Kansas Anymore Descriptive Writing

The cold night air closed in around me. My back once unbearable warm from the ceremonial fire quickly chills, wishing to be near its warmth again. Though, I am not worried; soon I'll soon have my own fire. Among the arrows and bows showered upon me as gifts to start my walk in life, I found a special arrow for its flint tip. The tip and stone will make sparks, and spark into a flame, a flame into a fire, and then I will be warm again. But my desires are to be in the next valley or the one after that one, so my fire cannot be seen from the village. Early in my youth, one left the people on his walk, and his fire could be seen not far away. The words spoken under hushed voices were not kind and I don't remember him returning.

Winter in California is a curious creature, one moment it's shiny and easy going, wrapping around you the warmth of a loving companion, then without notice it sends out it's chilled rain biting you to the bone. I've been in this God awful state for five years and I wait for that bite, that flash of cold we get once in a blue moon. I may be the only resident in Southern California who hates this weather, I am originally from the east coast, I was used to all four seasons. why am I here if I hate it so much? Well, I'm undercover...err...more like under witness protection, since the age of 13 I have lived a double life, one insidious accident led to a world of new possibilities for me. My first boyfriend and my one true love is from a family of

As we just arrived in Washington my legs felt uncomfortable once I up from waiting for a joyful time. I’ve been lingering all day for this moment, a tremendous time with my friends and spend time with my mother. I was curious, the colorful amazement of the city. It was the most beautiful city I’ve ever seen. My group reunited around me like I was a king. My group contained two of my friends. Priscilla, and David were both in the group, so was my mother. We trotted to the bench seats to eat our lunch, hundreds of people gathered around without a bench. We were lucky to get a seat. We ate our delicious, tasty lunch. Which consumed of a bag of Doritos, Lunchable, a Coke, and Takis. Birds were flying around us, like a tornado trying to steal our scrumptious, delicious food. After we ate our lunch, we met up with Jacob’s group.

I'm from the city but things aren't as easy as you might have thought on a farm easing wild animals. You see it all started when I went to see my grandpa in Kansas in a small town called Winfield.us in the city have no idea how simple we have it , well at least I didn't.i might not have been ready for this crazy trip but don't worry it gets worst.

"Emery, go with grandma to the kitchen, she baked some cookies for you," I whisper, glancing down at her with a grin. The skittering of my daughter's shoes on the wooden floor mask her squeals of excitement. The worn, familiar couch moans as I collapse onto it, taking in the entirety of the house; it hasn't changed much at all since I moved out. The overwhelming joy I felt when moving here is something that I remember vividly. My dad got a major promotion, allowing us to move into the house we had always dreamed of living in. The confinement of our old two bedroom apartment had come to an end, and I was ecstatic. Of course, my own future was rapidly approaching, and with that came the fear of failure. This fear resonated particularly strong

I stepped in, there was two old coaches, and a small TV in the living room and the kitchen was a mess. There were dirty dishes everywhere and a small table in the middle of the room where there was unpaid bills scattered on top. I turned to my left and walked up the creaky stairs to find a hallway that seems to be endless. I walk in to the first door to my left to find…. Well barley anything. There were some uneven floorboards and a small window in the corner of the

I looked out the apartment window at the the smoke filled sky, the barren streets, and flickering street lamps three stories up then the poor bakery below. I ran my finger along the rigged cement windowsill and sang a song “I was a poor man living in San Francisco…” The door opened and in wobbled my mom with her bony legs carrying a red bottle of water, a loaf of fresh brown bread, and two dark orange carrots. I ran to give her a big warm hug and almost knocked the groceries out of her scrawny hands.

