SHORT STORY ESSAY

SHORT STORY ESSAY SHORT STORY ESSAY Dhesi 1 Ranvir Dhesi Mr.Depew ENG3U November 10th , 2014 Initiation Symbolism and Conflict In the short story Initiation written by Sylvia Plath the protagonist Millicent Arnold is undergoing a long and difficult set of trials and tribulations with the hopes of being accepted into the most elite sorority at her high school. One of the challenges has Millicent asking people on the bus what they had eaten for breakfast. While doing this she learns about the Heather birds which essentially do whatever they want to. The Heather birds becomes a symbol of freedom and independence that helps develop the internal conflict that Millicent has on whether or not she should join the sorority. Millicent questions whether or not she should be joining the sorority shortly after her conversation with the man on the bus. The man explains to Millicent that Heather birds â€Å"...live on the mythological moors and fly about all day long singing wild and sweet in the sun†¦Ã¢â‚¬ (Vi ewpoints, 205). This quote shows how free and independent the Heather birds are as they are living wild and free with no worries. Millicent now thinks about becoming more like the Heather bird in terms of independance and does not see herself wanting to be a part of the sorority as much as she had previously wanted to. However, her mind is not completely made up yet and she continues to participate in the sororities challenges. She contemplates her future and Dhesi 2 knows that her friendship with her friend Tracy would be put in jeopardy if she joins the sorority because she would be at the top of the high school hierarchy and would not be allowed to associate with people below her. At this point Millicent is completely torn between what she wants to do and has very limited time to make up her mind. She wants to be part of the popular group but at the same time does not want to lose her friend Tracy in the progress. As the day of judgement comes closer and closer Millicent makes up her mind. She realizes that the sorority was not all what she thought it would be like. Millicent now sees the sorority as an exclusive social group that gives girls a false sense of superiority over everybody else and no longer wants anything to do with it. She realizes now that because of this label that was put on her it may have been the only reason Herb even talked to her in the first place. Millicent questions if Herb actually likes her for he rself or if it was just to benefit from her soon being a part of the sorority. This leads Millicent to think about the Heather birds that live care free and far from any drama created by the other birds. She sees the sorority girls as â€Å"...pale grey ­brown birds in a flock , Short Story Essay Short Story Essay Imaginative Text – Short Story Unit: The Gold Watch Hope on the Battlefield By Sarah Ryland As the evening skies embraced hints of aqua and cobalt, Mark strode through the raw deserted grounds and reminisced about what had once been. Not a day below 60, Mark was rather feeble in his stance, with a house full of memoirs as old as the scars upon his skin. Burying his old, nimble fingers into his trouser pockets, he breathed in the fresh, clean air and turned his head towards the wide stretch of ocean accompanying him. Such tranquil, such serenity – it allowed a feeling of gratitude, or even synchronization between what the shallow shores had seen, and what Mark could remember. But his thoughts were stolen. A glimmer had caught his eye, at the moment where the almost-dead grass met the sandy shore. Walking over and carefully uprooting the object from the soil, Mark became enthralled by what resembled a pocket watch - revealing shades of chestnut, and tiny flecks of gold as he scratched off earth from the ornament. There was no clock on the watch – just a circle f ull of dirt and grass. Buried in the middle of the Gallipoli battlefield, the watch brought memories of what had happened in that exact spot on that exact day many years ago, and softly brought a tear to his eye. *** â€Å"Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!† As Mark covered his face, he turned around to see some men still yelling and stumbling – floundering ecstatically through the misty panes and thick olive light. Under a green sea, the brave men choked and drowned. Looking up, the sky was swallowed in shadows of burgundy and copper – or maybe that was just his imagination. War on the Western front had sunk into stalemate. Both sides were peering at each other from fortified trenches as machine guns fired, forced to spill precious blood in futile frontal attacks. The battlefield was a living hell – the inescapable groans were heartrending. The soldiers were constantly the unavoidable victims of the growing fear that they would never see their homes or families again, while fatigue and psychological trauma ruined the brave souls for life just as badly as the mutilation from the gunshot wounds. There were so many gunshots that Mark could not tell where each was coming from. While looking to the left, he could be struck from the right and vice versa. There was a reason they called the ground between trenches ‘No Man’s Land’. A young man who played ‘footer’ was shot when running out. He started trying to crawl back to our lines and was so close, when he was hit again. He was dead within a few minutes. Mark had a gut feeling it was not safe to be where he was. He knew that he had to move. Shouting out to his fellows to stop firing to allow him to travel, he lifted his weapon from his side and prayed to God he would survive. Chaos and confusion menaced his mind as he imagined the possible fate of his actions. Stepping out of his harbor, he made a mad dash to the next trench. As he slid into the dirt and watched dust rise past his face, an excruciating burn encompassed his left side – pulling all thoughts to an abrupt halt as blood spilled out and clung to the material of his uniform. He suffered a splinter of a bullet in the side – deeply slicing his torso. Breathing through the seamless agony, Mark turned around to see he was joined by another solider by the name of Lex. From what Mark could see, he was suffering horribly with open wounds, blood-stained bandages falling from his head, leg and shoulder and a struggle for air. Mark knew he had to help, or else Lex could be just another number for the death count to feast on. No one else was there, and no stretch- bearers of any sort, so he threw the poor soldier’s arm around his neck and helped him down the ridge. With a swollen knee – either another splinter of a bullet, or cut by the rocks, Mark could hardly walk. He passed Lex on, to other soldiers, as he wiped the sweat