lit essays
I had to do some descriptive essay assignment and I did though I am not happy with any of them, if you have time read through them and give me CONSTRUCTIVE criticism. Thanks lyas all,
♥Jessi
'Thing'
I am square, and I sit on the night stand of a teenage girl. I have photos and magazine clippings pasted all around me and a lock on my lid, so that no naughty little siblings can not discover my secrets. The pictures all have in them the same girl of different ages, with varying hair colors from purple to blonde to black an d back again, she is in a prom dress, she is swimming in the ocean, she is hugging a treasured stuffed animal, she is smiling the in arms of a boyfriend. The magazine clippings spell her name in different fonts: J-E-S-S-I-C-A. Words are scribbled across me here and there: ‘Just Breathe’, ‘For a rose by any other name still smells as sweet’. They are quotes from literature, movies, plays, and musical lyrics. There are cut out magazine pictures of some random music stars from days past: AC/DC, Axl Rose. There are pictures of forests and flowers because this girls’ life is filled with color. I hold the entire world to this girl, I hold every little piece of memorabilia that has ever come into her hands; corsages, birthday cards, trinkets, little notes from friends in middle school, love letters, and everything that would have no meaning to anyone but her. When I am opened I am her pandoras box of emotions, she laughs for happy memories and cries for the pictures of those who have abandoned her. Though I am just a little box, seemingly insignificant, I still hold more personality then most of you petty humans. I am not small, I am not large, I am not likely to stand the test of time, but for now I am filled with life and vitality, because a memories last forever, whether you remember them or not.
'person'
Never Lose Your Innocence
He breathes deeply and purposefully kneeling in the cold dirt on a hot day. Tomato plants grow tall all around, the red of the tomatoes making the man’s skin seem even more tan and wrinkled. His eyes are focused and the icy blue that melts your heart despite their color. His face is loving, framed with wrinkles that are faint but somehow accommodating making him seem wise and all-knowing. His large hands, scarred and callused work effortlessly forcing life from the earth of the small New Jersey backyard garden. The man always wears a stoic expression, a smile seems forced but a frown never penetrates. The knees of his ordinary dark brown slacks are dirty, worn and help up by black suspenders over a consequently also stained plain white tee shirt. His stark black hair reflects the harsh rays of the sun, with not a grey streak to be found despite his advanced age. He never wears any ornament, never a ring or necklace, he is himself without effort. He is strong and loving, but he is deteriorating none the less. He gardens because he wants to be the creator of life, he wants to have meaning when everyone has gone. While he works hard and appears happy, behind his striking blue eyes lie secrets that will never be revealed. The scars on his hands and everywhere else tell stories of poor physical health and trials that life has given this poor man. Life is simple, he is simple, he is wise and experienced beyond most peoples belief. He looks at me, holding seeds for him and tells me never to lose my innocence, he makes me promise. I have no idea what this means to him, I only know the light smile he shed when I nodded vigorously. Whenever his small house casts a shadow upon the garden the man revels in the shade. He laughs periodically, a deep and seemingly meaningful laugh, but there is nothing in particular to laugh at. He is tarnished and hurting but no one will know until it is too late; he is dying inside and out but will remain stubbornly silent until the end. The sun beams down on the treasured tomato plants making them grow while this great man, a grandfather, and father, withers away, and still not a word of complaint escapes him.
'Place'
The house sits on the side of a hill, so that the entires thing seems askew. It is in a bad neighborhood and it looks a b it worse for wear from the hundred years of its existance, but to me it looks like heaven. It is egshell white with brown shutters, and a brown door. The stairs are cement, unornamented. It is two stories with an attic an basement. The entire small yard is covered in untrimmed bushes and wild plants that bloom sporaticallly. The house is crammed between its two neighbors with an tiny driveway on the right side. The windows are covered by the drawn, stained curtains, becuase there are many frightening people residing outside. The harsh New Jersey winters have been hard on this cute little house, the shingles are peeling away and the basement floods when the snow melts. The backyard is as small as the front, so the six-foot in diameter above-ground pool takes up most of it. Since the house is on a hill, the pool is never filled to capacity, all the water is on one side of the pool. There is one tree twords the middle of the yard, one little sign of life in a town with more asphalt then greenery. The tree seems to be the center of all life. The house is a home, the house emanates life and wear becuase those who live in it truly live. Experience has filled the house, personalitly flows from the holes in the walls and the stains in the carpets. It is the only place I cna ever call home. 1640 Andrew Street Union, NJ 07083. Even though I am there no more, I can still see its hidden beauty in my minds eye and can still feel its warmth in my dreams of it. My heaven hath gone but it's spirit lives on.
