"The Crucible" She was a witness for the court in the witch trails.
Here is a sample story I just came up with that will surely help you,
Ruined Weekend
It was a cold stormy night, raining cats and dogs. I love when it rains. It reminds me of myself. Gloomy, dark, no sunshine, and what I wish I was... Free.
"RIIIIIIIIING"
I woke up to the sound of my annoying alarm clock making that same stupid noise it always does. I slam the snooze button causing my palm to burn. I fold my pillow over my ear as if I was hearing something that wasn't too pleasant.
30 minutes later...
"Jessie, wake up! Breakfast is on the table!" screams my mom, with the most horrifying look on her face. I gasp in disgust. Wow, I'm surprised my alarm clock didn't sound. I sit up in my hard bed starring at my mother like Ive never seen such humanoid in my life. The stare weakened as my mother left my room.
I knew my day was going to be horrible. A test exam, a dentist visit, watching my sister at daycare! My day can't get any worse than that, and it was off to a rough start.
Hi, my name is Jessie Baldwin and I live with my cat Hanga, brother Sebastian, and mom. My dad moved away to Las Vegas when he found a new wife. It originated from when my mom caught him cheating on her and my dad said he loved his new wife better. Yeah, a life can't get any worse than that too right? Well, you're wrong, it can. I experience a bad day one on top of the other. I don't remember the last time I had a good day.
We also live in Detroit Michigan in the most ugliest apartment on Clover street. So, if you were to ever come to my house, it will be easy to find.
"Sweetie, we're out of milk so you're going to have to eat your cereal dry. That's what happens when your father forgets to pay his child support and in the result I get NO MONEY!" says my wow with a disgusting look on her face. The look doesn't take away her beauty though. My mom has beautiful red hair with hazel eyes, and the most finest skin any woman could wish for.
I groan and munch huge portions of cereal with a grumpy look on my face trying to disgust my mom so she would see how bad I felt about today. I look to the left seeing my brother copying me. Stuffing huge portions of cereal in his mouth looking at mom, then quickly glancing at me.
"Oh, stop it Sebastian!" I yell. Firmly sliding my cereal bowl to the end of the counter, storming out of the kitchen to my room to get my clothes on, but to also show more that I hate my day. Why do I have to take an exam on Saturday! I crash into my bed as hard as I can. I look at the window.
What in the world is that?
I see a raccoon pacing in my backyard. Why can't he just go home? Why am I associating it with a he? What if it has children? Why is it in my yard? Is it looking for food? A whole gallon of ideas pop into my brain.
"I cant take the tension." I murmur.
I dash downstairs forgetting what I did to my mom. Heading straight to the back door, I feel my mothers hand clasp my forearm.
"Not so fast kiddo," she says in the (I know what you're doing) voice. "you aren't going anywhere without my permission. I let you do it once, it wont happen again. What is it? A boy? Are you trying to go see a boy?"
"Mom!!! No! Can you please leave me alone. Stay out my business. Don't be such a mom. Ugh!" I exclaim.
I push myself from my mothers arm, unlocking the door, and breaking my neck trying to get out of there. Soaking wet, I stop at a stop light panicking. Looking back, looking forward, looking left, looking right. i forgot I was trying to see the raccoon in my backyard. "Oh what the heck! This light is taking too long!" I run across the crosswalk not looking where I was going and....
-Lights out-
I can't feel anything. I can't see anything. It's like I was trapped in my body. I could only hear a ring. The same annoying sound that woke me up this morning but even worse.
A weekend can't get any worse that this. THIS WAS NOT ME! I DIDNT WRITE THSI! ALL OF IT WAS EXPERIMENTSDIY!
Answer:
Is can a linking verb?
"All forms of be verbs are linking verbs. For example: are, am, is, were, was etc. Besides, verbs that have to do with the five senses are linking verbs: feel, look, smell, sound and taste."
Explanation:
i found this so it should help:D
Answer:
Explanation:
What could be a worse fate for a modern American female poet than to be lumped into a nebulous, chauvinistic and ever slightly misogynistic pool of cess stereotyped as a “domestic poet.” Anyone unfamiliar with the term coming across it from the first time in reference to a female poet might well believe that domestic poetry is sweetly rhyming verse taking as its subject situations like getting the kids into the van for soccer practice, making cookies for the PTA meeting and, of course, a litany of hatred expressed toward husbands who are never there to help with domestic issues.
Never mind that Robert Frost and Walt Whitman and Wallace Stevens have all at one time or another found a niche within the broadly defined movement or genre of domestic poetry. Which, for the same of brevity, shall be termed poetry dealing with the commonplace of everyday as opposed to epic tales, transcendental unity of man with nature, mysticism, avant-garde experimentation with form over content and various other assorted and sundry types of poems with which the average person cannot relate. Linda Pastan, in other words, writes poems in which she consistently returns to touch upon universal themes dealing with family and relationships and the difficulties of normal existence and the emotional distress of just getting up and living live as it comes.
The tension that always exists between members of a family regardless of the definition or connotation applied to the term “family” has been a great source of inspiration to Pastan from her earliest verse and throughout her development and maturation. By contrast, an equally concentrated examination of the tensions introduced by religious and spiritual expectations has tended to dissipate throughout that process of growing older and becoming more domesticated. In its place Pastan has created a body of work that is far more elegiac and meditative and, it must finally be admitted, less domestic. With the introduction of a more melancholic and reflective poetry that moves into a greater sense of isolation and a solitary contemplation of tactile nature rather than abstract spiritualism, Pastan succeeds in tossing off whatever chains may have been tied around her verse as a result of the unfortunate constriction of trying to pigeonhole her as merely a domestic poet.
