My Experience Of Creative Writing

My Experience Of Creative Writing
Creative writing is something that has and always will be an important part of my life. It's helped me discover what I truly want to do in life and
something that I have been interested in ever since I was a young kid. I remember vividly when I first starting taking an interest in writing original
stories of my own. I was around the age of eight and at that point in my life I had never really been taught that I could write by using just my
imagination; when you're in second or third grade you're just being taught how to read and how to spell. So when I came home from school one day
and wrote a story about a dream I had, it was such an amazing revelation. I couldn't stop thinking about this dream I had one night, so on a whim I
decided...show more content...
My bedroom was my sanctuary; a place where I felt like no matter what, I could always be myself. That was my favorite place to write my stories and
for the next couple years it was a place where I would write hundreds of stories. Even today I still like to think of my bedroom as my go–to place of
peace, where I can write whatever I want. Fast–forward to my sixth grade year and I find myself at the helm of an important moment in my life that
involved creative writing. I was hoping to get into a private school, but in order to do so I first had to create a five–hundred–word essay about why I
should be able to attend. I had never really done anything like this in my entire life. For a couple days I thought hard about what I could say that
would stand out from the other thousands of essay the school receives every year. Then I thought about those stories I used to write and how original
they were and how easy they flowed from my mind. And so, I essentially wrote that essay on how Chaminade (my middle/high school) would be
getting one of the most creative, imaginative, strange–minded kids to ever walk through their hallways. And then I played the waiting game. For a
couple days, I waited to hear back from Chaminade. I remember telling my mom, "What if I was too original with my essay? What if they think I'm
too weird?" My mom always had the best responses for me. "I've never heard of anyone being too original," she would say. "And
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Creative Writing: The Rocket
"Wow, I hope that's me someday..." Bryan (the Rocket) Rockwood thought as he gazed upon a wax mannequin of Wayne Gretzky holding the
Stanley cup. Bryan and Ty were at a hockey hall of fame museum fairly close to his home. "Wouldn't that be amazing?" Ty asked in awe. Rocket's
best friend were Ty and Adam. He was humongous, about 5 foot 9. Compared to Rocket he looked like his older brother. Rocket guessed that he
was about 5 feet tall. Rocket was very short. They had all started playing for AAA Rangers hockey team 4 years ago, the year Rocket moved here.
Bryan moved here because his parents split up. It was tough because he rarely saw his dad, and his mom worked almost 12 hours a day and got next
to nothing. Nevertheless, she managed to pay for his hockey. "I just want to see what's inside!"...show more content...
The Blues were against the AAA Rangers. "Here we go," he thought. The puck dropped. Bryan hit it back before it hit the ground. The puck slid
right to the stick of the Blues captain. The Blues were up 4 to 3. Bryan blasted behind his own net. "Bring it," he said to himself. That was Ty,
Adam, and his old saying. The buzzer sounded to end the third period. It wasn't really as special as Bryan had thought. As Bryan took off his
skates he asked himself "Could there be more to life than just hockey?" He knew the answer. He grabbed his sticks and yelled out "Good game
guys!" As he walked down the hallway, he noticed Barker and James the General Manager talking. Barker saw him and immediately said "Bryan...
I was wrong. Size isn't everything. I would like to offer you a spot on the team before the regular season starts." Bryan replied "Actually... I think
I'll stay with the Blues. They are more hockey players than any of the Rangers. They helped me figure out what a real hockey player is. They need
me and I need them.... And by the way, I only play for real coaches". Bryan turned his back and walked to his ride. "That felt good," he thought "Yeah,
Hockey isn't

Essay On Becoming A Writer
I would like to become an author because I am passionate about the validity of books. Novels are educational tools disguised as entertaining
stories. Stories provide a template for people to divulge into a world unfamiliar to their own and learn from them. Moral, emotional, and interactive
lessons can be learned from novels, not to mention the good it does to tear eyes away from screens. People learn from worlds created by another
while also finding an escape from the harsh reality they live. I would be lucky to help someone learn and escape at the same time. Most who wish to
become authors cannot simply write on a piece of paper and become successful. Education is needed for most writers to become authors. To obtain a
Bachelor's Degree in writing at SCAD, "a student must have 180 credit hours" ("Writing"). At Georgia College, to get "an English Bachelor's in
Creative Writing Concentration students must" have approximately 96 to 105 credit hours and "maintain at least a 2.0 GPA" ("English B.A., Creative
Writing Concentration"). "Three of the required credit hours must be of a selected foreign language" ("English B.A., Creative Writing Concentration").
English majors at Reinhardt "must have an intermediate–level proficiency in a foreign language or pass an intermediate–level translation test"
("English StudiesCreative Writing"). Those who want a "Bachelor's in Common English Core" must have a total of 120 credits" consisting of "9 to 15
credit hours on one major author,

