💸
The two coins in my pocket clinked together as I stumbled down the cold pavement, the holes in my shoes turning my feet into blocks of ice. My heart was warmed though in the knowledge that I was rich. A slit smile appeared on my face as I heard a shrill cry echoed in the mist.
I swear I was hearing things but sometimes it was too real… Icy wind slashed at my face, and I felt the rain starting to dance its evil dance upon my head as I tried to get run away from what I had become. I quickened my pace as the clouds began to gather in the sky.
Up to now, the sky had been postcard-perfect, but it was changing. The beautiful cocktail-blue shade was beginning to darken into gravel-grey. Large pillows of cloud were forming, blotting out the old-gold colour of the sun.
The hair stood on end, a shiver raced down my spine and a lump came to my throat. It was her… I had felt lightheaded a few hours beforehand. I even bumped into several chairs and tables! My vision went fuzzy and black for a few seconds before… I fell to the ground!?! The air turned black all around me…
Everything stopped, people were stood like statues all around me, people in cars, men on bicycles, babies in prams all lifeless, frozen in time. Soon it all disappeared… I saw a woman dressed in white sitting on a bright red couch. It was placed in the most colourful room humanly possible, it was the most supercalifragilisticexpialidocious I had ever seen!
I have lived a long life, in my many years I have gone to millions of places and seen over a million people and things. But the couch wasn’t any ordinary couch… It wasn’t just some random blinding red colour for no reason, because it was once a bright white couch. Over the years people have come and gone, and each time they did, the couch got a little bit more red. Soon there wasn’t any more space to fill…
The woman’s name was unknown, the only name people had ever heard to be her name was lily. The woman didn’t like people very much and didn’t talk to a lot of them. There were many different rumours about her, everyone in the neighbourhood thought she was going crazy or sick in the head. She didn’t care what others had to say, all she cared about was herself…
The woman stared at the TV as bloody tears rolled down her cheek. She sat on the stained red couch without the knowledge it was once white. The woman picked up the TV remote that was placed next to her, and turned the TV to channel 3… BREAKING NEW!?!
The news reporter spoke in a tone that sent shivers down my spine. My trembling hands hovered just above my skin, afraid to touch myself for fear of getting caught, I felt fear in the hair on the back of my neck.
It is like invisible fingers run along my spine. The reporter spoke as she said “today we are going to talk about some breaking news that is spreading like crazy on the internet. A mother who attempted homicide on her own kids, and is trying to deny it. We have more information about this now…
Lillian Salvatore, 36 years old, was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole on charges of first-degree murder in the death of her 2 year old son Stefan, and an attempted-murder charge related to her 7-year-old son, Damon.
Lillian and her sons were reported missing by her husband, Giuseppe Salvatore, after the boys and their mother reportedly left to go visit relatives in Sumner, Iowa, on June 20, 2010. The next morning, Lillian walked into the home of residents in Littleton, Iowa, and told them that her sons were in danger.
Stefan was found dead outside the family’s van. Autopsy results revealed the boy had died from severe cuts to his neck. His older brother, Damon, was found struggling for his life inside the vehicle and had suffered similar cuts.
According to the arrest warrant affidavit, Lillian falsely claimed that her children had been abducted. She stated that she couldn’t explain why she had done it. She stated that she couldn’t face anyone.
She stated that she wanted to die or be locked up where she couldn’t hurt anyone else, the affidavit read. At the trial in October 2012, Lillian pleaded not guilty. Her attorneys argued that she suffered from extreme mental illness.
An Iowa jury heard a tape of her surviving son telling police how his mother covered his eyes, nose and mouth with duct tape, slashed his throat, and then did the same to his younger brother. On November 5, 2012, she was found guilty of first-degree murder, attempted murder and child endangerment causing serious injury…”
The reporter’s voice drained out… The air around me started to turn black again!?! Footsteps slowly creaked on every step of the stairs. The bedroom door handle turned slowly. Death lurked in every doorway with hell at one dark window. Icy fingers gripped my arm in the darkness…
I didn’t know if I should be scared or confused but either way I didn’t know what to do. BANG!?! The lights flickered and then it went black. My eyes flashed before me, then the sirens started, it was coming, I knew it wouldn’t be the last time… I got up and walked outside to see cops surrounding every corner.
With their blood on my hands, I tried to deny it, but it was too late. A man with a gun spoke “what’s your name?” “Lily, Lillian Salvatore to be exact,” I replied in confidence. “Put your hands up where we can see them and step forward,” said the man!
