Creative Writing

Uh, I hate writing on the spot. I wish he would've given us the assignment and then let us think it over. I don't like to be rushed when it comes to my writing.

Aubri stared at the blank sheet of paper in front of her. There's nothing scarier than a blank sheet of paper when you're supposed to be writing something.

In the end she opted to rewrite a short story she'd written for her creative writing class at her old high school. The teacher had given her the characters and she'd had to come up with the plot line. Although at first she'd been appalled to have such a vulgar main character, she'd ended up not hating the assignment.

The story was about a high school football jock who marries his high school sweetheart, the cheerleading captain. After a couple years of marriage, he gets bored with his wife and cheats on her all the time. This is all given in the first paragraph. The main scene has this man on a bus in Alabama talking to a man about the same age, who is a complete stereotypical hick. The jock makes a series of vulgar and lewd comments about the "blonde bombshell" up front to the hick next to him. He eventually eats some food his wife made for him for his trip down south, but he ends up dying from that food since she'd poisoned it. It ends with the hick taking the jocks cell phone and calling his wife telling her that her husband is dead, but he won't tell anyone that she was the one who made the food.

((Um, I really meant a story. Like the one Kiera wrote. If you really don't want to write one, you can turn that in but, you won't get a very good grade.....))

((Seriously???? Why???? Honestly I have enough homework as it is without having homework here as well....))

((Cuz. >.< Meh! =P I'll write one too then!))

Seeing the other students pull out some pieces of paper, Jace reached into her own bag and pulled out an entirely blank spiral notebook. She figured she could use this to put all her stories in for this class, so she pulled out a sharpie pen and began labeling and naming the book before opening it to write in. Jace pulled out a pen dated the paper in the upper right hand corner, then pulled her hand back down to the first blue line. She sat there for a few moments, letting a story develop in her head before she put the pen to paper and began writing as quickly as the thoughts came...

Bittersweet Crimson
by Jace Cullen

In the corner of the room hangs a pale light bulb, it gradually swings back and forth, every few moments the light dimming and the shadows growing more distinct as they dance along the walls. The chair I’m sitting in creaks as I lean backwards, my fingers tapping quietly against the peeling paint of the walls. The smooth screeching of metal is still bothersome to my ears, though it is constantly there. A never ending line of trains with faceless passengers could get a good look through the wide window of the room. If only they were to pay attention to the world around them, then they could see my recent workings.

The start of a new train makes its way to pass by the window. The only window.

It sits across the wall to my right, stretching from one end of the room to the other and from the floor to the ceiling. I find it amazing how dim-witted humans are. Surely the smell coming from this room is intense, but it’s all too familiar to me. I chuckle slightly and lick my lips. A sweet metallic taste lingers on my tongue; it is also the smell that congests the room and no doubt the rest of this small building.

And how could no one ever see? The vibrant red is splashed upon the window, dragged along the walls, sprayed atop the ceiling. It’s still dripping too, making the heel of my foot tap nervously on the floor. Unexpectedly, a drop of crimson lands on the tip of my nose and bounces down to my upper lip. As much as I willed myself not to, I cracked. Standing up, I threw the wooden chair across the room. It splintered into hundreds of tiny pieces, the amplified sound made me scream. Whipping around, I started towards the window, growling with each step. This uncontrollable craving consumed me, I slammed my bloodied palms onto the window and pressed my face up against it. I bit down hard on my lips, resisting the temptation of the blood on the window. It was still warm, for my rampage had ended just minutes ago. I was panting, shuffling in my spot. I had to develop an immunity and deprivation seemed to be the only way to stop it.

Though my inner pleading was worthless, I only lasted about thirty seconds before I drove my mouth into the window, voraciously licking off any blood I could get. The taste was so sweet, I grew hungrier. I hadn’t fed in months.

My logical side started to kick in as my racing heart slowed to comfort. That had to catch at least one of the passengers attention. The color was much out of place in the gray surroundings and never had I gotten so much on the windows. My golden eyes snapped open, taking in the sight of the passing train. Time seemed to slow as I focused on their faces, my eyes frantically searching for another directed at the room. I stayed tense.

Business men and women had their faces buried in newspapers; I knew they would never notice, so I looked harder. A young woman doing her make up. A mother comforting her crying child. Three girls were giggling, though at what I didn’t bother to listen. Obviously it wasn’t directed towards me. I held my breath at the last car. It was filled with more business men and people sleeping. And to my disappointment, my golden irises met with familiar emerald ones. There were brown flecks in them, they looked scared and confused.

Yes, he’d seen the flash of red in a sea of gray buildings.

“No,” I whispered. Time fell in on itself again and I stumbled backwards, a breathless shriek escaping my throat. Inside I knew that he wouldn’t recognize me, the train was moving far to fast for him to know someone was standing there, but I still recognized him. He could have been standing a mile away and I still could have picked him out. My vision was far greater than any humans’ would ever be.

Fumbling over my thoughts, I backed away from the window. As much as I knew that he didn’t know what he’d seen, I had to get out. My subconscious was screaming at me, telling me I’d been caught. I scoffed, I’d never get caught.

