There are two kinds of people in the world: those who make excuses and those who get results. An excuse person will find any excuse for why a job was not done, and a results person will find any reason why it can be done. Be a creator, not a reactor. — Alan Cohen, A Deep Breath Of Life

Creative non-fiction

I went through some of my old creative writing stories, in case I lack inspiration this term, or maybe just to read. Either way, here’s a clip of a creative non-fiction piece I wrote last year. It doesn’t really have a name.

I walked along Avondale Road, keeping my eyes on the bus stop across the street. A few boys stood there, but the bus wasn’t yet in sight. I recognized one of them, Dalton.

To my right I saw anther boy I knew. Justin stood at the bus stop across the street from the other boys, and a lady in a silver car was waiting to turn left, between them.

The lady’s hair was brown and short, curling a few inches outward when it reached her chin. She had a very motherly look about her, and her car was sleek and new.

The sky glowed a dull steel color, illuminated by the morning light. My cell phone revealed the time as being 8:14, and I was sure the special bus would be rolling to a stop across the street any minute now.

The next moment I felt the breath knock out of my chest, filling my body with an intense pain all over. Blackness overtook my vision, and I no longer knew the meaning of direction; space; time.

My eyes fluttered open, witness to half a dozen people standing over my crumpled frame. At first they were hazy, altered by my confused state.

“Don’t move,” a hand pressed lightly on my shoulders as I struggled to sit up. “Are you hurt? You got him by that car.”

My head spun while I strained to make sense of the situation. I could make out the faces of a few of the faces of the people standing and crouching around me. “I’m okay, I’m fine. Can someone give me a ride to school?”

A babble of voices hovered around me, and my restless body fought to control it’s limbs. “I don’t think you’re going to be going to school today,” somebody said. “She has to have medical attention!”

“We should move her,” the motherly lady said, her gaze falling on the lineup of cars on either side of the street.

“My shoes,” I said breathlessly, my chest heavy. I pointed at a sneaker lying a few inches from my feet. My feet were cold and it was difficult for me to help the lady fit my foot into my shoe. My body was too limp.


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