Joey D
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- Lakes of the North, MI
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- GTP Joey
Ok I'm in the process of writing this story for my descriptive writing class. Its a rough daft so the grammer might be a bit bad, but judge the story based on what its about. Does it need to be more descriptive? Please help me out. Thanks.
The Stroke of Midnight
It was the dead of night time and the sky was full of the citys lights. Down by the run down chemical factories in the industrial part of town lays a hidden strip, shunned from the normal life of the city. The blackened buildings, windowless, motionless shadow both sides of street driven drag way. The road is lightless, just the moon and the omni glow of the city.
Normal people, the everyday working class was in their beds sleeping and getting ready for the days ahead. But down by the chemical factories a different kind of people were just starting to get into action. They were truly people of the night; to them the darkness was like day and the day like the night. These people lived for the night and only wished the day would go by faster and faster every time.
These people are true to life street racers, they are on a constant high of adrenaline and are always wanting another fix by pushing themselves and there super modified rockets of the blacktop harder and faster. Always want to bring shame to the other guy by showing them that their ride is better, faster, and able to blow the minds of anyone who dare mess with it.
These people consider their automobile an extension of oneself. These beast of steel, plastic and fiberglass which roar across the asphalt at speed which would twist the minds of a normal driver. These rides are tricked out in ways most people could never envision. Wild colour schemes, insane engine mods that double the horsepower out put, outrageous body kits that warp the perception of what the auto actually is.
The racer is a whole new breed of person. They dont need anything but themselves and there ride. When they insert the key and fire it up. They breathe life into their quiet creation. They almost take the role of God as he breathed life into Adam. They are the ones who deem their automobile a living being.
No one has the capability to tell a non racer what its like. You just need to experience yourself. Racers are all about their machines and nothing else. They dont need family, other racers provide family, they dont need laws, they make their own laws, and they dont need anything. Racers are mysterious people of the night, who twist the minds of the best.
Just as the clock strokes midnight upon the city of angels, two black silhouetted machines approach a spray painted white line, the tension grows. The first race of the night is between a 99 Honda Civic Si and an 85 Mustang LX. The Civic was am outlandish sort. It skin was a highly shined black with blue vinyl accents on the side. A blue omni glow seeped from the undercarriage. The headlamps were a deep, darkened amber as the light was entrapped by the plastic covers. The car was wrapped wit a body kit which twisted the dimensions of the sight and mind. The car looked like it should be on a velvet red carpet surround by a hot blonde, not on the asphalt proving if it got what it takes.
The Mustang was black as well, but it was a different kind of black, it was flat, no shine. It absorbed the light, like the beast of the night. The only shine came from its twin pipes hanging out the rear of the car. The beast was beaten; dents and rust spotted the car in various places. It had been driven hard and never felt the love of a man who loves cars more then life itself. It looked like it should be placed in an auto grave yard, kept off the street. At best in a garage for a weekend project.
Both cars pull to the line in almost perfect synchronization and stop with front tires barely touching the line. The whole show has been done hundreds of times, its second nature to anyone whos done it. Showtime is about to begin.
A man emerges from the passenger side of the Mustang and walks between the cars. He points to the Civic and shakes his pointer finger up in the air to signal a rev up. The Civic drive throttles it causes the car to let out a high pitched whine, like a blender on steroids, from the exhaust system, followed by the spray sound, as if a tire had let out air, of the blow off value to release the pressure of running a turbo. The man outside drops his hand, to signal to cease the rev. He repeats the process with the Mustang. The Mustang has a deeper, rumble when its revved, a sound of naturally aspirated power. He is signaled to cease the revs.
Both car sit there on the starting line, like beast waiting to attack their prey. They are silent and still. The middle man raises his hands and the beast come to life in a fury of rage. The engines rev and the cars rock from the power, they are ready to go. The hands drop and the gears engage. The tires from both machines howl in the nights as they emitted smoke from the tires while they try and claw for grip. When the tires hook up the black top racers shoot forward and leave behind a cloud of blue and white smoke.
The Mustang gets off to an early led due to its tremendous amount of low end power and torque. Its catless pipes rumble as the gears of its 5 speed engage one by one in almost perfect harmony. But not far behind the Civic is coming up faster and faster. Both vehicles are neck and neck as they cross the eighth of a mile mark. Both speedometer shows that the car are at sixty. The Mustang is slowly pulling away again, but the Civic is running something that the Mustang isnt expecting. The Civic shoots the juice from the bottles that are hooked in the trunk. The nitrous is like a drug for the engine making it go faster and push harder. The Civic lurches forward with a short squelch of the tires.
Just as soon as it began the Civic crosses the finish line thirteen seconds after the first gear was engaged. As he crosses the line the hazard lights flip on to disclose a win. A few tenths later the Mustang crosses the line, beaten but not by much. They both come to a stop. The Mustang has been put to shame by a rocket of the east and he knows it.
They sit there when the sound all racers dread break the tranquil sound of there inner city strip. The one thing that can stop a street racer in his tracks, the law enforcement. There sirens pierce the air as they roar toward the hidden drag. The drivers scramble to their getaways. They both leave in a cloud of smoke as the sirens come closer to the strip and the roar of the motors fade into the distant night. The racers have evaded their foe to live and battle on the blacktop
So why must the racers risk life and liberty over something so simple as a drag? Its not about racing. Its about respect and the ecstasy of going so fast on a public road, endangering themselves and other while they do it. It gives them a certain rush that nothing else can compare to. They like to prove that they are the better racer. Its the way of the street.
