CREATIVE WRITING As you entered the dark and mysterious room of Cue 8 pool and Billiards, you wonder how you could have ended up in a place like this. The atmosphere was clustered and dark leaving no opportunities for light to travel inside the building. Outside, the walls came alive with colourful creative graffiti that overlapped each other but blended smoothly within the big picture. The entrance was small but like a cave and as you walked in you could feel the black paint on the walls swarming
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Connections Between Life Experiences/Beliefs and Fiction Writing Other Publications. Enhance this section with visual and/or media resources that connect (e.g. pictures, art, interview video clip, etc. just try and be creative). For example, show a clip from an interview with the author, or a video clip from a film about the author. Keep it short and explain/introduce the clip. 2. Description/Discussion: Talk about the six elements of creative writing. For plot state the key terms and discuss your novel
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Creative writing- Childhood memory The usual routine. I bowl in to see the scornful look of the Old Witch. She glares at me from behind her spectacles. Never greeted with a warm welcome, reproached for being a female and I certainly don’t fit her stereotype of what a woman should be. Aggressive with a passion for anything that does not conform to the typical 1950’s housewife, which is against most women’s views. But no one would suspect an old lady to be so malicious inside with such a sweet loving
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Michael Marchelletta Mrs. Gosling 20th Century Literature 25 November 2013 I awoke on a brisk Saturday morning in November. I got out of bed and made my way to the kitchen, where hot cider and a chocolate chip scone were waiting. I read the paper while indulging on my early morning treats and then proceeded to do my homework once I was finished. This is my usual schedule on the weekends, but there was something rather unusual about today: My parents were nowhere to be found. I roamed around
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Maiers1 Matt Maiers Mrs. Ramer Creative Writing 30 March 2015 Metamorphosis It sent shivers down my spine. Then, I looked outside. The moon stared back at me. It seemed to be pulling me toward the brightness of its light in the night sky. I got out of my bed and trudged toward the window. Now, I seemed to be staring at a face in the sky. Then, I felt my skin start to burn. I held my head and fell toward the mirror. I took my hands away from my head and clutched the dresser tightly. My
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Creative The rhythmic sound of the wheels of the train seemed to be synchronised with the tapping of my foot. The consistency in the sound lulled me into the recesses of my mind allowing me to think of the occurrences of the past couple of weeks, but before I could even think, I was lurched out of my subconscious state of mind by the sudden sound of a horn, and the cool air that hit my face when the doors proceeded to open. I watched the many people that clambered in to the train and the many others
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I am outside the door panting like a dog trying to comprehend where my family has brought me. They said that my house needs to be painted and I need to stay here for a while so I don’t get in the way of the tradesmen. As I walk inside, the scent of anti-bacteria and cleaning chemicals brings back memories of visiting my wife Betty at hospital every single day, while she was living her last moments. Unfamiliar faces in a place where the location is unknown, makes me to feel uncomfortable with
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and slammed the door behind him, times when she and his eldest daughter and had argued, back and forth, until their voices were hoarse and eyes were rimmed with red. They argued because they were so similar, he realised, passionate and dramatic and creative and loud.He was different, and so was his son. When the two women, one older and one just struggling out of girlhood, argued, they would escape to the garden, where the yells of frustration would be muted somewhat and there was green for the eyes
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As i opened my eyes in the morning i remember catching a glimpse of the vivid being thrown and the sound of foot steps thundering down the hall way. This is when I knew i had been attacked by Kaiden. Even though it gave me a fright I was starting to get used to it, it was to be expected when he was in the house. As I got out of bed to go see the damage I remember seeing this cheeky little face appear around the corner and a evil like chuckle faint in the back ground. This evil little chuckle was
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A dangerous night at Phillie’s By: It was a late freezing November night in New York City as I strolled down the quiet windy street of Orlando, having just left from a long day at work. The alley whistled as the invisible force rushed through ruffling bags and seemingly making the night colder. I pulled my coat tighter around myself and pinned my arms to my chest to keep it from flying open as a strong gust of wind threatened to knock me over. Far off dogs barked mixing in with the city sounds
