short storys essay

There's been a murder, and I know who did it. Mr. Boddy invited Miss Scarlet, Prof. Plum, Mrs. Peacock, Mr. Green, Col. Mustard, and, well, not me because I was already there. I am Mr. Boddy's maid, Miss White. It all started in Mr. Boddy's mansion. Mr. Boddy was having a dinner party and didn’t know that he invited a murderer. He didn’t know that he invited murderer's. It all started when the guests arrived for the dinner party. "Your place is to die for Mr. Boddy!" exclaimed Scarlet

rolling hills of multicolored garbage. What was new trash was giving birth to fresh rot to replace old rot. The refuse mounds were the breeding center for every known species of insect and rodent, a world where few people ventured to sojourn. In a short while, they trudged through knee-high garbage while following the burly man who didn't notice the refuse. He stopped at a freshly planted mound of trash and assorted debris. It was still vibrant in color and odor. "Here." He pointed to the mound.

Kenzie had just steped off the boat. Looking around she could tell that it was good to be back home. It also meant that she could see Mikael. As he was one of the many who would get tangled in her web. She knew that if she didn't see her father on this trip. Kenzie would pay for it later. But Mikeal would be her main reason. And she that he would want to spend time with his little sister. As she as now in Auradon. Kenzie took it upon herself to make sure that she watched out for Mia. Even though

In an alleyway riddled with trash laid a man barely conscious of the world. Beneath his back, seeping all around him was his life. Reaching his bloody fingers up to trace the edges of a nonexistent face. " Serenity," he rasped. "Serenity," he rasped again.     The Imaginary face became a full-blown body. The woman's hands reached for his hand. The illusion seemed to clasp around it in mid-air. She brought it to her lips kissing it. He could not see her eyes. " Do you think you can make it to me.

“When I was young, He would tell us this story about a beach that we were going to move to. Live in a house right up on the shore, away from all the noise and traffic that a crowded city can bring. The day’s warm weather will balance out with a cool breeze at nighttime. Each night would be a home

The first time I tried to write a story I was in grade school. It was for a seventh or eighth grade assignment. It was about a puppy who got lost and was stranded. He was found by a police dog who brought him back to his home and made sure he stayed safe. I still have the story at my house. I wrote a different short story in my eighth grade year that was very dramatic. I wrote about a girl who was extremely young that got pregnant, and ran away from home so she could keep the baby. It told about

“How very unusual, I usually happen to know all of my guests...You are, however, very mysterious, and I do like mysteries,” she purred. Somehow it seemed as if all time had stopped. The background around us began to fade in an unfocused blur of color. The only thing I could sharpen in on now was the woman. Her parted red lips, and her dark liquid eyes that bore into mine. “Have you a name?” she whispered. “Jared. And yours?” “Berona,” she answered. “And what has brought you here, Jared?” she said

Side by side, the women walked, silent, tension stiffening their spines. Joan pressed her free hand against her belly, trying to quell a sharp pang of nausea. Saying goodbye would not be easy. Behind her, Joan heard the whispers of several dozen voices, and those whispers swelled into chatter. She glanced over her shoulder to see many hundreds of people walking behind her, all there to offer support and farewells to the knights. It warmed her heart to see them, for it meant she and her friends were

Back in his room again, he was starting to feel like a little boy who was not allowed of out the house for fear he might hurt himself. The thought that he was kind of being held here returned and it made him even more suspicious. Also he was now starting to notice that everyone kept pushing the idea of him being safe inside. A little disconcerting if not odd. One day he is going to have to get out of here. Why not today? To hell with working for these people. Lincoln was not going to spend the rest

prehistoric animals, were being levitated by pulley rigs, reminiscent of a macabre ceremony requiring witch's incense. Emmanuel arrived at his destination with his load of cement. Two men toting shovels greeted him with neither favor nor contempt. They dug their shovels into his load without waiting for an invitation and shoveled cement on a conveyor belt. Considering their enthusiasm, one could surmise a foreman. "Where you been, boy? We started to worry about you. Someone told us they saw you