Twinkles6892
<font color=blue>Mourning Nomar with Mom...<font c
- Joined
- Jan 3, 2004
- Messages
- 3,153
For Language and Writing Seminar we're writing essays about a place we knew as a child and then went back to and realized how much it/we had changed. Well, my teacher hates me and thinks I can't write and has been over this piece of writing a million times (I'm in class right now) so can anyone edit this for style? I think I've fixed it, but opinions would be appreciated 
Down a winding road, just outside the central village of Winterport and up a steep hill resides the house where I lived when I was in elementary school. Behind that house was a large playhouse my father built for me. I had it furnished with all sorts of memorabilia such as the dried Lady Slipper that I accidentally picked for my mom when I hiked to the top of the hill that was our back yard, numerous, colorful, beaded friendship bracelets I had accumulated over the years, and garden snake skins that my dad collected for me. My palace seemed as vast to me as a real castle, with untouchable ceiling beams and enough floor space for myself and all of my subjects. My little pink lawn chair, sturdy and unfailing, sat perched like a throne next to the window so I could see all who dared to come close to my fortress and my red dish with the smiling face and other various pots and pans strewn across the floor for making my world-famous mud pie. But within my stronghold there was one area that I had never ventured into: the loft. I just knew that there was some evil presence, waiting for me, crafting its attack, up in those eves that I would some day have to face.

Down a winding road, just outside the central village of Winterport and up a steep hill resides the house where I lived when I was in elementary school. Behind that house was a large playhouse my father built for me. I had it furnished with all sorts of memorabilia such as the dried Lady Slipper that I accidentally picked for my mom when I hiked to the top of the hill that was our back yard, numerous, colorful, beaded friendship bracelets I had accumulated over the years, and garden snake skins that my dad collected for me. My palace seemed as vast to me as a real castle, with untouchable ceiling beams and enough floor space for myself and all of my subjects. My little pink lawn chair, sturdy and unfailing, sat perched like a throne next to the window so I could see all who dared to come close to my fortress and my red dish with the smiling face and other various pots and pans strewn across the floor for making my world-famous mud pie. But within my stronghold there was one area that I had never ventured into: the loft. I just knew that there was some evil presence, waiting for me, crafting its attack, up in those eves that I would some day have to face.
Very evocative.

