assignments (2018 sem 1)
from creative writing last semester! i'm not satisfied with any of these, but if i don’t post them i know it’ll niggle at my brain forever. i’ve put everything in one post, and included both a (freshly-written) preamble and a summary of the marker’s comments. for the record, this was a first-year subject
short fiction - sabbath (“horrid jimmy”, 26/3/18) cw: alcohol, questionable writing technique
this got a lower mark than any of my other pieces, but it was also the one i spent the most time on (by a wide margin). it’s also not very good. fiction is hard.
i used a dramatic metaphor - perhaps too much so for the events of the story. it’s explained more below. according to my statement of intent: “i tried to address this with a more personal, “impressionist” narration - clearly the feelings of the narrator, not objective judgement.” unfortunately, i don’t think it worked? “silly” teenage actions committed without thought can have major consequences, is the point, but there’s still tonal dissonance there. frankly, i sound like a mum
it didn’t occur to me that it’s a coming-of-age story until i read the comments afterwards! whoops!
short fiction
The leaves crackled underfoot as the other boys sauntered into the woods, chuckling and jibing amongst themselves, with me trailing behind.
Caught by a sudden chill, I shoved my hands deeper into my parka pockets. Coming had been a stupid idea. It was probably going to be boring as all hell. I suppose I knew that when they asked me. I’d only been invited out of polite necessity, but I had nothing better to do.
One of them – a boy from my class – lingered to wait for me to catch up.
“So have you already met the new guy?”
I shook my head. I hadn’t.
“I heard he beat someone up, that’s why he had to move here,” he whispered conspiratorially.
I shrugged. What he had or hadn’t done wasn’t really any of my business. Curiosity was why I was here, sure, but I wasn’t going to judge based on what he might or might not have done at his last school.
The conversation died as weakly as it started. We trudged on beside each other, silently, out of obligation.
The path opened up to a clearing. Another boy was already standing there, leaning against the edge of a table, fiddling with something. The bench behind him was stacked with beer boxes. A grin settled in on his face as he saw us approaching.
“Jimmy!” the leader called, greeting him with a hug. “How are you, man?”
Jimmy smirked, although I couldn’t hear his reply.
“You’ll love him, guys. He’s a riot.”
We were all welcomed over, given a rant about Jimmy. Nothing I hadn’t heard before – transfer student, rich kid, dad was the police chief. It’d all been in the invitation spiel. The other boys chattered amongst themselves.
Jimmy watched it all with a sort of lazy self-assuredness. He was still tossing around that object – for some reason, an outdated cell phone – and his shirt lounged half-tucked against his jeans. A slimy mop of brown hair, skin-care and fashion taste, non-existent. He could be mistaken for half the people in my class. He’d fit in, sure. Be adored even. But besides the cockiness he looked almost bland. What an uninspiring idea of a “riot”.
The boy trailed off into silence. Relieved clapping emerged from the crowd. Jimmy clapped too, weightily. “Drinks are on me,” he smiled.
My classmate used the hubbub to slip away to his actual friends. Good for him. He was barely more interesting than Jimmy anyway.
The leaves scattered as I dragged my sneakers across the litter, hauling myself over to the line that had formed from the crowd, coating the heels with mud. I hadn’t really drunk before. To be honest, given how “riotous” the party was, I didn’t really want to. Home was looking real good right now. I wondered if it’d seem like copping out to turn down the offer.
Before I could make up my mind, a can was jabbed in my direction.
Jimmy and I stared at each other awkwardly.
"I, uh -"
Eyes glared into mine from between the greasy strands of his bangs. They glowed with the sunset, dyed a deep orange, flowing with a wavering, shifting surface of flame. Sparks spun and danced, swirling trails into his irises. But as the flames parted all I could see underneath was dark. In contrast to his boyish smirk those eyes betrayed no kindness towards me. Only cruel amusement.
He stared down at my arms, stiffly encased in my jacket.
“Wussy, huh?” Jimmy laughed. The sparks circled me.
I chuckled uncomfortably. Extracting my arms out of the parka, I plucked the can from his hands.
I didn’t want to hang around him again.
* * *
The sun had truly set now. Someone had lit a fire in one of the rusted oil drums. It smelled rank. The clearing became saturated with laughter which boiled, diffused out over the trees.
I had tried the beer a little while ago, but – barely managed to hold back a grimace. It was warm. And frankly tasted like piss. The can had only grown warmer in my hands, I wasn’t going to try it again.
Jimmy sat in centre of a circle of rotten school-chairs that had sprung up around him. That laddish grin never left his face as he fed out scraps of appreciation to each of his admirers.
I cursed my stupidity for not talking to my classmate. I could’ve at least pretended to care and then I’d have had somebody to stand with who didn’t creep me out. Every other group was just too tight.
I wanted to go home. I really wanted to now. But as I had trudged around looking for a place to stay I could feel as eyes flicked over to me, conspicuous and alone. I was “wussy”. I’d had to go back to the middle of the glade.
The haze of spirits was stronger here. More bottles lay empty in the mud. The boys leaned in, commanded fully by Jimmy’s attention, eagerly offering up questions.
“What school was it you went to?” one asked.
“Brighton Boy’s Private. Too stuffy.”
“Got any girlfriends?”
He laughed. “More than you, Jacob.”
“Was it true- you bashed that guy’s head in?”
I felt my stomach drop. There was a dead pause. Not quiet – there was still chattering and the sadistic crackling of the flames – but from Jimmy, murderous.
Jimmy chuckled, sharply.
“Well, what’s to say everything was my fault? It’s in the past.”
“So you did it, then?”
Jimmy stayed silent.
No-one in the circle spoke as he tossed the mobile in his hands, testing us. The following question sat unspoken in the air. It grew heavier with each thwap of the phone hitting his palms. Please, don’t say it.
