Descriptive Lake Merritt

I sprinted up the stairs, taking no time to stop for breakfast. I had to make it to the factory by 5 or I’d be beaten. The fear of punishment gave me extra speed as I ran out the door into the smoggy darkness. As I ran, I tied back my long blonde hair with the ribbon tied around my wrist. I ran down the cobblestone street, careful not to step in any of the piles of mud. The streets were devoid of carriages, anybody rich enough to own a horse wasn’t getting up this early. The only people I shared the streets with were other children and adults going to work.

My feet, without any cloths to protect them were bloody and covered in sores from rubbing against sharp stones. Like some of the horrible bed sores one of my many brothers had gotten years ago. At least that is how I am picturing them in my mind, as couldn’t see them in this light, or lack of. My feet ached, hunger pains were beginning to rise, my head, with such intense pain and that awful, awful feeling that I was not alone. I could feel the hairs on my neck stand as the eerie buzz of silence screamed in my ear. Unconsciously my slow pacing of the perimeter broke into a full speed run.

Sitting on the beach 3 years later, I let my pale skin burn to a crisp in hope to bring home a tan that my friends will be envious of. A drip of sweat fell down my cheek and I peered out to the massive waves crashing onto the gentle sand. The overcast clouds reflected a gloomy reflection down onto the waves. I watched as the tide pulled on the sand in different directions. The sand, not being able to resist

Gray, nimbostratus clouds blanketed the L.A. skyline, the promise of rain becoming more of a threat with each passing hour. However, the bleak, November day suited Tom’s pensive mood, the impending storm mirroring the tumultuous thoughts brewing within his mind. After countless cups of coffee and only three hours’ sleep, he was on edge, caught in a web of his own making. He wandered in aimless circles around the living room floor, his pinched face showing clear signs of agitation, his heart thumping rapidly in his chest. For the tenth time in less than five minutes, he glanced at the clock, unsure if he wanted his visitor to arrive or not. But despite his apprehension, he knew he needed to face his demons, and a gloomy

Perhaps one of the most ambiguous characters throughout Roman society was the hated, yet beloved gladiator. Courageous and daring, the gladiators of ancient Rome risked their lives every time they stepped into the amphitheater. Although the popular presumption from movies such as Gladiator is that becoming a gladiator amounted to a death sentence, this profession did not automatically make them dead men walking. Two scholars Fik Meijer, author of The Gladiators: History’s Most Deadly Sport, and Mary Beard, author of The Fires of Vesuvius: Pompeii Lost and Found, project general mortality rates for gladiators based on statistics from dipinti and graffiti, concluding how often they died and amount of pardons granted. Scholar Susanna Shadrake

I feel my heart boom in my ears screaming at me to go home and never come back, but I can’t because the Oakwood door is already staring at me in my face. I wonder how many times I’ll shut my mouth just so I don’t have to be told to shut it. I feel the air conditioning on my skin as I sit in my seat to unload my belongings. After putting my things on my desk, I heard a loud thump and saw scattered paper all over the floor. “Sorry ‘bout that, maybe you shouldn’t always be in everyone’s way,” hissed Mister to Cool for School, “or maybe you shouldn’t be here at all.”

Have you ever smelled 4-day-old moldy tube socks that have been soaked in lake water and left under a bed? As a cabin keeper at Merritt Reservoir I had many bizarre encounters in a mere three-month summer break. Imagine walking into the crammed bait shop on a crisp summer morning. You clock in for the day and gather all the supplies needed to get the job done. These supplies may range from the typical cleaning utensils such as rags and window cleaner, extra toilet paper and towels, Febreeze, and rubber gloves for sticky situations. However, you also must be sure to grab mousetraps, a bible, and a strange device that consists of a hook on a long wooden rod. You will soon learn what these items are for, and how handy they can be throughout the day ahead.

