Narrative Essay On Cypress City

Smitty was sick of the sour, stingy smell of the bait tackle shop. Local faces would pass through the shop, getting their usual haul. The lake near Cypress City would soon be filled with the boats of old fishermen. Cypress City was not, in fact, a city. It was a run down town in Maryland, too old to be of any use to the world. People were old, buildings were old, kids were old, the lake was old, the swamp was old - everything. Smitty hated it, and he yearned for adventure; to escape his small, ignorant town for thrill and fun. So for Smitty, the best course of action, obviously, was to get a job. After all, he needed a car. Smitty was 23 years old, and still living with his parents (not uncommon for residents of Cypress City). His parents would

He stood, staring through in the trees and cattails. He noticed that the plant life condensed into a dark mass the further he looked. Hm. Smitty’s handy dandy backpack contained the following: a flashlight, a lighter, a bag of store bought jerky, extra socks, a handkerchief, a flask of water, a 9mm pistol, and his prized #1 soda drinking hat (for good luck of course). His stomach was churning from anxiety, which gave him a rush. The feeling was unfamiliar to his brain, but it was his main reason for exploring the swamp. He stood for just another minute, thinking about life and space and all that philosophical stuff, then, hauling his backpack onto his shoulder, stepped into darkness. After a solid 10 seconds of walking, a strong smell hit him like an elephant taped to a 4x4. The stench wafted into his nose, with the apparency of a knife wound. It reeked of year old eggs. Smitty held back tears, and his lunch. Getting out his handkerchief and tying it above his nose, he stepped further into the swamp. Dirt turned to mud, and mud turned to water. Shoot, he thought, these hiking boots won’t really work. As a result of his naivety, Smitty resorted to walking on the edge of the swamp. So far, the anxiety was starting to dwindle, but this wouldn’t get Smitty’s hopes down. He flicked his flashlight on and approached a few larger cypress trees. A splintered sign read “Beware” in red paint. Smitty had walked about a mile, so he decided