Creative Writing Alien

One day, cutting through the swamp, David comes across the remains of old Indian souls and discovers a skull with jewelry still buried on the bodies. As David kicks at the skull, he hears a voice and looks up to see a black man seated on a stump just looking. The man, wearing a black sash around his body, has a soot-stained face, which makes it appear as if he works in some fiery place. David soon recognizes the stranger as the devil, the black man. Twenty years later we had a family reunion with all my relatives and they started talking about the fire.

Sunshine was pouring out from in between the buildings, casting shadows all around Ponyboy and the gang as they walked to Pony’s school. They were taking their time walking down the streets and for the first time they all were really seeing what was all around them. Memories were surfacing in their minds showing them what it all meant to them. With every step they took on the sidewalk they remembered a different memory as if they were walking down memory lane. Ponyboy didn’t think it was possible for him to be walking down this street for the last time as a high school student, but he had gone through the years with great grades that earned him many scholarships.

The sweet whispers of existence swirled about her mind, hints of far-off places a tantalising thread to follow. She grew restless, no longer content with herself and the darkness as company. She yearned to stretch out, to explore. The little girl collected her thoughts and all at once she pushed outward.

Looking through the dusty back window of the 1998 Volkswagen we were in, I sat and watched the colony disappear from view as the dark night began to swallow it whole. I had wanted to leave for forever, but there was always a firm grasp which kept me there, my family. A single tear slips from my eye, rolls down my wind-burnt cheek, and clings tightly to my chin before its final descent into the open air. As a child, I too clung tightly to familiarity, but now, with my future at stake, it's time to flee, to leave behind everything, and embrace the rush of the unknown. I reach my hand across the center console and rest it on the back of Ethan’s soft hand. The warmth of his love momentarily fills the lull in my heart where my

On my trusty bookshelf, one tear-stained, dog-eared book noticeably stands: The Kite Runner. Filled with the stories of excruciating sin, redemption, and war [metaphoric and literal], Khaled Hosseini fascinated every fiber of my being with his take on sacrifice and our universal role as kite runners [we must run for others, always and “a thousand times over”]. I learned that in every action “there is a way to be good again [and-again-and-again],” and that sometimes our actions can change the life of others. The book encapsulates the struggles of these human decisions, guilt-ridden or filled with "incomprehensible truth. " The book provided a powerful lesson in moral failures and how people need people.

Over the years, a disorder known as Schizophrenia has affected many people across the globe. Before advances in the 20th century mental health movement occurred, many thought that the symptoms conveyed by an individual with the disorder were demonically possessed (Walker and Tessner 2008). Today, more and more people are being properly educated about this disorder and understand its effects on individuals, however, there are misguided and false perceptions about it, similar to those prior to the 20th century.

As I walked through the front door to my house, I headed for my room to start my homework. About two hours later my mom called up to me, “Alex, come down and eat!”. Since the invasions have been going on, you either talked about the invasion all the time or you tried not to talk about them at all. My family and I fell into the second category. But today I decided to break the

Reflection essay on Border Patrol Nation After carefully and thoroughly perusing the “Border Patrol Nation”, I learned the significant role of the department of homeland security (DHS) in the country’s national security. DHS is the second large national defense in the United States. Its agencies are responsible to enforce all immigration laws and also stop the import of illegal drugs in the country. DHS focuses its operational energy on the US-Mexico because Mexican immigrants illegally crossing the border and the rampant drugs smuggling, terrorists and human trafficking. Immigration become one of the political issues in the 2016 presidential general election because of several crimes mentioned above.

Walking outside the sun beamed down on me, the skin on my shoulders stinging. I knew I should’ve been in pain but at that precise moment I felt empty and emotionless. Once I knew I was calm enough to go back inside I walked inside and went straight to my bedroom. Once I was out of sight from my sister broke down and sobbed. I muffled my cries in my silk covered pillows. The coldness of the pillow relaxed my face.

She trotted out into the splintering cold. It was so cold. It was freezing. Morgan could feel her legs rubbing against her thick, double layered jeans. It felt like if she continued walking any farther, she would rub her legs raw. She could see her breath as she exhaled in the chilling air. She could smell the crisp snow outside, and could feel the sting of the wind on her nose. And oh that wind, it was like a whip that never stopped lashing. Every time it stopped, you got a slight, fleeing sense of relief but it was never quite satisfying because you just know another killer ice-cold gust is

I stumbled around, trying to make sense of what was happening. It all grew more and more intense. Insects began whispering to me, taunting

It was a cold day, so cold that your arms start to sting as if a needle is impaling the surface of your skin. The wind applies a force which feels as if your face is oozing with thick crimson red blood. The gray puffy clouds covered the sky and dropped small snowflakes onto the road’s surface. A man stood there, freezing, clearing the coat of thick white snow from the concrete road. His nose runs with a river of snot that floods out when the cold wind strikes. His sense of smell is heavily clogged by the slimy snot, but he can still smell the scent of the steamy hot chocolate which sits on the top of his snow covered car. His feet start to numb because of the cold flood which soaks through his boots to his white, silky socks. His feet feel as if he stepped into the freezing cold ocean. As if he fell through ice and he was stuck standing there. The vast pile of the ice white snow feels almost like a quicksand around his black rubber boot. Foggy figures of people shovel the big piles of snow off the sidewalks. They scrape and pick at the glossy white ice which sticks to the sidewalk like a little boy clinging to his mother's side. His feet still sting as if he was stepping on pins and needles. His hands are damp with sweat from grasping the curved metal shaft attached to a socket which holds the blade. The blade cuts holes into the thick powdered snow which is removed from the endless pile. The jet black shovel is filled with slushy snow and crystal shards of ice. The end of

The screech of the old automatic doors to the Countdown supermarket open before me. As I walk in I'm bombarded with smells of freshly baked breads,fresh fruit straight from the trees and preserved meat, ready to sell to the customers arriving in an hour. I walk through aisle 1 towards the employees room and grab my small metallic name tag. My small shaky hands fumble to put the tag on my old faded Countdown shirt. As I turn around to walk back towards my checkout, I notice other employees shouting and laughing at each other as if they were lions fighting over their prey. My gleaming gold hair cascades down my shoulders as I release the hair tie and continue towards the shiny metal checkout. As I reach the checkout I see my reflection in the window. My dark brown eyes remind me of wood. Boring and dead. The opening bell pierces my ear drums like an arrow pierces the dummy.And I watch as the old dull automatic doors open and close, and the customers walk in.

The silence of the neighborhood made my blood run cold as the fall breeze swept over me. The sun was up, but its bright rays were muted by silvery mist that clouded the streets. The ominous silence that hung in the moist air like a warning gnawed at my insides. I stood in the middle of the path, turning my face up to the gray sky. The cooling fog swarmed around me and turned into little pellets of water as it settled on my skin, relaxing me.

Nobody believes the “VIRALS” that they saw a human skeleton in the ground or that they were shot at when in the clearing. The “VIRALS” think that someone switched the bones with monkey bones, and got rid of the slugs in the trees from the time they left the clearing to the morning.