Finding my way through the mansion seeing the footprints of my past, present and future. The tiles crack and split beneath my feet, the humid air and horrible stench excreted from the rats and rotting furniture makes it harder and harder to breathe. Each corner bringing flashes of memory. The kitchen covered in blood and shattered glass, I look over the bench top and see a human heart sitting on a plate beating in an odd pattern. I shuffle away appalled at my recent discovery,

I take a running leap and land on top of a dumpster. I leap again and catch the edge of the windowsill of a abended building. I pull myself up and through the window. I land with a soft thud on the hardwood floor. I make my way into a hallway. The floor is littered with dirt and debris. I arrive at the end of the hallway and open a door that gives access to the stairway. I go up a level and walk through a doorway into another hallway. There is only one door to the left and I open it. The room’s barley lit with only light coming in through the window that is partly being blocked by someone standing in front of

Head rested on pillow as eyes gazed the ceiling. Physically I was there in a room enclosed by four walls, but mentally I was somewhere in a never-ending corridor. Each door led to a moment in time and a person to match, but as day by day became year by year, one by one each door would lock. Each moment in time and a person to match would be incapable to get to. It was as if the person never existed and as if the moments were false memories. “DeeDee, let’s go!” A male voice from downstairs yelled, interrupting my thoughts.

My sister and I sat on the couch, huddled around the booklet full of photos. “This is what the house first looked like when we moved in.” she said, pointing to a photo of my dad standing beside two washing machines. “We still have those!” I exclaimed. It took a few moments for her to process my broken Chinese, but she smiled and nodded as she flipped to the next page which showcased an empty white room and a small ironing board in the middle. “Look at how empty the house used to be. Back then, your parents didn’t have enough money to purchase furniture” to which Lynette laughed. “That’s probably the cleanest it’s been since we’ve moved in.”

I swung my legs, my knuckles turned white as I gripped the cold metal of the arm rest. My Vans made scuffs into the patterned carpet. A girl and her father sat to my right. She was hunched over, glaring above her baggy sweatshirt as her father whispered something in her ear. She scowled and slouched a little less into the cold chair. The room was sterile aside from a wicker basket full of dejected toys, slumped over seemingly in sadness caused by disuse. I glanced up to see shelves above the basket piled with faded magazines. The worn issues of “Women’s Health” and “Seventeen” curved over the edge of the shelf and they looked like they wanted to escape just as much as the girl. Above this, three immaculately clean and pristine gold gilded

I was concerned where our rooms where because nothing I had seen outside gave any hint of what I thought a hotel would look like. We all waited until we were given keys to our rooms. Finally the word was given that we could go to our rooms and I waited to get my key last. Once I got mine, I walked through the door and tried to follow the signs that directed me towards my room. I became confused as to where I was because I soon found myself in what I took as nowhere. I was on the second story, and everywhere I looked there were great, square openings where it was possible to see the sky and the ground at the same time. Suddenly, I was afraid and embarrassed at being lost. It made me feel like a little kid. One of the other kids stumbled upon me and, realizing I didn't have a clue what was going on, helped me to my room.

Living in a house for eight years straight, sometimes you tend to forget about some things. Maybe it’s the odor of your three-year-old puppy who sleeps on your couch day-in and day-out, or your crumbled up bed sheets that your mom tells you to fix every morning. It could even be the sweet fragrance of homemade cinnamon rolls that fill your body up to the brim with happiness and joy. But for me, the shouts and yells were never drowned out. I started to think it was normal that roars echoed all about a considerable amount of times. Nothing would change, but like the hollers, I will never forget the day my life shattered into a million pieces. It had been a million degrees that day and the grass was starting to die off.

I began to run down the empty street, hoping I could find a place to sleep before morning. As I ran, I spotted an old, rickety shack. I approached the abandoned hut cautiously, unaware of its inhabitants. Only after I decided it was safe, did I push on the door as hard as I could, and it forcing it to finally swing open. The smell of pine straw and dust flooded my nostrils; making feel more comfortable than being at home with my mother, but I suppose that this was my home now. As I scanned the small space with my flashlight, a small shelf came into view. On it were about ten old books, and they were all classics. The yellowness of the parchment and dusty scent of the wonder-filled pages made this place feel a little more like a home worth living in. Dirt, leaves, and illegible papers littered the creaky wooden floor. A small, rectangular table sat in the corner of the one-room shack; it was going to have to be my new bed. I laid out my tattered sleeping bag unpacked the few items I had brought with me, and rested my aching body on the makeshift bed. As I gazed up at the cobweb covered ceiling, I began to wonder what tomorrow would throw at