Creative Writing, 125 (Fiction Piece)

It was the first snowfall of the year. It settled on the city like a down comforter. The quiet calm after a cold night causing a much needed moment of tranquility. He hasn't seen her since the day they left High School. That was 10 years ago. Now they meet again, on the streets as the city burned, fire lighting up the night sky. Her hair was still a deep raven, woven into a tight braid intended for battle. Tonight was not the night for romance. He shook himself from his reverie as his eyes returned their focus across the square.

This time, their prime minister had gone too far. With a furtive glance around her, she brought her arm up to hide the trails in the dirt on her cheeks. Red eyes. Frustration was a common current amongst those on the line, she felt shameful for her moment of weakness despite it's cathartic effect. Stars blazed in the night sky above. She noticed the boy next to her looked familiar. The lull in action was beginning to wear on her, her body becoming stiff from the tense crouched position she'd been curled into since night descended upon the city.

A quick check of her surroundings, a painful shuffle to the right and she was next to the boy. He looked caught off guard. She meant to give him a bashful smile, but it came off as more of a grimace as her lips cracked with effort and her teeth chattered in the cold. They moved closer together, like penguins converging to conserve their body heat. No words were issued, none were needed.

He awoke to birdsong. Nothing had changed. White still brought a silence with it, the sun losing an interstellar battle with the cloud cover hanging over the square. His stirring woke the girl. She started awake, immediately assessing her surroundings, a light blush on her cheeks the only proof of her surprise. It was unnaturally quiet. They weren't the only ones to notice. The morning had the heavy feeling of intense calm a soldier learns to distrust, causing a growing sense of unease. The boy placed his hand on the girl's tense shoulder, licking his lips in preparation to whisper to her as her attention snapped quickly to the distant right side of the square.

"Shh! Hear that?" she whispered fervently. Her eyes were bright, lit by a fever of fear and survival instinct.

"I-I didn't ... hear anything." he responded, his attention now following her line of sight, the illness seeping into his own consciousness.

His response was more of a gut reaction than actual situational awareness. He'd always hated speaking in public, especially not with how shot his nerves were after the constant stress. His hand on her shoulder pressed for her to duck as he noticed a window opening in a taller building across from them as if in slow motion. His other moving to cup her face as he pulled her to his chest behind their cover.

Silk. Skin so soft, so unnatural for the situation, caught him off guard for a moment. Memories of what seems like a different life washed over him. The smell of freshly-cut grass. A warm meal on the table. His mother's smile as his father brushed her hair behind her ear. He felt the sudden urge to do the same for this girl, this familiar stranger who was clutching to him in mutual fear of the unknown.

He came to his senses as shots reverberated through the square, voices melding together as directives were yelled for both sides. More shots rang out. He scrambled for her hand and dragged her from the scene with a quick tug away from the noise. They moved quickly, heads down and stumbling over scattered debris, makeshift blockades, and what they later acknowledged as fallen comrades.

He felt a sting in his neck. Why are there bees in winter, he wondered in mild delirium as his hand clutched the slick spot on his neck. Someone yelled his name, his legs felt heavy as his stumbling became worse, to the point of falling on the ground. Red. Why is there so much red, he thought, as the girl came into focus above him. She was scared, he could see under the dirt covering her face, fresh tears carving paths across her cheeks. She was saying something, everything sounded so muted he couldn't understand it anymore. He tried to focus, his mind calling him to rest as she pulled his head to her chest. His whole body felt cold, but he could feel the warm pinpricks of heat on his face as she wept over him. He wanted to ask why she was crying, he felt so a peace after being swept up in the chaos for so long. He deserved this break.

The streets were deserted when she next awoke. Where was everyone? Where had they all gone, she wondered. It was still daytime, although the cloud cover did little to brighten the day. She was still curled up around the boy, splashes of red all around them and upon them. She needed to move. With slow movements she pressed her fingers to her lips and lightly pressed them to his before smoothing his brow. Her face turned upward as she began to hear voices around her, others were coming out from cover, sounds of jubilation as the all clear was issued.

Another ten years have passed. She studied her face in the mirror. The boy still stays in her memories, a figment lurking in the back of her mind often coming forth in her dreams. She remembers his eyes, his strong hold on her hand, the expression of acceptance on his face as he died in her arms. Every night she goes to sleep, and every night she awakes, shivering, with the familiar stranger in the dark of that night on the battlefield.

Creative Writing, 125 (Creative Non-Fiction Final)

I went to an estate sale today. It felt odd to sort through the remnants of someone gone. It was an old house in a historic part of town. The walls were once painted a bright pink, now faded and cracked. There was water damage, fissures like spiderwebs along the walls, and floorspace which threatened to open up and eat me alive. The old woman had passed. There were items older than my own parents in that house; silverware with real silver, a baby grand piano, men’s aftershave in the shape of a car, dried up mink furs. Sprinkled in were more modern items, including hints of a child from my own era. I meandered about the house, picking at the corpse like a vulture with a fickle tongue. A little bit here, a little bit there. Tasting and sampling the eras of another life lived. Life is a complicated companion. You could spend your entire time with life having no idea how to spend it, only to have an epiphany of thought just as it leaves you. By definition, it stays with us all for a lifetime, merely the perception of the duration varying from person to person.

Most of the items were outside my depth, be it by price or use. I found a crockpot for one in the kitchen, something I’d intended to purchase in the near future. A room at the back of the house was filled with cloth items, varying from the size of a small infant to full adult. She had had a son who adopted a son of his own with his partner 20 years ago. This didn’t phase me much, other than enjoying a few items that appealed to me like an orange jumpsuit from my favourite video game and a collection of children’s books. As I turned to leave, a small jacket hanging on the back of the doorframe caught my eye.

