Descriptive Writing : New Vocabulary

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.

It was an impulsive decision, but I thought it would be nice to hang out with more people than usual. The deal was to go to a small hill in Royal Park to enjoy the sunset, but we found the view covered by the dauntless Royal Melbourne Hospital. Everything was still quite bright even though it was 6 pm. I didn't want to go back home so I retraced my steps. A short walk from the hill was the large circular grassy field that we had passed on our journey. Surrounding the field on the outer edges were countless amounts of trees. I noticed that there were still people walking around the field. Although they were far away, I could distinguish them from the surroundings due to how bright the field was. I found it interesting that the photoreceptors

A dark, blackish, minute silhouette, at first glance seemingly odorless of strange appearance stood on the corner. It was located on the corner of an empty gray, worn down side walk, next to a four way intersection, with fallen stop signs, whose roads where so worn down it appeared as if it was an antique road of dirt that had been covered in pebbles, as the only concrete that was left were a few shreds here and there, around 2000 feet away, parallel from where I was positioned, on a side walk next to a dirt road in the middle of the night, at 12 am on a nice late September autumn day, with light, leaf scented breeze, where I was basking in the young moon. The intersection was said to be so quiet and so unoccupied, men were rumored to sleep

Hues of green seemed to melt across the Earth as the ground drew closer with every second that passed. Sprawled out in the crisp air, I felt the atmosphere rush between each finger. Every breath was heavy and short, as if the size of my lungs weren’t large enough to appease my body. A few more minutes passed before my chest jerked backwards; the parachute was now hovering above me. Calming down, I dangled until my feet until they met with the ground and skidded across the untouched grass-- I did it. I never thought I’d be the type to do such an activity like skydiving, but the self-satisfaction of doing something I never thought I was capable of perplexed me. Moving past the fear and anxiety in order to to push my boundaries was incredibly rewarding.

Through someone’s aspect, it could be considered as the most efficient communicating tool of human being. On the other hand, some people may treat it as an irreplaceable expression of their emotion. Objectively speaking, “words” could definitely be concluded in both ways above, but in my opinion, using words is a privilege and honor. I use words to gain knowledge and words give me all kinds of possibilities of understanding new stuff when I intend to enhance my personal abilities.

After I confessed , I blacked out due to a blow on the head from a short man. The mocking police officers took me into a compact, windowless , musty room that looked like it has been there since the dawn , or maybe even earlier, of time.

I grab the tiny green bowl in front of Autumn and place it in the stainless steel sink. I swipe my hand under the faucet and clear water comes pouring out. The remains of the now cold mac’n’cheese soaks up the water and swirls down the drain. I look over my shoulder to my sweet Autumn, who is still sitting in the chair with her tiny arms and filthy fingers draped on the counter.

I moved to Waterford, Connecticut in my middle of second year of high school. When I went to Waterford first time, I didn’t like it. Actually I felt miserable, because I wasn’t happy that I moved to Waterford. As soon as when I got there I missed all of my friends. I don’t remember exact dates, but I know it was winter, cold. I think unhappiness made me feel colder. Waterford looks like the old country. There was few houses in a street. Our new house was one of it. The house surrounded by some trees, a huge yard, and a stream. I thought I am living in a forest. As soon as when we moved to Waterford, my father had to go back to Korea for his work. It was our first time that we live separately. I had about a month off from the school because one of the paper didn’t go through. I didn’t know anyone in there, didn’t know what I can do, or what’s where. Afraid to be outside, and being not happy about living in Waterford didn’t makes me to do something. I just stayed in the house. Staying in the house wasn’t fun either. My father is gone. My mom started to work in her new job. My brother was busy to play online computer game with his friends. I think living in a house for a month without seeing anyone, and stay home felt loneliness was the very beginning of the depression start.

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 took lengthy whiles to adore your physiognomies before the moment where I could register how you spoke. I got hit at random upon one Tuesday noon filled with rain by how you stressed your syllables, and wound your ways in my heart when you spoke on literatures. It wasn’t how you spoke and what you touched upon. Rather, it was your vocal cadence sounds. If I could have, I might have made you speak for hours. Despite whether you spoke the equal terminology non-stop, I might not have minded; I knew it might enthrall. The greatest times were the moments where I did not know how you surrounded me, or how you were quiet throughout lengthy periods while I dozed. It was then I was able to discern you not far away and then smile with your vocal cadence intimacies in my ears. Do not ask me what it was like to hear you say my namesake; it could get sensed but never spoken. You entwined yourself in my cranium to where I was no longer someone who thought with their personal voice; at moments where I read, your vocal cadence handled narration duties. You captured my secondary senses in thorough fashion.

It was another typical day in Washington as gray clouds drifted lazily across the blue sky, hiding the bright rays of the sun from view. A light shower sprinkled over Seattle and only increased as the clouds grew thicker and dense. Sixteen year old Jae Fault walked to school; Greenwood High.

Passengers dozed peacefully in the cramped, cold, and dark cabin, eye masks on. A sudden jolt, riveting the plane, spurred only a few grumbling snorts from the unconscious travelers. The engines droned while chatty flight attendants gossiped behind a curtain.

“Mother” shouted the wispy young girl, swinging her long blonde braids in the bright sunlight as she shot out of the little stone house with its big windows, “as the sky is so blue today and the water so tempting, please may I go down to the beach whilst you are at work?”

Sitting in the shower, face buried in my hands. My mind racing between repetitions of the filthy names I heard her call again and again, to my own filthy thoughts and names I can’t help but declare myself and back to the present. My stomach churned like a storm, I wanted to cry but I had no tears left to shed. I could only sob and heave and hope maybe some sign of life would occur. Huddled in fetal position beneath the steady flow of the shower head, I freed one arm and grabbed the razor I must always keep ready. Drawing it harshly against my skin I was relieved as red rivers of life flowed down my leg and onto the shower floor. Physically alive. Mentally distraught. But all I can do is repeat. Everyone says my mother’s words are just punishment, it’s her right, and I should get over it. So I did. This is the only way for many people like me. Fight, hurt, go numb, wonder if you are alive, check and repeat.

John is being nice to me, and that’s weird. Weird is bad. Really bad. In fact everyone is being nice to me today. I woke up as irritable and bleary eyed as normal, but there were waffles. Actual waffles! My parents hadn 't made breakfast since my first day of college in year nine, much less my favourite food. Even more amazing was the discovery that these waffles were homemade, not even the stale, artificial packet kind. They 're the wake up 2 hours earlier; made this morning kind. The response I got from dad when I asked him what this was all about wasn’t anything I could’ve predicted. “Well you know, I was up early and I kinda just felt like waffles so I thought it would be nice.” This response isn 't a plausible explanation because God knows how many times I’ve heard his muttering protest about making mum’s morning coffee. Waffles actually take effort, ingredients, measurement, patience and, is that juice? Awestruck, I lifted my head to look at him to find he was already looking at me. He just smiled and returned to stirring his cup of tea at the dinner table. The thing that unsettled me wasn’t so much the food or the fact he was actually acknowledging me this early in the day, but it was his smile. It wasn’t a smile you give from one loved one to another, it was more a sad smile, a pitying smile. My eyes flicked to the number above his head, steadily counting down.