♥Jessi
'Thing'
I am square, and I sit on the night stand of a teenage girl. I have photos and magazine clippings pasted all around me and a lock on my lid, so that no naughty little siblings can not discover my secrets. The pictures all have in them the same girl of different ages, with varying hair colors from purple to blonde to black an d back again, she is in a prom dress, she is swimming in the ocean, she is hugging a treasured stuffed animal, she is smiling the in arms of a boyfriend. The magazine clippings spell her name in different fonts: J-E-S-S-I-C-A. Words are scribbled across me here and there: ‘Just Breathe’, ‘For a rose by any other name still smells as sweet’. They are quotes from literature, movies, plays, and musical lyrics. There are cut out magazine pictures of some random music stars from days past: AC/DC, Axl Rose. There are pictures of forests and flowers because this girls’ life is filled with color. I hold the entire world to this girl, I hold every little piece of memorabilia that has ever come into her hands; corsages, birthday cards, trinkets, little notes from friends in middle school, love letters, and everything that would have no meaning to anyone but her. When I am opened I am her pandoras box of emotions, she laughs for happy memories and cries for the pictures of those who have abandoned her. Though I am just a little box, seemingly insignificant, I still hold more personality then most of you petty humans. I am not small, I am not large, I am not likely to stand the test of time, but for now I am filled with life and vitality, because a memories last forever, whether you remember them or not.
'person'
Never Lose Your Innocence
He breathes deeply and purposefully kneeling in the cold dirt on a hot day. Tomato plants grow tall all around, the red of the tomatoes making the man’s skin seem even more tan and wrinkled. His eyes are focused and the icy blue that melts your heart despite their color. His face is loving, framed with wrinkles that are faint but somehow accommodating making him seem wise and all-knowing. His large hands, scarred and callused work effortlessly forcing life from the earth of the small New Jersey backyard garden. The man always wears a stoic expression, a smile seems forced but a frown never penetrates. The knees of his ordinary dark brown slacks are dirty, worn and help up by black suspenders over a consequently also stained plain white tee shirt. His stark black hair reflects the harsh rays of the sun, with not a grey streak to be found despite his advanced age. He never wears any ornament, never a ring or necklace, he is himself without effort. He is strong and loving, but he is deteriorating none the less. He gardens because he wants to be the creator of life, he wants to have meaning when everyone has gone. While he works hard and appears happy, behind his striking blue eyes lie secrets that will never be revealed. The scars on his hands and everywhere else tell stories of poor physical health and trials that life has given this poor man. Life is simple, he is simple, he is wise and experienced beyond most peoples belief. He looks at me, holding seeds for him and tells me never to lose my innocence, he makes me promise. I have no idea what this means to him, I only know the light smile he shed when I nodded vigorously. Whenever his small house casts a shadow upon the garden the man revels in the shade. He laughs periodically, a deep and seemingly meaningful laugh, but there is nothing in particular to laugh at. He is tarnished and hurting but no one will know until it is too late; he is dying inside and out but will remain stubbornly silent until the end. The sun beams down on the treasured tomato plants making them grow while this great man, a grandfather, and father, withers away, and still not a word of complaint escapes him.
'Place'
The house sits on the side of a hill, so that the entires thing seems askew. It is in a bad neighborhood and it looks a b it worse for wear from the hundred years of its existance, but to me it looks like heaven. It is egshell white with brown shutters, and a brown door. The stairs are cement, unornamented. It is two stories with an attic an basement. The entire small yard is covered in untrimmed bushes and wild plants that bloom sporaticallly. The house is crammed between its two neighbors with an tiny driveway on the right side. The windows are covered by the drawn, stained curtains, becuase there are many frightening people residing outside. The harsh New Jersey winters have been hard on this cute little house, the shingles are peeling away and the basement floods when the snow melts. The backyard is as small as the front, so the six-foot in diameter above-ground pool takes up most of it. Since the house is on a hill, the pool is never filled to capacity, all the water is on one side of the pool. There is one tree twords the middle of the yard, one little sign of life in a town with more asphalt then greenery. The tree seems to be the center of all life. The house is a home, the house emanates life and wear becuase those who live in it truly live. Experience has filled the house, personalitly flows from the holes in the walls and the stains in the carpets. It is the only place I cna ever call home. 1640 Andrew Street Union, NJ 07083. Even though I am there no more, I can still see its hidden beauty in my minds eye and can still feel its warmth in my dreams of it. My heaven hath gone but it's spirit lives on.