Thread: Capture a moment in a single sentence

So in English class this week, we were given the assignment of writing "long sentences," which have to be at least 6 lines long in MS Word. The catch was that it had to be grammatically correct, and could only be compounded once. So I wrote my first one, and after looking at it, realized I compounded twice. So I wrote two other ones, hoping they would be correct.

Anyways, the challenge is for you to do the same thing, write a long sentence that is grammatically correct, compounded only once, and captures some sort of image or emotion.

I've included the three I did, just to give you an idea of what to do.

Have fun.

1. Dusk, much like the rain, brings the bittersweet longing of our hearts, a longing for younger days, for rustic summers and pseudo-winters, for innocence and golden hearts, yet to be broken, shattered, trampled, burned, like dreams we learned we'd never see, aspirations we're told are foolish, hopes and ideas all thrown away as nothing; we may still gaze at stars, and may still wish on wells, but we all know those days are gone, washed away like the tide washes away our stoutest castles of sand, despite our dearest endeavors, smoothed down to nothing, like words written in the sand, written on the walls, written in our minds... but no-one listens anymore, for twilight has crept into our hearts, as dark and cold as the bitter dusk of a winter's day.

2. The house, looking as old and frayed as an ancient family heirloom, sits silently atop a hill, brown with the dead grass and dirt that stretches in every direction as far as the eye could see, covered in dust and disarray, lined with broken windows, shatters of glass laying both inside and outside; in the ruins of what used to be the front porch, the door hangs off it’s hinges, allowing only a sliver of sunlight to tentatively reach into the building, before seeming to shrink back from the stale, moldy air that has undoubtedly been floating around inside the dwelling for more decades than one would care to count, only escaping as the occasional breeze would flow through the openings that used to be windows, carrying it’s dust and filth out into the hills, now shadowed and sorrowful in the impending twilight.

3. Though he stands slouched at the corner of the street, everyone (even the tourists) know that the raggedy man with the sign is no more than an imposter, attempting to glean as much money as possible to supplement his by no means meager income; his apparel, though, is suitable to those whose lives he is trying to imitate, from the tattered army jacket with a faded “Impeach the president” button on it, pinned next to an easily recognizable hippy symbol, a symbol seen so often in pictures from the years of Vietnam, to his overly baggy, dirty orange pants that he undoubtedly stole from a dumpster or a thrift store, to his similarly worn combat boots, which have turned from black to grayish-black with the wear and tear of dust and time, imposed so well on the man’s gruff, unshaven face.

Awesome idea for a writing challenge Penguin

I don't think I compounded mine at all...

I once went to a comedy club somewhere on the west side of the city near a gothic coffee shop that served drinks containing “Blood Strawberry Syrup”, “Dark Death Chocolate” and several other ingredients named crudely in some kind of attempt to hide the trendy, conformist appeal behind a curtain of darkness, depression and anything that embraces an attitude of denying exactly that which the insecure, desperate, sports-playing and cheerleading whiney teenager craves in a bogus self-defining logo to sew to his forehead and laugh manically over.

I'm not keen on compound sentence or run on so correct me if I'm wrong which I have a sneaking feeling I am. But here is my shot.

I wasn’t pedaling simply to make my way up a hill but rather to humiliate the man in front of me attempting the same feat but with less vigor than I commanded under my feet, attached to shoes with a sold sole that made a perfect surface for each plod to pound down upon sending more kinetic energy into the movement propelling me up the hill, all in an effort to pass my competitor and break his will.

Fun!

She bulled her way out of his house with what felt like a dagger sticking out of her heart, bleeding, searing, punching holes in her lungs, squeezing unshed tears into dry eyes, stinging, a gut-wrenching cry of anguish rising in her throat, constricting her air, down the sloping cobblestone driveway, through the looming black, wrought-iron gate framed with exotic trees, to the wide, tree-lined street overlooking the glowing valley, to her lusterless blue Mercedes parked at the curb in front of his stone and wrought iron, heavily tree-lined property, found her keys in her red patent leather purse, opened the door and climbed swiftly inside where she locked the doors, turned over the engine and pushed on the gas before anyone could approach her.