Bun Nine Descriptive Writing

The sniper awoke in the wee hours getting ready for the day's mission. The mission included gunning down an enemies from the other side. Little did he know what was to come. The sniper had finished getting ready and stepped onto the roof. The sniper haunched down and began to crawl up to the plate; the wait began.

I was surrounded by the sound of graphite moving anxiously over paper. The clamor filled my ears and collided with the dull ticking of the clock that hung over the SAT proctor’s disorderly, graying hair. There were only eighteen minutes left and I still had not written a single word. The prompt reverberated in my head like a ringing bell, but I could not form cohesive thoughts. My heart raced and my fingernails dug into the curve of my palm in panic, leaving small, pallid impressions in their wake. Pleading with myself, I considered the page that lay askew on the on the chipped desk in front of me. I wrote a desperate and painfully arbitrary sentence that I quickly erased. Nothing sounded right. I had studied and prepared for this moment with

Food is the most tedious task of the day, and it often occupies your mind at all times, especially in your sleep. Waking up in the dark, cold corner of Herman Ave, I find myself lying down under a tree confused by my surroundings. In a panic, my feet jump to touch the ground trying to search for a familiar sight. Once all the memories from the night before immerge, I recall not eating for the past two days and that has brought short -term memory loss every time I awake. I feel my body eating itself from the inside, and I muster the strength to walk to the corner of a 711 gas station to beg for change. Dozens of people walk pass me and give me a smug face and stare at me as if I were a foreign animal in a cage—out on display for their amusement. Two hours pass before I collect enough money to purchase a ninety-nine cent doughnut. After satisfying my hunger, I go to my favorite location where I search for food—a subway shop on Vasco Road. Thinking back to two hours ago, I wondered why I didn’t initially come to this location instead of showcasing myself at 711; my brain must have lacked oxygen. The walk from 711 to Subway is minimal; it took (takes) me one minute to arrive. I look inside the sandwich shop to reassure myself that there is only one employee working, and I dash to

Thirty seconds ago I was in my blueberry bush as a blueberry enjoying the sun, but now I am in the mouth of the human, in the process of being digested. The enzymes in the saliva started to chemically digest me, at the same time I was being mechanically torn and crushed by all thirty two teeth. Teeth are used to break down large pieces of food into smaller pieces so it is easier to digest. I was now going down pharynx and moving my way into the oesophagus. I saw the epiglottis close up as I was being pushed down, in a way called peristalsis. Peristalsis is the contraction and relaxing of muscles which push food. I continue my way down the oesophagus and find myself in contact with the gastric juices found in the stomach. The gastric juices

Before the patty passes over the flame a second time, the stylist maneuvers a small electric heater about an inch above the burger. This heats up the natural fatty juices until they begin to steam and sizzle. Otherwise, puddles of grease will cover the meat. (Par.4)

Seeing my cleats you would naturally think that they are worn by an average athlete unconcerned with style. The first thing noticeable is how the cleats were originally white, but have turned a yellowish-brownish color like fading summer grass. The right cleat’s lace is torn on the end, so I had to even out the laces to be able to tie them. The left shoe has a black broken hair tie, knotted 5 times at the bottom of the lace. It was my girlfriend’s before it broke and she let me have it for some extra luck. The once “clear”, rubber spikes on the bottom had now turned brown and opaque, worn down to about the length of a fingernail. The covering near the toe of the shoe was beginning to rip off, so you could see a light brown rough fabric that structured the cleat. Even though they’re ugly, worn-out, and ready to be tossed into the trash, these cleats gave me the best two seasons of my life: one season of lacrosse, which turned out to be the season that led to a chance for me to commit to the college of my dreams, and one season of

The timer started, I had sixty seconds to put all my bunker gear on, and get my self-contained breath apparatus (SCBA) over my face and be ready to enter a fire. As I pulled my boots on, I could feel my heart pounding and a little bead of sweat dripping down my face. Today I was going to be a firefighter; today I was going to walk into my first real fire. Fire academy was an emotionally and physically draining journey that required perseverance and dedication that lead me on a path to find my passion and myself.

