Nine-Year-Old Boy Creative Writing

In ‘The meatworks’ Gray presents a vivid and disturbing description of a North Coast slaughter house. It demonstrates Roberts’s concern of the cruelty and indifference of humankind’s relationship with nature. Sensory imagery is one of the strongest techniques used by the poet.

He did not use the flint and steel until the remains of the day were only the fugitive heat in the ground beneath him and a sardonic orange line on the monochrome western horizon. He watched the south patiently, toward the mountains, not hoping or expecting to see the thin straight line of smoke from a new campfire, but merely watching because that was a part of

It was starting to become dark, the light was lifting as the sun went down, and the sun streaks climbed up the wall and fell over the feeding racks and over

Laurel nodded her head when she heard that Zinda would be willing to aid her in her efforts of keeping the city running smoothly. “With that attitude I think Ryder will love you.” She stated with a small laugh, her head shook from side to side. “Even before the outbreak I always had a hard time sleeping.” She reached her right hand up and placed it against the back of her neck, rubbing at it. “So it really doesn’t bother me all that much.” She nodded her head. She knew what Zinda said was true, that she should try and sleep more but that seemed easier said than done. She really tried to sleep at night sleep just seemed to elude her, it was never there when she really need it. Like the night they got back from the Farmhouse, all she wanted to do was fall asleep and forget the whole events that had taken place there. Sadly that didn’t happen, she stayed up all night thinking about how she could have done thing differently, that she should have stayed with Kate.

“All the same you need an army- for hunting. Hunting pigs-” “Yes there are pigs on the island.” …. “We saw-” “Squealing-” “It broke away-” “Before I could kill it- but- next time!” Jack slammed his knife into a trunk and looked round challengingly. (Golding, 32-33)

“The sea and the sky are the same,” uncle always said. At the time he had laughed, but looking out that morning; the cold sea mist clinging to my clothes, I knew he was right.

It was dark when I arrived at the village. People were going about their nightly chores before they retired for the night. They quickly escorted me to the wigwam of a woman who was in labour.

As the story progresses and time continues to pass, the footsteps lose their peacefulness, and as the family listens they begin “to have an awful sound, as of a great storm in France with a dreadful sea rising”

A child runs inside a small classroom gathering his thoughts wondering what he saw. Bewildered by what he had just seen he had become so frightened he hadn’t realized his hands were shaking. Collecting his thoughts he remembered that he heard a banging on a door someone opened it and a man with patches of flesh missing ran up and bit the student who opened the door. Dumbfound by the whole experience he began barricading the door shut and looking for something to defend himself with. Easily finding a meter stick as he entered a mathematics classroom he began sharpening it scared stiff the entire time. Finally he felt safe although he could hear running and screaming every second coming from outside the doors. Getting up he finally had the strength

It happened so fast, faster than the speed of light. His face was contorted in such a way I didn’t know what my reaction should be. He looked terrified but yet pensive, like he was floating almost gliding through the wind like a bird. He hit the water with a BAM! And he didn’t rise to the surface like he normally had the previous times we jumped from the tree. He came back up so I knew Finny wasn’t dead but, he half thrashed half swam over to the shore and I instantly knew something was wrong. When I was finally able to see what happened to him after he fell, his leg looked as if someone took a hammer to it. Thankfully I wasn’t alone. Since we were in the midst of our Super Suicide Society of the Summer Session initiation meeting I was accompanied

The storm had passed. Norval Gilmer careened the air cab to skim along the craggy mountain range past the Terra borough’s greenhouses in the south. Since he studied geology at Gnaritus University, he enthusiastically drew Surina’s attention to the unusual topography in the picturesque hinterland on the way to Algonquin Beach. Through the sunroof of the air cab, she glimpsed the congregation of the three suns, Spes’ rings, Fiducia, and Clementia in the endless turquoise sky. Suddenly, as they moved further south, the jaw-dropping view of the rainbow mountain materialized with its dazzling stripes of gold, black, green, orange, red, blue, and purple. Moreover, a soft alpenglow shrouded the snowy peaks.

This is expressed through a number of disputes, including the uncontrollable behavior of the sun, the deterioration of water sources, and the decreasing viability of crops. The sun, or “Sun Father, … threw a great flaming mountain” at these people. “Burning rock flowed into the fields, and even dried up some of the streams,” forcing many of the people who lived in this land to move from their broad valley to caves sheltered from the sun (McNickle, 55). The sun is frequently personified and regarded with great respect. Its path through the sky is tracked by the clans of White Rock Place and the people are reminded of the volatile nature of this celestial body as days vary in length and the sun holds the people at its mercy (McNickle, 96-99).

Liam woke up late one night to his phone ringing. Groaning he turned on the lamp and grabbed his phone from the night stand. Who was calling him at this ungodly hour? Liam shielded his eyes from the light. After a couple of seconds Liam’s eyes finally adjusted to the brightness.

"Sometimes you gotta let something bad happen, or else you wont know how to fix things when they go wrong later."

The sunset was not spectacular that day. The vivid ruby and tangerine streaks that so often caressed the blue brow of the sky were sleeping, hidden behind the heavy mists. There are some days when the sunlight seems to dance, to weave and frolic with tongues of fire between the blades of grass. Not on that day. That evening, the yellow light was sickly. It diffused softly through the gray curtains with a shrouded light that just failed to illuminate. High up in the treetops, the leaves swayed, but on the ground, the grass was silent, limp and unmoving. The sun set and the earth waited.