Hi! I'm entering a contest and the topic is ideally: Life in Suburbia. But they'll accept any writing with any topic. This is (I guess, Personal Essay). Comment, suggestions will be welcome! Min 500 words. no max. This is a first draft
I sat on the cold, cement steps in front of my house waiting. Not waiting for an infrequent call from a distant friend, but for something, anything to happen on this bleak, winter day. I used to play in the thick mounds of snow when I was at an impressionable age of eight. Bundled up in a royal blue jacket, and armed with a lichen covered stick, I became the fearless hunter of the great Artic Chicken of the North! Its native name given to it by the Eskimos in Canada is Nuaaluinikqu, or Beast-That-Clucks-At-The-Sun. The creature is covered in feathers, each as unique as a snowflake. Its talons are like silver daggers and they're attached to large, powerful orange grappling hook- like claws. However, the most terrifying part about it was its eyes. Each eyeball was like a black hole. Stare too hard, and you might find yourself paralyzed, and unable to move.
Stalking the mythical beast takes skill. Oftentimes, my rigorous journey required me to slink through the forest and around the immense, endless frozen lake. Sometimes, the crafty avian would try to hide in the unending rows of identical cave dwellings, only differentiated by the numbers engraved on the rocky surface. During the hunts, I also had to be wary. There was more danger here than in New York subway. I'd rather brave the fusty smelling germ-laden place they call a "public bathroom" than climb the snow covered peaks in search of the elusive Artic Chicken.
Ah! There it is! My mind of a forty-year old hunter nearly asphyxiated itself in glee and terror. Was I ready? Yes, I was. I ran with my spear, screaming like a hawk, towards the Artic Chicken and attacked with the fury of a stampeding elephant. Then, a gunshot rang out and knocked me out of my reverie. My mother was standing at the sliding panel motioning for me to come in. I looked down at the broken lichen covered stick and threw it next to the pool. I ran to retrieve my maroon hat, covered in decaying leaves and also the sad, soggy yellow chicken sitting in the foot-deep snow. As I struggled up the creaky wooden steps to the sliding door, my mother said "Come, Dad bought chicken feet from Chinatown".
I was a braver soul back when I was eight. Have I been reduced to a mindless lump sitting on concrete steps, gazing aimlessly at the cloned houses with neatly manicured lawns? My dinky cell phone buzzed and vibrated impatiently.
"Hello love! You're going to the mall? Well, don't leave me behind in the tundra!" I hung up and walked to the end of my driveway, breathing deeply, wondering where that Artic Chicken went.
I sat on the cold, cement steps in front of my house waiting. Not waiting for an infrequent call from a distant friend, but for something, anything to happen on this bleak, winter day. I used to play in the thick mounds of snow when I was at an impressionable age of eight. Bundled up in a royal blue jacket, and armed with a lichen covered stick, I became the fearless hunter of the great Artic Chicken of the North! Its native name given to it by the Eskimos in Canada is Nuaaluinikqu, or Beast-That-Clucks-At-The-Sun. The creature is covered in feathers, each as unique as a snowflake. Its talons are like silver daggers and they're attached to large, powerful orange grappling hook- like claws. However, the most terrifying part about it was its eyes. Each eyeball was like a black hole. Stare too hard, and you might find yourself paralyzed, and unable to move.
Stalking the mythical beast takes skill. Oftentimes, my rigorous journey required me to slink through the forest and around the immense, endless frozen lake. Sometimes, the crafty avian would try to hide in the unending rows of identical cave dwellings, only differentiated by the numbers engraved on the rocky surface. During the hunts, I also had to be wary. There was more danger here than in New York subway. I'd rather brave the fusty smelling germ-laden place they call a "public bathroom" than climb the snow covered peaks in search of the elusive Artic Chicken.
Ah! There it is! My mind of a forty-year old hunter nearly asphyxiated itself in glee and terror. Was I ready? Yes, I was. I ran with my spear, screaming like a hawk, towards the Artic Chicken and attacked with the fury of a stampeding elephant. Then, a gunshot rang out and knocked me out of my reverie. My mother was standing at the sliding panel motioning for me to come in. I looked down at the broken lichen covered stick and threw it next to the pool. I ran to retrieve my maroon hat, covered in decaying leaves and also the sad, soggy yellow chicken sitting in the foot-deep snow. As I struggled up the creaky wooden steps to the sliding door, my mother said "Come, Dad bought chicken feet from Chinatown".
I was a braver soul back when I was eight. Have I been reduced to a mindless lump sitting on concrete steps, gazing aimlessly at the cloned houses with neatly manicured lawns? My dinky cell phone buzzed and vibrated impatiently.
"Hello love! You're going to the mall? Well, don't leave me behind in the tundra!" I hung up and walked to the end of my driveway, breathing deeply, wondering where that Artic Chicken went.