Descriptive Essay - Original Writing

For many students they would leave school in a good mood with bright, beautiful smiles on their faces, but for me it wasn’t always like that. Mostly every week at school would end in such a terrible way. Either me getting in trouble with the school, my parents or the police would come and talk to me. This day, however, was nothing like the others. I left school with so many questions like, Why did she say yes? How did I gather enough courage to do that? Was it the right time? Is she the one? I walked out of the gates with all these questions in my head, with the biggest smile on my face, happy as a clam.

"I used to this all the time with grandma..." Mom grinned, closing her eyes as I grin back, reflecting her appearance.

Careful not to make a noise, though it wouldn’t matter if I did, I crept over to my victim sprawled across the floor. One, two, three. I pounded a nail into my target’s head. The satisfying crack of the skull filled the room. Around me, a pool of blood began to form. Trapping, encasing, stopping me from moving. The thick liquid moved with a purpose, though I doubt it knew what that was. Slowly, then all at once, the color drained from his face, like watching the credits of a movie fade into the screen. Gone. Until next time, but, unlike a movie, he didn’t have a next time. Sirens wailed in the distance. They’d be here soon, but it didn’t matter. They were always a couple seconds behind me and that’s all the time I needed to escape.

I rolled out of bed and landed on the ruff discoloured carpet; I hadn 't vacuumed in months. I got up. I stretched out my ridged body. I fumbled to the door, not being bothered to switch on the lights. My tongue was dry and I needed something to quench my thirst- soda. Once I entered the hallway, I was assailed by a blinding light coming from Savannah 's, my sister 's bedroom. Curious - I made my way towards her room as my eyes adjusted to the new-found brightness.

After calling and asking if her grandfather would mind some company, Melanie showered and changed her clothes. She wanted to look nice and presentable and not dust covered from being in the apartment that had been locked up for over a couple of weeks. Being dropped off at the cottage in Homewood, she climbed the stairs and knocked on the door.

* I decided to rewrite this story, but it is mostly me fixing it up here and there. I went back to read it all over again and it really needs some work. I know I am still not the best writer but I will the best I can.

The cool dampness from the morning dew caused my feet to itch. This particular morning was chilly and damp. I love to go to yard sales with my mom, but at 6:00 am. Really? “Oh my goodness, look at this,” said my mom. She had located a goat. Yes a goat. Not the live, breathing kind, but the stuffed cute kind. He wore a small black and white striped outfit and the tiniest red bandana. His wire rimmed spectacles set off huge eyes which were topped off by large curling horns. All in all he was about 8 inches tall. He held a small sign that said “Old Goat” in black writing.

"Dreamy" I thought. Standing on the corner is a young guy with a smile. I see him here almost every day, so I linger for a while. He tells me his name, and I tell him mine. ' 'I 'm Ester, what 's your name? I enquired. ' 'My names David ' '.,He replied. We end up talking for a while and I asked him if he had ever left this city. He tells me of all these stories of the places where he 's been, the distant lakes and mountains, and in valleys oh so green. I can see it in his eyes, he really has been there, travelled in those distant lands, seen sights beyond compare. I am so honoured just to get to know him, and hear him tell his tales. He makes me laugh and smile, stuff I have never been able to do. I want to go and see the world through

I drove down the street at a snails’ pace, passing the house once, twice, three times until I finally brought my car to a dead-stop around the corner, out of the line of sight if someone were to have been watching me. How naïve of me, who would have been watching me? In this place I would be an untouchable—if it weren’t for Alana. I unbuckled my seat belt, opened the door, and placed one foot on the asphalt one after another. I stood up, and began the 100-yard walk to the house (moving slower than my 90 year old Great Grandmother without her walker, mind you). It was a particularly warm night for December, but then again this is California, there is not rhyme or rhythm to our weather. As I walked I could see, over the Cliffside to my right, the dimly lit coastline and the subsequent blackness of the Pacific. Well, there I stood, the door within an arms reach, out of ways to delay my attendance further. I was, at this point, already 45 minutes late; “fashionably” late was good right? In my case I don’t know if I would’ve been considered “fashionably” late—perhaps just late (I am quite sure my faded Vans t-shirt and ripped boot-cut jeans would not be considered fashionable, by any standard). I lightly knocked on the menacing wooden doors. No response. Perhaps my faint knock was drowned out by the combined roar of voices and music inside. I knocked again, louder this time. A response.

The terminal became backed with hundreds upon hundreds of ponies, each trotting towards their flight or to family members they hadn’t seen in weeks. The sight of loved ones leaving out the door brought a smile to my face as I turned my attention back to the list of flight numbers.

After close to three hours on the road, we pulled up in front of a beautiful old mansion that had been converted into a luxury hotel. It had a beautiful view, right on the shores of the Beauly Firth. The grounds were impressive. We’d made it in time for the complimentary coffee and shortbread. The piping hot coffee and the shortbread were just what I needed to hold me over until the dinner hour.

I was used to moving round, having a mother who liked to travel more than making roots was something I had gotten used to. Still, I had never gotten used to the loneliness of an empty house when she was out exploring, or the feeling of leaving behind someone who could have meant something to me.

Thud. Slamming my head on the table I aimed yet another piece of crumpled paper towards the bin. Naturally, it misses, adding to the pile of miscellaneous paper waste. A pained sigh escaped my lips as I resigned myself to picking up my pen. Tapping some unknown rhythm on the desk, I tried to make sense of my thoughts. The bite marks on my pen lid pressed hard groves into my tired fingers, a simple reminder of reality. I needed some sort of inspiration. Another drawn out sigh as I decided that I couldn’t bare the table’s mahogany damnation any longer. My chair screeched along the hardwood floor and I clicked my pen to cast it away. A wistful glace to the window told me that the moon was yet to rear its head. It was still safe to go out.

During the summer month of June 1830 it was very hot and sunny. The hot heat was beaming down on my head as I was working in grandma’s garden picking some peas for dinners. Every summer I always end-up at grandma’s house. She always wanted me to help her with choirs around the house during the whole summer. Well, I realize this was getting very bored to me. I wanted to have fun like my other friends, have during the summer. So I decided to ask my parents can I go to my auntie betty who live in Mississippi. I haven’t never been there before, I felt now it’s time to go there.

80 's was a bulky time used for me. It was this dot once I got deep and arduous into Music. Already from a musical genus, my own delicate shock into this playing field ongoing in the 80 's once I was listening to my well-chosen of tune. It became more than now an hobby or a hobby. I factually became a 'collector ' of songs 'listened to '. Yep..So as to can sound new but come again? I mean is I truly made each attempt and sought each opportunity to eavesdrop to all the songs so as to I possibly will...And forever since.