Nightmare

Nightmare
The howling of the wind brought my eyes to open. Where was I? Focusing in the dark of night, confusion washed over me as I came to realize I
was in the desert. Distant landscapes of dry and worn rock surrounded me, and beneath my bare feet I felt the gritty sand caught between my toes. I
was surrounded by those rocky hills and yet as I scanned the desolate desert it seemed never ending. The irony of the nighttime desert suddenly set
into my body; that ghastly wind moving right through me and chilling my bones to that of splintering ice. The need to move started me forward
though, and I felt a sharp ache all over, my body trying to fight against change. Was I lost? My heart began pounding fast in my chest, the blood
pumping through my veins...show more content...
I stared in horror – that wall was stained with gruesome blood stains. What the smell was became all too obvious and I felt the need to vomit... that
motion put away and forgotten in an instant when the shuffling of feet rustled behind me. Panic. I turned around in a blur, my eyes huge and
watering. My stomach stirred in the slightest. A lamp? Indeed, a tall standing lamp radiated a warm light only a few metres in front of me. Was it real
or a figment of my abused mind? Curiosity would get the best of me, lending me a tiny spurt of energy to boost me on my feet. Teetering footsteps
led me forward cautiously, random tremors reminding me of my weakness. The lamp was close enough to touch, its friendly warmth the only hope
in the world to me. Basking in it for some slow seconds, I wondered, maybe there were more things in the room that hadn't been revealed to the
naked eye? Turning sharp on my heel, I let out a blood curdling screech as I came face to face with the most horrific thing I had ever seen. Huge
fly–like eyes took in my paling complexion, and a lopsided smile of stinking razor sharp teeth mocked me. Rancid skin that looked like the algae
layer that sat upon a swamp bubbled and oozed, trickling down a sharply shaped 'face'. Flight or fight reaction chose the obvious option and I turned
back again to run. Where, I did not
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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: An Example Of A Police Report
Report I'm Officer Todd Strader I got a call from dispatch on January 27, 2016 at 14:47pm about a domestic in progress. Dispatch said it was a
neighbor that called it in going by the name Davalynn Brustey in apartment B. I arrived at 1245 east willow street apartment C, at 14:53pm upon
arrival a backup officer was there a female named Christy Metal. Before knocking at the door, we waited and listen to their conversation to hear who
was arguing and why. What I heard was a male and a female arguing back and forth. I proceeded to knock at the door and announce that I was apolice
officer and they need to open the door. A white male came to the front of the door and ask us what we wanted. I then stated that there is a noise
complaint coming from...show more content...
James was a little hesitant of letting us in the house "James staid if you have to cause, I know you guys are going to." So then I proceeded to ask
him again can we make sure the female is okay yeah I guess. So know that we got consent from James, Christy was about to go inside and check on
the female when James started to get a little "fidgeting" by pulling away from me and moving around so for my safety I put handcuffs on him. I
advise James that you're not being arrest it's just for my safety because you seem very upset. So we all went inside to talk so the neighbors won't
thank bad. Wild Inside the house, my partner Christy was talking to the female named Dore's Myer and ask what was going on and if she needs
any medical attention and if she was harmed. Dore's said she is fine they were just arguing about work. After me and my partner realized that there
was no crime committed our no injuries we waited until they calmed down before I let James out of the cuffs. Then we proceeded to get information
from the two parties. James Myer is one of the parties involve his DOB: 12/17/1976 and his phone number (316) 690–1482. The second person is his
wife Dore's Myer DOB: 6/28/1975 and phone Number (316)682–9418. There were two kids in the house at the time of arguing Jake Myer DOB:
3–12–2008 and Katy Myer DOB:

Creative Writing: Fear of the Unknown
Dark black surroundings around me. Blindness is a natural occurrence after the sun descends. Senses are heightened which sparks the imagination to
soar. A moment of time when things of legend becomes a reality and self–doubt are unveiled. In the darkness the line between fact and fiction blur.
Sounds, fears, and intuition are the elements that rule when light does not exist.
Things that pop and crack populate the house. Hearing sounds in the middle of the night that send chills down my spine. A sense of alertness occurs
when standing there frozen, waiting, and thinking, "What could it be?" Waiting for the next noise or ignition of thought that makes the heart beat a
little faster and breathe slower to limit the noises made in the darkness. When the lights go out you ultimately assume the worst scenarios for example
a burglar, paranormal activities, or critters in the night. Even the tick tock of the clock seems like a loud bass drum in the vicinity of catching another
sound to reassure that the noise was not something or someone. I often ask myself "Why me?" questioning why I have these fears. I remember how
watching horror movies generated fear even at the young age of eight. Movies such as Puppet Master, IT, and Children of the Corn come tomind as well
as the infamous Chucky movies. In those movies only bad things happened at night. Although a few people are comfortable in the dark most people
visit the dark in a place of fear. The biggest fear is fear of the unknown

Creative Writing: The Oldest Room
Flaming tendrils arose from below the map, its frail parchment enveloped within a blossom of reds and oranges; the newborn already radiating with
unrestrained power. Embers fell, flickered, and glowed; specks whipped into the night by flailing fiery limbs. Smoke like shadows clawed and
climbed out to escape the fury of the horrid fire. Grey the clouds of billowing smoke were as they reached to the farthest of the stars, to taste the
sweetness of the heavenly eye of Chaos that cradled their brethren in its silver crescent. Two young men sat across from each other, hunched, watching
as a blaze of parchment and grass wither and writhe between them. Although their eyes were fixed on the erratic inferno, their minds ran back with
memories of...show more content...
Cylluvene had eyes echoing that of volcanic rock, a deep black with webs of a faint scarlet, encircling brilliantly bronze pupils. A head shaped to
be that of a spade hung over the eyes of the beast, with ligaments affixed to the back of its neck that fastened to a bulky tail that wrapped into
Cylluvene; two frilled appendages with long serrated fangs were placed at the edge of its gaping maw. Farther down where the head met the shell;
two mountainous claws like raw gems forged in the bowels of Cylluvene had hung below the beasts

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

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

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 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

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

Descriptive Essay About Spring
Spring is such a wonderful and joyful season. The air begins to warm, and the temperature rises slowly. Not only that, but the days seem to be getting
longer as well. As the snow begins to melt in northern America, the lovely flowers begin to bud and the flies begin to come out. The tree buds starts
greening and preparing itself to grow. The air smells different as opposed towinter, it smells fresh and alive. Spring wraps up winter, and leads on to
the hot and humid season called summer. Spring is the season that prepares itself for the next season, as forestry is starting to grow and thrive. The
animal kingdom also uses spring to mate. The bears that were hibernating no longer have to hibernate. The smell of freshly cut grass also goes through
the warm spring air.
The grouchy people of winter also start to become happy again. Most people dislike winter as it cold and the driving condition are not great.
However in spring, everything is having life, or coming back to life; as well as their spirits. Spring is finally the time where people can finally eat
outside, open up the window to let fresh air in. Nothing is better than seeing the neon green trees and grass shining through the low amounts of snow
that might still be left behind by Mother Nature. The farming trade also begins in spring; the farmers begin to plant their vegetables so they can
harvest them when the time is right. Spring also has a very nice holiday, Easter. Families gather at each other's houses and