As I went downstairs the tone of the room felt hot, humid, and empty. Hot, because of the burning Atlanta temperatures of ninety-eight degrees or higher. Humid, caused by the broken air conditioning and affecting the density of the atmosphere. Finally empty. The furniture was missing and minimal sounds can bounce off to make echoes. I was departing from a place that I called home. I lived at the address 353 Leisure Court for almost a year; the identity of the street brings back smiles to my face because of its pleasantry. Living here has made me feel secure like a dog to his owner. Moving away from this security brought feelings of uncertainty. My lack of confidence was about the new beginnings my family would experience after the move. But

The dried, burned grass crunched under the weight of my combat boots. Every so often a bright green blade of grass would lick onto my shoe. No one has visited this place since the war. The land has been isolated for so long, since our shouts and blood filled the battlefield.

Imagine you’re an archeologist exploring Egypt and you find an old tomb, one that has not been ransacked. Strangely, the mummy is a pharaoh in only a rich man’s tomb and it turns out this ruler died young. The mummy is King Tutankhamun and he was killed by Aye, his chief advisor. Aye killed King Tut for power over Ancient Egypt. Evidence shows that the pharaoh had many injuries before his death.

Riley pushed his wet blonde hair out of his eyes and shivered while drawing his fleece blanket tighter around his body. The hairs on his arms and legs felt like they were standing straight up from the goose bumps that were forming on his skin. Even though it was the middle of August, it was unusually cold tonight. It had been raining on and off since five PM, so the grass had disintegrated into the slippery mud that was oozing between his toes and ruining his bamboo mat. At least he had been smart enough to bring it – others were sitting directly on the grass and ruining their jeans. People were walking around with brown stains on their backsides, making it look like they didn’t make it to the bathroom. Even though, his jeans weren’t dirty,

One of the greatest feuds within the Church to this day is likely that of iconoclasm. Taking place in a couple of waves through the 700s and 800s AD, and later picked up by theologians during the Reformation such as John Calvin, the debate over icons resulted in heated arguments – some even ending with deaths – for many years. The ultimate problem, and driving force behind it, however, was not simply the interior décor of churches, but the idea of redemption. If Christ is not an icon of God the Father, then what does it say about our salvation? Does His time on earth ultimately have any more significance than other religious events?

Chalk flying on our bruised shins and flip flop tanned, callused feet, as the ball kept bouncing. Up and up and up we go, passing houses one at a time. The ground scorching our unclipped toes as we race the cars up the street to the shaded part of the sidewalk. Pausing, only to catch our breath we wasted on hill sprints up to cooler ground, until we realize what we're stepping on. Sap as sticky as gum that has been sitting out in the sun all day, slowly dripping from the Pine tree hanging above us as if it knew the pain we were in. Out of the shade we went, dreading what lies ahead all thinking about the logic behind not wearing shoes. Finally turned the corner that led to the shaded cul de sac when he ran into her. She was not one of those ordinary neighbors. No smile rest upon this gut wrenching face that I remember from my

Imagine, if you will, a brisk night wind coming fast across a lake carrying a pungent smell, something you can’t quite identify, but is nonetheless familiar enough to send a shiver up your spine. As it hits the trees, they creak out a somber call in the still night air. Or was that groan something more…human? You notice, for the first time, the absence of tires humming on pavement and you wonder if it’s that late, or maybe just a slow night. The soft tapping of your shoes on the sidewalk is the only accompaniment your slow breathing has as you move towards the warmth of your home, holding thoughts of a warm bed in the palm of your hand to keep the chill away. You don’t notice at first, perhaps because the reality of what you’re hearing is

Girls perch on the tables like exotic birds gossiping and giggling, a football fly’s above their heads between two jocks in varsity jackets parading their toned muscles. Groups of high schoolers sit around the room laughing. Weekend has arrived and the hallways of the school were filled with tons of kids ready to go home. Every ear filled with the sound of multiple conversations going off at once, lockers opening and closing, music blasting without. I had managed to push past the constant stream of children and to the school field. The grass was damp and covered in a thin layer of frost. As I walked my footprints were embedded, leaving a piece of me in the cold ground. I saw my friends faraway chattering and fooling around. I was stuck in the wrong crowd; they are nothing like me but somehow I am still friends with them. I slowly made my way up to my “so called friends”.