Creative Writing : My Life

Drenched and frozen, only the warmth from their mothers’ kept the young creatures sustained. The trees’ limbs hung low from the weight of the swampy atmosphere; causing the joyous ambience of the forest to restrain her passion.

"Sometimes you gotta let something bad happen, or else you wont know how to fix things when they go wrong later."

Parker came up to me and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close. I buried my head in his chest naked, taking in his scent. Congratulating him, I savour the

I come from the little town of Haubstadt, IN where the green grass grows and the breeze blows over radiant farm land at every glance. I come from the town where the drinking age is 12 and there isn’t one person that you don’t know. I come from the town with a different weather pattern daily; it may be snowing one day and sunny the next. I come from the town that is home of the sommerfest consisting of wild music, carnival rides, and endless fun. Oh, and you can’t forget the Christmas celebrations either because they are a hit. They are filled with golf carts decorated in lights and hot chocolate while standing around a tree like family singing Christmas carols. I come from a town filled with Gibson Southern fans supporting our

Paying and gather his drink was done in the usual manner. Levi settled into one of the comfortable reading chairs in the back of the café, placing his drink on the table beside him. The bundle of nerves was leaving as he watched the staff and other patrons. An achy pain still fluttering under his heart.

"That final was awful. I literally feel like the dumbest person alive." I groan, walking with Lou to the cafeteria. She rolls her eyes at me and caps her red lipstick.

Even when I mentor text, I actually will issue my students my written version. Although, I inform my students that their work is not supposed to be like mine verbatim, I am making it hard for them to resist the urge, and I may be the cause of their inability to authenticate work. In writing, I have simply given out outline to put more control in their hands and take the temptation of coping out. I inform them that I want to be broad enough to see their creativity. I receive some resistance at first, but as time has passed with more writing, they begin to enjoy looking at others’ work and challenging creativity among classes and individual students. I do falter in not letting them write about their reading, eliminating higher critical thinking which leads to metacognition.

When you are young, writing is basically a chore that you must do for school or torture. All the words, thoughts, ideas running around in their heads, never stopping even for a second, or nothing coming up and having to spend most of the time figuring what you are going to write. The deadline crushing them and stressing them out, hoping to finish in time. I was like that, the only time I would write was for school or if there was something that needed me to write. Even then I did not do the best I could do. That all changed in my second year in middle school.

I saw him leaning against a tall tree, backpack between his legs, looking straight at me. I smiled and staggered towards him. He formed a straight smile across his lips, and hugged me. As I brought my hands around to his neck, I felt no hair near his ears. Or on his head. I jerked back in confusion. He gazed at me, with a face that read all of my thoughts.

The lifeless grey walls affect me right away, making my stomach turn. I continue to walk around the corner, feeling a slight pulse in my ears. “ Have a seat here. “ the officer points to the end stool near the white painted wall. I drag my feet as I walk to the sit stool that connects to the dividing wall, and face the glass. On the other side of the glass is a empty chair that will soon to be filled with many things. “ Remember that I can hear your conversation. “ the officer looked me cold into the eyes, I nodded my head and tried to not show that my hands are shaking.

“We 're getting the lunch special at Murray 's. Do you want me to bring you anything?”

Bye-bye. Jacy thought, guess I’ll see you around old house. I grabbed the last box from the house and left out the door dropping the keys off with the landlord who was standing outside of our door. I hustled to the moving truck, dropping off the box and shutting the back doors. As my mom and I left the driveway I waved out the window to lucy- the landlord who has been our landlord since I was born. (14 years ago)- and I turned around, placing my headphones on my head. My mom (who was driving) rolled her eyes.

You were coming over for New Year’s. I stood waiting for you in my apartment, staring out the black window. My reflection in the warm pale light, legs crossed, half-sat on the arm of the broken sleeper sofa, drinking a beer from the corner store up the street. The lamp on the end table next to me, the rest of the room mirrored behind. Taupe walls, dusty gray carpet, slow-spinning ceiling fan. The shine of the microwave in the kitchenette. Cabinets, sink, refrigerator. The high black table at the tile edge. My bed pushed up in the back corner, the narrow hallway leading to the front door, the little side dressing room and bath.

Time crawled by at a snail’s pace. Poisonous chatter permeated the air, plots of vengeance bounced off the dull walls corrupting hearts. Inmates planned to abscond the upcoming torturous hours before it started. A few desks away from me a fellow classmate scratched away at his desk. Like that’s gonna help, I thought, everyone knows it’s the legs that trap you.

Until an unfamiliar gentleman begins walking toward the front of the room. He’s tall, about six foot with the build of a basketball player—slim but fit. His skin is the color of chestnut, dark brown freckles extend the diameter of his face, and he flashes an adorably crooked smile once our eyes finally meet.