A Christmas Tale

Hey guys! I literally got back from Amsterdam three hours ago, I had the most amazing time. This piece is one I wrote last week, I'm really sorry but it's kinda sad. But I thought that I'd try to express that not everybody has a family to got to at Christmas, or at all.
Leave me a comment and let me know what you think.

The white cotton wind bites at my exposed skin, as I walk through the empty street in the cold night, on Christmas Eve. Great colossal, detached houses stand stagnate as I pass. I'm not sure why I came down this road, or why I even left the orphanage in the first place. The bright flashing green and silver are draped around and among windows and bushes, each one belonging to a household, perhaps even a family.

I stopped suddenly in the thoughts of how futile this walk became, when actually I was supposed to be buying eggs, at least that's what I've told Mrs Bourne. But as I start to turn around, a certain window catches my vision. On the other side of the glass is a large brown sofa, sitting on top is a man, woman and two little girls. They're facing a fire, and I can almost imagine how warm it is when I stretch out my hand towards the crackling dancing orange. From what I can see I think they're watching The Grinch. In their peacefulness they are connected, the to adults arms are linked and wrapped around each other, and the girls cheeks are resting on their parents laps.

Well, who wants that. Who needs a family? Then a voice speaks in my mind, "you do".

I imagine that having a family looks a bit like that. A group of people who will always be there, who constantly radiate comfort and warmth. Of course, I would never truly know. I've never had one.

However I see myself with in that wholesome living room, joining them on the sofa. My mother squeezing my hand, and my father patting me on the shoulder as we watch the film. But while I am within, I am also without, in the cold, because nobody wants me.

I know what I want for Christmas, and I'm guessing since you're this far, you know too. It's what I wish for every year, I wish for a family, I wish to feel connected.

Ophelia - Written by Shani

Hello everyone! For my English coursework this year, I decided to study Hamlet by William Shakespeare. Hamlet is one of my favourite Shakespeare plays, it has been from the moment I watched it in my year ten GCSE English class. What really captivated me about the play was the mistreatment of one particular character, Ophelia. She is one of my favourite Shakespearean characters for several different reasons, and to express how much I love her I have written a piece around her.

Ophelia

She’s standing on the river bank. A willow tree blows gently, gently, behind her, it’s tendrils wrapping around her like silk. Delicate daisies, pretty pansies, beautiful bluebells, and lovely little lilacs are clenched in her tiny fist – her fingers shaking, and a dribble of maroon is slithering down her wrist. Knees knocking together, trembling, shivering, dancing on the adrenaline. Sweet, lonely child.

Ophelia. Her name is – was, Ophelia. Beloved sweetheart of Denmark, daughter to Polonius, bride to be of Prince Hamlet. Ophelia. A long dress of silver silk, bunched at her thin ankles, her dainty little feet caked with mud. Her body is convulsing. Hiccups breaking free from her pale pink lips, her limbs jolting with electricity at the smallest sound. Fragile little bird.

Get her a to nunnery. Lover’s hatred has damned her purity, innocence and fragility, thy name is woman! She is but the sun. A flower blossoming in the glorious spring, threatened by a selfish tyrant: He’s sucked her adolescence away and left a spinster as a replacement. She stares down into the river, the rushing currents an invitation, a welcoming of a cleaner world. One which is not stained of blood. One where her lover is a saint, not a sinner.

She sits by the riverside, weaving life and love – red and white roses into her long, willowy hair. She is Persephone, and Hades has blackened her soul. Poured honey into her ear. Now, a caged animal lingers in her skin, clawing at her flesh. She sits by her freedom, staring longingly into her reflection, a skewered image of the girl she used to be. Ophelia. She dips her toes into the water.

Bloodlust. Death incarnate. The water beckons to her, and she does not hesitate, when she flings her little body under the surface. Ice slashes at her, tearing her very bearing apart – Who is she? She cannot remember her name. She’s swallowing water, heaving and choking. Dying. What is her name? Her tawny eyes begin to blur, and she’s fading away. Drifting like smoke. Her fists unclench. Flowers scatter around her, bluebells, daisies, pansies, working together in harmony, singing a song for Denmark to hear. A halo of flowers, of happiness, and jubilance curling around her head. She is an angel. A goddess who accidently slipped through the cracks of heaven.