I walk towards him with my hand in the sky. I felt thousands of eyes all over me, I sensed a gut feeling of insecurity with each step… I looked at my hands as I lowered them, and whispered to myself “my time is up, goodbye for now…” And I was gone!?! Till this day all that is left is a red stain where I stood…
Main Idea & Supporting Details
Task description: This week during Writing, we are learning to identify the main idea of a paragraph, and identify the supporting detail in a paragraph. We are also learning to correctly highlight the main ideas and supporting details of a text. After that I completed the task, and I posted it on our blog. I enjoyed this task very much, and I hope to do more like this soon. Hope you enjoyed. Please leave a comment; thank you for visiting my blog.
For My Passionate Lily – By: Zaria Khan
For My Passionate Lily
A Poem By: Zaria Khan
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Energy is passionate,
And so are you.
Orchids are white,
Ghost ones are rare,
Bread is brown,
And so is your hair.
With buds like eggs,
Columns are slender,
And so are your legs.
Up to the skies,
Bread is brown,
And so are your eyes.
Foxgloves in hedges,
Surround the farms,
The jerkin is buff,
And so are your arms.
Daisies are pretty,
Daffies have style,
A manner is friendly,
And so is your smile.
A lily is beautiful,
Just like you.
The Smelly And Gross Farts – By: Zaria Khan
The Smelly And Gross Farts
A Poem By: Zaria Khan
Whose Farts is that? I think I know.
Its owner is quite angry though.
She was cross like a dark potato.
I watch her pace. I cry hello.
She gives her Farts a shake,
And screams I’ve made a bad mistake.
The only other sound’s the break,
Of distant waves and birds awake.
The Farts is Smelly, Gross and deep,
But she has promises to keep,
Tormented with nightmares she never sleeps.
Revenge is a promise a girl should keep.
She rises from her cursed bed,
With thoughts of violence in her head,
A flash of rage and she sees red.
Without a pause I turned and fled.
Why candy shouldn’t be sold in schools?
Why candy shouldn’t be sold in schools?
Hi my name is Zaria, and today I’m going to talk about why candy shouldn’t be sold in schools to students. I think schools shouldn’t sell candy in school and that is being said by a 12 year old child who loves candy. I think this because there are times and places where you can eat candy but I don’t think school is one of them. So here are my reasons why I think schools shouldn’t sell candy. I hope people read this writing piece and agree with me because after all my research this is what I found.
Did you know that the average child under 12 consumes 49 pounds of sugar annually? That is way too much for a kid. In fact, some schools are making money by selling candy to their students. I think this should be stopped. Buying and eating candy isn’t good for you, and it also makes a part of the brain release a hormone that makes it difficult to pay attention. This essay will prove to you that selling candy at school should be banned.
Candy is okay to have every once in a while, but if kids buy and eat the sweet treats every day, it isn’t good for them. Candy usually has a lot of sugar in it, and even though everybody needs sugar, too much of it isn’t good for your body. This is because it converts the excess sugar to fat, which is a big factor in obesity. Sugar can also cause hyperactivity in children, that’s where the term “‘sugar rush” comes from. Although sugar gives you a big energy boost, it doesn’t last for a long time, which makes you get super worn out and tired. Candy is also super tempting as children who see it in vending machines will most likely buy it over a healthy granola bar.
Another reason is candy can make bad things happen to your body, but it can also make bad things happen to your academic performance. When kids consume a lot of sugar, a part of their brain releases a hormone called cortisol. Studies show that cortisol makes it difficult to pay attention in class, difficult to sit still, and it makes it hard for children to remember the lessons they have been taught. It also fills their body with empty calories, which leads them to eating more unhealthy foods. Students who don’t eat a lot of healthy foods is a big factor in bad school performance as it lowers your cognitive function.
Most schools think it is okay to sell candy at school and put up vending machines full of candy, soda, chips and less healthy things. This clearly isn’t good for children, as soda contains a lot of corn syrup, while chips contain a lot of cholesterol and fat. It’s OK to have those foods, but if you have them every day, then it will be bad for your brain and your body. Schools should put more healthy foods and drinks into their vending machines, such as milk, granola bars, fig newtons, peanuts and sunflower seeds to name a few.
In conclusion, schools shouldn’t sell candy to the students. It can decrease academic performance a lot, it can cause hyperactivity, and it can do bad things to them. Instead, they should sell foods that are good for the brain, like fruits and vegetables. I hope you enjoyed reading about why candy shouldn’t be sold in schools, some people still might think you should and that’s okay, but for me I don’t think it’s a good idea, and that’s coming from someone who loves lollies like most of the other 12 year olds out there.