Example Of Gothic Creative Writing
Gothic Creative Writing Piece:
Once upon a time in the dark gloomy household of the Kelly family lived John (Father), Mary (Mother) and Jimmy (Son). Jimmy is 16 years old and
is an only child. His parents are very over protective and struggle to accept he is growing up and not letting him go out and enjoy life. This family has
just recently lost their sister and grandparents in tragic car crash leaving 45 people dead. They are facing being sued over dangerous driving and
mounting a curb causing them to run down and kill 42 other people. The stress level for all of them have hit the roof, and are to starting to fight
between themselves while people protest outside their house.
Everyday this problem was starting to get worse and starting to affect his social life and it's got to stop, his parents aren't letting him out of the
house nor letting friends in and this is effecting his ability to go to school. Justice, justice is what they want and that's what they need if his family
has done the wrong thing then so be it. Our family has suffered enough especially the ones who haven't done anything wrong and are being
punished for the stupid actions of our family members who were killed. "I don't think mum and dad get it that I'm sick and tired of the people
chanting and throwing things at our house all I want is to move houses or even live in the dark empty forest away from all this shit so I can get on
with my once happy life". As Jimmy goes to talk to his parents his best mate

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

Descriptive Essay About A Festival
My excitement was almost palpable as I drove past Lake Okeechobee, watching sunlight bounce reflectively off the massive body of water. My 6
best friends and I were moments away from entering into the majestic festival land. Entering the festival grounds, we where bursting with
excitement and energy, partly because we were sitting still in a cramped car for 2 hours. The car was moving only several inches per minute, but as
the car took covered more territory, so did my eagerness. There were only a couple of feet distancing our car from the next; everyone else was as
enthusiastic as I. I saw smiles and excitement and heard electronic music in the background, all while sitting and waiting in a vehicle. It can to my
realization that this was the first time I was surrounded by a whole spectrum of unique people. Some attendees looked like they had just stepped out of
a Madonna music video, with neon colored clothes and asymmetrical patters; others wore shorts and a tank top. However, there were two similarities
among us: we came to dance to each beat of the music and we all suffered from the humid, swampy, hot weather.
Although my friends and I wanted to park the car and head straight to the festival, we had some housekeeping to do. Three tents and a camp area later,
we were ready to start dancing to the electronic music and enjoying our three day festival weekend. The summer heat was unbearable, as the humidity
engulfed the air and the sunrays kept reluctantly burning our

Creative Writing: The Slippery Slope
Setting his bag flat by the table, the bowler looked around at the empty alley. He plopped in a chair and unzipped his bag. Clutching his shoes tight,
he slipped them on and removed the covers. Next he received his towel hanging it over the monitor. He then placed his balls one at a time onto the
return. Picking up his strike ball, drying his hands, the bowler stepped up on the platform. He placed his feet on 13, an inch apart from one another.
His eyes darted to 2nd arrow; his lead foot pulling forward. Extending his right arm out, taking his second step, all in one motion towards the lane.
Now pacing forward, he took his third step lowering the ball for momentum. He stretched his arm back to parallel with his shoulders, matching his
fourth

Creative Writing: The Storm
The storm raged on – both internally and externally. The struggle between her crushing depression and her desperate, primal instincts for survival
battled it out, destroying her life. She sat there alone, sobbing like a lost child needing either guidance or the sweet release of the end. As she waited,
disinterested in her own dismal fate, she wallowed in her ever–present sorrow. The fiery gin seared her throat on its way down, and again on its way
back up, though she did not seem to care. She could still taste the foul vomit that she had so violently thrown up half a bottle of gin earlier. Or had she
thrown up again? Did it really matter at this point? She hated the sour taste of gin almost as much as her miserable life. Why had she chosen...show
more content...
She could feel the burn of the gin and bile in her throat. The shards of broken glass stabbed into her like as many demons attacking her very soul.
She could barely notice the waterfall of hot tears on her face as she began to slip away into cold nothingness. Though her nose, still seared by the
reek of the bitter gin, was unable to smell anything, she remembered the scent of the dirt she was pushed into by her childhood tormentors. She
smelled the alcohol at her first party. She smelled his sweat after her first time. She thought of the metallic smell of her own blood as he beat her.
She reminisced on the smell of weed, her first perfect escape. She saw nothing, her eyes sealed by her own will against the demons swirling around
her soul. She saw black fade to absolute dark – the complete absence of all light. Then she was blinded, not by the pure, white light of heaven, but of
the flickering fires of Hell. She was no more. She cared not what happened next as she flung her identity as far from her soul as she could manage. For
as instant, a tiny moment, she realized what had happened to her – but even that was not enough to cause any reaction. And then the end. Nothingness.
Escape. The storm that had so long raged in her life was finally, completely

