Quintero 1 Jorge Quintero C. Taylor English 1GT 8 September, 2009 Just a nonher day. I dropped my underused, ancient cell phone into my deep pocket. “Hey mom, we’re flying to the bayou!” “We’re” referred to David and I. David was a nice guy, but he did non stick up for any individuality. He was very scrawny, weak, and had bulb-shaped varicose veins. A five-foot idiot, he also had much overturn world soci ally inclined. He always followed people who wouldn’t hurt him. Loser. My mother watched over us as we dead individual from the back of our house. I guess it was a motherly office to do though sometimes she would scream out my go and wave uncontrollably. Now that would be embarrassing. The moment we stepped onto the grass of the bayou, I redirected him to the dirt path in the center of the whole paseo and began our small journey from there. “Where are we going?” David questioned with cur iosity. Quintero2 “To the lake. I gotta instal you an epic vie--,” David didn’t let me finish before he started pointing out very interesting disclosed places in the creek to the left of us, and the thickets to the right of us. It did look more beautiful than usual.
The behave up seemed to blend in beautifully with the tall trees and thin houses, a nice verdant look. The blend of concrete and grasses outfit perfectly, all reflected on the creek at the bottom of the path. “I aspect you would be doing something else for the fourth of July, David.” “Well nothing conk out t han spending it with trees and grasses, eh?! ” After he made his statement, I began to life aware about my history of all the times I had with much(prenominal) a simplistic gift of nature. I had my eyes on the dirt path in front of me. I succumbed to silence. “What? What happened?!” I was completely shocked. Quintero3 He hid behind me once he plow a Pit-bull bark at him. I assumed-though...If you want to stifle a full essay, order it on our website:
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