The Little Match Girl
Task description: Hey viewer, welcome or welcome back to my glog, today I’m going to be sharing part of a story called “The Little Match Girl”. I thought the story was beyond belief, it was supercalifragilisticexpialidocious story. And I hope you like it too, and I wish to do more like this soon. Hope you enjoy. Please leave a comment; thank you for visiting my blog. <3
Most terribly cold it was; it snowed, and was nearly quite dark, and evening– the last evening of the year. In this cold and darkness there went along the street a poor little girl, bare-headed, and with naked feet. When she left home she had slippers on, it is true; but what was the good of that? They were very large slippers, which her mother had hitherto worn; so large were they; and the poor little thing lost them as she scuffled away across the street, because of two carriages that rolled by dreadfully fast.
One slipper was nowhere to be found; the other had been laid hold off by an urchin, and off he ran with it; he thought it would do capitally for a cradle when he some day or other should have children himself. So the little maiden walked on with her tiny naked feet, that were quite red and blue from the cold. She carried a quantity of matches in an old apron, and she held a bundle of them in her hand. Nobody had bought anything of her the whole livelong day; no one had given her a single farthing.
She crept along trembling with cold and hunger–a very picture of sorrow, the poor little thing!
The flakes of snow covered her long fair hair, which fell in beautiful curls around her neck; but of that, of course, she never once now thought. From all the windows the candles were gleaming, and it smelt so deliciously of roast goose, for you know it was New Year’s Eve; yes, of that she thought.
In a corner formed by two houses, of which one advanced more than the other, she seated herself down and cowered together. Her little feet she had drawn close up to her, but she grew colder and colder, and to go home she did not venture, for she had not sold any matches and could not bring a farthing of money: from her father she would certainly get blows, and at home it was cold too, for above her she had only the roof, through which the wind whistled, even though the largest cracks were stopped up with straw and rags.
Her little hands were almost numbed with cold. Oh! a match might afford her a world of comfort, if she only dared take a single one out of the bundle, draw it against the wall, and warm her fingers with it. She drew one out. “Rischt!” how it blazed, how it burnt! It was a warm, bright flame, like a candle, as she held her hands over it: it was a wonderful light. It seemed really to the little maiden as though she were sitting before a large iron stove, with burnished brass feet and a brass ornament at top. The fire burned with such blessed influence; it warmed so delightfully. The little girl had already stretched out her feet to warm them too; but–the small flame went out, the stove vanished: she had only the remains of the burnt-out match in her hand.
She rubbed another against the wall: it burned brightly, and where the light fell on the wall, there the wall became transparent like a veil, so that she could see into the room. On the table was spread a snow-white tablecloth; upon it was a splendid porcelain service, and the roast goose was steaming famously with its stuffing of apple and dried plums. And what was still more capital to behold was, the goose hopped down from the dish, reeled about on the floor with knife and fork in its breast, till it came up to the poor little girl; when–the match went out and nothing but the thick, cold, damp wall was left behind. She lit another match. Now there she was sitting under the most magnificent Christmas tree: it was still larger, and more decorated than the one which she had seen through the glass door in the rich merchant’s house.
Thousands of lights were burning on the green branches, and gaily-colored pictures, such as she had seen in the shop-windows, looked down upon her. The little maiden stretched out her hands towards them when–the match went out. The lights of the Christmas tree rose higher and higher, she saw them now as stars in heaven; one fell down and formed a long trail of fire.
“Someone is just dead!” said the little girl; for her old grandmother, the only person who had loved her, and who was now no more, had told her, that when a star falls, a soul ascends to God.
She drew another match against the wall: it was again light, and in the lustre there stood the old grandmother, so bright and radiant, so mild, and with such an expression of love.
“Grandmother!” cried the little one. “Oh, take me with you! You go away when the match burns out; you vanish like the warm stove, like the delicious roast goose, and like the magnificent Christmas tree!” And she rubbed the whole bundle of matches quickly against the wall, for she wanted to be quite sure of keeping her grandmother near her. And the matches gave such a brilliant light that it was brighter than at noon-day: never formerly had the grandmother been so beautiful and so tall. She took the little maiden, on her arm, and both flew in brightness and in joy so high, so very high, and then above was neither cold, nor hunger, nor anxiety–they were with God.
