Waldo Descriptive Writing

As we waited for our food, I took to peering out the diner’s large storefront window that we seated ourselves next to and I people watched as the citizens of Mt. Harrison went on about their daily lives.

Stylist magazine features high end content that includes fashion, travel, beauty, people and careers news. Judging from the general content included in Stylist, such as aging creams, expensive perfumes and its ‘intelligent approach-covering a broader range of culture and tackling issues women face in their professional and personal lives’-it is evident that Stylist succeeds in attracting their intended target audience. Stylist aims to target affluent 20-40 year old female commuters and according to their media kit, Stylist’s typical reader are women of the average age of 33, with 7 out of 10 unmarried and with no children. Despite attracting this particular target audience it can be argued that- with Stylist’s vibrant front covers and fun features such as temporary tattoos,ways to deal with hangovers and make-up tutorials,Stylist is luring in younger readers thus expanding their audience as a whole.

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

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.

Super! Where going to the barn it’s a fun place. That’s where I Ride my own horses. I and my brother like to go there with my grandpa. My cousins go there too. When we were going over there we pass by the races. Then we continue going then I saw a watermelon seller we bought a tasty and juicy watermelon. We continue more and then we saw a tamale seller they were so good. Next, we put on our cowboy shirt, pants, boots, and hat. We gave hay to the horses and grass to the cows, sheep, and goats. We took some milk from the cows and made it good for us to drink Finally, I ask my dad and grandpa” can we ride the horses.” “Yes,” we can ride the horses. After that, we got in the tractor a plant the weed. The wheel from the

The only thing constantly in my head over the duration of my deployment was my wife. I may have been fighting for my country, but she’s the only reason why my mind still orders my muscles to strain themselves. Every time I slept, it was like she was actually with me and I could feel her soft touch that was more soothing than the ocean breeze on a ninety degree day back in Oregon. Well, at least when I was mentally able to sleep, which only came about three nights a week. Unlike a large number of the men on base, I hadn’t broken down yet. Not physically, not mentally. What I didn’t know, was that next time I woke up from a dream with my wife, and the next time I jumped up into the cockpit to fly an aircraft, would be the last time I was capable

Who wears 70’s styled leisure suits in the 21st century? Garrison Hansen does… all the time! Cant you just picture him walking down the streets of Vegas, all sad cause he lost all his money to gambling. So sad… isn’t it? But wait! Something good will come out of his misfortune. The one and only Garrison was wearing a unique outfit, that I don’t even know how to describe that well, but I’ll try my best. He looked fierce in an aged suit with a strict attitude. Today I’m going to tell you about his fierce or unique attitude, if you want to put it lightly, how he looks and much more.

Tyson hovers over me on all fours, his arms and knees pinning me down like a beast. Even though it's pitch black, I can still see the faint outline of Tyson's indistinct silhouette in front of me. I can't see his face, but I can hear the low growl from his throat and the glint in his eyes is visible. A lukewarm liquid drips down from Tyson's mouth onto my

The icy cold air assisted in my throat tightening as we headed towards Christchurch hospital. In the distance, I could see the fluorescent red sign plastered against the empty black sky it seemed to call my name. The old worn out warehouse slippers I wore on my feet were persistent at falling off with every step I took meaning keeping up with my mum was a mission in itself.

It was a humid summer night right after a storm had ended. My 90 pound black Goldendoodle, Otis, was ecstatic when we allowed him to go outside. Rolling in the muddy puddles and embracing the water like an excited kid at a water park, Otis was as delighted as can be. However, his fun would soon be ruined. After a few minutes of playing outside, Otis unusually clawed at the back door, signaling that he wanted to come back inside. I grabbed an old towel ready to wipe him off, but when I pulled open the jammed door to let him in I noticed that there was foam beginning to form around his mouth. Without hesitation, I stepped back and called for my Dad. Before my Dad could even make it over, Otis began his sprint inside the house like

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

“Watch it,” my mom instructs from behind a newspaper, “and stir it or else it’ll burn. When it burns it smells awful.” I stand before the stove, whisking a sweet, lemony liquid. It looks like summer, a soft yellow with white froth. It always puzzled me that we only prepared this pie during Thanksgiving, when the season is earthy and mild, and the dish is so bright and tart. I look at the digital clock above the stove’s dials and buttons. 8:48. I have been sloppily stirring for 14 minutes, sloshing the pie filling over the sides and onto the burner, where it singes and stinks up the kitchen.

Today was just like any other. Barrett awoke to a bright sunny day. He moved to the edge of the bed and put his feet on the cool hardwood floor. Barrett wiggled his toes and wondered why his feet were so large. Barrett’s body was proportional and his clark hair and eyes left him handsome looking. Barrett brought himself to his feet and walked to the bathroom to brush his teeth before dressing himself. While buttoning the last button on his shirt he walked to the bathroom to brush his teeth before dressing himself. While buttoning the last button on his shirt he walked to his mirror to see the finished look before going his way. The mirror was 5 feet tall and about 2 feet wide. The peeling gold trim accentuated it’s rustic look. Just

There has been a lot of work put into this magazine cover as should be noticed by the design of the cover which emphasizes the uniqueness of business and fashion. On these pages, you will find many designers and their exclusive ideas. The aim is to demonstrate the analysis of fashion and magazines we’ve collected over the months here in BOSS, as well promote both business and fashion (linking them both as one). Boss magazine deals with business and fashions, mainly for men between the ages of 18 to 30 years. BOSS first began when Martha Weeks (the founder of BOSS) was living in Canada and working