I grew up on the waterfront of the Columbia River. The quaint, picturesque town of Kalama Washington was my hometown from before I can remember. The damp small town emulated a coastal environment, complete with heavy rainfall and dim daytimes. Tired, worn down buildings clad in paint chipped walls and climbing ivy dot the streets and hills. Scenic post-card worthy views of the river stretch out before wide front windows. Tourists stampede through musty antique shops and 50’s themed diners, breathing in the retro town in all its vintage glory; only to discard its significance once entering the freeway. Umbrella carrying locals paint their aging homes pastel shades to combat the grey, gloomy veil blanketing the town. Everyone living in Kalama
Located in the popular Yosemite National Park, Yosemite Falls is the tallest waterfall in California. Every year, mother nature’s breathtaking beauty attracts millions of people from around the world. People hike for three long and fatiguing hours in anticipation of witnessing forceful water rushing down the steep mountain from 2,425 feet above. Last summer, my family and I backpacked through the Yosemite Falls Trail and I came to learn what a truly exhausting experience it is.
Throughout the first paragraph, the author gives explicit details that lead to astonishing imagery. Whether he talks of the “high wheat plains of western Kansas” or the “hard blue skies” this paints a picture of what this small town looks like while also giving descriptive characteristics
As a young child, I would visit my grandparents in Marin County often. My parents would pack my sister and me up in the car, and we would head north from San Francisco to the small town of Novato. The road to Novato took us through San Rafael, where I would always marvel at the one mile stretch of shopping mall that Highway 101 traversed. However, once we were into the hills of wine country and the shopping mall was a distant memory, so too became San Rafael. It wasn’t until I met Paul, my partner, that I learned the full story behind this fascinating town.
The previous week they had performed the spell successfully. After contacting Mordred, Merlin and Morgana had arranged to meet him and Aglain, the leader of the druid camp, in the woods near a small waterfall, halfway between Camelot and the grave of Gorlois. Morgana always went on her annual pilgrimage to her father's tomb at this time of the year, at the end of spring.
I chose to map out the section of the Setauket Greenway Trail that I jog roundtrip numerous times a week. It is a 1.5 mile stretch from the middle of East Setauket to its endpoint in Port Jefferson Station. I am familiar with the trail now and, even after using it for the year since I moved into the community, it still intrigues me on various levels. What fascinates me is the varied topographies – both geographic and cultural – it cuts across. The landscape itself is surprising; after leaving the residential neighborhoods, the trail dips into an unexpected basin bordered on either side by sand dunes and powerlines before climbing back out through lush woodlands. The trail then emerges at the top of the hill next to a black chain-link fence that demarcates a lot of abandoned warehouses. The visual is striking: between the paved trail itself and the fencing is a patch of landscaped shrubbery and mowed lawn. On the other side of the fence is rusted graffiti-splashed corrugated metal, gaping black doorways and empty windows. There is something disturbingly post-apocalyptic about the setting; it speaks to man-made ruin and neglect, something one does not necessarily expect to find in the middle of the woods.
Perhaps the vast array of seasons and weather patterns hold the town to a unique appeal. In the fall, the crisp and cool breeze wafts through the fallen leaves, blanketing the lawns and streets in a warm, orange hue. In the winter, icy gusts chill the terrain, followed by the gentle fall of snowflakes. With time, the town is coated in
I was sitting with my friend, Pistol on one of the bucking shoots watching the barrel race.
In a small suburb, just outside of Washington, DC, the neighborhood of small tract houses was laid out neatly in rows. The homes were built backyard to backyard in the early 1960’s. Each dwelling was a different color, but mostly the same style. Nearly everyone had a metal screen door with their initial proudly displayed in swirling cursive. The postage stamp sized front...
The sun dried grass crunched under David’s feet as he reached the mailbox, sweat plastering his golden hair to his forehead. The rural landscape of Shark Bay is bone dry; the lingering heat wave serving as a slap in the face with the wind blowing what is left of his fields into whirlwinds of dirt. His was once a land of luscious green landscape, the soft air turned branches into wind chimes as the trees swayed. These same trees have been bleached by the heat ridden gusts carving tortured sculpture in their trunks. Some might now see this world as one of desolate wasteland but David grew up with the land, this land was a living, growing friend that he knew, loved, and cared for as much as he did his wife and children.
The sound of a telephone ringing crossed with toilet flushing comes from my laptop. It is 3am in Chicago and I am super jet lagged. I click the green video button and on my screen appears two of my friends in Dubai. It has only been a day since I got back from Kenya, but I have missed these guys already. They get right into catching me up on their lives as I look for a pair of headphones so we don’t wake up everyone in my house.
It all started when our overrated adventurer, The Flying Lotus, woke up in a magical cornfield. It was the first time it had happened. Feeling scarcely pleased, The Flying Lotus slapped a gerbil, thinking it would make him feel better (but as usual, it did not). A few unsatisfying minutes later, he realized that his beloved invisible cloak was missing! Immediately he called his redheaded stepchild of a 'friend', Lady Wonder. The Flying Lotus had known Lady Wonder for (plus or minus) half a million years, the majority of which were sassy ones. Lady Wonder was unique. She was attractive though sometimes a little... dimwitted. The Flying Lotus called her anyway, for the situation was urgent.
“The scariest moment is always just before you start.” This quote is one of the most well known sayings from the famous creative writer, Stephen King. American history has been filled with hundreds of great and influential authors, starting from the creators of the first books in Ancient Rome to the stack of books in public libraries around the world. Throughout all of the famous and inspirational authors, Stephen King holds a spot in the modern world of literature. King has inspired thousands with his words and determination to carry on. He had a desire to be a writer as a child and never lost the interest even with age (“Growing up Believing in God”).
My childhood was a playground for imagination. Joyous nights were spent surrounded by family at my home in Brooklyn, NY. The constantly shaded red bricks of my family’s unattached town house located on West Street in Gravesend, a mere hop away from the beach and a short walk to the commotion of Brooklyn’s various commercial areas. In the winter, all the houses looked alike, rigid and militant, like red-faced old generals with icicles hanging from their moustaches. One townhouse after the other lined the streets in strict parallel formation, block after block, interrupted only by my home, whose fortunate zoning provided for a uniquely situa...
Fortunately, I wake every morning to the most beautiful sun lit house. I sit on my porch sipping coffee, while I drink in an atmosphere that steals my breath away. Rolling hills lay before me that undulate until they crash into golden purple mountains. Oh how they are covered in spectacular fauna, ever blooming foliage, and trees that are heavy with pungent fruit. Green it is always so green here at my house. Here where the air lays heavy and cool on my skin as does the striking rays of the sun upon my cheeks. I know in my soul why I choose to be here every day. Pocketed in all the nooks and crannies of these valleys and hills are stately homes, rich with architecture resplendent. Diversity is the palate here; ...
My family and I live about four hours away from Price, but that still doesn't stop us from going to visit as often as possible. The drive there is rather boring, but it's worth being able to see the familiar landscape of my past. After driving through a small town known as Wellington, I know that I am within minutes of being able to glance at my second home. I wait with anxiety as the car makes its way ever closer to the bridge that crosses the river, which runs right by the property of my Grandpa. Ahead I can see the old house and all the rickety, old buildings and corrals surrounding it. The excitement mounts inside as I let myself out of the car and make my way up toward the front porch. As I gently touch the cold, handmade iron railings that line the wooden steps, I know I've reached my destination.