Creative Writing: Earlene And Augustine

It's a typical summer day in the beautiful city of Pompeii in the year 79 A.D. The main street is packed with people -- women swishing by in long robes, men in tunics, children with leather sandals that slap against the hot stone streets.

Mary Ann watched Henry leave making sure he was not taking the carriage with him. Once Henry made it out the door, he started his journey to his favorite pub, Crown & Anchor, which happened to be nearby the empty field across from the beach. Mary Ann went to her son’s room, to soothe him, for the poor child overheard the foul conversation that previously took place in the dining room. Meanwhile, Henry’s mind was abundant with thoughts of the heart shattering conversation he just witnessed. But then again, it was all his fault.

Standing on his hind legs, this rare andalucian stallion is fearless. His ears are turned back while his noble looking head is held high. His all black coat glistens in the late afternoon sun. His face displays a strong confidence with his nostrils flared, his veins bulging from his cheek bones, and his fiery black eyes burning holes into the souls of those who stare into them. His neck muscles are tensed and thickened with adrenalin. His black main is thrown into the wind like a flag rippling in the winds of a tornado. His muscular front legs are brought up to his chest displaying his flashing gray hooves that could crush a man's scull with one blow. His backbone and underbelly are held almost straight up and his hind quarters are tensed.

The great unknown, in the savage west Life is oldest in the Westward states, older than the Redwoods Royal ridged mountains with crispy fresh springs New kindled fires growing day by day But new youngins are growing like a fury breeze Wild horses, straying across the blue enriched waters The well-balanced Mountain goats hanging on by a thread And other untouched creatures running and striving for survival The dusty, and scorching heat sneaking across the baking desert

I struggled a bit throughout this book. The content was, at least on first read, not of great interest to me, despite my interest in the geography of the Northwest. I found the writing style stilted and heavy-handed; the syntax was, it felt, unnecessarily complex. I don’t necessarily feel that this is due to the time at which Winthrop was writing, as I have not run into the same roadblock with his contemporaries. Nonetheless, I respect that this is the earliest written narrative of travel through this region. Many books, and I am confident that The Canoe and the Saddle is one of them, warrant multiple readings. I have added this to my post-graduation reread list. I want to like this book, and while like most of the class, I was a little unnerved by the authors imperialist attitude toward his indigenous guides, I don’t think that preclude me from finding merit in the writings on rereading.

To a time when he had clinged on to his mama’s pant leg so tightly that she must have had brown and purple finger marks on her legs for days. Enrique hoped the marks reminded her of how it felt to leave her children. The pain should have made her realize how her choices impact others. Eriquie had cried out his mother's name for days and possibly weeks. He had missed her. He had missed her like he had ever missed anything before, this was the worst pain he had ever experienced. But when Enrique had remembered just how bad that pain had been he snapped back into his unfortunate reality. Where he was motherless and having a strong desire to find his mother in the near future. All Enrique could think was what if his mother didn't want him anymore and what if he was left as the same pain he had felt before? Enrique and Joel shared their motives for going to America and they both discovered that they longed to find their mothers. Joel’s mother had left him just after she had given birth to his sister. So Enrique was right they were siblings! The boys decided that they were going to continue to travel together until they could find both of their mothers and he wasn't going to worry anymore if his mother didn't want him anymore. He was doing it! He was going to find his mother after many, many

In the early 1840s, a socialite from England decided to relocate to Sirenea. Her name was Lady Ariana Kingston and she had moved into a large house in the heart of West Raven. The rumors on why she had moved to this fledgling nation were numerous: from that she had killed someone and was trying to escape from the police to she was really Lord Aric and wanted a fresh start with a new life. These were unsurprisingly untrue.

Pillars of stone from the floor to the ceiling made one feel as though he were caged.

left, one turn right.” I recited from my copy of “A guide through the Labyrinth”. I had suddenly felt a huge jerk from the ground and fell on the ground. “What just happened?” I thought to myself. I had gotten back up only to feel the floor pulse again. I had suddenly remembered that I was in the Labyrinth and anything paranormal has got to be bad. I sprinted down the corridor and took a left, sprinted down another corridor and took a right and kept repeating this process until I could not run. By that point I had realized I was in a round room. “This must be the center.” I whispered to myself. I gripped the rope and looked for any prisoners. It didn’t take me long to find a prison one room over, thanks to the screams. I quickly had set everyone free and hurried out of the room. Unfortunately, the Minotaur was right in front of

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

"Unless you try to do something beyond what you have already mastered, you will never grow," to quote the distinguished author Ralph Waldo Emerson. Although some could say you can grow within your existing field of mastery, experimenting with things outside of your comfort zone is necessary for growth because you can cultivate new passions and learn things about yourself. A counterclaim to Emerson's thought is that growth is possible within your comfort zone, within the familiar walls you surround yourself in. Even if you are a master at something, there is always room for improvement. While this universal ideal may be true, it does not necessarily mean you are growing. Much like a flower, fern, or other type of plant, growth in skill means expanding upwards and

I was once told that sometimes if you look into a mirror long enough you will see the truest reflection of you. Only that wasn’t happening. I wore a fine short sleeved roman white and gold silk tunic with a gold strap at the waist. I had a pair of regular shorts under it. I hooked on a small black cape that came only over my right arm and stopped half way down. On it in gold lettering was S.P.Q.R, which meant Senātus Populus que Rōmānus, or "The Senate and People of Rome". In back when rome was made they spoke latin, and so then the gods started to speak latin. Today the popular language is English so they speak english, but for children of the gods they can learn latin easly (only latin) and speak it fluently in about two months. I grabbed

A crowd has already gathered in the royal arena. Rows of stone benches rise above the pit, which is sunken deep into the ground, with a floor of dirt and a heavy wooden door set into its circular walls. The bloodthirsty throng’s roar rings out through the castle. The guards force me through the arena doors, dragging me to the royal viewing box. I scream hysterically as I struggle against their grip. Everyone turns as I am forced in, and the room silences, with only my screams reverberating off the walls. Lord Nemur, the Vesnic king, is already seated upon his throne, watching the pit below, only glancing up when I enter. They slam me into a wooden chair, not bothering to tie me up, there is nowhere for me to run. I swallow my sobs. I shake

The axe of cold steel weighs down on my shoulder. The hoof-shaped boots sliding on the ice reduce my movement to a crawl. The freezing wind in my face is making my body more numb than the heart of Tiberunius’s demons. My eyes struggle to see the battlefield ahead of me through the relentless snowfall. Yet, I endure. It’s all for him. The King. Coirellunius. He showed us how primitive we once were, and lead us to forge a holy Uniustarian empire. He always knew what was right, who was blessed, who was cursed and depraved. And these iceborn savages are the prime target. He’d taken our army of 625 archers, 25 mages, a thousand standard infantry, and us. The Minotaunius. Even among them, I am one of the finest warriors. The King knows me by name. “Patelius,” he said to me before we left, “I know your fear. I once felt it too. But the hoovesunius adorn us, and as fast as

Why on earth did I think this was a good idea? Nicodemus thought in dismay. His beak was bound tightly, keeping him from moving his mouth. Likewise, his feet and hands were wrapped tightly with thick wire, restricting movement to uncomfortable shuffles. The pickup truck he was in hit a bump, tossing him across the bed. He groaned miserably. He just had to open his big mouth.