Phones loudly blaring through the room, someone louder responding it “HELLO!! HOW CAN I HELP YOU?” he would usually say, extremely out of breath. Whatever the issue was it would usually end up being transferred to someone else with a rehearsed hand motion… a quick pointing to someone and the phone followed by a number, usually regarding the line.
Towards the other end of the room the professional copier machine sat, accompanied by multiple boxes of blank paper, which would quickly be fed into the monstrous machine which after a while would spit out discolored versions of the original in an infuriated manner, at least that is what the steam seemed to represent.
Over the other side, inside the private offices, bosses discussed nonchalantly despite the apparent chaos outside. They drank from perfectly designed crystal clear glasses while the regular employees stood by a flipped over water gallon with cones as if waiting for ice cream which never satisfied them.
Then, amidst the chaos, one seemingly right minded person glistened with joy as she cordially greeted all those that came across her path, wrinkled brow from smiling so much, lipstick brightly shining on her teeth rather than on her lips, yet she did not seem to mind, she was smiling as wide as her cheeks would allow…
Descriptive – Two contrasting pieces first about busy location at ground level, second from higher
The Ferris Wheel
It was a chilly evening as I sat high above the ground next to the only person I have ever loved the most in this entire world. The warmth of his body sending chills throughout my body, reassuring me that there is nothing to worry about. His thick, gentle hands caressing my straight, silky strands of hair and guiding my head onto his firm muscular shoulders as we watched the night sky grow darker and darker, while the twinkle of the stars go in and out of focus every now and then. The Earth’s natural altitude created a pleasant calm and tranquil atmosphere as the wind blew gently across our body. The flashing of every shade of color ever found on a rainbow in the constant movements of the rides in the near distance, was quite eye catching and there is something about it we still have not yet to figure out why we always end up back at this same place at the same time every year. We enjoy this peacefulness every year as if we have just seen it for the first time every time.
The night continued to grow older by the second as we continued to constantly change altitudes in a circular motion. Half an hour had passed and we both knew it was time to get off as our deal with the operator was long overdue, but the thought of having to be separated from his warmth for even a millisecond had sent an intense headache that invaded the whole frontal lobe of my brain. I wanted to cherish this moment just a little longer until I finally willed myself and reminded myself that it is okay to detach for a little bit.
At the end of the ride, not a single word was exchanged between us, but we both knew that each of us had already engraved this special moment in our memories to be remembered forever.
Covered in an abundant amount of powdered sugar that his red and white striped shirt looked one shade. Simultaneously running around the food stands with a half melted soggy waffle ice cream cone in his hands, still begging for more food. Joey is one relentless chubby little boy. I don’t know how many times we have lost him in this crowd of lines that intertwined, unable to distinguish which is which. There were too many things going on at once. Me, trying to get a hold of Joey, while the twins are off with their dad in line for lemonade, and other little kids covered in dried chocolate ice cream circling the concession stand while their parents patiently waited in lines for them. Here and there are some helpful security guards who remind parents to keep an eye on their children. Making me feel like a terrible mom because I can barely have Joey sit still for one second.
The theme park, focus on sights and sounds:
The Theme Park
I would probably regret my decision but it was already too late, I had entered the place were nightmares come true. My brother grabbed my trembling hand and let out a loud roar of happiness. I cleared my throat and found the courage to move my legs towards the first attraction, Dead Doll Drive.
The closer we got the more I began sweating and the larger my brother’s grin grew. From nearly 100 feet away I could hear the screams of the terrified tourists regretting their entrance into this terrifying place. I could hear the giggle of the demonic dolls and the growls of the hell hounds that waited for me on the other side of the monstrous, ebony wall.
I kept looking around in fear while standing in line until I noticed a carousel in the distance. It was nothing like the ones I had seen before at the fair. It was two stories high and surrounded by grey angels. Each angel was stabbed by a different object and on a different body part. The scariest one still haunts me today. It had a scissor deep in its heart and it stared out to the audience pulling its left eye out of the socket with his bloody, left hand. It seemed to cry for help and once the carousel started spinning with its creepy music he haunted me even more. The music made very square inch of hair on my body perk up creating a lane of goose bumps from the top of my head to the tip of my toes.
I vividly remember I was about 12 years old and I woke up one morning with a terrible flu and Mama looked at me scornfully and said “Girl, if you do not get up out of this bed within the next two seconds you’re going to have a lot more than just the flu” and within not even a second later she said “besides the lord will heal you at church you’ll see!”
My cold was not “healed” at church, and I definitely didn’t feel instant relief as soon as I walked in. Yet I still knew Mama’s Sunday morning rituals were no joke. Even sick the beautifully stained glass radiated as light penetrated through the crevices, the voices of the choir always hung over everyone’s head as they took their seats. My brothers and sisters were no new crayons in a craft box when it came to church, they knew they were to be on their best behaviors or they would suffer the consequences. Sundays were not just your typical 2 hour mass; Sundays were mass followed by church service. Mama never gave us an option as to whether or not we would help around church.
