Creative Writing: Hatred

“Some people say I was lucky to survive, other will say I deserved it for the choice I made. I’m here to say I was lucky, it’s never ok to say your life isn’t worth living even at your worst you can always look forward tomorrow will come and if you put your mind to it you’ll see that anything is possible.” – Stephen McGregor Professional Paralympian

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.

I hate creative writing! I used to have an affection to write all the time, but now it just doesn’t give me pleasure anymore. Also, the books that I get from the class are horrendous too. It’s extremely tough to read a book when it doesn’t even excite anyone at all! reading and writing is exceptional when the writer, that is yourself, comes up with the idea, and your thoughts matter. But now review me, I’m forced to read an irrelevant book about a pathetic guy, and I’m writing about foolish Dylan Montgomery who thinks I’m broken! I’ve lose respect for something that I love to create

It’s been three weeks since she first spoke to Violet and offered her help. Hell if I know what’s she’s been doing on that front all this time. She’s been quiet on the matter, so quiet, I almost forgot about the whole damn thing—until now.

Then some of people noticed a new guest, dress as a clothes of the Red Death. Everyone was freaking out because of him. When Prince Prospero saw this guy, he became angry and asked courtiers to seize him and unmask him. But no one have the courage to do it, including Prospero himself. The Red Death walked through the rooms, heading toward the black room. Prospero chased him with taking his dagger. Prospero reached the edge of the dark room, the Red Death suddenly turned to face him, and Prospero fell on the ground and dead. "Then, summoning the wild courage of despair, a throng of the revelers at once threw themselves into the black apartment, and, seizing the mummer, whose tall figure stood erect and motionless within the shadow of the ebony

I really think that when people have their days they tend to take things out on others. They say words that can actually hurt someone by saying that they hate them that’s a big pet peeve to me even though I use it sometimes.

Hatred confuses life; love harmonizes it. Hatred darkens life; love illumines it. This is a testimony of God’s love in my life.

Ludwig looked absolutely pissed. That was the first thing Arthur noticed as the blonde stalked down the halls, hair down for once, clothes askew, and such a strong irritation on his face that Arthur couldn’t help but snort to himself. It looked like someone had gotten up on the wrong side of the bed, Ludwig never let his appearance be thrown together like that. The next thing Arthur noticed, however, was a little more interesting. A small statured man with silver hair, whose head only came to Ludwig’s shoulder, was hanging onto the blonde’s arm, a large grin on his lips. Now who the hell was that? It wasn’t like the Brit had seen him around school before, and Ludwig certainly hadn’t mentioned him.

A breath to build a glow. I've heard it said a thousand times, but now I know. That I do not know what I have, until it's gone. I thought I kept you safe and sound. I thought I made you strong. But this whole thing made me realize that I was wrong. This is not the end and this is not the beginning. This is not what I had planned and it is out of my control now. Thoughts were spinning in my head, and I had so many things were left unsaid. It's hard to let you go. All I can think about is you, and how many little things I miss and love and the memories we made together. I just cannot lose you, because did not know what I had, until it is almost gone. From catching lightning bugs with you and the babies, to every photo on my phone, to picking you up at Michael’s Pizza, dropping you off at Greene’s Orthodontics, to camping, realizing that that could be over and gone made me cry. The little things give us away; I have always said that. Seeing you smile to my dumb jokes, and cheesy pickup lines, to hearing you giggle and scream when I try to tickle you, to being there when you get a phone a

    John Lennon once said, “Reality leaves a lot to the imagination.” Reality has a way of throwing you around like you’re some kind of rag doll on a roller coaster of emotions. This happens to me often and I don’t doubt that it happens to other people as well. Throughout your life you find your escape from the world and if you haven’t found one yet keep searching. The world is a stressful place and taking a break from your struggles helps. Something that helped me a lot was my affinity for reading.

King shrugged. “Well that's an unexpected thing to say to me, I didn't ever swear to be your partner in whatever your life long plans were.”

A couple of hours later I walked the trail towards the village jail, in hopes to see Jason. On rehash, he was one of the uppermost honest and friendly folks on the island, and the best shot as well. Though I always considered myself one of the best at spearfishing, Jason was better, and a steadier aim; he literally never missed a shot. His interests and passions had always been so forthright and reliable that in societal context, he took in everyone’s trust for granted. And, as it turned up, Duende resembled him in personality, although she exhibited the unworldliness befitting of a native who never left the islands. Unlike Jason, who was in the islands on vacation from the U.S., and had both his parents alive as well as siblings, Duende never

I put out my arm, and she took my hand. I helped her up, and she skipped at my side. Her hair bobbed up and down, and her shoes made a squeaking sound every time she skipped. "Do you realize how not normal you

“If this doesn’t work, I’m blaming you.”, Zelda whispered as they were doing a dramatic walk towards the flowers.

This act of musical immaturity delivers nothing more than a raucous noise to my ears and a feeling of disenchantment towards the delinquent. In that moment, the harmonious vibrations shaking my rib cage come to a screeching halt. The band turns and stares at the perpetrator while I joyously imagine the act heaving my instrument at his/her face. Not only have they managed to waste the teacher’s time, this obtuse swine has disturbed my own vibe within a piece of music. The ensemble decays into a flock of humdrum plebeians holding instruments, and the artistic aspect of “band” disappears. In my head, I try to relieve the wound by flinging batons at their head. The perpetrator has relinquished any chance of appearing human through my eyes, for they now know my number one pet peeve: when one cracks or blips the beginning of a note during band rehearsal.