Storm Descriptive Writing

Hidden in the seclusion of the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, sits a tranquil pond blanketed in a sheet of fragile ice. From atop the limestone peaks, the glistening rays of the morning sun tint the mountain side a sunburnt orange. The sloped peaks of the rippled mountain side are covered in snow, like they have been dusted with icing sugar, and cast a foreboding shadow over the pond below. In the valley, the arid, yellowed grass has been suffocated by the thick layer of snow and ice, for the winter storm has hit hard this season and spring has arrived later than usual. Yet, beside the frozen pool, there lies a growth of bright, rich evergreens, their trunks rising towards the stars, and their branches extending to the shape of a cone. From them,

I made my way to my aunt’s house. Her home smelled of fresh cut pine, and she offered me a cup of coffee with a cinnamon stick in it. I accepted, and we went to the kitchen table and discussed our week. As she talked, I looked out her kitchen table. A small oak grew in the front yard. Snow capped the birdfeeder beside her bird bath.

I should head to the pond again, something new may have appeared. I race there, tripping and ripping my dress so just a modest amount remains, my shoes have fallen off; lost to the monster that is the forest. I clutch the dying rose to my chest; its thorns cutting into my skin, hoping what little warmth I can give suffices to keep it alive for a little longer. I amble around the boundary of the pond, looking in every nook and cranny, all I find is a dead pearl white rabbit and a few rotten bones and coins. I sit in the mauled root of the shrinking willow tree that I tripped over previously; as I sit there I feel my eyelids getting heavier and heavier.

In the northern section of the Lower Peninsula, there were leafless trees and snow flurries. I wished I could make my mind a white snow drift stretching between vacant lots. I wanted to lose my thoughts in the white fields. I wanted my memories to become concealed like the oak branches in a

Today was the day. As I woke up I wondered about the day ahead of me. Once I got up I looked out the window, the bright light shining in my face. I took a quick second to adjust my eyes, and realized that it had snowed almost 9 inches. “This is going to be interesting,” I thought. It was the day of the annual pond hockey tournament. The small town of about 500 people participate in the tournament. As I get ready to go, I debate what to wear. I finally decide on warm pants, thick jacket, a hat, gloves, and hand warmers along with my skates and gloves.

The sun was glistening through the tall, swaying pines. To the right of the trail, a gentle river flowed softly down towards the mouth of the lake. Walking across the rickety wooden bridge, I inhaled a deep breath of refreshingly crisp mountain air. The sun beat down on me as I made my way across the bridge and back onto the well-used hiking trail. The ambient sounds of chirping birds, babbling water, and the croaks of several frogs filled my ears as I made my way around the bend. As I entered the mouth of the forest, I could see my father standing in the middle of the path, glancing upwards, taking in the beauty that had began to engulf us. “We better get going.” he said, looking back at me. “There’s still many miles to go.” I smiled and turned, taking in one last view of the beautiful creekside. Then, with determination, we set out to finish the challenging trek we had started.

I scooped up what was now splintered pieces of wood. Melted snow trickled from my hands.

There was the snow from a cold winter's past, clinging to the branches of some of the trees and glittering in the evening sunlight; I smiled as I regarded a time in my youth, when I had believed that the sparkling bits of snow were fairies dancing in the forthcoming springtime. I could still feel the chill of winter, and smell it's crisp breeze; but in my heart, I felt the hope and warmth of spring. There were tiny flowers peeking through the frigid ground; the delicate petals reminded me

I lay on the side of the sleepy suburban street, at the corner of the intersection where the streetlight hung over me like a question mark. A light snow fell in random flurries, some flakes collecting on the tip of my nose, and then melting down my cheeks in cold tears. The blood pooling around my head started to harden and freeze my hair to the slick asphalt road.

"Storm Country" by Paul Crenshaw is an excellent example of how to use of imagery literary device. He picked this particular device because it was the best way to show the experience he went through with his first tornado. He discovered just how scary and beautiful and storm could be. At the age of eight, he described the way the trees danced and how the wind swirled as they were falling to the ground. He saw what looked like a curtain of rain coming toward him and his father as they ran to take shelter in his grandfather's cellar. He could hear the storm growing out of the wind and air though it was the most silent as noise he had ever heard. Standing there, both his him and his father did not speak a word, watching the tornado moved from

It was a cold day, so cold that your arms start to sting as if a needle is impaling the surface of your skin. The wind applies a force which feels as if your face is oozing with thick crimson red blood. The gray puffy clouds covered the sky and dropped small snowflakes onto the road’s surface. A man stood there, freezing, clearing the coat of thick white snow from the concrete road. His nose runs with a river of snot that floods out when the cold wind strikes. His sense of smell is heavily clogged by the slimy snot, but he can still smell the scent of the steamy hot chocolate which sits on the top of his snow covered car. His feet start to numb because of the cold flood which soaks through his boots to his white, silky socks. His feet feel as if he stepped into the freezing cold ocean. As if he fell through ice and he was stuck standing there. The vast pile of the ice white snow feels almost like a quicksand around his black rubber boot. Foggy figures of people shovel the big piles of snow off the sidewalks. They scrape and pick at the glossy white ice which sticks to the sidewalk like a little boy clinging to his mother's side. His feet still sting as if he was stepping on pins and needles. His hands are damp with sweat from grasping the curved metal shaft attached to a socket which holds the blade. The blade cuts holes into the thick powdered snow which is removed from the endless pile. The jet black shovel is filled with slushy snow and crystal shards of ice. The end of

Kate Chopin implies in the selection, "The Storm" that the setting and the plot reinforces each character's action, but only two characters exemplify the title itself, Calixta and Alcee. The storm becomes the central element of Alcee's unrequited love for Calixta and ultimately the instrument of their forbidden love to each other. Hurston concurs in the "The Storm" that a forbidden relationship can become a cancerous love and silent death sentence.

On the surface of the short story “The Storm” by McKnight Malmar, appears to be about a wife who comes back home on a stormy night to a murdered body. However, a feminist reading of this story reveals how women in society are breaking free and rising above the patriarchy. Malmar utilizes Ben, the envelope, dead body, red dress, and storm in this way to symbolize that the women’s in society days of being subordinate to men is coming to an end.

It was a frigid day in December. I wore so many clothes that I looked like a penguin. Every breath I took makes a small cloud and scattered. The gloves I worn seemed to be mildness like paws. The buildings behind me were covered by the thick snow. The wall became more brick-red because of the spotless white snow. Some snowflakes drift down on my hair gently. The snow was heavy, but not much wind. My friends bounced from worm house and laughed to me. “We should build a snowman. The snow is heavy enough.” One of my friends advised. We all cheered and started to pile the snow together.

It was a warm fall day in early October, a day that I recall quite vividly. The smells of the transition from summer to fall were in the air, accompanied by the sounds of birds singing and the wind blowing through the trees. It was on this beautiful day that my existence was almost terminated. A quick hunting trip could have ended my life.