The Forest – Creative Writing

Category: Forest, School
Last Updated: 23 Mar 2023
Essay type: Creative
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Descriptive Writing – The forest. [pic] A crisp winter morning and there was a frosty chill in the air. A sweet surrendering scent of the moist morning dew that cascades all around the sublime forest. The mixed cool autumn leaves from the tall trees lay scattered on the forest floor; they were in the motion of turning a brittle brown. There was the sound of shattered glass that emphasised the leaves being crunched, as if you were to step on them, pushing their papery remains deep into the brilliant white snow, which lined the ground like a fresh white cotton sheet.

The passive and daunting forest has the appeal of a forgotten land, which has been lost in time. The isolated forest remained in a capsule, untouched by the destructive essence of man. The dark shadows of the voluminous trees and puzzled bushes had become the structure of the forest. The trees stood proud and tall as protectors of the exigent grounds, as the impregnated bushes that had consumed the hard regions of the forest, concealed the land from beneath the vibrant portals of the open sky.

The isolated forest has the appearance of winter romance which blossomed, alluring your mind deeper and deeper into the enchanted land. As the wintery sun rose in a timely hurry, as if trying to make up for setting so early the evening before, the sun bloomed into the sky with a warm mellow glow. Sending what was left of the dull moon packing until his next stint overlooking the night. The dusky sky, was a brilliantly bright baby blue, and perched picturesquely on the autumn branches of the trees in the forest below.

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As the morning developed the sounds of young birds began to fulfil the air with a delicious spritz. They chirped, tweeted and warbled incessantly. The lake had been hardened by the sharp cold blitz of an icy frost. The translucent water was bound as a smooth solid and the particles of the water reflected a sheer shine of gleam and glitz, that could only be disrupted by the sharp razor blades that ice skates posses.

Whispers of the remaining snowflakes were on top of the tranquil ice; these blew in the breeze over into the depths of the forest. As the mellow winter sun rises over the hard reflective lake the water shows parts of itself melting into a liquid, which is so cold that it could freeze in an absolute instance. The sheen of reflection on the arctic water from the glowing sun sparkles in the tranquil air, with the light reflecting, unique combinations of blue hues and pearlescent purples.

The land is isolate and derelict from the prospects of busy city life. Tranquillity and idealistic bliss are forth seen in the deep depths of the forest as well as the environments sublime intake of the wintry season. The tall trees posses a sweet serenity that keeps all safe in the forest from delinquent harm and stark human demoralisation. Sheets of thick white cloudy snow preserve the gritty grounds beneath as well as the silky sheets of ice that protect fresh organic water.

The Adventure - creative writing

It was an adventure I'll never forget and it changed me forever. It was the summer between my junior and senior year. I had made an outrageous decision to relinquish my employment and pursue my sailing dreams. I had sailed on a catamaran, a sailboat whose frame is set on two parallel hulls, for nearly five years but only recently had begun to compete at regattas. This was to be my last summer as an innocent child and I looked forward to all the great adventures to come. CatFight II was to be the largest and the farthest catamaran race I was to attend that summer.

I planned all summer and spent hours getting the boat and trailer in perfect condition. My friend, Joel, was to accompany me to the regatta. It was held in Muskegon, Michigan, and it would take over eight hours to drive there. We would leave Thursday night and drive through the night. I was very excited because all the sailors had said that CatFight would be, if nothing else, a great learning experience. Thursday I spent all day getting gear packed and preparing for the eight-hour drive. We left a little later than planned, around eleven, but at least we were on the road.

We planned to drive in shift although I feared Joel's driving ability, especially with a twenty-foot boat attached to the car, so I did my best to stay alert. Cleveland was our first detour. We seemed to have gotten off the freeway a little earlier than expected and took a scenic tour of southeast Cleveland. The view was a bit frightening, though there were many businesses, but most were gun-stores and liquor stores. Eventually we wandered back to I-90 and then off to the toll road for a quick journey to Toledo. The drive between Toledo and Cleveland was boring but I was too excited to feel fatigued.