From Sunrise to Sunset
It was 7:05 in the morning. Another day, another luminescent light peach sky ascending from the prepossessing horizon. I have been waking up around this time every day for as long as I can remember. For many a sunrise seems nothing but distant and insignificant. However, for me it was a different case. I live a more natural lifestyle in a farm with endless acres of lovely sights and humorous sounds from the plethora of animals that surrounded my family and I. As I continued to admire the sky’s kind hello, my brother walked in my room.
“You just gonna stare at the sky all goddamn day bro?” he aggressively uttered.
“Anything better to do that you got in mind?”
“I don’t know, eat breakfast, play a game with me?”
“I’ll pass, thanks.”
Our conversations were usually like this. We always significantly differentiated from each other. He was always more outgoing, picking up more than just the horse’s compost. While I on the other hand appreciated the quiet life and nature’s most compact gifts.
“If you’re not gonna talk to me Ima head out with some friends at the Old West Bar,” My brother rudely said.
“Very well then, have fun.”
I did not mind this at all. I always appreciated my moments of solidarity. From what felt like a few moments later I found not solely the sun leaving the roof top of the world, but my life as well. I encountered my final breaths leaving one by one from my wrinkled up eighty-year old body. I found myself alone but suddenly I did not like it. I had no grandkids sprinting around. I had no son or daughter calling the nearest hospital. I had no wife to hold my hand and say “you’re going to be okay” or “no matter what I will always love you.” The closest thing I have ever had was my brother who I did not even let myself cherish. The sunset appeared so rapid and unprecedented, practically a reflection of these last eight decades. My grandest regret was appreciating the sunrise so much so that it would cause me to forget that a sunset would soon come as well.
The heart of the family
A delicate and fragile woman who is a wife, mother, and daughter stands before her loving husband of 60 years and more. Her stance displays a replica of her strong character, which validates her position as the backbone of this family. Her face is covered with a lace midnight black veil that shields her caramel brown eyes filled with tears from the sight of others surrounding her. Her eyes glowed as the vibrant lights bounced off the mahogany wood coffin on her right that embodied her most prized possession. Even in the darkest midnight apparel her angel wings exceed the gloomy mood in the four-walled room. Maria noticed her life partner, Angel, in his favorite pearl white button-up with a Colombian traditional hat and ash black slacks. Before the preacher stood up for a prayer, Maria began speaking. As she spoke in a trembling and soft voice the room illuminated with a cream light that appeared from the pitch-black sky through a miniature window above her presence. Her eyes fought the urge of tears but the tears were sneaky enough and exposed themselves. As soon as she saw the light above her, she knew he would be with her no matter where she was.
Winter turns to Spring
The snow was her facade. The snowflakes were beautiful miniscule crystals from heaven. Clear, alluring, refreshing. Just like her charade. It was transparent. It had no secrets to hide in its millions of water droplets that made its entirety--or so everyone thought. The flakes fell slowly, but surely. One by one, they swayed to the ground, filling every inch of Toronto’s skin. One wouldn’t be able to tell there was something hiding beneath the carpet of freshness and clarity. Her facade just like the snow grew gradually, and subtly. The merry December afternoon light warmed the days that seemed cold, but weren’t. The Christmas trees outside of people’s front yards were sprinkled with the glimmering snow like cupcakes with joyous, colorful confetti of sprinkles brightening up the life of people. The perfectly formed circular balls of snow mended into one body, they formed the endearing characters of winter. Their ebony black fedoras, their carrot noses, their vibrant candy scarves, their jade childish smiles--all part of winter’s ephemeral gleaming decor. The leafless trees across the neighborhood blocks sighed in relief at the cozy warm comfort they received with every ounce of snowflakes that covered them. The angelic droplets of snow embellished everything it touched. The pure white snow--everyone loved it. It was the enchanted winter wonderland. The kids waited and yearned for the snow’s magic; it swirled in flurries down the invisible slides of the whirling wind and landed then plastered the dry withering grass--the reality. It transformed unwanted actuality into a glistening fairy tale with its gentle snowflakes that fell fostering a giggles and light hearted laughter.
The rude awakening of spring disrupted the joyous masquerade she had been able to maintain during the winter wonderland. Spring unraveled itself. It woke from its deep sleep. The crystals of heaven dissipated and ceased to be by the minute. Every minute, the glimmering diamonds were seeped into the ground, never to be seen again. It exposed the dead beige lifeless grass that laid hopeless just like her. The pale rose cherry blossoms painfully grew. They struggled to defeat the cold temperatures that prevented them from revealing themselves in the winter. As they bloomed, so did her heartbreak--it was revealed. The birds sang melodically to the sweetness of spring. They were jovial that it was here. The streets were filled with the remnants of what had been the snow, Quickly, her facade melted, exposing her true state of being. Tulips were aligned across the ashen streets of Toronto, reviving the vague silent with colors too bright and joyful for her dark, saddened heart that had been exposed cruelly with the coming of spring, and the melting of her protection--the twinkling snow.