With a new determination, I spun on my heel, sidestepping the stone cold body that lay on the floor. My golden eyes flicked to it and rested there. They became dark as I studied the corpse closely. It was a man. Mid twenties, maybe thirties. I didn’t know him and it wouldn’t have mattered if I did. Death struck no chord it me, I’d seen it for countless years. Lived it, tasted it, teased it. Before his skin had been nicely tanned, short hair vibrant, eyes…lively. Now they weren’t. His eyes, though their original color I do not recall, are black now. His mouth is slightly agape, as if he was still breathing, but I knew better. And his skin, that delicious, richly tanned skin, was now the color of stone. Pale and bland. I sighed somewhat sadly as the toe of my shoes nudged his cheek.

A mix of emotions overwhelmed me; I swallowed hard, the dryness in the back of my throat prickling. I was ashamed to say the least. Never had I or any of my family made it okay to have done this. We never went after human beings, it was against our code. Though tonight, like many other nights before, I’d broken it. All those times I could never help myself. The smell of fresh, untainted human blood made me hungry. Suddenly, I became angry. It was their fault, I told myself. If they weren’t so careless, their blood wouldn’t be spilled, I wouldn’t snap and they would be living. I growled as I kicked softly at the dead shoulder. And yet, every time, I grew afraid of what would happen if they’d found out. If anyone were to ever find out. My mother and father would be angry, no doubt about that. It would be foolish of me to think otherwise. There was a threat behind our pact. Kill a human and they’d send me away. That I didn’t want and I shuddered at the idea. A grimace spread over my face, I’d killed more than a single human. I racked my brain to find the exact number.

“Fourteen,” I said to myself. My train of thought came to a horrified halt. Had it really been that many? I looked back down at the man on the floor and grew terribly afraid. Not afraid of my consequences, but afraid of me. My trivial acts had become more of an addiction than prevention. Instead of growing stronger, I’d become weaker.

Then I remembered who I’d seen on the train and I snapped my head back up, anger still coursing through me. I put my hand on the doorknob of the room, the blood on my hands flaking as I twisted. It was still on me. I smelt the metallic suggestion in my hair and on my breath. It stained my clothing and painted my face. The temptation was still there, but it was dulled from my earlier indulgence.

In the end, it wouldn’t matter. Though my destination was different this time, I was positive I could get there early enough to clean myself up. I always kept extra clothing in my car since I first started doing this. They were not as nice as the ones I had on were, I shrugged, but they’d do. I strode out of the room, leaving all feelings of what I’d done behind. It was like that every time. I came hungry, killed for satisfaction, fought with my emotions, then left. Incredibly numb. I’d left the room, not bothering to clean it this time. Deep down I knew that this would have to be the last of my killings. I needed self control. Simple as that, the more I elaborated on it the more doors it would provide for another excuse. I made it to my car quickly enough and got changed. My bloody clothing I’d have to hide again, but now I wore a pair of dark jeans and a simple black shirt with long sleeves and because it was supposed to be cold in the mornings I threw on a sweater, just to make myself look even more human.

I drove with my radio blasting, the hard base making my car vibrate. Beside me, my phone rang and I flipped it open, bringing it to my ear without even looking at who it was.

“Ashlyn?” The voice on the other end was clear, even through my blaring music. I stayed silent, waiting for my sister’s voice to continue. “Where are you?”

I came to a stop at a red light and looked at the street signs; I’d be where I wanted in a matter of minutes. “Almost there, sorry,” I tried to keep my voice as even as possible, “I got caught up.” The light turned green and I sped up.

“Okay,” she sounded convinced, “hurry up, it’s not like you to be late for school.” The line went dead and I snapped the phone shut. Of all the days to feed it had to be a school day. Not only was I still edgy, I would have to face him there.

I pounded down on the accelerator as the road came to a straight path. My car hummed quietly with the speed, though I felt none of it. My speed compared to that of a car was nothing. My speed was on a whole new playing ground, none that any human would ever possibly reach. I laughed at my sad comparisons. The tips of my teeth bit down on my lips, holding back the insane laughter that was threatening to spill from my throat.

Perhaps I really am going crazy. I needed to get this fetish out of my mind.

The base on my stereo blocks out any other logical thoughts. It's a familiar song, yet I don't think I like it. There are rips in the record, though it's supposed to flow with the song, but it keeps any thoughts of my previous actions out of my head. For the moment. I knew that when I got to school I'd see him there. There was no way in the world he could have possibly seen me, but if he did, I doubt he'd recognize me. I was practically savage then. I rolled my eyes, pressing down harder on the gas pedal. My small car roared this time, getting louder as the gears shifted. The sound was thrilling, more so than the speed. My eyes quickly flicked down to the speedometer.

82.

I raised an eyebrow, gaining a sudden interest in seeing how fast this car could actually go. My foot became heavier on the gas, the need to push this baby growing more and more with each mile per hour gained.

Jace sighed as she finished the paper, shaking out her sore hand from all the writing. Closing the notebook, the girl stood up and brought it over to the other pile of papers and set her notebook on top. Jace hoped it was alright because she had a lot of fun writing it and a good grade would make it even better.

