---Sample Writing retrieved from an entry I did for one of the stories I was part of
Three short, three prolonged, and three short buzzes. Those were the signals given during an emergency--a government emergency. All she wanted was to curl up in her bed and sleep until she was able to stand without feeling like the floor would give up on her. All she wanted was to sing her problems and migraines away. All she wanted was to go home and take off the sweats and sweatpants that were suffocating her. "God d_____ it," all she wanted was to heat the stupid frozen chicken nuggets she just bought, now thawing with the heat of her thighs. Crescent didn’t want the signal to be real. She wanted to erase it from her memory; Crescent told herself that it was just an illusion because of her exhaustion.
Such reasoning was proven futile as a final confirmation of the messages reached her phone: Code Red, Immediate Attention Directed for Ms.Ash, Immediate Dispatch to Following Location. . .Even under her contacts, Crescent’s eyes glowed ever so slightly with the influx of emotions that ran through her blood. The girl sat in her car, stunned at the message that was blinking angrily on her home-screen. ”But I just finished a case. I can’t--” she whimpered, her voice barely audible, her sentence caught off abruptly with the strident noise in her ears. Crescent's body couldn’t help but hunch over in defeat, resting her forehead on the steering wheel.
The red cast omitted from her phone lit up the dark vehicle eerily — the echoes of the rain outside drowning out the internal screams of the distressed girl.
She couldn’t stay like this forever. Crescent knew this too, so with weak fingers, she turned the car on, put the music on full blast, and reversed from the driveway. The blaring sound of the songs merged with the ones in her head, and as Cres mouthed the lyrics, she felt herself feeling okay. Usually, she would be swinging her arms around and twirling in her seat, an amusing sight even for herself, but that wasn’t today. Today, Crescent sat clutching the steering wheel with all her might, her lips moving in rhythm with the songs. Though her covered eyes were bright, everything about them was dead. She was driving, she was seeing, she was existing, but she wasn’t living.
Crescent felt like a dead body.
Shaking her head to snap herself out from the self-destructive mental cycle, Crescent began to sing louder, feeling her heart uplift slightly with that effort. Another case deserves as much attention and energy from her--and no matter what happens, she’s going to do precisely that.
By the time she had strolled into the area of the crime scene, the thrusts of pain from the migraine had morphed into gentle stabs on her forehead. Crescent would manage. Putting the hood over her head and changing her shoes from sneakers to black rain boots, the girl got out and into the pouring rain.
The first thing she took note of was the luminous full-moon displayed right in between the alleyway where the crime scene took place--it was inviting, it was luring, it was mournful, yet it was giving off a warning glow. Such thought was put on hold, however, as her eyes followed the gushes of water created by the rain. It wasn’t just any sewage or rainwater. No. It was colored scarlet, painting the roads with the blood of the victim--their legacy forever lingering in the cobblestone of the 4th Avenue.
Her mind now running a thousand miles per hour making premises of this case, Crescent took out her umbrella and began to stroll into the crime scene that was blocked off with the “Do not enter” tape. People were too frantic to notice the black-clothed girl coming in. Some cast a raised eyebrow at her direction, but nothing more. They had to clean up the body before the public gets too aware of the brutality that lurked in their neighborhood.
It didn’t take ten steps for her to find the Sargent. No one can miss his peculiar deerstalker--he was the only one that was wearing it. He too spotted her quickly, especially with the kind of clothes she was wearing. The Sargent, or Mr.Johnston, smiled at her, his black eyes making his skin crinkle. Crescent gave an effort to lift her lips, but her face refused to move.
Then, out of seemingly nowhere, a screeching sound of wheels against the wet road split through the air. The stabs in her mind immediately turned into thrusts, completely stopping Crescent in her tracks. Her eyes were shut tightly, the girl’s legs giving out slightly, making her unstable. Everything was drowned out except for the slight reverberations of the rain, and it took her another minute to regain a level of functional consciousness.
Crescent knew then that she was closer than ever before to her breaking point Without a second thought, the girl reached over to her jeans under the black sweats. Finding the material she needed, Crescent popped open and swallowed a prescription drug. It was specifically created for psychics and helps with the regulation of their power; she doubted it would help prolong her inevitable crash, but a possible extra day was an extra day. She was willing to brave the side effects the medication brings to stop herself from hurting an innocent individual. As long as Crescent didn’t have to deal with tremendous emotional strain, and only look through objects or dead bodies, she should be able to manage. should.
With that done, Crescent continued her trek towards Mr.Johnston who was now accompanied by a tall individual. ’The motorcycle dude’T he girl thought bitterly as she joined the two.
”Glad that you two were able to make it safely to the scene. I will go ahead and introduce you two.” Putting a hand towards the young man’s direction, he continued. ”This is Salazar Augustin Zakrajsek, one of the elite members in Seattle’s police force.” And with a quick change of hand, he said, ”This is Crescent Ash, one of the most renowned psychic detectives. Crescent's pair of orbs didn’t leave the young man’s body while the Sargent spoke. Salazar was well built, strong, and quite handsome. However, when her eyes met his, she knew he was going to be quite troubling (if the screeching sound of his motorcycle didn’t prove that). The skepticism radiating off of him was an obvious one, and rightfully so.
Crescent's gloved hand reached forward to grab Salazar’s. ”Call me Cres” a hint of a smile adorning her face.