“What else?”
My stomach turned.
Jimmy grinned. They had invited in the spell.
Sins poured from his mouth. Tales of smashed windows, defiled property, past conquests. Never caught. Never paid for.
The flames jumped through the air as he acted out terrible heresies, conjuring images of his deeds as he slashed the air with his hands. The thumping of my own heart provided a drumbeat to the ritual. His charisma bewitched them. He was strong, beholden to no-one. He knew exactly what they wanted to hear and played into it until they were all stolen, taken in by his witchcraft. Hypnotised by the alcohol and adoration they couldn’t help but fall under his spell.
The crowd had grown larger. My classmate was here too now. I gripped the rim of the seat in front of me, like it would anchor me to reality. This wasn’t like us. We were meant to be normal. None of this was a joke.
The tale continued on and the heat melted the pack into a single mass, roaring, sickly orange in the firelight. All under Jimmy’s control. Slouching in his chair he observed it, a smirk growing on his face.
He stopped gesturing with the cell phone now, dropping it gently to his knee.
The sparks whirled through the air and into his eyes. He didn’t have a beer, only the phone. Foreboding weighed down so hard in my stomach that I flinched from the pain. I wanted to scream, warn everyone what was going to happen, but fumes filled my nose and throat and choked down the words.
Jimmy held up a finger to his lips, drawn in a wolfish grin.
“Just watch.”
The mass hushed in anticipation, snickering, as he dialled. Three numbers.
A female voice crackled onto the line. “Hello, what is your emergency?”
“An- an ambulance,” he gasped.
The forest blurred away. I couldn’t hear anything anymore. The only thing in focus was my brain, screaming at me to stop this as the conversation moving in slow motion around me. But my body wouldn’t move.
Snickering rolled through the glade and pushed through the haze.
“You know, I’m sick of kids like you. Someone could have died. Someone is dying right now.”
“Someone could have died,” he mocked, laughing, the pack laughing with him. “Someone is dying right now,”
“I hope one day you understand how much your actions hurt others,” the voice snarled as it transformed into the beep of a hung-up call.
There was a rush of raucous cackling. It ripped through the night sky, stabbing through the madness. We were all just boys again. The magic was broken. I could do something.
He was just a boy. I could do something.
I levered myself against the chair. I stood up straight. I forced myself to stare at the witch and boy sitting across from me.
“You’re a horrible person, Jimmy.”
Jimmy simply laughed. The sparks in his eyes taunted me, goading me to try anything to stop him.
I whipped my eyes across the crowd. Where was my classmate? Blinded by the firelight I could barely make out any faces. Boys in the same clothes with the same face laughed and laughed and egged each other on, blurring together through my tears. Why couldn’t I recognise him? Why was it that I couldn’t name a single one of them?
Suddenly I was aware that no-one was looking at me. No-one even noticed me. The harsh truth of it crumpled my insides until I could barely breathe.
I turned and ran away.
That mocking laughter hounded me as I dashed back through the woods, away from the fires and boys that had tonight become terrifyingly beyond me.
If only I had tried.
comments:
calling it “Sabbath” is on the nose, the metaphor is already evident from the content and/or the metaphor is unnecessary (my note: I didn’t actually want to call it “Sabbath”; I just didn’t have any other ideas. originally jimmy had more wolf imagery/language associated with him, but i had trouble taking the metaphor very far. i also thought it was Ironic, for a toxic masculine peer pressure teenage boy to be described as a witch, but i’m not sure i got the machismo across well…)
the prose needs to be tighter
jimmy needs to be given the chance to speak in his own voice, to make him come across as more threatening, and to allow him to be his own character (links into the above)
the “he only had the phone” paragraph was the best bit
monologue
i did one of these. it was not submitted. we will not speak of it.
poetry – transmutation (7/5/18) cw: body horror, blood, etc.
might as well just rename it gertrauda! mili’s new album had come out recently (~2 weeks beforehand) and i’d spent the whole time playing the song (an acapella arrangement of carol of the bells) on repeat. i was also very stressed! in general!
influenced by mili’s aesthetic in general, but namely gertrauda, ga1ahad and mirror mirror. the heart imagery was taken from the millennium mother album trailer, where a human heart was used to represent it. i did NOT like poetry, but the alternative (a monologue) was conceptually too difficult to do well. this got a higher mark than jimbo. i thought it was kind of on the nose!
poem
my heart beats a sickly rhythm
each throb pumping the arteries
with bubbling potion that fuels my body, flowing through the flesh
levers and pulleys, a soundless organ
the skin contains me
a rotting sack to protect me, my mechanism
from the world outside, my true self too weak for it
how long can I keep living
this way?
no,
why
am I living this way?
the thought like a knife
stabs through the film of pus and pores through oily skin
a cut.
an obvious puncture
i can’t let anyone see
the world
(pistons pump out of tempo)
licks hot rotten on fleshy wound.
i’m fine
but the smog floods in
it poisons corrupts poisoned
my skin is leaking ink pouring black blood
the flesh melted dark rotten
bones grinding down to a pulp
running too fast the veins the pistons
flesh writhing against the bag of skin embracing it against it
transmuting transforming being consumed consuming
the heart bursts
disintegrating
only the skin is
left
a husk
piled on the floor
I know.
I can’t
ever
be free.
comments:
enjambment could’ve been used more / earlier
get rid of punctuation, it holds up the flow
repetition of “living this way” is effective
dislikes the “the flesh … pulp” segment, feels a bit done before
polarity/repeats of the transmuting segment are effective
non-fiction
contained descriptions of the exact town in hungary my family lived; for privacy I won’t be posting it. it got the highest mark, but i wasn’t satisfied with the level of nuance
in general i think the marking for this subject was lenient! i did decently, though.