Creative Writing: The Awakening
Leaves glistened in the moonlight, as the wind howled in despair. I found myself alone, in the darkness, as I noticed a slim figure walking towards
me. Adrenaline rushed through my veins, as the individual walking towards me appeared to be a stranger. As the silhouette came closer, I realized
that it was my dear aunt. Her face beamed with excitement, and she grabbed me into a tight embrace. "I am moving on," she informed me as the
corners of her mouth pulled into a genuine smile. She then turned around and began to gracefully amble out of the hinterland, as her shadow
disappeared within the ominous darkness. I became aware that I was merely in a dream that was only a product of my subconscious mind. I became
lucid, as relief washed over...show more content...
Having the power of controlling your dreams is first made possible by dream recall. Sleeping longer is one prime steps to recalling dreams.
Furthermore, dream journals may also hold the power in one remembering their dreams, as all dreams are recorded on paper. Moreover, verbal
affirmation is also another way to remember dreams. Thus, one may execute the power of having authority their dream, virtual realm. Many
underestimate the immense power of being able to control our dreams. We sleep for в…“ of our lives. For this purpose, would we not want to be able
to control the в…“ of our lives

Depression Creative Writing
Depression
I feel depression creeping up my back like a spider crawling up my arm it's feel like my angel and demon tugging on me telling pick a side one saying
fall into depression and never come back and another saying live for the day and be happy.
It's always war with myself on a mythical battle field filled with all the good i've felt and all the bad i've felt and i'm losing but I will always
I feel alone my hearting sinking faster than the titanic rotting faster than a corpse my body weak from the pressure of faking being happy or was I
happy I can't tell anymore it all feels the same the loneliness killing what's left of feeling like i'm not alone depression killing my happiness I know
there is joy to be found but i take...show more content...
The black flame born from it's own pain it tries to be like the rest but it all it does is cause more pain and adds to its own though it knows what it
did and realizes that others also say and do same thing it will always blames itself. It begins to dim and die but it does not go out because it's
already dead but it's among the living. It does not know what it is it asks for help of others to answer this question but even then it is abandoned
so it's left to dim even lower with it's question. Each flame was given a name when first lit, but this one shedded itself of it's name for it did not
want to be known of what he once was. He feeds off others hatred and disgust for him so that he can remember his place and knows it does not
deserve love and compassion of others. Who he is in eyes of others is not who he is but when he is alone that's when he truly becomes who he is. This
black flame is me and it is who i am who I see the mirror is only but a shadow who I once was. Ladies and gentlemen boys and girls that is the story of
the black flame thank

Creative Writing: Intense Heat
I enjoyed the feeling of the hammock gently swaying back and forth,delighting in it's motion, lulling me into a profound sense of relaxation.
Above me, blue skies, and the occasional cloud shaped like an elephant floats overhead. Palm trees rustle in the occasional cool breeze that gently
swirls around, cooling the skin the sun is successfully bronzing. Unfortunately, there isn't enough of a breeze to keep cool. In fact, it's so hot, it's
hard to breathe, and I have to fight for every inhalation. I feel like a boa constrictor is coiled around me while the cloud elephant has taken form
and is resting over my torso impeding every breath. Underneath this menagerie, I'm slick and saturated from my body trying to cool itself. Finally,
when the discomfort had become too much, I struggled to free myself from the oppression of the weighted heat. I push and pull trying to get up,
but there is no movement. I try to move my legs but cannot lift them. I breathe heavily and gasp for more of the cool air circling me, but it is not
enough. I try to ask for help... I'm startled awake from an unfortunate dream of being smothered by circus animals, while on a tropical vacation.
What the hell? Note to self, no more M&M's before bed. Trying to take in that deep breath of air, I was unable to manage in my dream, I find I am
still unable. Opening my eyes, I work at bringing my surroundings into focus. My room, my bed...oh. A 6' 2", 180 pound body is strewn across mine,
no wonder.