We passed through Toledo at about two o'clock A. M. Once in Michigan the drive seemed to go quickly. It was only a few short hours to Detroit, then a seemingly extremely long drive across Michigan to Muskegon, located on mid-eastern Lake Michigan. After driving through Detroit I drew weary and Joel soon took over. Joel hadn't slept during the drive to Detroit, which worried me, but I soon was asleep in the passenger seat. When I awoke we were in Muskegon and the sun was rising. We passed mansion after mansion and soon were at the gates of the sailing club. Sailors were already eating breakfast and preparing their boats.

I can distinctly remember the fragrance of the lake it was like nothing I've ever smelled. It was a pure delightful aroma, which was quickly replaced by the musty smell of Joel and I. We had spent an entire night in a car and were not smelling too appeasing. Once in the parking lot we began the normal procedure setting up to race. The sailors were very friendly and helpful. The time seemed to pass so quickly it seemed like minutes and the racing for the day was already over. After the races of the first day we were exhausted. Neither of us had gotten over an hour of sleep in 36 hours.

We pulled the boat to shore, took down the sails and dove into bed. It was fairly early in the day only about three P. M. the cookout and party were just beginning but we were too tired to even notice. It wasn't until the next morning we awoke. We grabbed a quick breakfast and immediately were back on the lake. After the races we hung around for the party afterward. Sailors were telling stories of horrendous seas and other unbelievable tales. There was a wide range of people there from all over the world sailors came from as far as Australia and brought with them delightful tales from "down under".

The third and last day of the regatta was the quickest. Everyone was anxious to return home. The races were fast as always and afterward people sat around and exchanged stories and tips. All ninety boats were disassembled and put onto trailers where people from all over the nation would be returning home. It was a peaceful feeling to know that we sailed against the best in the nation and even beat a few of the best in the nation. Before we left I captured a few last pictures and then we began the last leg of the trip. The journey home was not as exciting because the anticipation was gone.

We knew that once we returned we would once again start another school year. It was more disappointing than anything else. As we entered Ohio the scenery distinctively changed and once near Ashtabula it seemed we had entered the wilderness. Back to the old routine, it was frightening. The regatta was fun and we learned a lot from the elder sailors but most importantly that life is about the experiences and stories. Returning home was disappointing but I guess we have to return home because without home to return to then our journey is endless.

The Assassin Creative Writing Critical Essay

He stood alone in the dilapidated old home. The shadows were gathered and the man in the moon was screaming in agony. His face was expressionless, with eyes as sharp as a spinning needle, His skin was pasty white. The television emitted a soft glow upon his face, highlighting his pupils. In his hand, was as blade, long and sharp, The very point was shimmering as he slid the cloth up and down the side of the machete-like knife, he pulled his slimy, greasy lips back over his yellow stained teeth and smiled.

He sat in his armchair in front of the television and slid the knife into the holder around his waist.

Then a loud ringing pierced the silence, He picked up the receiver and a shadowed, scratchy voice began to give him details; "11:45, Elm Street," He carried on, "He's a "6'2"ft dark haired guy; He will be wearing a suit and will be carrying a gun". He was waiting for one last detail "16,000". Then he dropped the phone and looked at the clock, "10:55pm" He left for Elm Street.

The night was cold; snow fell gently, giving the road a smooth, white blanket. The car engine purred as he sat waiting and watching. The victim was seen, the engine was stopped. He stepped out of the car and began to walk to where the victim's car was parked. Both men were headed to the parked car. The victim was a middle-aged man, shivering in the cold. When they both reached the car, the Assassin walked up to the victim from behind. There was a flash of steel, a blood boiling scream and a final splash of blood. Then there was silence.

6 Weeks later. Punchenello's hotel. It was old and beaten up. Most of the guests were drug addicts, drug dealers or prostitutes. On the top floor were two men; the first was Mr.Punchenello and the other was one of his men, Jack Finito, " He took out Louie, cut a great hole n his back." "We gotta get this guy boss" Louie Punchenello was getting frustrated,

"Ok, ok, ok! I know just the guy to pop him, leave it to me" Punchenello sounded confident that his man would take care of business.

