Creative writing Assessment. PLAN

Forest

 

Day:
suns out. warm. bugs buzzing. birds chirping. soft breeze. leaves rustle in trees. rabbits hope around. calm. music in headphones.

Night:
moon dimly lights floor of forest. crickets distantly hum. stray animals scurry across the fallen leaves. footsteps echo from the trees. sticks snap left and right. chilling breeze rolls through the rows of trees.

dystopia

beyond the guarded white car towered the ominous city mellow puff factory

behind the strange vehicle stood the rookie guard his first day and his last.

beneath the towering smoke stacks purred the engine of the inspectors car, surrounded by trigger happy mercenaries.

on the draw bridge was a white car surrounded in guards

upon the suspicious car loomed the town hall of farmville

 

State of Mind

Act 2 Scene 1

“Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation”

Shakespeare shows how someones mind can be changed and damaged because of guilt and regret. if the dagger were to be real in his mind that would damage and possibly kill him. his mind is dealing with the guilt by altering his vision making him believe it is real. he creates the dagger to move the blame to someone else and make him think it is not him doing the killing. he reaches out to the dagger only to find that it is untouchable as it is a “dagger of the mind” this suggests that not only will this dagger be killing Duncan but it will also damage Macbeth mind. The human mind is very complex, it creates false thoughts to deal with guilt and regret. it also shows in hindsight that using the dagger and killing Duncan may lead to his own demise.

soliloquy – Macbeth

she should have died hereafter

There would have been a time for such a word.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.