The Factory (sounds, colors, textures)
There is a trail of blank faced people, if that’s what they can even be called, behind me dragging their dusty worn shoes across the rocky lane. In front of me a young lady walks with perfect posture and she shuffled her legs; the left leg lagged behind the right as if her leg malfunctioned so she was unable to walk properly yet maintained her head high and her shoulders back. Her dull pewter gray jumpsuit was a lot cleaner than mine and had no stains from the oily metal pieces that we had to inspect weekly. Her perfect frame merely reminded me of my poor stance and the consequences of not perceiving such an exact synchronized military walk towards The Grand Factory. The prominent smell of chemicals and blood lingered in the air entering my well built lungs and generating images of the work that will be done shortly, as we entered the double doors at the front. Two of the government's workers held one of the double doors and stood in front of the mile high metallic door gripping tightly to the deadly tasers that can obstruct our limbs. Their faces held no emotion for they are now truly what the government expects from us to be: a robot. I continue through the doors and a bright light that may shine brighter than the heavens themselves shine down and reflects of my newly implanted arm. My smooth and slippery silver arm bounced the light waves to the other ends of the room where doctors were repairing their patients. A doctor on the left wing had a jet black lab coat and injected the microchip into the neck of a toddler with a brick red gun with a needle that was four inches long with a hole that could fit a thumb. At which point the shriek erupted through The Factory and she was immediately put down with another injection to halt her cry for help. It disturbed the chip on my neck, which i got three years ago after the civil war began, and i rubbed my index finger over the six by four centimeter square that was protruding on my skin.
Nothing like a day of repairs I thought as i was assigned my corresponding death sentence.
(Ground level — Mrs. Kennedy)
It all happened so quickly yet so painfully, unbearably slowly. His warm, thick blood spattered harshly and abruptly across the tan leather seats. Chunks of pink goo rained over my slightly burned, pink skin which flushed a dangerous shade of white at the sight of his decapitation.
My hands, steady and intertwined firmly in his only a short moment ago, shook violently as I failed to process the scene before me. My lungs struggled to inhale or exhale, shuffling oxygen erratically and as frantically as the heart beating out of my chest. The parade around me seemed to be dipped carelessly in a pool of swirling molasses. My ears still rang incessantly. All my senses were overloaded, each distinct feeling demanding attention I simply could not offer.
A well of tears flowed freely and involuntarily, cascading down my scarlet-stained cheeks. I felt my throat collapse in on itself, heaving the saliva scraping down the thick, sandpaper walls. My husband’s lifeless body still lay neatly in a heap on my lap as I rocked back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
The sea of crowded bodies crashed like restless waves of a tumultuous storm, drowning me in their hysteria.
(Upper level — Sniper)
Inhale. Point. Exhale. Aim. Inhale. Square shoulders. Exhale. Shoot. The mantra repeated over and over in my mind like a broken record as I steadied my calloused hands against the scratched charcoal rifle.
The 7.62 mm bullet raced through the air towards its target. With the deafening banging of the gun, my ears rang— only a slight discomfort. The sun, obscured by a fleece of porcelain clouds, offered no consolation or comfort. My face twisted into a mask of indifference, reverting into the shadows of the cloak of detachment and darkness I wore expertly.
Looking down upon the massive crowd of onlookers, they seemed like ants. Desperate, tiny, insignificant in the grand scheme of things.
Disorder. Utter chaos. That was the darkly painted sculpture below. A tangle of flailing arms and legs climbing over one another, battling for room like savage animals.
His brain had splattered rouge and garnet over the tail of the convertible, confirming my target had been hit. I felt the brisk arctic wind cut deeply into my skin as the breeze began sweeping my obsidian jacket collar around my clean-shaven jaw, nipping at the pale skin beneath. It carried with it the unmistakable metallic scent of blood pooling. As the olfactory senses of a blood-thirsty Great White, my nostrils flared at the aroma, reveling, if only for one slight moment, in the thrill of the hunt.
Section A – Descriptive Piece: “Sunday Morning”
The distant clang of the church bells awoke me from my slumber. Shimmering rays of sunlight permeated through the open windows, illuminating the whitewashed walls encircling my lying body.
My vision focused. Sore patches of muscle were stretched out upon the vermilion bed. I noticed the rough outlines of bricks pressed together behind the wall’s snowy paint blanket. The bare ceiling, an ashen mosaic of stains and moisture, stared down at my immobile frame. The concrete floor glanced over at the barred windows and scoffed in envy. How it wished to feel the gentle breeze of morning upon its rugged texture, I pondered.
My pajamas matched the stormy hue of the walls and fit comfortably over my rather thin complexion. It contrasted greatly with the bright glimmer of hope pouring into the tiny gaps of the windowsill. Tangerine and marigold and crimson all intermingled in an explosion of color, emanating from the huge glowing sphere of sunshine that lightened up our 9 AM routines. How I cherished that feeling, that warmth of morning encircling my being every sunrise as I awoke. How I would miss it…
Footsteps echoed through the hallway outside. I glanced at the narrow doorway, a battered frame of oak and metal screws that had definitely seen better days. The door smirked at me with its shiny steel skin and small slits which doubled for eyes. The curved metal handle which protruded from its quadrilateral hip jutted towards my head, pointing at the slate uniform hung over my body. It was strange, how one’s room could symbolize so much in a man’s life, in my own life. It startled me how warm and welcoming the open window appeared to be when compared to the harsh coldness the lifeless door now possessed.
