Descriptive Essay: Description Of The Lake

“They dreamed of ponds and streams. They were saving to buy microscopes. In their bedrooms, they fashioned plankton nets. But their hopes were even more vain than more, for I was a child, and anything might happen; they were adults living in Homewood. There was neither pond or stream on the

A far rush of wind sounded and a gust drove through the tops of the trees like a wave. The sycamore leaves turned up their silver sides, the brown, dry leaves on the ground scudded a few feet. And row on row of tiny wind waves flowed up the pool’s green surface. As quickly as it had come, the wind died, and the clearing was quiet again. The heron stood in the

As rain seeped from the heavens, the dreary charcoal buildings began to resemble grotesque tombstones. The rain swirled across the concrete road, past the abandoned basketball court haunted by the echoes of childhood and under the park benches where lovers had once met to profess their passion. The rain-soaked wind pushed the corroded swings, their eerie creaking harmonizing with the wind’s soft moans. In its wake, the rain left shallow ebony puddles doomed to virginity, forever untouched by the rubber soles of childrens’ rain boots. Raindrops tapped against dark window-panes, filling the street with a melancholy melody.

Fallen twigs, colourless and dreadfully bland, are strewn about the squishy, muddy ground, crunching as I continue from step to step. The wind picks up the pace as it rushes to its midnight duty, stirring a family of leaves from their state of repose, generating a faint rustle. Tall trees border my

“Oh, Jake, this apartment is perfect for us, just perfect,” Grace Wexler argued in a whining coo. The third bedroom was a trifle small, but it would do just fine for Turtle. “And think what it means having your office in the lobby, Jake; no more driving to and from work, no more mowing the lawn or shoveling snow.”... Grace stood before the front window where, beyond the road, beyond the trees, Lake Michigan lay calm and glistening. A lake view! ...

I looked out from the passenger side window as we pulled into our parking spot. The trees were beginning to go bare in the frigid October weather, and the ground was covered in their dry, crispy leaves. The four of us were going on a haunted hayride tonight, a popular past-time for season. We clambered out of the car and left our bags behind. It had rained the day before, and it made the ground beneath us soft with mud and trampled leaves.

This passage from “A white Heron”, by Sarah Orne Jewett, details a short yet epic journey of a young girl, and it is done in an entertaining way. Jewett immediately familiarizes us with our protagonist, Sylvia, in the first paragraph, and our antagonist: the tree. However, this is a bit more creative, as the tree stands not only as an opponent, but as a surmountable object that can strengthen and inspire Sylvia as she climbs it. This “old pine” is described as massive, to the point where it, “towered above them all and made a landmark for sea and shore miles and miles away.” (Line 8).

The woodlands by the ranch were peaceful, not alarmed by the breeze of death and sorrow that followed the men as they marched through the canvas of green. Alerted by the footsteps of the men, the rabbits scuttled back into their burrows. The trees swayed in the glistening sunlight that bounced between them, igniting the woodlands with light. It was quiet, but death intruded on this harmonious atmosphere. Laying in the arms of George, Lennie looked as calm and peaceful as a kitten cuddling its owner.

The setting for most of the story is a small fishing lodge in the woods of Minnesota. The author describes this location as having “… great sweeps of pine and birch and sumac” between a few secluded buildings. Not only is the lodge isolated by

When we hit the summit of the hill we were greeted by this overlook which, when you looked out into Fairport; it was a sea of colors that had been painted across in swirls and swoops. But nothing gold can stay and within an instant as Fred came as quickly as he left and flew into the vast sea beneath me. What got me through the looming thought of still having to walk back down was many things. Pushing aside the sadness of Fred flying off and of the coldness of my fingers and toes, which were probably turning a nice shade of blue was the Pittsford Dairy that was waiting for me after. Slowly and carefully descending through the winding trail until I saw what I had been waiting for….

Greasy Lake “Greasy Lake” by T. Coraghessan Boyle is a story about a 19 year old young boy, the narrator, who learns that his bad boy image is just an image. Describing himself and his friends, Digby and Jeff, as “dangerous characters” (Boyle 77), he soon realizes that he may not be ready for such a title. Out with his friends one summer night, the narrator, Digby and Jeff head to Greasy Lake in hopes of getting into some type of “adventure” (Boyle 78). Thinking that they have spotted their friends car on Greasy Lake they attempt to play a joke on him and his girl. Once the young boys approach the car they soon realize that the car belongs to some other “bad greasy character” (Boyle 78).

We were afraid at nigh in the winter. We were not afraid of outside though this was the time of year when snowdrifts curled around our house like sleeping whales and the wind harassed us all night, coming up from the buried fields, the frozen swamp, with its old bugbear chorus of threats and misery. We were afraid of inside, the room where we slept. At this time upstairs of our house was not finished. A brick chimney went up

However within the story the individuals as well as the narrator see the lake as being the best place to spend their time. The story describes the lake as being, “fetid and murky, the mud banks glittering with broken glass and strewn with beer cans and the charred remains of bonfires.”

The clock keeps ticking, and the house continues to move through its normal routines. Each hour that passes is just a painful reminder that the family is gone. They will never enjoy another day in their house. The nursery walls “took shape: yellow giraffes,... [and] lilac panthers” and they made noises (2).

The cool, upland air, flooding through the everlasting branches of the lively tree, as it casts a vague shadow onto the grasses ' fine green. Fresh sunlight penetrates through the branches of the tree, illuminating perfect spheres of water upon its green wands. My numb and almost transparent feet are blanketed by the sweetness of the scene, as the sunlight paints my lips red, my hair ebony, and my eyes honey-like. The noon sunlight acts as a HD camera, telling no lies, in the world in which shadows of truth are the harshest, revealing every flaw in the sight, like a toddler carrying his very first camera, taking pictures of whatever he sees. My head looks down at the sight of my cold and lifeless feet, before making its way up to the reaching arms of an infatuating tree, glowing brightly virescent at the edges of the trunk, inviting a soothing, tingling sensation to my soul.