gair rhydd: Creative Writing

An Introduction

Welcome to the second instalment of creative words, an anthology of the creative work of students here at Cardiff. Following on from last year’s collection, which brought together short stories, poetry and scripts, this second volume demonstrates a continuation of the high standard of writing displayed last year. After a slow start, students began to timidly send in their prose and, in some cases, whole collections of poems for consideration.

The Greatest Gift

“If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s llamas,” remarked Henry, making a comment that would bear no further relevance to the rest of the story.

Simple Words

These are just the words I am writing

They are not clever or superb or sublime

Wasting away the time,

Hand in hand with the gin-and-lime.

Hangover

The bacon hisses as it hits the fat bubbling in the frying pan; as the smell wafts over I struggle to hold back the rising surge of nausea. Throat burning, I glance around the cafe: mauve paint, sterile lightning – all of which does little to improve my mood. The cafe had been selected purely due to its lack of custom. My only companions are a waxwork waitress, a dishevelled young girl and her dead-eyed boyfriend. Trying to distract myself from my imploding skull I begin systemically shredding the empty sugar packets that lay scattered across the table.

Playgrounds

I do not know what playgrounds are for. For a short while we throw our bodies around them. Not as ourselves, but as spacemen, or thieves. Climbing frames are distant worlds, and pits of sand are bounteous lairs. We hide in a place and wait to be found, or we chase and chase until our lungs or our legs give out. We can kid ourselves for a short while, into wanting it to last for all of time. But when the bell rings we have no where to run for the fence posts that stab into the ground and stand tall. Inside them we can pretend anything we like is possible. Make-believe is a game that doesn’t end when you are young. But the world I see – a zoetrope against the wooden slats – stands still when I stop running. So I don’t.

Rebecca

The rutted track was infiltrated with jutting mounds of flaky earth, making us trip and scramble up the diminishing path. Like serpents we weaved in between the spindly branches, taking the hands of the bowing trees and grabbing at sparse tufts of grass. Blades tore off into our palms and propelled out of the creases of our skin like papery butterfly wings, fluttering and the fading, setting us back in our progress. Dry earth crept beneath our nails and a smell of heavy dustiness permeated our fingers, spreading to our faces as we wiped away lingering beads of sweat. At regular intervals, we stopped to pull ourselves up earthy ledges, teetering over the edge as our legs dangled, the steep hill falling away beneath us. Rebecca held out her delicate hand every time, crouching over me, her wispy blonde hair falling like ribbons and stroking her knees. I looked up at the deep set, milky-blue eyes and thin, nipped face, each exquisite detail ingrained in my memory, integral to my childhood. Her eyebrow arched in a dare and her fingers wiggled in my direction,

Boiled Eggs

The summer would be remembered for its heat. The Jenkins’ farm was small and although it had a few animals, it produced wheat and wheat only. An eight-foot white pole stood proudly at entrance to the dusty driveway, it’s flag fluttering. Every Monday, Mr Jenkins would drive the family to a local farmer’s market to sell eggs, fresh milk, and honey in old glass jars. Mrs Jenkins spent the summer bare foot in her tiled kitchen, her dimpled limbs sprouting from a flapping floral dress. She spent one hour a week at the hairdressers, sitting under an enormous off-white plastic egg, gossiping. If there was one thing Mrs Jenkins believed, it was that there were two types of people in the world. If you’d met her boys in the yard that summer, you’d know why.

The Beauty of Solitude

Discuss this article [2]

Gracefully, but with all your heart, you gleefully swirl and let your body flow to the rhythm; the spotlight on you, the music – just as you like it. The stage is all yours and only yours, but hold on, let’s turn to the other half of this performance and discover the audience. Elevating comfort levels with a dose of encouragement, an invigorating performance for the greatest of audiences – you!

In Loving Memory

The pigeon, with wings like crushed newspaper browned by a mud puddle,

breaks away into the grey sky with a single stomp of my foot,

Pink Cigarettes

She was still sleeping.

Sprawled and face down like a body flung from a car wreck; awkward but at peace. Her hair was November 5th orange and just like the blazes that that particular night guarantees, it spread erratically over the pillows and her pale shoulders. He couldn’t sleep again. The night was selfish; eyes met with black when both opened and closed. The room was dark save for the little light from the street which crept in timidly from the sides of the cheap and bulky blackout blind.

The Hyena of Harar

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The truth can be wrung out of us only by some cruel, little, awful catastrophe.

Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim

Rimbaud lived here. Tomorrow, I shall take you to his house. A little culture! For now, my friend, have another drink. You’re quite sure there’s no wedding you should be attending? Ha! I apologize. I like to… self-mythologize, I have a thoroughly European taste for it. Under this white suit lies a hoary mass, a crazed Romantic heart…pure feeling, you know! Or perhaps just the memory of feeling…its old bones bleached and picked clean. We are, of course, in the right place. This is the land of carrion and its coarse clientele. Amidst all this red dust, the open drains, the filth, I am a tailored, crisp suit, a deftly angled hat…a shawl, a spectre…a whitened sepulchre! There is nothing quite so white as a bone lying in the sun. It gleams.

On Clouds

I’m on Clouds, in my Stars tonightand I whisper a kiss gentle to sweet Earth good-byeso, may I sleep, pray feel closer to you?

Looking at Streetlights from the Top of a Hill

Jenna

She is a miracle. My miracle. Not his. I am the Virgin Mary. This is my only child. A star.

Actually, it feels like there is a lead weight plumb line that pulls down my spine and gently drags me down. I’m carrying a butcher’s sack that feeds off me. Like my own private baby Kangaroo or something. I feel well lonely, which is funny seeing as in a way I’m never alone anymore. I’m sure soon if I don’t do something it’s gonna be able to remind me when it kicks out against me with a squirming little worm foot.

Maybe

I was woken up today by an ambulance siren a few streets away. I lay in bed for a while, and thought about telling him. Just going straight up to him and saying it. Then I thought about what he might say; maybe he’d just laugh. So I thought about what I’d do if he did, maybe I’d push him. Then maybe we’d start arguing, and I thought about what we’d say. I was lining up my next scathing retort in my head (I was winning) when I realised what I was doing, so I just lay back and thought of you instead.

Feels like home

Every corner I fear will be my last,

crawling up this mountain side.

A dark watermelon rolls down the aisle slowlyand crushed peanut shells slip past my feet.

She

‘As after sunset fadeth in the west, which by and by black night doth take away.’

William Shakespeare

She wakes to the blistering sound of another late night thriller. She had fallen asleep again without her childhood blanket on the cool comforts of the leather couch in the sitting room corner. She peels her face away from the cushion and sleepily looks at the time on the front of the video machine: it reads 9:44. She sighs and sits up to face the room. Her eyes hang half-closed still, but she manages to flick the light switch and find the remote to lower the volume.

Gair Rhydd

Creative Writing