Descriptive Essay : Names Of Nicknames

Even though the names were mutually conferred upon each other, it still stood as a dehumanizing agent. It is if they weren’t seen as significant to be able to be called upon by their birth given name. Nicknames tend to be given because someone doesn’t feel as if their name is of importance to be remembered. (Melville,

The sun was glistening through the tall, swaying pines. To the right of the trail, a gentle river flowed softly down towards the mouth of the lake. Walking across the rickety wooden bridge, I inhaled a deep breath of refreshingly crisp mountain air. The sun beat down on me as I made my way across the bridge and back onto the well-used hiking trail. The ambient sounds of chirping birds, babbling water, and the croaks of several frogs filled my ears as I made my way around the bend. As I entered the mouth of the forest, I could see my father standing in the middle of the path, glancing upwards, taking in the beauty that had began to engulf us. “We better get going.” he said, looking back at me. “There’s still many miles to go.” I smiled and turned, taking in one last view of the beautiful creekside. Then, with determination, we set out to finish the challenging trek we had started.

After that day our interactions became more and more common, as our friendship grew ever stronger. Finally having a friend, Portland began to feel like a proper home, as I was no longer alone. Weekly lightsaber battles with a given, and grew to immerse every kid in the apartment complex in a galaxy far, far away.As time grew on, time only strengthed our bonds, and grew to the point when we did virtually everything together.

My newfound friend and I were immediately lifelong best friends--we spent hours making cheerleading routines on the trampoline and creating movie trailers and music videos. By eighth grade, our quick friendship became a stronger bond, where we could comfortably share our most personal secrets. As we relaxed on the trampoline with the warm August sun radiating onto our faces, Annabelle confided in me the story that launched her impact on my future.

I open my eyes again after what could have been a life time or no time at all. Blinding light forces them to reshut. I try to open them slowly and squint at my surroundings, but my stinging eyes crave the darkness. “Welcome back,” a different voice says; a woman’s.

Once they were there, the quarter-mile trek to their place had to be made. It was a small, circular clearing in the cone-bearing woods. The area around the fire pit was dirt, for safety reasons. On the outskirts of the copper-colored dirt were five large, round logs arranged in a circle for sitting. Just a few feet beyond the logs, the forest began again in copious amounts of vegetation and growth, like an untamed lion. That night’s weather was just right. The cool air was

In the midst of my tears at the beginning of that car ride in August, my mom said, “you’re going to make friends. You’re going to form deeper friendships than you have ever known to last a lifetime.”

The mountains towered over us threateningly. The only reason I joined the research group was to escape normal life. The same everyday routines were torture to me. The grass around me fluttered gently, creating this enchanting illusion of a grassy, green wave of greatness. The sky was filled with fluffy wild clouds, dancing around in unison.

Those hugs and excitement later turned into hellos, those hellos’ later turned into once in a while smiles, those smiles later turned into oblivion. We made new friends. This happened over and over, like a routinely habit you couldn’t break. Friends were like replaceable pieces; I guess that meant we weren’t really friends.

My throat had grown dry and each passing breath sent a blaze through me. The further I bolted into the forest, the more mystical and spellbinding it became. Huge roots painted a maze on the ground and the flora became thick and lush, forming an arch above my head. The forest reeked of age. The composting, organic fragrance rose up in

My Wooded World Sheila Visingardi tells a story about how nature plays a huge part in her life. As a child she would sit in the beautiful, relaxing, woods and let her mind wander. It was as if the branches would call to her. (Lines 2-4) As the speaker grows older the woods have become an escape for her. The woods represent a sanctuary. This is where she feels inspired and creative, and also safe and at home. It is “a world full of imagination, creativity, resourcefulness, as well as inspiration.” (Lines 7-8)

It also made things great that our families were all close friends so our playtime was extended to trips together or while the adults wanted to come over for dinner. Unfortunately Marco moved away with his family when we were just 6 years old. Michael and I continued to be best friends growing up into our pre-teen years; suddenly Michael’s family decided to move out of California, just as Marco and his family did years earlier. It was a sad time for me, but life went on and my neighborhood was still filled with young, wild, and free kids to play with. New friendships were created and new memories were made. Although, I never found another best friend to replace Michael or Marco, I continued to build friendships and enjoyed my time on Carondelet Street.

As I left behind the somber forest, I now recognized an appreciation for nature that I did not realize I had. I now knew there was more to nature than just trees and animals, but also I found the

The sun was still below the horizon but the clouds above the mountains were tainted the color of pomegranates. Around me the shadows seemed empty. I tried not to look into the brush as I walked down the driveway. I had stopped before, looking to see the back of the shadows; staring hard, only to have them retreat from my eyes indefinitely. Invisible birds called from within. Their sound followed me down the driveway and onto the road.

The sunset was not spectacular that day. The vivid ruby and tangerine streaks that so often caressed the blue brow of the sky were sleeping, hidden behind the heavy mists. There are some days when the sunlight seems to dance, to weave and frolic with tongues of fire between the blades of grass. Not on that day. That evening, the yellow light was sickly. It diffused softly through the gray curtains with a shrouded light that just failed to illuminate. High up in the treetops, the leaves swayed, but on the ground, the grass was silent, limp and unmoving. The sun set and the earth waited.