Blue denim. Metal buttons with cream quilted arms and matching striped collar and trim. A recognisable crest on the chest reading “Canyon River Blues.” I become still, like a deer pausing at the potential threat of company, staring at the coat as a flood of recollection crashes in waves over my consciousness. I don’t know how long I stood there, slowly realising I’ve shuffled my way over to the jacket. I raise my hand to touch the aged denim. Soft. There’s light wear and tear in the forms of small bits of ragged edges and corners, but denim is a resilient material. My brow furrows, my fingers move to a sleeve and curl around the plane as if grasping an arm that would still be inside. They slide down the short distance, pausing at the cuff then moving back to circle a button. It’s small. Meant for a young boy, around four or five.

I pull away quickly, shaken from the moment. I glare at the jacket, as if it an inanimate object is to blame for the feelings it induces. The anger burns out quickly, which has been a common feeling for the past six months. They would be the same age, this boy just happened to make it to his 20th birthday. I feel jealousy, anger, guilt, embarrassment, discomfort and finally shame in a rainbow of grief as I turn my eyes down and make my way to anywhere but next to this jacket.

He was a 19-year-old kid who went drinking with his friends and expected to take a cab home. It was 3 AM in a small town. It was raining that night and the side of the road there is all mud. Like most 19-year-olds, he had some silly sneakers that he probably didn't want to get dirty. He was wearing a bright red jacket, the same one he had been wearing the last time I saw him. Another driver, who came across him before the taxi, commented on seeing him and his friend on the road. There are four lanes on that road, if the driver had been paying attention and not speeding, he should not have hit my brother.

19-year-olds are dumb. They think they are invincible. He wasn't drunk, he was just being a kid who thinks he is the centre of the universe and that the world will bend around him. He was smart, kind, and fucking hilarious. You wouldn't believe how many people came to his funeral, all of them expressing how fucking wonderful he was. He may not have been slotted to change the world, but it sure as hell wasn't "natural selection." It was hubris, which is something we all share as a member of the human race. We're imperfections that live life to hopefully fix some of our flaws, and he didn't even get the chance to try.

Creative Writing, 125 (Sci-fi Plot)

In a small town in rural Russia, an ex-Nazi scientist continues his wartime human experiments. Initially it started with humans, mixing together genes to reach optimal human form. Finding a lack of perfection in this method, he turns to splicing human and animal genetics together to create a super human master race. Many die, but the few fetuses who survive the process are placed into random orphanages throughout Europe until they hit puberty, triggering their hidden genes. This is the story of their awakening.

I am mad.

A reporter wrote about the issues my father has had getting the case file on my brother's death. I am an idiot, so I read the comments. It enraged me to the point of finding each person that upset me and giving them a piece of my mind. I know it won't really change anything, but I can't just let them go on without realising that their comments do have an affect on other people. Even just reading my comments I can see myself go from irate to depressed.

I really hate this feeling.

To Stone__Cold: "Do you just spend your life getting off to other people's misery? All you do is make asshole commentary about the misfortune of others. Most people are risky in life, even when you plan for every possibility things can catch you off guard. Some risks are bigger than others, some are tiny things you do every day and don't even perceive the danger in them anymore. You could fall and snap your neck every time you step in the shower, even if you take precautions, but that doesn't mean you aren't going to do it.

I hope you find a better place in your life that you don't need to mock those less fortunate than yourself to placate your personal issues."

To Archie Caldwell: "You posted on an article about my brother's death. The comments were turned off so I couldn't reply to you. I wanted to remind you that real people are affected by the asinine comments you make. He was a 19-year-old kid who went drinking with his friends and expected to take a cab home, of course he didn't have a damn reflective belt with him. As an ex-military member, I now always carry my issued reflective belt with me purely out of reaction to what happened to him. Do you always have one on you? Just in case, you never know when you might have to walk down the road.

Oh, and he was wearing a bright red jacket. I know, because it was given to him for Christmas and it was one of my favourites. He wore it the day I graduated from Basic Military Training. That was the last time I saw him before he died.

So thanks for your comments. They really made my day."

To Balor: "You posted on an article about my brother's death. The comments were turned off so I couldn't reply to you. I wanted to remind you that real people are affected by the asinine comments you make. He was a 19-year-old kid who went drinking with his friends and expected to take a cab home. It was 3 AM and Aurora is a relatively small town. It was raining that night and the side of the road there is all mud. Like most 19-year-olds, he had some silly sneakers that he probably didn't want to get dirty. He was wearing a bright red jacket and another driver, who came across him before the taxi,  commented on seeing him and his friend on the road. There are four lanes on that road, if the driver had been paying attention and not speeding, he should not have hit my brother.

19-year-olds are dumb. They think they are invincible. He wasn't drunk, he was just being a kid who thinks he is the centre of the universe and that the world will bend around him. He was smart, kind, and fucking hilarious. You wouldn't believe how many people came to his funeral, all of them expressing how fucking wonderful he was. He may not have been slotted to change the world, but it sure as hell wasn't "natural selection." It was hubris, which is something we all share as a member of the human race. We're imperfections that live life to hopefully fix some of our flaws, and he didn't even get the chance to try."

To Christine Stevenson: "You mention "having a heart" in your post. It seems like you need to reassess what that means. There is a potential to die in every action you perform, to say that he could have not gone out, or if he had left with a five minute difference would have changed the outcome is stupid speculation. Death is part of life, but it doesn't mean you have to mock the deaths of those who don't mean something to you personally. It means you respect the life of another as if it were your own. Especially when you have no idea what you're talking about."

I'm still angry, but I feel mildly better now.