ForumsArt, Music, and Writing[necro] Rate My Essay Please :D

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wakabakawaka
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wakabakawaka
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Hello! I have an essay that is due in a few days and I just wanted some unbiased general feedback on it. It's a descriptive essay and can only be two and a half pages max double spaced. So! Give me your opinions please and what you liked or did not like. All tips are welcome! Thank you


A thin yellow beam of light shot thought the broken shades of a window, piercing the darkness within the room. For a few moments, the room lay silent, absorbed in its own tranquility. Suddenly, the blaring of and alarm clock shattered the peace and immediately movement occurred. The groaning of a sleepy boy was heard as he slowly left the comfort of his warm bed to make his journey to the window. Scuffing of tin cans and paper could be heard as they where shuffled on the floor with every heavy stomp.
As the window blind was drawn in a clumsy fashion, a crisp view of the rectangular room was seen. The entirety of the surrounding area could be summed up as a total wreck; papers and garbage alike where scattered amongst clothes and old cans, almost consuming the entire faded hardwood floor. There were only four main stations that rested in the room. Along side the long left wall lay a thick Sony television set with a certain degree of damage upon the sides and screen. A towering mahogany dresser that stood by the far left wall of the room contained a assortment of treasures and trophies. And the middle of the long right wall was an old sturdy bunk bed made of cherry, in which the bottom was inhabited by the boy, and the top squarely tucked in with crisp sheets. At the foot of the bed lay a giant wooden desk, covered in various papers and hosting a white laptop. And on the far right wall laid an average white bookcase, crammed full of magazines and graphic novels rather than books. The tattered tan walls were cluttered with old memories and numerous dusty photos of the boys youth, along side a large orange and black jersey with an âAâ sewn over the left breast, hovering above the bookcase. Papers were posted on the varnished door across from the bed that read âGive It Your All!â and âEarn Your Colors!â, and a humongous portrait of a single, smiling child stood planted to the wall over the bed.
Hockey seemed to dominate the boyâs life, as old goalie gear and sticks of all heights and conditions where cast into separate areas of the room. Of the three shelves, the bottom two contained a collection of aging hand equipment in the boyâs sport. Some where used to the point of destruction, with a barrage of puck marks on the many catching gloves and blockers, proving their worth from the countless tours of duty. Some lay untouched, with instead a single signature written in black laying on the broad-most part of the equipment. But on the highest part of the dresser, almost touching the white ceiling, were five identical plaques with marble finish.
Upon these plaques contained a single picture in the top right corner of the youth in his armor, stance ready in between the pipes of a hockey goal. To the left of the single shot the boyâs name was inscribed, reading âLance Shards. Position - Goaltenderâ in sly bold lettering. Taking up the bottom half of the plaque was a team picture with every member being crunched into the center of the photo, trying to fit. If looking from afar at these plaques, one would think that they where all mirror images looking so alike. However, the pictures showed the growth of the boy from left to right and almost reached into adulthood. Like all of the other photographs that dwelled in the room, they were covered in dust due to the lack of general upkeep. But out of all of the captured memories, one lay without a spec of dust, almost as if a shield had prevented any particles from reaching the wooden finish.
The only photo that was left unharmed by the dust was the portrait of a boy dwelling above the bed. Captured inside the broad dark cherry frame was a single, smiling child, looking similar to the boy in the plaques. He was about four feet of height, with neat tan shorts and a ruffled brown shirt. Sitting barefoot on a grass hillside with legs outstretched, he had a look of innocence upon his face that his large amber eyes and scruffy brown hair only added to. But what defined the picture was the broad toothless smile that rested on the youthâs face, bolstering the warmth that was emitted from the photograph. A strip of bronze metal lay at the frame, with an inscription that read âIsaac Shards. 1991-1997â. Out of all of the objects that rested in the room, out of all of the memories and treasures that covered the shelves and walls, the portrait of the boy was the most precious. This was the room of the Shards boys.

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