Creative Writing #3

As a group we were split into pairs and had to recount a tale to our partner. Out task was to then take this tale, and write it as if it was our own personal experience.

As I was stood there at the top of those steps, I felt truly invincible. Fully confident of my own diving ability, I was preparing to jump. It was only 2009 so London 2012 seemed out of the question but, hey, I wasn’t prepared to rule out Rio. The familiar rush of adrenaline was coursing through my body as was the case when I was preparing to dive. Looking down on the water, the Mediterranean sun refracting off the broken surface, I knew the time was drawing near.

We were on our usual family holiday. It was mid-August as was customary. Everyone was there: Mum, Dad, brothers and sisters, Grandma and Grandad, cousins, aunts and uncles - extended family was a big deal to us.

 I could hear my Father and Grandfather below arguing. I craned my neck down to see what the commotion was, this was my moment after all and I wasn’t about to be upstaged by some late revival of the Oedipus complex. There had always been, animosity between them but it was generally put down to a generation gap. Dad transitioned though adolescence during a time of political and social change. Opinions were shifting. Dad took them on, Grandad didn’t. Ever since there had been a certain friction between the two men.

It was something much more trivial. Apparently, according to my Father, the water was too shallow, and obviously my perception from this height was going to be false.  Brilliant. Grandad was much more encouraging and evidently believed in me. He was telling Dad that I would be fine and that the water was clearly plenty deep enough. At least there was one person there who was sure of my capabilities.

Fuck it. I jumped.  Perfect form.  No splash.  10 10 10 10.  Gold Medal.  I rose from the water like a mermaid, rising through the wash like I almost had no actual physical being. The water fractured around me as if I was passing through a sheet of glass. The sunlight was glinting off the pearls of sea that were clinging to my hair and shoulders. I open my eyes and let them adjust to the light and then saw my family stood there. Dad looked astounded and Grandad was looking at him with a smug grin on his face. He wouldn’t let it go for the remaining 10 days now, I could tell.

Smiling I began to swim towards them. It was warm, incredibly warm, and it felt like there was a bit too much water on my face considering how long ago I had surfaced. I was willing to ignore all of that though for the opportunity to show Dad he was wrong. This was a rare moment that I unwilling to slip through my fingers like the water was slipping over me as I neared the shore.

Dad was shouting my name repeatedly, trying to get my attention to congratulate me and tell me he knew I could do it all along no doubt to attempt to save face. I would try to wave but I was mid stro…

I woke up, fully submerged in water and, from the red colour surrounding me, what I can only assume was blood. Suddenly my eyes bulged and I was struggling for breath. I felt something around my ankle and I started to struggle, what on earth was that. I was hauled out the eater and it became apparent that the force on my ankle had been my father. Shit. I reached up to touch my face as the burning sensation hit. I was covered in cuts and scrapes and I was fairly sure that my nose was broken too. It never used to be at that angle, did it? Well, it appeared that Rio was definitely out the question. 

Creative Writing Piece #2

This is a rewriting of my last piece as a piece of genre fiction.

R053 was incredible. From afar, it was nigh on impossible to tell what she was. The polymesh fibre stretched over her slender cage was the perfect replica of a human epidermis. Her hair was the deepest brown; it was hair as well, one of the last examples of human hair harvested from Earth. It was only when one got close that her origin was given away. Under her  skin could be seen the colourful pulsation of transmitter liquid and the cogs that allowed her to interact, move and  emote (as much as she was programmed to). Despite being a near seamless copy of an earth human she was lonely for she was the last creation to look as she did and there had always been a derogatory opinion of the crawlers. Despite her technology being some of the most advanced in the cosmos, due to her aesthetics she was forever to be associated with the inferiority of Earth tech.

When we meet R053 she is speeding towards a supernova to get her fix of death. Not that she herself hoped to deactivate. On the contrary this death was to make her feel more alive than anything there was to experience in the vast vastness that was the Universe. When a star dies, the gases pour out in a swirling vortex and surround those who were near-by. It was this fix that R053 craved. Something about the way she was put together, and the porous nature of polymesh, meant that the gases seeped into her core and had a magnificent effect. Parts of her mechanism were sped up, while others slowed almost to a stop and she was left with a feeling that was hard to describe. It cannot be compared to ‘gravity’ that her muses lived with, as this was an alien concept to our roaming space pirate, but as if she was suspended in a vortex, frozen in an instant and she was able to watch the events around her as a fly on the wall; an omniscient view.

She could tell she was getting nearer as the billboards came into view, the usual “Teleport here to kick the gas habit” bullshit that sprang up as you approached a death camp. The intergalactic patrols were highly disappointed about the destruction of natural heritage to be used in such a way but the UParl had never managed to pass a stature outlawing it. She thought to herself that she would rather hyper and hypo-mechinate and combust than have to live without the buzz. It seemed to fill the space between the lumps of metal inside her.