The footsteps grew louder and louder, thunk thunk thunk, until it ended in a stomp that resounded on the outside of the cell. I waited patiently. The room was enshrouded in silence. The rays of sunlight beckoned to me, calling my name in soft, sensual whispers, hoping I would jump up on my bed and somehow hop straight through the window bars into the morning’s freedom. But instead I listened to the monotone hum of the steel door, to the creak of the old oak doorframe, to the rattle and jingle of keys on the other side of the brick walls. In deafening silence, I awaited my judgment.
The door shook and opened with the piercing cry of metal scraping against metal. The room filled with the unpleasant scent of sweat and cigars. A muted tint of silver cast shadows across the walls, temporarily blocking out the fluorescent hues that the sun had provided me with. The man standing by the open door wore a serious expression, his chapped lips poking out of the chocolate worm he called a mustache. I thought that his charcoal polo and dress pants could use a bit more color, especially since the neon yellow badge on his breast did nothing but accentuate his grim personality.
“Inmate 273017?” he asked out loud in an almost unbelievably deep voice. He stared unblinkingly at the windowsill ahead of him. The sunshine shunned its face at the sight of his ghastly pale skin.
“Yes, that’s me.” I responded. My lead pajamas suddenly felt itchy.
The man in the uniform nodded slightly as if acknowledging my existence. He silently reached for a notepad on his ebony belt buckle, flipping through its crinkled pages. The cell grew colder and darker by the second. It was as though morning had turned into nighttime in the matter of ten seconds.
“Are you here to take me to church, sir?” I asked. Clouds began to block out what little sunlight still dribbled in through the window.
The officer looked up from his notes. I could see the stormy gray of his irises swirl around like whirlwinds. “You bet I am, son,” he stated, a grim undertone now lining his voice. “It’s judgment day for you. Your day of reckoning. Maybe God’s feeling extra nice today and let you enter through the gates of heaven.”
The alarm blared, croaking its song of desperate punctuality but I had not gone to sleep last night, becoming painfully punctual. The air conditioned apartment was chilly—slightly cooler than comfort allowed. I hugged my shoulders, my slender fingers grazing the goosebumps dotted haphazardly over my arms. Drawing in an exhausted breath, I took notice that it seemed my lungs were just as physically drained as my mind was as I shuffled in oxygen roughly and promptly heaved a great sigh.
I sat slumped on the wooden swiveling chair, my head held up precariously by my arms that perched on the edge of the frigid marble countertop. My feet twisted together, fumbling distractedly with the loose floorboard below. A clump of amassed, tangled knots adorned the summit of my head— a fitting crown for the queen of insomnia.
The sluggish dripping of the black coffee into the ceramic mug lulled my eyes to sleep with its humming rhythmic beat. Drip, drip, drip, drip. The sound was a wave of serenity washing over me, dissolving the stubborn knot in the small of my back. Its sweet, melodious presence mingled with the ticking of the clock hanging above. Tick, drip, tock, drip. The cavernous dark circles under my eyes were ever the more pronounced that morning as my eyes sunk deeper into themselves. They failed to fight off the mighty soldiers of sleep.
Pancakes sizzling silently on the stovetop woke me gently from my brief slumber. A sweet, sugary aroma wafted through the kitchen, dancing a tempting tango underneath my nostrils, taunting me, calling to me softly. Even then, riddled with fatigue, my stomach grumbled vigorously in the pits of my abdomen. In my sleepless state, my mind wandered to the luxurious thought of swimming down a river of honeyed maple syrup, climbing mountainous stacks of marigold margarine, and falling fast asleep on a bed of puffy golden short-stacks.
Rectangles of sunlight illuminated the living room beside me, just short of skimming my extended leg. Raining through the slants in the window blinds, the sun rose slowly from east, painting the sky a muted orange. Subtle blues intertwined with corals outside so naturally, it was beautiful and calming to witness, as if it were so intimate a moment I had snuck a fleeting glimpse. With it, a curse of fated tiredness lifted.
Two contrasting pieces:
Standing on the middle of the empty emerald space, they grew together. One was an ebony chain of encrusting melancholy, into a rough surface enhance with forgetfulness. Its long structure was conceal by a sequence of rugged lines, which told the story of an abandoned flower who turns itself into darkness, and around the harsh surfaces, a lining of pointing, bitter thorns protected the elongated specie from the silver lighting caresses, the wind whispers, and cooled veil of the night. It elongated throughout the cortex of its antagonist, embracing it. Embracing the brightness of the shamrock flourish giant, standing still in the enlighten shinning of the morning. With a decorated and voluptuous mane that contain all the emerald stones in the world, reflecting such a light that made the sky turned into a magnificent lime color. It danced rhythmically with the romantic wind, side by side, following the hypnotizing waves of harmony, illuminating with life all its surrounds. Strongly supported by the thickness of its corpulent body, one could feel the refreshing air that rejuvenate the soul.
