Crescent Home Furniture

Pitch black, with only the light from the half-crescent moon splashed across my current room. Light from its’ gracious face beams across everything, turning even the most inanimate objects into ghosts of my past. I lay in bed, guilt stricken for I probably have just awoken my parents, perhaps even the neighbors as well with my nightly ritual of shrieking, terrified that the thing of my nightmares was in fact reality. This happens almost every night now because in the previous moments before awakening in a cold perspiration, the backs of my eyelids were illuminated with a scene of pure obliteration. Wind screeching while slashing and ripping at my soul. Water rising, threatening to tow me into its’ icy grasp. Pulling me under while I try to cling to all that know, all that I love. All the while my family watches from above unscathed and protected from its’ fury. To me this thing I speak of is half beast, half man, with a mind of its’ own. Experts and people who do not experience these things first hand don’t understand for they just call it Ivan. Ivan is simply hurricane in their minds. Nothing more than a little bit of wind and rain to them. But to me it can think on its own. Ivan can instruct its offspring known as tornadoes to reap havoc and destroy innocent peoples well being. Ivan and its’ followers don’t understand mercy for they are more evil than even the worst prisoner prosecuted for numerous murders. But alas Ivan didn’t kill anyone. Not any true living soul that I am aware of. But instead he seized the second most precious thing to a person of 9 years old. But did he care? No, I’m sure he did not. He took all of my memories. All of my clothes, gone. All of my furniture, gone. All of my everything, gone. The only thing he left for me, and this I am truly thankful for, is my family. Maybe not in good spirits but in the physical form he did not take their lives, only their souls mine included, leaving nothing but a hollow shell, dreadfully similar to that of my home. Something so catastrophic can shred even the closest families apart by tearing at the heart of everything they know, everything that they love.

My daughter wrote this for a school assignment about something tragic that happened in her life and I think it is really good but I am a little concerned about the way she describes everything. Am I just being paranoid or should I really be worried?
Thanks so much!

Thats very nice. Its poetic and creative, it reminds me of Edgar Allen Poe and I'm a huge fan of his. This was actually inspiring to me.

Creativity is never anything you should worry about. This is very creative and I would encourage her writing. Taking an event in her life that she found tragic, this hurricane, and turning into something so rhythmic, methodical, and metaphorical is fantastic.

I think her teacher will be impressed.

2009-03-15 10:33:21 by Florida chic

A furniture retail company specializing in modern contemporary designs. Selling the best quality furniture sourced out from Asia and North America ...

I have to write a short story for Creative Writing and this is what I've come up with so far. Please give me good feedback; this is for a grade! D:




I had this one dream once that everyone in the world was of Chinese origin. Don’t ask why, I probably overdosed the Asian food or something. But the really weird thing about this dream (besides the fact that everyone was Chinese) was that nobody spoke and we all communicated via codes and symbols that we carved into shiny wooden planks.
Most of my dreams tended to be this way –pointless and, well, odd. Still, they were dreams, figments of my overly complex mind, not anywhere at all near reality. And I never expected them to be. But when I first woke up from this one dream, I knew for sure that it was different from all the others.
See, my grandfather was a carpenter, and for many, many years (ever since he was a little boy to be exact) he had loved to engrave things into solid objects. He cut trees and used their bark for building furniture, statues, and many other things that he then sold. But the other leftover wood he would chop into little planks, no larger than my history textbook, and etch within their surfaces deliberate arts and designs. He used to let me paint these after he was done, back when I used to be a little boy. I loved helping him. I loved the way the planks would sit out in the faint evening breeze to dry, how they would glisten under the sun the next morning. Oh, how grandpa’s face would glow with pride. He’d pat me on the back and say, “Look at that, Seth. Look, my boy, how beautiful. Think of how proud your mother’s gonna be when she sees these!”
And my mother was happy with these. She hung them all around the house. Over and under her springtime paintings, in the kitchen above the sink, they also framed the fireplace in the living room. Soon, our house was filled with them. Every corner, every wall, every surface had a piece of grandpa and his designs. I even hung some in my room. But instead of pretty flowers and words from different languages, I asked grandpa to carve me things like planes and cars, guitars and drums, suns and moons that danced in the deep burgundy.
I had exactly twenty-three of those. Ten had musical instrument on them –the ones I could play, like violin, drums, and piano. Grandpa even made me one with a ukulele. I never learned how to play it, though grandpa promised he’d teach me. Still he insisted I had one, because it would remind me of him and how he used to play ukulele for us in the backyard on those warm summer nights. But then he made another seven with airplanes and speed cars on them; five had crescents; one was a dazzling sun.
The night I dreamt of these planks was the night of my grandpa’s first death anniversary. I spent the whole day out in his workplace –a little cabin beside our house with small glass windows. There, his tools and old, abandoned projects lay the same from when he left them. Paintbrushes remained dipped in open paint cans, dried and hard; woodchips coated the ground where you stepped; old axes, chainsaws, and chisels sat untouched on the dusty wooden surfaces. There was even one of his favorite comic books open to the page where he left off on his chair, I noticed with amusement. Some of these last touches of his seemed pretty creepy, I admit. But mostly they just triggered some kind of deep, stirring emotion inside of me –an ache, a missing. I’d mingled too much with my grandfather, and we were really close. Sometimes, I even thought I’d grew on to him a little too much. It only made it worst when he left, you see. I missed him a lot. And as I stood there, staring around his empty cabin, I was surprised to feel the tears streaming down my face.
I decided to stay there for the night. I didn’t feel like going back home, facing family and friends – happy faces who knew nothing of what it felt like to be a simple boy with no real talent but dream of sharp paint aromas and still feel comfort. Maybe they’d never know, and it wasn’t their fault. Still, I think I just needed some time alone. Losing someone as special as grandpa was never something you really got used to.

I enjoyed it, but two suggestions.

1) The dream at the beginning was kind of irrelevent to never be mentioned again. Maybe start with, "My grandfather was a carpenter."

2) Break it up into paragraphs instead of a daunting wall of text.

Best Wishes!

2009-10-11 16:54:56 by Jazz

Price: $581.50

Enclosed cupboard with adjustable shelf; 2 open adjustable shelves
Accommodates flat-screen televisions up to 42 inches; assembly required
Handsome media stand fits into any corner to neatly display home electronics