Does Tiara Really Exist?

“Do you need food? Water? You look thinner nowadays,” Paul quickly asked the dark-haired girl, stepping closer to where she was standing. The girl smiled. Irene Sobczynska. That was her name. She was an interpreter from Poland, as it was rumored, and spoke five languages in total: Polish, German, Russian, French,  and some Italian. He’d heard that she even helped prisoners, bringing them medicine and extra food from time to time.  “You noticed? I can’t sleep at night.” she pretended to write things down, checking the newly transported grain sacks in the warehouse, knowing that the SS-man could come in at any time and catch her doing anything other than her job. That meant punishment. “You can come to me if you need food,” Paul said. “That’s my job, not yours, Paul.” Irene laughed, slowly making her way out of the warehouse. She didn’t forget to throw a wink his way. * * * “Hello, dear, why I haven’t seen you around?” a neighbor asks, calmly sitting in the li...

How have the stories used historical context? Beware of The Dog has used historical context to provide setting. Since the story is set in the third person limited, the protagonist and only the protagonist's thoughts are shown to the readers. This lets readers infer the protagonist's thoughts to understand the setting of the story. An example of this was the thought processes and discoveries the protagonist went through before realizing that he was captured in France. Him referring to being in France as a situation where "they get you" means that he was in France after the country was invaded by Germany during World War Two. To add, the Spitfire he was flying tells readers that he is a British pilot in World War Two. Meanwhile, The Sniper has used historical context (the Irish Civil War) to support the plot. This is seen during the climax of the story when the sniper finds out that the other sniper he has just killed was his brother, which relates to a civil war ...

       The afternoon's golden rays shone through the open window, shedding plenty of light on my brother's face. He sat on his bed, forcefully guiding his eyes anywhere but in front. The room was enveloped in a subtle silence.        "Your letter..." I continued, "it only arrived today."        More silence followed.   "Only father, mother, and I have read it. " He nods in response, the blank expression on his face persisting. I opened my mouth to say more, but my mouth only hung agape.   "I thought I was dead, Ruth," his eyes shifted to the front, almost as if he was imagining how his large feet would have looked like through the bed sheets. Exactly like how they used to. I retreated back to the chair at the corner of the room.   "It was a blighty one instead." He paused, squinting through the September sun.   "Sometimes I would rather kick the bucket than walk with a cane." Taken ...

The Sniper  follows our protagonist, a Republic sniper on the watch for the enemy. He is seen eating his sandwich and lighting his cigarette afterward, consequently getting shot by the enemy. Throughout the story, a flask of whiskey is mentioned a few times, our protagonist drinking the whiskey in one draft. Keep in mind, this short story is set in Dublin, Ireland, during the Irish Civil War in the 1920s. Therefore, the small actions the character does and what he eats is greatly affected by the setting of the story. For example, the actions stated previously are a realistic depiction of what a man in Ireland would be consuming - a sandwich and some whiskey. Had the story been set elsewhere - Indonesia, for example, the sniper might have been eating some rice and chicken instead, as a sandwich might not have been considered a "fulfilling meal". Therefore, character and setting are connected in the sense that setting influences the characters' lifestyle. Moreover, whil...

Too much noise. I wander through the mansion, trying to find some way to distance myself from the sweaty crowd. The place is massive; halls embellished with large-scale paintings, people scattered around every nook and cranny of the first floor. No matter how far I stray, however, the music persists. Its bass boosted to the maximum. Its rhythm drilled into my ears. After losing and retracing my footsteps time and time again, I find a staircase leading to the second floor. Its entrance is sealed with string, taped to the edges of the railings, hanging up a thin piece of paper. Written on it were the words "STAY ON THE FIRST FLOOR" in large, capital letters. "Don't mind me," I mumble, ducking underneath the sign. I shouldn’t be doing this.  Definitely an invasion of privacy. I shouldn’t be doing this. I don't even know the owner of this place. I shouldn’t be doing this. Muffled cries intensify my worries. My heartbeat starts to overpower the bass....