重生之君后万安 微盘:essay范例

essay范例

You were caught up in the elegant architecture, the bone-white arches and pale, thin columns, lit from below by hidden lights, and from above by a scimitar moon.

Plain wooden benches were spaced evenly around the rectangular pool, where the blade of moon rippled.

They engaged each other on one of those plain, flat benches.

Her matchstick arms were no defense; her scream would not last long.

Like a kite plunging to earth at the jerk of a string, Hood suddenly tumbled from his vision at the sound of Susan’s voice.

Man, woman, and the murder were gone, and the Sunday New York Times swan back into view, along with the kitchen table, his second cup of coffee, and Susan herself.

She had just stepped out of the shower, and untwirled a towel from her hair.

Hood crossed the avenue to Watts Street, where the wind whipped up from the Hudson and chilled him to the marrow.

Leo shuffled back to his own easel.

It was nearly dark outside, and some children were throwing snow at each other under a streetlight, demonic in the way they stalked each other, then pounced.

He thrust his jaw out at Valerie.

He sat at the table afterward, brooding, and picking his teeth.

Leo’s driving me up the wall with his fucking hillbilly music.

After she had changed, and they were sitting on the couch, he told her about bumping into Sherri Novack.

She sat at the harpsichord beside a reed-thin girl, correcting her fingering in the gentle voice she always used with her younger pupils.

Is that why you worm out of the class?

Sherri waddled into view behind Marcia.

Around the dark circle where they moved, the sunlight was rendered in bright gold, the leaves in brilliant green.

Hood sipped his wine impatiently, waiting for Susan to tear herself away from Leo.

Hood craned his neck to get a glimpse of Susan, who was standing in front of his most violent piece.

Sorrow welled in his heart, as if someone had died.

It gave him a sense of power to send a charge, however negative, snarling across the synapse between their two minds.

Weintraub suggested, and sashayed back to the roar in the front room.

His gaze skittered over Hood’s face, searching for signs of blood.

Hood crossed the floor with hand outstretched until he banged into his work table.

He felt for the lamp, switched it on.

He sat down in the little tent of light and looked in the drawer for the razor knife.

His life is unreeling like a spool of thread—I can see the approaching end.

When a police car pulled up, he ran across the street and caught up with the stranger who was hobbling up West Broadway.

In a moment they were shooting skyward, though Hood had the distinct sensation he was tumbling through the earth. (Elevator)

Blow him the lights of the city blazed in brilliant cluster, like tiaras and bracelets scattered on white cotton.

Hood thought he was going to stomp out, but the hideous little man just lowered his head, as if counting to ten.

He was drifting on the edge of gloom; the man’s face was so hard to take.

Hood thrust out a drawing of suicide by hanging.

Hood knew he had forced the evening off the rails, but he was too upset to apologize.

He gave the driver the studio address, and when he had picked up camera, he was whisked up Tenth Avenue to Broadway and Ninety-fourth.

A thin gray drizzle hung like a web around the pier, where a few pigeons and gulls waddled disconsolately.

He wore his coat draped over his shoulders like a theatrical impresario, and he smiled like a very old cat.

He put this aside, and examined an ink-and-watercolor rendering of a cat.

Hood was left quite breathless and could only manage to stammer out something about having a lot of work to finish.

The man remained motionless, his bald head glistening, his round stomach thrust forward.

Hood was rocking back and forth on his knees.

Night dissolved slowly into dawn; the Hudson River outside his window turned from black to gray, and a thick, heavy rain hammered on the glass.

He held a James Dean, vulnerable tough-gay pose—three-quarter profile with a cigarette, slouched on a fire escape.

I was jabbering about it for days.

You seem to be insinuating something in a vague way.

Outside, the sun was as yellow and happy as a child’s crayon creation; inside, Hood’s soul was a black ruined landscape of misery and fear.

He sat there all morning watching a swag-bellied sky refused to rain.

The story underneath was brief, saying only that the fire department had ruled out arson.

The elevator clattered and groaned through its slow descent.

It was precise and sweet, a rich embroidery of poetry and math, and Hood wandered when Susan had learned it.

Billows of wet fog brushed against them, like huge, ethereal cows.

Rows of headlights prowled an invisible highway a hundred yards away.

The glazing of ice was sharp against his wrist as he cast about for the thing.

Fear seeped in around the edges of his soul, until there was nothing there but sheer anguish.

Fog was squirting into his apartment through the hole in the window he had made with his fist.

He launched straight into the reason for his visit.

A scowl darkened the sunny brow of J. B. Feathers.

He took each piece and tore it into smaller pieces, until he could not tear them any smaller, until the box that had held her gifts was a heap of brown confetti at his feet.