A cool, fall, light, Oklahoma breeze blows through the trees. The sound of rustling leaves, and the cheerful chatter of my friends, fills my ears. My rainbow colored hoodie is wrapped around me. People canoeing on the lake call my name, “Graeson!” They say, I smile and wave in their direction. I wonder if they can see me from my spot behind the trees and poles. All of the sudden the person in front of me in line steps up to the ladder.

Living in the busy metropolitan area, it is easy to forget that we have unlimited natural beauty, that is the great outdoors, so close to home. Kansas City, Missouri is gifted with a plethora of hidden gems, all located within an hour drive. One such gem can be found in the historic riverside town of Parkville, Missouri.

Awe. Light is not beautiful without darkness. My Dad and I stepped outside the cabin into the wee hours of a crisp autumn morning. We were to prepare for a fishing derby that would begin at sunrise and walked down a dark gravel road toward the docks. Already tired to begin with, the freezing mountain air made me even more tired which made be even more cold. The wind blew the terrible odor of a dumpster our way which made the walk even more unbearable. Then, something caught my eye. Through the almost bear trees above me, I saw a canopy filled with stars glimmering through. I found myself face to face with the universe in a cosmic desert, each star a grain of sand.

t patiI tried to wait patiently in Oma’s red Ford, but I was starting to get restless. Surely the drive couldn’t be much longer. Nervousness prickled again when I saw the hospital break through the trees.

This small yet powerful voice shakes our morals to the concrete foundation, affects our decision-making and even persuades our choices made. The day was a very typical but a distinctiveness hung in the mist like the salty, crisp aroma of the great pacific ocean. My thoughts were blank, incomplete, tuned out by the muffling of the vehicle and the constant static of the radio. Switching lanes on to my usual route, I saw the leaves blow in the cool breeze, hovering like a small swarm of doves. The leaves have begun their cycle of life, changing into vibrant shades and hues of sun kissed orange and moribund yellow. Peering out the window, the environment grabbed my attention, and the constant sipping of the dark brew of coffee kept my eyes alert and attentive to all my sense into taking full effect. Life seemed to great, to perfect, to good, but in reality the covering mask was about to be

Malcolm George Kimberly, a successful CEO of the international enterprise, a young, charming millionaire who was a frequent member on the list of the New York City’s rich, stylish bachelors, also a former chief violinist of the symphony of the Brooklyn a few years ago before the “Mozart Project” has launched, was lying on his leather lounge and peeping out of the new French casement in his one hundred and fifty square meters private office on the 86th floor of a symbolic skyscraper rooted in the heart of Manhattan. He was sweating, heavily breathing, and rubbing his stylish mustache like fondling a soft cat. He was seeing a world that he has never acknowledge before. He dreamed about the time he had spent as a rookie violinist in an aged, crude musical theater. He was familiar with the color of the walls in the rehearse room, half brown and half olive.

If you could go anywhere in the world to forget all of your problems, where would you go? My immediate first choice is Big Bend National Park. Big Bend is right near the border of Mexico, and it's unlike any place I've ever been to. The scenery and ambiance of this park never fail to take my breath away. Big Bend is the place where I feel most at peace because of the wonderful weather, the kind people, and the beautiful nature that surrounds me.

I was a little nervous about the wind as we climbed into the cockpit and did our preflight checks. I explained to Trevor that I have been in small airplanes before but not in this much wind. I wasn’t expecting him to actually let me take off and take over controls, but it wasn’t nearly as terrifying as I thought it would be. I was surprised on how smooth the flight was once we climbed to about 4000 feet and basically had no turbulence. After some conversation, Trevor and I both loved to fish in the area, so we aimed towards the 81 ponds and actually flew over Lake Thompson and talked about fishing most of the flight.