Descriptive Essay

Awaking from my daze to peer out the large, sweeping windows of the tour bus. Speeding past me is the Normandy countryside located on France's northern coast. After driving for an hour, we appear to be slowing down. The tour guide, Gilles, speaks over the intercom in his accented English describing the medieval structures of the town we are approaching. From a distance it appears to be a tourist haunt. Honfleur is a beautiful town that is different from anywhere else in the world.

I look outside the car window and see the colorless, grey sky and white clouds fly on by. Next to me is one of my best friends, Natalie, and my dad sitting in the front seat humming to a song. “This is going to be such a fun day.” I thought with a grin across my face. As we pull up to the drop off area, you can see the enormous and neon roller coasters rolling by. People of all ages scream at the top of their lungs as they go through flips, loops and drops. “This looks super safe,” I thought in my head. My dad reminds us to be safe and to drink tons of water. He drops Natalie and me off, quickly getting to the gate with a big sign reading, “Six Flags Magic Mountain”.

I'm going to describe a girl for you, try to keep up. Long light brown hair, vintage classy glasses, one lonely dimple on the lower part of her mouth, soft pale skin, stone cold stare, and a dry sense of humor. Can you picture her? Well if you can, then you’ve basically just met me. I usually try to force a smile, wait no scratch that– I used to try to force a smile. Now I'm not saying this so that you can view me as unhappy or negative, but in all fairness who has a smile as their natural way of expression. By all means, my personality, interests, and hobbies are the fundamental building blocks to the life I choose to live.

Stone, stone, stone, wood. Stone, stone, wood, stone. Stone, wood, wood, brick. I count things when I’m bored. So far I’ve passed twenty-one wood, thirty-four stone, and sixteen brick buildings since entering the city. It only took a damp half days ride to the capitol but it seemed farther away than ever before. Home. The sounds of playing in the garden. The smells floating from the kitchen. Father telling stories by the fireplace while mother smiles at each passing exaggeration. That was a great summer day. It would be the last one for quite some time, perhaps forever. No more beautiful greenery. No more delicious scents. No more wild tales. Not for me at least. Hopefully, my siblings can still have days filled with loving family.

This painting portrays Kahlo's two different personalities: traditional and modern Kahlo. The two are holding hands and are both sitting next to one another. The traditional

The saxophone jazz and chatter from inside creepily faded into the dark streets. I was lurking outside the bar and quickly pacing back and forth against the window. I looked up and down the empty and dark street before quickly pausing to stare into the bar window. The room glowed between the broken blinds. I searched carefully, standing on my toes to see the full expanse of the room. People were dancing against each other, laughing and spilling drinks. Everyone orbited around a band in the middle of the room, as they swung their instruments creating sultry jazz. My eyes landed on a girl sitting alone, her body almost entirely eclipsed by shadows and creepy red glows. I stole looks, my wet eyes tracing down her body and through her shining hair, hypnotized by the lights trailing across her glowing skin. I chewed harder at the soggy toothpick I held in my lips. Suddenly, I saw a pair of shadows cross the window towards the door and instantly I turned my back and leaned against the window, reaching for a box of camels in my jean pocket. The bar door shuddered open and jazz escaped into the streets until the door crashed shut behind them. A laughing couple stumbled out of the darkness and into the flickering streetlight. From the shadows, I watched them closely, bringing a dry cigarette to my lips. I flicked a lighter and cuffed a hand around the flame. With a sizzle, the orange flame weakly illuminated my hungry eyes as they followed the drunken couple down the street. The

Her hair curls off her bright face in tight ringlets like little bundles of joy, accentuating her young enthusiastic face. Her clothes hang off her tiny frame like a potato sack on a twig. Her smile stretches from cheek to cheek, wrinkling her pale forehead and forming small fragile dimples on her rosy cheeks. Her skin is as pale as chalk, accept for her cheeks which go a deep shade of fuschia when she’s excited. She’s like a china doll, all fragile and small with her tiny dresses on. She has thin pink lips with a scar on the lower right corner of her bottom lip. She has little stubby arms and legs which make it hard for her to function normally, as her torso is too big for the rest of her body so she falls over a lot. It's hilariously sad, but she’s a trooper so she gets right back up, brushes herself off and gets on with life. I feel that we could all learn a lot from her.

