BKS
02-07-2008, 8:45 PM
So, I had to write a description essay for my English class. The requirements were that it was describing a scene or object, and that it was under 2 pages double spaced. I'd love some criticism on what I wrote, so I figured I'd let you guys work on it.
Rough Draft
A pale pink haze tints the street; the buzz-snap of the flashing neon light above advertises cheap liquor, and another homeless man is shooting up tonight. It had rained the day before, the streets still damp and glossy, acting as the city’s cataract. A heavy steam rises from the sewer great across the way, curling and swaying, striving to become just another addition to the tinged green smog that we call sky. The remains of what looks to be an older car, perhaps a Plymouth of some sorts, sits sulking on the curb, the dull husk of its former self grinning its skeletal grin. The wall of the apartment opposite of mine stands abused with graffiti and vandalism, sloppily drawn images and lewd quotes hug the wall like a rainbow, each dripping paint line and shattered brick a testament to what our society has stooped to. I wouldn’t dare go down there after sunset, away from the relative safety of my room.
To my great distaste, I can still smell the street, the tangy stench of human refuse and bitter despair. The ripe odor of a decaying corpse or perhaps an unwashed street urchin only adds to the plethora of scents that -when baked by the afternoon sun- disperses itself throughout the night. Coming in short second, the sour sewer stench shifting in the breeze leaves no wonder as to why the government has mandated breath filters for this rundown section of town. To further describe this smell, I cannot with out making my stomach lurch and heave, for its only semblance to normality would be that of aged milk covering sweaty compost.
It is unfortunate for both my ears and them without homes below me that the government doesn’t enforce this mandate. The pleas of the homeless is but an undertone of the symphony of gunshots and the orchestra of car horns, all becoming a semblance of comprehendible noise through my dirty brick wall. On occasion, the shouts of gangs ready to kill, rape, rob or riot echo against the walls and up to a perceivable level, and I walk out on my balcony, surveying the scene.
On the few occasions a car comes down the street, it’s not uncommon that it is often pursued by flashing blue and red lights and a wailing siren. The gutter of the city, we often get called, the trash heaps and fires routinely combining to light up the night with a flicker, dancing the red and orange glow across building walls and down dark alleyways. And as much as I’d like to say that we can rebuild this slum, or that one day the violence will stop, I can’t. It has become routine, and there is no going back now. Tonight is just like any other night in this seedy city I call home.
Rough Draft
A pale pink haze tints the street; the buzz-snap of the flashing neon light above advertises cheap liquor, and another homeless man is shooting up tonight. It had rained the day before, the streets still damp and glossy, acting as the city’s cataract. A heavy steam rises from the sewer great across the way, curling and swaying, striving to become just another addition to the tinged green smog that we call sky. The remains of what looks to be an older car, perhaps a Plymouth of some sorts, sits sulking on the curb, the dull husk of its former self grinning its skeletal grin. The wall of the apartment opposite of mine stands abused with graffiti and vandalism, sloppily drawn images and lewd quotes hug the wall like a rainbow, each dripping paint line and shattered brick a testament to what our society has stooped to. I wouldn’t dare go down there after sunset, away from the relative safety of my room.
To my great distaste, I can still smell the street, the tangy stench of human refuse and bitter despair. The ripe odor of a decaying corpse or perhaps an unwashed street urchin only adds to the plethora of scents that -when baked by the afternoon sun- disperses itself throughout the night. Coming in short second, the sour sewer stench shifting in the breeze leaves no wonder as to why the government has mandated breath filters for this rundown section of town. To further describe this smell, I cannot with out making my stomach lurch and heave, for its only semblance to normality would be that of aged milk covering sweaty compost.
It is unfortunate for both my ears and them without homes below me that the government doesn’t enforce this mandate. The pleas of the homeless is but an undertone of the symphony of gunshots and the orchestra of car horns, all becoming a semblance of comprehendible noise through my dirty brick wall. On occasion, the shouts of gangs ready to kill, rape, rob or riot echo against the walls and up to a perceivable level, and I walk out on my balcony, surveying the scene.
On the few occasions a car comes down the street, it’s not uncommon that it is often pursued by flashing blue and red lights and a wailing siren. The gutter of the city, we often get called, the trash heaps and fires routinely combining to light up the night with a flicker, dancing the red and orange glow across building walls and down dark alleyways. And as much as I’d like to say that we can rebuild this slum, or that one day the violence will stop, I can’t. It has become routine, and there is no going back now. Tonight is just like any other night in this seedy city I call home.