Descriptive Essay - Original Motion

A little while later, prisoners from other buildings started pouring in. I expected to hear everyone talking like I do at school, however, the room was deathly quiet. For lunch, prisoners were given a liter of the watery soup and were considered lucky if they got anything solid, like a peel, of bits of the rat. Seeing the primitiveness of this place, I was surprised bowls and spoons were used. The prisoners took their small bowl of thin soup and went to eat outside. After I severed everyone, I got some soup for myself and went to join

It was nearly a 4:30 in the morning and Asher Aamil lay in his bunk, staring at the pockmarked prison ceiling, enjoying the soft patter of the early morning drizzle against the window. He very much loved these dark days, the created a gloomy, dark atmosphere, yet it was relaxing and they still got to go out into the yard. He lay there for nearly an hour, relaxing, thinking about the circumstances that landed him where he was today, the same routine he had for the most part of the last two years. At about a half hour until five he slips out of bed and gets ready for the day, and soon the guards come around as they all do at six sharp. He shuffled through the day and found himself in the cafeteria at noon. And that was where his schedule

He had just managed to stumble to his feet resting his back against the wall. The only light was in the room was from a small opening where the ceiling and wall met, covered with bars. Bahauddin had reached for his neck and a sense of anxiousness rushed through his body. There was no metal there, no keys, no nothing. He had peeked his head through the cell bars to examine the lock and everything around him. “Hello?” Bahauddin yelled, waiting for a response. Coughing had came from the cell next to him. “Hello,” he repeated, “who’s there?”

Jay awoke in a musty holding cell with orange light tricking through the rusting bars. His attention was captured by a pungent smell that wafted from the filth-covered basin in the dark shadowy corner. He lay eagle-spread and supine on the floor, as if he had been dragged roughly by his limbs and aggressively dumped. Clutching his head, he felt an amassing bruise and groaned. Being jailed was the last thing on his mind. It was like being a fish caught in a barrel. There was so much he needed to do and achieve, which had already been meticulously

Beginning a 12-minute journey, leaving my residence Piedmont North A; I headed to Starbucks. From the speed of the wind to the coolness of the air, I could tell that the season of Fall was finally beginning. The falling leaves of the trees were starting to leave a trail, and as I was beginning to approach the establishment, the aroma of coffee beans was lingering in the air.

Six years turned him from flat-out angry to something more like constructively critical. He cast himself as the monitor of the prison regime. He was that eternally complaining customer who keeps returning to the restaurant anyway. His rage, scalding in the free world, cooled into a kind of nagging. He was Polunsky’s little gadfly: a reviewer of its food, a chronicler of what criminals led dignified than he did, an explainer of its overly bureaucratic processes. In his blog posts, he might disclose such things as the organogram of the prison, or the winding path that complaints followed, or the financial arrangement by which the county paid the state for keeping inmates until the death warrant was signed.”(Giridhardas

It was almost two before there was a chance for lunch. Until then his desk was snow-banked with demanding papers, the telephone rang constantly and an amry of insistent visitors attacked his walls with requests for work. By twelve, his nerves were pulled like violin strings knobbed to their tightest. By one, the strings drew close to shearing; by one-thirty they began to snap. He had to get away now; immediately; flee to some shadowy restaurant booth, have a cocktail and a leisurely meal; listen to somnolent music.

I practically fell out of the bus. I had no money to buy water and I was sweating bullets. All I have to do is to get to is get to Martin’s house I thought. Then they will aid me with my arid throat. But wait, I have forgotten where they live! I should travel to the town’s central area and maybe I will remember how to get to Martin’s house! If not, then I can just ask someone on the street, I thought. As I trudged on, I could feels scabs on my feet. The money in my boots must have caused this, I thought. But it was necessary, I wanted a proper funeral. The sun beated upon my head as I blindly walked through the town. My sight was starting to appear with blur.

