Lucy Oswald (test character for Cityscape...)

I failed. I'm crushed. I'm obliterated. My chances are destroyed. My career is no more. I became "the poor struggling artist" my parents insisted I'd become. And do they care? No, they say they "told me so" and think it would be great for me to "experience real life" as "a valuable lesson" for my (and I say this straight from the horse's mouth) "blunt ignorance and blatant stupidity." Wow... thanks, Mom and Dad, for the morale booster. Since we're on the subject of life choices, how smart do you think it was to sleep with the office postal girl, Dad, and be dumb enough to let Mom find out? And was it wise, Mom, to spend your life savings like we were on the verge of the apocalypse on clothes and booze until you had to file for bankruptcy? You two make star role models.

But I can't help but wonder how I became the stereotype? How did I end up in this concrete cage called a "city-view" apartment? The "city" I "view" is a grungy brick wall with "cunt" spray-painted across it. And to see that I have to climb atop the stained, moth-eaten sofa, rub the grime on the window around with my sleeve (Clorox can't even get this crap off), and peer through the twisted, dented window bars.

The only reason Steve and Gary got that contract from the MET is because they presented their homosexuality as the delectable entree, while their art was only the after dinner mint. Doesn't matter that their designs are crap. Doesn't matter that I spent seven weeks preparing my stunning showcase, using favors that would have only grown sweeter over time, manipulating those who would have been just as vulnerable down the line, squashing the idiots who stood in my way. Now they're laughing at me as they, too, throw me out the door. All I got from the bigwigs was your standard weak rejection. They told me, "We just don't think you're the right fit..." And why not? Because I don't have some gay lover hanging off my arm, grabbing my ass every five minutes? And Gary goes through guys like toilet paper - he uses them, then disposes of them. Steve will be where I am in two weeks.

Messy

The sky was dull, dar, and cloudy over the misty, empty field. Mihitabel trudged across the depressing scene, pulling her fleece jacket close to her throat. "Walking against the wind is hard," she thought. "No! My hat!" she screamed as it tumbled away. She turned, reaching out with splayed fingers to grab at her hat, but it remained just out of her reach. Suddenly, a gale swept the hat up and took it far beyond her vision. It became lost in the ever-suppressing mist. Mihitabel sighed and continued on - without her hat.

That was my grandmother's hat... what will Mom do when she finds out I lost it? I know it's simply a hat, bur Grandma just died, and mom is a fanatic about keeping everything Grandma owned. God, she's going to make me come back out here and search for it. Or sort through Grandma's stuff, organize it, put it into new boxes, and on and on. I can't stand the way she cleans and organizes and adjusts everything ALL THE TIME! She can't even stand the attic being in disarray. I mean, it's an attic... you put junk up there... it's supposed to be junky. I would love to get a room, trash it, and just leave it that way. That would be wonderful. I need messiness in my life. Untidiness, trash, muck, confusion; somehow it clears my head. Which is why I'm out in this soggy field in the first place. I need to clear my mind so I can think. I need to think so that I can figure out how to get rid of my mother.

All in bold was written by members of 3rd period creative writing.

The Walk

In dark, gloomy shades of gray, blowing in from the North, a small group of children walk silently and apprehensively.

The wear black robes, but glow in the darkness nonetheless. With bolts of lightening and shattering booms, jungle noise fill the night, heard but not seen. Pellets of water come crashing down, and little lights drift in the mist. The group keeps walking.

The Professor appears from the faded blankets of gray. She slowly makes her way to the head of the group. The all fall to the earth, down, down, then are tossed up again by the playful wind of the North. Now they all have small candles, lighting the way, so soft, so silent. Hearts race, spirits flutter, as they breath this air.

They glide to the top of a steep hill. The rain is hurling down, this torrent from the North, but the sky is getting a bit lighter as the group ascends. It is blue and purple, though the dark clouds still remain. They lend an ear to the lamenting booms as they reach the top. Four, stark white pillars rise before them, 50 ft. high, in the shape of a square, topped with a flat roof. On and on, splish, splash, flash, and boom.

The structure twists and sags - an eerie stillness claims the air. Silence creeps in from the North as they glide under the roof. Lightly the drops come down, down, tapping the elaborate structure, sprinkling the air. The Professor inhales the sweet, clear, stormy air, and raises her candle to the fathomless gray. The children follow suit, and jungle sounds rise up from below.

There was Chaos... 3

There was chaos in a small place inside,
In a small place it did reside,
And there it did hide,
For quite a long time,
Until it snuck out,
And ran all about,
Now the chaos is on the outside.

There was Chaos... 2

There was Chaos in a small place,
Screaming, flinging, desperate for escape.
It showed in the rambling words of the homeless,
The wild brushstrokes of modern art,
The gunshots and explosions of endless battle,
The empty prayers of fervent religion.
There was chaos in a small place inside,
Which means the worst is yet to come.

There was Chaos... 1

There was chaos is a small place inside her heart, but it did not rule her mind. This might have been a good thing, if the chaos was insanity, but the chaos was not insanity. The chaos was conflict, and her mind was clear. She shot him through his heart with no remorse.

Bloody Twist

Abby was frantic now. Blood was spilled all over path and splattered on the nearby rocks and trees. She'd been following this red trail for days now and had found no body. She stumbled as pain shot through her leg; it had been doing this for hours, but it wasn't too bad. She assumed she just had a leg cramp, nothing to stop and worry about. She moved on. The person must still be alive, but severely crazed and lost, Abby noted, why else would the track be so long and random? Whoever was the cause of this mess was not far in front of Abby, and was in serious need of help.

Abby continued down the path hurriedly, hoping to hear or see who was leading her. Pain attacked her leg again and this time she fell. She clutched her ankle because it throbbed the most and wouldn't stop. This was ridiculous, she had to keep moving, she couldn't let a little discomfort in her ankle distract her. As she brought her hands away to get up, she realized that they were wet and slimy. She looked at them and saw blood. Her eyes shot toward her ankle and her scream filled the woods. Her foot was chopped in half and what was left was shredded to the bone. Her blood was spilled all over the path behind her and splattered on the rocks and trees nearby.