Creative Writing: Darragh's Home

The drive home was difficult; his vision swam and his muscles felt stiff and achy. Too bright city lights glared at him, pierced his eyes. His head throbbed, beat, beat, beat, in rhythm with his racing heart. Nausea rocked in his stomach and every noise seemed amplified. Why were these damn people driving so slowly? He needed to get home; he was already late as it was, and his father wouldn't be pleased. Leaving the glowing city behind him, Aiden found slight relief in the peaceful country roads and sharp peppermint smelling pines that surrounded his home, if you could call it that.

The driver, Cecilia Blair, of vehicle 1 was traveling north through the intersection of N. State St. and Flint St. when she had a collision with vehicle 2. The driver, Jacqueline Muir, of vehicle 2 was heading west on Flint St. when she was struck by vehicle 1.

Right now I’m in these trenches writing a heart-filled letter for y’all. But these unbearable conditions have been unsettling to me. Everytime I want to get away from the gruesome war, I think about you. The shots of the machine guns, getting exposed to mustard gas, and having to see my fellow soldiers having to deal with trench foot, all makes me feel hopeless of me staying alive. All day and night, we had to be on the lookout. Planes from the sky makes us vulnerable for air attacks. All aside from all of those problems, the one main goal is to one day find my horse Joey. Maybe both of us will somehow meet me once again during or after the war. I’m very sorry to you guys if I don’t make it home alive, but I’m going to make a big promise, never in a day or night, will I forget about you guys.

I write to you today from a hospital bed in France. I know that may sound bad, but truly I am one of the lucky ones. I have lost so many friends in this past battle. I am sure you have probably heard news of this back home in England already. The first day of the battle on the Somme was a dark day indeed. I have heard it word here that it could have been one of the bloodiest battles to date. I do not even know how to begin describing the war, but I have to describe it to someone. I would never want to tell my parents of these horrors I am facing; it would be far too much for them to bear. You are my closest friend back home, and I know if it were not for your health issues, you would be here fighting too, so I feel I can tell you about all this. I know I volunteered for this, but I never in a million years could have predicted what war would truly be like. Looking back on it though, we are truly lucky that Britain is a country that relies on volunteer

You used to think the philosophy 'you only live one' is the most ridiculous excuse for justifying everything you've ever heard of - if you're meant to be reckless and live as fast as you can, 'there's a million and one ways to die' sounds much nicer. Explore them. Investigate them. Enjoy them. Cherish everyone of them, especially that split second between when you lean back in your chair and it hangs midway in air so close the the ground that the only thing you can think of is 'that is it.'

At last we made it. We were at the place. I was jumping with excitement. Then we went in the place there was 5 puppies in the house. They were so fuzzy. Since we took them outside one of them followed me and my dad. That’s how we pick out our puppy. On the way home, we were passing him around so everyone would see him. When it was my turn he fell asleep on my lap. My mom said to just leave him on my lap so he wouldn’t wake up.

What is the personal significance of your given name (first, middle, and last)? My given name is Kimberly Müller. The personal significance of my given name is very important to me because I want my name to always have something great behind it, that’s one of my goals. My surname came from Germany, I sometimes wonder how a German surname came all the way to Haiti. My first name is the most perfect name for myself, so I just have to thank my parents for that, my mother’s name starts with the same letter as my name.

I heard it. Beneath the ground, behind the walls I heard it. Echoing screams of sorrow, visions of the dead, a wildfire of disease, a contagious Earth. The scattered debris of humanity’s tallest skyscrapers crumbled in heaps of stone. The splintered glass of humanity’s greatest architectural feats laid scattered in on the roads. The canvas of humanity’s greatest artworks scraped beyond recognition and laid defeated. This was our future. Nothing could’ve prevented it.

“Mags, come on, we got to get to the rally point, it’s just down the hall,” John said, leader of the 117th squadron. The mission was to get to the rally point in the middle of an invading alien species Mothership. The squadron was composed of 4 outstanding marines, the best of the best. They are part of the selected few, the Guardians.

“Breaking news-,” the telecaster’s voice echoed throughout my Upper East Side bungalow, “-mental hospital reports a missing person's alert. The individual is a patient at Curtley Sanitarium in Winchester Bay, Oregon and has been labeled as extremely aggressive and dangerous. The patient is male with brown hair and hazel eyes and is about 6’2”, 190 lbs. He was last seen on October 24 and wearing light green hospital gown. If you see an individual matching this description, we urge you to contact (541) 853-5829 and to avoid contact with him at all costs.” I stopped folding my laundry and padded across my floor into the kitchen to take a look at the missing person, however there was no photo shown on the screen. I was eerily intrigued about the

“Could that be an air raid warning?” He whispers, recalling that in World War 2 they would sound sirens to warn of the German planes in the skies,

Strutting through the familiar, gate worn by time, I spread my arms, taking in the saccharine aroma of the fresh grass. The remaining glimmers of the sun glisten on every blade that peeks through the moist soil, composing a sea of sparkling beauty, only comparable to a poem. The meadow is breathtaking this evening, as the sun sets behind the trees in the distance, leaving a glow of pinks, peaches, ambers, and crimsons behind as if a bowl of fruit had exploded in the sky.

It was August 1915, I commanded the 3rd division consisting of 3 brigade; the 7th, 8th and 9th. All ready to attack the western front. On the very north end of our trench, I have my 7th battalion and on the south end I had my 8th and 9th brigade. For the 7th brigade, I would have them enter the NorthEast forest by day, hidden by the shrubbery but still having daylight I am hoping my men can make it halfway through the forest before it hits nightfall. Once nightfall comes my men would use the night to move out into the farm near by and take cover by that fence. Once they have made it to that fence the 7th battalion shall, if they see necessary, to call in an artillery barrage to help them break a hole in the far north end of the Germans trenches

“Anything that can help us find out who did this.” I said, examining the crime scene. I walked towards what used to be the glass case that held the crown, but was now a useless, shattered cube.

Wes was exhausted. It was Monday morning, an no amount of coffee could help him at this point, he was a lost cause. He had gotten about half an hour of sleep the night before while doing more ghost research. He had only slept at all because he tripped over a few art supplies left over from when he was making his charts, and decided that the floor was somewhat comfortable and it was worth too much effort to get up. His father found him in the morning, choosing to ignore the creepy pictures of both Danny Fenton and Danny Phantom tacked to the wall. Thankfully, all Walter said was to clean his room as soon as possible, because frankly, his room was a complete mess. Everything from sharpies and bottles of superglue to cassette tapes about ghosts