Back at the Assassins home, he was shining his blade when he received a letter that read.

Dear Mr.Payne

I know of your recent doings. 6 weeks ago you did a little job for someone, now I need you to do a job for me. Come to Punchenello's hotel tonight at eleven if your not there, we will come find you. We need your skills Max,

11'o clock.


Jack Finito

The letter sounded fishy so Max would have to have a little more firepower, just in case. Max went to see a man called Alex Gigoni A.K.A "Ammo" he supplied Max with more than a knife. A colt commando, pump-action shotgun and a few Molotov Cocktails.

The clock hit 10'o clock and Max was preparing his weapons, shining his blade. The time flew by and it was soon "10:35" and Max was on his way.

The car engine died and he stepped out, In front of the hotel. He knocked firmly on the door and Jack Finito opened it "Come in Mr.Payne, your late". The room was suddenly filled with men, all armed and pointing their guns towards Max. Reacting almost immediately Max dived out of the room while hurling a Molotov Cocktail into the room. The bottle hit the floor with a crack and a burst of flames flooded the room, it was like a bottle of fire had been opened. Max stood at the door of the blazing inferno, pulled out dual Berrettas waiting for men trying to get out of the smoke; there were no survivors.

Max had been set a trap, but he hadn't taken the cheese, so he was going after the rat, Punchenello at the top floor of the hotel. The elevator obviously hadn't been used in years and there were at least 6 floors. He would have to climb the stairs without being spotted by more of Punchenello's men.

Max flew up the stairs and standing there was Finito, Jack jumped out of skin, "Max Payne! How the hell did you survive that?!?" "Lets just say an angel was watching over me" "Your Finito, Finito" and with that Max pulled the trigger on his handgun and blew Jack away. He carried on flying up the stairs still holding his guns firmly between his sweaty palm and fingers, he came to the penthouse door he could hear heavy breathing on the other side of the door.

He smashed the door open and saw Punchinello on the phone. Punchinello jumped out of his seat and reached for his gun. "I wouldn't do that if I were you" Max said in a cocky voice. Punchinello smiled I think that tables have already turned Max.

Max felt a guns barrel stick into the back of his head leading him into a chair in front of Punchenello's desk.

Max saw him, he was 7ft tall and built like an Ox still pointing his gun straight as Max's forehead. "Hello Max" He said, Max hid his guns around his back waiting for his back to be turned. Punchenello began to speak to Max about how not to cross paths with serious men "We are dangerous Max, please don't think about making any more business around these parts. We own this town now and we wouldn't think twice about disposing of you". The large man in front of him pulled the gun away from Max, and Max sighed a sigh of relief. Punchenello carried on talking, but Max wasn't listening he was figuring out how to kill both of them so quickly that no sound could be heard... then Max remembered his blade... with his knife in one hand and his handgun in the other.

Max jumped out of his seat and drove the 8-inch knife deep into the hired Assassins back killing him instantly.

Max rolled on the floor and jumped up, pumping Punchenello full of lead he could use his finger as a pencil.

Someone must of heard the gunshots because the whaling of sirens could be heard in the distance. Max jumped down the fire escape and ran into the night... then he pulled his slimy, greasy lips over his stained yellow teeth and smiled.

Creative Writing: Continue the Story of The Other Time by Peter Appleton

Creative Writing: The Journalist’s visit Continue the story (The other time, by Peter Appleton) ... “Yes,” she answered blankly. At first sight, the man standing in front of her wasn’t impressive, nor a surprise. “Hum, yes Uhm, my name is Scoop, Scoop Appleton. And, Uhm, I am here as a journalist from the Sunday Blare. You see, we find your… story… very intriguing, interesting. I am sure you have had other people come and ask you for details, but we are extremely serious in this relevant loss and we know that for you…” “What. That it’s horrible for me? That I should want to kill the judges? That I should want to fight my sadness by shouting injustice?! Look. Talking drama will not change a thing. Your offer does not interest me…” She said this staying calm and not caring but still with an incredible force in her voice. Scoop was still under the shock of her beauty and character. He only managed to get a few words working their way out of his mind. “Yes I understand, but I am sure our offer will cover the emotional difficulty this would imply…” “Paul is dead. That’s basically it.