She is dead and gone, lady. She is dead and gone. 

Mrs Dalloway

It's Heather here :)
Here’s my review for Mrs Dalloway! I don’t want to spoil the plot since I’m in the process of begging most of my friends to pick up a Woolf book so I can venerate her books with other people so apologies if it is a little vague (and please leave me a comment if you’ve read, or are intending on reading, any of her literature). As I write this, I am listening to a voice clip of Woolf’s on Wikipedia – am I the only one that’s been oblivious to Wikipedia’s mystical powers of putting voice clips in their articles?

Author: Virginia Woolf

Published: May 1925

Publisher: Hogarth Press

This book pans through a day in the Post First World War society and is set around some characters, most of which attend Clarissa Dalloway’s party; including Septimus, a veteran suffering from severe shell-shock causing hallucinations, his wife Lucrezia, Richard Dalloway, Elizabeth Dalloway, the wistful Peter Walsh, Sally and, of course, the hostess herself - Clarissa. That (very brief) summary really does the book no justice, like most of Woolf’s works, the ponderings that most authors dismiss in their writing are her main focus as she utilises the stream of consciousness method. I found reading this book effortless, like chatting to an endearing and close friend or even peering into one’s own head (hopefully not literally), yet the narrative is still eloquent and thoughtful; a perceptive style indeed.

Due to the title, I feel inclined to talk about Clarrisa and the conundrum she is in about love. Clarissa is the typical human; she regrets, she judges others a little (or a lot in the case of poor Mrs Kilman!) and whilst appearing ebullient, she is deeply self-conscious and is consistently picking at ways to improve herself. She is startled by the reappearance of Peter, the man she rejected for her husband, and takes a while to decipher whether she was feeling a pang of relief or remorse at her past refusal for him. Though flawed with moments of critical thoughts, Clarissa is generally a rather nice person who spends more time admiring others. When we enter Peter’s world, we learn that he is consumed with spiteful criticisms of nearly everybody he interacts with; as the reader, we have to decide whether he’s always been so vindicated or if this attitude is a defence mechanism that has sprung to life from the rejection of his true love and if this is forgivable.

Being familiarised with Woolf’s life certainly makes this a fascinating read. The shell-shock that Septimus experiences was unbelievably intriguing to read; especially since our class at school have been studying Regeneration (another excellent book), so to get in the head of someone with shell-shock was remarkable. Woolf herself had suffered from mental illnesses that have been speculated on considerably in many of her biographies, which I would highly recommend reading, this state of extreme depression did sadly lead to her suicide. Her own familiarity with depression and hallucinations make her descriptions from Septimus vivid and chilling.

I flicked to a random page and selected this extract just or reiterate how beautifully she writes (Shani called me a book snob today, which is probably true… but this type of literature is so underrated):

“There was nobody. Her words faded. So a rocket fades. Its sparks, having grazed their way into the night, surrender to it, dark descends, pours over the outlines of houses and towers; bleak-hill-sides soften and fall in.” – extract from Page 27

There is no particular moment which is outstanding because the entire book is a masterpiece, the language seems to flow from her pen in a way I think we all yearn was as effortless for ourselves. Just look at the word ‘grazed’, I’m probably rambling too much here but that is such a lovely choice of word. She could have just said that ‘they felt isolated’ or something simple like that but instead she added that stunning comparison as words fade – not in a PowerPoint effects style, but the way a rocket would scrape the sky to surrender and then fade out in that subtly powerful manner. This kind of imagery is smothered throughout the narratives, making it equally effortless for the reader to comprehend exactly what she wants them to visualise. It’s like reading a picture book but with thoughts and doodles and every little detail one could possibly hold an inkling of inquisitively to see.

Personally, I preferred To The Lighthouse to Mrs Dalloway, but my judgement is probably tainted by the fact To The Lighthouse was both my chosen coursework novel and first encounter with Woolf. This book is considerably darker, the deaths are not modestly placed between polite brackets, but discussed through the mouths and minds of others. If you have not read Woolf before then read both! I cannot guarantee that her style will be as enchanting for everybody, but I think it’s probably a love it or hate it type of thing. Anyway, that's it for this review, please do leave a comment if you would like to, and I'll be back soon with a review for Birdsong.

