A Familiar Face

He sat up from his bed. It was 2AM and his phone was ringing. He rubbed his eyes, got dressed quickly and threw on his trench coat with a groan. He arrived at the alley with police cars blocking the scene.

“Inspector, there was another one” Said the Lieutenant rushing towards him. The inspector took out a cigar and lit it, puffing casually.

“mhm”

“Should I fill you in? At around one there was a call from Janace Walters- She’s right over there, sir- announcing that she heard a shooting-”

“Yaddy ya ya, Markus. Just take me to the scene” the inspector puffed. They splashed their way through the rain puddles towards a figure lying on the ground, blood covering her white blouse and her hands clasped together, almost as if she was sleeping.

“Emily Adams, 29, worked at the diner just up the road. She was on her way home from her last shift.” Markus read off his notepad. “The thing is, inspector, is that this is the fifth shooting in the past two weeks. They were all with the same bullet. We can’t go on like this. The press wants answers. The captain doesn’t know what to do.”

“and we’ll give ’em answers, when we’ve got ’em” The inspector snapped.

He looked at her face. It was a beautiful, calm face. He wrinkled his eyebrows. He knew that face.

“What didja say her name was?” He growled.

“Emily Adams”

He didn’t know the name. But where had he seen the face before? It was a familiar face. He knew that face. He knew her, but from where? Where had he seen her?

After they had spent hours inspecting everything at the scene, they covered her and carried her away.

“We’ll talk about this tomorrow. Get some rest, inspector” They said.

But the inspector couldn’t go to bed the next night. He knew that face but he didn’t know where. At 2 in the morning the next night, there was a knock on the door.

Grudgingly, he lifted himself out of his bed and opened it.

In front of him stood three police men.

“Sir, you’re going to have to come with us”

“What?”

“Sir, we have another problem. And take your gun.”

Confused, the inspector took his gun and they drove him to the department. They took his gun but returned moments later.

“What’s all this about?” He asked.

“Sir, after we found your DNA on Emily Adam we found that your unregistered gun traces to the bullets used to kill the five people we have been investigating. You have to come with us.”

The inspector stared at them. Kill five people? Impossible. He couldn’t have. He didn’t. He would never. His hands shaking, he allowed them to guide the way

Extract 3- End in Tears by Ruth Rendell

This extract caught my attention the most. Unlike the other extracts, this one had dialogue and descriptions making it more interesting. In this extract, we get the descriptions of what is happening, but we do not know why or where it is happening and we begin to wonder what comes next, and who the character is. Sometimes with stories, there are too many descriptions that make the story boring (for example in extract 4) and with continuous descriptions, it begins to feel like it is going on and on and on. With the simple language used in this extract and the short sentences, we can feel tension being created especially in the line "the third minute passed. the fourth." instead of having "The third minute passed and then the fourth minute passed." I also liked how we discovered some of the characteristics of the character without them being obvious. The line "He hated anticlimaxes. The silver honda could have taken another route." shows the reader that the character is quite impatient. This extract was simple, but had very detailed components that made the story tense.

Where is the love?

This strange feeling, it takes you by surprise,

Its unknown, is it cloudy or clear?

Will we know what it is when it starts to rise?

Is love what you see or what you hear?

Is it soul mates designed from first sight?

Or are we in love several times?

We search for it and sometimes we have to fight,

And when it’s lost? Where do we find the signs?

Is love a puzzle, is love a maze?

When all is done and gone, love will remain,

Will we feel it around through every phase?

It’s there through the grief, despair and pain,

What do we look for when it’s not known?

Do we have to search for it alone?

Happiness

This feeling so foreign, so unknown,
It rushes through me, strong and exciting,
Does this mean I will never be alone?
My fears are no longer frightening,
My heart has not always been true,
Everything strange, everything amiss,
After everything I have been through,
I deserve this, It's time for my bliss.

Elephant

It is Large with greatly nerving might,
Trails along and is usually silent,
Strange but gracefully beautiful sight,
Strength and power, but never violent.

Home is where the Heart is

This city is home but shabby and old,

Paradise, though winters are strangely cold,

Sand of the beaches warms feet,

The water is cold and I feel incomplete,

I never stay too long,

I miss it's flaws when I'm gone,

The sky will remain,

Through every rain,

Diverse,

Dispersed.

Her Sister's Mark

I could start off and say I woke up with the light shining through my windows and the snow glistened outside. That would be lying, though. The snow does not glisten outside, it is more like layers of brown slush and the sun is barely visible behind all of the gray clouds. Plus, winter break was over so how could I possibly start the day off with such a positive comment.
My mother called from downstairs "Hurry up! You'll be late!"
Blah, blah, blah. who cares? I'm always late. Instead, I pulled the covers over my head and slammed my fist down on my alarm clock that was beeping annoyingly.
"Erika, get down, now! You have school! I will not start this semester with a phone call asking why you aren't there!"
I'm sorry, what? When has she ever been called by called by school? Okay, there have been occasions, but they were never because I was late to school. Actually, there were quite a few occasions, but I don't care. You know what my mother does? She worries too much. Sure, I've been in a couple of fights and yeah, okay, I've been suspended but it's not like... I failed the year or something...well, I almost did last year but it wasn't that bad...I just... Well, anyways. It's not like my mother is Mrs. Perfect herself. You know, maybe if she'd listen to me once in a while she'd know what was going on but no. She doesn't listen. And I don't listen to her, so we are even. Everyone thinks me and my mom are buddies and that we should stick together, considering that my sister died last year but it's the opposite. She is just more protective of me than ever and it's so irritating! I can take care of myself, thanks. We just fight so much more. She says I've become "rebellious" and "irresponsible" and that I "Don't care about anything"

But that's just because I realized we all die eventually and no one makes it out alive so honestly...what's the point in caring about anything?

