...Creative Writing Story – ‘Nothing would ever be the same again’ This was the last straw. The final words had been spoken, and even though he knew feelings of resentment, of grief, of despair and anger clouded his ability to reasonably judge the situation there was something within him that knew this was it. A clear tear trickled down his pale cheek, like a rolling bead along a window, its transparency reflecting the emotion and unparalleled hardship that he had faced over 3 years of abuse, turmoil and trauma. The screams from the last fight still ringed in his ear, a siren of inflicting words, a cacophony of deafening howls. His hand trembled as it moved towards his old wooden drawer of memories, a collection of emotions and indescribable feelings. The framing shook, the drawer creaked open with a puff of obscure dust releasing a smell of mystery and nostalgia. His outstretched arm, scarred with the wounds of a child living in resentment and neglect, pulled out with hesitation yet at the same time a sense of surety, a tattered birthday card from his 11th birthday – a memory that would never be forgotten. He prised it with a dreading of what was to come, and in reaction of his fears a barrage of tears streaked down his red, disturbed face like pouring rain. Thoughts of his past flooded through him like a sweeping wave of mixed emotions that he thought he would never have to deal with again. He realised he had become so trapped with emotion, to the point where he had numbed himself...
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...THE class-room was hot, and outside the sun was hard on the dusty earth and the grass was going brown on the playing fields. The boy looked at his exercise book, at the figures and the red-pencil corrections, and they were nothing, related nothing in his experience. He raised his eyes very slowly and saw the hard light and the bare ground and the drying grass. Over by the fence the two old jarrahs with the spread tops framed the piled houses of the suburbs. He had his hands to his head and he looked out of the low window and then back at the figures on the paper, and slowly the tears began to force their way on him. He made no sound and the others working did not know. Now out beyond him were the wide flat acres of wheat, heavy in ear, and the cut patches bare to the earth dotted with the stooks. The wagon moved slowly out, and when they reached the stooks his father began to pitch the hay. The sheaves thumped on the wagon. He helped Ted, who worked for them, to build the load. As the wagon started for the next stook he felt the jolt and looked at the load to see if it would hold. High up he sat when it was built and they drove in to the stack. He got on the stack and Ted threw the sheaves to him and he passed to his father. The sun was hard on the paddocks and the dull scrub and the few trees. It made the wagon hot and the hay held a heat, and his clothes were hot. It was hard to say when the shadows first started to come on the ground, but they began to shift out from the stooks...
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...If you tell yourself you’re going insane, going crazy, you aren’t. The only people that truly lose sanity are those that don’t know it and think that they are normal. I used to tell myself I was crazy, mentally ill. Until one day, I woke up and realised I was bringing my misery upon myself. I was contemplating my sanity daily when it was something I didn’t need to focus and dwell upon. If I recognised that I was crazy, I wasn’t gone enough. If I can perceive my sanity, I’m not crazy. So if you think you’re going to lose your hair and your skin pigment will go pasty white, you’re going to bring it upon yourself. In January through almost all of March, I was seriously depressed. After a series of seriously unfortunate events, I couldn’t think for myself. Yet I could formulate my own opinion of the world. A sick, distorted perspective. I viewed everyone as going to stab me in the back eventually. Everyone was bad, no one was good. Trust no one; you will only have yourself in the end. I couldn’t breathe under the pressure that was always there. I couldn’t focus on school, friends, anything. I fell behind in all of my classes, I became nonexistent in the eyes of many, and to the people that remained there for me I thought of as just being fake. Or I would push them away. My depression enveloped me. I love to write, it’s my thing. My passion. And in those times, I didn’t want to write, but I felt the ink pour from my skin, and it stained the paper forever. At some times my...
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...It was now January 31st, and Sydni Kellie and Lauren hadn’t even begun to start their bridge yet. They always talked about beginning it but never followed through. Something had always come up- dance, soccer, horses. They used pictures of other peoples bridges for t when Mr. Buck checked their progress. But it had gotten to the point where they had reached desperation. It was the last minute, and all they had was a bucket filled with supplies. It was eight in the morning and Sydni and Kellie were sitting in Kellie’s car. They had 24 hours to build a bridge adequate enough to pass. Lauren suddenly banged on the car, and there was a piece of paper with writing on it. Sydni rolled down her window, and snatched the paper from Laurens grasp. “What is this?” “Good morning to you too syd.” “ya, hi. Whos number is this ?” “A tutor! His name is Andrew.“ “Ok? Thanks for the insult Lauren,but I think I can handle passing Physics by myself..,” “No syd. That’s not what she means. Lauren are you saying that this guy can build us a bridge?…” “Yes kellie! That’s exactly what Im saying!” The three girls stared at each other in silence, and then all began talking at once. “Let’s call hi..” “Should we cal..” “Is this illeg…” Eventually, one of them ended up dialing the number. After the third ring, a man answered, “Andrew’s castle, whats your hastle?” “uhhhh. Sorry to bother you Andrew, my name is sydni. me and my friends need a little favor.” After 5 minutes, Sydni had...