Creative Writing: The Castle
The prince laid in bed tossing and turning, his mind spinning as he tried to collect his thoughts from the past few days. Thoughts of the lovely
young guard filling his head as he fell into a restless sleep. Not long passed before he was startled awake by a soft sound in the room. He looked up to
see Mallory standing a few feet from his bed, wearing loose pajamas and a wicked smile, a candle in her hand. She had picked the lock and snuck into
the room when she really shouldn't have even been in this wing of the castle, but Prince Edwin wasn't even surprised. Without a word he rose from his
bed with a small smile. As he stood she began to leave the room, and without a second thought he followed her. Together they wandered the long
twisting halls of the castle. The...show more content...
He decided then and there that he'd do almost anything to keep seeing that smile. Eventually then ended up in front of a tall heavy wooden door
and she quickly kneeled down to begin picking the lock. The prince glanced around to try and figure out where he was, but this was a part of the
castle he wasn't familiar with. The door sprang open and revealed a staircase spiraling up into darkness. Together they climbed the long winding
stairway that seemed to go on forever. Finally they reached a landing with another tall door. The guard looked back and gave the prince a bright
smile as she threw open the door that lead to a small room at the top of one of the castles tall spires. The kingdom sprawled out for miles all around
them, fading in to nothingness at the horizon. Heavy clouds obscured the moon, so the prince had no idea what time it might be, though he could
guess that it was very late. From somewhere in the shadows Mallory pulled a bottle of wine. After opening it and taking a small drink she handed it to
the prince, still smiling. Then, for the first time, she spoke to him. She did her best to whisper, but she was loud without even trying, though this high
above the castle it probably didn't

Creative Writing: Trapped! Essay
She almost floated across the empty, box–like room. A cold shiver relentlessly weaved its way down Emma's spine as she ran her bony hand down the
bleak wall. The fireplace glared at her – its mouth opened wide. The unfamiliar surroundings struck her as if forcing themselves against her weak body
–engulfing her. A soft breeze seething its way into the room from the uneven cracks underneath the door meant that the desolate room of openness had
become filled with the sigh of the wind. It was as if it was crying, almost howling for its voice to be heard.
The young girl slowly ebbed towards the corner of the room. Something had caught her eye – perhaps a sense of relief from the...show more content...
"Don't leave me here... I don't think I can take it anymore."
Almost as soon as she thought things couldn't get worse, the most terrifying sound rang in her ears. The sudden bolt of the bedroom door unlatching
itself made her thin face grow pale. And then she saw him. It was at this point that her imaginings were in fact reality. Draped in a long black coat,
stood a man – his eyes pierced her skin as he stared almost straight through her. His face – hidden by the dark layers of shadows – was square and
pointed. He lurched forward and seemed to look straight past the young helpless girl. A tight knot in her throat almost strangled her. She screamed...but
no sound escaped her lips...
At first she felt nothing, but then a surge of anger mixed with the overwhelming thoughts of humiliation swept through her body. Wispy tendrils of his
hair, brushed against her face, causing her to shiver slightly. She could feel his garments moving against her thin nightgown. She remembered how the
night before a gentle touch graced her forehead, a hand, and it moved down her face, tracing her eyes...her cheek...her mouth. She tried to pull away,
as fear began to overwhelm her senses, but he refused to let her go. He pulled her closer to him and she could feel his warm breath on her face. A
tingle, partly fear and partly excitement, shot through her and her heart

The House- Creative Writing Essay
I moaned softly to myself as I compelled my battered legs to carry me for the last time along the over–grown garden path, which I had once skipped
down so carelessly as a young boy. I sighed as I surveyed the acres; the once beautifully manicured, but now utterly disheveled expanse of garden
stretching before me. My gaze rested on the immense oak tree that cut into the landscape, once majestic and verdant but now withered and dieing. I
apprehensively forced my eyes to look directly ahead of me and focused them upon the house that had once given me so much happiness as a boy. I
mocked myself for thinking that I could bring those memories back. I let my eyes rove over the house, visualizing the...show more content...
The door was hanging off its hinges; there was no need for a key.
I stepped through the doorway. I put up my hands to brush away the silky cobwebs, relishing the spun–silk disintegrating at my touch. The floorboards
creaked after every leaden step I took. I took another deep breath to steady my nerves, and I entered the grand ballroom. The room was gloomy and
damp, I looked up to face the chandelier, but the ceiling was bare save for a gaping, splintering hole in the ceiling whsere it once hung. It must have
been taken when they came. I examined the whole room carefully and trod cautiously forwards. Glass crunched under my feet.
I brushed away some dust, and sat on the aged couch in front of the old fireplace. I had a flashback from when I was a boy: I saw mother knitting in
her large rocking chair, and father, he and I were roasting marshmallows in the great fireplace. This picture brought tears to my eyes, but I fought them
back. I couldn't have cried, I thought I was past that stage now, but still the tears kept coming and I took my handkerchief, blew my nose, wiped away
the tears, and struggled on up the curving stairs.
I shuffled forwards examining the various paintings hung on the wall that I remembered so very well. They were worthless in anyone else's eyes, but
mine. The wall was old and crusty, the wall

