First Person - Original Writing

The clearing was quiet, it seemed lifeless. The Salinas River still flowed merrily near the hillside. The water was still warm from the afternoon sun, and still reflected a green hue. On one side of the river, the smooth foothill slopes still curved up to the strong and rocky Gabilan Mountains, and the other side was still lined with trees. The willows and sycamore branches still swung gently in the wind, and the leaves still created a green light within the space. It was totally calm and peaceful… but something was wrong. The air seemed heavier, and the sun seemed dimmer. No animals stirred, and everything seemed to be aware of a deep sadness. Nothing moved save for a small group of men standing around an unmoving figure.

I stopped for a moment to get out my flashlight and head lamp before it became pitch black. Light works differently in the woods. There is no light unless it is from the sun or the moon. There are no streetlamps or houses with a light on just, dark. It was absolutely frigid once the sun vanished behind the mountains. I was walking up the road that leads in to the camp. The first that hit me was the smell of rancor, The un-mistakable smell of water mixing with soil. The stream was running strong pushing clear all of the leaves that have drifted down from the trees. The stream was flowed like a small reviver collecting all the water from the rain. I set up my hammock just next to it in-between two towering scrub oak trees with squires flying between them and fell asleep to the sound of the trees talking and the streams

“There once was a time when it did not rain for a great many months. The Prairie turned brown from the Sun, and the Great River that nurtured the land began to dry up. The Plants struggled against the dry Earth to breathe and grow, while the Animals became weak and could not hunt. All the while the People waited, looking towards the sky and wondering what they had done to bring such misfortune upon themselves. While the People waited, Fear grew. This Fear grew so quickly that in a very short time it began to spread across the entire Prairie, choking out everything and everyone in its path until at last it covered all but one very small place in the Prairie where only the Children and the Old Ones would sit and play together.

Bahauddin grabbed for a place to rest his hand while he lifted his feet, climbing through the shaft, out of the caverns. Every crack of stone was filled with overgrown moss, As he rose, he could see the sky was just before nightfall. The only sound around was the howl of the wind, and the keys clanging against each other like a windchime during a breezy spring afternoon. Ascending up the shaft, he was cautiously concentrating for each and every placement of his hands and feet, careful not to slip. Bahauddin’s hand grasped the top of the shaft. The sky was painted with brush strokes of blood orange, reflecting a glare off the keys. Outside, it had looked like a warzone. No buildings fully structured, not a person in sight, just crumbs

It is December 26, 2011. The trees are bare; the grass is lifeless. The brutal winds send shivers down my spine. My family and I pack our suitcases in the car, and we begin the long journey up to Natchez. Everywhere I look, I see dead trees and brown grass. I listen to the wind, whistling past the car. The three hour drive seems like an eternity.

Please pause for a moment, and picture in your mind the washed away remnants of what used to be a seemingly insignificant city; it is rather difficult to recognize from all the earthquake rubble and debris that there once was a town here. Bits and pieces of what used to be homes are now scattered from one end of the view to the other. A gloomy haze of dust, smoke and ash have recently enveloped over the entire countryside. Sounds of screaming, yelling and crying are bombarding one’s hearing senses; a smell of unbelievable human decaying stench is so overwhelming, the odors stimulate the gag reflex and tear ducts to produce endless retching and a cleansing wash of foul air from one’s eyes. Hungry ownerless dogs are fighting over dead infant

The original and very popular chicken sandwich, made only at Chick-fil-A, does not require any elaborate ingredients; however, it does require the right ingredients and a precise process. Almost every time I tell someone that I work at Chick-fil-A I hear in response “I love that place.” That to me is very reassuring that they are doing something right. The Chick-fil-A sandwich has been made the same way for the last forty-six years. Although it only consists of a few steps, if one is not done properly it can change the whole outcome. Three years ago I was introduced to the process of how this one of a kind sandwich is made. Now I would like to share this process with you.

A minute later, we were at the tree line, and after several more steps, we were out. There was a large field before us, a mostly lifeless one. The dark, damp soil was poorly concealed by thin brown stalks with shriveled leaves, long dead vegetation that was unable to survive the cold. A light covering of leaves seeped out a from the forest, the once bright colors faded and dull. The sky was overcast, the air cold, but the Risteen was behind us.

Life in the town of Stoneshade was fairly simple. The weather is always warm, although the sun never seems to shine. The Stoneshade river brings us fresh water from Marianne's glacier, just north of us in the mountains. The people here are mainly happy, but I can’t be one voice for everyone, since the town is too big to know every person in it. In fact, it’s more like a city than a town, but since everyone lives so far away from each other, it doesn’t have the city feel to it. In between the many houses are a vast range of trees, which is where most of us spend our time. Even though our town has the high technology of any other place, the residents prefer to stay outside, and for a good reason, too.

Soggy streets, bland houses, and terrified citizens fill Rivertown, Virginia. Dark, gloomy weather has been rampaging since the death of a freshman at Rivertown High School, six months ago. The leafy, emerald pines that make up the forests of this small city, have been dulled by the rain and lightning. These forests are now considered dangerous due to the mud, roots, and the hills that are scattered across the land. Disappearances of more high schoolers in the area have the whole state terrified.

I walked about half a mile to Houghton Garden. As I was walking, I was reminded of how beautiful nature is. The grass was a light green and the sun was brightly shining on me. As I continued walking to the Garden, I walked past some turkeys and rabbits. They were also observing the beauty of nature. The weather was perfect. It was warm, with a slight breeze. After walking for about fifteen minutes, I finally found a bench to sit on. The bench was located on top of a small hill with a gorgeous view. The sun was shinning on my back, enhancing my view of the Garden. There were hundreds of trees surrounding me. The trees ranged from thin to thick. One of the tree’s branches had fallen and was dangling a few inches from the ground. The only thing that was keeping it from touching the ground, was that there was a

Thus, I set out that same morning, packed and ready for the trek through the Sahran forest. I recalled that the myth stated “the harp of healing will heal the weak, but only if the strong can overcome the creek.” There is only one creek we know of in the forest, but the current is always too vigorous. Yet, I still went seeking for it, for my people need me, the plague has claimed too many lives.

The mighty wind clashed against the tall trees and hoisted the delicate leaves up into the heavens above. Only a minuscule of light from above was granted access to the vast lands covered by the grand trees below. Birds flocked from tree to tree scavenging for anything edible that they could clench their beaks on. Their screams echoed bounced from tree to tree and into the night sky as water slowly leaked from the trees like a faulty tap and made a thud when it slapped the surface. Decaying plants filled the air with a smell that could bring a bear to his knees. A thick mist covered the landscape and could scare away any animal that would dare draw near.

radio that she had a subject detained at Jack in the Box located at 524 A ST SE

Suddenly, the phosphorescent glare of the sun was gone; it was dark, it was fetid and pungent (and some odd, sweet smell was present, also). The green leaves and tall trunks and brush were gone, too, and in their place were plump, black bags of trash and old pizza boxes. This must, he thought, be the end of the forest, where it met civilization again, and he must be sitting now in the industrial sized dumpster of some business’