Creative Writing: The Sacred Mountains

Jamie swallowed and took one big breath, this would be his last breath that he shared with the auburn red deer with white specks. His sweaty thumb reached for the trigger, a moment of silence was placed over the last few seconds before he griped the trigger of his grandpa's rifle. BANG! He watched as the bullet went soaring thru the air. His body still as the bullet spirals thru the air and pushes thru the outer layer of the deer skin, he watches as it twists and turns thru the next two layers until it reaches the inside. Jamie could tell as soon as the bullet passed thru the deer's skin because as soon as it hit the fragile doe the creature turned its head to look at Jamie, the look looked like the animal was saying to the boy, ok and that

Right in her own backyard, Everest finds a map in the forest. She runs back inside to inform Lio of her discoveries. They both follow the map through the forest. The map leads them to a very dark place in the woods. They look around with flashlights and then they hear a buzzing noise. There is a fairy. Her name is Dream. Dream spots Everest and Lio. They say, “Oh wow, who are you?” She responds, “I’m Dream the fairy.” Everest and Lio are slightly frightened. After a while, they get used to Dream and agree to learn about Dream and her world. She is a fairy who was sent out to retrieve the map that Everest and Lio had. She decides that she might as well take Lio and Everest to her world since they were so fascinated. Dream leads them to a

The authors have two clearly different environments and describes them in diverse ways. Abbey writes about his surroundings as a bright, clear, calm April morning. He changed his description in the afternoon as “the wind begins to blow, raising dust and sand in funnel-shaped twisters that spin across that desert briefly, like dancers, and then collapse-elements under stress” (52). While Leopold writes about his experience with on a mountain as a “deep chesty ball echoes from rimrock to rimrock, rolls down the mountain, and fades into the far blackness of the night” (49).

The waterfall drown out the sound of the eagles that screeched above and drummed to the bottom of the endless cliff. The water roared around us, drifting into the marigold sun that sat cushioned between the clouds. I inhaled the piney air that choked my lungs, and the mountain exhaled with the wind that passed through it. The birds circled above as if they were taunting the trees, circling around them looking for their next victim. I stood on the ancient rocks, completely enthralled by the raw scene; a scene that would lock forever reside in the deepest accommodations of my

The mighty wind clashed against the tall trees and hoisted the delicate leaves up into the heavens above. Only a minuscule of light from above was granted access to the vast lands covered by the grand trees below. Birds flocked from tree to tree scavenging for anything edible that they could clench their beaks on. Their screams echoed bounced from tree to tree and into the night sky as water slowly leaked from the trees like a faulty tap and made a thud when it slapped the surface. Decaying plants filled the air with a smell that could bring a bear to his knees. A thick mist covered the landscape and could scare away any animal that would dare draw near.

I can feel the warm breeze push against my face as I am travelling up the mountain. I can feel the sweat dripping down my face. A mountain lion roars in the distance. Trees become scarce as I continue up to the summit. I can smell the sweatiness of myself and the other backpackers as we scramble up the boulders. The dry air is tickling my taste buds, as oxygen becomes more difficult to obtain.

As I turn from the outlook, leaving the booming mountains to my back I notice the trees. Making up this glowing landscape were the burning leaves of the trees. The canopy of color burned with high intensity. Each leaf was chattering in the wind making up faint rustling, perhaps to keep the forests secret below. Nature’s sympathy was conducting itself is a small crescendo.

The clouds, white and starched, lie taut against the western sky. The waves neither ebb nor flow but rather crash and churn, ceaselessly, soundlessly. The silence is shallow and breathless, punctured only by the intermittent caws of the seagulls overhead. This is where the desert hills, graceless in their fall, tumble and spill into the Pacific. Land is fringed by cliff—great slivers of rock soaring skyward and arching toward home. I sit curled into the corner of the wicker sofa with my knees tucked deep into my chest, swathed in the chill of the mid-morning air. A breeze passes across my legs, drawing heat from my skin like a sigh. Against my temples there sits a light fog, the last vestiges of sleep and dream, pressing softly from

“My friend, there are many things in this world and in the next that we do not understand. We may never understand. I believe the order of things may be out of balance. Something happened that caused the doors to the spirit world and ours to become out of whack. Evil spirits seem to have been able to gain access to our world and inhabit our bodily vesicles after we’ve left them. It’s possible that dream you had the other night. That might be the spirit world calling on you to help set things right again.”

Richard awakened with a sudden halt. His nose was immediately harassed by a number of unknown smells. Had they arrived? Was this it?

I HAVE NOW BEEN WALKING FOR TWO DAYS. The ridge of Burden Valley is just a glimmer in the distance as I follow the Dean Town road towards the West. I have decided to trust Mr Loomis and walk west where he said there were birds but I have had no such luck yet and am starting to worry that this was a bad idea. At first the idea of leaving Burden Valley to find life outside had excited me but now I have begun walking, reality has set in. My legs are sore from walking all day and my hands have become raw from the handles of the wagon. There is nothing out here to bring joy, nothing but dead trees and dusty paddocks. Many times I have already considered going back but I have continued and know there is no way I could return now and face Mr Loomis. I have walked all day and it is

Siir’ack raised a single digit into the air. Air flowed from his finger, covering his own ear canals and forming an invisible bubble elsewhere; to the passive observer, nothing at all was happening.

I saw a platoon of beggars gathering around the river, so I followed them. The rocks crumbled and crunched underneath my carob-colored sandals as I ran over and tried looking over the crowd to see what was so important. The scroungers pushed and shoved to get closer to the attraction. The clear stream was gleaming and glittering as the light reflected on the sapphire waves. I could smell the saltiness of the frothy water and moved closer, somewhat nudging the people around me.

The foliage along the river was colorful and inviting. It was not quite as lush or as green as it had been earlier in the year but welcoming nonetheless. The weather was much cooler, but it had not gotten cold enough for the trees to lose all their leaves or the grass to turn completely brown. Everywhere I looked, patches of green grass peeked from forest glens and barren wisteria vines and multihued, leafed honeysuckle vines frapped hardwoods along the shore. Above those, tall elegant cypress trees reached for the sun welcoming it into the forest. I too, felt comforted by the forest - the winds through the boughs of the cypress pines and moss-hung oaks sang to me as we traveled upriver. Broken, scattered clouds drifted across the sky

Low grasses rustled under their feet, and the wind touched all with its cold breath, but the hills were quiet. The birds kept to the valleys, and any larger animal moved far away at the slightest scent of men. They had the hills to themselves as the day grew.