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I glanced at the toy that my parents brought for me, a small symbol of their love for me. My parents are always busy, neglecting me, as they travel around the world leaving me behind in this huge empty house. I stroked the soft fur of the toy my parents bought me, the only companion I have, alone in this isolated house. I vividly remember at that time when we had a maths test and I had the second highest in my class. Excitedly, I showed my mum my result and I thought she would be elated at my
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Jim took off into the distance with a trail of dust whooshing into the air, the 5-mile sunset reflecting off his back. The old windy road narrowed down towards the creek as the sulfur-crested cockatoo was chirping away to him. Jim lived on a property 55km west of 5-mile creek. His family had lived there for generations and generations dating way back to the 1850’s. Jim was now on his own, a widower who was about to lose more than he already had. Jim woke up this morning, got out of bed
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It was a bitter night, sleep being kept to a bare minimum. At times I came close to shutting my eyes only to be awoken by the thunderous roar and shakes of barrages from the enemies’ guns. As darkness began to fall my platoon rest period was underway, as we entered our trenches through small dwarf sized doors. Several times throughout the sleepless night I could hear the distant thunder of shells pounding into the trenches. At times I would doubt the safety of my fellow soldiers with death seeming
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Out beyond the line of hills, clothed in forests of gold at this time of year, lies the market town of Stileham. It sits by the crossroads of the old drove road that runs from the hill country to the sea and the great north road, a trade route used for generations of traders heading from London to the provinces. This countryside is bountiful. Rolling pastures with soaring Elms in their hedges, the vase shape upswept and holding up the sky. Nearer the hills the hedges run out of steam and the countryside
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“Woof, woof.” Said Fletcher, thumping his strong tail against the wooden door. I turned around slowly in bed, with my eyes still closed. “Woof, woof, woof.” I heard again. I turn around in my bed and my feet stick out from the cosy duvet into the chillness of the room. My eyes are still closed, though my mind isn’t. It was a cold night of November. Dense fog gathered in the centre of the terrain. Over a ridge to the north, surrounded by rolling hills on each side, a desolate church stood isolated
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with Goldberg’s ideas. I mean writing should be free and simple; it shouldn’t be about big fancy words or poetic approaches. But rather about being creative and entertaining and getting the point across without sounding like an idiot that’s my view on it. I like her rules on it and I just realized that I actually did exactly as she said in my 10 minutes writing. Also she is completely right about having to practice every day as that’s the only way to get good at writing. I would really love to use
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I don't know how long that ray of sunlight had been peeking through the open window before it found its way onto my face. Nor do I know how long it took me to become aware of it. I fought to ignore that errant sunbeam, to get back to my dream, but the moment had passed. I rub my knuckles into my eyes to drive away the sleep and try to remember what I had planned for today, the reaping. I have to wash and get dressed up in my best clothes for the reaping, why? Because the Capitol wants me to. The
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Chapter 14 - The Fifth Day * Amelia Amelia sagged in the deserts heat. She had been chained to a boulder for the entire week. Her defiance had ceased. She no longer argued back, it was a waste of her much needed energy. Sweat coated her forehead and drenched her clothes. On another day if she hadn't been so hot she might have cared that her white blouse was soaked to the skin. Today she was thankful. Today if it weren't for her drenched blouse keeping her cool she might of died from dehydration or
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I find myself standing there, as I do every night. Their headstones reading, " Julian and Emma Dawson, loving parents." The wind pickes up sending a chill down my spine. Knowing what's behind me, I still cant find the power to face it, but instead I let him stand there and watch me cry over my recently buried parents. My tears freezing my face in the cold Wyoming weather. "They wouldn't want you doing this Kate ", the person behind me mentions. "Not out here, it's not safe." My reflexes
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The crowd was hushed, silent, there was not a sound to be heard in whole the sold out 100,000 seat stadium. In fact it was so quiet that one could hear the subtle thumping of a heart beat and the now seemingly loud rustling of the grass. It was a Saturday night game, the last of the season, and our undefeated football team was to this point an unstoppable force, one of which, teams would cower at the mere speaking of our name. This night we were facing our cross town rivals, the eagles, in a match
