Y11 Creative Writing

 A selection of creative writing by Rose W in Y11

One: A Beautiful Disaster by Rose W

An apocalyptic narrative set six minutes before the end of the world.

Jacob tears through the dump without looking back, the adrenaline in his veins numbing the agony in his foot. He can hear the seconds counting down, the time running out. He wills himself to run faster. But the dump doesn't want him to leave. It reaches out - long, rusting fingers which swipe at his clothes, his skin, at anything to pull him back. He lets his legs guide him, but it's a labyrinth with no exit. Every dead-end he meets erodes away a little more of his hope.
He comes to a mountain of waste, towering over him like a wave threatening to crest and swallow him whole. He doesn't hesitate. Keep moving. Smaller pieces of rubbish break away and clatter to the dry, cracked earth below beneath his desperate touch. Don't look back. Sheets of metal and wood slide underneath his weight. His heart leaps into his throat. Get to the top. He can see it, the end of the slope, one last push and he'll see the way out. One last push. He hauls himself over the edge and-
He stops running.

He looks at the world.

And his heart sinks.

In six minutes, the ships leave Earth for the last time, taking humanity to find a paradise far away from the one they destroyed. He thought if he ran, he might just make it but... well, who was he kidding, really? 
Jacob's foot throbs painfully. Glancing down, he notices warm, red liquid seeping through the torn shirt sleeve bandaged around his ankle. 
Again, he surveys the land, although this time no longer with the eyes of someone trying to leave, but with the eyes of someone who knows they're staying.

All is silent.

The apocalypse, Jacob thinks, is a beautiful disaster.

The dump is an ocean, perfectly still and eternal. The newer additions stand out like vibrant corals, a stark contrast to the older objects, drained of life by Time's dying hand. No, not an ocean, Jacob thinks, perceiving the various twisted, abstract shapes protruding from the ground. Not an ocean, a sculpture garden. Art made from skeletons, shells of objects devoid of their former meaning. What a tragic thing, to be surrounded by so many beloved objects reduced to nothing but decay.

Jacob drops to the ground, stretching his injured leg out in front of him, and looks at the sky. Scarlet light breaks through the idle clouds, thick and black from pollution. When Jacob breathes, the air filling his lungs is heavy with the pungent smell of the dump, but there's something else there too, a familiar, warm smell. Summer. The sweet scent of a long, summer evening making one final effort to push through the smog.

On the horizon, Jacob can just about make out a streamline shadow, leaving this world and taking the human race to find a new paradise on another planet. Jacob closes his eyes and lets the silence wash over him.

And then the sky falls.

Two: The First Snow by Rose W

A descriptive piece about snow.

The boy is walking home when the first flakes fall. Hood up, eyes down, his mind a hurricane. He has never much liked the night; the cold and silent tension laces the air like static on his skin. But he's not far from home now, he can see the amber lights flickering through the kitchen window - a golden torch against the velvet night.
He passes trees already studded with glowing rubies and emeralds in preparation for the oncoming festivities. He passes icicles of diamond, crystalline and glistening in topaz-yellow porch lights. He passes bushes layered with the silver sheen of frost and ice, the world's coat against the winter onslaught. 
And then it happens.
A single flake lands on the sleeve of his coat, intricate and perfect for only a moment before dissolving, again, into nothing.
The boy stops walking.
And he watches.
The world stands still to spectate winter's graceful dance, a careful ballet performed to a silent and secret song known only by her. It starts with a few tentative snowflakes, swirling shyly from their clouded residence, but soon the whole cast dances, soft and heavy ice burning in streetlight halos, both beautiful and mysterious. And, suddenly, nothing matters anymore. It does not matter that he didn't do great in that chemistry test. And it does not matter that the pretty girl from maths doesn't know his name. And it would not even matter if the world was ending and he was the last boy alive. Because winter is here. And perhaps tomorrow she will bring her cold and frosted malice to this ice-shrouded town. And perhaps tomorrow she will sweep its streets with her frozen, brutal rule. But that does not matter. Because tonight, she dances. Tonight, the world stops, and marvels at her silent, delicate beauty.

Three: Lead Me Home by Rose W

A romance narrative.

There are so many people. The whole room buzzes with meaningless chatter and the undertones of a dulcet melody nobody is listening to. I hug the overly-decorated walls, trying to breathe through the thick fog of humanity, to no avail. There are so many people. I've stopped noticing the differences between everyone, stopped recognising faces or voices or names or clothes. It's all just people - familiar and unfamiliar faces all merged into one, smiling colony. They approach me – perhaps an old friend, or perhaps a total stranger – and they ask me how I am, and I respond with a smile and ask how they are, and they'll respond with a smile and ask about you, and the cycle goes on, and on, and on. And none of us really care. We came to the party because we were invited, not because we wanted to be here. I watch the town, for the whole town seems to be here, from the outskirts. I nod to the music and smile at strangers, but I'm not really here. Maybe my body is here, but my mind is across the town, at home, with you. Because the whole town seems to be here, apart from you.

So I'll slip out, through the front door, and they won't notice. I'll walk through the deserted streets, through the still and silent night, away from all the life and the noise and the people. And I'll come home, because I know that you'll be there, and we'll share a bowl of popcorn on the sofa together. And you'll make me watch that dumb romance film that you're obsessed with, and then you'll laugh at me because I cry every time we watch it. And then we'll play that old video game, and I'll lose again because you're so damn competitive, and I'll say that I let you win, but we'll both know I'm lying. And we'll order a pizza and spend the night laughing at our stupid inside jokes, and then the sun will come up and we'll both be so tired, but it'll be okay because it's Sunday tomorrow and we can sleep in.

And maybe the town will talk about how great that party was, and how nice the food was, but really, it was the same as all the other ones they've been to, and in a week's time it'll be just another date in the calendar. And maybe people will think that we're unsocial or that we're outsiders, because the whole town was there except for you and me. And that'll be okay. If I could leave this town, this planet, and take you with me, I would. Because we don't need anyone outside of each other.  Because of all the people in this small town, only you have the power to make me feel less alone.

 

Four: Edge of Infinity by Rose W

The dog and I sit in perfect solitude atop the red, rusting truck and watch the stars together. It's the edge of infinity. It's a window into the universe. It's the end of the world, the end of all things human and urban. There is no right. There is no left. There is only cracked earth and endless sky.
The air is still warm and summery, laced with the aftertaste of the August twilight mixed with the gentle touch of midnight's cool caress. She envelopes the land with her diamond-studded blanket and keeps us safely wrapped up in this moment, right here, right now.
The gentle rise and fall of the dog's chest is the only movement for miles, save for the occasional turn and shuffle as he shifts position on my lap. We breathe in unison, and the sky breathes back, brushing out hair with her soft, cold whisper. She speaks of endless nights and starry skies, and the promise of an evening which on which dawn can't break. We know that she lies, we know that tomorrow will come, and she will leave us to go back to our lives, but for now, we believe her, because it's such a beautiful lie, and what's the harm in believing beautiful lies?
The horizon lies flat and vast, broken only by the occasional dark cacti silhouette protruding from the empty terrain.
All is calm.
All is perfect.
What time is it? I don't recall. It's a land without time, a land free from the human shackles of deadlines and clocks and alarms. There are no days, no hours, no minutes, no seconds. There is only now. Perhaps tomorrow, when the sun bleeds dawn on the horizon, we'll be met with the worries and responsibilities of a new day. But we don't need to think about that now. Now, we breathe, and we sit, and we watch the stars, and the world keeps turning, a grain of chaos on the eternal shores of a silent void.