6-8 grades - creative writing

1. Showing, not Telling
*

2. *
* The house we rented was old and weird.
* The house was a rental. Brooding. Tight. A
brick colonial ripped by ivy in the
Georgetown section of Washington, D.C.

3. *Show…
* The darkness was exciting.
* The darkness, the exquisite
nothingness surrounding him was
delicious.

4. * Show…
* The wind blew, causing the saw grass to sway.
* When the winds blew, the saw grass
clattered like a trillion swords.

5. Beware the song the blackbird sings
That stirs the feet of long-dead things
They wake with glassy eyes gone wild
And hunger for flesh of mother's child
Seamus ran through the darkening woods, his heart
beating wild and deep. The sun was only a dusty orange
semi-circle obscured by the heavy cluster of inky-black
branches. His mother had cautioned him over and over to
be out of the woods by twilight, warned him about the
blackbirds.
He could hear them now, wings rustling the foliage
above his head, their wings making whispery whipping
sounds as they settled in, watching him, waiting for the
final sliver of light to vanish over the mountains.

6. You may wonder why my best friend, Molly Molloy, and I were in the old graveyard late at
night.
I shivered as I thought about what we were doing. Wind howled through the trees, and pale
streaks of lightning cracked the sky.
"Hurry, Molly," I whispered, hugging myself as the moon disappeared behind the clouds. "It's
going to storm.“
"I am hurrying, Britney," Molly said. "But the ground . . . it's really hard.“
We were digging a grave. We took turns. One of us shoveled while the other stood lookout. I
felt cold raindrops on my forehead. I kept my eyes on the low picket fence near the street.
Nothing moved. The only sounds were the scrape of the shovel in the dirt and a drumroll of
thunder, deep but far away.
Across from me, an old gravestone made a creaking sound as it tilted in the wind.
I sucked in my breath. I suddenly pictured the old stone toppling over. And someone crawling
out from the grave beneath it.
Okay, okay. I have a wild imagination. Everyone knows that about me.
My mom says I'll either be a writer or a crazy person.
She thinks that's really funny.
Sometimes having a strong imagination is a good thing. And sometimes it just makes things
more scary.
Like tonight.
R. L. Stine. “Goosebumps Series”