But in the corner, at the cold hour of dawn, sat the poor girl, with rosy cheeks and with a smiling mouth, leaning against the wall–frozen to death on the last evening of the old year. Stiff and stark sat the child there with her matches, of which one bundle had been burnt. “She wanted to warm herself,” people said. No one had the slightest suspicion of what beautiful things she had seen; no one even dreamed of the splendour in which, with her grandmother she had entered on the joys of a new year.
The Open Window
Task description: Hey viewer, welcome or welcome back to my glog, today I’m going to be sharing part of a story called “The Open Window”. I thought the story was beyond belief, it was supercalifragilisticexpialidocious story. And I hope you like it too, and I wish to do more like this soon. Hope you enjoy. Please leave a comment; thank you for visiting my blog. <3
“My aunt will be down presently, Mr. Nuttel,” said a very self-possessed young lady of fifteen; “in the meantime you must try and put up with me.”
Framton Nuttel endeavoured to say the correct something which should duly flatter the niece of the moment without unduly discounting the aunt that was to come. Privately he doubted more than ever whether these formal visits on a succession of total strangers would do much towards helping the nerve cure which he was supposed to be undergoing
“I know how it will be,” his sister had said when he was preparing to migrate to this rural retreat; “you will bury yourself down there and not speak to a living soul, and your nerves will be worse than ever from moping. I shall just give you letters of introduction to all the people I know there. Some of them, as far as I can remember, were quite nice.”
Framton wondered whether Mrs. Sappleton, the lady to whom he was presenting one of the letters of introduction, came into the nice division.
“Do you know many of the people around here?” asked the niece, when she judged that they had had sufficient silent communion.
“Hardly a soul,” said Framton. “My sister was staying here, at the rectory, you know, some four years ago, and she gave me letters of introduction to some of the people here.”
He made the last statement in a tone of distinct regret.
“Then you know practically nothing about my aunt?” pursued the self-possessed young lady.
“Only her name and address,” admitted the caller. He was wondering whether Mrs. Sappleton was in the married or widowed state. An undefinable something about the room seemed to suggest masculine habitation.
“Her great tragedy happened just three years ago,” said the child; “that would be since your sister’s time.”
“Her tragedy?” asked Framton; somehow in this restful country spot tragedies seemed out of place.
“You may wonder why we keep that window wide open on an October afternoon,” said the niece, indicating a large French window that opened on to a lawn.
“It is quite warm for the time of the year,” said Framton; “but has that window got anything to do with the tragedy?”
“Out through that window, three years ago to the day, her husband and her two young brothers went off for their day’s shooting. They never came back. In crossing the moor to their favourite snipe-shooting ground they were all three engulfed in a treacherous piece of bog. It had been that dreadful wet summer, you know, and places that were safe in other years gave way suddenly without warning. Their bodies were never recovered. That was the dreadful part of it.” Here the child’s voice lost its self-possessed note and became falteringly human. “Poor aunt always thinks that they will come back someday, they and the little brown spaniel that was lost with them, walk in at that window just as they used to do. That is why the window is kept open every evening till it is quite dusk. Poor dear aunt, she has often told me how they went out, her husband with his white waterproof coat over his arm, and Ronnie, her youngest brother, singing ‘Bertie, why do you bound?’ as he always did to tease her, because she said it got on her nerves. Do you know, sometimes on still, quiet evenings like this, I almost get a creepy feeling that they will all walk in through that window–“
She broke off with a little shudder. It was a relief to Framton when the aunt bustled into the room with a whirl of apologies for being late in making her appearance.
“I hope Vera has been amusing you?” she said.
“She has been very interesting,” said Framton.
“I hope you don’t mind the open window,” said Mrs. Sappleton briskly; “my husband and brothers will be home directly from shooting, and they always come in this way. They’ve been out for snipe in the marshes today, so they’ll make a fine mess over my poor carpets. So like you menfolk, isn’t it?”
She rattled on cheerfully about the shooting and the scarcity of birds, and the prospects for ducks in the winter. To Framton it was all purely horrible. He made a desperate but only partially successful effort to turn the talk on to a less ghastly topic, he was conscious that his hostess was giving him only a fragment of her attention, and her eyes were constantly straying past him to the open window and the lawn beyond. It was certainly an unfortunate coincidence that he should have paid his visit on this tragic anniversary.
