Descriptive Essay - Original Writing

At that he walked faster, aware all at once of urgency and the declining sun and a little wind created by his speed that breathed about his face. This wind pressed his grey shirt against his chest so that he noticed--in this new mood of comprehension--how the folds were stiff like cardboard, and unpleasant;

Evening had arrived and everything had been packed away ready for its next use. It had also brought the grim warning of a storm. The sky was brimming with a dark shade of grey and black, making the mood eerily mysterious. A storm was brewing; it was about to blow, just like a volcano about to erupt. Then, “Boom!”. A lightning strike crackled across the sky, one after another. After three lightning strikes a downpour of rain fell from the sky.

As the light of the sun began to weaken, my thoughts began to disperse. The grey clouds of a storm blew in from the horizon. It began to rain big fat drops that fell so slowly I could count them. It was a cool rain, but the air was still warm. I watched people grabbing their things and jogging off the beach. Even my dad who was devoted to his fishing had begun to pack up his rods and bait.

From my room,I had smelt and sensed that rain was about to  arrive and had scurried outside before the drops commenced.Sweet anticipation formed inside as I awaited the blissful raindrops to pelt me on my face and body.The wind rose higher and grew frighteningly violent,swirling throwing rocks and gravel into the air.The thin

The indication of morning had approached; wind halted while the air became temperate. Morning routine of the birds, fetching food for their children, communicating with the others, hatching their eggs. Newly seeded grass shooted out, growing like weeds. The air reminded Mary of a camping trip when she was younger in Yosemite Park. Pinecones and trees gave her the happy memories, ones of her husband and her only child before the accident.

“Oh, look at that! You woke Amilluxe. I can’t even do that.” I placed the silk case on the marble floor, colored by the sun’s reflection on the large stained glass mural at the back of the structure, opening it up very carefully. In the bed of black wool, lay a white viola, with a white bow to match. I grabbed the neck of the instrument

The motif, rain, is what brings us back to reality in a very futuristic story. “Off to school, off to work, run, run,

Strutting through the familiar, gate worn by time, I spread my arms, taking in the saccharine aroma of the fresh grass. The remaining glimmers of the sun glisten on every blade that peeks through the moist soil, composing a sea of sparkling beauty, only comparable to a poem. The meadow is breathtaking this evening, as the sun sets behind the trees in the distance, leaving a glow of pinks, peaches, ambers, and crimsons behind as if a bowl of fruit had exploded in the sky.

His mother had warned of rain. It was in the forecast, she had said in her small, fretting voice. She had urged him to wear his raincoat and to take his umbrella, but he had forgotten the umbrella in the rush of leaving, and how he thought of the five blocks he would have to walk from the Omni station to the Century National Bank, and of the morning crowd that would push against him in its hurried dash through the fine mist of the rain that had begun during the train ride from Decatur.

The fictional novel, Lord of the Flies by William Golding, is a some what violent novel. The amount of violence escalates gradually from the beginning to the end. At first he boys are very mean to piggy, which leads to them killing a pig, which ultimiltly leads to them killing Simon. The theme of the Lord of the Flies is that hatred leads to violence, which ultimately leads to an anarchy of violence. The esculation of violence is very to similar to that of "The Lottery" by Shirley Jackson.

My body quivered to the sound of raindrops crashing against the roof, resembling the sound of desperate souls throwing their fists in both rage and fear. I knew that wasn’t the case but still I had to convince myself that everything was alright. Still I had to convince myself that the ‘banging’ sounds were merely drops of water finding refuge in the cracks that dug into the roof of my own place of refuge, Yungaba.

“It started on a rainy, cold,dreary day. The sky was grey and the rain sounds were like waves crashing ashore.” I had remembered clearly.

The tarped field awaits the love of sun. Breezes sought grudges like stormy kiss endure. Silently pleasant, skies gently reveal a tender smile. Though it's now more blue and less sweet.

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.

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.