Descriptive Essay - Original Writing

After we stopped and shut the truck off, we ever so slowly and quietly exited the truck, went around to the tailgate, grabbed the guns, the little camo backpack of gear, sprayed down, and we were on our way. Even walking out, I was filled with emotions and my mind raced. Excited, nervous, alert, noticing and picking out every little thing that moved or made a noise. The frost crunching under my boots, watching my breath crystalize right before my eyes, the tops of trees swaying back and forth in the gentle wind, as if waving to us. We get to the stand, an old, wooden box on stilts, and climb up. When we get situated, I pulled out my phone to check the time. Six forty-five. I mentally took note of this and knowing legal shooting hours started at seven twenty, I calculated how long before this day could become an amazing one. Thirty-five minutes. I sit there anxiously counting down the time. After a while, Dad taps the side of my leg three times, and instantly I know what he means before he points out in the darkness. I can hardly make out the outline of a deer slowly walking broadside from left to right at about eighty yards in an open area straight in front of us. This is the kind of darkness where you can see the outline of your hand in front of your face, but not the rest of it. I could see the deer out there only because of its relatively large size. I reached down and turned on my phone that sits on the ground next to my

INTRO: I never thought I would feel so awful after pulling that trigger and watching that innocent animal give it’s life to me. I was only ten years old and my life was certainly impacted forever. Nowadays, many people think that pulling the trigger of a gun is not hard at all. In reality, it might be pretty easy. It is the aftermath on the other hand that will leave an internal scar, changing a person forever. On my first deer hunt, a young buck stepped out of the dense willow clusters with it’s head down, giving me a shot. Soon I would be faced with the tough decision of taking the life of an innocent animal. Meanwhile, on my first turkey hunt, there too I would soon be changed forever.

I could hear it walking on the bed of leaves at a slow and cautious, yet steady pace. My heart started to pound, I reached for my gun and placed it in my lap. I took off my gloves and jammed them into my pocket, all while trying to be as silent as possible. The sound of the deer’s footsteps soon got louder and i saw movement near the edge of the clearing. I slowly shouldered my gun, praying I would not make a sound. I looked through my scope and found the outline of the deer making its way into full view. At this point I think the deer might hear my heart about to explode out of my chest. I let the deer take a few steps into the clearing, I take a deep breath, place the crosshairs behind its front shoulder and gently squeeze the trigger….. I don't even remember the kick of the gun. The only thing I felt was a rush of excitement when the deer dropped and laid

Karl turns his head in the direction of the deer and aims down his rifle at the deer. Then he shot, the gunshot sounded like thunder when the rifle shot. The deer fell down with a dying squeal and some of the blood went on the green grass. Everything was dead silent and there wasn’t one bird chirping in the

I woke up hearing the infuriating and pulsating ring of my alarm, I checked the calendar, another Sunday, just like any other, hunting day. I assembled my weapons into my reliable black duffle bag; a silenced handgun, a military-grade pocket knife and my SR-25 sniper rifle. Wearing a pair of ripped jeans as faded as erased blue pencil markings, and a grey hoodie that hugged every crevice of my muscular torso, I headed out to my black Ford pickup truck. Throwing the duffle bag into the passenger seat with the force of a raging lion, I hopped into the driver’s seat like a swift cougar. While starting the engine, it made the sound the all too familiar sounds; kch, kch, kch kch kch kch kvooom, I thought to myself “I should really get this

In early morning, I grabbed my gear and my trusty small pistol. On my 7th birthday, my father gave this gun to me because hunting was a tradition in my family. I remember my father telling me that it was only made for me and me only. So whenever I’m hunting, I always carry my gun with me. As I stepped out, a soft light hit my face. I took a deep breath and the smell of salt and pines filled my nose, and then trotted into the ominous forest. My eyes instantly noticed tracks heading in a direction. I laughed to myself. “Ha ha ha, you call this fun?” I continued following and scanning the tracks, which now had several different ones now. I looked closely at them. The small tracks have been walked over before. I smiled. This boy had more experience than I thought, but I was smarter.

