Creative Writing: The Murder Of Duncan

Phil was a trifling person he had always felt like there was something missing from his life. No he had never been in love, never kissed a girl or even talked to a girl. Maybe Phil was scared of letting the truth out even tho it might hurt to hold it in.

Detective Tom Reilly let the photo slip from his fingers, and ran his palm over a scalp adorned with light brown hair, shorn in a buzz-cut, then lifted his deep-blue eyes to stare at his colleague. "I'm not sure, Jarrod," he replied slowly, and drew his gaze back to the image of the bruised, battered and naked woman that had landed face-up on his desk, located in a office on the second of the Police building in the ninety-sixth precinct. The woman who, by appearances, could be his wife's sister. Not that you could tell from the crime-scene photo.

Look at the footprints across the vast area of the beach, so short in existence. Here one minute and gone the next, washed away with the ever turning tide. These footprints imprinted in the sand tell a story that is mine, the changes in my life thus far. A change that once impacted upon my life was never to be the same again. For just this one moment time would stand still. It was just me and the ocean, nothing more, nothing less, everything else but the rhythmic pounding of my feet upon the sand would lose significance. A sharp buzz rings out from the other side of my eyes, awakening me from the disturbing visions that plague my dreams. For a brief moment I am convinced that it is all it is, a nightmare, and then the reality

Teasing Calahan had always been a joy for Bailey. She loved to make him ache for her as much as she ached for him on a daily basis. Even when they were fighting all Bailey would want was for him to take her in his arms, tell her how much he loved her. Though most of the time that didn't happen and she'd go to bed angry over something. Yet now? There they were on the verge of once again fucking for not the first time, but second time in only a few short hours. Watching his face as she stroked his hard cock with her hand the rest of her body ached for him. Everything inside of her ached in that moment as she felt him rock her hips against him. Removing her hand from his cock she climbed off him as a smirk appeared on her lips. Climbing up the bed she opened his nightstand drawer, pulling out a pair of his handcuffs she moved back to him. Holding them up she tilted her head letting her blonde hair flow around her face.

A group of medical students awaited their guest lecturer at the local morgue. The man was from a foreign country and was the best cardiologist the world had ever seen. The doctor walked into the room at the morgue and a rush of fresh air swept through the room.

Last week, police discovered at least 20 partially decomposed bodies of migrants piled into an abandoned truck on the shoulder of an Austrian highway leaving the Hungarian border. "The state of the bodies made establishing the identity and exact number of dead migrants difficult, but the number could rise to 50," said Hans Peter Doskozil, Chief of Burgenland police. He also mentioned that the truck had Hungarian license plates. The police were given information that it was left on Wednesday and the back door was left open. They thought the truck had mechanical problems until they saw the blood dripping and the smell of rotting flesh. They will not disclose anymore information to the public. Not even any possible identities, whether any children

The graveyard was no more than a series of wooden crosses of random sizes stuck in the grassy loam. Mostly they were painted white and bore a scribbled name, perhaps a date. When the marker rotted the grave was re-used, by then the mourners had moved on with their lives and the body was thoroughly decomposed. There was no fence around it, no signage to give it a beautiful name, or any name at all. Even the locals just called it "the place on the hill." Often the wind blew across it harshly and it was utterly exposed to the storms that frequented the area. The living here could ill afford sentimentality for the dead and so though their grief was as keen as the folks in the big city, they buried themselves in the gritty business of staying alive

Well I want to tell you something-" The door burst open,and Emir was quick to grab Shahzaib by his collar the very second he stepped inside.He crashed his fists again his jaw and Shahzaib fell back with the intensity of the power delivered by the punch.Nihan gasped and tried to stopped Shahzaib,who was fuming and lunging at Emir back,but Nihan hooked her arms around him and pulled him back quickly.Shahzaib struggled to release but Nihan held him back saying,"Stop it.Stop it you two!"

he told his parents this story, and they were quite thrilled to see Jacques so excited about learning this. A few days later at dinner, “About 40,000 people were executed.” stated Jaques pa. “40,000 people were executed? What people? Why?” asked Jacquel curiously, as he walked into the kitchen. Jacques pa didn’t know Jacques had been standing there. He told Jacquel, “40,000 people were executed during the Reign of Terror.” Jacquel had no idea what the Reign of Terror was, so he was just about to ask when his pa interrupted, “The Reign of Terror was a time period when Maximilien Robespierre ruled. He was a dictator, which means that only he ruled, and only he made the decisions.” “So others didn't help him in making the decisions?” asked Jacquel.

The whole room was intrusive: cold marble floors against his bare feet, columns reaching to nowhere, everything huge and expansive but also small and constricting at the same time, like the room couldn't decide whether it wanted Sutekh to float away into the expansiveness or be flattened to nothingness. He'd take the floating; away from those overwhelming senses, and up to the beautiful night sky that hovered above. Indeed, there was no ceiling: just expansive darkness and its pinholes.

While driving to the restaurant, Louise thought about Justin’s sudden interest in his grandfathers and wondered why he questioned her, “He will be okay.”

A dim light shone through the dusty window of Clary's room at the New York institute. Her green eyes opened and she let out a groan. The night befor Clary and Isabelle Lightwood had gone hunting alone and ended up taking down three Ravener demons. Ravener demons were one of the lesser demons, but it didn't make them any less disgusting to look at with their scorpian like bodies and insect faces. Even with healing runes the ordeal had leftthe curly redhead feeling lazy. She pushed herself from the bed and dressed into her gear. Infront of the mirror the ran the brush through her curls until she was statisfied. Her stele was still tucked inside the pocket of her pants, she pulled it out and traced the lines of a Stamina Rune on the inside of

I heard the blood-curdling scream, travelling from the depths of the pit to my own ears. It must’ve been that new kid. The one that arrived here with me, just this morning. I had been ordered to escort him to his trial, as per usual, and it’s clear they hadn’t taken all that long to lay into him.

“I was being sarcastic,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. I paced around the perimeter of the small cell while Hunter sat nonchalantly in the middle watching me. We were trapped in an abandoned warehouse in the middle of nowhere, all because my clan thought it would be wise if he and I were to partner up on this job. Hunter and I couldn’t be any more different. He was charismatic and a ladies man, while I was introverted and didn’t think highly of the opposite gender. Not to mention we had… Let’s just say creative differences. But as much as I complained, my requests to work alone were not heard. The elders said it would be better if I

I once knew a place once perfect. Where I could wonder, and become lost in the wind of the summer breeze. It seemed like lightyears had passed since the day I filled my lungs with the fresh scent of dew drops of early summer mornings. The memories of the fresh air I once breathed was frozen in time and now served as stories to tell. I took hold of a glass of dirty warm water and downed the foul tasting liquid like a parched camel and wiped the collected dew off my thick beard. Things were rather perfect here and despite the air smelling like wet lawn clippings this was a perfect place; enough to keep me alive. I placed the glass on back on the far side of the desk and accidently nudged a picture frame off the edge. It landed on the hard wooden