Reflection Of Creative Writing
It is my belief that through this class and the tools provided, that my growth as a writer has grown through leaps and bounds I would never have
assumed possible. It is not so much the skill I refer to, although I would think skill has gone up in some levels as well, but more so the appreciation
for the craft of writing itself. Intially, at the start of this class my sole goal was to further my understanding and appreciation of the writer's and books
that I so love to read. Through further evaluation within the first week, a few other goals came to mind, of which were, making writing a habit,
finishing what I start, stop second guess my writing skills and making effective use of detail and description. Through the use of the many articles,
various reading materials, whether poems or short stories, and especially through the workshop, I feel I was able to really push myself to
accomplishing these goals. I have thus far learned how important it is not to be skilled at writing per say, but to have the will to write, that poetry is
as much about it's sound as it is about it's subject, just how important character development is, how the narration and point of view of a story is
essential to the way the story is told, and just how much of a difference peer's critiques can make to your writing.
Since before the beginning of this creative writing course, I have always struggled to find a point to writing. By this, I mean that I always felt that
having great skill and talent was what was required to be a writer, let alone a great one. From this point, I felt there was no need to continue my
writing as I felt that in a sense it just wasn't good enough. However, reading the article "A Way of Writing", I found new hope. Here was a writer
who says things such as "I must be willing to fail. If I am to keep on writing, I cannot bother to insist on high standards. I must get into action and not
let anything stop me, or even slow me much"(Stafford) and quotes that writers don't necessarily have any special talent. The article "Why I Write"
instilled further optimism through the authors view on just being a writer, not focusing on being good or bad. I found her words in which she writes
"entirely to find out what I'm

Reflective Essay On Creative Writing
Learning to Create English 283 is a creative writing class. The class I took was taught by the well–respected Dr. Stewart. She has dedicated a majority
of her life to writing novels, poems and short stories. What makes her writing unique is the careful details and moment capturing scenes she constructs.
Creative nonfiction is the bread and butter of writing. The stories or poems are soaking with true facts and experiences. Aiming to create a bond
within our class, Week Ones assignment was to compose a letter of introduction. We as a class shared our strengths, weakness and what we expect to
gain from the class. This broke the ice for our class, making our transition into small groups easier. Each week, I took baby steps towards...show more
content...
Titled, 20 different ways to talk about creative nonfiction. I learned about back–story, factual vs emotional truth, narrative tension and voice. These
elements that carried me through the rest of the semester. Moving into Weeks Five and Six, revision was the main focus. Revising of lines folded into
the reading of sounds and Sonics. Both very important to the finalization of a creative nonfiction draft. Weeks 8–12 pushed the importance of drafts and
revision strategies. Our small groups started to meet at least once every week working to develop better drafts for our final portfolio. Our creative
piece should reflect our growth as a writer, using shape, structure, style, drafting and revision as tools to create our own story. Dr. Stewart left us in
confidence to pick whatever subjects we wanted to write about. With all these skills learned, the most important step in creative nonfiction is the
research. Most of my research derived from our class readings. I paid close attention to the writers approached there craft. Reading pieces out of writing
true such as "The Role of Research" and "Under the Influence". Had a huge impact on my learning. I began to understand the flow and how to examine
what I wanted to write about deeper. Without the influence of research, catching the reader's emotional, imaginative and intellectual attention is
extremely difficult. Having the correct structure and research combination in