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...Spooky Story Netanya Onyilo 2nd "Three yards away from the mailbox, one yard away, here I am!" I said. I've been waiting for three weeks to know if I got a part in the play, Cinderella . While my heart palpitates crazily, I anxiously tear the flap of the envelope. Brielle Campbell, congratulations! You have received the role of Cinderella, and we look forward to seeing you at the Alliance Theater... "WHOOOOOOOOO," I screamed, "this can't be happening, a black Cinderella?! Nice!" Then, I realize, I am screaming in the middle of the street in my humongous neighborhood in the centermost part of New York City. "I definitely hope my neighbors didn't hear that before they think I'm a petrifying psychopath like Chuckie."...
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...“Scary” Story I’m not insane. You believe me don’t you? I’m not crazy! It was that building, anyone would become desperate to leave, at any risk, right? Such a horrible place that smelled of medicine and sterile sheets. It was superficial and cold. My house was invaded and I was unwillingly taken from my home. I thrashed and screamed while neighbors gathered around nodding in acknowledgment to the doctors sedating me. I was the fifth child on the block. My mother crouched silently in the corner of the room, her shoulders quivering as tears stained her frantic face. Next thing I remember, I was chained to a bed, the only source of light coming from a barred, opaque window in the corner. Shadows moved back and forth behind the stained glass and I felt imprisoned, the walls suffocating me, closing me in. I was being held against my will and a scream escaped my throat, echoing the concrete walls around me. The shrill sound bounced from wall to wall until a nurse rushed in and took me down the hall to explain my situation. Doctors eyed me nervously and I glanced down mumbling to myself. How long had I been in here? Was I ever going to leave? The voices were coming back, slowly crawling into my subconscious. I shrugged them off but they persisted growing louder and louder. What was it saying? I will come for you. I clasped my head in my hands and scratched my ears; my eyes squeezed shut desperately trying to be rid of them. I squealed and thrashed in the halls involuntarily. Slowly...
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..."Wake up!\" a stern voice called from above. Her weary eyes slowly began to open. It was absolutely bright, however no windows were visible. Only electric lights running endlessly in parallel lines covered the ceiling of the hall. She was sitting in the very centre; her head crouched between her knees. She was afraid to speak or question where she might be. She could hear footsteps in the distant but could not make out where they were coming from. The burning lights had gradually blinded her eyes. This must be the Ministry of Love she thought. It seemed hours ago that she was thrown violently into this premises and she was starving. She understood why she was here but did not understand how. She participated in sexual acts that were strongly condemned by the Party. The crime would be punished by death, no questions asked. When will they shoot her? She wanted her life to end now. Freedom is to say that humans have two eyes. She will never experience freedom again she pondered. O\'Brien entered the hall. She could tell by his distinctive strides. He grabbed her by the hair and began speaking in an authoritative tone, \"You are here for committing crimes against the Party\'s principles. You are thinking why I am not going shoot you. Are you not?\" She gave him a look of disgust and purposefully did no answer. \"There is no need to be silent,\" he commanded, pulling her hair even harder. She was not going to allow physical intimidation...
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...As for me, creative writing is a piece of art expression, very subjective, which is not dull and normal literature like news article or academic essay. If you ask how to write creatively, I would say inspiration can basis from anywhere, anything and anyone. Yet, it is not purely about thinking ‘outside of the box’ and writing something exciting. Creative writing is a style of writing mostly appears in feature stories, both fiction and non-fiction work. Writers need to generate their expression, maybe a viewpoint, an analysis and a story, from their inner-person meaning by their self of feelings, emotion, thoughts, opinion, imagination and even life experiences. It is a freedom writing, however, all should be a very original composition. Take an instance of our British leading fantasy novelist J.K.Rowling and her creativity of ‘Harry Potter’ series. The character Harry Potter is her sudden inspiration in 1990, when she was on the train to London, suddenly came up an idea to write a story of a little boy gets into a wizard school for study. It looks seems a children’s novel, while behind the wizards and magic adventures, there is deep moral fable, full of struggling between good and evil, life and death, right and wrong, love and hate, and that’s reflects Rowling’s life spiritual pathway and even her ideal of heroic characters. Other than fiction story, creative writing includes variety of its genres. It broadly uses in creative industry in order to express in kinds of format...
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...junior year, I haven't written any narrative pieces, in any classes. The focus throughout my high school curriculum has been toward argumentative, analysis, and informative writings. Only in my junior year did I write my first creative writings in the form of a short story and a poem. The first creative writing I had to write a "Vomit" Draft. A vomit draft was the very first draft of a paper with little to no guidelines. "Bring two minutes to life" was the only instruction. We had to throw down 500 words without paying any real attention to punctuation or grammar. This kind of freedom associated with such creative writing was an alien concept to me. Getting used to writing without a structure that we had to follow, without a set of guidelines we had to abide by took a while. But, this kind of writing really helped me learn and improve, not just my writings, my organization and my time management skills as well. Knowing that I had to write such a demanding paper (it turned out to be fourteen pages longs), I had to improve my time management skills, which, up till junior year, hadn’t really been a challenge. Forcing myself then, to distribute time wisely has really helped me now, with the terrific pressures and burdens of college applications. This creative writing segment in my junior year helped my prepare, in a way, for these college essays. It gave me the free thinking approach I needed to hammer down my narrative essays this year. I only wish that there was more of such assignments...