Ashes and Embers

Hey guys! Its Lydia here! I'm sorry we've been so busy lately, somehow thats all we seem to say. But generally we are so tied up with school work and revision right now. This is a below that I wrote back in September for my Creative Writing Alevel. Hope you like it and leave me a comment. 

I promise to post again soon. 

I was made up the wind,

Where I grew in a lover’s garden,

Surrounded by brothers and sisters.

Blessed by the sun, I formed my body,

A top a head of soft white skin.

As the breeze blew I was chosen

By a man to give to a lady,

Where she delighted in the sight of me,

Her fingers touched me softly and cradled me to her breast.

I watched their long loves days, as tender as the kisses,

But as they raptured, my organs sickened and yellowed

For my eternity drew short.

As they danced in the garden, I shriveled into ash and ember

For I was the music to their passion.

Mental Trauma piece

Hey again guys!
It's Lydia here, yeah I know twice in one day. This piece is also a creative writing homework task, I wrote it about a week ago. But if you could leave me a comment on how it could become better and be improved, that would be great.

“Now Bill, you must speak to me. I am purely here to help you, it is my job,” he said carefully, “It may burst the magnitude of mental tension that has grown inside you.”

I can’t talk about that.  I cower from the pain of these relentless thoughts and can say nothing. I want so badly to speak, to form the words, to feel my tongue glide over teeth in the formation. I couldn’t, I wouldn’t. Speaking of the horror was reliving the experience all over again. The nature as humans is to stay in the comfort and ease of our warm beds, to feel the purple adrenaline lash through the blood pushing our legs to run away from danger. As soldiers we were forced to fight this chemical, to scream no when our minds said go home. It was what the army indoctrinated into every young man who stood ready in khaki green.

 As a boy who had newly turned eighteen when war was declared, I obeyed and was left chained up in my mind as a result.

I watched many people die. But one in particular haunted my thoughts. One afternoon, the Germans were continually pelting shell after shell at us. Each one getting nearer to my battalion, they seemed to scream, “I’m coming for you” then crash and explode as they hit the mud, each one was a growing parasite on my brain. One shell bounced off the cliff of the trench and fell with a clunk. We all waited for the quick death, but none came. It clicked in recognition, that we all wouldn’t join our deceased brothers, but what poured out of the grey can was just as damaging, it flowed like a mustard river, bubbling and teeming in all directions.

“Gas! Gas! Quick boys! Masks on!”

All but one found their mask. We all stood like evacuees waiting and watching. There was nothing we could do. The fog embraced him, crushing his life with invisible force. He fell choking, gargling blood and writhing like a waterless fish. It would be over any second now I thought. He took ten minutes to die. This painful end replayed in the back of my eyes every night, I couldn’t stop my mind from seeing the red foamed lips and yellow stained body. He was the last face I saw until my inner workings were infiltrated by buzzing insects that ate away at my rigid structure, causing the hold on myself to flop and go limp, and my form hit the earth in guilt filled exhaustion.

He and so many more ghosts swarm around inside me asking why I’m alive and they aren’t, and why am I so special that I was granted to live. I simply answer I don’t know. I keep telling them that I don’t want to be here, that I want to die, hitting and slamming my hands against my head to stop the voices.

A conscious keeps reassuring me, but I can’t seem to hear the nurturing voice over the pounding in my brain. In each beat their names are said, Jack, Michael, Jacob, Oliver, William, Robert.

The inner workings of me seemed to twitch, seize and snatch as I recoiled in the memory of each of their deaths.

“Open your mouth Bill. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for the sake of your wife and children.” He said more agitatedly

“I have nothing to say.”

Imagery to present a character

Hey guys, long time no see! 

It's Lydia here!

Let me know what you think of this piece I wrote on Friday, it was homework from my creative writing class. 

Leave me a comment if you have any opinions to voice.

Can someone clarify the definition of beauty?

 I am not beautiful, my nose is wonky as a bent wire, and one eye is emerald green while the other is pastel blue. I do not have an crystal hour glass figure, its dumpy on top and balanced on thin legs like that of a child’s crayon drawing or a famous Picasso piece. My arms are hard and thick like leather and my hair is not long and luscious, but stubbornly rigid and straw-like.

I am not beautiful.

