White House Descriptive Writing

She decided to get the things tonight for her journey on her own. So she grabbed the thing she thought she needed and waited till the next day. She did not sleep that much she was worried and excited, the same time. Come morning she got up earlier than normal, to leave before her parents left. She ran outside till she got to the little picket white fence outside, and just stood gazing into the woods. She felt something was not right but her heart was racing and her adrenaline was pumping so she moved on. Walked across the crossing and stepped into the forest but then came to mind. All the stories that she had been told about the forest about once you go you will not come out. And the beasts that is in the heart of the forest. But she thought to herself that could never be true they are gust storeys to keep kids out. Right? I mean that could not be

There was a heavy coat of dust on the hard packed dirt floor of the den. An old wooden bench set next to a fireplace to the left, dried apple peel shavings discarded in a pile on the hearth, waiting to be swept any day into an abyssal inferno. The walls were mostly bare, save for a few shelves and racks. To the far corner of the room, lay a cot; Straw stuffed and the linens mold-smelling. Dressers and wardrobe left untouched, covered in a thick layer of dust, but their contents had long been eaten by moth larvae. Yet, a small glitter of sunlight filtered down from a hole in the ceiling onto a spot of a table. The legs were uneven, causing it to tilt slightly when pressure was applied. On the table, being touched by the light was a small golden ring that speckled in the sunlight. Untouched by man for many months and left alone for it's owner to come and retrieve it's simplistic beauty. Who could have left such a place in such conditions? There had been no signs of struggle to have forced someone from the homestead, it was a curious thing to witness by eye.

She took a quick look around the last turn before the main street that led to the school. She noticed several boys and girls in the alleyways on both sides of the narrow street. It looked as if every class at her school, several young ladies and even her teacher waited for her in ambush. She ducked back before they could see her, hiked up her dress, and ran as fast as her little legs could carry her in the opposite direction of the angry mob. She didn’t stop until she had found the forest path that she needed and breathed a sigh of relief when she heard no one in pursuit. The forest surroundings felt different for some reason and it frightened her. It had a forbidding feel to it this dawn like she had never felt in the past.

Tranquil gusts kissed my skin; the sweet sensation of a breeze and the rustle of the trees’ leaves sung me a lullaby. As I lie, back to my trampoline and limbs sprawled, my mind would undergo a sort of cleansing, ridding me of my troubles. My home held my childhood; it possessed memories that had accumulated from day one, intertwining and condensing them to forge a place that would bear peace and serenity. I never contemplated departure, even when it was apparent my parents sought for a better place to reside, for no place could replace my home. Alas, my assumptions were proven to be erroneous.

"Try not to go too deep into the woods, Viola." That's the one thing that father had dependably let me know. Every one of the grown-ups in the town said the same thing, so it appeared like a platitude told to kids who wanted to play in the woods. The wind blew, making my skirt and golden braids sway. Holding the hair out of my eyes, I turned upward. Through the holes in the green branches over my head, I could marginally see the blue sky. It was a hot summer afternoon, and there I was, in the forest. There was an incredible woodland close to Salem Town, the town I lived in. The forest, which was abundant year-round, was extremely helpful for the villagers. A prime example how it is useful to the daily life of the villagers in our modest little

At last I spotted the gates of the burnt castle, lurking in the mist under the shadow of night. The rusted birds perched upon the gate which curled like the long hair of a gracious maiden, had likely remained in the same positions for two centuries, along with the unnatural ever-lasting bloom of the metal roses. Weathered gargoyles guarded the castle grounds, their eyes pouring spiteful remarks to whomever dared look in them. As the faint and melancholy glow of the moonlight began to seep through the branches of the wilting willows, the cold, damp ground shimmered like spun glass dancing across the floor.

They just put up a fence to keep out any of the creatures that might get inside. The children play outside almost everyday now too. I get lonely on Sundays though when they all leave for a few hours but they always return to me with conversations of a man with great power who loves all things. They confuse me sometimes but I am just happy to have them back. On those days silently I sit and silently I wait. When they return I greet them when a creek rings from my floor boards. The master of the house smiles as he hears my greeting as he walks into his study and pours a glass of his favorite whiskey. The smell pierces the air and leaves my wood infused with the smell that so many find savory. The children run up to their rooms to change out of their good clothes and into their favorite outside stuff so they could go and run around the yard. Over that 150 acre land the master cared for was trees that were beautiful, the ones closest to the house were favored by the children for climbing. Night comes and the house falls silent as all of them slip into the embrace of their beds and I wait for the

