I arrive at the car park, late as I usually am. My friends are there already, organised, prepared, ready. I, on the other hand, am not. The thought of performing anything in front of a crowd always seemed to be something that, how can I say it, levelled my conscience to that of a small school child on his first day at school. The 30 minute car trip to the venue however, was my chance to ensconce my childish fears, as I listen to music. To me, music is the gateway from one dimension to another. The journey from the real world, to a world of your choice. For me, the world is one where I can forget everything; the days events (yes, even the embarrassment I endured when I slipped on the step going into the dinner hall), what happened the other week, and most importantly, I can eradicate the feeling of nervousness that has overcome my body. We arrive on time, and ready for the game. Well everyone else is, but I think I am maybe a little bit apprehensive of the coming event. I step out of the car where some of the local people stare; it is as if I am stepping onto the red carpet of an awards ceremony, which is exactly what I don’t want it to feel like. Instead, I change the picture in my head from an awards ceremony, to a scene where I am arriving to a battlefield, prepared for war. With hopes that this will construct some greater self belief, due to the importance of the occasion. But it doesn’t work. Back to normal, I stroll towards the entrance. The noise around me seems blurred; I can’t seem to concentrate on any sounds. I watch the cars drive past but the sound is distorted. As I approach the entrance, I see two young boys arguing over something, something that is most likely meaningless. They appear to be shouting at each other, but again my hearing can not specify what they are saying.
The day started with clear blue skies and not a cloud in the sight. The only noise that you could hear was a concert given by the nearby crickets, and a lonely bull frog singing nearby in unison. As the evening passes on a sharp snoring noise can be heard muffled softly.
The window was cold to the touch. The glass shimmered as the specks of sunlight danced, and Blake stood, peering out. As God put his head to the window, at once, he felt light shining through his soul. Six years old. Age ceased to define him and time ceased to exist. Silence seeped into every crevice of the room, and slowly, as the awe of the vision engulfed him, he felt the gates slowly open. His thoughts grew fluid, unrestrained, and almost chaotic. An untouched imagination had been liberated, and soon, the world around him transformed into one of magnificence and wonder. His childish naivety cloaked the flaws and turbulence of London, and the imagination became, to Blake, the body of God. The darkness lingering in the corners of London slowly became light. Years passed by, slowly fading into wisps of the past, and the blanket of innocence deteriorated as reality blurred the clarity of childhood.
The first half of my book “The Cellar” written by Natasha Preston, was so good that I could not put the book down. The girl, at that point, had no memories which include her name and anything before she woke up on a dirty, bloody cabin floor. She looked down at her throbbing hand and found that two of her fingernails were missing.
Susan is running a mile and she says to herself “I’m just going to give up and walk it.” Yet, she still push herself to run. What drove her to do it? What in general drives people take on a mission and accomplish them? People may have different reasons to be driven to undertake and accomplish a mission; however many share similar characteristics. People are motivated to achieve a goal by wanting wealth, wanting to survive, and wanting to get something they greatly desire.
The storm was coming in quick. Dark silky clouds covered the sky like a wave of sadness. Then Bam! It hit with a force so strong it seemed as if the old mansion would crash down into the earth.
much easier. But Esperanza and Abueita were in shock how she would betray Papa like that.” “Mama, it hasn’t been even a year since Papa died, how could you do that?” Esperanza replied. “But I already talked with Amador and he would have already talked with Pablo too.”said Mama.” “And he is a kind man like Papa, he always help me remind me of him.”He means so much to me Esperanza!”argued Mama. But Esperanza didn’t listen to her words and ran outside, sobbing. Then Mama raced after her. She grabbed Esperanza’s hand and said,” Esperanza listen to me, I know it’s harsh, but things will get better okay?”Mama begged. “What?”Esperanza said with dripping tears.”What will get better!” “look, I know you love Papa, and I do too, but he wants us to be
After a rough day at the office, Mike arrived arrived home tired, and hungry. After dinner Mike went to his office before going out to the patio. Louise knew by his behavior that, something was wrong, and waited until the children finished their homework before joining him. When she sat down beside him, without saying a word he got up, went to the living room, turned on the TV, but didn’t watch it, which was what he usually did when he had something on his mind.
‘What a time for the car not to work I thought to myself’. I got out
The Smith’s a family of 4 were at their vacation cabin enjoying a beautiful summer day in Salt Lake City, Utah. They had decided to go camping, while they were out gathering wood for a fire they heard a strange noise. It sounded like an elephant and a pig. The oldest girl told her parents what she had heard and they didn't believe her, they thought she was losing her mind. Until the next night while the kids were asleep John and Joanne heard the same noise their oldest daughter Elizabeth had heard the night before they looked out of their tent to find a strange looking creature with the body of a elephant and the head of a pig standing about 20 yards. They didn't want to scare their kids so the next day when the kids woke up John and Joanne
“Are you sure I can’t just transfer schools?”. A question I had asked a billion times over. “100%. I promise you, you will be okay”. My mom rubbed my back as my head dropped onto the cold kitchen counter. I didn’t want to hear that I would be okay. I wanted them to let me have my way. “You’re in your last year what difference would it make”. My brother joined the conversation as if someone had asked. I rolled my eyes, letting him know his opinion was being recognized and very neatly filed in the trash bin in my brain. I made my way to my bedroom and collapsed onto the bed, burying my face into the pillow. My parents were right, I could handle it. I just didn’t want to.
she always used to wish for a way to escape her life. She saw memories
Habits of the Creative Minds is a simple textbook with a particular twist. I began reading the book thinking it was going to be a basic textbook, but the author,Richard E. Miller and Ann Jurecic, changed the tone of the book and put it into a metaphor. This metaphor was about the reader in your writing, or for anyone reading should feel like Alice in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. The reader should be reading, and figuratively fall into the reading, by this the authors means the reader should not want to put that book down. They should be engulfed in the book and read from cover to cover. The attention must be maintained and the best way to do this is by making the writing unique. The authors of this book puts
attire stood up and with her little boy in tow, took a deep breath and
slowly drive away, I continue to look at their house in my rearview mirror. I
As I saunter onto the school field, I survey the premises to behold people in coats, shielding themselves from winter's blues. The sun isn't out yet, but the place bursting with life and exuberance, with people gliding across the ice covered floor almost cat-like. The field is effervescent and despite the dire conditions, the field seems to have taken on a life of its own. The weather is bad and the ice seems to burn the skin if touched, yet the mood is still euphoric. The bare shrubs and plants about the place look like they've been whipped by Winter himself. The air is frosty and at every breath the sight of steam seems to be present. A cold, cruel northerly wind blows across the playground and creates unrest amongst some. Crack! The crisp sound of leaves is heard, as if of ice splitting and hissing. Squirrels are seen trying to find a point of safety, scurrying about the bare trees that lie around the playground. Mystery and enigma clouds the playing field, providing a sense of anticipation about the place. Who is going to be the person to spoil the moment? To kill the conversation?