Contreras Descriptive Writing

Laying in bed, Meg wonders if the hurricane will miss them, hoping it will miss them. Picturing herself flying out of the attic, she imagines it will be like The Wizard of Oz, except she wouldn’t be going to Oz, she will be trapped in a wild hurricane, in her rickety, beat-up bed. Meg’s mind keeps wondering as she waits for the first noise of the hurricane.

Traveling is one of my family’s favorite things to do. The family has visited numerous places throughout the United States, however, none are as memorable as Atlanta, Georgia. In Atlanta, there are many places to go and sights to see such as: Cola-cola factory, Cabbage Patch Kids Factory, Under Ground Mall, the Zoo, Atlanta Braves Stadium, Six Flags Over Georgia, Stone Mountain Park, and the Atlanta Aquarium, are all in or near the city of Atlanta. The three that we visit on every trip to Atlanta are Six Flags, Stone Mountain, and the Atlanta Aquarium.

Nestled snuggly into the Blue Ridge Mountains was Ridgecrest, North Carolina. Getting there was no joke seeing as the ears popped every five minutes, but the scenery was beautiful.

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

I have only been at Marist for a few days, but the many experiences I have had here made me realize how fortunate I am to be a part of this community. One of my favorite parts of being at Marist, at least while the weather is nice, is walking to class. The view of the Hudson River with the hills in the background and the train sometimes passing by is like a scene from a painting. It is such an enormous difference from what I have been used to my whole life. Gone are the days of having four minutes to walk between classes trying to push between tons of people in cramped hallways. At Marist, there are lots of students outside walking to class, jogging, driving, or biking. I really like the freedom of the campus where everyone is doing their own thing. It sometimes feels like walking through Central Park.

The day I went to Delgrosso One day I went to Delgrosso. When I went there it was still light out. When we went my sister came,mom, and my other sister came with me.When we went there was a lot of my sister came my mom came and my other sister came.When we went there we rode a lot of fun rides but there was one scary ride.

“ Yeah but you don't speak Spanish. It’s like we cant let in a white girl even if she speaks really good Spanish and we cant let you in because even though you are kind of Mexican you don't speak Spanish, you just wouldn't get it.”

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.

The cold rain fell down on my body as I involuntarily shiver from the cold wet feeling on my skin. I look around to find myself surrounded by puddles of water and no way out. My breath was visible through the air. I was one of the best days to run in as well as the worst. It was another exciting day at track.

Mya sits at the heart-shaped vanity in the center of her bedroom, draped in a dark purple rose as Tiffany, the twenty something MAC cosmetic makeup artist Mya hired to make her face perfection. She left nothing to chance. This was the most defining moment of her life thus far. Every detail would be remembered, gossiped and analyzed by Joe dick eaters and haters alike submitting her rein at Overbrook high school as the baddest chick once and for all.

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.

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.

As the perspiration beaded on my forehead and dripped down my face, the heat bounced back off the streets causing a tactical illusion that the temperature outside seemed to be increasing with each heartbeat. As my parents walked towards the what seemed to be the endless walkway, Myla and I followed. I could hear Myla pant as her tongue swung from side to side in effort to keep cool. “Are we there, yet?” I asked my parents with an agonizing tone. “We are!” they responded quickly. With those two words, my 10-year-old eyes, enlarged in order to catch a glimpse of what I had waited for all

I have gone to many restaurants, but one of the best experiences I’ve had at one was at Puerto Vallarta in January. It was blistering cold outside, though the snow was falling fairly lightly upon the slushy asphalt. But inside the Mexican restaurant it was warm and cozy, I was sitting in a scarlet booth, waiting for my friends to arrive. Wearing a black leather jacket and hat to brave the cold weather outside, I waited there for approximately five minutes when they came in through the door. Carissa, about my height, with blonde hair and blue eyes, was walking in with Rachel, shorter than Carissa, she had brown hair, hazel eyes, and was smiling. They both took seats across from me and we began to chat. Food was brought out, mainly spicy burritos

I wake up to the sound of pouring rain on a monday morning. As I am putting on my light blue dress up shirt and my plaid skirt with my knee high socks, all I can think about is coming back home from school and making paper boats. I run down the hall into the orange living room and open the windows to smell the pouring rain. As my mother hands me my jacket I see the rain pour down into the green grass and get soaked in by the dirt. My father calls out “pimpollo” meaning “rosebud” in english. I walk into the blue dining room; he is wearing a gray sweater with a baseball cap that reads “oaxaca” and hands me my favorite drink, vanilla milk. As soon as I put on my black sleek shoes my grandfather is knocking on the door. I open the door and the