“The doctors agree in ordering me complete rest, an absence of mental excitement, and avoidance of anything in the nature of violent physical exercise,” announced Framton, who laboured under the tolerably widespread delusion that total strangers and chance acquaintances are hungry for the least detail of one’s ailments and infirmities, their cause and cure. “On the matter of diet they are not so much in agreement,” he continued.
“No?” said Mrs. Sappleton, in a voice which only replaced a yawn at the last moment. Then she suddenly brightened into alert attention–but not to what Framton was saying.
“Here they are at last!” she cried. “Just in time for tea, and don’t they look as if they were muddy up to the eyes!”
Framton shivered slightly and turned towards the niece with a look intended to convey sympathetic comprehension. The child was staring out through the open window with a dazed horror in her eyes. In a chill shock of nameless fear Framton swung round in his seat and looked in the same direction.
In the deepening twilight three figures were walking across the lawn towards the window, they all carried guns under their arms, and one of them was additionally burdened with a white coat hung over his shoulders. A tired brown spaniel kept close at their heels. Noiselessly they neared the house, and then a hoarse young voice chanted out of the dusk: “I said, Bertie, why do you bound?”
Framton grabbed wildly at his stick and hat; the hall door, the gravel drive, and the front gate were dimly noted stages in his headlong retreat. A cyclist coming along the road had to run into the hedge to avoid an imminent collision.
“Here we are, my dear,” said the bearer of the white mackintosh, coming in through the window, “fairly muddy, but most of its dry. Who was that who bolted out as we came up?”
“A most extraordinary man, a Mr. Nuttel,” said Mrs. Sappleton; “could only talk about his illnesses, and dashed off without a word of goodby or apology when you arrived. One would think he had seen a ghost.”
“I expect it was the spaniel,” said the niece calmly; “he told me he had a horror of dogs. He was once hunted into a cemetery somewhere on the banks of the Ganges by a pack of pariah dogs, and had to spend the night in a newly dug grave with the creatures snarling and grinning and foaming just above him. Enough to make anyone lose their nerve.”
Romance at short notice was her speciality.
Task description: Hey viewer, welcome or welcome back to my glog, today I’m going to be sharing part of a story called “Eveline”. I thought the story was beyond belief, it was supercalifragilisticexpialidocious story. And I hope you like it too, and I wish to do more like this soon. Hope you enjoy. Please leave a comment; thank you for visiting my blog. <3
She sat at the window watching the evening invade the avenue. Her head was leaned against the window curtains and in her nostrils was the odour of dusty cretonne. She was tired.
Few people passed. The man out of the last house passed on his way home; she heard his footsteps clacking along the concrete pavement and afterwards crunching on the cinder path before the new red houses. One time there used to be a field there in which they used to play every evening with other people’s children. Then a man from Belfast bought the field and built houses in it — not like their little brown houses but bright brick houses with shining roofs. The children of the avenue used to play together in that field — the Divines, the Waters, the Dunns, little Keogh the cripple, she and her brothers and sisters. Ernest, however, never played: he was too grown up. Her father used to hunt them out of the field with his blackthorn stick; but usually little Keogh used to keep nix and call out when he saw her father coming. Still they seemed to have been rather happy then. Her father was not so bad then; and besides, her mother was alive. That was a long time ago; she and her brothers and sisters were all grown up and her mother was dead. Tizzie Dunn was dead, too, and the Waters had gone back to England. Everything changes. Now she was going to go away like the others, to leave her home.
Home! She looked round the room, reviewing all its familiar objects which she had dusted once a week for so many years, wondering where on earth all the dust came from. Perhaps she would never see again those familiar objects from which she had never dreamed of being divided. And yet during all those years she had never found out the name of the priest whose yellowing photograph hung on the wall above the broken harmonium beside the coloured print of the promises made to Blessed Margaret Mary Alacoque. He had been a school friend of her father. Whenever he showed the photograph to a visitor her father used to pass it with a casual word:
“He is in Melbourne now.”
She had consented to go away, to leave her home. Was that wise? She tried to weigh each side of the question. In her home anyway she had shelter and food; she had those whom she had known all her life about her. Of course she had to work hard, both in the house and at business. What would they say of her in the Stores when they found out that she had run away with a fellow? Say she was a fool, perhaps; and her place would be filled up by advertisement. Miss Gavan would be glad. She had always had an edge on her, especially whenever there were people listening.
“Miss Hill, don’t you see these ladies are waiting?”
“Look lively, Miss Hill, please.”
She would not cry many tears when leaving the Stores.
