Category Archives: Creative Writing

A Place Of Remembrance

This place will always mean something to me. It will always remind my heart of love and the times lost. It will always nudge my brain into reliving the past. It will always represent her.

The small-animal hutch sits empty and forlornly in the corner of the garden. As the rain drops dance down the misty window pane, I gaze lovingly through the glass and down upon the drenched wood and weeping metal bars. The cherry blossom sways over the felt roof as a guardian angel watches over a dying man, and the specks of pink and white which have survived the weather shine like a deer’s eyes in headlights. The tiny flowers are reminders of spring and they make me smile sadly.

The crumbling brick from the shed behind her home is a lunar landscape with shell-holes and trenches for the ants to avoid, as soldiers did in wars long ago. The mottled colours are muddy as a whole, but flashes of brilliant red and sandy grey catch my wandering eyes. The patio beneath her home is laid at an angle and I fondly remember propping up one wooden leg when I first brought her home, so her hutch would not lean. The cement has long been washed away but in between the fading slabs are flakes of saw dust and pencils of hay. The wooden fence beside her hutch protected her from the wind as a shield protects a soldier from arrows in battle.

Tuffs of life poke their stubborn heads through cracks and around her home; the green grass strands are delicate and elegant. They bow and curtsy under the powerful winter rain but allow the tiny droplets to run swiftly down their velvet planes. Alongside the clusters of blades, Dandelion leaves spring and droop under the wind and water. They thrive now. They used to vanish so swiftly when she still lived here, her milky teeth destroying the weeds and ecstatically swallowing the plant. They were her favourite.

Now there are flowers. Reds and yellows, blues and pinks, rich purples and sombre oranges contrasting with the ancient brick. The vitality that she once brought to this corner remains in the flowers I planted with passionate exactness and damp eyes in remembrance of her.

But behind the metal bars lies darkness. Her wooden floor has no sawdust to play in or hay to sleep in. Only ghosts of the nests she made are here. There are no colourful toys and dripping water bottles, for her ghost does not need these. Her tiny form still lies across my heart, curled into a tiny, vulnerable ball as she took her final puff of air and lay, as if she was sleeping, in my arms and over my still-beating heart. Her presence in my life, I am ever thankful for and my gratitude knows no bounds for I loved her with all my heart. The sadness, the ghosts, the memories all come flooding back as I stare at her empty guinea-pig hutch. It will remain there as a daily and constant reminder of the happy times now tinged with sadness. For I never want to forget my beautiful guinea-pig, who survived her last night to say good bye to me. She was ill, so very ill, but she struggled through the night to be held one more time by me and to finally die in my arms and shaking embrace. As I stroked her feather-soft fur she seemed to finally be at peace and accepted her fate, slipping into Death’s open arms as she lay curled over my chest. She survived to say good bye to me. Thank you.

I never want to feel the guilt of forgetting her, that would surely destroy me and tear open the cavern of sadness that is lodged in my heart. The gratitude I feel for having the opportunity to love her, know her, remember her and finally for her strength to remain in this world one more night for me is a burden I bear readily. Her life meant the world to me. That corner of my garden means the universe now.

A Beach In Summer and In Winter

Climbing the delicate sand dunes, my bare feet gracing the smooth sand, I reach the top of the grass-capped peaks with my eyes closed.

Last time, it was too busy. There were too many people and too much noise. Children skipped in the spray and shrieked at the cold water skimming their toes. The Sun was too hot and beat down ferociously on burnt necks. Sun cream and picnics were strewn on checked blankets that thrashed in the warm breeze. The bay was suffocating in summer: the people, the noise, the heat.

The water shimmered and shone in the bright light, like a blinking, blue eye, as cheerful exchanges drowned the air. Big smiles and bright eyes accompanied adults whilst there were ten sticky fingers and sandy toes for each child. The sand burnt underfoot and a pathetic puff of air ticked my skin. Collapsed sandcastles and holes were littered by plastic spades and buckets. Roars of happiness and desperate pleas could be heard for miles when the giddy ice cream van rounded the corner singing its promising tune.

The smell of sea salt and sand was masked by sickly and overpowering heat and overflowing bins, which were swarmed over by buzzing wasps. The taste of salty sweat hung in the air as the ocean continued to labour ceaselessly up and down the beach. Teens moved in packs, like wild dogs hunting on the African prairie, strolling and laughing, loudly and confidently, up and down the overcrowded beach. Dogs splashed in the shallows and swam after sticks and balls contently.

But when the tide began to turn, the cheerful people deserted the summer beach as one, as if the sea itself had asked them to leave. Then only I remained to see the sad and pitiful scene. Litter was wafted about by the lazy gusts of warmth and the once-smooth sand has been attacked as a colony of rabbits destroys a field. The waves yawned upon the beach but there was no awe-inspiring power. For a summer beach wears a mask of happiness, held up by the tourists. Then, when everyone leaves as the tide sighs, the beach is left sad and lonely.

Then I swallow a gulp of cold, winter air, bringing my mind back into the present. I open my eyes and look out over the dark waters. Calm and tranquillity wash over me as I breath in the scene that never fails to steal my breath. It always overwhelms me. A beach in winter is my escape.

Dark swirling waves crash against rocky outcrops and the dark sand. The white horses gallop across the beach in perfect harmony, playing with the limp seaweed and the scattered driftwood. The smooth, salt-stained timber is pulled, pushed, tossed and thrown by the white spray. Occasionally, the gnarled lumber clatters together and this echoes musically in the emptiness.

