Tramp Descriptive Writing

It was a hot Sunday morning and it felt like a million degrees outside and I was ready to go. “YAWN!” I could feel the terrible aroma flying into my nostrils into my lung capacity as I yawned. “That reeks!”That didn’t bother me because my friends and I were about to start playing the most intense, hardcore, brain teasing game of the century…. TAG. I dashed into the powder room to eliminate the horrendous aroma and get ready for the game of tag. I sped out the door to

As the soldiers lay in the rat filled trenches, with bullet's whistling overhead. While the soldiers sleep the enemy never stops throwing bombs near the trench, as they try to catch the sleeping soldiers. Every night when they sleep they need to bear with rats biting their wounds caused by the cold. All the while surrounded by the whistling bullets of the enemies. As a bomb goes off feet away from the soldiers, they hear a quit whistle blow signalling for them to get back to the cold hard war that seems to never end.

Waking up before the rising sun on the morning of the hunt left me feeling groggy with my eyes slow to open and close when blinking. Being extra quiet to not wake up my mother was a main challenge, trying to tippy toe around the cabin and dodging the creaky spots in the floor. Prior to eating breakfast, I began getting dressed. Due to the fact that I was in northern Minnesota, the weather was bone chilling and the wind would seep right through your layers onto your unexpecting skin. Once I had put on my long johns, sweatpants, and long sleeve shirt with a tee shirt on top I began to make my breakfast. I had decided to have scrambled eggs that were cooked to perfection with the yolk golden mixed in with the pure snow white egg white and flakes of pepper sprinkled throughout and toast with butter melted onto the crunchy outside making it soft with homemade strawberry jam spread thick on top.

“There they were. And he was really loving her up good, boy, and she was going hell for leather. Sheets were flapping on the lines above and washcloths, pillowcases, shirts was also flying through the air, for they was trying to clear a place for themselves in a high-heaped but shallow laundry cart” (Erdrich 154)

Nestled snuggly into the Blue Ridge Mountains was Ridgecrest, North Carolina. Getting there was no joke seeing as the ears popped every five minutes, but the scenery was beautiful.

I was surrounded by the sound of graphite moving anxiously over paper. The clamor filled my ears and collided with the dull ticking of the clock that hung over the SAT proctor’s disorderly, graying hair. There were only eighteen minutes left and I still had not written a single word. The prompt reverberated in my head like a ringing bell, but I could not form cohesive thoughts. My heart raced and my fingernails dug into the curve of my palm in panic, leaving small, pallid impressions in their wake. Pleading with myself, I considered the page that lay askew on the on the chipped desk in front of me. I wrote a desperate and painfully arbitrary sentence that I quickly erased. Nothing sounded right. I had studied and prepared for this moment with

“Yes, you there, that man er—young man I spoke to earlier,” she shrilled, clumsily trotting across the street. “Yes, you,” she panted, grasping hold of her centered, skirt slit and swiftly darting across the grass. “Oh it’s wet, the grass is moist,” she wailed. “Yes, you there,” she said again, pointing at me, nearing closer and clamoring up the porch steps. “Oh look, those are some beautiful, Ah—deadly roses!” she squawked, “I think they just made a ladder in my favorite tights.” Her face looked like it was going to sob again, but briskly, she straightened her stance and blew out a sharp breath. “I know,” she said breathlessly, “you're probably wondering what this horrendous woman is is doing in front of you and—oh my god, is this street full of supermodels!” her eyes shifted distractedly, gawking at Gemma. “You look like an angel. Your light, champagne blond hair is so gorgeous, and you're so lean and perfect—how tall are you? She quizzed Gemma.

I have only been at Marist for a few days, but the many experiences I have had here made me realize how fortunate I am to be a part of this community. One of my favorite parts of being at Marist, at least while the weather is nice, is walking to class. The view of the Hudson River with the hills in the background and the train sometimes passing by is like a scene from a painting. It is such an enormous difference from what I have been used to my whole life. Gone are the days of having four minutes to walk between classes trying to push between tons of people in cramped hallways. At Marist, there are lots of students outside walking to class, jogging, driving, or biking. I really like the freedom of the campus where everyone is doing their own thing. It sometimes feels like walking through Central Park.