Your money will not get him back, and I don’t see how your article will be beneficial for me or change other’s points of view. ” “It must be hard to be like this on your own now. We can help you to have an easier time. We know that it is during mourning that people need some help, support. And we can give you that. We think people need to know the truth, the injustice here. This might change everything! All we want is your story” “We surely have never been rich, and now I need the money more than ever. But I am not interested in your money. ” She said firmly. Surely she has her principles, Scoop thought, but her loss must be raging inside her. “We understand. We know it must be hard for you. But we are not looking for problems. We think you are an intelligent woman who has the right to be heard. I’m sure your husband was a good man, and your life must have been lovely in your lovely home…” He could see from where he was standing that the furniture inside was neat and classical. No particular style elements, just a random English house like any, maybe even neater than the rest. “Let’s not stay standing here if you’re planning to talk a lot. She suddenly added, interrupting him in his maybe-too-obvious peaking. Scoop, shaken up by the surprising invitation calmly followed her. He could hear that behind the hard side she was showing, there was maybe a desperate need to talk, to have human contact. He tried to grasp as many details as he could, walking towards the lounge area. “Sit here, I’ll make some tea,” She said calmly, walking to the little kitchen bloc. There was nearly a friendly tone in her voice. But Scoop tried to stay in his professional attitude, even if he seemed more clumsy than at ease.

Sitting down, he noticed how this sitting chair had used fabric. This must be someone’s chair. Maybe it was her husband’s. He could picture the man sitting here, resting after a hard day of work, while she would be making dinner for her love. The few words she had said about her husband had made it clear to Scoop that she loves him, that he had been a good husband. There seemed to be a special light coming in the house. A warm, orangy light, giving a cozy home feeling. But also a feeling like the one you get when you’re in your grandparent’s old home after they have left the world. A feeling of silent memories, of peace, but also of emptiness. “Mrs. Rhiannon. It’s important that you understand that we do not seek drama. We don’t want to abuse your story or your name in any way. We just consider your loss as a relevant tragedy and want to understand at best what kind of man your husband was. ” “Yes. Surely I understand Mr. Appleton” she said, sitting down with two cups of tea in the opposite chair. Scoop was surprised she had remembered his name. “But you see, I don’t want any more fuss. Some things will just remain as they are.

My man was a good man. I have learned a lot from him. And one thing his personality has taught me is that there’s no need to do something un-useful. And I think causing another stir will only make me and you lose credibility and respect. I am sad, but I don’t want anger words to be shown in my story. He was a good man, we had plans, we had a future. But things happened and now it’s all changed. And I’ll just have to adapt. ” “But telling your story will make people reconsider the trial. Maybe this could change the country’s legal system and stop injustice from happening! “I don’t think there is a problem in our legal system. I don’t think we will make anything better by showing a picture of me looking at his picture and tell how devastated I am now. One of the only things I still have is my pride. And as a principle, the drama would not make me or my husband proud of myself. ” “Ok, I understand Mrs. Evans. ” He noticed the way she looked at her husband’s picture hanging on top of the chimney. It was like he was still there to watch her. Everything in the room was tidy and clean. She must have made the time pass by cleaning up everything.

