Hillside Creative Writing

After a long mountainous drive, I arrived at my destination to embrace one of nature’s wonders in the Great Smokey Mountain National Park, Abram Falls Trail. Upon departing the car, a cool crisp breeze brushed my face and the aroma of bacon lingered in the early morning air from the neighboring campground. The narrow rocky footpath looked like a tedious adventure, however a gorgeous, vibrant array of red, purple, orange, and yellow wildflowers blossoming at the entrance made the trail alluring. Navigating the rocky, uneven terrain required sturdy footing, but the quiet stillness created a peaceful relaxing atmosphere. The lush pine-oak forest formed a green canopy of shelter above the trail, offering welcome cool shade, as vivid sunlight filtered through the foliage. A sweet honey fragrance permeated the air, as a stunning scene displayed a cluster of purple and pure white

I never knew the Smokies were so close to my grandparent’s retirement village. Every summer all the cousins jammed into Grandpa’s Ford for our jaunt up the mountains. But back then the hills had no name. They were recognized only by the pop of our ears and the pink silk trees bowing down to the highway. Since those days I have grown partial to any patch of grass with “National Park” tacked to its title. Today the mimosas still tossed their petals to traffic, and the truck remembered its ever-present perfume of damp golden retriever. But today we were going to The Great Smoky Mountains National Park. “Cade’s Cove, next left,” the road sign read, and two bikes bumped along on the car hitch.

Jump!!! My dog jumps on my bed looking at me. I could tell he was going to bark closing my ears from the loud screechy bark. And then he jumps off my bed only to play with his rope. I sit up staring at my phone that was bright I look at my dog waiting for me to get up.

In our brochure, the Mount Willard trail’s level read moderate and Jason glanced up from the page and offered a warning.

Staring up at the towering, glacier-covered mountain range, I felt impossibly small. My overflowing backpack dug into my shoulders and I bounced on my toes, eager to start hiking before the sun rose too far in the summer sky. Supplied with nothing but what we carried on our backs and in our minds, my family and I were about to backpack into the Alaskan wilderness for a week.

Four friends were going to hang out at Kings Island during Halloween Haunt. Their names are Jane Rogers, April O’Neil, Steve Rogers, and Donatello Hamato.

From a distance, all you could here was the subtle noise of people screaming. The wind was blowing slightly and there was a light sprinkle in the air, but the weather wasn’t stopping these people. As the hollering slowly quiets down, a group of five or six friends walk out of the arena laughing and talking amongst each other, having the time of their lives at their favorite singers concert.

You could feel the riot before you could see it. There was something else in the crisp early morning New York air, a certain electricity. A certain static that could only have been brought about by the winds of change. Even at three am the city is usually alive, but in these early Saturday morning hours Christopher Street was more alive than usual. However, it wasn't the normal flamboyant energy it had come to been known for. It was an angry energy, one that's only capable of being created by an oppressed group fed up with the constant mistreatment they've too long endured.

The weather was pleasant, with cloudless blue skies and the air heavy with birdsong along their route. Accompanying those who were being sent to assess the damage at the Salsolan Outpost had been a choice — the same way drinking when thirsty was a choice — and bringing her slave had been just another facet.

The day was sunny and clear. We walked through the cool Chicago wind, bracing ourselves against it. Throughout the day we explored the city, visiting the Sears Tower, Navy Pier, and the Field Museum. I even got you to step out onto the Skydeck, despite your fear of heights. I dozed off on your shoulder on the train ride back home, dreaming about how great you had made my sixteenth birthday.

Carver prowled up and down the halls of Aldersley Park, the mansion he had inherited when his parents were tragically killed in a plane crash two years before. He felt restless, twenty three years old and wealthy beyond his wildest dreams, and yet he felt restless. His skin crawled with desire for release, any kind of release from his frustration.

Without responding to Kathy’s remark, Louise glanced toward Betty and whispered, “I’m sorry, please continue.” The server brought her another glass.

Emerald Bay is located on the right side of Catalina Island. Catalina Island is 46.9 miles from the city of Los Angeles. The climate is warm. Some of the native plants are aleppo pine, brickle bush, and the fire poppy. Some of the native animals are bison, feral cat, and the black buck. There are many things to do at this wonderful camp.

It was mid november in the ozarks. A small mountain range located in the heart of the midwest. The trees are beautiful and the day is quite. One of the dead lies about 20 feet in front of me. I don't want to shoot him but he sees me. He starts to walk towards me. Although it doesn't look much like a walk. Its lifeless with no objective it justs walks, endlessly seeking nothing but what drives it to be alive. Human flesh, it's been 3 years now since the outbreak. Nobody knows how it started or where it came from. However it came hard and fast the first year was a nightmare, everyone i knew slowly died off. I've been on my own now for about 6 months. Using the wilderness and the rockiness of the ozarks to help keep me alive. The walker is slowly

“Virginia, do not bring your crackers into my living room,” the old frail woman exclaims. “My son is coming over in an hour and I will not allow crumbs all over my couch.”