Sitting on the soft sand, I look out over the ocean. The deep indigo blue waters roll onto the beach in sets of white top waves, making a soothing sound as they crash against the shore. I sit there, listening to the the sounds of the ocean, the slight breeze brushes my skin and the salty air fill my lungs. I feel a sense of calmness, a feeling I haven’t felt in years.

WHooOooOsshhH. The sound of the tree branches hitting the top of the big Jeep, and everyone ducking their heads down to avoid getting whacked by the branches. As I look up into the big tall trees that loom over us, a shiver runs down my spine as I slowly realize what I got myself into. Twenty minutes ago, I had jumped up and yelled that I wanted to go with friends to the big bat cave while we were all sitting around a dying fire from the night before, eating some pop tarts at our big brown cabin in Camp Lakewood. My dad said it was fine but my sister, Julia, had to come along because he was staying back to cook or do some other dad thing. I looked around at the big trees and green spring leaves, the cool breeze whispers in my ear. All of a sudden, I hop back into reality by the huge THUD sound the blue Jeep makes.

Jamaica. A country roaring with culture and beauty, just as I had imagined. Water as clear as glass and a jungle that touched the sky. Locals singing and dancing everywhere I looked. In awe of my surroundings I stood, not knowing that the next turn I’d make would shatter the perfect image I’d built, and change my perspective completely.

When living on campus choosing where to eat is tough. Choosing somewhere to impress a date is even harder. Living on North Campus has its perks; there is beautiful scenery, the building is older and full of history, plus you are close to a lot of classes and the student union. However, for those on North campus who don’t have a car and don’t plan on taking dates on buses, there are few options. One of those options is the 1899 Bar and Grill.

Everyone is born with something called a soulmark; a special identifying mark, that leads a person to their soulmate, their perfect match. Most people find their soulmate before they’re eighteen. And that’s what terrifies me. I’m Shoyou Hinata and almost eighteen years old. My parents found each other with timers, that counted down to when they would meet, when they were ten years old. All of my friends found their soulmates in elementary and middle school. The only person I know who hasn’t met their soulmate yet, is me.

I restore and rebuild cars and find myself tangled in the use of appropriate English to explain a process I use for specific situations. It takes a lot of time to explain the whole process, so I decided one night to make my own word to describe the process. The word I created explains the process. I was inspired by a book titled Frindle written by Andrew Clements that I read in elementary school. In my research I discovered many ways that new words can be created. These ways are the randomizer approach, making a noun have a new, different twist, and turning objects into verbs. I think everybody should know these three methods, so they too can make their own word or words to contribute to the English language.

Several years ago I made a trip to Cape Town South Africa, and it was one of the most memorable trips of my life. The excitement of the unknown grew with each passing hour spent in the air, high above the earth. Though my sons and I had a planned five day excursion, I still couldn’t stop wondering what might still lie ahead. Would it be something about this new culture I was about to experience; or would it be something more, something about me?

I feel the stabbing in my stomach bearing down on me, like the cutting edge of a knife trying to penetrate through the thick skin of my stomach. The pain awakening me just passed the five o’clock hour. At this hour, the eery darkness of night surrounds me. Suddenly, I sit up grasping my mid section. The queen sized bed absorbing the trickling, wet drops coming from the base of my neck. My feet whip out of the white, fluffy comforter. Struggling to find my footing I make my way through the scatter of clothes in my untidy bedroom. I snap on the light of the bathroom and instantaneously the beautiful tile floors are illuminated. Instantly, I am filled with a sharp pang of discomfort, the knife penetrating my lower abdomen. Promptly I fall to my knees swallowed by my dad’s oversized t-shirt. The chill tile floors ease my burning skin as I lean over the edge of the pearl-colored toilet, peering into the smooth water. The translucent water is invaded with black specks, like fireflies that dart past in an instant. I notice with every breath the number of specks increases until darkness consumes my vision. Nausea crept from my abdomen and in an instant, the world is black as the night sky.