Eclipse Creative Writing

Curious, I looked up at the building and suddenly my heart stopped. My muscles contracted and my nerves sent a violent quake through my body. I didn’t notice the dropped cigarette that was burning a hole in my pants. Finally, the pain bit me. I grabbed the cigarette, throwing it out the window while almost swerving off the road. After regaining control, I closed my eyes and reopened them to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating; I wasn‘t. Ten police cars sat in front of the school, all in a perfect line with their drivers standing close-by. I contemplated driving off but it was too late. We had already been spotted.

Soon the moonlight illuminated the scenery. As I was standing on the balcony admiring the scenery something finally went wrong, a huge black cloud covered the moon. I soon heard the thunder. It seemed to be nothing to worry about, so I didn’t acknowledge it. A few hours later the thunder grew louder and I could see the flashes of lightning headed our way. I went inside to inform my parents of the weather, but they didn’t seem to worry about it much until the cloud was almost over the lodge. My family and I left the reception alone while everyone else stayed in cover; they were the smart ones I thought.

I felt my heartbeat rising every step I took as the blood rushed to the surface of my skin. My muscles tightened, beginning with my legs as if I could’ve ran fast enough to chase the truck. The image of the man and his words repeated many times in my mind, making me vulnerable to hatred. I thought I was doing something good and just. I was naïve. I thought everyone would gladly give us a helping hand. I looked at everyone around me, and I noticed it wasn’t just me that was burning with raged. I could see the anger in their eyes as they conversed with each other. It wasn’t until a loud voice snapped me out of it. “Do not show fear! Do not show anger! Our justice cannot break that easily!”

I then remember about the other car. I look over to my left and my eyes widen. It was a light blue van, an older model. The whole front side from the bumper to the windshield wipers were crumbled like a piece of paper. There were two people in the front seat, one looked fine but the others head was resting against the wheel. My heart starts racing, wondering if anyone was hurt and if so how bad. I look back to my right to see Logan jumping out of the car see if everyone is alright. I tried to open the door but notice that the other car is keeping my door from opening. I look out at Logan and see him talking to the family, the car had two little kids, one boy and one girl, and also a toddler. I jump across to the other door and jump

A/N: I was bored one day, when these little idea's popped into my head. I don't own Sherlock, any of the characters, or BBC, etc. Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat, are the real creators of the show. All this work is for entertainment purposes only, not for profit or gain. Enjoy!

The two didn’t have time to reply before I was running. I hadn’t expected myself to do it this way, but the 1 AM bells began tolling just as I got to the trees. Cresswell plunged in after me and disappeared further in. Comstock crawled in as I held the leaves back for him, and we both looked out into the street we’d just come from.

I was sprawled out on my old bed with a quilt partially wrapped around me. It was cold in the bedroom. I had taken mom’s diary out of my suitcase. Tears rolled down my cheeks, as I laid there flipping through the pages.

A battlefield of violence and crime exists among segregated neighborhoods, especially for young black men. According to the movie, “1 out of every 21 black American males will be murdered in their lifetime.” Within these neighborhoods, people are consumed by poverty and hatred which results in an ongoing cycle of violence among the members of the community. Even young children are exposed to violence and crime, and many of them participate in criminal behavior. In the beginning of the movie, a group of ten-year-old children were walking through their neighborhood and witnessed an area where a man was shot. One of the boys said “I’m not afraid to get shot, both my brothers are shot and they still alive”. According to an article by Zimmerman & Messner (2013) urban youths have a 50% to 96% chance of witnessing a shooting or hear gun shots in

The curiosities that revolve around this event infatuate me. The night of the occurrence I knew something was off, I was petrified. I lied awake that night trying to remove my mind from the agonizing fear that crippled me, giving myself countless alternative reasons for the sounds that rudely awoke me. This man that did this to me was not a stranger, I spoke to him many times throughout the week and he was consistently kind, maybe it was part of his plan, so I wouldn’t suspect it. He was a regular acquaintance that I consistently interacted with, to me he wouldn’t ever hurt a fly, but that night, seconds before my death, I saw alarmingly unfamiliar resentment from the way he looked at me. I knew the noises weren’t the crickets. I hoped that

I find myself looking over my shoulder every time I step outside my front door. Violence has opened my eyes and destroyed my dreams of peace. When I first moved to Philadelphia from Puerto Rico, I moved into a neighborhood that was full of gangs and drugs. Philadelphia represented a new start, a chance for me to breathe again. I had experienced a tragic shooting right before my ten year old eyes in Puerto Rico; my mom’s best friend was killed, while the murderer calmly walked away. We escaped to Philadelphia, and I thought my days of witnessing horrific violence were over. However, my dreams were shattered like gunshots in the night. One day, while I was napping, I was awoken by a series of deafening pops. As soon as I heard them, I dropped

scene to you, the sun has now disappeared and darkness has taken the sky, but the city is light with bright orange light. The heat from blaze of a fire from the riots are spreading wildly. Sirens and lights are flashing, as Baltimore firefighters battle a three-alarm fire at Gay and Chester Streets in East Baltimore. The water from the fire trucks leak onto the ground branching off like rivers on the road. The fire I see it as an inner burning or the silent cry of the oppressed, the water in the streets the tears from the faces of the oppressed, as they watch their city burn and their loved ones cry for a savior that may never come.

We had just left his Dads house after driving there to look for his dad. We decided to take his truck instead of the BMW. It was horribly hot and humid. The humidity was almost palpable. It was as if you were wading through a hot, steaming bowl of soup. He had just turned 16 and was obviously inexperienced. We didn’t care though. We drove with the windows down jamming out to music. It didn’t matter how hot it was we were just enjoying our days of summer. Little did we know, we wouldn’t be relishing in this hot summer day much longer. We had just passed NAPA, the auto supply store, heading south for his mothers house. She lived down one block and two to the left. At the stop sign we stopped for a moment, changing the song to bruno mars’s “When I Was Your Man”. I leaned out the window, crooning out the lyrics. He accelerated and started to cross the highway.

Outside, a deep silence fell over the neighborhood. This silence crept into every household. Members of the community had a guise of anger and pain expressed on their faces. Everyone locked themselves inside, to lament such a tragedy that has brought sorrow to a twelve years old’s family. Parents fell on their knees with tears in their eyes. This last murder represented the final straw. So many of their own had been murdered by the malicious, metallic, monsters that were supposed to be the defenders of their community. They felt insecure, threatened by the

Finally, finally, the sirens stop. It’s so sudden, flooding the air with a moment of silence. My ears start to pick up the city noise again, faint and comforting in its normality. I hear footsteps behind my, and I turn to meet them. Two police officers are approaching me carefully, their guns drawn. What’s happening? Why do they look like they’re coming for me? I didn’t do anything. Questions flicker through my mind, none of them staying long enough for me to answer them.

     Imagine an inner city kid having grown u in an environment where real life street violence is a way of life. His body, having survived personal experiences of violence, endured barely life sustained conditions, and many sleepless nights caused by the constant yet unpredictable call of death. His mind doubtful over where his next meal will come from, lost in search of some higher guidance, struggling through a world, not of innocent childish fantasies, but trapped in a forced reality. His only outlet is the loud blaring music coddling his already pent-up rage, an escape from these harsh realities, seducing him to a life of violence. In him is created a “me against the world” mentality that is manifested in