The timer started, I had sixty seconds to put all my bunker gear on, and get my self-contained breath apparatus (SCBA) over my face and be ready to enter a fire. As I pulled my boots on, I could feel my heart pounding and a little bead of sweat dripping down my face. Today I was going to be a firefighter; today I was going to walk into my first real fire. Fire academy was an emotionally and physically draining journey that required perseverance and dedication that lead me on a path to find my passion and myself.

The remnants of the storm hung heavy in the atmosphere, adding to the gloom of the unlit apartment. Tom sat on the couch, his damaged arms laid out in front of him, the bloody razor still gripped tightly between his thumb and forefinger. He stared at the open window, watching in fascination as a cool breeze ruffled the net curtains, the channel of air rhythmically caving and billowing the fabric in an exotic dance of mesmerizing beauty. The hypnotizing sway reminded him of Salome and her veils, and closing his eyes, he visualized Brigid Bazlen’s portrayal of the voluptuous seductress in King of Kings. For the first time in almost a month he felt a stirring in his groin, and unbuttoning his jeans, his slipped a hand inside

The cold rain fell down on my body as I involuntarily shiver from the cold wet feeling on my skin. I look around to find myself surrounded by puddles of water and no way out. My breath was visible through the air. I was one of the best days to run in as well as the worst. It was another exciting day at track.

The beach in Wildwood is nothing short of paradise. Placed among a bright blue sky with wispy white clouds, the sun lights up and warms everything. Seagulls soar in the air, cawing every so often. Light winds carry the scent of saltwater, earth, and sunscreen. Silty, off-white sand stretches on for miles in either direction, dotted by people. Tanners lie on bright beach towels. Children run, laugh, build sandcastles, and dig moats along the shore. Families and friends gather under multicolored umbrellas on folding chairs. Conversations mix with the sound of the ocean. The cool water creates an endless blue pool, speckled with people. White tips among the sea mark the crest of waves. They curl over and crash onto the shore, sounding like a million

At the summit of a small hill the traveller shrugs off his backpack, leaning the bulky object against a moss-draped rock to prevent his life spilling out of the barely zipped pockets and tumbling down the grassy hillside. Facing the lowering sun, he raises his hands above his head, fingers interlaced, and stretches his aching shoulders. Conscious of the many years that have gathered in his clicking joints, the same way the dust of so many beaten tracks is embedded in his faded canvas hat. It was blue once, a deep inky blue like the twilight sky just as the first stars are appearing, but the years of sun and rain and snow have drained its colour to a dirty smog-grey.

A simple smile from him showed me we have finally made it to the best view in Ohiopyle, making my heart jump straight out of my chest. Buckets continuing to pour over my head, dripping through the trees, comparable to the past three miles. Giant hills with slippery rocks are not the perfect combination for trying to look your best. Not even a full month of dating this kid and you are hiking in the middle of nowhere; thoughts like these ran through my head. My next thoughts were, I just want to go back the car. I quickly mentioned it hoping that he might agree. But his answer was a no because we were at the “best view.” This supposedly amazing view, and could not see a thing. He said “let's wait it out.” Meanwhile, It's pouring down rain! I was like, there is no way this is passing. But I didn't want it to seem like I wasn’t having fun. So we found some trees to stand under, which wasn't hard because there was trees all around us.

Through someone’s aspect, it could be considered as the most efficient communicating tool of human being. On the other hand, some people may treat it as an irreplaceable expression of their emotion. Objectively speaking, “words” could definitely be concluded in both ways above, but in my opinion, using words is a privilege and honor. I use words to gain knowledge and words give me all kinds of possibilities of understanding new stuff when I intend to enhance my personal abilities.