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Creative writing.

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Creative Writing "Good morning ladies and gentlemen. The time is seven o'clock. We dock at Belfast in approximately 1 hour and 15 minutes. We hope you enjoy your crossing." I sat up, stretched and yawned...... I felt unusually nervous, presumably from the recent news from my mother that I was to attend my father's funeral back home. Home as she called it was Belfast. As soon as the boat entered Belfast Lough I knew we were nearly there, because the weather of which every Irish man has become accustomed too, hit me in the face: wind, rain, the frightening chill, the whole lot. As soon as I saw Belfast, the scene was dark and mournful. Silent as the grave. It was if the whole city was mourning my father's passing. As I stepped out of the boat I caught a glimpse of a dark, blue Volvo tear into the harbour car park. As I trotted closer I realised it was my mother, a little aged and gaunt but it was her. ...read more.


Poisoned," shrieked my mother with all her strength. After that she burst into tears, and I charged desperately into the room, " I guess we should start planning the funeral," I muttered. Later that day, I was rummaging carefully through my father's belongings, to see if there was anything I could remember him by. His belongings were very ordinary, until I found a letter enclosed in a brown envelope. I opened it frantically, like a child opening his present. It read, "Dear John, I know you know what I did and if you so much as breathe a word to anyone I will have to kill you." I then charged furiously downstairs to show my family. "Do you know anything about this mum," I roared, "Give it to me! What is it, oh, mm, no I don't," she replied hastily. "I guess I'll have to take it to the police, then," I answered immediately, "No don't: I mean what can they do," my mother exclaimed. "Mum," I argued, "What's happened?" ...read more.


I stepped stealthily on the first and second steps. However the third step was disastrous. All of a sudden the stairs began to distinctly scream. "Hello, who is there?" blasted my father's murderer. When the man scrambled out of his room and headed for the stairs, I pulled out my Berretta bitterly and shot him in retaliation. "For my father!" were the only words I could muster. I killed him. Cold blooded and horrific. It was over. No regrets, no guilt, he was dead. The thought suddenly occurred to me that I should show a clean pair of heals. In my plundering I could have aroused suspicion and the police would be after me. My instincts were right. I heard the chug of an engine and the hounds were on me in a flash. If I were a fitter man I could have got away but it wasn't to be. Suddenly a horrid hound pounced on me, puffing and panting. It was over. The police had me now........ "Hello sir, we have docked, and its time you'd be off," remarked a steward as he woke me up. Where am I? So it was a dream after all, my father hasn't been murdered, or has he?................ ...read more.

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