 As she pulled up into the bike-dock she could tell there wasn’t much waiting to be done, it was nearly ready. The colours and pulsations of the supernova were becoming more erratic. Suddenly, it blew and R053 felt everything rushing towards her and the suspension hit.

***

Disorientation was all R053 could think when she woke up strapped to the regulator. It took a moment for her to realise she was in the repair bay. Again. Shit. She knew was this meant. Involuntary Cryo Treatment.  It had become policy that any person who ended up in the centre more than 4 times in a set period was frozen until there was a remedy for whatever ailment was inflicting them. She was never to feel as wonderful again. She has no choice. Panic flooded her circuit boards and all she could think of was escape. She could tell this was a futile idea but the idea of Cyro Treatment was detestable and fearful to her. It was impossible to tell what civilisation she would be woken up into. What would others think of her then? Would the human race that she was based on still be such a laughing stock? Would she even be recognisable?

A Squelly Doctor walked in and began wheeling her regulator down the corridor. It was apparent there was to be no consultation; R053 was too much of a regular to deserve an opinion on the matter. His long jellyfish like tentacles wrapped around her arms, holding them in place with the huge suckers on the inside of them. The turned the corner and there in front of her were the rows and rows of pods, mostly empty she notes. The man told her that she was at her pod, and someone would meet her on the other side one day; hopefully.

There was no concept of time for R053 which she was frozen. She had no idea of how much or little time has passed while she was in the pod.  To her, it was as if she had blinked for no longer than a split second, but the door to her pod was opening and someone was stood there.

“Ah, patient…. R053. Welcome back.” The voice was creamy and seemed to flood into her audio converters like swirling galaxies. It was like nothing she had ever heard before and when her visual conductors had finally adjusted, she realised she had never seen anything like the person stood in front of her either. Tall frame, lilac skin, azure eyes, slender yet broad in all the right places. Who was this? What was this? When was this? There were so many questions flooding her that she feared she would short circuit.

“Don’t worry,” the voice continued, “the sensations you are experiencing are completely normal. I have simply chose not to answer your questions yet so as to not pack too much new information into your processor at once. There is a now a cure for your… problem and we will be ready to fix you shortly.”

R053 didn’t know how to feel. She realised she would never again experience that tugging, yearning sensation that came from waiting for the news to report another expected Supernova.  There was something else though. She couldn’t place it. It was like there was something else inside her, which seemed impossible. She hadn’t been tampered with had she? No. This place, despite its reputation, seemed too moral for that. It was almost as if this person stood in front of her had altered her in some way. What was happening to her?

“Will… will you be performing the procedure?”

“No, I won’t. I understand you would feel safer if it was a known figure, and at this moment in time, I am all you know.”

“You’re all I want to know…” R053 realised she was wrong when she thought she would never feel as wonderful as gas made her feel. This was real, this was wonderful.

Creative Writing #1

This is the tale of Rose. Born in the affluent New York borough of Manhattan to Juan and Ivy Medina, a pair of high-flying corporate lawyers, her life was that of a teen socialite. It seemed many that Rose was blessed by the Gods, or was simply a sheer coincidence of perfectly formed genomes, wrapped in a faultless swirl on Deoxyribonucleic Acid (depending on your beliefs). She was beautiful beyond compare, a mixture of Hispanic and classic English heritage, her skin was the colour of a rolling sand dune in the Sahara; when she walked it was as if she was skimming the surface of the earth, mixed with the daintiness of her figure, it appeared the wind or some other natural force may bowl her down at any moment; she was intelligent, witty, passionate and driven. To all intents and purposes, she was perfection. When one looks closer however, it may appear there was a force of jealousy acting upon her birth. Rose was lonely. She often felt as if she was curled in a ball at the bottom on the ocean and the water pushing in on her from all sides was the immense vacuum in her life. There was a vast opening inside her and Rose was unable to equate what should fill it.

Many people seemed to orbit Rose. She was always in the centre of a herd of people, be it at a party hosted by her parent’s clients or a gathering of intoxicated chimpanzees from her school. She knew full well that her so called friends were only after her money, the status of the association of her name brought them. Her upbringing had taught her politeness and manners, so her voiding soul was well hidden from those around her. The luxury of her lifestyle had also taught her that there was many ways available to her to alleviate her feeling that she was grieving for a life that had not yet ended. Alcohol, Cocaine, Ecstasy. Just a few of the ways she chose to feel like a real person in this society full of empty shells. Money was of little value to her, so these things could obtained with a slight rise of an eyebrow, a small gesture with a hand, to the right person.

That evening Rose was at the opening of a new nightclub; one of her father’s clients had recently won a huge settlement and this was the outcome. Rose was obligated to attend so as to see that the family was represented. Carted off like an escort to a sweaty, balding man in his late 40’s. That night the remedy of choice was Cocaine. It reminded Rose of snow; winter meant less social functions and less pretending. This night however, Rose seemed to be sinking into a drift. The tumbling, swirling flakes began to suffocate her and her consciousness slowly melted away.

