Sunday, 2 June 2013

The Darkness

This is another product of a writing prompt, which was: Your protagonist awakes in a totally dark room in which s/he is unable to see anything. Write about what this protagonist experiences being sure to include a detailed description of the things this character touches, hears, smells and tastes in the darkness. I sort of tailed off into a whole separate short story that I came up with on the spot but hey...

Clara awoke to the damp smell of rotting flesh and immediately felt a searing pain shoot up her leg. She blinked but only saw darkness. She was blind. They’d ripped her eyes out for sure. Then she remembered the painful moments before she’d blacked out. After the questioning, they’d dragged her down multiple tunnels, descending deeper into the earth and thrown her roughly into a pitch black cell. Maybe she wasn’t blind then. Even so, the darkness bore deep into her eyes leaving nothing to suggest otherwise.

She wondered if she was alone. “Hello?” she called softly into the darkness, but there was no reply other than her own shaky voice echoing back at her. She felt around on the ground trying to paint a picture of her surroundings, the ground where she lay was dusty, but definitely made from compacted earth, and was slightly uneven where many had trodden before. She tried to stand but her leg would allow it. She slumped back down and reached to her calf to assess the damage. Her fingers met with warm, sticky blood

Wednesday, 29 May 2013

Back again!

So as I said before, I've found this writing starter site (http://www.inkprovoking.com/) and have been using the prompts for inspiration to stunt my boredom. I'm not sure it's still in operation anymore ans there aren't any update, but there are plenty for me to work through the archive. Here's the product of one which was to: Type a first draft of a short story that is approximately eight to ten pages in length which includes the words: tarmac, ginger, exhaust, leather, tray and chemist. Okay so it's no way near eight pages, but they never specified the size...


The rattle of the exhaust pipe cut across the sound of the motorway as he revved the old engine beyond its limits. The car trundled onto the road as he desperately tried to get the momentum going. His foot stayed glued to the floor, helped by the rising panic within him, making his limbs stiff with fear.

Despite the rain, he wound down the window to let the smell of wet tarmac fill his lungs in a bid to distract himself from reality. He allowed himself one quick glance in the rear view mirror. Nothing. Nothing but sleepy traffic in his wake. What did he expect, exploding bombs and helicopters following this car chase? This wasn’t like the movies. Real life was more sinister. There were no death defying stunts in shiny, black sports cars. This was the real Kurt Davies legging it down the highway in a beaten up old mini he’d bought for £500 in cash. It would be a while before the dealer discovered they were fakes.

Friday, 24 May 2013

Holiday Time!

Half-term starts today and I'm away without internet connection until Tuesday. While i won't be posting for now, this will give me a wonderful opportunity to write to my heart's content, so they'll be lots to type up on my return!

Wednesday, 22 May 2013

Creative Starters

I was struggling with imagination today, so turned to a creative writing starter website for inspiration. The words given were: Master piece, Bird, Pool, Brick, Girl and Bodyguard, and a 400-800 word limit.
I didn't think this was too bad a starter compared to some really ambiguous ones I've been given in the past. Naturally I turned to the thriller/crime genre.


Julien Blake cursed the heat as he peeled off his shirt, glad to be home from the tiring day in the office where he pushed his pen and ordered large glasses of chilled cocktails. He thanked the heavens he’d had his pool installed last summer, and pulled his trunks on. As he slid into the cool soothing water, a tiny song bird landed on the tiles at the side, and began a beautiful song. Angered at the upset of his solitude, Julien waded over and shooed the delicate creature away.

In another house, in the same broiling climate, Miles Clayback was channelling his anger into a plan for sweet revenge.

Just thought I'd share this with you...

This isn't really writing, but it's a true story I've just recorded, photo and video included:


On a quiet Tuesday afternoon, mum and I were sat in our living room and heard a loud chirping noise. At first I thought: How lovely the birds sound today, summer has come at last. But this bird did not move or change it’s tone. It’s then that we heard rustling coming from inside the wall, and the chirping stopped if we gently tapped on the wall.

Monday, 20 May 2013

Time is back!

I decided to dig back up the Time story that kind of die away as school got in the way, and saw I had another chapter already written which I haven't published. So here it is!


