Writing in the style of McCarthy

1. Tedious, countinuous journey; 'They went on'
2. Oxymoron; 'stopped often' (in contrast to 'They went on.')-Contradicts himself, drawing out their lasting suffering on their prolonged, frustrating journey.
3. Challenging views about their world in comparrison to ours; '...ate handfuls of dirty snow.' Antagonises our wonderous views of Snow- 'Dirty'-no longer seen as a joyful occasion but more of a burden on our characters.
4. Contradicting 'Such few hours'-the fact they they have no sense of time anymore, and yet seem to judge the days even so emphases their delusion, despair and doubt of themselves and their world through their journey.
5. Nothing has any meaning anymore; 'Burned house, just the brick chimney standing in the yard'-Not significant in their world, if it has nothing to do with the characters, they will not bother. Only concentrating on saving themselves.  

Alice In Wonderland...Tea Party


Rusted filthy cutlery cluttered. Littered. Muddled among the carnage of years forgotten. Fragments of fine china crushed. Ash as loose as grains of sugar and the coarse winds caught them with each dying breath and scattered them among the pitiful carcass Wonderland had long remained.
She sat at the end of the table at the edge of her seat. Dark azure eyes widened as if full. The lumps of rotted teacakes crumbled between her starving fingers. Tasted vile. Flourished with decay. Fouling her touch. The party guests cackled. Sitting steadily on awkward splintered wooden stools and eyeballing their guest with taunting smiles painted on their deluded faces. Clenching broken cups between blackened fingers. Drinking the sodden mess in unison until the last drop was consumed.
More tea, they cried. More tea. 
They stood. In the same time and motion. The girl followed. Circling round and round until coming to a synchronised stop. They sat and drank and ate mercilessly. Devoured each morsel. Grinding, moulding it under stained, yellowed teeth and washed it down with the cold grey liquid left sitting in the chipped teacups. The girl had turned a ghostly white.
A baffled man sat at the head of the table. A tattered bowler hat cocked forward defined his haggard features and his clothes contained little cloth that turned his filthy skin a blue that was even deemed unnatural in this world. Gross olive eyes. He wiped his cracked lips with the back of his hand. The stains were more present then before. A crooked smile flashed upon blackened lips and he rose as if possessed. Silence. Not a whisper of life to detect. Standing on the unstable table he recklessly walked over the broken dishes and cups and saucers until his naked feet were sodden with blood.
Why is a raven like a writing desk, he wailed.