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.
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
Among words on paper, one hardly finds oneself to question their particular style or preferences in writing. I as a writer can tell you how the basis of my “madness” works, but who are we joking, that would just be utterly extensive and boring. Within the different types of genres one person can write about, I find persuasive, argumentative, and research/informational writings to be the most appealing. I tend to be a very opinionative person, meaning that if I hear any of some sort of injustice or intriguing thought said, don’t think twice of hearing my stance on that topic. Therefore, especially with persuasive essays, I will always find my pen promptly trying to catch up, while my thoughts keep rushing in, in order to get on paper. It’s a formative writing piece, that I can easily state my claim and through using accurate information, will no longer be an assignment, more or less it will turn into a conversation between my writing and my thoughts. Nevertheless, when it comes to
I say just to annoy him he wakes up and throws a pillow at my face I do it again just to see what happens he yells you'll be sorry. I don't care I have my shower five minutes later i'm ready to go.
Nostalgie. Forward then back and out, the sound travels across my tongue. Reminiscent of times past, it rolls and flows breathlessly, effortlessly. I am mesmerized. The French tongue captivates my interest, resonates with my being—my favorite word in this beautiful language.
Their plane ride had lasted eight hours. For it being many of their first times on the plane, the ride had gone very smooth; they had no turbulence and had a smooth landing. Their week long stay in Europe was filled with many different activities and very crowded places. Their first few days were going to be spent in France, and the rest of the trip was going to be spent in London. As members of a large group from their school, Callie and Jessica were excited to be on this trip together.
“Is EN100 a useful class to take?,” this was a question I got asked by a junior at my school. They were looking for classes to take next year; I told them that it was an abundant amount of writing, but it was a great class to take. I went on to explain to them, that taking it in high school would be easier and cheaper than in college. Beginning to explain to them that it helped me grow as a writer and helped improve my English vocabulary, I realized it helped a whole lot. Throughout the first semester of school, we had to write essays over four different topics. These included informative, observation, reflection, and descriptive essays. I told them about my experiences while writing with these certain types of essays. This is what I said:
With the vast possibilities of imagination, nonfiction descriptive writing has become very instrumental in allowing readers the opportunity to live experiences led by various authors in the field. As a result, most readers envision writers as artists expressing their paintings in writing, using a pen as the brush and a paper as the canvas. Using this analogy, readers expect to enjoy the meaning of the story through the content, experience some sense of verisimilitude through the style, and perceive the attention to detail through the grammar. With these key concepts in mind, one looks to examine two nonfiction descriptive writings by two different authors on two different subjects and try to determine how these various central concepts make each story truly exceptional. For this analysis, one examines E.B. White’s Once More to the Lake and Langston Hughes’ Salvation.
It has been six very long days, I cannot wait any longer for the chapter to be uploaded, I am both excited and exhausted. The days usually pass me by finding new short stories to read, which for the most part lasts a day or more. Then I am back to finding new stories and I always find some good ones, because of the several genres that are on the website. The website is called Wattpad. It is where my favorite writer can make his talent shine. The website is where the youngsters and college students get their best drafts up on the website for the readers to enjoy and as the time passes the writers grow into their best version of themselves in the writing department. The writers are mostly college students and High Schoolers that have a love for writing. The books have many genres but my interest will always be in the romance books. The romance genre is popular since it's mostly teenagers that are acquainted with Wattpad. Even though the romance books can get a little repetitive I love how the plots are always twisted to the author's liking. The books are rarely complete mostly, because of the authors' lifestyle, whether they have too much to do in school or their interest goes to another story they have been writing. The incompleteness irks me since that means I would not know what is going to happen. I try to stay away from the unfinished tales, nevertheless, I end up with one in my reading list anyway. The story I am currently interested in is incomplete, that is only
As I scan the never ending line of trailers, my grandmother’s stands out. Faded metal siding clinging to the unevenly pitched roof, grass struggling to grow under the shade of the rotting oak tree, the hot water heater rusting in the back, all speak to the age of the tin box she calls her home. I never see it as a home; to me it is a house I dread entering. The yard surrounding the trailer holds few memories, as little time is ever spent outside. On four sunken craters on her driveway, an old Ford Taurus sits, slowly seeping into the asphalt from its weight, revealing how little its owner moves.
We pulled up the driveway, the headlights of the car shining against the metal garage door. I listened to the sweet melody flowing from the white headphones all the way through my ears. Flightless Bird, American Mouth by Iron & Wine played, the lyrics burning themselves in my brain, leaving the permanent mark of the emotions that filled each sweet, meaningful word. My mom pulled a headphone from my ear aggressively and shook her head at me.
Gulp, as I stared up at the towering tall roller coaster. Goosebumps covered my body. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. It was our turn next, as the coaster came into view. When it came to a halt, I inched in the roller coaster, as fear oozed out of my eyes. Next, I clipped my seat belt in and forced the bar down, the lady soon was at my side and checking my seat belt. Her gentle hands grasped the strap, as she gave a few tugs here and there. When she put full pressure on the cold gray bar, it started to rest on my thighs. Instantly, the click sounded and the attractive lady disappeared to the next cart. In the distance, I could see her happy, joyful face before it fanished in the screaming mob. Before I knew it, my horrified look came back and the seat belt started to suffocate me. But I wanted to be more safe than sorry.
Often when I think of canyons I think of time being etched into a stone creating deep, intricate gorges. The first time I encountered a picture taken from the inside a canyon, it made me think back to the imagery I would use to describe my own life. A ravine with so many edges and turns that in pieces do not make sense but, when put together create this sort of channel running through the rock. I noticed that without the sun 's rays shining down, the canyon becomes dark, hollow, and full of chaos waiting to happen. However, when the light shines in the ravine there is a rainbow effect running up the rock and all the little etchings adding more glory to the overall masterpiece.
His palm imprinted through layers of my skirt and lace panties onto my arse cheek.
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.