He could see though that there was an unusually big pile of papers on the corner of the desk behind her seat. Maybe she had been busy organizing some things, a job or maybe a closer investigation on the case… “I was wondering Mrs. Evans if you don’t mind telling. How has it been for you since, Uhm, since Mr. Evans’ Uhm, departure? Do you know what really happened? Why there was a fight? ” “I have to say, I have mostly stayed here since. I don’t like the way people look at me now. They think my husband was a violent psychopath. But I don’t blame them, they didn’t know him and they don’t know what happened, but nor do I really. I think it’s all in the past and that I should start moving forward now. When I’ll start my new job things will get going again. ” Scoop could feel this was coming to an end. He wasn’t going to hear much more. But he still had so many questions. And his boss would hate him to not get a story back. “So, thank you for the offer, but no matter what amount of money, I just don’t want a story about me. Thank you for coming by. ” “It was a pleasure Mrs.,” He said standing up. He had been so attentive for every little detail that he hadn’t even touched his cup of tea.

When she took the cups back to the kitchen, he saw that there was a distinctive ring mark on her annular but no ring to be seen. “I don’t mean to be intrusive Mrs. Evans, but what have you decided to do with your wedding ring? I can see you took it off…” “Uhm, that was when I was washing the dishes. Yes. Uhm. And then you rang at my door. So Uhm, yes. ” He could see how uncomfortable she suddenly was. Maybe she had had to sell it to get some living money. It must be a sensitive subject anyway. “Oh yes of course. Thank you again for letting me in. But you know that if any time you change your mind, we are the first you can trust! ” “Right, right. ” She said with the same not blank but not curious tone she had when she opened the door. Clearly talking in the entrance made her somewhat emotionless. She still had some suspicions about the press, Scoop thought. Suddenly his eyes caught something on his way out. Above the mantel, hanging on the wall in the hall, there was a tiny gold box with blue velvet inside and gold, shiny medal. He turned around to ask her while pointing at the shiny thing. “What is this beautiful metal? Did you win it? Was it your husband’s? What did he get it for? ” He asked, maybe with a little too much enthusiasm. “Oh that. They pinned that on him the other time he killed a man. ” Scoop was speechless. She walked him to the door, said another goodbye, and closed it. For her, he had been quite a revelation. He wasn’t so talky and intrusive as the others. And he left her space to be human, not just a drama storyteller. Now she wasn’t going to tell anything, but she could see he had an eye for detail, unlike some others. She’d have to keep the story well hidden to not get any more fuss. And she’d start by taking off the medal. The one reminder for how things had started to go bad for Paul. He was too nice to kill when he left. And the war had made him go very far away from who he used to be. If only he was still sitting on his chair, as he used to. He was still walking at the same speed to his car and just couldn’t stop wondering, how much there is behind this whole story. He was now very intrigued. The intelligent irony, the pride, the strength of the beautiful queen had fully fascinated him. He felt a sudden need to find more about her. She looked strict but still so naturally smashing. He could see she was trying to hide she was having a hard time accepting the death. By keeping the photos, the seats, the medal exactly as it was before, she has to face it each day, alone.

As if she was waiting for him to come back. But she knew. Her eyes, as beautiful as they were had been crying and her ring had been taken off. And there was her intelligence, her rationality that had stroked him too. She knew what was best to do. That’s why she hadn’t accepted their offer. He was now sitting in his car, looking at the house. He would have to go soon, he knew she’d watch him leave. But something was just making him stay, he felt the need to wait a bit as if waking up fro a dream. The house was simple but very tidy, she took good care of it. But she must be feeling lonely, vulnerable, with no family, no surroundings, and no people to be there for her, even though she seemed so loving. The love with her husband must have been strong, from her reaction in court. But Scoop was thinking there must have been something he or she was hiding. A good man wouldn’t suddenly have killed another because of alcohol, he had fought for our country! But maybe that was the problem. Maybe killing men there had changed his way of living, being, seeing things and people… But this will be something for which he’ll have to dig deep to find the answer. Will she one day change, get on with her life, tell her story? How is she going to live? She seems so out of this world. Her beauty, her strength, her voice,… so supernatural and oh so enchanting! He could see the lace curtains move up, it was time for him to leave. He didn’t want to scare her forever. She might always call back. One thing for sure is that there was a lot more to find out about Mr. Evans. M. P.

