My Response to Being Asked to Share my Writing

Okay, so, I’m taking a writing course. It’s fun and all, but we have to read out our writing… Which is basically my worst nightmare. It’s not as bad if I’m writing about who and what I want, and I’ve had time to edit and polish it up, but unedited third-person perspective writing about an irritating thirty year-old entrepeneur (thank you, small boy whose name I cannot remember) I care nothing for? Not so much.

Therefore, when we were all asked to read out what we’d written, my response was this:

Response to sharing writing

(please excuse my truly terrible drawing skills)

Dancing in the Rain

We’ve been slowly making our way towards the building, hiding under anything we can find; trees, ledges, stairways, all the while holding up our bright orange plastic bags over our heads. They’re already wet, but my head seems to be a little drier than the rest of me. I don’t want to break the spell just in case it’s actually doing something.

It isn’t raining hard, but it’s the kind of rain that soaks you to the skin before you realise it. I usually call this kind of rain drizzle. Some people call it spitting, but spitting is when a little bit of hard rain falls, usually before it starts raining proper. Spitting is when the clouds spit down on you. Drizzling is not.

It’s been falling on and off all day, like a faulty shower that you can’t get to turn on. In films, it starts raining very hard all at once. I’ve never seen that happen except on a television screen. I haven’t ever really been caught in rain like that.

We’re half-running now, taking long loping strides across the gravel. You take a short cut across the grass, which we’re not supposed to do, but everyone does it anyway. You can see the line where the grass has worn away slightly.

I guess the grass must be slippy, because you slip and tumble to the ground. I run a bit faster in order to catch up with you but try to fall over like you just did. By the time I’ve reached you, you’ve picked yourself up from the ground (I’m not a fast runner). There’s a big mud patch on your trousers where you fell down.

“Elegant,” I tell you.
“I know,” you reply, half-smiling exactly like we were half-running, a long thin smile, “it hurt, though.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”

We’re pretty much completely soaked now. I can’t even be bothered to hold up my plastic bag and it joins yours on the grass. I start walking slowly to the gravel because I don’t want to slip, but you don’t follow me.

“What?”
You shrug and glance at your wrist. “We’ve still got another fifteen minutes, and we’re already soaked. May as well enjoy it.”

You’ve already had that moment, the one where you think  ‘stuff it’ and just can’t be bothered to even try and keep yourself a little it dry. I haven’t. I look down at myself. I can’t see any piece of clothing that hasn’t been bathed the rain. My jeans are sticking horribly to my legs, and I know they won’t dry until tomorrow unless I put them on the radiator as soon as I get home.

Damn it. I run out towards you and slip exactly the same way you did. The rain blurs my vision and falls onto my cheeks. It’s cold but I open my mouth to try and catch some. I think you’re doing the same.

We’re running all over the grass, now, slipping and tripping and spinning around and around. I don’t even care a tiny bit. I know I’ll be cold and wet later, but I try to push the thought out of my head.

I know we’ll regret it later, but that’s not what I think about as we turn our faces to the angry sky. In truth, I don’t really think about anything.

***

This turned out to be a whole lot longer than I intended it to be. I was initially going to write a poem or just a little post, but yeah. I was feeling the creative juices. And it’s raining outside.

It’s no wonderful piece of writing, but if you’ve ever been dancing in the rain then I hope you thought it captured at least a little bit of that feeling. 🙂 Is it raining where you are?

Apple xx

Passing Time in a Dark Place [writing]

Today, I feel like writing. This is loosely based off that other short story that I posted, entitled The After. It goes along the same theme: you can only see with your eyes shut. I like this theme. It’s cool. If you have anything to say about it, then shoot me a comment-slash-email.
Anyway, I’ll probably end up editing this loads later but I’ll write for the moment. Today, I feel like writing.
It’s by no means perfect, but I hope you enjoy anyhow.
Passing Time in a Dark Place