Opening 6

I chose this piece because of how concentrated the story is on the character. I thought that with the other openings they did not catch my attention because of the descriptions, and I think having descriptions in the beginning does not give it it's powerful start to the story. I also liked how strong the character was, for example when he said "If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth" because it gives the reader an introduction to the main character and how he acts which also makes it entertaining. I already have some awareness of what the main character is like, he seems moody and not very grateful, which can show the reader some foreshadowing that perhaps later on in the story something will happen because of the way the character acts which makes the reader more involved with the story. I think when a character has a strong personality in the beginning of the story it makes the beginning more unique.

Athazagoraphobia

In a crowded room, but feeling alone. Dreaming of a world, but not knowing where it is. The sound of laughter, the feeling of smiling, they seemed so far away. I scream and I gasp and I choke and I tug and I tear, but no one notices. Am I being forgotten? Can't anyone hear me?

I wake up every morning, hoping that something will help me get through the day and every evening I sit and I watch television or I look at the children playing and I can't feel my skin. I can't feel anything.

"Everything's fine," I would say to my boss. "No, really, I'm fine,"
Slacker, I would hear the other workers say.
My chest was heavy but I worked and worked but just failed to finish anything reasonable.
I knew it was coming but it was like a bullet to my chest when my boss came to my desk one day.
"I'm letting you go, sorry,"

I stayed with my family and cleaned the litter at parks and I would do chores, like I was a child. But I am a child, aren't I? Hopeless and weak. I'm the same person I was when I was younger. Nothing's changed. Is this life? What about all of those stories I heard as a child? Cinderella? The girl with nothing, suddenly having everything? Is this it? The trees still loose leaves in Autumn and it still snows in Winter.

I can see fireflies outside my window. They are dancing in the sky. I want to dance in the sky too. I sit below a tree and I listen to the sound of the night and I listen to the wind and the children playing, but I don't hear anything. I can't feel my skin, I can't feel my heart, I can't feel my past, or dreams. I feel isolated and I'm scared, I'm as scared as a child who gets lost when shopping with their mother in the supermarket. I'm a lost child.

And every time I'm in a crowded room, I feel alone. I dream of a world, but I don't knowing where it is. The sound of laughter, the feeling of smiling, they seem so far away. I scream and I gasp and I choke and I tug and I tear, but no one notices. Am I being forgotten? Why Can't anyone hear me?

The Home of a Boy

He felt small, sitting on the moist rock, watching the ocean lash the rocks below him. The sky was dark and the clouds were haunting, and he wanted to escape. His bare feet were bleeding from the harsh texture of the rocks that dug into his skin. His clear blue eyes were red and he choked back the tears that were caused by everyone and everything around him. Fat rain droplets started to crash on his honey colored hair and his clothes began to be heavy and weighed him down. He laid down on the rock and pain was sent through his body like an electric shock because of the sharp edges stabbing into his back. He closed his eyes and he felt a rush of familiarization as the wind blew through his damp hair and the noise buzzed in his brain of the water splashing around, as if they were struggling to escape from something that was holding them back. This was home for him. This was always home for him, the music of nature in his ears, this is what he knew but he didn’t like it. His smile was fake, his laughter was forced, his hopes were fairy tales and his strength was weak. His tears rolled down his cheeks like small crystals glistening and dropping onto the rock, mixing with the rain. He stood up sloppily and looked below him into the ocean. He took a deep breath and jumped with all of his might down, to the ocean, and he hoped that there was going to be sunshine where ever he was going.

On and On

I knew this; I could repeat this routine backwards. I jumped and my wings spread out like a parachute as soon as my claws were no longer clinging to the rocks. I felt the air ruffle my feathers. This was home; everywhere and no where. Through the sky, never knowing where to go but always hoping for the best. The other ones were leading the flock while I was following behind unnoticed and uncaring. I watched as people below me fought with guns and bombs and I cried a little. Why were these humans so upset? Why did they have to cause these explosions that blasted in the air and burnt my feathers? I just wanted to fly. I just wanted to be free. I started to descend and I hovered over the sea where I ducked my beak in side the water and caught a fish almost straight away. I flew back up into the air regrettably as I watched the men fighting. It never ends, does it? Always, always, always fighting. I don’t want to see it anymore or feel it. I turned, away from the flock, away from everything, and flew. I stopped on the rocks and felt the breeze ruffle my wings. I watched the trees and the clouds and the bugs but I never looked down to the men. Maybe it will get better if I ignore it. Doesn’t that usually help? Tirelessly I realized I was going to need to join a flock so I closed my eyes and went. I followed them, like always, while I watched the men below me hoping for change, hoping for my life, so that I could fly and just fly.

Their Lake

Their Lake

The lake water was still with the reflections of the stars above us. My hair was tied in two pigtails where my black locks hung loose and my hands, entwined with my sister's, were covered in dirt. My sister was only months younger than me but she acted tougher, more mature than me; the boss out of the two of us. Our worn out sneakers crushed the dirt rocks as we shuffled our feet to our lake. Every night we would go to our lake and talk about our day because when the sun was up, we were in different worlds.