Chapter 11
Robyn and Arthur pressed on in the heat of the day, trying to put as much distance between them and Camelot. Once again, the made camp, this time in a sheltered part of the woods; a decision that stemmed from the light wind that had picked up and the clouding over of the skies, not to mention that neither Robyn nor Arthur wished to be camped like sitting ducks in the middle of nice open clearing. The only downfall of this sheltered camp was that Arthur felt more than a little tired in the morning as he couldn’t help but be disturbed by every small sound of the forest.
Robyn had been up since dawn and discovered a fresh running brook a short walk away. Arthur was a little disconcerted that he had been left alone for the duration of her search but was glad to have a little privacy for a quick wash. He was getting dressed again when he heard soft singing drift across lazily from the other side of the stream. He didn’t know Robyn could sing. She wasn’t that sort of girl. The sweet voice drew nearer, and the leaves parted to reveal a delicate female figure, cloaked in green velvet which blended in perfectly with the forest.

Sunday, 19 May 2013

Every Teardrop - Chapter 3

Again, this may come later in the final cut, but is one of my favourite sections from any of my writing. Enjoy!

Every Teardrop - Chapter 2 ish

I know this doesn't follow on exactly from the first chapter, so there may be a little section added in or maybe a whole chapter, but for now here is Robert Marchent, out for a stroll...


Robert decided it was time for his light stroll in the fields surrounding, Kaleworth, his home village. He took his sketchbook and a pencil with him; he was too concerned about others’ opinions of him to admit to his small hobby.

A little extra

Okay, so I've been working on the 'Every Teardrop' (title awaiting re-vamp) story, and here's the first chapter again with a little extra tagged on the end. It has a duck in it....
More on this story to follow.

Saturday, 18 May 2013

The Lonely Cloud

A friend and I spotted a tiny cloud, completely isolated in the sky, and as we watched it seemed to teleport from place to place. It would completely disappear in the space of about 30 seconds, then reappear in the same shape a few metres to the left. Weird. Picture included.

Friday, 17 May 2013

Name change

Okay, so I've changed the name of this blog partly because I got bored of the old one, but mainly because I'd originally named it 'Writing Time' because initially this blog was just going to be for my novel about Time. Hence, I appeared to be writing the character of Time. But then I started writing other stuff and without that link it sounded really childish, like something a primary school teacher would say... Nothing against primary school teachers though, hats off to them.

So, the new name, anyone from Tumblr who recognises it, this is because I used it on both the blogs. Obvious links to writing, and ravens which are cool, and the famous line 'Do you have any idea why a raven is like a writing desk?' Basically it's more 'me' than the other one was. Nothing else has changed though :)

The little old lady - again


For anyone still interested in the little old lady, she has returned to my bus in the mornings, and I’m not alone in my admiration for her. The other sixth-formers sitting behind me saw her and discussed that she was a regular on the bus, but at our current position of the hill, there was no way in hell she was going to make it to the next stop in time. But lo and behold, once again she rocketed down the road and made it in easy time to the bus stop, with a triumphant look of accomplishment on her face as she paid for her fare. The people behind me were as shocked as I was and were even cheering her on at one point, hoping all her efforts were not in vain. She has also altered her apparel with the changing weather as well. Although recently we have returned to winter, the short week of summer we had saw her into pastel florals and pale pink, although she still keeps to her trusty brown leather bag. In a word: Legend.

Wednesday, 15 May 2013

My version of a terrible ending

This is not good enough to put up on here but anyway, I had one hour to write (during silent study) and I achieved some complex characters, and an exquisite plot... Then I only had 5 minutes left to wrap it up...

               

Sunday, 12 May 2013

Another grim death one :)

This is probably a prologue for something - I'm into murder mystery/detective stuff at the moment.


Charlie curled up into a tight ball. He shuffled backwards into a dusty corner of the street that was filled with accumulated litter and cigarette butts. He stared vacantly ahead at the oblivious footfall passing him. No one stopped. No one stared. Hidden in plain sight; no one noticed him. His grey, haggard face and muddy clothes were like camouflage in the dull city. If they didn't notice him, they also didn't notice the alarmingly tight grip on the small, black gun he held at his shoulder. His forefinger was still on the trigger, right where it had been six minutes ago, when that same gun had killed a man.

Thursday, 9 May 2013

Trees

This turned out to be very moral, quite unintentional I assure you. Although the links are somewhat tenuous. May I remind you that 'dense' has two meanings...