Creative Writing - Happyness (Partial)

"Mother, I can not wait for school today!" At four years old I shouted this with excitement and glee, wonderful thoughts sprung into my mind and bounced around it like hot air in a balloon. Nothing could burst my bubble and I was determined to make a excellent impression on my new and caring teacher. It was my first day at primary school and I was to be introduced into reception.

Miss Campsten, a young and friendly lady took my hand and led me into the strange yet curious room. I could see a dozen toddler faces gleaming up at me. It was all so inviting and fresh. Only then had I realised these were my new classmates. I scanned the room for a play mate and saw what I was sure was a sobbing boy. He moaned and groaned in the corner of the room behind a creaking wooden door. I shuffled slowly over and plucked up the courage to ask him "Will you play with me?" He twisted his head upwards to face me and smiled, I knew this was the start of a friendship which would seem to never end.

Slowly but gradually he started to come out of his shell frequently talking to me like a shy tortoise. Playing in the deep and spacey sandpit was great. I used to pick up the sand and let it slide through my fingers acting as if it was a human sieve. Ben copied me and laughed at my stupid thinking in an amused matter. I did not really mind as long as it kept him happy. I was always confused about why he was so depressed that morning.

The curiosity was biting at me like an impatient gnat. Miss Campsten explained, Ben, was suffering home sickness and had also been admitted that morning into school. At this age I did not believe this excuse, how could you be home sick at school? How could you not be excited?! I was buzzing like a bee around the classroom collecting worksheets and doing simple errands for Miss Campsten. It was overwhelming, I had no time to stop and think, learning numbers and the alphabet was challenging enough.

Things were flowing nicely at school, new friends, great respect from my teacher and most of all a brilliant learning experience. The afternoon only just got better! We had taken a trip to the school gardens which led down a long, windy path to a greenhouse. The greenhouse was perfectly sound and stable with beautiful plants adorning it. The vast space inside was fascinating. Plant pots and crockery lay perfectly around the sides of the greenhouse on clear glass shelves. Ben and I screamed in delight! Delicately we picked an orchid to deliver as a gift to Miss Campsten, our teacher we were surprisingly fond with only after a few hours. The orchid embellished stunning features with its striking purple leaves and its long elegant stem. Perfection to a tee!

"Home time children!" she said while clapping her hands enthusiastically. Oh no! The day had flown by in a flash. Ben and I exchanged grins of cheerful spirit because we had to explore so much more tomorrow.

Warped Tour and Better - Creative Writing

I gazed up in amazement at the enormous steel arch which made up the railway bridge, which I, together with the other thousands of fans, was shuffling under making our way towards the vast expanse of open fields that constituted the concert arena. I hoisted myself onto the metal barrier enclosing the mass of people and slowly inched my way toward the make shift box office to collect my tickets.

By the time I reached the box office it was eleven thirty and it was 100F. The midday sun was harsh and I could feel the heat cutting across my neck like a red hot rapier. The dust was incredible. The grass had been worn away by the thousands of shoes scouring it, causing a permanent haze of dust to envelope the crowd as they rushed into the field beyond. As I crumpled against a steel post forming a chain link fence, I peered down at my feet and noticed rivers of sweat cascading down my legs and evaporating into the haze. Every time I took a breath I felt an abrasive sensation in my throat, causing a painful scratching around my tonsils, which I eventually relieved by bringing up a ball of brown mucus which I spat out onto the dusty ground and rubbed into the earth with my foot. I got the tickets.

Once past the tickets and through a series of security checks I ambled into centre of a cluster of around two hundred gazebos, all of them hung with eye catching decorations, selling a vast variety of music paraphernalia, however, I was looking for just one tent; the Drive-Thru Records tent. Quickly I paced through serried ranks of displays until a glint of orange caught the corner of my eye and there in bold, black print were the words Drive-Thru Records.