But in her new home, in a distant unknown country, it would not be like that. Then she would be married — she, Eveline. People would treat her with respect then. She would not be treated as her mother had been. Even now, though she was over nineteen, she sometimes felt herself in danger of her father’s violence. She knew it was that that had given her the palpitations. When they were growing up he had never gone for her like he used to go for Harry and Ernest, because she was a girl but latterly he had begun to threaten her and say what he would do to her only for her dead mother’s sake. And now she had nobody to protect her. Ernest was dead and Harry, who was in the church decorating business, was nearly always down somewhere in the country. Besides, the invariable squabble for money on Saturday nights had begun to weary her unspeakably. She always gave her entire wages — seven shillings — and Harry always sent up what he could but the trouble was to get any money from her father. He said she used to squander the money, that she had no head, that he wasn’t going to give her his hard-earned money to throw about the streets, and much more, for he was usually fairly bad on Saturday night. In the end he would give her the money and ask her if she had any intention of buying Sunday’s dinner. Then she had to rush out as quickly as she could and do her marketing, holding her black leather purse tightly in her hand as she elbowed her way through the crowds and returning home late under her load of provisions. She had worked hard to keep the house together and to see that the two young children who had been left to her charge went to school regularly and got their meals regularly. It was hard work — a hard life — but now that she was about to leave it she did not find it a wholly undesirable life.
She was about to explore another life with Frank. Frank was very kind, manly, and open-hearted. She was to go away with him by the night-boat to be his wife and to live with him in Buenos Ayres where he had a home waiting for her. How well she remembered the first time she had seen him; he was lodging in a house on the main road where she used to visit. It seemed like a few weeks ago. He was standing at the gate, his peaked cap pushed back on his head and his hair tumbled forward over a face of bronze. Then they came to know each other. He used to meet her outside the Stores every evening and see her home. He took her to see The Bohemian Girl and she felt elated as she sat in an unaccustomed part of the theatre with him. He was awfully fond of music and sang a little. People knew that they were courting and, when he sang about the class that loves a sailor, she always felt pleasantly confused. He used to call her Poppens out of fun. First of all it had been an excitement for her to have a fellow and then she had begun to like him. He had tales of distant countries. He had started as a deck boy at a pound a month on a ship of the Allan Line going out to Canada. He told her the names of the ships he had been on and the names of the different services. He had sailed through the Straits of Magellan and he told her stories of the terrible Patagonians. He had fallen on his feet in Buenos Ayres, he said, and had come over to the old country just for a holiday. Of course, her father had found out about the affair and had forbidden her to have anything to say to him.
“I know these sailor chaps,” he said.
One day he had a quarrel with Frank and after that she had to meet her lover secretly.
The evening deepened in the avenue. The white of two letters in her lap grew indistinct. One was to Harry; the other was to her father. Ernest had been her favourite but she liked Harry too. Her father was becoming old lately, she noticed; he would miss her. Sometimes he could be very nice. Not long before, when she had been laid up for a day, he had read her out a ghost story and made toast for her at the fire. Another day, when their mother was alive, they had all gone for a picnic to the Hill of Howth. She remembered her father putting on her mothers bonnet to make the children laugh.
Her time was running out but she continued to sit by the window, leaning her head against the window curtain, inhaling the odour of dusty cretonne. Down far in the avenue she could hear a street organ playing. She knew the strangest thing that would come that very night to remind her of the promise to her mother, her promise to keep the home together as long as she could. She remembered the last night of her mother’s illness; she was again in the close dark room at the other side of the hall and outside she heard a melancholy air of Italy. The organ-player had been ordered to go away and given sixpence. She remembered her father strutting back into the sickroom saying:
“Damned Italians! coming over here!”
As she mused, the pitiful vision of her mother’s life laid its spell on the very quick of her being — that life of commonplace sacrifices closing in final craziness. She trembled as she heard again her mother’s voice saying constantly with foolish insistence:
“Derevaun Seraun! Derevaun Seraun!”
She stood up in a sudden impulse of terror. Escape! She must escape! Frank would save her. He would give her life, perhaps love, too. But she wanted to live. Why should she be unhappy? She had a right to happiness. Frank would take her in his arms, fold her in his arms. He would save her.
