Lively Lake George
I clutch on as firmly as possible to the advancing boat as it dashes towards its
destination. The view, utterly breathtaking, encompasses every one of my
senses. I encounter the sun’s warmth radiating on my skin as the glowing sphere
shines downward from the seemingly painted on sky. This artwork possesses no
clouds or blemishes to corrupt its royal blue perfection, making it appear to go
forth into a stunning eternity. I then convert my gaze to the sights along the lake:
the tremendous Adirondack Mountains. Towering and statuesque, they border
the entire area and occupy everyone inside. The sunlight bounces off Black
Mountain, the most prodigious one of them all, reflecting back on the glistening
water which now looks like it is being cloaked by a million mirrors. Wisps of crisp
water from the chop of the boat splash onto my face and bring me back to reality
as my cheerful friends and I reach Log Bay. Dozens of boats and jet skis, along
with and an abundance of enthusiastic athletes and revelers, conceal the
luminous water. Laughter echoes from all sides, which prepares us for an
adventurous day to come. I leap off the boat and onto the cushioned sand at the
bottom of the shallow lake. Glimpsing down, I detect my toes clearly as I begin to
move farther out into deeper waters. Party music engages my ears and the smell
of a barbecue tantalizes my nose, making this place appear even more
welcoming than before. Waves envelop me more and more with each step, every
one taking me closer to the island standing idle in the middle. I inhale the fresh
air as a rejuvenating breeze sneaks up on me every now and then. Lying on my
back, I float, surrounded by nature and my seven best friends, enjoying the life
Lake George has to offer.
Roy Rogers Rest Stop-Horrific
Protruding against the crystal clear sky, an opaque haze constructed a blockade,
twisting and rooting itself along the wretched borders of a Roy Rogers rest stop. The
front doors stood nontransparent, blanketed in a thick layer of rising steam,
blotching any sense of visibility . Entering the godforsaken establishment, I grasped the
burnt, rusty door handle and I pulled with all of my might. The doors roared open and the
foul odor of uncooked roast beef and repulsive restrooms raged liked bats pouring out of
hell. I placed each step on the monotonous bloodless tiled floor. However, after each
step, I was forced to tug my feet out of the Pepsi slush that lay splattered in the crevices
of the ceramic floor. Slinging spiteful glances, shadowy figures precariously
stood against the graffiti laced walls, snickering and muttering to themselves.
Humming monotonously, the single Pepsi machine remained dingy, and
rattled thunderously as impatient people shook it’s body, and slammed it’s red and blue
face. “Seasons in the sun” clattered in the speakers above, and it repeated itself
infinitely. It was like some dark void, where it’s occupants would live through the ghosts
of the seventies.
A cashier appeared emotionless, speaking into the saliva stained microphone.
The separator between the cashier and customers rotted away, as the blood red paint
slowly flaked into millions of pieces. Roast beef sandwiches invaded my nostrils,
sending messages of self destruction to my taste buds. The polluting odor pumped out
of the kitchen like industrial smoke stacks, filling every inch of the Roy Rogers. The
eating furniture sat untouched, it’s unsanitary tabletops collected descending paint chips,
creating mountains of asbestos and lung cancer. I expected the ghastly floor to open it’s
mouth and devour me, as I plunge deep into the depths of hell.
Batting Cages- Dingy
As I gripped onto the rusty, chipped doorknob and turned it, the room on
the other side unleashed a waft of cold, damp air that hit me in the face like
a ton of bricks. The putrid odor of sweat, burnt rubber, and damp concrete
violated my nostrils as I inhaled deeply. Suddenly, the buzz of electricity
echoed throughout the desolate space, and a few overheard lighting
fixtures expelled a dim light. Cobwebs inhabited every corner and puddles
of rain that had seeped through the many holes in the ceiling, reflected the
gloomy light which filled the room. Damaged refrigerators stood huddled to
the right of me, like a pack of misfit toys, and to the left were rows of
unwanted paintings stacked on top of each other and caked in substance
that looked like a mixture of dirt and old grease. My eyes wandered to the
windows on the adjacent side of this gloomy area that stretched on
forever. Only a few windows remained intact, others were poorly covered
in rotting wood boards and ripped, gray rags that looks as unpleasant as
they smelled, which was the stench of must and decaying plants. Grease
and crushed gum were embedded in the ancient carpets which were torn
from the friction created by the pivoting sneakers of players who frequently
occupy this miserable building. The net, which surrounded the screeching
pitching machines and the unorthodox spray painted home plate, was torn
and frayed in certain areas. I reached down to pick up a faded yellowishbrown softball, and stood back up uncomfortably, to find that my pants
were covered in a brown, crusty substance that resembled mud and oil
mixed together. Uncomfortably, I let my bat bag plummet to damp, grimy
floor covered in stagnant puddles of rain water and leaves which had
slithered through the cracks of the windows. This would be my new home
during the fall and winters for the next four years until I finally graduated
high school and could leave this smudge in my softball career behind.