How To Write A Creative Writing Essay
As a child, I had always been fascinated with the ocean, even more so, those who dare braved to conquer it. Every Saturday, in the early afternoon,
my father would take me down to the dock, and I would stare in awe at the many ships going in and out as he fed the sea gulls. However, on these
Saturday's, I would always keep my eye open for one specific ship. The only yacht to ever dock on a Saturday afternoon was steered by Captain C.
Fitz. At first, I marvelled at the thought that such a frail man could manoeuvre such a giant beast across a series of obstacles and waves. It wasn't
until I grew older and became a part of Captain C. Fitz crew, that I came to understand. The Captain was a tall man, whose height was only
defeated by a few. Although he towered over his crew, he not once looked down on them; rather, they looked up to him. His hands were visibly
rough, covered in calluses and dry patches, a side effect of his addiction to the steering of the yacht's rough bark wheel. At first glance, the Captain's
face was an embodiment of character, with thin cracked lips that curtained his ageless smile, deep brackets bordering his mouth, and crinkles at the
corner of his eyes deepening every time his raucous laughter ripped through the air, you would think the man had never experienced a sorrow or pain.
The Captain loved to rock up and down...show more content...
The engine would sputter at the most unfortunate times, and many of its parts would either glitch, or cease to work altogether. Eventually, the yacht
was deemed irreparable, and the crew was relieved from their positions. Whether it was bravery or idiocy that caused Captain C. Fitz to sail the yacht
one more time into oblivion, I did not know, but I did understand one thing. Both beings had been tired beyond the point of exhaustion, and were now
reminders that no matter how strong things seem at first glance, even metals bend if enough pressure is

My Passion For Creative Writing
Even as an elementary school student, I loved writing, reading, and telling stories. I wrote and created short films with my friends and family,
printed books I wrote and gave them to my neighbors to read and review, and got excited whenever my teacher gave a writing assignment for
homework. I took inspiration from the people around me, topics we discussed in school, and other works of literature I adored. Throughout my years,
my skills have improved through hard work and dedication. I feel that my application would not be complete if I did not share my passion for creative
writing.
When I was younger, writing was enjoyable because I had such a vast imagination that needed to be put onto paper. I was writing daily and asked
my parents to read books to me before bed each night so I could brainstorm ideas for my stories. I loved going to the library and checking out the
books on the 'new releases' shelf. To this day, I write regularly. I still use my imagination to inspire my stories, along with other works of literature and
historical events. I also try to write in different voices, genres, and points of view.
During my freshman year, I noticed that my school did not have a creative writing club, and so, with the help of a peer, I founded the Creative
Writing Club at my school. The club's goal was to help young writers share and write new pieces. We would start each day with a prompt, write for ten
minutes, then share what we wrote with the group. We would also focus on a

Reflection Of Creative Writing
Over the course of the semester, I have had the privilege to read and discuss my classmates' writing. Having a mix of large and small group
discussions have allowed me not only to help others improve their writing, but to learn about different writing styles and techniques. Throughout the
course, I have worked closely with Cory Robinson, a senior at Sacred Heart University, studying English/Pre–Law with multiple minors, including
Creative Writing. In an interview with Robinson, I have learned about how he gained an interest in writing, what he enjoys writing, and ultimately
how he writes. Robinson grew up on Long Island, New York. Surprisingly, he did not do very much writing as child and was never the type to keep a
journal. However, he...show more content...
He enjoys writing flash fiction because he does not have to commit to a piece of flash as much as he does to a longer piece. He has contributed several
six–word stories to our class discussion board, pieces he thoroughly enjoys writing. For him, six–word stories are interesting to write because of their
short word limit. Typically, Robinson loves writing with a ton of description and tends to use a lot of words. However, in a six–word story, every
word counts. Therefore, writing this type of flash challenges him to play around with different words in order to meet the word count. A technique
Robinson uses to write six–word stories is to "write down whatever sounds good." For example, "Peanut butter stuck between my teeth." When
creating this piece, Robinson was suffering from writer's block. He simply jotted down a few words and liked the way they sounded together. The
piece had no original meaning to him, but his readers are able to give the piece meaning. He uses this method of writing again when he writes, "Rain
drops, Angel's tears, God's piss." Like the first piece, Robinson did not write this for it to "make sense", but to give his audience the opportunity to
search for a meaning if they choose to, or enjoy the combination of words as is. Additionally, Robinson draws on inspiration from his life experiences
when creating six–word stories. In his piece from the 6th Week Submissions on Blackboard, Robinson is inspired by a couple of different aspects of