She stood among the swaying crowd in the station at the North Wall. He held her hand and she knew that he was speaking to her, saying something about the passage over and over again. The station was full of soldiers with brown baggage. Through the wide doors of the sheds she caught a glimpse of the black mass of the boat, lying beside the quay wall, with illuminated portholes. She answered nothing. She felt her cheek pale and cold and, out of a maze of distress, she prayed to God to direct her, to show her what was her duty. The boat blew a long mournful whistle into the mist. If she went, tomorrow she would be on the sea with Frank, steaming towards Buenos Ayres. Their passage had been booked. Could she still draw back after all he had done for her? Her distress awoke a nausea in her body and she kept moving her lips in silent fervent prayer.
A bell clanged upon her heart. She felt him seize her hand:
All the seas of the world tumbled about her heart. He was drawing her into them: he would drown her. She gripped with both hands at the iron railing.
No! No! No! It was impossible. Her hands clutched the iron in frenzy. Amid the seas she sent a cry of anguish.
He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He was shouted at to go on but he still called to her. She set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition.
The Man In The Moon
Task description: Hey viewer, welcome or welcome back to my glog, today I’m going to be sharing part of a story called “The Man In The Moon”. I thought the story was beyond belief, it was supercalifragilisticexpialidocious story. And I hope you like it too, and I wish to do more like this soon. Hope you enjoy. Please leave a comment; thank you for visiting my blog. <3
The Man in the Moon came tumbling down,
And enquired the way to Norwich;
He went by the south and burned his mouth
With eating cold pease porridge!
What! Have you ever heard the story of the Man in the Moon? Then I must surely tell it, for it is very amusing, and there is not a word of truth in it.
The Man in the Moon was rather lonesome, and often he peeked over the edge of the moon and looked down upon the earth and envied all the people who lived together, for he thought it must be vastly more pleasant to have companions to talk to than to be shut up in a big planet all by himself, where he had to whistle to keep himself company.
One day he looked down and saw an alderman sailing up through the air towards him. This alderman was being translated (instead of being transported, owing to a misprint in the law) and as he came near the Man in the Moon called to him and said,
“How is everything down on the earth?”
“Everything is lovely,” replied the alderman, “and I would n’t leave it if I was not obliged to.”
“What ‘s a good place to visit down there?” enquired the Man in the Moon.
“Oh, Norwich is a mighty fine place,” returned the alderman, “and it ‘s famous for its pease porridge;” and then he sailed out of sight and left the Man in the Moon to reflect upon what he had said.
The words of the alderman made him more anxious than ever to visit the earth, and so he walked thoughtfully home, and put a few lumps of ice in the stove to keep him warm, and sat down to think how he should manage the trip.
You see, everything went by contraries in the Moon, and when the Man wished to keep warm he knocked off a few chunks of ice and put them in his stove; and he cooled his drinking water by throwing red-hot coals of fire into the pitcher. Likewise, when he became chilly he took off his hat and coat, and even his shoes, and so became warm; and in the hot days of summer he put on his overcoat to cool off.
All of which seems very queer to you, no doubt; but it was n’t at all queer to the Man in the Moon, for he was accustomed to it.
Well, he sat by his ice-cool fire and thought about his journey to the earth, and finally he decided the only way he could get there was to slide down a moonbeam.
So he left the house and locked the door and put the key in his pocket, for he was uncertain how long he should be gone; and then he went to the edge of the moon and began to search for a good strong moonbeam.
At last he found one that seemed rather substantial and reached right down to a pleasant-looking spot on the earth; and so he swung himself over the edge of the moon, and put both arms tight around the moonbeam and started to slide down. But he found it rather slippery, and in spite of all his efforts to hold on he found himself going faster and faster, so that just before he reached the earth he lost his hold and came tumbling down head over heels and fell plump into a river.
The cool water nearly scalded him before he could swim out, but fortunately he was near the bank and he quickly scrambled upon the land and sat down to catch his breath.
By that time it was morning, and as the sun rose its hot rays cooled him off somewhat, so that he began looking curiously at all the strange sights and wondering where on earth he was.
By and by a farmer came along the road by the river with a team of horses drawing a load of hay, and the horses looked so odd to the Man in the Moon that at first he was greatly frightened, never before having seen horses except from his home in the moon, from whence they looked a good deal smaller. But he plucked up courage and said to the farmer,
“Can you tell me the way to Norwich, sir?”
“Norwich?” repeated the farmer musingly; “I do n’t know exactly where it is, sir, but it ‘s somewhere away to the south.”
“Thank you,” said the Man in the Moon.–But stop! I must not call him the Man in the Moon any longer, for of course he was now out of the moon; so I ‘ll simply call him the Man, and you ‘ll know by which man I mean.
