Creative Writing : Observing A Scene Of Writing

One day, cutting through the swamp, David comes across the remains of old Indian souls and discovers a skull with jewelry still buried on the bodies. As David kicks at the skull, he hears a voice and looks up to see a black man seated on a stump just looking. The man, wearing a black sash around his body, has a soot-stained face, which makes it appear as if he works in some fiery place. David soon recognizes the stranger as the devil, the black man. Twenty years later we had a family reunion with all my relatives and they started talking about the fire.

"Wake up, partners," the trail boss, James called. I sleepily looked up , shivered, and saw I was the only one not up. "Here," James said, giving me the horses' bridles and saddles. "Take these and get the horses ready. We have a long day today." I groaned in reply and set up the horses for the day's long drag. I was the horse wrangler and this was my everyday job but I still couldn't get use to the idea of waking up before the sun and working. We drove the cattle into open plains against the winter's cold wrath.

“Yes I am dad.” Kevin screaming at the top of his lungs,” Mr.Cromwell needs to go!” While Howie and Kevin argued ,Cromwell was over there eating Kevin’s breakfast, waffles. It was too late, Howie and Kevin turned around ,the waffles were gone.Kevin and Howie went straight over to doggy daycare. Cromwell had stayed 1 hour knowing he wanted to leave.

When I was a kid, about 5 to 8 years old, my hands would always get cold whenever the surrounding air is chilly. My dad would always tell me to rub them together, like you would in order to make fire. And so I did it. I rubbed and rubbed and rubbed. My fingers grind against each other from the tips of my little fingers to the base of my palm, but none of this worked. My hands still are cold, stone cold. Then my dad said after watching me rub for a whole 3

For example, do you fear the blank page? You may be skipping the essential early phases of writing.

The place was deserted, the only other customers a young couple in a corner booth. I sit in a corner booth of my own and flip through the menu, but nothing seemed appetizing. When the time comes I end up ordering a cup of coffee from the college-age looking boy who then takes my menu and promises to be back in a minute with my caffeine-filled goodness. I trace patterns on the smooth table as I look out the window, enjoying the clear view of the full moon.

Again, the dark laughter echoed in her head. Shit, shit, shit. She was so damn stupid, so bloody arrogant. In spite of the sunglasses she wore to lessen the risk of overstimulation to her senses, the lenses were no safeguards against the weighted stares of the people on the bus, and Tung wasn’t here acting as a buffer.

Roaming through the halls of Willow Bend Elementary School, a tiny, curly-haired girl was anxious for the little hand to land on the 12 so that she could board the yellow school bus. The day seemed like any other as she looked out of the bus window to see her grandma standing next to a beautiful, fuschia tree waiting to pick her up, just as she had every other day. Although everything looked normal, it did not feel that way at all. Uneasiness welcomed the young girl as the bus door slid open. That was the last day that the young girl remembers of the life she once had. That girl was me.

AS THE TEMPERATURE continued to drop outside, it only got hotter inside the cabin as steam rose in the cramped bathroom and fogged up the cracked mirror that hung askew above the sink. The window was misted up both inside and out, the rain freezing on the pane until the falling droplets turned to a heavy slurry that would soon become hail. The fog had begun to lift but it left its roots behind, the echo of a dream hovering in the forest.

Attached are the two disciplinary action forms for Rachel. One for March 8th being late and the other one for March 14th for parking in Mari's parking space.

I can no longer remember what life beyond the front was like. I long for life and yet I cannot seem to find it. I yearn for the long days spent relaxing with my mind at ease. The days when adulthood seemed so far away, when growing up was not viewed as a problem. Life on the front seems so repetitive; bombardments come and go but never disappear completely. The barbed wire fence is the only object between us and the other soldiers. Bodies are piled on top of each other above the muddy ground. The corpses only seem to accumulate each day. The dry grass looks as if it had been growing without water for years before the war had begun. Yesterday, the enemies’ tanks approached our camp, destroying the barbed wire fence in the process. We retaliated

After a few moments loitering outside, the figure did indeed push their way through the back alley door and into the museum. Leonora raised her eyebrows, impressed by the audacity of the act. The woman, dressed smartly, seemed to have no concerns about the security that the museum inevitably had; she walked through the rooms like she owned the place, which an ignorant bystander would undoubtedly assume that she did. Unfortunately for her, Lea had worked in the museum for several months now, and was familiar with who did and didn’t work there. This woman was clearly a stranger.

He was up for most of the night worrying about the matter of his transcripts. The next morning he went to work forging a set of them. It took some time and effort as he needed to make a record that would be good enough for beacon but not so good that anyone would have already heard of him or feel the need to check his story. He had finally finished and nervously click the option to submit his transcripts. When he did he received an alert on his screen. After the initial panic that he had been found out already had passed he read the alert.

Throughout the course of the Creative Writing Poetry class, I feel as though I have learned a lot about the craft and my own work. This has all culminated in the completion of my portfolio and there are still various things that I have and learned and noticed while piecing it together.

It is my belief that through this class and the tools provided, that my growth as a writer has grown through leaps and bounds I would never have assumed possible. It is not so much the skill I refer to, although I would think skill has gone up in some levels as well, but more so the appreciation for the craft of writing itself. Intially, at the start of this class my sole goal was to further my understanding and appreciation of the writer's and books that I so love to read. Through further evaluation within the first week, a few other goals came to mind, of which were, making writing a habit, finishing what I start, stop second guess my writing skills and making effective use of detail and description. Through the use of the many articles, various reading materials, whether poems or short stories, and especially through the workshop, I feel I was able to really push myself to accomplishing these goals. I have thus far learned how important it is not to be skilled at writing per say, but to have the will to write, that poetry is as much about it's sound as it is about it's subject, just how important character development is, how the narration and point of view of a story is essential to the way the story is told, and just how much of a difference peer's critiques can make to your writing.