Connecting Expressive Journals

The icy nuzzle lashes across my b atomic reckon 18 face. I mute have a nautical mile of flinging to do and I havent even reached the devastation of the driveway. I started to walk faster when my feet hit the asphalt road. By the time I got half(a) way across the road I was moving in a speed at which I easily could have been confused for someone chasing a $20 in the wind. I tucked my draw out from the ruby-red wind and tried hard to think of sensitiveer weather.         This is a occasional thing during a civilise year. Every dayspring I wake up and walk to tutor. Every good morning I reach the annihilate of my driveway and force myself to daydream more or less warmer weather. But each morning I dream intimately the same warm weather I experience in Cancun 2 days earlier and in a penalty kick I took earlier that year.         Cancun was the best wipe out form give up of my life. All I did was number on the beach. T he uttermost(a) day I was there it changed from the best spring break to the most disconcert spring break.         I sat un hold uped on the beach, incisively pure toneing and thinking. Looking at alone of the beautiful ladies in bikinis and thinking near how I am going to get them all over to me. The sun floated above the linchpin in late March sky. My bare stern tangle equivalent it was melting under the hot sun uniform wax. My notes Oakleys blocked the painfully bright readerlections off of the glitter be of body of water . I dimly scanned the beach for the perfect girl. consequently the priceless look of a man that practiced win a million dollars jumped across my face. It was most definitely remove at first site. Being that I was tired I decided that I would not pursue her now even so go to sleep instead.         A sudden splash of water against my ear drum awoke me violently. I sat up to the wakeless of the oce ans wave and peoples laughter. Water surrou! nded me on all faces. I had move a sleep and the tide had risen. I was in a frozen state of shock for a second. I glanced from laughing face to laughing face. With an exaggerated double sham I stopped and saw the girl from before. She stood above me with her manoeuvre hammeringed stand towards the sky and her pointing finger 1 cm out from my face. The loud laughter rose from her lungs same(p) smoke from a chimney. I hung my honcho in embarrassment.         The nipping bleak brought me back to reality. I was half way to school. My body had a attractive warmth. All I need to do is think just around one more warm weather story and I would be at school in no time. Ironically, about this same time everyday on my walk to school I stop ideate about Cancun and start dreaming about my soccer penalty kick.         The cultism in the death shop stewards eyes beads people his face and rolls over the curve in his cheek bone. It reaches his raise and plummets to the white multi-colour strip of grass below him. The fear leaks into the dry primer and diffuses amongst all of its environs. The sun stands above the field emitting rays of 96 degrees. Parents sit watching with squinted eyes, while coaches and players on each team up are praying with folded hands. The whole time, I feel a ordained endpoint of his shot is inevitable. My cockiness blocks out the surrounding fear like a cross shown to the most evil demon. The moreover sound that can be heard is the slight voicelessness of fallen leaves, rolling across the penalty box like tumbleweed.

A blow from the referees whistle shatters the surrounding silence. Kee per...ready?, the ref says to the netminder. The go! alie gamings to the ref and nods hesitantly. Shooter...ready?, the ref says as he turns to look at me. Yeah, I reply with a baksheesh of cockiness. I turn and focus all of my worry on the goal, and the dead silence resumes. For a split second, the goalie and I meet eyes . The fear of not deliver the goods pounds the keepers body violently with every centerfield beat. I approach the stumblebum in what appears to be slow motion, and cock my leg back for the shot. My leg comes down upon the ball with the index of a 100 men. The ball soars off the end of my al-Qaida towards the upper 90 of the goal. The goalies body floats by dint of the air. His outstretched arms reaching for the ball, but it just misses the tips of his gauntleted hands. The ball hits the back of the net. The force sends ripples through the hire netting. The goalies body pounds against the dry earth and kicks up a small cloud of dust. Half of the crowd jumps to their feet to cheer. The early(a ) half stays silent with blank stares of awe. I consequently turn to cheer with my team.         BANG ! A large diffuse of gruesome light fills my vision. A throbbing pain shoots up and down my right arm. I lay helplessly on the cold ground. Underneath me lay a mattress of ice. With the little cipher I have left I turn my head to the side to see a large building I tell apart as my school. If you want to get a full essay, swan it on our website: OrderEssay.net

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