Thursday, December 19, 2019

Short Story Emily Dickinson - 963 Words

Prelude â€Å"She believed in angels, and, because she believed, they existed.† ~ Clarice Lispector I felt like I was trapped in a dream. Not one of the terrifying nightmares I had been having, but a pleasant dream. One where angels danced across the starry sky, the fruit of a flowering shrub flashed like fire, Mother smiled, and Oliver kissed away my tears. But was it a dream, or was I dead? Had I hit my head while I changed the tire? I wasn’t sure. Nothing seemed certain. It was all a blur. Shadows. Murky shapes floating across my room. Vague impressions of Seraphs sitting beside me on the bed. Smears of color and smudges and brilliant light. In the distance, a clock tolling out the number of loved ones once alive and now long gone. The†¦show more content†¦I climbed out of the shower and made my way to his side of the closet. There I picked up one of his T-shirts. I slipped it on and curled up in a tangle of his clothes. He had only been twenty-seven. Ready to take on the world as soon as we finished school. Why had we waited? Regret for the things we never made time to do like laugh a lot harder, or traveled more cloaked me in sorrow and grieve. I sat there for a long time weeping, hot, wet tears spilling down my cheeks. But finally I somehow managed to hoist myself up and stumble over to the bed. I touched everything on my way: his wristwatch on the dresser, his pajamas still in a pile on the floor, the change from his pocket stacked neatly beside his wallet. I searched through his nightstand drawers for something. What I wasn’t sure. A love note he had forgotten to give me? A memory? A lock of his hair? Him lying next to a pair of his socks? Finally exhausted I crawled in under the sheets and grabbed his pillow. I could still smell him on the case, that same wonderful scent that had clung to his clothes. I wrapped my arms around the middle and hugged it to my chest. I fell into a fitful sleep at dawn. I woke up to the sound of the phone ringing not sure if I’d just started to cry or if I had cried all night. I dabbed at my red and swollen eyes. Another day another phone call. The days following Oliver’s death were filled with concerned calls from relatives and friends. They probably thought that all I did at homeShow MoreRelatedMark Twain Emily Dickinson1045 Words   |  5 Pagesinfluential writers of its own. Emily Dickinson and Mark Twain are just a few of the many examples of writers that have originated in America. Mark Twain wrote Extracts from Adams Diary a playful short story of how man met woman. Emily Dickinsons Success is Counted Sweetest is a poem on how when one succeeds it brings joy into the effort that was put forth. One may learn a great deal from reading works of literature. 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This Type of literature had been used by Poets and Authors to convey their deepest desires, feelings, Ideas, amazing imaginations which makes us, whoever we want and an escape to daily normal life and with this making it humorousRead MoreBecause I Could Not Stop Death By Emily Dickinson989 Words   |  4 PagesThe poem â€Å"Because I Could Not Stop Death† by Emily Dickinson is one of my favorite poems since high school. I chose this poem due to the fact that that Emily Dickinson is one of my favorite poets, I personally love her dark, and mysterious poems. Indeed, people believed she was a little messed up in the head, but I believe she was just misunderstood. Additionally, this poem definitely brought back terrifying memories. When couple years ago, I got into a horrible car accident with a drunk driver,

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