Creative Writing : A Short Story
Again, the dark laughter echoed in her head. Shit, shit, shit. She was so damn stupid, so bloody arrogant. In spite of the sunglasses she wore to
lessen the risk of overstimulation to her senses, the lenses were no safeguards against the weighted stares of the people on the bus, and Tung wasn't
here acting as a buffer. She snapped. "Stop." Gripping the top of the seat in front of her, she had to get off the bus. "S–stop the bus," rising to her feet,
she inched her way along the aisle as people shunted across seats to get as far away from her as possible. "Let me off here." The door had barely
opened and Kalyssa stepped down to the roadside and sucked in a deep breath. She breathed in a cloud of diesel as the bus pulled away and coughed.
...show more content...
Though the viper's venom wasn't toxic enough to kill her, it could knock her off her feet for a couple of days, worse, weaken her control over her soul
harvester nature. And, she needed that like she needed a hit right between the eyes. After a minute–long standoff, the viper had the gall to crawl over
the back of her shoulder like she was a damn bridge for its personal use and with a sidelong glance she watched it fade into the bamboo. Too close
for her liking, she shuddered before making her way back to the road. Maybe, she was too hasty in ditching the bus as she looked at the long walk
ahead. She stomped the worst of the mud off her leather boots and prepared for another plunge into the bamboo at the sound of another vehicle.
Hesitating, the approaching car did not sound like any vehicle the monks owned. The car had seen better days, its once sunflower yellow paint job
chipped and faded, and too many decades outdoors had seasoned the driver too, but at least when she flagged him down, he didn't ignore her or
speed away. She tried the door but the thing didn't budge. "Use your muscles, girl. Give it a good tug," the old man said. "No one use it, so no
bother." Kalyssa wrenched the door open and slid into the front passenger seat. After several tries to close the door, Kalyssa was ready to kick it off
its hinges. "You damage, you buy," the old man said. She turned her head slowly toward the man.

Creative Writing Ocean
The sun's rays radiate off the deck of a small yacht drifting in the middle of the ocean. Like a photograph from a magazine, the sea is crystal clear.
Even though this area is at least 30 metres deep, you can see the coral reef down below the glistening surface. It smells of salty warm air, and the
only sound for miles is the water lapping up against the sides of the boat, as if it were gulping mouthfuls of air. If you were looking at this scene, you
probably wouldn't notice anything was wrong. The only question is, where's the crew? If someone stood very quietly on the deck of the ship and
listened very hard, they might hear a soft clunking sound. The problem is, this is not the perfect scene you may think it is. In fact, it's actually the
aftermath of a rather terrible event....show more content...
"Go and get it." There's a murderous look in his eyes. Panicking, Kate's eyes dart from side to side as she stutters excuses "I–I can't sir I don't know
how to swim I can't–" "You'd better learn fast then." He grins as he pushes her into the choppy ocean. Oliver freezes. Being battered around, drifting
farther and farther away from the ship, Kate is screaming. "HANG ON!" he cries, as he runs to the mast and grabs the longest rope he can find.
The life ring is nowhere to be seen, it was probably removed it, as "it looks ugly". After tying a knot in the rope, he throws it towards her. "GRAB
THE ROPE KATE!" he yells, but Kate can't see, can't hear, can't BREATHE. Coughing, spluttering, reaching for something, anything to hold onto,
Kate's hand brushes the rope and she grabs onto it, but only succeeds in tangling it around herself in her frenzied panic. Oliver feels a tug on the rope.
He has Kate! He has Kate! He has– "THAT FILTHY PIG IS NOT GETTING BACK ON MY SHIP!" Pushing him to the side, Lance throws the rest
of the rope into the sea. Kate is floating on her front, struggling to breathe, but inhaling water