A Day in Class
Pepe was a quiet frog, he did all his work and never really had a lot of friends. Teachers would call him a good student, his fellow classmates would call him strange or a dork. He could only find companionship in an extremely pale boy who was without friends or a girlfriend as well. The pale friend had been in a car accident when he was young boy and could now only say the words “I know that feel bro.” One day the two were sitting in class hard at work when suddenly Pepe was hit in the face with a football. It came from none other than Norman the normie. “Nice fanny pack bro” said Norman as he punched Pepe in the stomach causing Pepe’s fanny pack to open spilling all the spaghetti it contained. The air was taken out of Pepe as he fell to the floor his spaghetti had gotten everywhere by now and all he could do was pray and hope someone would come to his rescue. “No one’s coming to rescue you” said Norman mockingly as he stood above Pepe prepared to strike again. Suddenly out of nowhere the classroom was filled with an onion scent as a strong Scottish voice could be heard saying “Not if I can help it.” Norman as well as the rest of the class looked in shock to see none other than Shrek standing at the door having come to rescue Pepe. “This is my swamp” exclaimed Shrek as he charged at Norman prepared to take the bully down. Norman could do little more than scream as Shrek grabbed him and tossed him out the window sending him to his doom. With a sigh of relief Pepe still on the floor looked up to his savior who stood triumphantly at the window. “It’s all ogre now” said Shrek as he flew out the window leaving Pepe free of his tormentor and with a fresh batch of spaghetti.
A Calm Winter Night
It was a dark, peaceful night, winter was especially cold this year and had enveloped the town in a blanket of white. The moon shone high above in a cloudless sky, full and beautiful. It lit up the now slumbering suburbs. In one specific house a child was being put the sleep. His name was Timmy and he lovingly hugged his toy of the Undertaker as his mother and father kissed him on the forehead,
“We love you Timmy”.
“Is it Christmas yet?”
“Tomorrow son. Maybe Santa brought you some presents this year.”
“I hope so.”
“Goodnight son” said his parents as they walked out turning off the lights.
The room was now only lit by the moonlight which crept in through the window. The boy slept snuggly in his bed, hugging his toy, and dreaming sweet dreams. It was the dead of night when suddenly the phone on his nightstand began to ring. Timmy shot up and with much hesitation picked up the phone. At first silence, suddenly a voice said ‘Are you ready?” as a symphony of unseen brass instruments began to play almost as if with anticipation of what was going to happen. The boy reluctantly asked “Am I ready for what?” Suddenly the orchestra of unseen brass instruments roared playing the John Cena theme song as the man on the phone yelled “ARE YOU READY FOR JOHN CENAAAA?!” and the legend himself came bursting in through the wall. The song blasting from all directions John Cena looked upon the boy and saw the toy of the Undertaker filling him with rage. John Cena charged the boy ready to kill. All poor Timmy could do was scream in terror as John Cena grabbed him by the head and hit him with an rko strong enough to destroy a tank. The force of the hit caused a side of the house to explode leaving a gash on the side which faced the street. Timmy’s parents came running into his room to find Timmy had been vaporized into ash from the blast and John Cena crushing his pathetic Undertaker toy in his hand. His mother yelled “OH MY GOD!” as tears streamed down her face. Cena tossed aside the now destroyed toy and looked back to the parents. A mad rage in his eyes, he only said “You can’t see me” and leapt out onto the street and into the night, the unseen orchestra playing his song following him.
The hours anticipating my arrival was as many can say outlandish. My parents recall that as each hour passed by the weather and climate would alter.
Just an hour before my arrival it was raining cats and dogs. You can hear the water droplets falling harshly against the window. My parents were upset that their first child would be born on such a gloomy day. As soon as I arrived the bright, yellow Sun made its appearance from behind the clouds and a beautiful rainbow filled with all the colors you can imagine arose behind the Sun.
That is exactly how my parents came up with my name…. Rainbow!
They thought it was a miracle that as soon as I was born a rainbow made its appearance.
I was a combination of both my parents; I had my mother’s crystal blue eyes and my father’s dark brown hair.
Fast forward to when I was five years old. I noticed something strange about myself.
I noticed in an occurrence that I had a special gift. Whenever my mood changed, the weather would change.
For example, a few weeks back I was observing a butterfly, the size of your ring finger, whose wings were covered in the color blue. A shade of blue as light as the sky. It made me feel content just watching the butterfly, when all of a sudden a sunny day transformed into a day where there wasn’t a single cloud in sight accompanied by a gentle breeze.
This occurred various times until one day I wanted to show my mother the cool magic trick I could perform.
“Mommy, look at me then look out the window.” I said anxiously.
“Not now sweetheart I´m busy.” My mom exclaimed.
As soon as those words rolled out of her mouth, I became distressed and started to shed tears because she didn’t want to see my magic trick.
As soon as I started crying I couldn’t stop. I became so distressed, my face turned as red as a tomato.
That is when my mother saw it… one minute it was a cool day, the next it was pouring rain and everyone could hear thunder and lightning.
She was dumfounded.
“How could this happen? One minute there was not a cloud in the sky and now, the sky has brought sadness to everyone!” She thought.
“Shhh, Shhh, Shhh, Sweetie calm down.” Mom exclaimed trying to calm me down.
“Rainbow we have to take you to the doctor to find out what´s wrong.” Mom said worriedly.
We went to various doctors who sent us to various specialists. No one could understand what was wrong with me; nonetheless diagnose me with any disease. Until one doctor explained to my parents that this could simply be a gift from God,
I remember the doctor telling me, “Rainbow you can do great things with this gift.”