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“That's always seemed so ridiculous to me, that people want to be around someone because they're pretty. It's like picking your breakfeast cereals based on color instead of taste.” ― John Green, Paper Towns “We live and breathe words. It was books that kept me from taking my own life after I thought I could never love anyone, never be loved again. It was books that made me feel that perhaps I was not completely alone. They could be honest with me, and I with them.” ― Cassandra Clare, Clockwork
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Belonging - Short Narrative Part 1: Noah and his Father On a quiet morning, majestic to say the least, the sun rose softly, yet unlike all other mornings, on this day, it embraced a pristine crispness, perfectly complementing the balmy accents of this summers dawn. Pastel orange danced with lilac in the sky, and as light gradually highlighted the earth bound greens, the world seemed to hug together, all elements as one, as family, each entwined with the next, as though made for the existence
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certainly plan on taking creative writing classes, but, I also know that I want to take courses in world religions after reading a fascinating book on Zen Buddhism. I am a theatre major at my school and hope to take classes in acting, but after completing a recent AP US History project on post-holocaust Jewish identity I know I want to take courses in Jewish Studies. CONDENSE IDEA ex. Singer/songwriter – could major in music, poetry slam artist could easily major in creative writing, theatre major at
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Summer casualy looked around the store at all the clothes. The first price tag she pulled up from a random shirt read-“ 64.99”. “Wow” Summer whispered to herself. Two seconds later there was a tap on summers shoulder. She slowly turned around and saw Casey and two other “popular” girls with ten to fifteen items of clothing in each hand. “ You actually think you can afford that… HA!” Casey Said. “ I was just looking” Summer replied back in an angry fierce way. All the girls laugh and went to
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The Call One month ago, I was running out of breath, literally. Each breath I took, I was getting closer to taking my last. My lungs were dying. And while my hope and belief in life were still alive and well, the idea was to get my body to catch up with my faith. This required some work. What I needed was a miracle, a double lung transplant, I prayed every day that angels would finally answer my call and deliver me a miracle. I have always believed in miracles. Since childhood, when I thought pretty
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Shayna Shayna has just been appointed to be the police. She is very nice towards others and she works very hard. One day, while she was walking home like the other days and as she passes her neighborhood's garage she saw a group of guys in the corner around the garage with a very huge box are secretly whispering something to each other as if they’re planning on doing something bad. From the police’s perspective, Shayna was very suspective of the group of guys so she walked towards them slowly
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‘A parents biggest pride is their children’. This is one thing I always stood beside. There is no other love than what you receive from a child. None. Zero. Zilch. I was blessed with two beautiful children - a boy for me to teach a Ngati Kahungunu haka too, to teach him how to use a taiaha and help him master his fierce pukana. My daughter was fortunate enough to get a father who treated her like royalty and she inherited her mother’s gospel golden tones. As soon as you walked into my home pictures
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The household is awaken by agonising screams coming from my mother at 2 o’clock in the morning. Dad is running around the house like mad. I can hardly bring myself to lift my feet off the chilly tiled floor this cold winter morning. I rub my eyes a little too much, little stars appear afloat in front of me. My brother, Curtis, is jumping around the house, he’s euphoric. It’s the lack of sleep mixed with the excitement of having a new baby brother. I drag myself towards the aggressively screaming woman in
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I have no idea what I am doing. I came here for inspiration. And they're making me contribute. stop it. help me i have nothing to contribute if you're reading this...... i am so sorry jfc kill me is this long enough i hope so
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Suddenly, in these circumstances, I became aware that, on the other side of the Sea of Azof, we had an interested spectator. The way this knowledge gathered in me was the strangest thing in the world—the strangest, that is, except the very much stranger in which it quickly merged itself. I had sat down with a piece of work—for I was something or other that could sit—on the old stone bench which overlooked the pond; and in this position I began to take in with certitude, and yet without direct vision
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