Creative Writing: The Senate And People Of Rome

One day I was walking through the ruins of Pompeii. While I was walking I saw something shiny

It felt a little like I was back outside again, my lava tears streaking down my cheeks, making my tear ducts sting. The room closed in on me and my eyes scanned the space from left to right, spinning and dancing across my mother’s concerned look. I can’t say I was angry, that I felt some predictable rage or crippling sadness. I just felt numb, untouched and untouchable. It was as if I was floating in the air, accompanied by the words my father just spoke, chasing each other around in some chaotic tornado, and yet everything around me was still. There was no feeling really, just reaching and grasping for something to be different, failing to comprehend.

“THE FIRST COMMANDER IS GETTING RESTLESS, we need to hurry,” a fair-haired Kingsman stated to another. He enters first through the singed door of the last home near the entrance to the grain fields, locking eyes with a disheveled young maiden holding on tightly to a frightened little boy.

It was March 21st, 1765 and everything in the colony of South Carolina was as usual. I was walking back from the main store in the middle of town, I had gone to the store for some flour. I got home and helped my mother with dinner. The Seven Years War had ended a few years ago and the colonies are still recovering. The British Crown has put the sugar and currency acts on us but there are no real disruptions here.

For several days in succession fragments of a defeated army had passed through the town. They were mere disorganized bands, not disciplined forces. The men wore long, dirty beards and tattered uniforms; they advanced in listless fashion, without a flag, without a leader. All seemed exhausted, worn out, incapable of thought or resolve, marching onward merely by force of habit, and dropping to the ground with fatigue the moment they halted. One saw, in particular, many enlisted men, peaceful citizens, men who lived quietly on their income, bending beneath the weight of their rifles; and little active volunteers, easily frightened but full of enthusiasm, as eager to attack as they were ready to take to flight; and amid these, a sprinkling of red-breeched soldiers, the pitiful remnant of a division cut down in a great battle; somber artillerymen, side by side with nondescript foot-soldiers; and, here and there, the gleaming helmet of a heavy-footed dragoon who had difficulty in keeping up with the quicker pace of the soldiers of the line. Legions of irregulars with high-sounding names "Avengers of Defeat," "Citizens of the Tomb," "Brethren in Death"--passed in their turn, looking like banditti.

1,2,3,4,....10, here I come, shouted William as he uncovered his eyes, and began to search for his cousins. Both laying down flat on their stomachs, Augustine, and Margaret hid in the thick grass in the open fields on the side toward the house at the Parish plantation. It was now deep into the evening, and the trio was playing a little game of hiding in seeking. No matter how old Augustine got, she was still very much child-like, she loved to have fun and was indeed a free spirit. While William was in his search for the two girls, Augustine looked at Margaret, and Said while thinking to withhold massive laughter, said why is it, he is always skipping numbers? Has he not learned how to count to ten? Margaret would then reply, laughing at Augustine.

Standing on his hind legs, this rare andalucian stallion is fearless. His ears are turned back while his noble looking head is held high. His all black coat glistens in the late afternoon sun. His face displays a strong confidence with his nostrils flared, his veins bulging from his cheek bones, and his fiery black eyes burning holes into the souls of those who stare into them. His neck muscles are tensed and thickened with adrenalin. His black main is thrown into the wind like a flag rippling in the winds of a tornado. His muscular front legs are brought up to his chest displaying his flashing gray hooves that could crush a man's scull with one blow. His backbone and underbelly are held almost straight up and his hind quarters are tensed.

Sound and smell crowded Julios' mind, pure ecstasy mixed with the over stimulation of thumping music and free flowing drugs pushed his pupils wide and his pores open, his brow furrowed and his mouth clenched into a dumb grin. With each bass filled kick of the music and flash of the cyan lights his eyes flicked left to right, his ocular nerves flaring with excitement at the melting colors and waving sound that he was immersed in. The pleasing form of a woman half his age moving along with the music, her outline dragging behind her motion leaving a line of rainbow outlines, each one like a frame of a movie.

The sun was about to rise, but it was still dark outside in the city of Crete. A tall muscular man with chestnut brown hair and eyes that shifted between an emerald green and an electric blue was getting ready for the upcoming race by running laps around the city. His name was Grigolo and he claimed to be the fastest runner on the planet. Grigolo got out of his bed quite loudly and his wife stirred in her sleep groggily asking,

It was an icy foggy morning on the planet Isthar, in the old church me and my spotter Leo set up in the day before. The warm comforts of the summer and spring were singing their last woeful good by chorus as the first snow fell to the ground ushering in a time of fall and winter. It was quite the pictorial scene for a firefight.

“So, does it look like it is killing me?” I asked Neb. He didn’t say anything. Neither did Vlada. They were both staring at the wolf.

“Hush, Aleixo. Do not say such words. He will punish you,” Mother whispered, as if fearful Hades, the God of the Underworld-- Son of Titan Cronus and Rhea, would materialize and snatch them away their world into a place of infinite fire and destruction.

I wonder what they will call this. The fall of the Jedi, The Sacking of Coruscant, maybe even The Great Revolution. History is decided by the winners after-all.

Georgia sat on a log contently eating her banana, sandwiched between her friends Hazel and Jimmy. She had met both of them the first day at camp, three days ago, and they hit it off immediately. She had been going to this camp for four years and she had never made as good friends as she had this year. All three of them were waiting to here who would be on which team for annual game of capture-the-flag.

Because I, The GREAT PAPYRUS, will be a friend to theeNo THIS IS ALL WRONG!! NO THIS IS ALL WRONG I CANNOT BE YOUR FRIEND!