Creative Writing 
No Comments Creative Writing – Film Stimulus
Name: Vincent-Dwayne Johnson
Invalid
Life expectancy 45.9
Heart failure 5%
Likelihood of Depression 86%
Likelihood of drug addiction 52%
Violence 99.999%
Alcoholic 71%
Likelihood of contracting life threatening disease 31%
Likeness of being for murder in jail 79%
`My Creative Writing Assessment
Name: Vincent-Dwayne Johnson
Invalid
Life expectancy 45.9
Heart failure 5%
Likelihood of Depression 86%
Likelihood of drug addiction 52%
Violence 99.999%
Alcoholic 71%
Likelihood of contracting life threatening disease 31%
Likeness of being for murder in jail 79%
They said I would never fit into society. They said I will never be able to making a living for myself. They said I would either die in jail or commit suicide. But here I am working for arguable one of if not the best technology developers in the world, Phoenix. They predicted me at birth to die a 45, to be jailed for murder extremely likely. Well I’ve proved them all wrong I’ve got money, I participate in sport activities nearly every day and I’ve not one criminal record. But I am thinking they are right after all science is always. The though came last Saturday, I killed a man he looked about in his late 20’s, early 30’s he tried to kill me or rob me I didn’t take a chance to ask.
He laid there dead in his own pool of red blood; dull red blood unlike normal blood it was the same with my facial expression. On the news, it’s everywhere…… not the man I killed but some else. I’ve foiled society for more than 10 years, I’m going to be caught they’ll be police; random stops everything possible to catch this so called killer. It could be a trick I got to get away. Urine checks, blood samples from your finger. All of these were the type of security my employers had. But I’ve dodge they’re ways of filtering out the so-called imperfect humans. By having someone else’s blood and urine am not the only, I just want fit into society like any normal perfect human would.
Click! Click! Click! Click! Click! Footsteps follow and never grow neither loud nor quiet, but if you stop it is silenced at an instant like an obedient dog. But these footsteps weren’t mine they keep on going like a stubborn mule. He’s following me or she. Corridors encroached by balconies of buildings lined in perfect grids. No fault in them, unlike my gene.
The footsteps grow fainter, fainter and fainter. I need get out of this city this world where mother-nature is being forced out by its own creation.
“You’re a navigator? ….At Gattaca?”
“That’s what it says, doesn’t it?”
I walked to see what this war of questions was about.
“…moron”. There was a man in a wheel-chair angry it seems to the inspector for what he had questioned him on. “How dare you question me? What’s your number? No, what’s your number, you fucking flatfoot!” angered ready it seemed to jump out and given the inspector at god smack in they disfigure, ancient face of the wheelchair no matter if he did have a broken or hurt leg.
“I said forget it. What do you want? An apology? ”The inspector appeared to now know that this guy wasn’t one you could joke around with.
“It gets to you, doesn’t it.” Trying to make eye connect with inspector so he could show him his glaring eyes “It gets to you that I can be where you can only dream of. I’m getting off this ball of dirt! It gets to you that I can be where you can only dream of. I’m getting off this ball of dirt! How dare you question me! That’s harassment.
“My mistake” reluctantly tilting the ironed tip of his dark overcoat up so it was hard to see the expression on his face.
“What’s your number?”
It was all over the man walked out as if nothing happened and turned right. Great. He was heading towards me; my only chance of eluding him was an old abandoned warehouse. The warehouse towered over me as a contemplated whether to go in or not. The wind howled, windows shattered from in-valid, violent youth. I took the chance the door creaked open…..