Storm Creative Writing
The immense storm clouds swallowed up all of the moons light and rain bucketed down. I was all alone in my home, the television was on but the
volume was down so soft I could barely hear a whisper coming from the speakers. The heavy rain and thunder drowned out all sound in the house
and lightning snapped every now and again as though a giant photographer was flashing pictures of the world around them. I was curled up on the
couch in my warmest pyjamas with countless of blankets upon me but no matter how much I tried to conserve some heat for my freezing body, It was
impossible to shake the unusual chill in the house. I could not ignore the feeling of beady eyes following my every move. That's when I heard it. It
sounded like something moving...show more content...
Do I go confront it? Do I stay here an see if it finds me? Was it a burglar? It could just be a possum. I waited for a few moments, debating my own
mind when it shuffled again. The curiosity got the better of me as my numb fingers unwrapped myself from my cotton cocoon. As soon as I stood
up, bats screeched outside my window causing me to jump. I was sure to step lightly to be sure not to bring the intruders attention to me. I snatched
my torch from the kitchen bench and shoved it into my dressing gown's pocket. Each step my stomach tighten more and more. Each step my fingers
began to shake. I had made it to the hallway before the staircase, my back sliding against the wall to be sure nothing could grab me from behind. The
ruckus upstairs became more violent the closer I came. I could hear items being thrown, banging against the walls with a loud thud that sent jolts
down my spine. That's when the lights in the long hallway began to flicker. "It's just the storm." I reminded myself under my breath. Nearly at the end
of the hallway the lights were snuffed out and my stomach exploded. I flicked my torch on limiting my view to a small tunnel of light in front of

Creative Writing: Hollings
"There they are with their yellow teeth." "I don't see them." "You aren't looking hard enough then." "Ma'am, I still don't see them." After she said
that I thought to myself, dang this lady must be blind if she still can't see them. Then bam! There they were breaking of out of the closet as if they
were race horses racing in the Kentucky Derby. "There they are." Then I yelled "Go get them." And the race was off. They ran out of the room into
the hallway, zigzagged in and out of mouse holes in the walls, ran through the cafeteria, and the back into the closet where it all started. Sycorax
turned around and smiled at us as if he had just won the race, which he really just did, but at least animal control new I wasn't crazy and...show more
content...
"Well we will comeback tomorrow and see what we have killed in the morning." "Have a good night Holling" "You Too." "Dang what is that smell."
"Hey Holling, I need to see you for a minute or two." "Mrs. Baker that is the smell of rotting mice." "I know you need to go as quietly as possible and
find the setoff traps and throw them in the dumpster outside" "Ok" " Now, be back before 1st period" "Yes mam" "Take that trash bag with you" "Ok"
"Mrs. Baker, I found the remains of Sycorax and Caliban as well has a million other creatures ranging form squirrels to rats." "Nice job Holling now
get ready for first

Creative Writing: Revealed-Personal Narrative
I surveyed the burning forest as it crackled, hungry for fuel to flare brighter. I sighed as my already distorted shadow warped further. Any other
person would think it was just the fire, but I knew better as the dark figure solidified and rose off the ground, turning into a boy who looked about
3 years older than me. He had black hair that covered one red eye and always moved as if he had his own personal wind surrounding him. He wore
shadowy jeans, shirts and hoodies. "Blake," I greeted him. "Hello Kai," he replied with a smirk. He scanned the area, a hand on his hip, before
making the already small distance between us smaller. He cupped my face in one hand and I tried not to lean into his comforting touch "You've done a
nice job with this...show more content...
Because you love me? Or because you knew that I'm in love with you?" Blake tightened his grip on the back of my shirt. "Both I guess?" he said
quietly. "Does that mean it's okay for me to do... this?" Oh god, am I really going to do this? Well, I guess it's too late to turn back now. I kissed
him, slow and sweet. He sighed happily against my mouth and I smiled. It felt warm and tingly. The door suddenly burst open and we pulled apart.
My mom stood in the doorway, gaping at us. "KAI! Why the HELL are you KISSING ANOTHER MAN in your BED?!" she screeched, marching
over to us, and grabbed my arm, digging her long fingernails into my skin. I winced, trying to keep a neutral expression, but failed. "Mom, I–" "I am
NOT your mother ANY more! As far as I'M concerned, I don't HAVE a son!" She gripped me harder and I bit my lip, trying to hold back a cry of pain.
Blood slowly trickled out of the gashed she made. "And YOU." The demonic woman turned to Blake. "What can you POSSIBLY see in this SLUT?
You're obviously WEAKER than him–you're covered in BANDAGES, you little WIMP. You two DISGUST me," she sneered. I could tell that her
words got to Blake, but he didn't show it. "Do whatever you want to me, just please don't touch Kai," he said in a stormy

My Experience Of Creative Writing

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My Experience Of Creative Writing