Creative Writing: Colter And Cairo

"Wake up, partners," the trail boss, James called. I sleepily looked up , shivered, and saw I was the only one not up. "Here," James said, giving me the horses' bridles and saddles. "Take these and get the horses ready. We have a long day today." I groaned in reply and set up the horses for the day's long drag. I was the horse wrangler and this was my everyday job but I still couldn't get use to the idea of waking up before the sun and working. We drove the cattle into open plains against the winter's cold wrath.

Flich shrugs, innocently, as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out something, tossing it to Walker. Considering they don’t have money, it’s most likely food. Probably candy, a rare thing in this city and that old dog does have a sweet tooth. I’m surprised all his teeth are still intact. “Well, that escape plan of yours was completely suicidal. It was easy to make a small wager.”

The sun was about to rise, but it was still dark outside in the city of Crete. A tall muscular man with chestnut brown hair and eyes that shifted between an emerald green and an electric blue was getting ready for the upcoming race by running laps around the city. His name was Grigolo and he claimed to be the fastest runner on the planet. Grigolo got out of his bed quite loudly and his wife stirred in her sleep groggily asking,

"I really didn't enjoy the kiss that much. Seriously you are not the greatest kisser you know." Sandro had no intention of getting shot at by Rumer without fighting back and grinned back at her. "And yes, now I'm sorry!" He added for good measure as he left the house.

He turned forward and continued walking. He went to his room and took a seat on his bed. After spending some time organising his belonging,

Surely people do not drink orange juice with every meal. Yet every time I asked Pierre what he liked to drink he responded with the same delicate Floridian fruit: “orange”. I embraced Pierre’s unique preference of beverage by leaving a carton of orange juice at the table, which he delightfully indulged upon during breakfast, lunch , and dinner. After two weeks, Pierre and his abundance of vitamin C made their way back to southern France. Housing a foreign exchange student gave me a glimpse into the life of an adolescent elsewhere in the world.

The music grew louder and louder until Jonas realized it wasn’t just an echo. Gabriel began to stir as Jonas rode the sled to the bottom of the hill. The large flakes of snow were needles, raining down on their cold, red faces. Jonas began to slip in and out of consciousness. Suddenly, a large brown object came into view. He squinted, trying to catch a glimpse of it before he passed it on the sled. He quickly stared into the glass as he lost momentum on the sled. Red. Orange. Yellow. Jonas began to think of the memories the Giver shared with him. The word was right there. But he couldn’t figure it out. Gabriel began to babble. “Fiii-uhh, fiii-uuhh.” He mumbled. Jonas laughed.

It's Wednesday, just six weeks before TCAPS. Mr. Joe enters his classroom on the third floor of Maryville Junior High school. It's a room like any other ordinary 1950's cider block room. The walls are yellowed, and there are rows of old beat up desks. The fluorescent lighting flickers as he turns on the lights. Mr. Joe is an old crippled man who is on his last leg and ready to retire. He doesn't put up with any crap. Mr. Joe hates it when the kids hit each other with the text books. Kids such as Brody Sloan, Matt Brooks, and Clay Brewster have a goal to make him mad. Then there is a kid like Terk Johnson who yells at the other kids to stop because they are distracting his learning ability. Mr. Joe just knows that he will never be able to have

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

Was it really worth it, going this far. Shivering, Jonas, with Gabriel in his lap, gave the rusted sled a small push, feeling the frosted snow that laid lightly over the hill melt in his fingers. It was freezing, getting harder and harder to breathe, seeing his breath in front of him every time he exhaled. He took a glance at Gabriel as they went down, looking into the soft eyes with light tears dripping down his reddened cheeks. Jonas held onto Gabriel, as the sled went down swiftly over the white snow. He wished that he would have perceived a little more warmth from the Giver that would give him a little more strength. He and Gabriel were getting colder, making them more weak, with their hands freezing and their toes all numb. They were

decided to make a new library becuse the old one was too old. There was a contest

While Dr. Queen and Jackson where walking home from their “adventures”, they heard a loud crack that sounded like a lightning strike but there wasn't a storm brewing. Shortly after the crack a huge spaceship came rushing toward them as if it was going to land. The spaceship ended up landing in the middle of where Dr. Queen and Jackson were walking. As it landed Dr. Queen and Jackson were to astonished to run so they stayed there and examine the ship. While they were examining it a door from the ship began to open, behind the door stood a man dressed like a modern cowboy with his long jacket. He seemed to be the Pilot of the ship since he was talking to the ship like he was the captain or something. He than approached them.

Idmaer saw in Saega’s eyes a resolve that would not waver. With Agnerod’s Touch and whatever magic made him into the monster, Saega could torment Idmaer without end. That much could be endured. But to have Edoma torn apart with Idmaer’s own hands. That was something he couldn’t endure.

The warm blood runs over my fingers as I grasp his throat, digging my fingers into the deep, seemingly endless wound where my blade had danced only but a minute ago. His body is convulsing slowing coming to a halt by the second as I look into his eyes while watching the life drain from from them and into my soul. I bet my dad would be proud now, as he would always look into my eyes with the look that he would have his hands wrapped around my throat, dangling my body in the air until I pass out. Furthermore, I would wake up sore and bloody, however, I gift them death. Nonetheless, this would end their suffering which I never received.

Alexander has had trouble maintaining self control during the last couple music classes with me. He frequently interupts when I'm giving instructions or explaining how to count and execute rhythmic notation. He therefore loses information he needs to perform satisfactorily, and it is also distracting to his classmates.