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Creative Writing: I Am Racist

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Darkness enveloped him, heavy and thick. Fourteen-year-old Emmanuel lifted his hands, pressing them against his ears to drown out the high-pitched scream of an ambulance. He continued to walk home. It was a long way back. It was a sketchy neighbourhood with boarded-up storefronts, houses with bars across the windows, and garbage scattered across the road. All at once, there was the loud, ear-splitting crack of a gunshot. Pain ripped through Emmanuel's right shoulder. He screamed. His hand reached towards the fresh, bleeding wound. He felt a warm sticky substance: blood. Turning his head, Emmanuel searched for who had shot him. While doing so, he noticed a small limp body lying barely a few feet away from him. A girl, maybe eighteen. Purple

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