I barged through the throng of people twisting and turning until I arrived at the stand and was greeted by my sister who had managed to obtain VIP entry to the venue. As I gazed over her shoulder I spied tables decked with musical memorabilia and perched on the edge of one of the tables was a large glass jug containing cool, clear water. Grabbing the jug I swigged the water down in two massive gulps and wiped my hand across my mouth licking the final few droplets from around my lips.

Having been refreshed I continued my quest to find the stages, however it was cut short when a magnificent cheer erupted from my right. Spurred on by this roar of excitement I grabbed my friend and dragged him with me toward the noise. We burst through the line of the regimented gazebos and finally found ourselves in the crushing surge of people pressing towards the stage. Surveying the crowd we spied gaps and quickly manoeuvred our way between the bodies until we could squeeze through any further as it was just too packed.

As the guitarists struck the first chords the crowd went wild, pulsating into life, jumping, waving, screaming and shrieking with delight. The atmosphere was electric injecting everyone with pure adrenaline and energy.

The last note was twanged and like a switch it caused the horde of people to slowly flood out towards the tents and huddle around the stalls selling water. But not me, because, as if by magic, my sister appeared about 100 yards away. She was waving two thin slips of orange paper, trying to lure me towards her. I couldn't quite make out what the papers were, but I had a good idea. I signalled to my friend to head toward her. As we got closer the slips seemed to glow a much more vibrant orange and I knew exactly what they were; backstage passes. Like a deer, frozen in headlights, I stood in a trance as she handed us the passes to stick around our wrists.

Once I was out of my own world, my sister and I snaked through the crowd towards the tour bus whilst my friend shuffled to the front of the crowd to watch the next band.

As I stepped onto the tour bus (which my sister had been staying on for the last five weeks) I felt a blast of cool clean air hit my face and the bus almost felt cold as I felt the hairs on my arms prick up. My sister grabbed two bottles and chucked one to me. She introduced me to a few of the other people retreating from the heat and then we headed out.

Over the last few weeks when my sister had been away whenever I spoke to her over the phone she would brag about how she was making friends with some of the famous people on tour. One of them being someone who I practically worshiped! And I was about to meet him.

I stared in disbelief as a man who I have posters of on my wall waved and smiled at my sister. The man, Travis Barker, was under a gazebo (guarded by the biggest man I'd ever seen) behind the main stage. He was leant over a small box with pads which would light up and he would hit them with his drum sticks. My sister walked up to him while I followed trying to work out if it was dream. My sister introduced me to him and when he shook my hand it sent a shiver down my spine. My sister and I spoke to him for a while despite the fact I was so dumbstruck. Eventually we had to leave as he had to play so I got him to sign my hat even though I felt stupid asking and we headed back to the tour bus.

The rest of the day seemed to go quickly after this in a blur of watching bands and staggering to the tour bus for replenishment. The last image I have of the day is looking back at all the people, the astonishing size of the whole field and how amazing Warped Tour had been, but it was nothing like looking down at my hat which was I was clutching in my hand.

Related Questions

on The Forest – Creative Writing

How would you describe the forest in creative writing?
The forest was a magical place, filled with lush green trees and a soft, earthy scent. The sun shone through the canopy of leaves, creating a peaceful atmosphere that was both calming and inviting. Birds chirped in the distance, and the sound of a nearby stream trickled through the air.
How do you describe a forest in a paragraph?
A forest is a lush, green landscape filled with trees, plants, and wildlife. It is a place of beauty and tranquility, where one can find peace and solace. The sound of birds chirping, the rustling of leaves in the wind, and the smell of the earth all combine to create a unique and calming atmosphere.
How do you describe a forest?
A forest is a large area of land covered with trees and other vegetation. It is a natural habitat for many different species of plants and animals, and is often a source of beauty and tranquility. Forests can range from small wooded areas to large expanses of land, and can be found in many different climates and regions around the world.
How do you show a forest in writing?
To show a forest in writing, you could describe the trees, the foliage, the wildlife, and the sounds of the forest. You could also use imagery to evoke a sense of the forest, such as describing the sunlight filtering through the trees or the smell of the damp earth.

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