Creative Writing: Detective Fisher

“Yes I am dad.” Kevin screaming at the top of his lungs,” Mr.Cromwell needs to go!” While Howie and Kevin argued ,Cromwell was over there eating Kevin’s breakfast, waffles. It was too late, Howie and Kevin turned around ,the waffles were gone.Kevin and Howie went straight over to doggy daycare. Cromwell had stayed 1 hour knowing he wanted to leave.

It was late. The moon had risen high and the starry sky brightening up the dark night. Various hex-tech lamps lit up the mostly clear streets of Piltover, and the buildings had their lights off. All, but one.

That look. All I can think of is that look in Johnny’s eyes. He wasn't suppose to die, the rest of the gang could die at the same time but Johnny just can’t die. He was supposed to stay out of trouble, get away from his godforsaken parents, leave this place. He was supposed to be better than all of us.

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.

Back in the main level of the factory, Wolf and Fox find Hawk lying on the ground, pale and unresponsive, his bulletproof vest next to him and the edges of a red stain showing around a wad of gauze. A soldier that Fox assumes is N-Unit's medic kneels next to him, along with Snake and Coyote. The three medics are talking frantically among themselves. The rest of N-Unit hovers nervously nearby; the rest of H-Unit is nowhere to be seen. Dust particles dance through the beams of sunlight from the holes where windows used to be, giving the whole scene a strangely dreamy air.

You could feel the riot before you could see it. There was something else in the crisp early morning New York air, a certain electricity. A certain static that could only have been brought about by the winds of change. Even at three am the city is usually alive, but in these early Saturday morning hours Christopher Street was more alive than usual. However, it wasn't the normal flamboyant energy it had come to been known for. It was an angry energy, one that's only capable of being created by an oppressed group fed up with the constant mistreatment they've too long endured.

When I was a kid, about 5 to 8 years old, my hands would always get cold whenever the surrounding air is chilly. My dad would always tell me to rub them together, like you would in order to make fire. And so I did it. I rubbed and rubbed and rubbed. My fingers grind against each other from the tips of my little fingers to the base of my palm, but none of this worked. My hands still are cold, stone cold. Then my dad said after watching me rub for a whole 3

Around her was the rotted wood and black soil that she soon realized were the walls of Perry’s hole. Heather tasted copper and knew it was her own blood. Strangely, she didn’t feel any pain. In fact, Heather noticed that her body was buzzing with numbness. She didn’t even feel the lightness of her newly shaved head. She tried moving but could not and understood that she must have been given some sort of paralytic. Panic swelled up inside of her as she felt the cold steel of the operating table she had seen so often before underneath her. Heather moved her eyes to the right and saw the brown cardboard of the boxes. Heather looked to the left-- and

It’s was a hot Friday evening in California, with the sun glaring down at everyone and heat

Caitlin needed to be sure. She slowly approached the covered body and reached it with shaking fingers. She revealed enough to get a glimpse at the dead, bloody, beaten face. It was enough to make her stomach turned and feel last night diner coming back with a revenge. Keeping everything in, she let go of the blanket like it was burning her.

Blood streamed till it was dried on the road, and the bodies were stuck there, like driftwood after the flood. They were glued down, every last one of them. A packet of

Wes was exhausted. It was Monday morning, an no amount of coffee could help him at this point, he was a lost cause. He had gotten about half an hour of sleep the night before while doing more ghost research. He had only slept at all because he tripped over a few art supplies left over from when he was making his charts, and decided that the floor was somewhat comfortable and it was worth too much effort to get up. His father found him in the morning, choosing to ignore the creepy pictures of both Danny Fenton and Danny Phantom tacked to the wall. Thankfully, all Walter said was to clean his room as soon as possible, because frankly, his room was a complete mess. Everything from sharpies and bottles of superglue to cassette tapes about ghosts

Sam had a special fishing pole that folded into a small size so he could carry it in his backpack. he caught three trouts in the pond and I caught two. There were a lot of mosquitoes by the water so we didn’t stay at the pond for too long. My dad was relaxing in the tent, reading a book. We showed him the fish that we caught. Can you two gather some wood for the campfire so we can cook the fish he asked us. Sure. I answered. Don’t forget your flashlights! my dad warned. We grabbed our flashlights from our backpacks and walked towards the trail.which way should we go? I asked Sam. The trail led in two different

Even though this isn't the first time seeing a body like this, the sensation is still the same. A cold chill runs through me, my stomach ties into a knot and my legs are weak as I slowly back away. I want to look away again but I can't make myself do that either, so I stare, trapped in a limbo. I can hardly recognise him, or what's left of him. Really, the only way I can tell is by his clothing, it's the same outfit he wore the last time we saw him. Charlotte's dad's face is more massacred than the other's we've seen before. His eyes are gouged out, but with precision, like a surgeon did it, and his mouth had been in such a way it makes him have an unnatural Cheshire Cat-like grin. The limbs disgustingly twist into odd and awkward angles on his body; and instead of a masterful blood carved M, a single knife stabs the centre of his chest, holding a

The season is autumn, and the temperature is modest. I clean my 7mm rifle in a gentle and pre cautious way. I start at the stock of the gun, and work my way towards the barrel. The grain of the wooden butt comes from the finest trees. I run my fingers across the gun getting to know every detail there is, treating it like a newborn baby. As I pack my items away for my adventurous hunt, excitement overwhelms my mind like a vigorous hurricane striking the coast. I place items in my pack; such as, a knife, food, water, and a compass. In just a couple of hours I’ll have the opportunity of shooting a mule deer, which is one of nature’s greatest gifts. I store my rifle and other necessities for the hunt in my truck. By the time I hit the road and make my way towards the ranch the morning had almost reached an end. The fire from beyond makes its appearance when I arrive. The gracious first moments of the sunrise are breathtaking. I sat in awe taking in every moment I could of this astounding area that surrounded me.