Next time the sounds of the night are shattered by the roar of two engines that last for twelve seconds. Know its the warriors of the road, the pilots of the black top rockets, showing the other guy they got what it takes to be the king of the street and its king is crowned at the stroke of midnight.
The Stroke of Midnight
It was the dead of night time and the sky was full of the citys lights. Down by the run down chemical factories in the industrial part of town lays a hidden strip, shunned from the normal life of the city. The blackened buildings, windowless, motionless shadow both sides of street driven drag way. The road is lightless, just the moon and the omni glow of the city.
Normal people, the everyday working class was in their beds sleeping and getting ready for the days ahead. But down by the chemical factories a different kind of people were just starting to get into action. They were truly people of the night; to them the darkness was like day and the day like the night. These people lived for the night and only wished the day would go by faster and faster every time.
These people are true to life street racers, they are on a constant high of adrenaline and are always wanting another fix by pushing themselves and there super modified rockets of the blacktop harder and faster. Always want to bring shame to the other guy by showing them that their ride is better, faster, and able to blow the minds of anyone who dare mess with it.
These people consider their automobile an extension of oneself. These beast of steel, plastic and fiberglass which roar across the asphalt at speed which would twist the minds of a normal driver. These rides are tricked out in ways most people could never envision. Wild colour schemes, insane engine mods that double the horsepower out put, outrageous body kits that warp the perception of what the auto actually is.
The racer is a whole new breed of person. They dont need anything but themselves and there ride. When they insert the key and fire it up. They breathe life into their quiet creation. They almost take the role of God as he breathed life into Adam. They are the ones who deem their automobile a living being.
No one has the capability to tell a non racer what its like. You just need to experience yourself. Racers are all about their machines and nothing else. They dont need family, other racers provide family, they dont need laws, they make their own laws, and they dont need anything. Racers are mysterious people of the night, who twist the minds of the best.
Just as the clock strokes midnight upon the city of angels, two black silhouetted machines approach a spray painted white line, the tension grows. The first race of the night is between a 99 Honda Civic Si and an 85 Mustang LX. The Civic was am outlandish sort. It skin was a highly shined black with blue vinyl accents on the side. A blue omni glow seeped from the undercarriage. The headlamps were a deep, darkened amber as the light was entrapped by the plastic covers. The car was wrapped wit a body kit which twisted the dimensions of the sight and mind. The car looked like it should be on a velvet red carpet surround by a hot blonde, not on the asphalt proving if it got what it takes.
The Mustang was black as well, but it was a different kind of black, it was flat, no shine. It absorbed the light, like the beast of the night. The only shine came from its twin pipes hanging out the rear of the car. The beast was beaten; dents and rust spotted the car in various places. It had been driven hard and never felt the love of a man who loves cars more then life itself. It looked like it should be placed in an auto grave yard, kept off the street. At best in a garage for a weekend project.
Both cars pull to the line in almost perfect synchronization and stop with front tires barely touching the line. The whole show has been done hundreds of times, its second nature to anyone whos done it. Showtime is about to begin.
A man emerges from the passenger side of the Mustang and walks between the cars. He points to the Civic and shakes his pointer finger up in the air to signal a rev up. The Civic drive throttles it causes the car to let out a high pitched whine, like a blender on steroids, from the exhaust system, followed by the spray sound, as if a tire had let out air, of the blow off value to release the pressure of running a turbo. The man outside drops his hand, to signal to cease the rev. He repeats the process with the Mustang. The Mustang has a deeper, rumble when its revved, a sound of naturally aspirated power. He is signaled to cease the revs.
Both car sit there on the starting line, like beast waiting to attack their prey. They are silent and still. The middle man raises his hands and the beast come to life in a fury of rage. The engines rev and the cars rock from the power, they are ready to go. The hands drop and the gears engage. The tires from both machines howl in the nights as they emitted smoke from the tires while they try and claw for grip. When the tires hook up the black top racers shoot forward and leave behind a cloud of blue and white smoke.
The Mustang gets off to an early led due to its tremendous amount of low end power and torque. Its catless pipes rumble as the gears of its 5 speed engage one by one in almost perfect harmony. But not far behind the Civic is coming up faster and faster. Both vehicles are neck and neck as they cross the eighth of a mile mark. Both speedometer shows that the car are at sixty. The Mustang is slowly pulling away again, but the Civic is running something that the Mustang isnt expecting. The Civic shoots the juice from the bottles that are hooked in the trunk. The nitrous is like a drug for the engine making it go faster and push harder. The Civic lurches forward with a short squelch of the tires.
Just as soon as it began the Civic crosses the finish line thirteen seconds after the first gear was engaged. As he crosses the line the hazard lights flip on to disclose a win. A few tenths later the Mustang crosses the line, beaten but not by much. They both come to a stop. The Mustang has been put to shame by a rocket of the east and he knows it.
They sit there when the sound all racers dread break the tranquil sound of there inner city strip. The one thing that can stop a street racer in his tracks, the law enforcement. There sirens pierce the air as they roar toward the hidden drag. The drivers scramble to their getaways. They both leave in a cloud of smoke as the sirens come closer to the strip and the roar of the motors fade into the distant night. The racers have evaded their foe to live and battle on the blacktop
So why must the racers risk life and liberty over something so simple as a drag? Its not about racing. Its about respect and the ecstasy of going so fast on a public road, endangering themselves and other while they do it. It gives them a certain rush that nothing else can compare to. They like to prove that they are the better racer. Its the way of the street.
Next time the sounds of the night are shattered by the roar of two engines that last for twelve seconds. Know its the warriors of the road, the pilots of the black top rockets, showing the other guy they got what it takes to be the king of the street and its king is crowned at the stroke of midnight.
