Creative Writing: Bess Vs.

The interplay of dark and light motifs underlies the narrator’s most recent hardship. On his way home on the subway, the narrator comes across his brother’s name in a newspaper and “stared at it in the swinging lights of the subway car, and in the faces and bodies of the people, and in my own face, trapped in the darkness which roared outside” (Baldwin). Riding in the light of the subway car, the author makes the non-suspecting narrator subject to suffering, unguarded by the protective cloak of the outside darkness. Made vulnerable by the exposed light and people surrounding him, the narrator is hit harder by the unexpected news than if he had read it in the darkness of his private room. Under the “swinging lights,” the narrator is not prepared to cope with the troubling news. This emphasizes the importance of light as a symbol for one’s need of camouflage to properly cope with tragedy.

I don’t know about you, but when I was a little girl, I would always walk around the house and picture how I might look when I was finally ALL GROWN UP... Well, that ‘look’ that I had in my head, almost always consisted of some style of curls, adorning my cinnamon brown skin.

blend in with the forest, such as trees, they stand out as they do not

What's there to say Bri-Anne you are poetry. The thin lines decorating your hands are the black ink that marks a lined page, the beat of your heart is a steady stream of words with perfect rhythm. You are the words I breath and the rhymes I arrange and the ink flowing out of my pen. You are the thoughts in my head that I put down on paper. You are the everlasting memories that words create. You are permanent and beautiful. Your my wonderwall, you make me smile without even doing anything and when you smile back all I can say is wow. You've been a great friend and you've someone how managed to put up with the mess I am haha. Like you're the bomb. com and have been an exceptional "Master". I know your not gonna want to hear this, but I'm selfish.

Such a beautiful sight was the sunset that Javeor beheld as her graceful wings flapped gently and kept her aloft. The fleecy clouds like a quilt of cotton were rimmed in pink by the rays of the blazing yellow sun as it said goodbye to her and the world on which she lived. The warm, scarlet light about her, let her temporarily forget the lonely night she would pass when he left her until the next day. For he was her only friend in a world of men who hunted her out of fear of her fiery breath and massive but elegant body. Her only friend in a world of desolation and rejection. As the last of his warm rays dipped beneath the horizon, Javeor turned toward the secluded mountain that she called home, her heart already longing for the next day

I sat down with my boy on the recliner he hopped up as I read the paper back to him. This seemed Like a cozy get up for a boy to grow up in, but as I began to read my mind was adrift into other things. I had to split sometime soon but I couldn’t help think “what awaits me there?” I thought of a time when I lived in the city, New Orleans. Late one night while I was a private dick I lit my cigarette and began listening to the smooth jazz of the night. The cool wind of the night brushed my face and wavered my smoke as I pulled my hat down I noticed some grifter out of the corner of my eye. I kept walking. The sly grifter moved along the shadows.

“I’m James,” said the man in the asparagus-colored light. He was a little taller than Gilman, and it was hard to make out, but Gilman thought he could decipher long, black hair, which looked a bit greasy, given how it glistened in the dreamy lights. His sharp facial features punctured the night’s air like the cold that danced on the tip of Gilman’s

The following cool spring night, Arthur roamed the woods on foot. He’d planned to take his horse so he could cover more ground, but decided against that, as going to the stables and saddling-up would draw more attention. It was easier for him to slip out of the castle under the cover of darkness.

As night consumed the light in the sky, the land outside was still and peaceful. Nothing was to be heard, but the soft sound of wind blowing softly and a few insects making their nightly calls. In the middle of this serene location was a small wood house, deep within the forest. Inside was a father, a mother, and a son. Within one of the bedrooms was a young mother by the name of Lucy, telling her son of magnificent events which took place not too long ago.

Nothing could express how I felt except one word: Confused. None of it made any sense; Vic didn't actually like me, he was angry, he was straight, hell I'm straight, or at least I thought I was. But... maybe I'm not.

As he stared down the dark, winding streets of London it was evident that he was in pain beyond imagination. His eyes were evidently engorged and it could be seen through the purple clouds around his eyes that he was close to losing all control of his senses. Blood was seeping from the deep hole in the upper right corner of his left shoulder, every sluggish step he took forward sent a searing pain through his nerves all the way to the wound, leaving no chance for the blood loss to halt. The cold rain was falling gently onto the gloomy road surrounding him but it bothered him not, the dangerously dark setting in fact paid tribute to his murky charisma. His head hung, long grimy hair falling over his eyes as he looked straight down at the aged

Heavy in the air was the scent of cherries and bourbon, the smell of a man more desperate of atmosphere and above all most desperate of a scene. A man whose breath heavily weighed the air around him searching for the laughter of all wealthy men gathered to assume his drunkedness and take heart to the fact that he so presently was just as they were; drunk and bored. Fairly as it must be said it is in wealth when one possesses the ability to have so much that no matter what they seek it shall never meet the expectations of a heaven set dream... Tied to a hell bound scene with their heads finding heaven. But oh how it made for a remarkable conversation at the club Versa. The man with the scent of bourbon and cherries at his lips held a cigar lightly against the table. With every bad habit at his grasp, and death wearing down beneath his eyes, he was rather much like a tragic painting. As you would see it beside the reaper himself, the men sitting around the round glass table recalled him to be lord Sinvent. The young men recalled him as nothing as their eyes fixated upon so little. Caught between the curse of childhood forbade innocence... And the greater purpose of man... Asking only to play the cards. Tossing their coins the the experienced man and talking of wit, in less drunken spiels. There was one boy...lest I say a boy... There was one human, fairly striking, who sat poised against the wall in a tilting chair. Like any good story he saw all of that room. Asking only

Andrew slept that night in peace, but all nights weren’t like that some were bad, others made Andrew wonder why he even was born. But not all was chaotic in Andrew’s life he had a friend named Kelly who lived just next door, they used to play hide and seek together, they used to visit the woods, collect rocks and pebbles sing and dance. They even made a pet dog Milo, Kelly was pretty much Andrew’s only hope in his world of despair, sometimes Andrew was allowed a night stay at Kelly’s house, nights he always remembered, and those nights he would wear his night suit, ring the door bell of Kelly’s house, Mrs. Castle would open the door and greet him warmly, then Kelly and he would play board games, watch movies and eat dinner. Then came Andrew’s favourite part bedtime, Mrs. Castle would tuck Kelly and Andrew in the bed and then read them a bedtime story till they fell

He planted the torch in the ground and laid his scabbard in the brown dry grass. He leaned against the brick wall of the ruined house, tampered the tobacco in his pipe and looked at her — he smiled to himself. She stood by the old well, gazing into the night. Her long blonde ponytail was not tied with cloth like his wife did, she wrapped the hair around itself instead, and she was the prettiest girl he had ever seen, he thought. Her brown pants clung to her, and he could see the black string she tied the piece of cloth covering her breasts with through the white blouse.

She brushed her frozen, cherub fingers against the wicked bricks of the buildings she passed, feeling their history. Meanwhile, her eyes told a fairytale to every onlooker she passed: possibly one that they might have heard as a child, told by a soft spoken mother in the comfort of the sleep that was about to embrace them, giving them dreams of warm and golden passion, love. This unclaimed child’s laughs were heard across the street on the other side of the sidewalk by a couple, too in love to notice such a nuisance to their romantic evening. Eventually, as she continued her journey wandering on and on throughout the streets of London, nothing and everything was on her mind, except for the whistle of the cold, brisk winds that the night had offered. And for a moment, she