That is exactly what I did.
Fast forward to present day, I am 24 years old, living life to the fullest, using my gift to help people in need.
I am currently in Southern Colombia where there has been an ongoing drought that has turned the color crops into useless food, has left once majestic animals into deadless corpses, and has left people dying of dehydration.
As I´m walking through the once luscious green grass all I can see are the corpses of horses and cows who have died because of the lack of water. I start to get emotional, tears slowly falling down my face. As I am crying I feel a water droplet hit my skin. I look up and a small smile creeps upon my face.
In the distance I hear cheers and laughter. People saying it is a miracle.
I am overcome with a feeling of pure joy.
What I see are little kids, around the ages of 5-8 years old running around the street, greeting their friend that had been lost for such a long period of time.
I stay for a couple of months in Southern Colombia until the drought is no longer a problem.
This is what I do for a living. I travel around the world helping people with difficult situations that their country faces.
My emotions and the weather have a special relationship. They collide with each other.
My gift has made me the outcast among everyone my whole life
Since I was a little girl I knew I would use my gift to do something good for the entire populace.
I am the girl that can control the weather with her emotions.
Write two descriptive pieces (between 300–450 words each), the first about a busy location viewed at ground level and the second about the same location viewed from a position much higher up. In your writing, create a sense of setting and mood.
The streets seemed endless, at every edge of a building a million other edges would appear and the city seemed like a maze that was never ending. Stars barely flickered in the charcoal black sky that was overcome by the overpowering snowy white lights that became one from the infinite amount of colors radiating from the faces of mountain high buildings. From below the world took form of a giant’s world. The multi colored buildings reached higher and higher with every passing structure. The streets were filled with humans of different sizes, colors, and heights. People would cross each other and would never hesitate their movement. Their determined blank eyes and perfectly structured faces knew where to go at all times. Thousands upon thousands of people walking hand in hand. Whisks of Channel No.5 and Dolce & Gabbana would quickly vanish into my nose, with a followed whooshing sound that extended from the individual who just rub their shoulders against mine. My jaw dropped with every heavy step taken and every noise that echoed. My face was undeniably a tourist’s discovering the elegant, yet relatable beauty of the city. Screeching car tires and chatter from nearby cars and restaurants set the mood for the evening, a night of discovery.
Laughter radiated from their faces with, every face muscle tightening to formulate the emotion everyone longs for-happiness. Even from above the world seems to all work together, mustard yellow cabs zig-zag from entrance to entrance to drop an individual off, who will take multiple steps to reach their entrance and meet with another individual to continue the cycle. However, the truth is in the fine details. In one corner a tourist is gazing up at the ebony black sky with squinted eyes and a small tilt to their head, trying to absorb every geometric line in sight. On the opposite side a young girl, wearing dark-wash blue jeans with a loose navy t-shirt that was hidden behind her legs which were bent into her chest as her head laid in them pouring out tears. From above all is seen; from below only a selfish viewpoint is noticed. Looking down from the edge of one of the endless amount of buildings, ants seemed to roam the streets. A shifting line of black dots tainted the sidewalks for miles and miles. Wind roared in my face as sprinkles of rain began to fall on me. The winter cold feeling raised every hair follicle in my body alerting for warmness, but I ignored it watching the individual sprinkles grow in size and become heavier increasing their velocity. Walking towards the very tip I saw a final drop fall and I went with it.
The red and bone white and burgundy stripped tent was occupied by excited screaming audience members. The audience members took up every seat available and casted a rainbow from the different colored shirts. The caramel coated, colossal, beastly creature loudly roared causing the ground to tremble. The high pitched squeaking of the bright scarlet, cyan, and banana shoes could have been heard amongst the enthusiastic spectators. The white spotlight danced to and fro, lighting up the performer’s faces.
The giant sage elephants thumped on the ground as they were lead by their trainer’s to the stage. The elephant’s balanced up to 5 hot pink beach balls using their trunks. “Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh” the acrobats swung from one pole to the next at such a quick speed that all you could see was lavender strikes marking the air. A lady had an ebony beard that covered her cheeks, chin and upper lip. She wore a golden outfit that distracted the audience from her strangeness.
Rain (colors and sound)
Drip, drip, drip… The tears fell from above the charcoal, bleak sky. The raindrops were all part of the same family, but gathered different qualities – each falling at a different speed, and each establishing their own personal isotope.
Ironically, the music that formed was pleasing. A mixture of slow, yet sharp beats. Every few minutes, a new track on their masterpiece played. Their conductor, the sky, led them all through the way and created a plethora of melodies.
The transparent raindrops, together, produced a shower of iridescence. It left a long trail of frost from above. The heavy discharge paused, and the world felt humid for a few moments. It felt lonely. The air carried the scent of the pages from old library books.
At a turtle’s speed, the rain picked up. Clearly, the sky was not done releasing all that it had to. The raindrops were released with as much concentration and focus needed to perform surgery. The raindrops danced downwards with such finesse. There was an elegance in the way they each fell on the pavement, marking down the territory upon which they fell on.
