Cade's Cove Creative Writing

Sunshine was pouring out from in between the buildings, casting shadows all around Ponyboy and the gang as they walked to Pony’s school. They were taking their time walking down the streets and for the first time they all were really seeing what was all around them. Memories were surfacing in their minds showing them what it all meant to them. With every step they took on the sidewalk they remembered a different memory as if they were walking down memory lane. Ponyboy didn’t think it was possible for him to be walking down this street for the last time as a high school student, but he had gone through the years with great grades that earned him many scholarships.

“After defeating the Cyclops Polyphemus, my men grew exhausted. They grew thirsty from rowing under the beating hot sun. Sweat dripped down their heads and the ship’s deck grew moist from the mix of the salty, seawater and sweat. We stopped by on a nearby island.

"Wake up, partners," the trail boss, James called. I sleepily looked up , shivered, and saw I was the only one not up. "Here," James said, giving me the horses' bridles and saddles. "Take these and get the horses ready. We have a long day today." I groaned in reply and set up the horses for the day's long drag. I was the horse wrangler and this was my everyday job but I still couldn't get use to the idea of waking up before the sun and working. We drove the cattle into open plains against the winter's cold wrath.

About half way between Negaunee and Marquette the motor-road gradually turns into potholes and eventually dirt. A dirt road branching off of it runs along lazily for three-quarters of a mile so as to shrink away from all of society. This is Negaunee Township--a fantastic place where trees grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens, where log cabins and beautiful houses rise out of the ground and from the chimneys, wood smoke drifts slowly into the air. With flawless ease, kids are seen running around, invigorated by the fresh air. Occasionally a line of dirt bikes, four wheelers, and side-by-sides race along the muddy dirt trails, giving out the smell of gasoline as they fly by, and immediately they disappear into the greenery and all that is left of them is the sound of their motors fading away in the distance.

In the book The Great Smokies From Natural Habitat to National Park, one can see the true passion and application that the author, Daniel S. Pierce, holds for one of the United States most prized possession, the Great Smoky Mountains. Like most, he is intrigued by the incomparable beauty and thrill of the wilderness, with his main goal being to show that the propose of this national park isn’t just to protect undeveloped land but more to reclaim the wildness and all it stands for. He looks in-depth to the different land use of the smokies over time and the people who have called it home for centuries with his lager focus on the movement to turn the Great Smokies in to the national park it is today.

As the family is driving along, the grandmother awakens from a nap and recalls “an old plantation that she had visited in this neighborhood once when she was a young lady” (189). This recollection happens while the family is driving through the town of Toomsboro, GA. The grandmother is extremely manipulative and selfish and coaxes the family into visiting the old plantation by lying to them with the possibility of finding hidden treasure. The name of the town is only a slight indication of the terrible tragedy that is yet to come. It is no

In addition to gradually exposing the reader to the deep background of the residence, thus obliquely strengthening the narrative, the descriptions and facts help Wilson to remember the basic appearance, location, and significance of his old family home. Admittedly learned through “county history”, Wilson reveals that the house was “built by the Talcotts, after whom the town is named.” Furthermore, the home’s construction began in 1800 and took four years to build because it’s “stone had to be quarried out of the banks of the Sugar River” and it’s “beams were secured by enormous nails... some of them eighteen inches long.” These researched details of the estate appear insignificant to the storyline; however, they allow Wilson to access an elementary visualization of his childhood home because, according to Birkerts, Wilson’s “patient focus on preserved materials will bring back troves of specific information”.

I have spent much of my childhood growing up in a small town in the Lowcountry region of South Carolina. This town, Garnett, is the physical embodiment of the phrase “the country.” Winding, unpaved dirt roads carved deep into the earth as if they were forged at the beginning of Earth’s creation. There are lush forests with towering pine trees and spruce trees, riddling the ground beneath them with pinecones and pine needles. The only buildings there is a post office, a mini mart, and an AME church. Every fall crisped evening, towards Thanksgiving, ended with wild turkeys weaving through traffic in the hopes of reaching the safety of the forests before the hunters’ dogs catch wind of their scent.

Jump!!! My dog jumps on my bed looking at me. I could tell he was going to bark closing my ears from the loud screechy bark. And then he jumps off my bed only to play with his rope. I sit up staring at my phone that was bright I look at my dog waiting for me to get up.

Jake opened his pocket watch, tipping the crystal face toward the low flames of the campfire. Another hour before daylight and he’d pick up Duvall’s trail. The muscles in his jaw clenched, hate pulling at every part of him. He’d kill Duvall, and he’d do it with Texas’ silent blessing. No judge had pronounced a sentence, but Jake saw the outlaw pull the trigger—watched Harrison die.

“Mr. Josten, Mr. Josten!” yelled one of the eighth graders from my current math class in Crescent Middle School. I figured it would be another out of context question, as that was the norm for Andrew. Andrew had always seemed to be the one who tried his hardest, but could not focus on his schoolwork, or anything for that matter. I acknowledged his raised hand to hear, “what would happen if someone figured out how to pass things through time?” I figured since there was a small amount of time left in the class period, I could answer his question thoroughly since I majored in both math and science. “Well Andrew, if I had to guess I would say that someone would receive that object unexpectedly in a different time period. However, if someone creates

It was always a joy for the trail crew to call in the mules and horses early in the morning from the lush, Leprechaun-green government pasture down in Red’s Meadow on a sweet, warm summer’s day.  The animals really loved it too, as they munched on mush from feed bags tied around their necks.  They would get so frisky and spunky from feeling their oats that they would deposit road apples in the corral.  This was soon stomped into the dirt and completely overwhelmed the fresh, fragrant smell of flowers, meadow and forest.

The mountains have had a long human history span from thousands of years-from the prehistoric Paleo Indians to early European settlement in the 1800s to loggers and Civilian Conservation Corps people in the 20th century. From 1923, the idea for creating a national park of the Smoky Mountains area was faced with some tricky obstacles. Many obstacles included financial, cultural and political problems were overcome to create what is today the most visited national park in the United States of America. We are grateful for the individuals were that stuck with the effort for 17 years until the Great Smoky Mountains became an official National Park in 1940. Many people contributed but the main people who came up with the idea was from a wealthy family in Knoxville, Tennessee. When Mr. and Mrs. Willis P. Davis returned from their trip from other national parks, they started to wonder, why can’t we have a national park in the Smokies? What makes this park so unique is its national

We stood outside a large dark log cabin, the Pioneer Hall, on Disney’s Fort Wilderness property in Orlando Florida, which had a square porch and a log railing that contained a wooden rocking chair. This environment was one of the few places down south that made me feel like I was back in Pennsylvania, with the forest floor visible, the great, tall trees, and the country feeling that was given off from the surroundings. When 4:30 pm finally rolled around, a blonde lady in a greenish plaid long skirt, brown cowboy boots, and white blouse came out and rang the dinner bell of the restaurant, justly named the Hoop-Dee-Doo Revue, due to its hillbilly appearance.

It was mid november in the ozarks. A small mountain range located in the heart of the midwest. The trees are beautiful and the day is quite. One of the dead lies about 20 feet in front of me. I don't want to shoot him but he sees me. He starts to walk towards me. Although it doesn't look much like a walk. Its lifeless with no objective it justs walks, endlessly seeking nothing but what drives it to be alive. Human flesh, it's been 3 years now since the outbreak. Nobody knows how it started or where it came from. However it came hard and fast the first year was a nightmare, everyone i knew slowly died off. I've been on my own now for about 6 months. Using the wilderness and the rockiness of the ozarks to help keep me alive. The walker is slowly