It was a stranger that first alerted the club staff to the girl in the toilets with dried blood over her top lip, sweating, cold. It seems fitting somehow that it was an unknown who found Rose, despite all of her admirers, those who follow her, none of these people who supposedly cared for her had even noticed she was missing. An ambulance was called for, as were Juan and Ivy, and our broken petal was rushed to Metropolitan Hospital Centre where it was found that her snow walk had turned into an icy freeze: she was in a coma.      “My name is Arianne, I’ll be Rose’s nurse.” A slender, freckled hand was extended towards Mr and Mrs Medina as it was explained they try to keep nurses the same for coma patients due to the fact that it is believed many can still hear or recognise voices, and familiarity is a key part in the recovery process. The Medina’s weren’t listening to the woman speaking. In addition to be in shock, they were mesmerised by the tempest of auburn curls ebbing and flowing around her face as she spoke. There was a deep comfort in her eyes. The piercing green wasn’t intrusive, but seemed to reach tendrils of calm and comfort out into their very conscious.

Over the months, many people came to visit the dormant seed of the vibrant flower they once knew. Admirers, friends, family, all came to visit, and brought gifts, and stories, yet there was no stirring from Rose. Arianne had also been visiting Rose during this time, as was her duty. She often sat in her room during a quiet shift and rambled nonsense to the sleeping girl. Over time though, there seemed to be something else, the girl’s beauty began to resonate deep within Arianne, she seemed to understand that these people knew very little about whom they were visiting; generic greeting cards, shop bought bouquets, these were not the gifts of true friends and family. She hoped that her inherent nattering would somehow soothe the girl’s worries. A soul in torment was one of the things Arianne found truly disturbing in this world. After a few months Arianne began to visit Rose even on the nights she was not working, wanted to spend as much time in the girl’s company as she could. It was impossible for her to understand, but she could barely leave Rose’s side despite never having spent any time in her alert company.

Meanwhile, drifting through blackness, Rose had picked up on a noise. She couldn’t pin point what it was, all she knew was that when she heard it the most vivid colours flew around her consciousness, hues and tints that were previously unfathomable became those of great comfort to Rose. As she gradually recovered, this noise became a voice, and the comfort she received from the colours swelled and grew into admiration and fervour. She longed to see the face that produced such beautiful tones; each sentence was like a melody.

Eventually, many months later, Rose awoke. Her room was suddenly bursting with people she recognised, but none of the faces belonged to the voice she longed to hear. After the hubbub had died down, and various visitors had traipsed in and out, Rose was desperately seeking rest. The door to her private room opened and a tall, slender figure was silhouetted in the doorway. As she began to introduce herself as Rose’s nurse, she realised; this was the voice.

“It… It’s you… I heard you, talking to me. It kept me going.” At that moment, an epiphany hit Rose, she suddenly realised what the void in her previous life was. Love.  She held her hand out and as her nurse took it, it was as if someone had altered the saturation.

Where did October go?

I'm sat here looking at this screen and thinking that it has been so long that I have no idea what to write. At all.
I am now a fully fledged English student at the University of Falmouth. I have a lot to read, a lot to write, and too little motivation. I have spent an extraordinary amount of time here incredibly drunk. I have made some amazing friends and met so many awesome people. I don't think I ever comprehended that I would enjoy myself as much as I am.
Don't get me wrong, I have had my many moments of doubt; both in myself and the whole idea of being here. I often want to curl up into a ball under my duvet and just cry and hide, or just scream and scream and run around campus like some wildling. Realistically, I just go and get a hug from Mike, Abby, Hannah, Eline or Dulcie, have a massive rant, maybe a cigarette, and then I'm probably feel a whole lot better.

In addition to all of this. I am turning 21 in three days. I can tell you now that I don’t feel like I thought I would. I had been dreading turning 21, like really hating the idea. It made me feel sick and I had this pseudo notion that suddenly I was going to have to act like a grown-up because, well, I would be one.

In actual fact, I am nothing but excited. I cannot wait for my birthday. I am unsure if this is due to it (roughly) coinciding with starting University and all the new experiences that it’s brought, or whether I just realised that it doesn’t really matter. I’m still going to be Chelsea May Harris after all.

My friend Abby summed it up very well I think “It’s the end of a beginning”. So, although the ‘beginning’ of my life, my childhood, is over, I still have the middle left. If I recall rightly, it’s the middle of a book, or a film, where all the cool stuff happens. Yes, there are going to be some shit times, but I’m excited about the adventure now.

So here it is, me getting back into this blogging malarkey. I'll be posting my creative writing pieces from Uni up here, as well as trying to do some more posts like my previous ones, so please feel free to have a gander, and comment, and all those niceties.