“Shells” by Cynthia Rylant is a realistic short story about a teenage boy named Michael who moved in with his Aunt Esther who is rich, mean, and crabby because his parents pass away. One way Aunt Esther accused Michael is when she told him he hated her and that he didn't like living there. For example, in paragraph 5, the author says “You hate it it here and you hate me too,” yelled Aunt Esther. In paragraph 6, Michael yelled, “I don’t,” Michael yelled “It’s not you!” This is important because he really doesn’t like her or living there
Good Morning Armando. Thank you very much for your interest in One Broadway. - Yes, we do have unfurnished units. -All
The clouds persevere though, they sprinkle out the wicked hopes of the cheatgrass. They keep the rivers babbling to the beautiful twisted knot of trees. They give a gulp of refreshing water to the dry desert dust, giving it a squishy voice to add into nature’s song. Soon the birds, the crickets and the frogs will come back and add their
The refugees moving to America are the citizens of Syria who are fleeing from the terrorist group known as ISIS. The factors taken into consideration about the relocation of refugees in Houston were resources like space and water. The final resettlement location chosen for the Syrian refugees was the Sheldon Lake State Park in Houston, Texas. Sheldon Lake State Park is the relocation site because it has land and water for the refugees to use.
Device: Diction — refers to the author’s word choice, especially regarding correctness, clearness, or effectiveness. Example: “There are cooters and snappers, opossum, coon and gar.” (AP Section II, Passage 2) Context: The author of Passage 2 describes the Okefenokee Swamp. In contrast to the first Passage, this passage is emotional and informal; through many literary devices, the passage communicates the wildness and hostility of the swamp, describing it as “leaf-choked” and “sodden”, filled with “seething galaxies” of bugs (AP Section II).
In two weeks my Dad, my brother Zach, and I were heading to Canada to go fishing in a remote cabin on an island. The lake was called Lake Wabatongushi, a 22 mile long lake in the middle of Ontario, Canada. We had scheduled this trip months in advance and were just now shopping to get all the lures, rods, and gear we needed. “Can I buy it Dad?” My Dad nodded and I snagged it off the shelf.
Greasy Lake “Greasy Lake” by T. Coraghessan Boyle is a story about a 19 year old young boy, the narrator, who learns that his bad boy image is just an image. Describing himself and his friends, Digby and Jeff, as “dangerous characters” (Boyle 77), he soon realizes that he may not be ready for such a title. Out with his friends one summer night, the narrator, Digby and Jeff head to Greasy Lake in hopes of getting into some type of “adventure” (Boyle 78). Thinking that they have spotted their friends car on Greasy Lake they attempt to play a joke on him and his girl. Once the young boys approach the car they soon realize that the car belongs to some other “bad greasy character” (Boyle 78).
Louisiana Comprehensive Master Plan for a Sustainable Coast The Louisiana coast is a natural, economic, and cultural tourism resource. It features an area rich in ecological abundance that supports activities such as commercial and recreational fishing, habitat for a number of waterfowl, migratory birds, reptiles and amphibians. In addition, it has five of the top 12 ports (per cargo volume) in the United States. It is a major supplier of US natural gas and oil power and home to more than 2 million people - nearly half of the state's population.
Back in the summer of 1956, my great grandfather Rodger Poirier and his young family moved from Detroit, Michigan to Toledo, Ohio. Wanting to escape city life and take his kids to a new place, Poirier searched until he found one; a small lake named Bear Lake in Hillsdale, Michigan. Five cottages lined the top of the property, with a vast grassy area expanding to the front alongside the lake. 61 years later, the tradition of Bear Lake lives on in the Poirier family and has expanded to aunts, uncles, and cousins. Growing up, I always looked forward to my week at the lake.
There are always a lot of uncertainties when it comes to fishing. You are never guaranteed that you will catch anything. I unload the boat from the truck and almost step on a copperhead as is hisses at me. As I am looking at the time when my dad and I get in the boat we both realized that neither one of us brought something to eat or drink. When we are drifting along I start to get really cold, and I do not have a jacket to keep myself warm.
The drive up to Lake Winnisquam is exciting and uneventful as usual. Through smudged windows, I watch the passing scenery, anticipating all the fun we will have this fourth of July. The switch onto Lower Waldron road was a recognizable turn and a sign of our proximity. We each scoot towards the edge our seats, heads pressed against the glass, eager to be the first to spot our destination. “I see the house,” my sister squeals with excitement.
I started my life in Lino Lakes. A cute little suburban town, just north of the twin cities. The streets are lined with houses of varying sizes. My house fell in the middle, it fit my family perfectly. My house consisted of two floors, with 3 bedrooms.
The drive was almost unbearable, but the thought of spending the week in the snow with family kept me going. It was only a four hour drive, but at 9 years old, it felt like an eternity. The scenery slowly changed from flat land, to rolling hills. The hills were covered in yellow dying grass, but they were still beautiful. Then we started to make the climb.
“And on down the river, and on and on, were fireflies. lines of them wavering out from this bank and the other and back again. . . sketching their uncertain lines of light down close to the surface of the water, hidden from outside by the grasses. . .” (Par. 2).
Smooth, oval rocks lined the bank of the secretive lake. Discarded and neglected; overlaid with spongy moss and choked by fallen, decaying leaves from the unclothed and withering trees above. As the lake swelled around the ashen boulders, icy, black water lifelessly lapped against the long, thin beams of wood holding up a rickety pier. The structure was covered in splinters and ragged, iron nails, and as it reached out into the centre of the sombre lake, it became more and more distant. Half-cut beams lined the sides of the pier, as nettle patches hissed from the shore when the water drew too near.