As I woke up on the cold concrete floor of my cell, I could feel my eyes still heavy after what felt like 15 hours of sleep. The needle dripping with the last few drops of heroine had rolled under my bed. My bunkmate was nowhere in sight. “Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen.”, I heard faintly from outside my cell. “Twenty-one.” It took me about five more minutes of laying there until a realized what was going on. I hurried outside to join the others, while still trying to be discreet. “Well look who decided to join us. Where were you Anderson, knitting us all sweaters? Or baking cookies in your mansion’s glorious kitchen?” “No, C.O. Wright”, I said. “I overslept and lost track of t…” I couldn’t finish my sentence before feeling the hard blow of his boot hitting my

I retreat into myself in an attempt to block out the cruel sounds of the prison morning. The faint barking of rabid guard dogs seem to echo through the complex, ricocheting off of any surface like the lost souls of convicts. And here I lie amongst them. The dogs aren’t the only things that bark around here: the vicious snaps of the heartless wardens strike fear through the best of us. Occasional gang taunts reverberate down the vast lonely halls. But these ones that are all talk, they’re easy. Not a problem. When blood is spilled, it happens from out of nowhere. Always for a reason.

“Hey eat the food,you ugly rat!” one of the guards yelled. The cuisine of the prison was moldy bread that looked like it was screaming for help, and soup that was like a newborn baby crying for it’s mother.

It was a bright evening with the light shining through the window curtains casting a ray down upon Mr. Johnson’s crude and bitter face. He rose with a grunt, his rump pulling the sheets in a fashion only comparable to that of a maelstrom. As the cover of the bed was yanked towards the mighty roundness of Mr. Johnson’s figure, a large bottle fell to the floor with a slight ting in its landing. “A lousy day for the aftermath of drinking, wouldn’t you say, honey?” he bellowed downstairs. The plump man’s comical roll to his feet was that of an armadillo hiding in fear of predators. With vigor, he yanked his coat off of a nearby coat rack and bolted down the stairs, nearly falling, towards the fresh smell of a homemade meal prepared on the kitchen counter. “I don’t know what you you’re talking about, pal.” A crude voice muttered from behind the counter. It was at this point that Mr. Johnson realized, this house was not his own. In fact, it was not a home at all. A sudden flashback nearly knocked him off his feet. He, in that moment, remembered where he was. This was the hotel he stopped at on his drunken march home from town. “Oh dear, sorry for the confusion. I fear I may have made an improper judgement of the building I slept in last night.” He reached his hand in his pocket. “For your troubles?” He handed the man a small flask of what appeared to be a thick liquor. “Thank ya, kindly stranger, really takes the edge off of a stressful work day.” Said the man with a devilish smile on his face as he slid it in his pocket. “That it does.”, replied Mr. Johnson. “That it does.”

Inmates filed into the cafeteria, it was a dismal scene, prisoners shuffling listlessly waiting for their turn in the meal line, a feeling of unease permeating the cafeteria. It 'd been days since any of the inmates had been allotted time outside of the oppressive structure, a thick tension had settled over the penitentiary even the guards where a little stir crazy at this point.

Upon arriving at a two- story house located in a small suburb in the middle of the scorching Arizona desert. You can see one big window from the outside of the house, similar to the size of a fifty-inch TV. Little do you know that behind those windows lies a room filled with peace, security, and warmth. Therefore, your curiosity peaks and decides to explore the enchanting room. As you enter the house you see a stair case to your left about ten steps from the main door. After you make the journey through all of the sixteen steps, you see a room to your right that captivates your attention. You take nine steps to the right, which leads you inside an illuminated room covered in fluffy almond wash carpet. You encounter many items that catch your attention.

It was Halloween and, being the super mature teenager that I was, I went trick-or-treating. Going house to house and getting practically thrown at with candy just seemed entirely worth it. Considering I was 5,3, I wasn 't surprised that I could pull off being a 12-year-old for one night without calling attention to myself.