((OOC: Hello, I'm new here, just started and *had* to join in on the one class I actually look forward to RP-ing.))

Kendra was confused for a moment by her classmates, weren't they all here to explore their individual educations? Weren't they here to learn and to study? Why were students fighting in the classroom? She shook her head in disbelief and then leaned back in the seat as the altercation faded. The assignment, though, seemed to be more an attempt to gauge where the students stood in terms of their writing and less an actual exploration of any given facet.

She nodded to herself as she pulled a clean notebook from her bag and opened it to begin to write.

Writing Exercise: The Wastelands
By Kendra Padraig

Don't Fear the Reaper

Once, she had been called Ne-Omi, and she was everyone's little sister. She had adored her older brother and had very nearly worshiped him. He, though, had thrown her love away in betrayal, and a terrible betrayal at that.

The memory ate away at her, the darkness lit by the fires of the buildings burning around them, her voice crying out at him, pleading at him. He turned once and sent a slash of air towards her, hitting her in the chest and wounding her gravely. She heard the scream erupt from her belly, a scream of anger and defiance from the child she carried. The sound seemed to hit him and his eyes almost cleared, but he turned away and left her, wounded and bleeding, and the unborn child within her body wailing into the uncaring night.

Her child was born that night. All she could remember was a brief image, a pair of tiny eyes looking back at her from a nurse's hands, her own eyes. She never even had the chance to hold her baby.

When she woke in the corporate research laboratories, they told her that the child had died, and her grief was a physical ache in her chest. The goldeneyed woman did not scar, but she felt the injury inflicted upon her by the brother she loved as strongly as if it had scarred her.

Once, she had been Ne-Omi, but now she wasn't anyone's little sister.

"Nene . . ." A voice whispered to her from the containment unit next to her. The two of them were suspended in liquid, but it was a peculiar liquid that allowed them to speak through the facemasks that hooked to the air canisters. It was Kenshin, her only friend, and the father of the child she had carried. They were the only survivors, now. Those that Zephyron Galanel had not killed had been taken into Corporate custody for research and study, and the corporate researchers had not been careful with their subjects.

He had only survived because the division which claimed them had discovered her Healing abilities. They had spent several months exploring just how much damage she could Heal. Her gifts had been drained following the birth of their daughter, drained to the point that she could not free them immediately, but the Healing had regained strength enough to please the researchers so that they did not explore Kenshin to great extent.

That had changed, and it had changed everything.

She turned her head to look at Kenshin and she could feel his resolve through her reawakening Empathy. That would make what they had to do more difficult for her, not that she would hesitate.

"It's time, Nene." He kept his voice low. There were cameras watching them at all times. "Both of us, together."

She nodded. The scientists had done a full-body scan of Kenshin. They had discovered the functioning uterus and assorted other bits, even though she had minimized his cycles as much as possible to hide them. They knew, now, that Kenshin was one of those changed by the Wastelands.

They'd started discussing research options, including a breeding program. She wasn't going to allow either of them to carry a child in captivity.

That left only one option, and it wasn't going to be very pretty.

She closed her eyes, concentrating on the darkness. It wouldn't keep her from feeling the backlash, but it would delay the onset long enough for Kenshin to get the two of them to safety. She could collapse once they were safe.

When she opened her eyes she summoned her sword to her. It appeared in her hand and she stabbed through the glass of the containment unit, causing the pressure from the liquid suspension to shatter the rest of it. She spilled out onto the floor of the lab to the sound of alarms ringing.

They had only moments.

She pushed herself to her feet, ignoring the shattered glass in the liquid that pooled around her on the floor. Then she stabbed through the glass that contained Kenshin, allowing him to escape containment. She helped him to his feet as the first of the scientists entered the room to see their subjects standing and fearless, and one of them was armed.

Kenshin took her hand in his as they faced the scientists who had tortured them for months in the name of questionable research. "No fear, Nene."

She allowed herself a small chuckle. "We aren't the ones who need fear the Reaper, this day."

Kenshin killed the first one with his bare hands. After that she summoned a talisman in the shape of a sword for him to use. She infused it with her Healing gift, so that his wounds would heal while he wielded it. And then they began their hunt.

Before they emerged into the sunlight of the day, they had made certain to kill every single scientist in the division, and all the guards assigned to them. Then they set fire to the record banks and destroyed all evidence associated with the research. No one else would ever discover the truth about Kenshin. No one.

((If you haven't posted your story by midnight EST on Saturday, September 26. You are getting a zero for the assignment.))

Okay, the next class will start as soon as I read through and pick apart your stories. Which may take a while. Sorry! >.<;;

((Hey sorry I wasn't able to post a story, I've actually been out of town and reach of my computer for the past week. Do you still want me to write a story or should I just not worry about it?))

No worries.

Such a nice forum for creative writing .Thanks everybody for sharing great ideas.

Kira looked towards where he thought the strange disembodied voice had come from and directed his question to it. "Who are you?"

[[I think you should ignore this voice, really ffu Should I do something about it?]]