The Factory (sounds, colors, textures)
Hundreds of pairs of calloused hands gripped onto the splintered wood tables in front of them. Many of the sandpaper hands gripped the cotton shirts as one of their feet were pressed onto the pedal on the floor. Perspiration trickled down every person's forehead, even the overseer, making unpredictable twists and turns as the stream slowed down to a steady drip of sweat off the tip of the nose every couple seconds.
The only noise in the large warehouse was the limitless droning of the hundreds of sewing machines pounding the needle constantly in and out of the clothing. This was seldom interrupted but when it was, it was by the cacophonous blast of germs and saliva from the coughing and sneezing. Whenever this would happen, the overseer would impatiently stride to the source of the irksome noises. The humming of machines would be briefly interrupted again by a crackling. Every time a worker coughed, sneezed, or made any other noise, the overseer would glide over to a position behind them and whip their back with one quick, jarring strike.
The room was filled with the scent of pungent mold and sweat. The bathrooms were unkept and the scent of defecation creeped around every corner and through every sewing table.
The Theme Park (sights and sounds)
To say that I was excited would be an understatement. As I was escorted up onto the creaky oaken platform, roughly half a foot above the sturdier, horizontally paneled flooring of the rest of the room, I felt a rush of anticipation from the top of my head to the bare soles of my rough-skinned feet.
The ushers, tough but intelligent-looking middle-aged men, were dressed in suits, mostly jet black but with the occasional khaki coat or cream undershirt. I, on the other hand, donned a raggedy dirt-colored shirt and oversized pants. Their polished black shoes seemed to separate them from me like an invisible barricade between hosts and their guest.
Before us was the seat into which I was to be strapped. I admired it from my close position, swampy brown eyes wide with chilling wonder and cheeks flushed with eagerness. This was the thrill I had been told to expect, and my otherwise pale, freckled body was loose with resignation.
The chair’s metallic glow sent a rush down my spine as I approached. As my romp landed on its smooth surface with a plop, I heard the scratchy Velcro straps pulled over my body, forcing me into the proper stance before the squeaky lever was pulled, being the ride. The shock of electricity flooded my system like fear as I rose on this rollercoaster of certain death.
“The rain is simply water, what danger can it bring? The rain seemed so disappointed, bitter, drowning in its wet tears as if it had nothing to live for. Such simplicity at its finest”. These were the thoughts of Pennelope as she deliberately stared out her window. As she talked to her self about the rain it was visible how her breath fogged the window as if the rain was brought upon by the cold weather. Pennelope a young girl of the age of 16 had such a fascination of this unusual weather. In her diary she would write the thoughts and feelings she had towards the rain. As she wrote down each of her words into her diary it was as if she lived every rain drop and every water droplet falling down the window pane. Pennelope felt like life was a simple comparison of rain. One minute it’s so happy full of wonderful moments stepping in the rain while the next a thunder storm hits and all those happy times have just become memories to remember. Every day afterschool she would come home to a foggy, cold and frosty afternoon. Right after completing her homework she would go and sit by her window and watch the rain slowly ponder upon her hand, she would bring her hand close to her nose. The scent of rain reminded her of her beautiful mother that was in the hospital. Penelope’s mother was found in the woods, she was misled by some of the signs on the road and ended up in the woods. The only thing that kept Penny’s mom alive was the rain. The rain was her salvation, because of it she didn’t go into dehydration and was kept alive. Penelope thanks the rain every day for keeping her mother alive. Pennelope had written down in her diary some of her thought about rain “I have been around rain as long as I remember, since I was little mother would take me down to the river and we would sit under the shelter and just stare at the rain for hours. It was the only way I could fall asleep.” These thoughts of hers were so common. She could recall any memory that had to do with the rain.
Rain (Revised) second piece
“The rain is simply water, what danger can it bring? The rain seemed so disappointed, bitter, drowning in its wet tears as if it had nothing to live for. Such simplicity at its finest”. These were the thoughts of Pennelope as she deliberately stared out her window. As she talked to her self about the rain it was visible how her breath fogged the window as if the rain was brought upon by the cold weather. Pennelope a young girl of the age of 16 had such a fascination of this unusual weather. In her diary she would write the thoughts and feelings she had towards the rain. As she wrote down each of her words into her diary it was as if she lived every rain drop and every water droplet falling down the window pane. Pennelope felt like life was a simple comparison of rain. One minute it’s so happy full of wonderful moments stepping in the rain while the next a thunder storm hits and all those happy times have just become memories to remember. Every day afterschool she would come home to a foggy, cold and frosty afternoon. Right after completing her homework she would go and sit by her window and watch the rain slowly ponder upon her hand, she would bring her hand close to her nose. The scent of rain reminded her of her beautiful mother that was in the hospital. Penelope’s mother was found in the woods, she was misled by some of the signs on the road and ended up in the woods. The only thing that kept Penny’s mom alive was the rain. The rain was her salvation, because of it she didn’t go into dehydration and was kept alive. Penelope thanks the rain every day for keeping her mother alive. Pennelope had written down in her diary some of her thought about rain “I have been around rain as long as I remember, since I was little mother would take me down to the river and we would sit under the shelter and just stare at the rain for hours. It was the only way I could fall asleep.” These thoughts of hers