Short Writing : The Story Of Writing A Short Story

In elementary school I used to enjoy projects where we had to write our own stories and complete the pages with pictures or drawings. I would make up all kinds of stories of all sorts like an All-Star basketball player who couldn’t be stopped, magical worlds, to even an evil Tooth Fairy. Short Fiction is kind of the only writing that I like to do. Going into Middle and High School I was introduced to formal, structured type of writing that was way different from what I liked to write when I was younger. As I got more and more formal writing prompts I began to stop like writing. It because a struggle for me to transition from fun, fictional writing to formal types of

In the woods when the sun was just starting to set, there was a van driving on a long-abandoned road, behind the wheel of said van was a tired looking girl who seemed to be about 19. She took a sip of the long cold coffee, and turned to the turquoise haired girl sitting next to her.

I was in high school the first time I had to write a narrative. I was a freshman. This was Ms. Bradley’s first time teaching at Union Christian Academy. On her first day, she gave us our syllabus and said, “I do not accept late work, especially on writing assignments.” We, literally, sat there stunned. My freshman class had it very easy during eighth grade year. We were not expecting this. As I looked through the syllabus, I saw that our first assignment was due in a week and it was a narrative. At this time, I did not even know what a narrative was. Ms. Bradley explained that a narrative was an account or story of events. It could be either true or false. Our narrative had to be true. It had to be a true account of something that happened to us over the summer. She wanted to gauge how are writing skills were. Our narrative had to be at least two to two and a half pages long. I chose to write my first ever narrative on my trip to Fort Worth, Texas. Once again, I was plagued with writer’s block. I had the story in my head, but everything I

He came in without a word. I was stropping my best razor. And when I recognized him, I started to

My alarm rings, I push open the wooden window shaders to see the early commuters honking and speeding past. The smell of the street bakers and restaurants ready to open for the locals. I get ready to head outside for another busy yet wonderful day. I head outside. I see cars, mums taking their kids to school, elderly at the bakery buying this week's bread and many, many tourists flooding the streets. I feel the hot air on my skin as a light breeze passes by me and the hot sun covering me.

I put on my dress and look in the mirror. Hm I'm not sure I like it, I'll

Again, the dark laughter echoed in her head. Shit, shit, shit. She was so damn stupid, so bloody arrogant. In spite of the sunglasses she wore to lessen the risk of overstimulation to her senses, the lenses were no safeguards against the weighted stares of the people on the bus, and Tung wasn’t here acting as a buffer.

I now stood in the empty hall. The walls were made of cold cobblestone, lined neatly forming the long hallway to the feeding room. The building, Mrs. Reed’s residence was an old castle created from stone and iron. The hallway was dark only being illuminated by infrequent sconces sitting on the walls two inches below the ceiling. There were no windows as the residents of the castle, being stalkers of the night, had an incredible aversion towards the beating rays of the sun. Before me was the feeding-room door, where the creatures that lived in the castle fed upon their provided pints of blood every evening at midnight. I stopped, intimidated and trembling. What a miserable little poltroon had fear, engendered of unjust punishment, made of

Have you ever had something in your life that has made you ask yourself, “What were you doing with your life before I came? Something that has unknowingly changed your life forever? That’s what writing has done to me. Writing has shaped me to become the person that I am today. I was not always as driven as I am today, but because of my errors in writing, I started to strive to be the best version of myself. I started writing my own stories when I was a freshman in High school; it was mid-February of 2010 and school was going to be over in a month. I was only twelve, and I had no background in writing novels whatsoever. All I knew was, I had tons and tons of ideas that I had to write on paper, and so I began writing. It was a sunny afternoon, you could hear the birds chirping, the wind whistling and the most prominent sound of all was the teacher’s voice echoing

“Yeah, I know little man, but you could have at least took a shower. Brother are you flagrant or what!” They both started laughing. “So you want me to keep everyone away right?”

The three detectives pull up to see officers' busily working their crime scene. Looking up Rachel notices the heavy rain clouds that are quickly moving in from the north.

One challenge I faced during my sophomore year was racism in my Honors English class with Ms. Rice. I was the only Hispanic student in the whole class, where I was often referred to as “Mexican girl.”

Johnny mumbled, “Why is it people who were supposed to be so smart are so damn stupid?”

Tom was nice. One night at dinner, he promised to explain the joke to me.

When stories are told and tales are made up, you think of great heroes, random loot and epic adventures. Well see here’s the great ordeal we run into with those stories. They are so damn boring! You can always guess what will happen in the end. Not to mention the heroes always win with impossible odds! You essentially waste your time listening to some want-to-be story teller and their made up shenanigans. You must be thinking “what is this old drunk fool blabbing about this time?”