I woke up hearing the infuriating and pulsating ring of my alarm. I checked the calendar, another Sunday, just like any other -- hunting day. I assembled my weapons into my old black duffle bag; a silenced handgun, a military-grade pocket knife and my SR-25 sniper rifle. Wearing a pair of ripped jeans as faded as erased blue pencil markings and a grey hoodie that hugged every crevice of my muscular torso, I headed out to my old black pickup truck. Throwing the duffle bag into the passenger seat with force, I quickly hopped into the driver’s seat. While starting the engine, it made the all too familiar sounds; kch, kch, kch kch kch kch kvooom, I thought to myself ‘I should really get this car checked out… Whatever, this is my piece of garbage hunting car anyways.’ After starting the car, I raced down the street with the speed of a diving peregrine falcon, leaving a gust of sand and dust behind me, ‘Today is going to be a good day. I feel it.’

“This is stupid,” Rafael groans as he and Sonny enters the changing area of a department store

It 's early November, the brown leaves from the trees above are covering the sidewalk.

I shut my suitcase and wriggled it off of my bed, giving my room one last sweep before we left for the month. I spun around in anxiety ready for the 6 hour travel to what I had been waiting for all summer. The airport was crowded and I was jostled by the crowd like a fish in the current. I finally found my parents and brother and we handed the lady our tickets before boarding the plane. We found seats next to each other and sat down in comfortable silence. I saw a movie about to start and put on my headphones. Soon I was lulled to sleep by the gentle voices of the fictional, soft-spoken characters. Just before I slipped into the darkness of sleep I wondered if Padfoot was comfortable in the pet section. When I woke up I was being shaken by my mother, who was pointing at James while talking on the phone. I grabbed James and both of our bags, while my parents grabbed theirs. We got off the plane and outside. We called a taxi to pick us up and went to the car dealership. By this time James had woken up and was playing on my phone. They finally left and got into a purple mustang with green stripes on the front. I gently took my phone back and checked the time. It was four thirty. I knew that Disney World wasn’t far and rolled my window down before giving back my phone and taking a nap.

Phillip’s piercing blue eyes stared back at him from his bathroom mirror. He studied his unshaven face and careless physique, and eventually began plucking the graying hairs from his breast and dropping them one by one into the sink. A silent apartment surrounded him, all but the street noise of the locals and trust funders of Bushwick below. He peered down to the sea of hairs from weeks of plucking and itched his red, irritated chest before quickly shuffling to the closet of his apartment. He weaved naked through the clutter of cheap vodka bottles and cigarette butts, whizzing by the takeout pizza boxes piled high on the flower upholstered sofa. He brushed by old photographs of distance, nameless relatives

Wednesday, 4:00 P.M. … A meeting ended as I consciously took note of my hesitant footsteps towards my locker and reached the lock. Right....left...right. While holding the cold, metallic handle, I could feel the developed callus thickening on my thin index finger as I pulled it up. Click. I slowly bent down toward the floor and stored my pile of textbooks and binders into a dull green schoolbag. My habitual movements seemed like those of a robot, an automaton with no sense of its surroundings. When I slammed my locker, it produced a forceful, clanky sound as it permeated across the hall of Moore High School.

I stared down from the tower I stood upon wondering how someone could build something so tall. It wasn’t as tall as a skyscraper. Although when you’re looking straight down, it seems like a much further drop. I stood there heaving every breath, until from behind me I heard a deep growl. When I turned around, I saw a herd of monsters surrounding me. I would say they looked a bit like really ugly boar about the size of cattle. Except they had black hair and dark yellow eyes. I was at the edge of building now, and if I backed away any further to get away from Them I would fall to my immediate death. When they started edging closer to me, I realize I had no choice and I step off.

“Yeah, Belich, is a bum,” Manny laughed. “I can’t stand that guy and his boring lectures. You would think history would be fun with all the wild stuff that happened before the volunteers, but Belich always finds a way to make it as dull and numbing as possible.”

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.