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

2. Every person has a creative side, and it can be expressed in many ways: problem solving, original and innovative thinking, and artistically, to name
a few. Describe how you express your creative side.
I best express my creativity through words. The reason why I selected creative writing as my number one choice for a class is to help myself better
understand how deep and meaningful my writing could be. Creative writing most interests me because it allows me to improve my descriptive
language.Descriptive language is important because it allows the reader a richer textual experience through imagery that appeals to the senses.
Creative writing can also help readers understand something from a different perspectives. I once wrote an essay in seventh grade about a boy, Brad
had traveled to the future and became held captive against his will. Brad had to fight the monster to save the other younger children from the
monsters hold. Try to give more detail about this story. How did it make readers consider something from a different perspective? With the help of my
teacher, I learned some writing techniques and was able to make the story better. For example, I learned a technique, as my teachers called it, the
"Attention–Grabbing Opener". What this means is that you want to catch the reader at the first few sentences in your writing.......Creative writing can
make any story more appealing. It can help solve problems by allowing you to see past what's in front of you. The figurative language I love creative
writing, because you can get more and a page than any movie screen with many more details. Movies tend to range from "one–and–a–half to
two–and–a–half" hours long. In a written piece, you can have as much information and creativity as you well please. You can express yourself
creatively through computer science as well. I learned that sometimes you have to get creative when developing software. You have to think outside the
box to get past obstacles, to be successful.
Better Mr.C?
4. Describe how you have taken advantage of a significant educational opportunity or worked to overcome an educational barrier you have faced
I am taking advantage of the significant educational opportunity at this moment:

Creative Writing : An Essay
As if he could sense my probing gaze, he whirls around to face to me. For a split second, a bitter like sensation swims in his glistening eyes before
flashing away, burying itself deep within the fatherly mask he wears, betraying his fatigued appearance. The corners of his lips lift, but it's his eyes
that dance in lieu, manifesting a radiance that compels every person who catches a glimpse to feel the irresistible impulse to smile back. He blinks and
the beauty is momentarily covered by the fluttering of his eyelashes before he lowers his gaze, turning away from me. He saunters across the footpath,
intertwined with the thick roots of the trees and crisp golden leaves which lay like a blanket. The hummingbirds which nestle up against...show more
content...
In an instant, his cheerful teenage–like demeanour evaporates, where he becomes as gaunt as a soldier caught unexpectedly behind the enemy lines.
Why is it that the happiest of moments usher in sudden fear? Silence clings in the air like the suspended moment before a falling glass shatters on
the ground. And as the sunlight cascades down on him unhindered, the rain clenches to his skin as if it can feel his desolation and the way it seems
to pulsate through his entire body. Looking back I had known all along that underneath the glittering world, before my eyes lay my deception that
everything was to collapse with a breath of the wind. I watch as he goes rigid, as if he took a huge step back from life where I want to be able to
reach in and rekindle his warmth but his insides remain damp with unshed tears. As the stars and moon begin to cower behind the dense layer of
clouds, he stands swallowed in a such a blackness that robs one of their best sense and replaces it with a paralysing fear. In this very darkness, he
stands, muscles cramped and motionless while the rest of the world washes in the tears of his pain. Like he could sense that I was gazing at him once
again, he looks over at me. His stunning, deep blue eyes hold a truth that his face cannot hide and the despairing chill that they convey makes me look
away. Instead, I watch as the golden leaves twist against the air, leaving the branches naked where gravity drags them

Nightmare

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Nightmare