Essay on a stormy day

Turning sharply from the lulling water, I force my feet to leave the warm imprint they have grown to love among the sand. One foot after the other, I force myself away from the calm and into the storm. Just ahead, the shingles of my little house come into view. The roof is worn from years of wind and rain, and the paint is now chipping and old.

There was peculiar stillness in the air; not a leaf stirred, not whiff of wind blew. It looked like calm before the storm. Unmindful of these foreboding signs, my friend and I set out for a long walk along the beach.

The clouds were an almost black color and swirling in circles like a never-ending whirlpool, the waves were crashing on the old rundown jetty. I feel alone, scared, I hate storms and living on the cliff on an empty beach with nobody around makes everything else seem even more mysterious.

I got out of bed and ran to the window that is on the other side of my medium sized bedroom; as soon as I looked outside I instantly regretted it. The clouds were an almost black color and swirling in circles like a never-ending whirlpool, the waves were crashing on the old rundown jetty.