This is where I’ll be posting small pieces of creative writing, most will be from exercises I’ve produced, as I try to improve my writing. Yes, even authors need to practice.
Here’s the first piece. Remember, these bits of writing will not be perfect, but will have had a quick grammar check.
The first exercise meant studying a place and describing it.
The Living Room
The room is a mess, yes, I’ll say it. Not on purpose, you understand, but I’m re-arranging a room upstairs, and the stuff needs to go somewhere. My craft room needs a good clean and new drawers, so everything has descended to the lounge.
The two tables, one a dining table and a craft table are littered with boxes, filled with paper and material. The cardboard sits with a tinge of dust, protecting the items inside. More boxes sit underneath the dining table. The sewing machine is piled high with craft cd’s, a few creative writing books sit on the side, next to the computer where I write. No sewing will be done for a few weeks, while the cabinet stares back at me unhappily.
Soft specialist boxes, filled with ribbon are piled high off the floor, in front of the sad sewing machine, which won’t see daylight for a while.
Bags sit up the corner, work bags and others which sit waiting to be emptied.
The exercise bike buried under more paper and books gives me an excuse not to wield it’s peddles. The red and white frame dull under the window, where no light can reach and brighten its day.
The couch and matching chair stare towards the television, our spot of delight on an evening. The black screen lightens and smiles back, showing us the entertainment we require, allowing us to turn off our minds from the devastation of the day. The pictures flash before us, as we follow the script and the words from the actor’s mouths, completely in synch.
The cupboard next door holds its doors shut tight, hiding more craft boxes from sight.
Two ugly, evil-looking glass clowns stare back at us from the windowsill, I’m sure they are thinking of ways of murdering us as we concentrate on the program we become absorbed in.
The fire broken and cold daunts our thoughts, no heat will warm our feet from its flames which can no longer flicker on the dark, cold nights.
The evening draws in, and the curtains close. Time to shut out the world and await the dawning day.
Through the Window
The garden seems withered and neglected. Two ancient cars, covered in blue, engrossed by brambles and ivy. The trees, behind the fence, lean over as though they are protecting the vehicles from the elements, their branches and greenery bending over as if trying to hug them.
An evergreen hedge runs adjacent to them. Ivy bursting out on stems, as if reaching for air and gasping for sunlight. A light breeze flutters through the leaves, making them dance delightfully. All they need is some music to accompany them.
Dull light beams down from the cloudy covered sky. The bright grey clouds moving along to their own melody.
The faded fence appears dull and tired, as life passes by. The old brick buildings shabby and could do with a lick of paint. A female blackbird, with her coffee brown feathers, perched on one corner, peering around like a guard on duty, wary and unsure of her place, flies off into the protective arms of the trees.
Sunlight tries to escape through the clouds, but they push the warmth back like prisoner guards.
A white-grey feather floats slowly towards the ground, landing softly amongst the wilted brown, sparse patches of grass, which attempts to cover the dark, dirty land.
A male blackbird, his orange beak shining as the rays shine upon him with his glossy black feathers, bobs between the cars, his jolty hops stop as a young blackbird appears. With his dull, brown feathers and partially grown tail, he bounces over the uneven ground, toppling as if he’s about to fall as he stops, but catches himself. Eventually, he bobs under the hedge to safety. The dad watches making sure the area is safe, but there’s no need to call out an alarm call. Then he follows his young son under the hedge, before hopping back out, moving move steadily than the youngster. As if he’s been jumping around for years. But he stops startled as a house sparrow flies low over him. The sparrow reappears running over the ground in small spurts, stops, looks around and sprints again.
After two short hops, the male blackbird’s wings take hold, and he flies into the hedge in a smooth flight of freedom.
The cheerful chirps of house sparrows can be heard from the hedge, floating on the breeze. A single chirp in a continuous call. The male blackbird pops back out, in his start, stop running movement. Freezing, he jabs at the ground with his dagger-like beak, locating whatever grub becomes his next meal. Then it’s back to his jolly bounce across the ground and into the hedge. Unsure, he spends only a few minutes out at any time, and merely comes out half a metre or so.
A swift darts, screaming overhead, under the patch of sea blue sky which as broken free of the prison guards, which try to catch up and lock it away again.
The house sparrows are braver than the blackbird, as they fly in and out of the hedge. A male lands in front of the abandoned cars and tosses dirt around, searching for a tasty morsel to feed his young. The short, sharp beak lifting debris and throwing it out of the way in quick head flicking movements.
The sea blue sky breaks free once more, and the sun shines out from behind its guards, bringing sunlight to the ground and making the ivy shine. Suddenly the trees seem more alive and turn from a dark dull brown to a light brown-grey, lit up by the sun.
The hibiscus is in full flower. The flowers, purple and white stand proud in bloom. Insects cover the plant as the sun lights up the petals, some come and go, some staying for a while.
The busy bumblebee leaves the hibiscus, buzzing away on the breeze. Loaded with cream pollen, which dusts all her fur, you can no longer recognise what type she may be. The flight path unsteady as she dips up and down due to the extra weight she’s carrying. Stopping for a brief rest on the wall, she continues her journey home.
Butterflies also come to feed. With hundreds of flowers, there’s plenty to share. No arguments occur, as the nectar becomes their drink for the day.
The scent fills the air, the petals soft against the palm of my hand, as I remove a few of the dead buds, allowing room for others to open wide.
As the light fades to dusk, all disappear. The hibiscus is left alone in her thoughts. Another day complete, she lets a few flowers, which are past their date close and fade away. Dropping to the floor, they will re-join the earth, their life complete, in the knowledge they have fed and helped several insects in their life to survive.