Creative Writing: Vincent England

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.

One day after minding my own I saw a man getting dragged to a hut later I found out this man was Rod Wells and he was punished. Then one night all I heard was screaming I found my only friend laying on the ground crying in pain yelling that he can’t walk any longer I asked why and all he did was point and that’s when i saw it those Japs cut his tendon out of his and left him there to bleed out. That’s when I did something I would soon regret I ran up to the guard with the knife in his hand and turned it on him and plunged the knife into the scum just so I could see his face. Surprisingly I didn’t get shot or stabbed or hit or anything no one saw I was clean I was out of the woods on that one.

Four friends were going to hang out at Kings Island during Halloween Haunt. Their names are Jane Rogers, April O’Neil, Steve Rogers, and Donatello Hamato.

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.

Although Summer was coming to a close, the smothering heat had yet to subside. As a result, Alfred Jones was spending his last few days of freedom, relaxing on top his cherry red Chevy truck, sipping cold bottles of soda and whistling old tunes. He kept going over a particular phrase mentioned to him again and again, that vacation always seemed to fly by, but these past weeks, every hour seemed to drag on until every day seemed meaningless. He brought the rim of the bottle to his mouth and surveyed Calamity look-out. Lush trees, cracked roads, obnoxiously coloured houses... Same old, same old. It drove Alfred insane, he was never able to stand the peacefulness of it all, everything in (think of town name later) was so... unimaginative. It

Samuel put down the Sun Newspaper, and removed his glasses with a satisfying smile on the corner of his mouth. More and more population are flooding to New York. It is not easy in New York City, where many people become merchants, and it is quite competitive. Thanks to the Erie Canal, his importing business has been constantly growing. He needs to make this investment. Samuel worked quite hard to become this successful in the hardware merchant business. From metal, nails, screws, to farm implements, he sells anything that earns a copper. Mr. Duncan saved every dime he could get (everyday life in 1800s).

The party just had to be as grand as possible. How could it not be? The quarter was practically bursting with business, and the family couldn’t be more content. Who wouldn’t love living in the 1920’s New orleans during the time of flapper girls, brothels, jazz clubs and bars. The people who run it love it, but the people who let’s say owe them don’t. However, like any family, there’s always a fight or some type of rift to seperate loyalties and cause drama. Unfortunately, in this family, drama can only lead to death.

‘A time comes in the life of the most wretched when they do realize their mistakes and tries penance in their own way. Once I been attacked by influenza and having a high temperature, the animal instincts of my step father forced himself on me, right before my mother. I pleaded with my folded hands to let me be spared, I requested my mother to help me in relieving from the predator as my condition doesn’t permit to be his partner. My mother asked my step father to free me, when the words of my mother didn’t move him, she brought out a sword and to intimidate him flashed in the air, but the tip of the sword cuts off the veins of his neck and he fell down on me, killing him instantly, the blood oozing out profusely, drenched me fully. Horror

Why couldn't Sir Perceval enjoy a nice, quiet supper at Camelot's Cup and Sword Tavern?

I have done it. He was the last one. The life of the innocent young boy standing before me seemed to melt away as the fear in his eyes gradually came to a halt. I should have carried on, but like a fool I looked back at him, and for the first time in years, I felt remorse. Lying there limp, his once soulful eyes had tears making their way down his gentle cheeks. Killing men and women has never been an issue for me, and I always thought killing a child would be no more challenging, but oh was I wrong. I just cannot look at his empty eyes without the overwhelming realization of what I had done taking control of me; this innocent boy who lying before me will never live the long life which was planned for him. I had stolen something powerful from him that was not mine to take, and now I am unable to give it back.

Not long before I’m old enough to slaughter every single man who mutilated my father, cutting each limb one by one like trimming the piece of a strawberry cake.

A young man stands in the streets of Baton Rouge, Louisiana with a message to be heard. His mouth spreads wide forcing his tapered fade to the back of his hairline. His entire face is tight with passion, displaying the protruding veins of his neck and widen nostrils of his large, round nose. A small diamond stud pierces his ears, as he pierces the ears of others. Adorned in distressed, acid washed denim held up with a black leather belt just below his waist, he spreads his arms past his chest. His tattooed forearms stretched apart as if he is crucifying himself. A bright red polo falls down the young man’s slim, scrawny body, as his collar slightly flips up. The hue of the shirt, and the bandana clutched within his fist, screams almost as loud

Hunter gripped his slender blade that was tipped with dried blood and prepared for an attack. The creature shimmered in the golden glow of the sun as it advances with its dark, cold eyes. Its stench was a pungent combination of week old socks, rotten eggs, and rancid old cheese. Its skin was closer to armor than it was to anything a human would have. It sniffed the air, and as it was doing so huge oceans of thick saliva rolled down its crescent tusks. The creature swung at the air missing Hunter by the smallest of measurements. Using this moment he stabbed the monster with his rich ebony handle and curved blade. He knew anytime you were reluctant to use your weapon it will be slitting or stabbing you next, but not by your own hands. It

Emerson enjoys the walk to school. Generally, she enjoys it during the spring, when the small town of Hannon, Washington, is alive with pops of color, and fresh flowers, when the birds are singing in the trees, and the morning dew is still fresh on the grass.

Percival stood hunched over the granite kitchen counter, using the mandolin to shave zucchini into paper-thin slices. With his eyes narrowed in determination, he stood before a mountain of vegetables, cheese, and a pot of homemade tomato sauce. However, the tension was obvious in his posture, and Gwaine worried if he tapped his fiancé’s shoulder, Percival would jump, lose focus, and a culinary disaster would ensue.