A Typical Day Short Story

Hello, welcome back with another and only post by Adam. So Yesterday I went home from school and my parents were at home too because they off from work that day. After, I went home and change into my wrestling stuff, my parents take me to Cudahy. My match against Jacob N and and he's on my weight class, but he way bigger than me. The score was 18- 5 and I though is gonna be hard for to win against him, but I know I will try my best to win the match. I win all my match since when the wrestling season

The air was crisp and without a sign of clouds in the sky. Orange and yellow leaves blew to and fro, and despite it being late fall, it was hot, and the girl was lightly sweating. As she was walking to her car to get to her English class at another school, she enjoyed the warm and fresh air that only happens right before the cold, freezing winter. Because of the school’s miniscule parking spaces, the girl had to park further away in order to fit her moss green truck she drove, but she did not mind the extra walk in the bright afternoon. Inside her truck, she was met with musty, hot air. Instead of turning on the air conditioning, the girl decided to open her windows, to let the fresh air ventilate the truck and cool it off. As she drove out of the parking lot and stopped at a stop sign to turn right onto a busy road, a man noticed her from across the

On a warm, sunny Texas afternoon I walked through the Southlake strip mall. In the air a pungent odor danced around me. My hand went immediately to my nose, to block out the smell. The sun’s heat came glaring down at me as I shielded my hands in front of my face to keep the ray of light from hurting my sensitive eyes. The clouds seemed to dance across the vibrant blue sky. The pounding of my feet echoed across the

Reilly appeals to pathos to convince his readers that sports are a powerful influence on everyday life and evoke the feeling of sympathy from his audience . This appeal supports sports journalism is the best form of journalism because of the influence it has on everyday lives. Reilly describes how the relationship between a father and son was healed through a sports team's victory; “I knew a Boston dad and son who hadn’t spoken in five years… But when the Red Sox won it all in 2004, the son came home. They hugged and cried and laughed” (658). The son and father both had cared deeply for this team, following them all season with equal heart and devotion. When the team finally won this meant a lot to both the son and father, and despite their differences, the father and son were able to share their ecstaticness over the win and heal their relationship.

The people worship, kids attend school, and adults work. The heat is unbearable, adding to the weariness of the town. The activity is quite monotonous; everyone does the same thing each day. When it rains, the roads turn to “slop,” grass grows on the sidewalks, and the buildings sag. The people are always tired because of the heat.

As the wind brushed the back of my dress, I turned around to overlook the waves of golden ocean, pouring into the small town I called home. But, my eyes became fixed on the sun. It was so wonderful, so beautiful as it rose out of its slumber in the mountains. I always felt the sun’s warmth on my cloudy white dress, and I loved how it always felt like my father’s hugs.

I wipe the sweat off my forehead, the hot summer is yet to pull through. Every day in class we pray for rain to fall, so that farmers like my Brother can have a plentiful harvest. Inside the school it is as hot as an oven and I open the old wooden framed windows hoping for a cool breeze that will not come. The children drag their feet as they slowly arrive, walking together up the path. This is a small town and everyone knows everyone.

My lungs were insatiable, not screaming but rather, begging good-naturedly for more. The balmy air was somehow more invigorating, knowing as I did that its vast expanse respected no boundaries in which it could grow stale and contaminated. I could feel my heart pounding against my chest and in my ears, rhythmically, so that my legs soon fell into stride. My bare shins graciously accepted lashings from the Timothy-grass and wild rye that had grown cavalier in the harrow’s

The day began with the sun rising above the trees and my surroundings becoming perceivable. Five o’clock was about to strike the clock and leaves began to rustle as the wind blew. Jake Hall and I sat in our ground stand, concentrating on any movement. The dreary cold morning had me crossing my arms, trying to preserve any body heat I had left. The breeze in the morning helped nothing at all, as it just muffled my ears and a burning sensation felt on my cheeks. Jake’s dad, Dave, seemed to be perched against a tree across from us just barely in sight. The day marked the beginning of November, I could feel the stinging from the gelid morning, the motionless time, and the epinephrine from the hunt pumping through my body.

Conflict is like the juice of a fiction story, without it there is really nothing for the readers to look forward and the plot is not as strong or enticing for the readers. Conflict furthers the action of the plot and can as well help the readers to get a better understanding of the characters.

As a result, she was slouched in her chair in AP French, having to jolt open drooping eyelids every five seconds. The air was stifling, and heavy, gesturing the end of a very long spring. A light breeze meandered in through the ajar windows, wafting across open notebooks yet doing nothing to clear the smothering atmosphere. It seemed all life had been forced off the streets by the suffocating heat, leaving

We were all scared, but I couldn't let expulsion get in my way of having the perfect summer That was the morning I noticed Rayjean absent . As we were going to breakfast I noticed a long line leading to Denaples. The sun shined bright that day, the light trying it's best to penetrate the thickness of the fog, but as hard as it tried the light just couldn’t. The red flowers shined bright thought the fog it was truly beautiful, the flower was as red as blood. Though hard to see, Dionne Green had shiny green grass neatly trimmed to the millimeter everything was great except the humidity. I looked under me, I was stepping on waxed tile stones, they looked perfect. Sebastian stared at me with a grin on his face, he motioned me to the large statue, of the man holding the cross. On his knees. I didn't know what he was thinking, then he said, " Time to climb." I immediately without hesitation agreed I gave

Mai was the last to arrive; she always was, putting off leaving the lonely chill of her own small apartment at the heart of the city to the very last minute. She flashed an apologetic smile to the group as she flipped the kitchen chair around and slid into her seat, her arms folded against the backrest, her chin resting on her hands. It was strange, seeing the team in such an informal setting. Surreal in a way that made her heart thud rapidly against her chest, and her stomach twist uncomfortably. Here in Robin’s cabin it was less like they were strangers fighting for the same battle. It was almost domestic, with the siblings curled together on the couch, and Wendy draped easily in the overstuffed chair, like they were an actual team.

The fleeting changes that often accompany seasonal transition are especially exasperated in a child’s mind, most notably when the cool crisp winds of fall signal the summer’s end approaching. The lazy routine I had adopted over several months spent frolicking in the cool blue chlorine soaked waters of my family’s bungalow colony pool gave way to changes far beyond the weather and textbooks. As the surrounding foliage changed in anticipation of colder months, so did my family. My mother’s stomach grew larger as she approached the final days of her pregnancy and in the closing hours of my eight’ summer my mother gently awoke me from the uncomfortable sleep of a long car ride to inform of a wonderful surprise. No longer would we be returning

Heat radiating from the ground before I can even step out of the the front door, the kiss of a thousand tiny needles tediously stinging my skin, unable to feel moisture in my mouth with no breeze to give a moment of relief, that is how the summer feels in the desert in California. A raspy yet melodic little voice coming from under the only shade tree in my yard is chanting a nostalgic shriek, "Lemonade! Get your ice cold lemonade. A quarter a cup!" The little mocha complexioned girl dressed in a yellow cotton romper short set with with drawstring straps and rainbow colored glittered high-top tennis shoes momentarily pulls my attention away from my discomfort. Her natural hair in two evenly distributed puffy ponytails are reminiscent of