Descriptive Essay About A Shack

When our bus pulled up we hurried onto it. I didn’t exactly know what we were doing, but I was still excited because it was something new that I haven’t done before. The bus was soon full of people eager to go to the excursion. When our bus pulled off the highway to a small gravel parkway next to a river I wasn’t sure what to expect. There was a lady that met us as we got off the bus and led us toward a small shack and what looked like a meeting hall. She explained that the small shack, which was only about ten feet by ten feet on the sides, had housed four men for part of a winter when they were hunting and got lost. We passed by a cage, however I didn’t see any animals. The lady led us inside the bigger building to where a man was waiting. They served us hot chocolate and donuts before they began talking. After everyone had refreshments they began to explain that a lot of people in Alaska, especially in the backcountry, still had to hunt for every meal. They would go out for long periods at a time to get food to support their family because the nearest grocery store would be miles and miles away. They then spoke about the native wildlife of Alaska and showed us pelts of animals that they had killed or found. We were allowed to buy the pelts, though I would rather save my money for something else. After that we were escorted outside to the big enclosure. I now saw that there were two reindeer roaming around. We were given food to feed them with and when I

Shacks was about a man writing love letters to a woman he barely knows. In doing so he discovers hidden talents about himself. One of his biggest talents he didn’t know about himself, was his ability to write well. In his thesis he states that we are born with few tools and even fewer knowledge to use those tools, meaning we all have hidden talents of some sorts we just have to go out and find them. That’s the point he is trying to make the whole time. The whole time in the story he is writing these love letters to escape reality and entertain himself, not even knowing what he was really doing…he was writing. Writing is what he is good at and he wouldn’t have known without writing those letters.

America has been in a love affair with the Bungalow style houses for more than two torrid decades. This exotic word Anglo has been derived from Indian language, which came to be a new American house style. The word bungalow has been around for more than hundreds of years, but did not brought up anything sooner.

A) For assigned detailed instructor to FLETC, follow the FLETC “HURRICANE REPSONSE PLAN” FLETC Directive 70-09.F

In the middle of this area is a little cabin, aptly named “The Little Cabin in the Woods”, clever. Directly in front of said cabin, I was getting a distinct smell of pipe smoke. Now, knowing it was a crappy weather day and the fact nobody else was in the area, I started to get a bit creeped out. Oh look, Black-capped Chickadees and a pair of Tufted Titmouse, let’s get moving along

I didn't visit the farm that year. Still, the fire never faded from my mind. I stared at the dancing flames, which now were not only blazes, but also unforgettable moments I had at my foster homes. I felt the cozy heat, yielded not by burning wood but by warm hugs. And I became truly fascinated by the blazing unpredictability - not the sudden sparks that lighted the night , but the uncertainties that made me grow

I looked outside and ahead I saw two five foot tall decks. The decks were ten feet apart and a black barrel stood in between the decks. To the right of the right deck was parked a 2015 red Silverado truck and a half dozen people stood on the bed of the red truck. Chela parked by the Silverado and when I stepped out the car a hot breeze of air hit me like a blow dryer. The floor was filled with dirt yet every other step the floor had patches of green weed. Kristy and I walked towards the right deck and climbed the black barrel to reach the top of the deck. I started greeting Kristy’s three aunts and her two cousins; then, I went to sit on top of a blue cooler located on the far left of the deck. When I looked ahead I saw a hideous view.

Camp Smile a Mile, a camp established for children and teens who are off or on therapy with cancer. I am one of those young people who have grown up with Camp Sam in my life. Nine years of my life to be exact.

We got there around late afternoon and it was the biggest cabin we ever seen. The driveway was wide but short, It was made of gravel and dirt, there was also a basketball hoop in the driveway, with a big garage that was not attached to the house. On the outside of the cabin there was a big porch with a railing that leads to the back of the cabin. The wood of the cabin was a light brown color, almost tan, and looked like it was glossed. When we opened the door we all dropped our stuff and started to explore. When I first walked in I felt a rush of relaxation, all the bad things that were happening in the world, all my worries and stresses seemed to disappear. When you first walk in you see a living room area to the left, and a kitchen to the right all in one room. In the kitchen there was a small eating table, and also bright teal cupboards above the counter tops against the walls connected to a refrigerator. The living room area had a huge white wrap around couch with a flat screen tv mounted to the walls. Also in the living room there was a door leading to the porch. Also on this floor were two bedrooms, one for my parents and one for the other

The Abandoned house stood there, with fog rising to the sky. Lights flickered being the only light in the dark….. The fog dragged a cold breeze, that sent a chill up my spine, this house has been here forever and nothing like this has ever happened before, I gulped and strolled into the cold night fog. As I approached the house, the door slowly opens and a Shadow steps towards me. The weather just dropped like 40 degrees, I don't like this at all.

“Counting On” star Ben Seewald has warned his Christian followers on social media that “The Shack” movie, in which Octavia Spencer portrays God the Father, presents a false concept of God which could be planted into viewers’ minds.

As a child, I was fascinated by stories about a farm in Harrison County, Maine, where my father spent his teenage years. Being raised on a farm seemed more interesting than growing up in the suburbs. About a year ago, I decided to explore what living on a farm was like. To get to Harrison County, I had to drive on Route 334, a surprisingly easy-to-drive, four-lane highway that had recently been built with matching state and federal funds. I turned into the dirt road leading to the farm and got out of my car. It had been washed and waxed for the occasion. Then I headed for a dirt-colored barn. Its roof was full of huge, rotted holes. As I rounded the bushes, I saw the house. It too was dirt-colored. Its paint must have worn off decades ago.

It was chilly. It always was. The slight breeze and the overcast clouds provided a gray morning, which to some foreshadowed a sad and droopy day but I saw the hopeful rays of sunshine attempting to leak through the dull, gray bars that separated the warm sun from the cool ground. The lake house: a place where I enjoyed the fruits of having a friendship with the daughter of the family who owned the house. From wakeboarding to tubing to boat rides the lake offered all the amenities one could hope for in a fairly large body of water. Yet these forms of entertainment only amount to the smallest fraction of why the lake house is so integral to my contentment.

The ruckus from the bottom of the truck is unbearable, because of the noise and excessive shaking. As we slowly climbed the mountain road to reach our lovely cabin, it seemed almost impossible to reach the top, but every time we reached it safely. The rocks and deep potholes shook the truck and the people in it, like a paint mixer. Every window in the truck was rolled down so we could have some leverage to hold on and not loose our grip we needed so greatly. The fresh clean mountain air entered the truck; it smelt as if we were lost: nowhere close to home. It was a feeling of relief to get away from all the problems at home. The road was deeply covered with huge pines and baby aspen trees. Closely examining the

On the way to Arkansas today to see my grandfather in a retirement facility—an assisted living facility—a home he has lived in for nearly three years now—we pass the dilapidated barn I’ve been watching for years. Having made this trip many times to my grandparent’s hometown of Springdale, I’ve had many chances to observe its deterioration. Today is different, though; today, the barn has fallen—not all the way to the ground, but a whole three-quarters of it lay caved to time, and while one side still reaches for the sky, the gentle swoop and sway of the structure clearly indicates its demise. It’s a chilly late winter day in Arkansas. Coming to this part of the country during spring break, I always hope to see snow; a late snow is common, and the sky is gray.