Creative Writing: Clemmons

“What are you doing all the way out here, Pearl?” Rose inquired, her gaze fixated at the view before them, obviously fascinated by the twinkling stars and the endless sky that surrounded the arena. “This place — does it really serve a purpose anymore? I mean, now that the war is over…”

Before the Earth was a place that animals inhabited, there was a small green planet orbiting around the sun close to Earth called Equis. Grass covered most of the flat planet. The only water to be found was in small pools. Equis was inhabited mostly by horses. The sun horses. The sun birthed the first generation of these horses and were carried on asteroids to Equis. These horses were beautiful, large, and strong. Most were yellow or red like the sun, with white flames for manes and tails. The possessed strong hooves and heavy bodies that made the planet shake when they galloped across it. There was a tribe of people residing on Equis. The moon had birthed them. Some of their skin was pale like the moon in it’s illuminated phase, others had

“Don’t move,” Thorn’s voice echoes from the front of the destroyed room and both men stop. She appears out of the rubble, behind them with a gun ready.

“I followed you.” He took a step closer. “I’ve followed you since we were eight, and I’ve watched you build yourself into who you are. Do you remember when you purposely lost the national spelling bee by spelling ‘anarchy’ instead of ‘scherenschnitte’?” She laughed under her breath. Another step. “Or how about that time when you said the first thousand digits of pi just to waste time in algebra? Setting off the smoke alarm in chemistry by using chemicals we hadn’t even learned about?

Eva feigned being busy, at a locker, in the hallway overlooking the principal's office. She waited about ten minutes before Alexander emerged from the office. He appeared to sigh, then headed down the hallway in the opposite direction. Eva ran forward and entered the office.

The next morning (Y/N) slowly woke up, sitting up and rubbing at her eyes. She blinked a couple of times before looking around the room. She went to go get up before doing a double take, her eyes widening. Sitting in random places in her room were all of the characters from The Outsiders, at least all of the characters from Darry's gang. She tried not to start freakout, looking at everyone. They were just like she had imagined them.

Walking into Creg’s house is like trudging into an over cluttered garage before spring cleaning. When first stepping through the doorway one can’t help but to gawk at the six inch deep blanket of paper and wrappers covering the floor. Long pants and close-toed shoes are a necessity when visiting Creg, because the paper scratches at ankles and feet as they sink into the viscous litter. Musty smells of unwashed laundry and old boxes burns the visitor’s nostrils. Each step taken is followed by a revolting crunch. If unfortunate enough to inhale through their mouth, an overwhelming taste of dust will choke the visitor. Creg is used to it though, he comes home everyday bounds through the mess, into his living room.

Later that night, John went through with a plan. He knew exactly where Ashley lived, he knew what time her parents came home, he knew what time she walks her dog, and he knows what time to strike. The clock struck 3 P.M, and the Jameson household has no clue about a mischievous burglar that just got in. John had a major adrenaline rush at this point, he just broke in Ashley’s room.

“That’s going to come out, Veronica,” Keith took their mugs and placed them down in the sink. Like rinsing out those cups, Keith was going to leave the ramifications of his terrifyingly smart, brave, if-slightly criminal daughter’s actions for another day. “Goodnight, honey. Get some rest, you two. And Logan,” Keith made sure he had Logan’s full attention, “Couch for you.”

"The building's supposed to be here..." No doubt she looked like some crazy person, muttering to herself and running her hands all over the building, but who really cared? If they knew the circumstances, they, too, would be doing the same. "Fuck this shit."

I heard Veronica’s slippers clap on the laminate floor, down the hallway, and in her room.

Incense mixed with the cool evening breeze that washed through the open villa, crowded with party goers of high status. Local merchants, nobility, politicians and the like all gathered at House Idonea that the regions most popular lanista hosted. Oiled, bronze skinned gladiators lined the walls for perusal and to engage in playful bouts of combat while scantily clad slaves sauntered around the various rooms offering food and drink, and catering to other needs of the guests.

When the others meet in the drawing room, Emily Brent does not come in. Vera offers to fetch her but Blore stops her, revealing his suspicions about her to the group. Vera retells Beatrice Taylor’s story. Some agree with Blore, but Wargrave states that they once again have no evidence. They decide not to take any immediate action and go to find Emily. They find her dead, with a swelled face and blue lips. They also notice the bee outside the window and connect it to the poem. Armstrong says that the mark on her neck is the mark of a hypodermic needle, however, and that she died from one of the cyanides. He then admits to being in possession of a hypodermic needle. The group goes to his room only to find his suitcase on the floor and the needle gone. Wargrave says that all potential weapons need to locked away. Initially, Lombard protests against having his revolver taken away but eventually is forced to agree. Armstrong hands over his medical supplies. However when they go to Lombard’s room, they find his revolver missing. They then proceed to search everyone’s room afterwards, having everyone strip in the

Basile Auger rested his truncheon on the palm of his hand as the rain drizzled onto his helmet. It was a damp, miserable day in Paris, as it often was this time of year. Cool mist had settled over the Champ de Mars, and Basile hoped that it would make his scowl seem more menacing. The red, white, and gold francisque, the symbol of fascist France, sewn into the breast of his raincoat would be less fear-inspiring in the mist, so he continued his scowl with renewed fury. He was flanked by other members of the armee de la revolution nationale, wearing similar helmets and scowls. The protesters were gathered in the center of the Champ de Mars, maybe two hundred of them all waving signs and demanding liberty and a return to the third republic. Several

Clem’s father sits opposite him at the kitchen table. His eyebrows are furrowed and the veins in his head are exposed, large and angry.