Descriptive writing on satis house As I approached Satis house inside of my carriage I could feel the nerves growing inside of me. I got close to the rusted gates and stopped I had to get out and walk up to the old withered gates. I felt my feet stick to the ground and I found it quite hard to breath. The sounds around me was getting very load like I was standing next to a roaring plane even know I was getting further away I could hear the crows in the background and the snorting horses. When
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A white fuzzy blanket‚ yet solid as a rock stared back at me as I peered through my foggy window waking to the sight of snow. The miniature gray couch serving as the centerpiece of my living room seemed cozy that night. On the other hand‚ its rough and awkward fibers made it uncomfortable. Without heat blasting through the vent to conserve our warmth‚ we grew even colder. The bustling sound of the wind knocking on my window layered with dangling icicles smothering my home and the homes nearby shook
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I never did like driving in the winter. I was almost always running late‚ time just tended to escape me. In the winter‚ everything required a sluggish attentiveness that I didn’t have the tolerance for. Driving had always been a tranquil and lulling thing for me‚ up until I hit solid black ice. I never expected to spin out of control like that and I was so sure that the only way this could end was with my car upside down in the middle of the road. My knuckles were white from gripping the bitter
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She has failed him. Portia has failed President Snow. She was his spy‚ his little inside mole‚ to report back to him about her tributes’ behavior‚ along with her stylist partner‚ Cinna. Snow had suspected something about him‚ something that was off‚ and had assigned Portia there. But she has to be executed now with the rest of the rebels‚ for being a failure‚ as Cinna has realized who she really is. But Snow still feels a little wary about this. Something not right‚ perhaps a little strand
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He traveled under barren oaks‚ and maples‚ through the thick snow. He is a young wolf with grey and soft fur like white ash. He does this every night for the cool‚ winter air‚ a sky filled with stars‚ and her. Tonight however‚ the wind is blistering‚ damp‚ and unforgiving‚ and courses through the wolf like a banshee’s
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The trees coated in cold powdered water‚ and the ground was submerged in it. At least 2 feet deep‚ I could not give you the width if I had wanted to. This expansive terrain ran in all directions‚ and frozen white powdered water would lay like an infection for months to follow. I had a thick coat. It was safe to say that I was perfectly secure until weather conditions furthered. Luckily‚ the weather had been at a still for the last day or two. The sun beamed down upon the land with relevancy. I stopped
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smallest and most secluded cities in the large continent. It had a small population‚ and limited visitors‚ but it was right by the coast so it was popular for it’s sales in fish. They lived in a large cabin near the ocean surrounded by nothing but knee high banks of snow and the unknown. The smell of fish oil and tardar sauce seemed to surround the area‚ but it was somewhere they could always call home. One morning in late February‚ the husband Akiak woke up early to stoke their witling fire and begin cutting wood for the long winter day ahead
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Anya Kojovic let the door bounce back on its hinges‚ gasping as the freezing air snatched the breath from her lungs. Icy hands clawed and tugged at the thin brown cardigan that hung loosely over her yellow cotton dress. Thick patches of snow lay like dollops of cream glittering on the ground. Like the cream she put on the Babka she made with her grandmother back in Warsaw. It was clear but for a few clouds smudged into the powder blue sky. There was the sound of tea boiling‚ because that’s what
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it was a cold grey day in late September. The weather had metamorphosed overnight‚ when a backing wind brought a granite sky and a mizzling rain with it‚ and although it was now only two fifty-seven in the afternoon the ashen hue of a winter evening seemed to have closed upon the hills‚ cloaking them in mist. It would be dark by five o clock. The air was clammy cold‚ and for all the sealed windows it still penetrated the interior of the carriage. The leather seats felt damp to the hands‚ there must
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Absolutely nothing in this known world can break the silence—the room was lifeless. The floorboard painfully cries under the teacher’s fantastic high-heeled shoes; it invades the monastic stillness. Under the scrawls of a madman‚ written in a jet-black marker that has seen the end of its days a long time ago‚ slivers of the once pure whiteboard remains. My eyes dart towards the window as I stare at the barren tree branches; they shiver‚ afraid‚ in the thick cold and velvety air of winter. As my stoic
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