Creative Writing: Grave

Back in the main level of the factory, Wolf and Fox find Hawk lying on the ground, pale and unresponsive, his bulletproof vest next to him and the edges of a red stain showing around a wad of gauze. A soldier that Fox assumes is N-Unit's medic kneels next to him, along with Snake and Coyote. The three medics are talking frantically among themselves. The rest of N-Unit hovers nervously nearby; the rest of H-Unit is nowhere to be seen. Dust particles dance through the beams of sunlight from the holes where windows used to be, giving the whole scene a strangely dreamy air.

She lays helplessly, hopelessly tranced. What will remain of her in the coming hours is unknown, but one thing is for certain, I will remain by her side until she is an empty house, cold and unseeing. Though sorrow may fill my bones, all that I let show through is a sense of tranquil energy in lieu of the recent events. She mumbles and murmurs longing for the life long past. Embarrassment occupies her brain as she contemplates why and how her life has come to this. She reeks of stupidity and frailness when her life was nothing close to that. She fears that what we leave behind is more important that what we were. Is it though? Regardless of what she was or what she has become, I am here and I will always be here.

Purgatory: A place where the most malignant/hazardous fiends are jailed due to their assailments on the human race. Their thirst for human blood still lingered within them, even after centuries of being caged in Purgatory. They probed everywhere for a way out of the illimitable, gloomy, foggy forest and rivers; killing themselves and others with hunger and insanity. Once a fiend is in, it’s nearly impossible to get out without a Reaper’s or Knight’s scythe.

I was never very interested in my grandmother’s stories about her childhood. The stories were long and the only thing that they taught me were how to smile and nod so the elderly woman in front of me did not feel bad. Her voice was the only reason that I came to her house anymore. The melodic tone that danced around the room filling it with happiness and golden mellifluous sound that once adorned these gray white trimmed walls, but the woman sitting in front of me was not the one in that pictures that adorned these walls. No, the woman sitting in front of me was a wrinkled and defeated version of the great woman that is featured in thee pictures. She sat there just staring at me with her glazed over eyes that showed her age. She opened her mouth and the sonorous words began to come out, but I payed no attention. All I cared about was that wonderful voice.

By Saturday afternoon, the eighty-seven residents of the rural southern town of Wrongberight have suffered through four days of intense intermittent rainstorms. And to add to their misery another storm approaches the town from the northeast. Now, Clemmy Sue Jarvis since birth has lived here and has a simple philosophy concerning weather. As long as the almighty man upstairs allows her to draw a breath, she will enjoy life, regardless of the weather. At four o’clock, she lifts her petite frame into her rusty Ford pickup, and gradually eases out of her driveway. The soaring Pines that surround her home sway to the rhythm of the gusting wind as she turns south onto Flat Bottom Road and follows it along the edge the Dismal Swamp towards the isolated

For several days in succession fragments of a defeated army had passed through the town. They were mere disorganized bands, not disciplined forces. The men wore long, dirty beards and tattered uniforms; they advanced in listless fashion, without a flag, without a leader. All seemed exhausted, worn out, incapable of thought or resolve, marching onward merely by force of habit, and dropping to the ground with fatigue the moment they halted. One saw, in particular, many enlisted men, peaceful citizens, men who lived quietly on their income, bending beneath the weight of their rifles; and little active volunteers, easily frightened but full of enthusiasm, as eager to attack as they were ready to take to flight; and amid these, a sprinkling of red-breeched soldiers, the pitiful remnant of a division cut down in a great battle; somber artillerymen, side by side with nondescript foot-soldiers; and, here and there, the gleaming helmet of a heavy-footed dragoon who had difficulty in keeping up with the quicker pace of the soldiers of the line. Legions of irregulars with high-sounding names "Avengers of Defeat," "Citizens of the Tomb," "Brethren in Death"--passed in their turn, looking like banditti.

So we started to run down the street once we got there we went into someone's backyard my dad said “stop” he looked around it was not Chili it was a gray cat and Chili is orange. We ran back and looked in the bushes our dad whispered “shhh do you see him in the bushes ‘ then I replied “yes” then my dad said “ Cale go by the back gate Leah go around front i am going to grab him. As my dad crept closer Chili ran my way I shooed him back, but he got scared and ran all the way around the front and into Michals bushes. Leah and I ran over there and leah went in the bushes but she could not find him so she came back out but she tripped on a weed and fell. My dad took her back to the house but me and my aunt kept looking. We looked and looked but

Loss and loneliness are a bitch, learned Lizabeth Streicher at the early age of seventeen after her beloved mother died from kidney failure, two months before she graduated from high school. Teenage ignorance, believing her mother was invincible, and guilt, believing she somehow could have saved her, dwelled in Lizabeth’s sub-conscience well into her adult life, like a sleeping cancer cell.

I walked into the room on New Year’s Day and felt a sudden twinge of fear. My eyes already hurt from the tears I had shed and those tears would not stop even then the last viewing before we had to leave. She lay quietly on the bed with her face as void of emotion as a sheet of paper without the writing. Slowly, I approached the cold lifeless form that was once my mother and gave her a goodbye kiss.

Today was funeral day. My mom’s funeral. It was a dark October thursday, the clouds were brewing a storm. A slight breeze disturbed my neck. My uncomfortable suit sleeves bellowed in the cold breeze.. I hadn’t felt any emotions since the day of her death, which was weeks ago, almost as if my emotion is grey. It was warm then, as my mind was too. Nowadays, up until today, my mind has been a dark fog, as if my mind was released into the sky, darkening everyone’s day, arriving at my mom’s funeral or just to cuddle up with their friends and family in front of a warm crackling fire, telling the stories of their childhood and how times were better. Not me, my dad usually ignored me and he only worked on managing my mom’s fortune. Yeah. My mom’s

last blood city at night the alarm goes off and there scream and shout everywhere inside the city and all the new-human began hunting for monsters, relics, and the zombies that got inside the city.

“Your Grandmother died.” My mama said to me sorrowfully after taking a long moment to work up the nerve to say the words, and my first thoughts were, Oh, shit no… Not Grandma Singer. I love Grandma Singer. Then, suddenly I felt as if I had a thousand pound weight bearing down on my chest—as if a force was trying to burrow its way deep inside of me eager to rip out my

I had been very sick the last two years. Grave's disease had taken over my life, just as alcohol takes over

The car ride up to the local cemetery in a small town in New Jersey was as silent as the ghost of my great-aunt herself- empty and bleak. I only assumed that everyone around me was clinging onto the past memories we shared with her, feeling the shock of what we could no longer turn the pages of time back to. I could not fully imagine how my dad must have felt that somber day. He would often reminisce about the tender moments he shared with her as a spirited youth with the rest of the family, his voice always springing to life when he spoke of the past. Sitting in the back of the car, I glanced at him in the driver’s seat, peering at his eyes to notice how he seemed to be staring into another place of existence that was left untouchable to the rest of my family.

When my Grandmother passed away, I thought about it long and hard. I thought about how I could somehow do something to make her life here on Earth a tribute from the ones whom loved her, and the ones that she had touched. This eulogy written for Corolie Feagin Davis, was not only written as a means to be closure of her life here on Earth, but to celebrate her crossing over into a much better place. That place, which she has spoken to me and others about on several occasions, is where she has been laying up her treasures. All my life she has told me, and others, that she need not gather up her treasures here on this Earth, because as she used to say” her treasures lie on the other side.”