Maryam Al-Rubaiee
Mr. Cohen
ENG2D
Sept 10th
Target: I need to improve my usage of different sentence types (especially minor/simple sentences) and different adj./adv. to create more depth in my work.
Second Practice Descriptive Writing
This was messed up.
He shivered in the harsh cold; his prison cell, barely six feet by four, offered no relief. The walls were the same thick grey stone as the rest of the dull prison that’d held him captive. There was a mean barred opening with thick metal bars; he had nothing left of him but a chipped plank of wood he would call his bed, and a sad excuse of a thin blanket. This was an unforgiving place, where murderers and crooks would be left behind. He wasn’t either of those things.
A coincidence, that’s all it had been! An unlucky twist of fate for him… The crime happened at his place of work, and in a world as unfair as this one, that was all the evidence they needed.
His body sank uncomfortably onto the bed; his bones were aching from the cold seeping through the unforgiving stone floor. The fateful day plays in his mind rent free, just as a broken record would. The day that everything had gone wrong. The office had been a complete blur of chaos—police equipment and caution tape wrapped at every corner, the chatter of the radio ringing in his ears like an unwanted pulse. It was like watching a nightmare unfold. A homicide had occurred unexpectedly at his place of work, and he was the prime suspect. A homicide, they said. The word had hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. His hands had trembled as they’d cuffed him, accusing eyes burning into his skin. He had been the prime suspect from the start, and why wouldn’t he be? He was the unlucky fool caught in the wrong place, at the worst possible time.
There was no one left for him that would take his side. The ugly truth would never make it past the very bars that left him hopeless. As the hours passed, it felt like days for him. An eternity, even. He could hear other prisoners from outside his thick, metal door. He heard their groans and cries of misery; they all accepted their fate. He wasn’t one of them…he’s innocent. No matter how much he tried to convince himself of that—the only comfort he had left—the bottomless feeling of doubt would creep up on him like the cold that gnawed at his bones. What if this was it? What if the truth never came out, and he was destined to rot in this cold, unforgiving cell?x He’d be forgotten, erased from history. The walls seemed to mock him, the deafening silence was louder than any voice.
This was messed up. And no one was coming to save him.
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