Creative Writing: Rick Riordan

I was here I was walking threw the amazing wooden doors into the most fantastic park. I was standing on the floors of the GREAT WOLF LODGE. I was there with Amanda, Lyla, Calista, and Kira. We all quickly walked over to the check in desk so that we could get our wristbands and bust over to the water park. There were about one, two, three, four five people standing in front of us. While we were standing in line there was an amazing window that was huge and we could see every person and every ride in the park. We saw one of the biggest slides there we say the most crazy slide it was called HOWLIN TORNADO. We finally got to the front of the line and we were ready to get our wristbands on. The manager slipped on a teal waterproof wristband the said “GREAT WOLF LODGE”

That look. All I can think of is that look in Johnny’s eyes. He wasn't suppose to die, the rest of the gang could die at the same time but Johnny just can’t die. He was supposed to stay out of trouble, get away from his godforsaken parents, leave this place. He was supposed to be better than all of us.

I hobble up to my husband’s grave, last time I was here, I could barely see the headstone through the crowd of people I didn’t know. I left the funeral early, it was too much for me to handle. The cold air nipped at my boney hands, and the tip of my nose. I can barely make it through the snow without tripping. It is worth it just to talk to him. The smell of death reaches my nose before I make it over the tiny hill, his grave is just at the top. I stumble over a tree root covered by snow, and I catch myself just in time with my nobby wooden cane.

As we walk out of the catacombs the fresh air fills my lungs and I thank God that we made it out of there alive. I wish Pastor Ron could be here with us right now. He didn’t deserve to be killed. If anyone I did. Sure I wanted to come here to build a wall to help the school kids, but I honestly only did that for the service hours I needed to graduate. He had volunteered to come down and make sure we stayed and safe and to work on the wall. He didn’t have to. Now he is dead. I wish I could take his place and him be here right now, where I am standing. Just then I hear a burst of gun fire in the distance. Immediately I turn to it. I see two rebels fire and a bunch of bottles and they laugh and continue to jug their beers. Palmer grabs my arm and pulls me to the ground. He then points to the

You could feel the riot before you could see it. There was something else in the crisp early morning New York air, a certain electricity. A certain static that could only have been brought about by the winds of change. Even at three am the city is usually alive, but in these early Saturday morning hours Christopher Street was more alive than usual. However, it wasn't the normal flamboyant energy it had come to been known for. It was an angry energy, one that's only capable of being created by an oppressed group fed up with the constant mistreatment they've too long endured.

MDA2200 Documentary Film Treatment Title Homeless, not Hopeless Log-line Melvina moved to London to pursue her career as psychologist. During her stay she fell put with her aunt Janet and became homeless. This documentary talks about how being homeless has changed her life.

We got out of the car and the second I shut the door out came the Lopez family. She said to me “Theres no way in this entire world that I could do to repay you for raising this money to keep my family safe in a home that has secure walls and a door with a lock on it.” “Here i find myself thinking that if anyones life is going to be changed, its mine, and I'm so grateful for this opportunity” I replied. As the day goes on children from all over the community are coming over to the house begging us to play soccer with them, braid there hair, and take pictures with them. My heart was filled with so much joy Putting so much hard work into something and being able to say that not only did your hard work pay off for yourself, but it paid off for

I Kaylin Otis, made it through the winter at valley forge. It was a harsh winter, most of us had a feeling we weren’t going to survive. A lot of our men have passed away because it was a little ice age. We didn’t have many supplies to support all of us. George washington our general tried and tried to distract us from the misery, but nothing really seemed to work. I tried writing back to my family, but my hands were purple and hard to move. Constantly shivering. I have never been so cold in my entire life. I remember praying several times a day, hoping i would get through this, and i will make it home to my family safely. I was so sad at a time like this, but Marquis De Lafayette keeping everyone’s spirits high. He was one of the richest

“We’re going home!” Laina exclaimed, holding up the wads of cash they had earned. “Quick, let’s get to the ferry before it closes.”

decided to make a new library becuse the old one was too old. There was a contest

Remi, Mr. Vitalis—his adoptive father—, and their white dog Capi found themselves leaving Paris in the middle of the worst snow storm in memory. As street performers they couldn’t afford lodging, so they headed out to a public shelter. Penniless, conquered by disillusionment and hopelessness, Vitalis’ soul sank into despair and, as his body weakened and temperatures dropped, he lost his sight. The snow covered the road; they lost the way. The only shelter they could find was the roofless remain of a ruined farm. Mr. Vitalis was suddenly awakened by Capi’s frantic barking realizing Remi had succumbed to the cold and was now frail and barely conscious, his life fading away. Vitalis decided to continue walking to find shelter and avoid falling

Power stood on this land as she stood upon thigh land. Her power, through was not for the use of good. She brought evil wherever she goes. Leaving a nasty trail of destruction and pain in her pathes. She is a dark women, completely dressed in black and ice cold thru and thru. Some would call her dark one, because no one dared to speak her name. Her hair was as dark as her sole, her skin pale as those she had infested with her destruction. Her evil brought much torture and sorrow for what seems forever to this land. She is one of two immortal beings that live among the land of Murdock.

Crone gazed through heavy lidded eyes at his master as he sucked the meat off a chicken carcass, as if it were his last meal. From time to time, he’d toss a scrap at his beloved Irish setter and laugh while looking at Crone, who was forced to sit at the old warlock’s feet. Crone vowed from the first day of his servitude, he would kill the bastard. Yes, Morden was old, and he was powerful, but Crone was confident he would one day succeed.

...I was left in total blackness. All I could hear was the maniacal laughter of Montresor as his footsteps retreated. Quieter, quieter. I took slow, steady breaths, sure to remain absolutely silent. Finally, the echoing laughter and footsteps faded away, leaving me in total silence. I waited a moment before i began tugging at the chains and grinding them against the wall behind me. Fortunately, they were rusty and old, but it took at least a few hours to finally break one of the chains, freeing one of my hands.

In half a page of terrifying prose, Stephen King captures the notion of a world turned upside down under a square moon. In three lines of poetry, Li Bai draws the picture of a tranquil pond. In exactly 100 words, I tell the story of how winter took away a man, conjured from a photo prompt online of black and blue. In my literature classroom, a paper on the wall reads, “Write to express, not to impress.” That doesn’t mean writing can’t be impressive. Flash fiction, short story, novel, or poetry-I want to learn more about creative writing and experiment with different forms. In Edgar Allen Poe’s Theory of Composition, he details the reasoning behind his famous poem, “The Raven,” down to the exact number of words. He picks the subject of a woman's death, the symbol of the raven, and a haunting refrain, all to create an effect, and he succeeds. In short stories and poetry alike, it might be mood or it might be imagery, but each word is chosen for a reason, each comma, too. There’s a method to the experimentation. This is the sort of writing I would love to learn about, where an art becomes a science. Through this science, I want to be able to find, as Hemingway says, the truest sentence and learn to write half a page with the same impact as King.