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...What is Your Writing Process Like? As a writer I love making stories and there are many steps to go through before the story becomes a fluent piece of literature. My writing process isn’t very complicated, when I write I let out all my ideas. I let my creative side come out and write out everything that crosses my mind, it doesn’t matter if it comes together right away I just let my creative side take control. My mind goes through many steps when I write I have to think of what kind of story I want to write and what the story will mean to me, then I have to brainstorm and type out some main parts for my story, lastly I organize everything to make an actual story. In story writing I have to find something to write about and to write your story...
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...My writing has changed a lot throughout the years, but this year I feel I have made the most progression. I went from not being able to finish a short story to being able to finish one with a well-developed plot. While I am very happy about my development in writing short stories I am most proud of my growth in writing poetry and dramatic writing. But it hasn’t always come naturally. It has involved a lot work on my part too. As expected, my writing quality in sixth grade was very different than what it is now. I used to write to tell an epic tale of mystery and hardship, which doesn’t sound so bad, but there was always one major flaw in all of my writings. Plot. None of my writings had a developed plot before I jumped right into the story. I would go with the flow and write what sounded good, which works to an extent, but without a plot my story was going nowhere. It was just one epic exposition, no climax, no resolution. Eventually I would get tired of a story and just...
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...Creative writing was a class that I hadn’t previously expected to attend, until I got my schedule for this year. Realistically speaking, I had no expectations of learning anything from this class at the very beginning, it seemed like the typical elective where everyone would do the bare minimum and learn pretty much nothing at all. In reality though, throughout this year, this class has actually gotten me out of my shell a bit. Sophomore year was my first time in Duncan High School and this class had actually helped me make my first friends while attending. In the very beginning we stuck strictly to poetry like work and group projects, which was fun but anxiety inducing for an introvert like myself. Although difficult, it helped me make friends....
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...Creative use of Techniques usually Associated with Fiction In both the two articles, the authors employ creative nonfiction to discuss the death of Aiyana and the rape of Officer Blumer. The situations in both the articles are real occurrence, but the storyline appears as an imaginary plot. Ultimately, the two essays convey the information in a way that makes it appear as fiction. The paper seeks to identify the creative use of techniques usually associated with fiction that are involved in the story development of these two articles. Some of these techniques include the use of subjective, personal voice, the development of strong characters and the creation of tension and suspense. In both the two articles, the authors use subjective journalism where they involve their views into conveying the reality in a way that they want to manipulate the readers. In an article by Sabrina Rubin, the author describes how Rebecca Blumer was raped by three army men. The military officers did not treat this case kindly as they discouraged her from asking for a rape kit and failed to collect forensic evidence. Finally, her skyrocketing military job came to an end. Although it may be a factual narrative, the author reports only one side of the story; about the military’s culture of rape. Consequently, Rebecca allegations could have been a hoax. On the other hand, Charlie, the author of “What Killed Jones?” is also subjective especially where he blames abject poverty on the death of a young girl...
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...When I started brainstorming about who I was going to interview for this paper and the first person who came to mind was Scott Uptmore. His story started off uniquely, a computer programmer turned creative writer through a chance encounter with a blind poet. I just had to know the answer to the question that almost sounds like the beginning of a riddle. “How did the blind teacher teach creative writing?” I soon learned the answer, “It was with an amazing amount of passion!” I just had to find out how someone’s love of computer programing could morph into a true passion for writing. In Mr. Uptmore ’s case, this transformation occurred in his third year of college. When I entered his classroom, which is where he spends most of his time,...
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...need to know methods and concepts of the fine arts (Knowledge par 4). Writing, like other careers, have classes that will help you get to the career. Some high school courses that will help with writing are American Literature, Computer Applications, Creative Writing, English Literature, Keyboarding, Technical Writing, and World Literature (Helpful par 3). These classes all focus on writing and computers, but since most writers are self-employed other classes that could be useful are Accounting, Entrepreneurship, and Introduction to business (Helpful par 4). Depending on the career field of writing, you can have a variety of wages ranging from $35,810 to $58,050 yearly (Writers 1 par). Most writers are self-employed and sell their works to different magazines, while others are famous authors or work on commission. Most people in the writing career field need a second job to support themselves and write in their free time and others use grants to support them while writing (Writers 1 par). Writers who are self-employed have to provide their own benefits, but if they also work full time they may receive benefits which could include sick leave, paid vacation, and health insurance (Writers 2...
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