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Descriptive Essay On The Night Of A Cat

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In the inky abyssal darkness of the pre-dawn horizon, the eerie silence of the still sleeping world was distributed only by the soft sound of a knife digging into wood that emitted from a pitch black wood and brick home, which sat upon a towering hill that overlooked a sprawling town that lay still as it slumbered.

From within a dimly lit room that shone like a brilliant beacon in the darkened night, my tanned and taut hands gripped a simple yet exquisite knife. Wavy steel connected to a dark oak wood, fresh enough to smell the forest it came from, that was engraved with flowing designs of grace. Graceful against the flickering flames of a dying candle, the blade moved without flourish or excessive movement as it bit into the wood, slowly whittling away strips of material as the shape of an elegant young girl in a summer dress took form. My steady hands gripped the handle, letting the blade dance across the timber as the figurine exposed its beauty and sprung to life.

Sweat dripped from my brow and into my eyes, aiming to distract my intense focus. Still, the blade moved without pause as it etched life to the marvelous figure of a dazzling young girl. Her hair flowed with a life that betrayed its wooden origin, and its eyes held a strange gaze of life which combined with its petite lips, gave off the feeling of a mischievous cat.

Finally, only until the absolute blackness of the night was overcome by the brilliant red and orange hues that bled like a fire over the eastern hills did my hands pause as blinding light seeped in through the paned windows of father's and mine workshop.

With a tired sigh of accomplishment, my figure cloaked in the shadows rose as I stretched my mammoth frame that dominated the cramped room strewn with tools and timber. Muscles, bunched from hours of sitting in one position, groaned as I stretched and flexed them. Still, my eyes remained fixated on the figurine with a gentle fondness, as I searched for any corrections with the same care and respect an undertaker would have for a recently departed. However, before I could scrutinize my work further, a piercing call coated in sweetness carried through the house in a muffled echo.

"Julian...Julian! Breakfast is ready dear!"

At the

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