New me; new house; new school; new everything... That’s what the annoying‚ obnoxious creature inside my addled brain repeated over and over; a moronic mantra. I loathe them and their cheap‚ over – the – counter perfume‚ their pathetic pouts constantly asking me “Are you ok?” Obviously I’m not “ok”: Trapped in this terrible tirade of torture... I’m Bo‚ currently 16 years old and counting down days to a well-deserved death; I have a scar straight down my face to my neck; just moved house to
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gosh a new school‚ a new year. I never liked this moving back and forth thing every time Dad gets a new job. There is no point in making friends‚ but this year will be different I thought‚ as I waited for the bus to arrive. I started to see the ugly mustard yellow bus approach me. As the door to the bus opened‚ the smell of damp‚ wet towels that have been sitting in a pile for weeks on end ‚and overly sweet perfume punched me in the face. “Maby this year won’t be so different after all‚” I thought
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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
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the wind is blowing‚ I put on a big huge smile on a my face as the teacher calls us to go outside for the end of the year school party. "I’m so excited!!" I whisper to my friend Aviva as the teacher calls tables. Another side of me is a nervous wreck‚ because I thought I wasn’t going to make it to middle school‚ the main reason is that I’m terrible at every subject and I’m going to get an F on every test in the whole 6th grade‚ I think‚ as the teacher dismisses the table and I slowly walk toward the
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People think I’m crazy because I see lights. I’ve seen them all my life. Strange‚ multicoloured patches of light swirling through the air. The patches are different sizes‚ some as small as a coin‚ others as big as a cereal box. All sorts of shapes - octagons‚ triangles‚ decagons. Some have thirty or forty sides. I don’t know the name for a forty-sided shape. Quadradecagon? No circles. All of the patches have at least two straight edges. There are a few with curves or semi-circular bulges‚ but
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and Mira’s story from Freshmen Year Once upon a time‚ there were two crazy girls named Shelby and Mira. Shelby was crazy because she laughed all the time and Mira was crazy because she was an Asian and wasn’t smart. They became friends in middle school when they read The Adventure of Tom Sawyer to each other in English class. What weirdos. Mira is also crazy because she can’t spell the word weird and she is a freshman. One day Shelby and Mira were walking down the hall with their awesome friend
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Re-creations ESSAY PLAN A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM * descriptive piece on how I envisage my MSND‚ takes place in an arboretum‚ been there before several times‚ tranquil‚ beautiful‚ magical‚ mysterious‚ near a small village behind local pub‚ old church opposite‚ pub was once a nunnery in 16th C‚ joined to church by underground passage‚ nun attended trees‚ honesty box * my dream‚ walk towards shallow pond‚ barefoot‚ warm day‚ ot sweaty or overheating‚ long golden hair‚ nude but not exposed
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wind sliced into my skin‚ cutting like a butcher’s knife through raw meat‚ as I hurried onwards‚ making my way through the overgrown forest‚ pulling my coat around my shivering body to try and protect myself. The feeling that someone was following me gnawed at the edges of my mind as I travelled‚ and with every step my inner-conscience urged me to turn back but I couldn’t; this was a matter of life or death‚ and I had to push myself no matter how much it hurt. The remaining shards of my confidence were
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I felt expelled and exiled‚ sitting in a room filled only with a bed. White walls which painted no imagination‚ no hope just emptiness; yet they still assured me I was meant to be here. Every day was the same as the last‚ every memory I captured had slowly escaped. I was considered dangerous‚ vile and out of control; these words constantly surrounded me‚ swirling around in the echoes of the halls. 15 years I have been here‚ and still not once has my voice box being strained. Everyday new comers
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The Calling I opened my dry aching eyes and immediately felt the pounding in my head. With regret on my breath I stumble into my petite bathroom. I go about my normal morning routine‚ but in a more sluggish way‚ and put aside the fact that it is three in the afternoon. All I wished to do was crawl back in bed‚ but I was being forced to attend this youth group at the church down the street. Hating every bit of my life at the moment‚ I throw on the dress that I secretly shoved in my bag last Thursday
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