creative writing
Creative Writing
R.I.P Rory
His room decorated with graphs, tags and throws. The floor hidden beneath paint covered clothes scattered everywhere, aerosol cans and paper covered in his new tag that he has been practicing. He puts on his pitch black hoodie. The hood hides every detail of his face keeping his identity masked. Throwing his blood red bandana and his spray paint cans stone cold from the paint concealed inside into his bag he is ready to burst out and create a masterpiece.
As he emerges from his house into the frightening and unforgiving darkness his mind is consumed with thoughts of the one building with gigantic smooth white walls, perfect for his new tag. On his way to his main destination he graphs a few meaningless rotting wooden fences. Finally he reaches every taggers dream, the perfect spot to hit. He unzips his torn Nike backpack, pulls out his blood red bandana and ties it to his face covering his nose and mouth. He does not want to inhale the dangerous fumes from the spray cans. He removes his favourite bright red spray can from his bag. Holding it makes him feel powerful. He could create and design anything but he has to get his new tag out there that reads R.I.P Rory. It is dedicated to his little brother Rory who was caught in between a violent drive by and shot dead.
While he is spraying the outline of his throw with reaching and curving movements, he gets that one feeling he chases. He suffers and pushes through his life full of abuse and hatred every day wanting this exhilaration. Full of satisfaction he fills in his tag, spraying highlight greens and blues, before he finishes his masterpiece with his personal scratch and the date.
He stood there in serenity admiring his artwork. He hears faint but clear footsteps behind him, he turns around in a hurry then “smack” he gets smashed in the face with what felt like a freight train. He is lying on the ground with warm blood covering his face. He opens his eyes and sees three massive
R.I.P Rory
His room decorated with graphs, tags and throws. The floor hidden beneath paint covered clothes scattered everywhere, aerosol cans and paper covered in his new tag that he has been practicing. He puts on his pitch black hoodie. The hood hides every detail of his face keeping his identity masked. Throwing his blood red bandana and his spray paint cans stone cold from the paint concealed inside into his bag he is ready to burst out and create a masterpiece.
As he emerges from his house into the frightening and unforgiving darkness his mind is consumed with thoughts of the one building with gigantic smooth white walls, perfect for his new tag. On his way to his main destination he graphs a few meaningless rotting wooden fences. Finally he reaches every taggers dream, the perfect spot to hit. He unzips his torn Nike backpack, pulls out his blood red bandana and ties it to his face covering his nose and mouth. He does not want to inhale the dangerous fumes from the spray cans. He removes his favourite bright red spray can from his bag. Holding it makes him feel powerful. He could create and design anything but he has to get his new tag out there that reads R.I.P Rory. It is dedicated to his little brother Rory who was caught in between a violent drive by and shot dead.
While he is spraying the outline of his throw with reaching and curving movements, he gets that one feeling he chases. He suffers and pushes through his life full of abuse and hatred every day wanting this exhilaration. Full of satisfaction he fills in his tag, spraying highlight greens and blues, before he finishes his masterpiece with his personal scratch and the date.
He stood there in serenity admiring his artwork. He hears faint but clear footsteps behind him, he turns around in a hurry then “smack” he gets smashed in the face with what felt like a freight train. He is lying on the ground with warm blood covering his face. He opens his eyes and sees three massive