The darkness covers me in its cloak. It consumes everything like a beast. It tracks down the light and kills it.
I don’t really notice this. It just looks like black the whole time to me.
This is one of the things that I know: I am a complete person physically. I have ten fingers and ten toes, two eyes, a nose, a mouth and – probably –  a brain. I know for certain, because I can feel these parts of me, with the exception of my brain (but if I’m thinking about all this then I’m fairly sure have a brain). I have beaten the darkness in this way, and that is a good thing. It feels good to beat the darkness.
I close my eyes. It doesn’t look anything different but by now I know how to tell when my eyes are open and when they are not. It feels different. Also, I can just poke my eye. If it’s shut, it’s shut. If it isn’t, then I either wince or I end up in a lot of pain. Hopefully the first one.
Anyway, I shut my eyes. The darkness stays behind my eyelids for a while before retreating, and when it does I see metal framework stretching above and around me. Today I’m with Lise.
I live the lives of three different people, you see. The first person Madeleine, and she lives in Aberdeen. The second is Nicholas, and he lives in Tokyo. The third person is Lise, and she lives in a space station.
A space station? you ask, Why is a girl living on a space station?
Now, that is one question I would really like to know the answer to, but I honestly have no idea. I experience what Lise does and nothing more, except when she’s tired and I can make her do things. She never says or writes anything down, not like in the films Maddie watches where all the actors say their thoughts out loud. Lise just thinks them. Also, people don’t talk to themselves. Talking to yourself is the first since of madness, my dad would say. Or rather, one of my dads. You’ll have to excuse me when I refer to other people in familiar ways like that, since they’re not actually any relation of mine. It all becomes a bit confusing after a while. Especially since I haven’t actually met any of these people in real, proper life.
Whilst I’m contemplating this, an alarm goes off in the space station. Lise gets up from her foamy mattress and pokes around for a while, being careful not to trip over any of the bits and bobs on the floor (it’s not just a part of the station, it’s also all her stuff; Lise is not a tidy person).
Lise goes into the kitchen and discovers it’s the washing machine. A red light is flashing insistently out at her from the display screen. She presses the alarm button and the noise stops. Everything is quiet once again.
If I were Lise – which I sort of am, but I’d rather not get into all of that – I would now put the washing machine on its drying cycle. Lise doesn’t, though, and goes back to her bedroom.
I didn’t use to see Lise a lot. I’ve been seeing her a lot more frequently in recent times. I used to stay with Maddie for the majority of my time, but now it’s mostly just Nicholas and Lise. Things change. I don’t know why. They just do.
Lise is going to run out of air, soon. She’ll also run out of things like food and clean water, but her main problem is air. You can survive without food for days, but only a short handful of minutes without air. Are you seeing the problem? Yes, I think you are.

 

The After [writing]

This may not be the finest piece of writing in the world, but I guess I just wanted to put across an idea. It’s actually part of a longer story but the longer story doesn’t work that well (plus, it was pretty long) so I just decided to give you this to read. Fear not; I am completing my first ever award, which I am getting too excited about. Anyhow, I hope you had a fun St. Patrick’s Day if you celebrated it! Otherwise, I’m hoping you all are having an awesome March. Spring, here we come!
Apple xx

I am inside the glass box again. It presses in on me from every direction. It even presses into my thoughts, more and more and more until –
I shut my eyes. I see flickering patterns of light for a while, but then the darkness fades away into a different scene. I see white. I see a house. This is how it works here.

I’m sure I would be correct in assuming that you are still living a life of normality, of friends and gossip and food and internet and TV. Am I right? I knew it. I used to live like that. Then, one day, BAM, I wake up in a glass box instead of my bed. Just like that, my whole world was changed: just a careless dismissal of the hand, a distracted roll of the dice. Destroyed. The only thing I can see with my eyes open is my own glass box, and the never ending white. But with my eyes shut? Well, that is a different story altogether.

See the World Through New Eyes

“They say that the eyes are the window to the soul, but the eyes

aren’t alone.”

We often sometimes don’t take a proper look at what’s around us, instead rushing off to a meeting or class, or preoccupied in our thoughts. The following piece of writing is about seeing the world through new eyes.

The boy sits on the wall, his feet kicking listlessly at the bricks, his fingers just a centimetre away from the girl’s hand. He is very much aware of this. The girl reaches out a hand to the tree to steady herself whilst she stands up.

“Look,” she says to the boy, pointing at the blackbird with her one free hand, “do you see the blackbird?”

The boy squints up at her, even though he’s taller, and replies, “What about it?”

“I said ‘look at it’. I’m not sure if you’re looking at me, but you’re definitely not looking at the blackbird because it’s behind you.”

With a sigh, the boy hoists himself up and twists round to get a look at the blackbird. “It’s just a blackbird,” he says, puzzled.

“Yes,” the girl tells him, “it’s a blackbird. Congratulations on your genius knowledge.”

“But – what’s so special about it?”

The girl looks at him critically. “See at its flashing wings, its curved head, its midnight black eyes. Are those not special enough for you?”

The boy falls silent for a moment, then says “I can’t really see what you mean. It’s almost the same as any other blackbird.

“Look at it as if it’s the first and last time you will see a blackbird,” the girl instructs, taking the boy by the shoulder, “look at how different it is from us, how alien and beautiful and strange it is.”

The boy nods, frowns in concentration and then smiles, “I see it!”

The girl looks pleased. They stand, watching the blackbird for another few precious moments before the girl sits back down on the wall.

“I’ve got to go now, okay? But I’ll see you tomorrow: same place, same time.”

“Sure,” the boy replies, but the girl is already off the wall and running into the sunset, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I hope you enjoyed reading this!

Apple xx