Yet the girl who sits across from me, Nancy, yes I think her name is, has white moon skin that shines like a light bulb in the mirror, while pinpricks of red blemishes are dotted about her cheeks as though droplets of blood on marble. Her features are structured and cohesive as if God made her with a protractor and ruler, the nose is high with balanced bones, and it curves like a silver spoon to meet a small pink sphere, and each eye is equally blue. Her face is shaped like a cut out heart, sweetly round and sinuous, that meets to join the hairline, the colour of coffee, with faint lines of fire orange that continue to the ends.

 Is this what perfection is?

How can this be while her insides bubble and boil, like an old hag stirring a caldron. With thin snake like wrinkles, that etches out like fork marks that reach her dying, dull and moldy eyes. Her skin isn’t a firm jewel, but limp and loose like a living corpse, with the colours of decease, a yellowing gray form with ageing purple bruises. Her body is bumpy but solid, as her skeletal form peaks beneath dusty skin. It seems that vanity has eaten her decayed soul, as the beast eats the innocent.

Inner beauty is something more I wish to harvest; the beating gold heart is of more worth than a full face.

The Handmaid’s Tale

Hello, this is Heather! Lydia just uploaded some fantastic poetry, so if you haven’t already, please do go and read it; her and Shani write beautifully. On the topic of Lydia, she lent me this book a few weeks ago; I haven’t been able to review it for a while since I’ve been ill and pent up with writing UCAs stuff, but here’s a very short review on it.

Author: Margaret Atwood

Published: 1985

Publisher: McClelland and Stewart

My rating: ★★★★

This dystopian novel certainly has some moments that make the reader withdraw in revulsion. It takes place after the society has changed, meaning women have no rights to own property or be independent. The narrator, known by the name of Offred, has lost her money, her job, her husband and her daughter because of this revolution. For those of you innocent to the meaning of a handmaid, it is someone hired to have a baby with the man of the family when the wife is deemed infertile. The theme of feminism is adamant throughout as women are exploited and abused by men in this society. Even the upper class, married women feel little love and seem to have no control over their marriage.

I am glad to report there is not much explicit sex written about (it would have made my train journey to Leeds on which I read the book a tad awkward). The whole procedure of making love is treated in the antithesis of a romantic or spontaneous thing; the wife being present the whole time and the protagonist not going into specific details on what is going on. I think this really shows how traumatic but also automated it became for the protagonist. It is merely a routine, a job to her, yet she twists what is happening in her language, making it seem like a dentist appointment. There is a definite theme of distance, the book being void of proximity or love. Offred never names her child, perhaps to create a sense of detachment between them, nor does she ever disclose her genuine name, so she seems to not even know herself.

The reader sympathises with how lonely the narrator is but also the confusion. There is scarcely any detail on exactly what happened to cause the revolution, which is quite scary; imagine going to work one day and finding that you’ve been fired… and you have no money… and your husband owns all you have. It’s a terrifying thought that so little control can be grasped in these situations. I was a little confused at how the protagonist could remember some aspects of the past but not others. She spends so much time on a daily basis reflecting on the past that one would have thought she’d have at least painted a version of most vital life events in her head – yet she seems to remember random little things and forget some quite big other bits of the past. Aside from that, I really liked the writing style. 

“I sit in the chair and think about the word chair. It can also mean the leader of a meeting. It can also mean a mode of execution. It is the first syllable in charity. It is the French word for flesh. None of these facts has any connection with the others.”

Comments like the above I felt should have been more frequent in the tale. Firstly, it’s something that we all think about sometimes, the quirky ways of our language and the way the strict definitions of words, much like Offred’s identity, get muddled amongst the ever-changing nature of society. She is focusing on something familiar, the patter of language, looking at words like they hold a secret meaning that could free her from a society where she is banned from reading. 

Lydia and I both tirade the ending of the novel, which is, kindly worded, ambiguous. I was disappointed to learn there are no sequels and even Wikipedia could not enlighten me of what happened in the ending – it seems Atwood decided to leave the reader completely alone in deciphering what happened. I suppose it’s like a cycle; Offred is puzzled when the society is changed and confused on what is going on, much like the reader when they reach the end.

I really enjoyed Atwood’s writing style, blending Offred’s past in beautifully with the present in a surprisingly not confusing way. Her plot is something scary but different, it’s just a shame the ending is not expanded on further.