My Descriptive Writing Eduardo Morales Analysis
My Descriptive Writing (By Eduardo Sánchez Morales - M2)
I heard the evil laughs of the spoilt men, and the screech, of the beer opening. I felt sick, like as if I had eaten the entire contents of the fridge. I rest my hand on the rough paintwork that coats the door and push. Rough wooden splinters cut into my palm; shards of black paint crumble to the floor. The hinges squeal as though they are a warning. Laughter overpowers the jukebox. Conversations swirl in a dirty cloud of smoke. The intense smell of drink and cigarettes drifts towards me, like black ash roaring from the windows of a burning house. There’s even a hint of revolting smell of fragrance covering the room with no fear.
After the painful night, I walk down road to my house, aching, …show more content…
The house stood on a slight rise just on the edge of the village. It stood on its own and looked over a West Country farmland. It was thirty years old, squattish, squarish, made of brick, and had four windows set in the front of a size and proportion which more or less exactly failed to stand out.
Everything is blurry. For a second, you never know who or where you are. You don't know how you got in that bed, or how you got in those clothes. Then, everything is processed. You are in your room. The thing above you is the ceiling. The thing on top of you is the duvet. The thing underneath you is the pillow and mattress. The thing you are wearing is your pyjamas. You can see everything clearly now. You slowly sit up. You slowly wake up. I walk slowly to the kitchen, secretly, like a lonely leaf lying on the ground. I hear the croaks behind my footsteps, like a monster was crawling behind me, waiting for me to turn around, and then.... Bam!.
This monster was my wife. She stomped to me, giving me a serious shiver, nearly giving me a heart attack. She clamored at me, like as I was the dark demon that haunted our decrepit house.
“All I am is sadness, every other emotion pushed from my being. Where there
I heard the evil laughs of the spoilt men, and the screech, of the beer opening. I felt sick, like as if I had eaten the entire contents of the fridge. I rest my hand on the rough paintwork that coats the door and push. Rough wooden splinters cut into my palm; shards of black paint crumble to the floor. The hinges squeal as though they are a warning. Laughter overpowers the jukebox. Conversations swirl in a dirty cloud of smoke. The intense smell of drink and cigarettes drifts towards me, like black ash roaring from the windows of a burning house. There’s even a hint of revolting smell of fragrance covering the room with no fear.
After the painful night, I walk down road to my house, aching, …show more content…
The house stood on a slight rise just on the edge of the village. It stood on its own and looked over a West Country farmland. It was thirty years old, squattish, squarish, made of brick, and had four windows set in the front of a size and proportion which more or less exactly failed to stand out.
Everything is blurry. For a second, you never know who or where you are. You don't know how you got in that bed, or how you got in those clothes. Then, everything is processed. You are in your room. The thing above you is the ceiling. The thing on top of you is the duvet. The thing underneath you is the pillow and mattress. The thing you are wearing is your pyjamas. You can see everything clearly now. You slowly sit up. You slowly wake up. I walk slowly to the kitchen, secretly, like a lonely leaf lying on the ground. I hear the croaks behind my footsteps, like a monster was crawling behind me, waiting for me to turn around, and then.... Bam!.
This monster was my wife. She stomped to me, giving me a serious shiver, nearly giving me a heart attack. She clamored at me, like as I was the dark demon that haunted our decrepit house.
“All I am is sadness, every other emotion pushed from my being. Where there