Hi, welcome (or welcome back) to Creative Writing Club! This series details the activities we have done at my school's Creative Writing Club and gives them to you to serve as inspiration. Feel free to participate and to post what you've written.
Our prompt for Creative Writing Club was to write a story (either about a character or about ourselves) in which he/she was running, swimming, flying, strolling, etc. Basically, we had to write about a character in the middle of some kind of action. Rather than starting a new piece, I decided to write on my Work-In-Progress (WIP).
This is what I've got so far:
London at night had always been beautiful. This night, the stormy clouds swam across the skies and dove into the depths of the horizon. They swamped the Moon and the stars, and the only light emanated from the street lamps, the cars, and the offices open late. The lights reflected off of the roiling clouds so that no light from London stretched into the Heavens and no light from the Heavens touched the humanity of London.
Through the layers of clouds, Mara soared with white, angel wings. Her wings pumped the cool air into her face, brushing the hair away from her eyes, like the soft touch of a loved one. She tucked her wings close to her body and popped through a temporary gap in the clouds. The headlights of a car on a hill blinded her for a second as she descended towards London.
She flew to her house, through the open window and unto her mattress, which sped along the floor with the force of her landing. It hit the wall and Mara’s shoulder embraced the rough edge of a brick. She began to bleed.
Mara left her wound to bleed and sat on the edge of her mattress, tracing her skin with her fingers, feeling its soft, pure, whiteness end in a searing pattern of scars. She traced them as they marched up her skin. They hopscotched up her right arm, around and around, like an entangling serpent. They met her shoulder and danced across her chest, around her breasts in a parade of emotions, sliding their way to her stomach and down, down. They fled, like tears streaming, down both legs and to the tips of her pinkie toe. Across her left arm, too, they skipped.
Her back was almost unmarked. One x-shaped scar split her perfection. This scar split her heart, breaking it into fragmented pieces, slices stitched together with the scars. This scar split her heart, slid in between her ribs, and came out the other side. It was x among the o’s.
She remembered each scar and she wept. Her tears flowed from darkness, the heavy bags under her eyes, and into the light, as the shadows roved around the room, shifting with the wind’s movement of the lights in the room.
The lights in the room acted as spotlights. As they blew, they highlighted the crying Mara and then highlighted, one by one, the pictures covering much of the wall space in the room.
There was a time in her life when Mara could tell the story of each and every picture hanging--the picture of Shakespeare and Anne, of Mary and Joseph, of Mark Antony and Cleopatra--but as time unraveled, her matchings became clumsy and her arrows sometimes missed, and Mara no longer knew who all was on her walls. The two men in front of the altar--had she shot them? King Henry and his one, two, three, four--fourth wife, it was--kissing beside the guillotine. Had she done that? Had she betrayed the name of Love in that way? She couldn’t remember. Perhaps she had. Or perhaps, while she had been languishing in her self-pity, the world had escaped her grasp. Perhaps she was no longer the Cupid of the heavens and the earth. Perhaps the humans were damned to make their curses and graced to make their own blessings. Or perhaps it had always been her doing. Perhaps she was the Medusa and also the Hercules of Love.
Either way, Love was her domain, and no one--not Venus, not the Erotes, not humanity--was going to take her passion from her.
Mara stood, walked to her table, and began to sharpen both her golden and iron arrows. She dipped her golden arrows in Love and climbed the stairs. She perched behind the curtain of her window and waited.
That's all I have right now. The idea for this story didn't come from the writing prompt above, but from the music video below: Ed Sheeran's Give Me Love. So feel free to write using either one of these for inspiration. If you participate, post what you wrote. Pretty please.
