Complete the following story in 150 - 200 Words.
Parents Anniversary - You and Parents Decide to visit a distinct religious place - have early moving - evening reach home - all lights switch on in the house - door ajar
Answers
Hii
Explanation:
So, I never give the full answer for a creative writing cause-we'll it is creative writing. You should put in your creativity too.
The basic idea is theft. At least, let's assume it is. First, form a rough idea of what is going to happen-will the theif have escaped with some expensive stolen goods? Will he still be inside the house? Try to go for something unique, like, the theif hasn't stolen anything but actually kept a price of paper with a threat note in it! Or something like that. Try to go for something a little more subtle because you have to write in 100 to 200 words. You can also end on a suspense note.
Answer:
Late night in early winter. The last hour of the long drive home. I tend to the thermostat, keeping the car warm enough for my sleeping family, but not so warm that my focus turns dull. Beyond the chilled glass to my left, green lights of the dashboard angle up toward the stars.
Distance defines our relations. My wife’s parents live five hundred miles away, what we have come to think of as a day’s drive.
When we arrive, she will hoist our son high against her chest and take him, murmuring his dreams, into the house. I will carry our long-legged daughter from our car to her room, where I will lay her gently on the bed we have made for her.
I remember being proud that I hadn’t fallen asleep.
“You go ahead and rest,” my father told me. “I’ll let you know when we get there.”
I had promised my mother I would help him stay awake, so hugged my pillow, to keep warm. The truck’s heater wasn’t working, but according to my father, it would have only made us drowsy. This was November, sometime between my birthday-which we had celebrated in an empty house, amid packed boxes—and Thanksgiving. Under my father’s influence, the past Christmas Eve, I had seen a reindeer’s red nose from my bedroom window; with the same power of persuasion, he had convinced me, at least, that our move from Maryland to North Carolina—a place so far off it might as well have been wholly imaginary—was a great adventure.
When we finally left the highway, he said, “Home at last.” There at our exit were three big hotels and a restaurant called the Kountry Kitchen and another called Noah’s and a go-kart track. My attention lingered on the go-kart track, which was closed. It was after midnight, the latest I had ever been out in my life.
My father stopped the rental truck at a traffic light, looking down at a piece of paper he had drawn from his shirt pocket. We turned left, and then right, and then there were no more hotels, no more restaurants—nothing but a curving road. The farther we went down that road, the more I worried about what my mother would think. She had made no secret of her opposition to the move; rather, she had expressed this so strongly that I harbored the unspoken fear that she might not follow us. She was very much in my mind as we passed a small house with a chain link fence strung with Christmas lights that somehow looked as if they hadn’t been taken down the winter before, and a collapsing larger house, with covered porches on three sides, and beside it a field populated by broken school buses and eyeless shells of trucks. (To be honest: I’m not sure how many of those things I took in that first night; but they were there the next morning, when the overall impression of neglect and decay hardened the fear in my stomach.) I had just started to think that if we went far enough we’d get away from this kind of place, we’d reach another road with bright lights and hotels and restaurants, when my father slowed down, then stopped, then backed up.
“Here we are,” he said. “Camelot.” He had told me his version of the legend of King Arthur on the ride. We had sung songs, and told riddles, and played games using the letters on billboards. My father could always be depended on to think of something interesting to do. On the edge of a field across from the entrance to the Natural Bridge, in Virginia (which we did not see, as there was an admission charge), we ate sandwiches my mother had packed, and played a game he invented using two sticks and a crabapple. Later, while we drove, my father wedged a paper cup between the dash and the windshield and had me take shots with a crumpled cigarette package, narrating like a commentator on TV. We were football fans, my father and I, but we would play any game that presented itself.
Rule number one, he liked to say: Keep your options open.