were so common. She could recall any memory that had to do with the rain. However one day as Pennelope came home from school and dropped off her friend Sofia at her house she glanced up at the sky she seemed obscure it was something she had never seen the sky had this blue to purple color the trees and shrubs where moving from side to side it seemed like they were about to fly off into the eye of the thunderstorm. She wondered what could be causing this unusual weather, she wondered to herself and said “ could this be a sign of something ? “ she had a bad feeling about this whether so she went home as quickly as she could moving her feet in a briskly speed as if the world was ending. She had to write about this in her rain diary. Nothing like this had ever happened in Seattle before so Pennelope was surprised. All the memories she had was usually of her having fun staring or getting into the rain with her mom. Pennelope was worried that this unusual weather meant that something debauched was going to happen. Something had told her to call the hospital to see if her mom was doing okay, but when one of the nurses answered the phone they had bad news. Penelope’s mom was dying. Penny rushed down to Seattle’s hospital to see her mom and pray for the best. When she got there , her mom was gazing out the window fogging up the glass thins reminded penny of herself except her mom seemed depressed and hurt as if the rain itself was hurting her and killing her little by little. The harder it rained the sicker Penny’s mom was getting. The terrible thunder storm was taking over her mom’s life. The doctors were giving her every possible medicine and Iv fluids they could but nothing was occurring no changes to her health. Penny prayed to rain she said “please God make it stop raining this weather of inevitable happiness is taking over my mom’s life. Make the day bright again
full of hope and new opportunities, don’t close the sky like there is no way through, don’t make it rain like there is no tomorrow, don’t cry with tears of rain. Cry with tears of joy. Those are the tears that will make my mom recover.” As she prayed the sky started to clear up and her mom started to get better. Was this coincidence? Or meant to be. Rain is a beautiful thing in the world that as long as the earth breathes rain will fall. It keeps humans alive it provides them with water. But all good comes with the bad and rain is not always friendly. Penelope’s mom was fully recovered and both of them would stare at the rain each time it fell. But one day it started to get cloudy again and this time it looked like a tornado was about to hit. Will Penelope’s mom be able to survive this? One thing I did forget to mention is that Penelope’s mom name was “Mother Nature”.
Sunday Morning- Descriptive Piece
The one day, the best day of the week, I get to sleep in late and the dogs and the birds and the tree branches have set their selves against me. I am startle awake at no other than 6 in the morning, thirty minutes earlier than my normal day to day schedule! Those horrendous creatures have ruined the one perfect day of the week.
After they woke me up with their incessant noise I notice that it is foggy outside, the rain from the previous night had settled in the air. I began to imagine myself on the lake with the fog all around me and a book in my hand. So I went down stairs fixed m self some hot chocolate and climbed into my old rusted canoe. I brought along my favorite book, How to enjoy life when things get bad. That makes me think I am doing a good job if I am up and running at six on a Sunday morning because animals have no respect for other animals.
The Factory (sounds, colors, textures)
Day in and day out I am surrounded by bland and monotone ashen walls. There is nothing but the faint sound of keyboards and machinery humming for the entire duration of my stay, save for the occasional sounds of movement here and there. If I listen close enough sometimes I can hear feet shuffling about me at odd hours of the day. The rough texture of the worn and coffee stained carpet makes a sort of crunching noise under the heel of the polished black oxfords that traverse it. After trailing off as I always do, I whip back around to the faint cobalt glow of the pale monitor before me. I return to aimlessly typing away, becoming absorbed in the rhythmic clacking of my mechanical keyboard. Again, restlessness consumes me, I fidget in my ebony leather chair, spin around, kick at the wheels, and ultimately, I stand up. Peering over the sheet-white divider surrounding my compartment I take a look around the room, all the people look the same, all consumed in the same tasks, I am surrounded by a cacophony of keystrokes in a sea of neatly press suits and freshly starched shirts.
The echo of churning machinery and the smoggy, humid atmosphere held us hostage in a room enclosed by four wide metallic walls with bolts screwed in around the edges. The abundance of chimneys that arose from the massive mechanical structures out through the high ceilings of our facility were not enough to vanish the excessive amount of toxic air encircling our lungs in the spacious yet crammed room. Sixteen hours a day for 79 cents an hour. Packing unnecessary luxuries, ranging from embezzlements of stones from the lowest grounds and richest soil to a mere piece of plastic sold for much more than it was worth. With nothing other than farming on the poor, sandy terrains in which our dried-out crops lay, this form of labor was the best alternative. Our tedious work was never revered, as we hastily juggle with the fragile items moving to and fro on the stone-cold, silver treadmill, barely giving our palms, glistened and slippery with sweat, the time to “handle with care,” as the fine letters printed onto the tawny, paper-thin cardboard box, stuffed with foam cut into a curvy, spherical shape, stated with caution.
The Factory ( Sounds,colors, textures)
Sweat, smoke and disgust all mixed with tears and suffering. Childten whining ,mixing and swirling with blood she'd from those caught within the machinery. All that was seen was not pleasant with it entailing of a time of negativity, and pain. The gears grinding, needing oil, all from a small dainty boy smoking his cigarettes like he had been doing it for 20 years, but in reality that was longer than twice his age.
This provides an opportunity for you to share your analyses and build your knowledge base! Feel free to respond to both the questions and the comments in our forum! :)