This story begins with a detailed description of a mountainous area “covered with pine trees and dotted with lakes” (“Story One” 3), continuing with the narrator stating that he and his father “had been coming to this place ever since he was seven” (“Story One” 3). Traditionally, forests and mountains are used to bring a sense of isolation and peace, and used in this setting gives a sense that this place is supposed to be a private area for father and

I finally make it to the old wooden deck that extends across the front of the cabin. I look at the old wood under my feet and wonder how it could possibly hold my weight. The rest of the deck however is beautiful. My uncles have recently replaced the old wood framing roof. They also repainted the four pillars holding it and the railing on the side a dark forest green. The entire cabin is covered in a light tan-brown color to keep a natural look. I walk to the middle where a group of three trees project out just inches away from the deck. This was my fortress of solitude for many years as a child. I look over the deck at the lake and woodland forest surrounding me. The aroma of the evergreens surrounds me, leaving my mind wonderfully peaceful.

My eyes ascend up into the branches of an oak that has past its prime,

Webster’s Dictionary defines “power” as the “ability to do anything; … capacity for producing an effect; … a wielder of authority, strong influence, or rule.” In my opinion, “power” is the ability to produce an effect from people, places or things. Thunderstorms are strong mixtures of air and water that can cause a powerful effect on weather. The White House is a place that stands as a symbol of what America as a country represents; which can produce a powerful effect, either positive or negative, upon the emotions of those who see it. And finally, there is an organization of people within a society who wield their impact through the decisions they make, the government, that defines the influence of the effect of power on those to whom it governs.

I gazed up at the mountain now drenched in light red and squinted, trying to keep my eyes open, as the bright sharp light burnt into my eyes. Struggling to keep my eyes open, I finally closed them unable to the pain any longer; I wiped my watery eyes and thought where Samneric’s fire was? There was a rumble inside me, and I looked hopefully at the jungle wondering if I could find Samneric’s fire as well as something to eat. In the morning light the jungle seemed like an old and tattered rug chewed to bits by moths, yet despite this the jungle and the whole island was beautiful shining in the sun’s warmth. I kept on walking as the jungle beckoned me calling me with its beauty. As I passed between the trees, the canopy overhead plunged me into velvet darkness. The only source of light was from the small gaps in the shell of overlapping leaves, where the sun glistened through. Moss and lichen covered the ground in abundance, thriving in this humid atmosphere, and feeding on the eerie green light that managed to penetrate through the ceiling of emerald leaves. The strange green shade and the various knotted pillars made it impossible to see for great distances or to walk about freely.

Arriving at the home of my sperm donor, a sense of nostalgia wafts over me. The house hides itself from sight along the roadway. Your trek begins with the driveway. The slick pavement of the road stumbles until it falls to pieces at the base of this driveway. Walking up it, the rock ground trembles and causes a falter in each step; the bulbous stones kiss your feet as if peasants meeting their king. The walk up passes quickly. Before long, the house is within your sights. It resides about 30 yards away from the drive way. The first thing you notice are the trees, such majestic creatures with their own malevolent intentions; their leaflets curled inwards, barricading the sun’s rays from the inhabitants below. They always seemed to know what occurred in that house. The house itself rests on the side of a hill. It always seems to precariously sit in that ledge. A portion of the hill wraps around the house from the left side to the back. On the side facing the driveway, you notice a doorway. With closer inspection, you notice the falsehood of this door. It simply is just a redneck security measure to confuse intruders. Invading the back of the house, a small armada of crimpled leaves await their orders. Swimming to the surface of the armada, a single yellow tulip fights to keep its head above it all, but it seems as if it is drowning. Finally, you arrive at the real entrance on the far side of the house. A single wooden door. The window pane in the door remained shattered and

Instead of kissing, the grass snarled, bit, and clawed at my ankles. I found myself constantly in a cloud of smoke. The moment I needed sun, all I received was shade; when I wanted shade, I had only sun. I meant nothing to the place that had been my oasis. Nothing obeyed me. In the dark, I feared Tyler would be just around any tree, waiting to do it again. I was afraid to sleep in my camper, as if it

Driving down the path, lined with small American flags, I began to see the large white house. It is quite an old house, however there were a few additions added. My mom pulled into the parking lot of a driveway and started taking food out of the trunk and bringing it into the house. I could have helped her, but instead I decided that I wanted to bring my luggage in and put it in the room that was assigned for me.