Seven Mile: A Short Story

On Thursday evening, as the sun began to quickly set and the sky became a beautiful oil color painting with many variations of pinks, yellows, and blues. When I looked to my left, I saw pink clouds that looked as if someone painted them to the sky with a dry paint brush. There is a line trees just below the wispy clouds. One the trees in the middle were a little taller than the others. Across the river in Illinois, there is a large power tower. The tall grass in the field on the left blocked me from seeing the river about 20 feet away from me. The dry, sandy path I parked my four-wheeler on was torn up with ruts from the constant large trucks full of people who enjoy the river as much as me.

About half way between Negaunee and Marquette the motor-road gradually turns into potholes and eventually dirt. A dirt road branching off of it runs along lazily for three-quarters of a mile so as to shrink away from all of society. This is Negaunee Township--a fantastic place where trees grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens, where log cabins and beautiful houses rise out of the ground and from the chimneys, wood smoke drifts slowly into the air. With flawless ease, kids are seen running around, invigorated by the fresh air. Occasionally a line of dirt bikes, four wheelers, and side-by-sides race along the muddy dirt trails, giving out the smell of gasoline as they fly by, and immediately they disappear into the greenery and all that is left of them is the sound of their motors fading away in the distance.

To forgive yourself, for failing to save someone's life, takes a lot of emotional strength and courage. It’s definitely not easy, to forgive yourself, knowing you could have done something to save one’s soul. In this case, we’re talking about in “The Seventh Man”, when he experienced his friend K. die right in front of him, it’s terrifying and downright scary. It’s not everyday when a wave swallows your best friend up, the 7th Man must have been panicking. The question this whole discussion revolves around is that, Should the narrator of “The Seventh Man” forgive himself for his failure to save K. ? I will now give you my opinion on this discussion.

Anyway, when we turned onto Broadway Street, we knew that we would be arriving in a matter of minutes and our anticipation rose with every pothole and row of corn stalks we passed. After stopping for the occasional family of deer on the “L” shaped road, we would eventually arrive at the third camper on the left. It might just be a campsite with a silver twinky for a camper to most people, but for me, this place is the heaven that made me, me. With all its amenities, I couldn't think of a way to make this place any better. The campsite consisted of a camper against the woods on the left, a yard with a steep drop off to the river on the right, and the essential outhouse and fireplace. The entrance to the knee deep river was at the next campsite with two Weeping Willow bushes signaling where to enter. When anyone entered, there was initial shock of chill due to the water but it was easy to adapt to. There was a log perpendicular to the shore that kept the water depth about ankle

The beauty of not belonging and seclusion from Cane Creek Park create a feeling of wonder and amazement, that makes a person long to go back time after time. The willow trees stand gracefully, and elegantly as they dance around the park and convey positive vibes. There is a dock that contains many mysteries and many unanswered questions. The swing that stands distant from the rest is worn and waits for the next child to find it and to find comfort in it. There is also the rippling water and the curiosities that behold the tree that has been there for ages. It’s beauty is conveyed by the piercing warm sun. This park creates a safe place for those whose mind may be depressed or maybe just lonely, and it comforts those with the allurement of

In the Midwestern region of the United States, there is a town called Plymouth in the state of Wisconsin. It is a small welcoming town with one road running down the middle, invokes the feeling of home. At night, the street lights glow along the sidewalks; the houses along the

House in Illinois In a town, with a population of 50, lies a small dwelling coated with multiple turtle statues, an acre of land, a variety of butterfly gardens belonging to my grandparents, however that house carries many memories and cherished moments from my childhood. The forty-five-minute drive filled with sweet

Approaching an unknown frontier, I was suddenly surrounded by sprawling foliage and vast forestry. In the midst of towering trees, I walked down a dirt path longing to find my individuality. The rustling of leaves warned predators of my oncoming approach. I reached the swampland, filled with new layers of

Track is an extremely interesting sport to runners. The amount of thrill during a race beats everything from a rollercoaster to skydiving. Everything seems irrelevant in a race. The only thing on a runner's mind during a race is finishing as best as possible. The most important thing to do going into a race is prepare yourself. You need to warm up, drink a lot of water, and build up confidence. Warming up can be done however you want, but building confidence for a race can be difficult, however, it is truly the most important thing. Going into a race assuming you are going to lose completely ruins your chance at winning. The meet I realized this in was the New York CIty meet at the armory.

“I know”, Linda replied. Then, Linda accidentally felled. I went over and helped her up. She was completely wet and muddy. Just at that moment, Marlon had spotted a cave. “Jared. Linda. I found a cave over there.” “Great. Let’s head

For years I had been hiking the same dull, barren trail. There was nothing to see besides the empty, looming trees on either side of the path and nothing to hear besides the constant crunch of dead leaves underfoot. Day after day, I marched aimlessly; however, I soon stumbled upon a divergent road. The contrast was astonishing. Where my current pathway was monotonous, the other was alive. Its trees were blazing with vibrant auburns and golds, and some of their leaves danced in the wind. Patches of daisies and dandelions peaked out from underneath piles of fallen leaves. I was entranced by the warm kiss of the sun, the rich smell of flowers, and the chatter of woodland creatures. It held a secret: the wondrous beauty of life. Although I was not sure what this trail would hold for me later on, I was eager to embark on this new journey.

It wasn’t exactly the home coming I’d always imagined. Our air conditioning had died a couple hundred miles back so I was slick with sweat, more than a little queasy from car sickness and at some point both of my legs had fallen asleep. As I was fighting the uphill battle against the pins and needles in my feet, our car puttered past a dingy green sign proclaiming “Welcome to Indian Trail! Population 35,000.” To be completely honest with you, If I hadn’t seen the signs, I doubt I would have recognized the town at all.

In the story Thirty seven a young girl's mother is in jail because the police thought that she was a witch with wings of fire that went to children and stole their souls. The story takes place in Hadi were there were two sides one was were the Hadi people lived while the other was were the Spanish people lived and the spanish leader hated the people of Hadi so he had all that lived on his side of the island killed and thrown into the river. The girl’s mother and her mother were on the spanish side when this happened so the girl’s mother jumped into the river to save herself and the girl that was still a baby in the mother leaving her own mother to be caught and killed. Now the little girl visits her mother in jail and recently the girl

It was a normal day at the newspaper building. I was just mostly typing articles most of the day. My friend Brently Mallard also work at the same building too. We had a very good friendship after I’ve gotten hired, he was the first people I’ve met on my first day of work. My first job in the company was being the paperboy at the age of 14. Mr. Mallard helped me reloading the cart as I go to the next neighborhood after another. The year was 1897, three years after I was being hired, I got a new shift and it was printing out newspaper from 7 A.M to 6 P.M. I was surprised that Brently Mallard was here too just to keep me company during the day. Later through the week we’ve met Richard he was a very nice person and got started to work here two days ago. The three of us became the best trio in the company.

He sprinted past me faster than a sword fight in a phone booth. Once we reached the bottom, we collapsed in a sun-drenched meadow. Delicate, white, pink, and purple wildflowers were intertwined between ripping blades of grass. The blossoms though tiny infused the air with a warm fragrance that—for me—evoked summers of fresh picked strawberries and hay turning yellow beneath the sun. In the distance, I saw a stand of dark pine trees, and beyond them, a languid brook trickled softly on a bed of pebbles into a sliver lake. The field was surrounded by blue hills and Shadow