Well, the Man in the–I mean the Man (but I nearly forgot what I have just said)–the Man turned to the south and began walking briskly along the road, for he had made up his mind to do as the alderman had advised and travel to Norwich, that he might eat some of the famous pease porridge that was made there. And finally, after a long and tiresome journey, he reached the town and stopped at one of the first houses he came to, for by this time he was very hungry indeed.
A good-looking woman answered his knock at the door, and he asked politely,
“Is this the town of Norwich, madam?”
“Surely this is the town of Norwich,” returned the woman.
“I came here to see if I could get some pease porridge,” continued the Man, “for I hear you make I the nicest porridge in the world in this town.”
“That we do, sir,” answered the woman, “and if you ‘ll step inside I ‘ll give you a bowl, for I have plenty in the house that is newly made.”
So he thanked her and entered the house, and she asked,
“Will you have it hot or cold, sir?”
“Oh, cold, by all means,” replied the Man, “for I detest anything hot to eat.”
She soon brought him a bowl of cold pease porridge, and the Man was so hungry that he took a big spoonful at once.
But no sooner had he put it into his mouth than he uttered a great yell, and began dancing frantically about the room, for of course the porridge that was cold to earth folk was hot to him, and the big spoonful of cold pease porridge had burned his mouth to a blister!
“What ‘s the matter?” asked the woman.
“Matter!” screamed the Man; “why, your porridge is so hot it has burned me.”
“Fiddlesticks!” She replied, “the porridge is quite cold.”
“Try it yourself!” he cried. So she tried it and found it very cold and pleasant. But the Man was so astonished to see her eat the porridge that had blistered his own mouth that he became frightened and ran out of the house and down the street as fast as he could go.
The policeman on the first corner saw him running, and promptly arrested him, and he was marched off to the magistrate for trial.
“What is your name?” asked the magistrate.
“I have n’t any,” replied the Man; for of course as he was the only Man on the Moon it was n’t necessary he should have a name.
“Come, come, no nonsense!” said the magistrate, “you must have some name. Who are you?”
“Why, I ‘m the Man in the Moon.”
“That ‘s rubbish!” said the magistrate, eyeing the prisoner severely, “you may be a man, but you ‘re not in the moon-you ‘re in Norwich.”
“That is true,” answered the Man, who was quite bewildered by this idea.
“And of course you must be called something,” continued the magistrate.
“Well, then,” said the prisoner, “if I ‘m not the Man in the Moon I must be the Man out of the Moon; so call me that.”
“Very good,” replied the judge; “now, then, where did you come from?”
“Oh, you did, eh? How did you get here?”
“I slid down a moonbeam.”
“Indeed! Well, what were you running for?”
“A woman gave me some cold pease porridge, and it burned my mouth.”
The magistrate looked at him a moment in surprise, and then he said,
“This person is evidently crazy; so take him to the lunatic asylum and keep him there.”
This would surely have been the fate of the Man had there not been present an old astronomer who had often looked at the moon through his telescope, and so had discovered that what was hot on earth was cold in the moon, and what was cold here was hot there; so he began to think the Man had told the truth. Therefore he begged the magistrate to wait a few minutes while he looked through his telescope to see if the Man in the Moon was there. So, as it was now night, he fetched his telescope and looked at the Moon,–and found there was no man in it at all!
“It seems to be true,” said the astronomer, “that the Man has got out of the Moon somehow or other. Let me look at your mouth, sir, and see if it is really burned.”
Then the Man opened his mouth, and everyone saw plainly it was burned to a blister! Thereupon the magistrate begged his pardon for doubting his word, and asked him what he would like to do next.
“I ‘d like to get back to the Moon,” said the Man, “for I do n’t like this earth of yours at all. The nights are too hot.”
“Why, it ‘s quite cool this evening!” said the magistrate.
“I ‘ll tell you what we can do,” remarked the astronomer; “there’s a big balloon in town which belongs to the circus that came here last summer, and was pawned for a board bill. We can inflate this balloon and send the Man out of the Moon home in it.”
“That’s a good idea,” replied the judge. So the balloon was brought and inflated, and the Man got into the basket and gave the word to let go, and then the balloon mounted up into the sky in the direction of the moon.
The good people of Norwich stood on the earth and tipped back their heads, and watched the balloon go higher and higher, until finally the Man reached out and caught hold of the edge of the moon, and behold! the next minute he was the Man in the Moon again!
After this adventure he was well content to stay at home; and I ‘ve no doubt if you look through a telescope you will see him there to this day.