Rooted to the Earth or rooted to the sky?

Sunday, 7 April 2013

Just Another Poem

I entered this into a poetry competition last month but didn't get anywhere with it so I guess I can publish it here now :)


The Hand, the Hilt and the Heart.

Dusk shrouded the world in her indigo cloak
And Nature rested her brow.
The air hung thick with circumstance;
The perfect time was now.

He took one last fleeting moment
To study every last detail:
‘The hand, the hilt, the heart,’ he breathed,
And so he went, face gaunt and pale.

The key clicked softly, the boy trod lightly
Gone from his crime-induced cage,
But still, in the corner of his dank, dark cell,
Lay a body, set out on its stage.

He took the stairs by three, chanting as he went:
‘Hand, hilt, heart. Hand, hilt, heart.’
With every step, every pace through the courtyard,
His strength flourished within. Hand. Hilt. Heart.

In the dead of night he stole through the castle,
No noise but silence; he kept a wary eye.
He looked upon the resting villages
And long up into the deep, star laden sky:

‘O, what great a Kingdom Camelot,
It shall be truly mine,
As from my Lord’s timely passing,
The deed will have me to sign.’

He stepped through the kingly arch,
Inhaling the sweet scent of sleep,
And made gallant strides to the noble bed
With crisp linen, where blood soon would seep.

‘Hand,’ he breathed, taking the limp palm of his kin
And stroking it around the sword.
‘For your identity, your power and authority.
Soon the crowds for me will hoard.’

‘Hilt,’ he said, guiding the sword ‘til it glinted,
Every ruby, in the moonlight.
‘For your wealth, your strength and bloodshed,
They shall be mine before the end of night.’

‘Heart,’ he cried, and plunged the sword
Deep through the King’s chest. Blood spit and spat.
‘For the humility, love, and respect for war
That a King needs, dear brother, but you do lack.’

He crept back, silent as he came,
And waited in his cell for day to unfold:
Their shock, their mourning, then the key turned,
‘Your brother has killed himself,’ he was told.

Despite being surrounded by sorrow and grief,
The boy could not supress a sly smile,
As the cold crown was placed upon his head,
He took great Kingdom Camelot, forever in denial.

Thursday, 28 February 2013

'The Little Old Lady' follow up - she is incredible!

I had a surreal experience this morning. The lady who I'd based my 'Little old lady' on was on the bus again this morning, although I'm not sure my initial depiction of her character was completely accurate - First impressions can be deceiving... Once again the bus passed her , but then she RAN down the hill! She literally looks at least in her eighties, and she ran what must have been over half a mile to overtake the bus in moving traffic. She made it, perhaps looking a little flustered than usual, but I felt like like standing and clapping as she got on. It was incredible to think I'd just killed this frail little lady off the night before. All due credit goes her way though, if I can run like that when I'm ninety I shall be well chuffed.

Wednesday, 27 February 2013

A Little Old Lady

I may condense this into prose sometime, not really sure which is better.

This is inspired by someone who gets on my bus... apologies if she's reading this...

Tuesday, 26 February 2013

What makes the world go around?

This is just me trying to describe the indescribable, as usual. Very moralizing, I know. Lightly edited from last time.




What makes the world go around?
‘Money makes theworld go around,’ they say,
‘It stimulates trade,invention, progress,’
But money is too tradable;
It leads to greed,poverty and power.

‘Knowledge makes theworld go around,’ they say,
‘It inspiresdiscovery, creation, innovation,’
But knowledge is tooformidable,
It destroys feeling,belief. It is thoughtless.

‘Love makes the worldgo around,’ they say,
‘It kindlestenderness, joy, companionship,’
But love is toobreakable.
It ends withbetrayal, devastation, emptiness.

Love is the ache of abroken heart
Or the trust andaffection in a warm embrace
Knowledge is the destructionof feeling and heritage
Or the sudden sparkof finding the unknown
Money is a conceptengineered for offence and wanting
Or a precious symbolof an unbreakable promise

Life is mixed. Thebad and the good.
But without the bad,appreciation of the good is impossible.

Friday, 22 February 2013

The Raven on the Moor

I'd love to say this was inspired by the recent horse meat scandal but it really wasn't...

Poem about Words

Only makes sense really...