Valhalla Descriptive Writing

Laying in bed, Meg wonders if the hurricane will miss them, hoping it will miss them. Picturing herself flying out of the attic, she imagines it will be like The Wizard of Oz, except she wouldn’t be going to Oz, she will be trapped in a wild hurricane, in her rickety, beat-up bed. Meg’s mind keeps wondering as she waits for the first noise of the hurricane.

Poe and Byron are masterful at using vivid, descriptive language to develop the elements of Gothic literature and instill a sense of fear in the reader.

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.

You meander down passageways of peeling paint into a flame well. Up a crisis stair. Out a gouged trap entryway. A disheartening, solid scene welcomes you, pipes stunning the expansive display. You weave over the surface, going to the bond edge. A memory surges your cognizant. An official was lecturing the amassed masses, "the new recovery framework will enhance the lives of every single US resident, our fantasy of living always is currently a reality." You looked down at the young lady holding your hand. She thought back, her little face wrinkled in stress, "Would prefer individuals not to pass on when they get old?" You grinned at her, "No, nobody truly needs amazing." who can continue carrying on with this life any longer. A cycle of perpetual birth and resurrection. When you see everybody, it appears to be pointless to get up, go some place. Yet, that is the thing that they need us to accept. That it was purposeless to go and get things going. They sucked individuals enjoyed you into their psyche traps, but only a few got out. You have a meeting in the afternoon, located at a rusty tavern downtown. Scrounging up a few oxygen pills for barter, you head down the dilapidated streets, seeing, ever so

Mya sits at the heart-shaped vanity in the center of her bedroom, draped in a dark purple rose as Tiffany, the twenty something MAC cosmetic makeup artist Mya hired to make her face perfection. She left nothing to chance. This was the most defining moment of her life thus far. Every detail would be remembered, gossiped and analyzed by Joe dick eaters and haters alike submitting her rein at Overbrook high school as the baddest chick once and for all.

Passing the Fernwood sign, as I approach her gravesite early morning before work on 7/10/15 at 6:30 AM. I drive up an uneven gravel driveway dodging the grooves, looking at the back mirror noticing the dust my back tires are kicking up. The feeling of crunch vibrating off my tires, as the feeling you get when you are getting a massage on the nail salon massage chair. Just the calm vibration running from your toes to the fingers on the steering wheel. The grooves freshly filled with water from the rain the night before. Driving past the rusted looking water pumps used to feed the plants. Looking through window, noticing all different flowers laying on individual gravestone. Some vary from fake flowers but most are real freshly bloomed flowers,

Silent. At the edge of the sky there was a magnificent white patch, a turning page, catching the sun. The rest was ivory grey, with a subtle hint of mauve, just enough to announce the coming sunset. Scanning the horizon were the white cotton balls on cerulean satin, with a subtle layer of dove grey underneath, which was thin enough to let the light through. Stood there like a ghost, a silent observer of the venerable castle, and the clouds. The colossal mountains were shielding the inferior castle. Beyond the towering mountains was a decrepit, venerable and ancient castle like structure. The azure roof was coated and concealed by the thick opaque dust. The roof was as dusty as an abandoned warehouse floor. It was an elderly going paler as it got older and ancient. As I nonchalantly walked up the moaning narrow staircase, a thick mist of cold crisp air blew through me, rustling my hair and sending a chill down my spine.

The chief offered his hand and escorted Dana to the next area. A force field dropped and lights popped on ahead of them, leading down a circular corridor, Dana recognized the place. They were in the old mines. Now, these mines were transformed into sheen tunnels, led to rooms with protected secrets for the future. Her heart pounded faster with excitement plumbing through her veins.

A dark, blackish, minute silhouette, at first glance seemingly odorless of strange appearance stood on the corner. It was located on the corner of an empty gray, worn down side walk, next to a four way intersection, with fallen stop signs, whose roads where so worn down it appeared as if it was an antique road of dirt that had been covered in pebbles, as the only concrete that was left were a few shreds here and there, around 2000 feet away, parallel from where I was positioned, on a side walk next to a dirt road in the middle of the night, at 12 am on a nice late September autumn day, with light, leaf scented breeze, where I was basking in the young moon. The intersection was said to be so quiet and so unoccupied, men were rumored to sleep

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.

As my alarm clock yells at me to get up, I turn over in bed and see that it is only 6am. It's a necessity to rise and shine before the crack of dawn on days like these...

As the perspiration beaded on my forehead and dripped down my face, the heat bounced back off the streets causing a tactical illusion that the temperature outside seemed to be increasing with each heartbeat. As my parents walked towards the what seemed to be the endless walkway, Myla and I followed. I could hear Myla pant as her tongue swung from side to side in effort to keep cool. “Are we there, yet?” I asked my parents with an agonizing tone. “We are!” they responded quickly. With those two words, my 10-year-old eyes, enlarged in order to catch a glimpse of what I had waited for all

I have gone to many restaurants, but one of the best experiences I’ve had at one was at Puerto Vallarta in January. It was blistering cold outside, though the snow was falling fairly lightly upon the slushy asphalt. But inside the Mexican restaurant it was warm and cozy, I was sitting in a scarlet booth, waiting for my friends to arrive. Wearing a black leather jacket and hat to brave the cold weather outside, I waited there for approximately five minutes when they came in through the door. Carissa, about my height, with blonde hair and blue eyes, was walking in with Rachel, shorter than Carissa, she had brown hair, hazel eyes, and was smiling. They both took seats across from me and we began to chat. Food was brought out, mainly spicy burritos

I wake up to the sound of pouring rain on a monday morning. As I am putting on my light blue dress up shirt and my plaid skirt with my knee high socks, all I can think about is coming back home from school and making paper boats. I run down the hall into the orange living room and open the windows to smell the pouring rain. As my mother hands me my jacket I see the rain pour down into the green grass and get soaked in by the dirt. My father calls out “pimpollo” meaning “rosebud” in english. I walk into the blue dining room; he is wearing a gray sweater with a baseball cap that reads “oaxaca” and hands me my favorite drink, vanilla milk. As soon as I put on my black sleek shoes my grandfather is knocking on the door. I open the door and the

The vivid sunset melts scarlet, gold and violet together to capture the sight of her hot chocolate. The birds serenade my ears from afar. The autumn leaves forced to dance by the chilly breeze, as it dances with my hair. As the cool breeze sways around it slightly brushes against my lips leaving a salty, but sweet taste behind. The grass, splashed with the cologne of Petrichor, trying to court my hand and legs. She broke all love connections to look down the hill as the horns screamed at each other.