Traditions And Encounters Chapter 2 Creative Writing

Months ago when he first stepped outside, the bright rays of light almost blinded him. He raised a pale hand to his face in a petty attempt to shield himself. Now under the dying sun, he could see the city in its entirety. When the surrounding area grew darker, red and orange lights that brushed over the streets began to grow in intensity. Walkers on the sidewalk began to flourish in their own happiness as they hurried from their jobs and into the weekend.

I awoke today with the light streaming into my room and hearing the birds chirping in the distance. As I regained my conscience, I smelled the mold and felt damp room conditions all around me that imprisoned me. It reminded me of what would have happened only in a nightmare. It was only yesterday that Corey, Nurse, Hale and I had gone to help the accused women. So many times I felt that I could win the battle, yet just as many times I could feel the rope slipping through my fingers.

I lifted my cup of coffee and took a sip of it. My eyes concentrated on the newspaper but in my head, I was thinking of what happened yesterday night. As I looked up to see the clock, my eyes went to Jem’s eyes. His hands were wrapped around his cup of coffee, still untouched. I smiled and remembered what happened.

Sleepless nights were Everette’s cup of tea since his parents murder. He obtained three jobs in the course of five years: murdering other people's list of victims, taking care of children in a hospital, and researching on finding who the people were responsible for his parents deaths. The last job, being the one he worked his hardest on. Sure, he worked hard killing for money and healing for children and their parents, but he wanted nothing more than to find and kill the ones who murdered his parents and vowed to find them before he lost his own life. The tall male would search far and wide within ranges, contacting people and connecting to find the murderers. Calling in South Carolina, someone tipped him off, giving him a little information that they did know. They didn’t give much, but it was enough for him to get a lead.

His mother went to sleep at midnight, and she wasn’t going to wake up. She downed more than her fair share of a wine bottle at dinner, and he caught her taking swigs of it throughout the night.

The reasons and motivations for murder are a vast, tangled web of emotions and twisted logic. None but a murderer can ever fully grasp why one would do such a thing. Occasionally, even the murderer themself does not understand why the dastardly act was performed. Their own mind rendered them unable to understand their impulses and the world around them. The narrator of “A Tell-Tale Heart” is innocent by reason of insanity due to the fact that he is unable to recognizethe fact that murder was wrong and unethical, controlled by impulses that are both irrational and immoral, and cannot distinguish reality from fabrications of his mind, feeling paranoia towards mundane facts.

He laid there, staring at the tv playing the news. It was about the shooting. I rushed to turn it off, blocking his view. He blinked at me, then smiled. “Hey, buddy.” I smiled back, crawling next to him and hugging him. Some happy tears stained our shirts as I held him. We laid there for a long time in just pure silence. Our minds were saying the unspoken words. “Why did it happen?” Travis said into the air. “It happened because--” I stopped short. Why did it happen? Travis stared up at me, waiting for my answer. “I-I don’t know.” my brow furrowed in confusion as I pondered. Silence overcame us again. Eventually, soft snores came from Travis. He had fallen asleep. I stared at the wall, still unable to sleep. A woman somewhere screamed for unknown reasons. That scream triggered a flashback in my

The sun hovered majestically over the edge of the horizon, its rays shimmering a last hurrah before it slowly dipped below the distant California skyline and vanished from sight. Tom sat alone in the Cadillac, his eyes unseeing, his body immobile, his mind locked within the trauma of his recent breakdown. He had fully intended to shoot Holland, to put a bullet straight between his eyes and end the vile man’s reign of terror forever. It had seemed the perfect solution at the time. But on reflection, sitting in solitude as the shadows of the approaching night shielded him from what was occurring within the walls of Holland’s home, Tom realized he had teetered close to the brink of insanity. For a split second, he had lost all rationality, and

Strutting through the familiar, gate worn by time, I spread my arms, taking in the saccharine aroma of the fresh grass. The remaining glimmers of the sun glisten on every blade that peeks through the moist soil, composing a sea of sparkling beauty, only comparable to a poem. The meadow is breathtaking this evening, as the sun sets behind the trees in the distance, leaving a glow of pinks, peaches, ambers, and crimsons behind as if a bowl of fruit had exploded in the sky.

