Descriptive Writing

Poetry Recreations - Descriptive Writing Assessment Draft

                                                                                                                         Tuesday  27 April, 1795

The storm was a monster, ferocious and formidable. She roared above our heads with all the ferocity of an enraged great cat. The Morrigan was thrown around; back and forth, back and forth she went, helpless against the Great Storm' ire. What brought about this monster, you ask, but I know not the answer.

The Morrigan, however, was fearless, she powered on through the storm like nothing could stop her. By now we'd passed the Eye and were thrown back into the thick of it. The sea was death incarnate, lunging across the deck at us and sweeping us off our feet, only to drag us overboard to Davy Jones' Locker.

We never even saw them, black as the ace of spades, hey rose up out of the ocean's ice depths so suddenly we had no hope of avoiding them. The sea cackled in glee and threw us harshly against the jagged rocks, and the Morrigan, though she tried, disintergrated against them. We were shipwrecked in the middle of the Great Storm of 1790. We were doomed.

Then, frighteningly, the storm vanished. The skies cleared, the sea calmed. T'was if the storm had never happened. We realised then, that we were trapped on a large, forest-covered island. But it was strange, the air tasted wrong, different, unnatural.

The air was a yellow-strange, it struck at our eyes and made them stream with water and it slid dowm our throats and made us choke. I remember that it made us all gasp for breath, it polluted our minds and turned us against each other. I could feel eyes on me, eyes that I could not see and it tormented me.

We continued on, shoving our way thought the trees, the sun was in the sky, so that was good. Then we saw something that sent a bolt of shock thought us. A sun. We looked right. A sun. We looked left. A sun. Two suns. Continuous light with no end in sight.