science class a teacher showing them a video of one being used. But the sound he was hearing was almost a grinding groan. The frequency amplified by the firmament itself. So very loud. His legs began to shake as he reached the car. Martyn’s final words repeated in his head. “You have to keep moving. Make haste to your sanctuary. You are running out of days.” The awful grinding around him ceased as suddenly as it began. He let the bags down as gently as he could to the ground not wanting to break
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Feferi allowed her horns to slip back into her skull and her skin to darken to brown rather than the grey of a young troll. All trolls could perform this magic despite their aptitude in the art. She tucked her very few belonging into her knapsack and slid the straps over her shoulders before pulling her trident from her strife specibus. Eridan
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Logan White American Civilization/ English 11th Dr. Graves/ Mrs. May-Washington November 15th 2010 The Road to Freedom I be mighty grateful to mistah David Ruggles‚ who be a abolitionist Republican wantin to hear my story and publish a book about me. My name is Elijah White; I was born outside West Point in Bates County‚ Missouri. I worked on my masta’s farm. The farm was called da White farm. It was about forty acres an grew tobacco an hemp. My masta was Colonel Walter Prescott White
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little do they know two weeks from today there will be no more playing‚ and jumping in piles of leaves because the Fried Chicken Monster (F.C.M) was coming back into town. The Fried Chicken Monster or as my family calls him (F.C.M) has been missing in action for about eight years now. F.C.M came to town and destroyed people’s life when I was about six years old. I’m fourteen now so he’s been gone for a little while. F.C.M and my dad have previous history. It all started back in 1719 when F.C.M and my
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Late Autumn‚ 1942 Today is one of those unusually quiet evenings‚ and sometimes‚ it’s so quiet it becomes frightening. It reminds me of a storm. At first‚ it sneaks up on you quietly‚ then the storm intensifies‚ rushing through cities‚ towns‚ or whatever is in its path‚ leaving behind devastation and desolation. That sense of desolation is what I fear the most‚ and that’s what it feels like now. There have been no loud roars of planes overhead or any explosions for over a month. But I don’t mind
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walking around on their way to the gas station when they decided to go off the street toward the old abanded insane asylum. When they turned down the creepy‚ gloomy street they heard crows gawking and making normal crow sounds‚ but McKenzie kept hearing words from the crows and thought she was going crazy. “Do you guys hear those crows?” McKenzie asked. “No!” They both responded at the same time. “You’re going crazy!” DJ cried. McKenzie tried to get the thought that the crows were in her head away. “Hey
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Once upon a time‚ there was a miller named Jerry Robaeu (pronounced rob you). Jerry lived with his wife Milda and his beautiful daughter‚ Charlie. They were very poor. They ate crumbs‚ and chewed on rat bones. It was a very difficult life for the Robaeu family. As the miller delivered his monthly quota to the castle‚ he was bragging about how his daughter could spin straw into gold‚ hoping that someone would want to marry her. One of the king’s spies overheard‚ and immediately reported this information
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Creative Writing The short story by Etgar Keret is about the metaphorical aspect of creative writing using two characters; Aviad and Maya‚ husband and wife who have recently gone through the tragedy of a miscarriage. The story begins with Maya‚ who has been encouraged to attend creative writting workshops in hopes of getting out more and moving on rather than sitting at home dwelling on the lost child. Aviad at first seems quite pleased that Maya has been doing well in her workshops‚ however
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Gununa Kawi Temple. Well‚ it used to be called that. Now it’s known as Gununa Kawi base camp. The world has fallen and these people still insist on doing their monkey chant‚ sorry “Kecak Dance”‚ every day without fail. They’re doing it right now. I can hear the faint “cak” sounds from the far end of the camp. They don’t want to get involved. Around me‚ people duck behind the fallen ruins of the temple‚ wielding guns in the dark. I’m pretty sure if the monkey dancers in the sky looked down now‚ they
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skeletons of trees. It had all come to an end‚ as it always does‚ after years of burning flags‚ protests‚ fighting‚ greed and word that stuck in her throat‚ a word that made her sick to say - hate. Pointless hate‚ unknowing hate‚ hate because you were told to‚ the worst kind of hate. They fled the country‚ hearts still beating‚ fuelled by half hopes of a future. A word used tentatively for the fear that ravaged their bodies‚ the fear that could sometimes be suppressed with drink or running away
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