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Creative Writing 

Timelapse  

BY: Dante Penna 

DP1

 

The clocks ticks,

I run without yielding.

The clock ticks,

I can sense my legs collapsing.

The clock ticks,

My body is failing.

The clock ticks,

I am falling.  

 

I hit the concrete,

tick.

My body is drifting,

tock.

My soul is empty,

tick.

The black abyss is swelling,

tock.

Pain is shooting through me,

tick.

I don’t think I can make it,

tock.

 

I can see a figure,

shapeless in meaning,

beaming.

 

But, the clock is still ticking,

the pain is still with me,

It puts a hand over my eyes,

I realize,

nothing

...

It's Strange 

BY:Batrisyia Ismail

DP1

 

I can remember the exact amount of grains I have for breakfast (and I'm saying that 5 minutes after I walked out of the cafeteria after having breakfast), but the memory that I should have cherished and remembered for the rest of my life. The memory of how my children came to be - the memory of my wedding day. That, I could not remember. Only vague memories remain in the confinements of my brain; I remember walking towards the altar, but then again, most weddings involve walking towards altars. It is as if time has punctured holes into the tapestry that withheld the memories of my wedding, leaving a questionable rag with holes behind. Thus I-

 

"Mrs. Bea? Earth to Mrs. Bea?" The soft voice of my assigned companion interrupted my train of thoughts. Amidst the personal turmoil that I have indulged myself in, I slowly revert my eyes towards her, while formulating a hesitant reply. "I. . . I don't remember," She, then, replied to my statement with a questioning glance. “How can I possibly express the feelings that I felt on my wedding day in terms of visual representation if I don’t remember what happened then?” I reiterated with a shrug. Sensing my troubled state, she began breaking down the initial questions in an attempt to guide me to the completion of the activity. “Well, you got married. Shouldn’t you feel happy?” With frowning eyebrows, I replied, “How can I know for sure? I can’t even remember if I loved my husband or not. It could have been a forced marriage for all I know.”

 

Being an artist myself, I find it hard to falsify my expression. Art is a way for others to materialise their feelings, their opinions, their truth. Thus, without the authenticity of the feeling that I am going to convey, what I created will not be more than just a canvas filled with blotches of colour. Why should I express the feelings I felt on my wedding day as jubilant and happy when I, myself, am not sure whether or not I felt that way? Any form of personal or cultural expression should be epitomes of truth. Hence, with the convenience of my omitted memories, how can I possibly create a painting that portrays my feelings on my wedding day?

World war 1 letter from a soldier   

BY: Camille Louis 

MYP5

 

British Army Base site 00789,

95100

France

 

1st November 1918

Monique Williams,

6 Woodbridge Street,

W60HX,

London

 

My Love,

It’s been three years since I felt like the world stopped. Since my heart has felt incomplete every day, since I have had to fight every single fibre in my body to stay away from you. Every beautiful thing nature has to offer around me reminds me of you: the soft breeze in the trees, the smell of the morning mist, the rare times the sun’s rays kiss my face in the cloudless skies. I miss every minuscule detail about you and cherish the ones we share; your smile gives me the strength to survive, day by day, and the thought of being able to come back home to you brings me bliss and relief. The relief that I won’t die here, alone in the stone cold dark. That I will see you waiting for me at the train station so that our life can finally begin together forever.

 

I’m cold; constantly cold, no amount of vests can overcome this piercing feeling of polar cold; though it is numbing every part of my body it can’t seem to numb my bleeding heart. The men around me are in agony and most of them won’t live to see another day. I count myself lucky and pray that I will come back to you. Men, boys, just kids are screaming in torment, the pain a single shot can cause like a chain reaction in a man’s body and everything around you collapses. I held a boy’s hand as he passed on to the other world and my heart dropped. I had never realised how valuable a human’s life was, a child who was destined for great things lay down his life for his country and no-one will be able to live on and honour him.

 

The number of men I see collapse on the stone cold ground; the vivid blood leaking out of their uniform seems to be the only colour in this dull atmosphere. Their lives seem to be wasted, the light in their eyes extinguish and their souls leave their body like an empty casket. I always thought of dying as a peaceful experience, a smooth transfer between our world and the next, but this inferno isn’t what I imagined. The trenches are humid and reek of fear; claustrophobia torments me each night, the sight of men losing their feet repulses me and the constant moans of those who have fallen engrave in my mind. The soldiers look like mere pawns in a chess game, dehumanised and stripped of their rights. I feel empty, worthless, I need to hear you whisper, to say: “It's going to be alright.”

 

I miss you, my love, and I promise to fight as hard as my body will allow me until I get back to you safe and sound.

 

Yours truly,

Oliver

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