Of course he didn’t…it was late in the night and the coat closet was easy to forget. Except she hadn’t forgotten. She hadn’t forgotten the way he had kissed her, pushed her up against the mint green walls between designer jackets and told her that he had feelings for her. She had reciprocated of course, it was late. Last summer seemed so far away yet so close.

As Anita finished straightening out her dress, she felt him gently grab her arm. "Anita, do you have to go?" He asked, . "I'll be ready to go again in a few minutes." His breathing was heavy, the recent rigorous activity had him panting. Anita turned to look at him as he fell back on the bed,. The tiny room is almost pitch black, with an illumination of sunlight coming in through a tiny slit in the drab, 10-year-old curtains covering the single window in the room. With her back still turned to him she relied, "You know I can't stay, Ron." She sighed, feeling ashamed as she contemplated her destination once she left. "I know. You just taste so sweet." Ron was the easiest of Anita's "clients" to deal with. Generally, her other clients are quick to do what they want to do with her, then discard her as quickly as they could, as if that would help to ease their own guilty conscience

Megan looked at me, we had both finished our food. “Let’s go home.” I say, and she nods. We walk out to her car, and drive back to Ruddy Duck Farm. We walk up to the house, and we see my parents, and Megan’s standing inside with a variety of expressions stuck on their face. Shocked. Sad. Some are crying. “Mom? Dad?” I say, confused. “What’s going on?” My mom is too hysterical to answer. My dad silently hands me a letter, and as soon as i read it my heart and everything else sinks. Eric had been murdered. Not just by anyone, but by Mr Fraser. No wonder I had such a bad feeling today. Mr Fraser had escaped, and since he couldn't come back here to get revenge, he went to Toronto to find Eric. He had murdered him. I couldn't find the words, or the actions. My brother and best friend. Someone I had known for so long gone forever. Half of me didn't believe it, half of me would do anything for one second of time with him.

T.S. Eliot characterizes his speaker in “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” based on his own personal experiences. In 1915, Eliot wrote one of his most famous poems as a skeptic (Schneider 1103). He constantly questioned the meaning of human life and the reasons why human beings were created at all. In the same way, Prufrock also has a difficult time in finding the purpose of his long life. The speaker of this poem takes the reader on a journey so that maybe the listener can aid him in finding meaning to his life. Throughout T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” the narrator is overwhelmed by the nothingness in his life through the characterization of himself, the wandering to many different settings, and the feeling of death approaching him.

It started on a nightly walk back home from work. Brogan E. Willis, worked at the small town hall, just outside of Elbridge, where she lived. Willis always started her night with a small stroll back into town, where she was permitted to park her vehicle. The trail however, was a very vigorous path, especially in her small black leather pumps. It was a muggy night, the dirt on the trail, damp and loose, her clothes slightly wet from the fog. The smell of rain radiating around the dark woods slightly soothed the sharp feeling of someone watching her ahead in the undergrowth.

The street was eerily quiet as I crossed. So was Mike. Staring at me unwaveringly, he said nothing as I approached. The crow's feet framing his eyes, the ridges in his forehead, and the crinkles in his cheeks still stand out in my mind. How many nights had he lain on that bench, covering his face as the wind whipped against it? Now he hugged his body tightly. He was wearing an old pair of tan khakis, a shirt that I couldn't see clearly, and a light multi-colored jacket, its sleeves ending above his pale wrists, that was just slightly too small and clung to his body. As I gave him the money in my wallet, he took it--slowly--and stared at it for a second in disbelief. Although the street in front of the library is usually an amalgam of car horns, headlights, whining engines throughout the night, nothing--not