Personal Narrative: Haunted Hayride

The narrator comes upon the site in the morning, just as "the sun poured yellow surprise into the eye sockets of a stony skull", he feels the ground grip his feet and his heart being "circled by icy walls of fear.” Wright juxtaposes images of violence and childhood innocence and in the narrator's reverie, he becomes the victim and as “a night wind muttered in the grass and fumbled the leaves in the trees,” as “the woods poured forth the hungry yelping of hounds” and “the darkness screamed with thirsty voices” the narrator is left shivering surrounded by a thousand cruel faces, and bloodied and tortured by callous hands. He vicariously suffers beating, humiliation, tarring-and-feathering, and incineration-driving home the horrors of the victim's experience in a shockingly immediate

One day my sister Dakota, my uncle Raven, my mom, and I went to a farm the day before Halloween. At first we were just going to get a few pumpkins but then, I saw a corn maze. I asked my mom “ Can we go in it, please,”

The approach of autumn was well on its way. “Autumn’s hand was lying heavy on the hillsides. Bracken was yellowing, heather passing from bloom, and the clumps of wild-wood taking the soft russet and purple of decline. Faint odors of wood smoke seemed to fit over the moor, and the sharp lines of the hill fastnesses were drawn as with a graving-tool against the sky.” As Ellie drove down the road she was much more aware of all her surroundings. She grew up in a suburban area and always knew she would live there forever. Cypress is where she grew up and had most of her adventures. Though Cypress was where Ellie’s heart was, she was ready to start her new journey at USC. Since the age of ten, Ellie has always dreamed of going to USC, eight years later those dreams became reality.

“So...what do you want to ride?”, Patrick asked with a grin. “Whatever you want to ride that’s reasonable.”, I replied swiftly. He looked around and was considering what I had said. “Maybe?...”, he was thinking aloud and then his voice trailed off and ended with a dissatisfied hum. He finally made a decision and we headed in that direction. The cool wind was blowing gently making my ponytail swirl around my head and get stuck to my pink grapefruit lip gloss.

After we had sent to be we could still smell fox and still hear Henry's laugh, but these things reminders of the warm, safe, brightly lit downstairs world, seemed lost and diminished, floating on the stale cold air upstairs. 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

Julie Trip’s short story “The Fall” depicts the story of a young girl who spends her summer exploring the area around her house and collecting some of her findings. One day, Tara’s explorations lead her back to the woods behind her house, where she discovers a darkness to life, which brings an end to her childhood days. Trip’s clever symbolism, and description of the setting reinforce this.

Introduction (reveal): Native American culture has always been an interest of mine. Since my beginning with the Boy Scouts of America on my path to Eagle Scout, I have come closer to the dense but often forgotten history of the First Nation people of America. Upon joining the Order of the Arrow, the BSA’s honor society centered around Native American virtues and beliefs, I have continued to take it upon myself to learn more about the long forgotten Native history. While I knew about the general struggles the Native Americans faced as “white man” invaded the unharnessed Western frontier, I had not learned about the specific catalyzing incidents that caused such conflict and suffered between these two cultures. While searching through topics like native music and combat, I knew I needed an event that sparked the rift between these two types of people, growing U.S. government and early

Most male citizens wore cowboy hats and there were hitching posts that were used regularly in front of the grocery store, cafe, dry goods store, tavern and post office. The commercial center of town was limited to the east side of Highway 30. The speed limit, which few drivers acknowledged, was thirty-five on the two-lane highway that bisected the town without so much as a stoplight.

He was dead, and dead when the police found him. Blue and red lights penetrated the black of the bleak evening and men conversing in hushed tones, brushing blood-stained flour away to reveal the body.

As the freshman finished packing the bus with all the gear and all got on the bus we were ready to go. We had a long ride ahead of us as we were heading to Housatonic, a team that we beat 5-3 and tied 3-3 during the regular season. However, they were able to finish up their season strong and were a much better team than before. The bus rides to the games are always a blast. We would have the tunes cranking and we would all be joking around. Coach, a short, angry, little guy didn’t like that we always fooled around, but it worked for us cause we were able to win games. However, this game was a lot bigger than most. Win and move on, lose and your season is over, and in my case my high school career would be over.

The sun began its assent, illuminating the soon to be dreary winter day as well as the few vibrant, resilient leaves still clinging to life upon the trees. I would often refer to these resilient leaves as foolish for wishing to cling to such a life, yet I would continue

Two years ago, a breezy fall night, leaves whipped up and carried away with the wind. A blood moon shining below, emitting an eerie light. On the roadside, every house had been demolished, except for two: her's and mine. Two identical houses, all alone like two ducklings stranded in

Prompt: Horseback Riding and how it has shaped me to be the person I am today.

As we entered the forest, the ground turned from grass to gravel, and the moonlight barely leaked through the dense trees. At first, I tripped over all the rocks and branches in my path and jumped every time a piece of grass brushed against my leg. But I eventually started getting used to the dark and tripped less. I became more

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. I feel it radiating into my blood, as my heart skips a beat. Soon, enlightened by a beating pair of wings effortlessly moving up and down, more fragile than the glass that once was sitting on the edge of the table. The fluttering pair of painted silk wings circles my front, as another pair comes into sight, creating a delicate breeze that brushes past my quilted cold cheeks. I manage to smile at the picturesque view in front of me, sending a warm satisfaction to my body as it sparks my heart and floods my eyes with tear-filled blur.