Seagulls screech mournfully overhead as they twist and turn in the harsh wind, fighting a losing battle. Their white wings glint in the pale sun as they dip and then fly: always moving, always turning, never giving up.

The crash of the waves and the cries of the birds echo hauntingly on the salty wind, which whistles piercingly and whips across my exposed face and neck. Sand, manipulated by the wind, claws at the back of my throat and salt is forced into the corners of my eyes, whilst the smell of the sea, the beach and the cold winter settle in my nose. Cold harshness scratches at my hands like unforgiving sandpaper, as on top of the sandy mountain range, the forest of Marram grass dances in the air, to its own rhythm. Not even winter will destroy its gaiety.

I feel the icy spray on my tongue, the thunder in my bones and the constant lulling of the waves repeated in my beating heart. This empty expanse of sand, of sea, of sky is always calming in a way nothing else can be. In this moment, I am completely alone and insignificant in the face of Nature’s power, and these thoughts destroy all worries from my swirling mind. I am at peace on Winter’s beach.

The grey towering sky overhead looms over some people menacingly, but to me the dark mass of clouds are a blanket of comfort wrapped lovingly around my shoulders by Mother Nature. The stormy sky and sea merge together at the horizon as brilliant flashing light strikes and illuminates the emptiness eerily. The jagged light exudes danger and power. This is Nature shouting its dominance at the top of its lungs. All of humanity is diminished in the heart of this storm. As the rain washes all my problems away, I settle into a state of serenity and contentment. In the back of my mind, the grumble of thunder vibrates like an old laugh, the shriek of lightning quietly reminds me of a scream and the regular pounding of the waves are the only footsteps I hear: these are the only ghosts of human presence on my Winter’s beach.

My eyes lazily wander over the landscape as they begin to plod their well trodden path. The angry slice of the cliff, then the pile of jagged rocks drowned in salty spray and crusted in barnacles, the graceful curve of the bay, the gradient of brilliant beige to the somber damp grains, and finally the emptiness itself. There is not a village nor a house, nor a family, nor a lone figure, nor a wild animal in sight. I am the only life to appreciate a beach in Winter and I appreciate it completely alone. The heavy silence accompanies me and it is the only companion I need. My bare toes being ticked by the sand, the wind dancing in my hair and the coldness seeping through my clothes – this is where I escape from the bustle of modern life: on Winter’s beach.

Roads in the nighttime ~ a description, a metaphor & ending with a poem

Darkness covers the land like a misted fog, a protective cloak, a mystery. The sky is the deepest blue and the occasional star can be seen behind the swirling powerful shapes of storm clouds. It is nearing midnight and most are in bed. But the roads never rest, never sleep.

Car upon car upon car follow the same path, the same curve, the same line. The beams of headlights move as a one, like a pack of hunting wolves or watching owls. The yellows of older cars and the bright blinding white of the newer cannot be distinguished. The lights bleed into one shape and one colour and one light as the cars swerve around the next bend, as if the light itself has pulled them with a string. The colours are indistinguishable and the passengers are simple silhouettes.

On roads at night people no longer seem the drivers, cars no longer seem the machine. The light, the darkness and the road are in control now. People follow the same path of changing squeaky gears or smoothly finding the clutch, of turning the wheel and holding the pedals. There is little difference which ever way you look. The roads offer little choice as well. The continuous stretch of grey in the daytime sun is now merged into the inky powerful blackness of the night, lit only by the tiny specks of reflected light following the scratched paint lines.

This is a motorway and you follow it for what seems like forever. But it is also a metaphor for our life. You follow the crowd and do as you told. You learn new skills and then put them into practice. You live your life as one person in the giant expanse of our world. You face little choice, little freedom in the modern age, controlled by technology and the society of conformity.

Break out of this pattern and stand out in the crowd.
Be your own person and make your parents proud.
Don’t worry what the world thinks, whether it’s bad or good.
Because no one can judge you deeply, like only you should.

Thoughts and a description of the Costa del Sol, España

Mountains upon mountains. The faded greens of baked vegetation and the brilliant array of browns and stones lie in the waves of heat rolling lazily in from the sky. As the trees part they reveal something quite different from the awe inspiring nature that was before. Buildings upon buildings sprawled on the side of steep slopes and lurking in the crooks of sweeping valleys. Tall and towering, they present a united front of dominance.

Man has forcefully and aggressively staked claim to this land like a gnarled and greedy hand wrapped around a thick, chilling flagpole, burying it punishingly deep into newly discovered land. But this united front is anything but and the dominance and control you perceive is a hasty drawn facade, as if a thin curtain as quickly and cowardly been drawn to cover a forbidden secret. The united front is not arranged with precision like an army or controlled with the fairness and unity of a well respected general. It is a squabble of bloodthirsty hyenas fighting and clawing at each other in a desperate attempt to shine brighter and bigger and better to the gullible, sun-loving tourists than its competitors. This is a fight to the death that has resulted in many casualties.

The dominance that seems to be radiating from the skyscrapers and sprawling hotels, the shining electric gates, the vast number of faux smiles and accented english words spoken by waiters is fake. Nature cannot be this easily controlled and subdued. The mountains are lying dormant, like cunning volcanoes, or hibernating, like calculating bears. Their steep sides and rocky outcrops, deep valleys and gorges are not to be messed with.

As one person coming to this conclusion, you realise how small we are to nature. The world was here long before us and is wiser and stronger and more powerful than our tiny, young human minds can even imagine. We cannot comprehend the force that we have reckoned with.