“Sutor, ne ultra crepidam“
I first came across this word in the ‘Words to Impress’ chapter of The Daring Book for Girls by Andrew Buchanan and Mirian Pesowitz. Knowing that there was a word for the behaviour I executed whilst writing my essays, I felt a little more secure in the world.
A short story I wrote for my second year creative writing portfolio.
The ceremonial hall was filled with students, all draped in silk robes and hair pulled neat and tightly from their faces, kneeled in straight lines on the floor with their heads bowed. The walls were decorated with ancient tapestries featuring samurai in battle, ancient scrolls telling of great battles and feats of bravery. Burning oils filled the room with a delicate flowery smell, wafting small trails of smoke around the room. On the far wall, between two stoic figures in armour, hung a vast number of weapons – mostly swords- of all sizes and colours. Each of them to be awarded.
At this point, all things considered, I should probably care a lot more about the situation at hand than I actually do. Aisha is hyperventilating by the wall and Jeni won’t stop crying. The copper pipe is still in my hand and most of the blood has cooled by now. Like, maybe it’s just me, but the situation could be way worse than it is. You know, still taking into account the dead body on the floor.
I’m really enjoying these character letters.
Another in my series of character letters.
As a practice for getting insight into my characters I wrote a few letters from my character to another.
I wrote this piece for my first year creative writing course.It’s very different from my usual style.
The cuffs press into my wrists, and red marks have exploded up my lower arm as the cool metal chafes against my skin. It burns where the restraints lodged against my thumb. Red on white. Those colours happen to me a lot, naturally irony would have it that they are on me now. Both mine.
I wrote a short story for my Creative Writing course inspired by ‘Holes’ by Louis Sachar.
Rain punched down like a thousand fists on the withered and crumbling roof of Sunshine Manor. Maddie’s heels sank into the squelching mud as she ran up the pathway, shoulders hunched against the wind. A barricade of rain blinded her as she stumbled to the front door. She threw out a hand, fist clenched in preparation to bang against the wood. Instead, the rickety door jumped out of its frame and flew open. She stumbled in, catching herself before she hit the ground.
“Hello?” She squeaked.
I wrote this for my Creative Writing course in response to a sci-fi brief.
Light shone over the city of London, the great council-regulated bushes and flowers basking in the sun where they’d been placed over every available flat surface. It glittered off the Thames and created dancing shadows where fish darted about in the clear water and the anemone stirred, creating long waving shadows across the riverbed. A large plaque announcing the installation date of the eco-friendly sewage filter system shone with a recently polished gleam.
The day-crowd of people wandered the streets, either on aviation bikes (avibikes) or hoverboard or even just walking happily, browsing the indie businesses that lined the edges of the streets or were dotted about the place in little market stands. The smell of freshly cooked pastries and sizzling food on open grills filled the air, steam puffing into the sky as stall-owners flipped burgers and shook pans in front of queues of hungry onlookers. Some people sat on benches set in shadow beneath large walkways going between buildings a few stories above, just as busy as those beneath them. Street cameras with bat boxes and birdhouses were positioned high on the roofs, looking down over the crowd with their huge gaze and up-to-date disturbance-identifying zoom technology.
The gentle hubub of the city was muffled between the walls of buildings, almost impossible to see down sometimes where light didn’t reach, or stalls were set up in the way. Not even tenants of the huge geothermal flats would have known what was happening down by the compost skips.
This is a short story I wrote and submitted for my Creative Writing course in my first year.
They used to wash up on the beach occasionally. It wasn’t very common and there was always a spectacle when they did. Usually the Marine Rescue Squad would show up and pull them back into the sea. MRS had these huge net things, and cars that could drive into the water, so that they didn’t have to touch them. They always looked confused to be there, and it wasn’t like you could talk to them to tell them the way the tide works. Sea creatures don’t understand why going near the shallows is a bad idea.
It hasn’t happened for a few years. I almost miss them.
I have to walk along the cliffs to get home. Every now and then I glance down at the golden sands where the sunset shimmers on the waves and turns the deep dark blue sea into a dancing fire. I used to use this time to remember those days. And then one day, I didn’t have to remember any more.