OCA Writing Course Assignment 2

Snapshot

Exercise 2.13

An alley cat squints into the dark, almost permanent twilight, that hung over the smog filled city. Sensing prey, she tenses, one good eye narrowed to a concentrated slit as she waits, poised to strike.  But it turns out to only be a toy mouse that someone threw out, its battery body short circuiting as it gives a dying spin of its wheels. Stalking back to her perch on an old air conditioner, the cat waits, tail swishing lazily, the only indication of her impatience. A scream cuts through the poisonous air as the footsteps of two children race down the alley, dislodging the cat and causing her to break for cover. No fool trusted humans. Not even their own kind. Curses and threats follow the children’s retreat, an empty plastic container bouncing off the pile of rotting trash as it was aimed at their fleeing shapes. The children will hide until their mother calms down, there is nothing else to be done, ankle deep in decay they crouch and hold one another. Somewhere in the distance harsh sirens wail, the noise grates even the dulled senses of these urchins, but they pay no heed for the alarms are not for them. Far off, the culprit of the noise disappears as explosions rattle the last broken glass from a graffiti covered building. The slogans sprayed onto the concrete have started to fade along with their significance, there is no longer hope behind them, no one bothers to make them anymore. There is no room for rebellion or art here, survival is too draining. Above, the smog that covers the city thins out to reveal a red sky, a sky of a fevered earth. But no one cares for nature, it is as rabid and wild as its fellow humans, changing with frightening swiftness to sweep away all in its path.

The Gold Cross

Exercise 2.12 + 2.14

Hands shaking I pull my pyjama shirt over my head and reach for the navy uniform. Shrugging on the shirt, I straighten the fabric and feel sweat wipe off my palm.

“Oh very professional,” I mutter. “Nice going Max, you’re already a wreck.”

Stuffing my feet into the trouser legs I buckle my belt and take a calming breath. Everything is going to be fine. As I do up the zip on my jacket, the same navy colour, I catch sight of my reflection in the dark window. Carefully running a comb through my hair, I flex my fingers and pin my badge of office to my chest. The silver wings have served me well, I am almost sad to be promoted, but with the gold cross comes the opportunity to make my mark. I do not intend to waste this new role, I have long been dreading and preparing for it, but I know I am ready and the people need and wish me to aid them.

Stepping out, I shut the door behind me and nod to a junior, he smiles back at me eagerly and bids me good luck. I quickly check in with my overseeing officer, technically this should be my former mentor but I have Fey riots to thank for her death, I miss her more than ever today. Captain Hazel was the best officer I’ve ever known, maybe that’s just hero worship talking but I have no less admiration for her now she is put to rest. She is the reason I am here to take this promotion. Walking down the corridor with precise steps her words ring in my ears, “You joined because you wanted to help and protect your people, I respect that, but you must understand that it will never be easy, whether it’s bearing unimaginable pain while waiting to gut your enemy, dealing with people who should be locked up for sheer stupidity, or filing paperwork at 1 am knowing you’ll never be thanked for it. That’s what will help the people of Haven, be what they need, not the dashing hero you want to be. It’s not kicks and flashy gadgets here boy, you want that, you know where the door is. But if you truly want to help, be prepared to sacrifice everything.” And she had sacrificed everything, I’d seen it every day I was with her. In the end it had taken her life, and although I had come to terms with her death it still impacted me two years later. I would never forget her.

With her memory safely tucked under my shirt I stepped out to wait my call, standing to attention with the rest of the boys. The call to be seated finally came and I was relieved, my legs were suddenly shaky. I could face death, gun fire, and angry mobs without any signs of anxiety, but this was something else entirely. The words buzzed in my ears, the announcements praising the courage or resourcefulness of some of the soldiers. I was pleased to see a few of my comrades up there. Finally my turn came and I walked to the platform in a daze, listening to the general go over my exploits. I suppose I was a hero, but I couldn’t help feeling as if he were speaking of someone else, it had never seemed so glorious in the moment. It had been almost…normal. What else could I have done? Let the enemy win, I don’t think so, that would have gone against the very core of my being.

I felt the gold cross being pinned to my chest and my hand shake that of the general’s. As I was sent to my seat, my mind finally registered what had happened. I outranked most soldiers, what would I do with that? I had no idea, but a ghost of a plan was already coming together, schemes I had only dreamed of in my apprentice days. I was going to help in any way I could, I knew what it was to sacrifice everything and I was not afraid to do it, whether I was filing papers or holding the gun, I had full intention of changing Haven to a city as safe as the old days. I am a wild dreamer, and often don’t stick to the rules, but all that mattered now was that I had a plan and I knew my mentor would approve.

Reflective Commentary

Overall this module has been easier, I write better combining what is real and what is fictional. I prefer to be able to make the rules up as I go, rather than sticking to the laws of reality, which are constraining. I also find it easier to translate what I have experienced, both emotionally, mentally, and physically, through a made up incident in whatever context I choose. However some of the habits given in the course have been challenging for me to get into, others I’ve been doing already. For example I use music to generate ideas a lot, especially music with lyrics, having a set sit down and listen helps to inspire me for the next step of whatever I’m writing. Another place I get my ideas is lying in bed about to fall asleep, I use this as a time to play out scenes fully in my head without any other distractions around. Often I might not use these scenes but they help to give more material when I do sit down to write. Travel is also a source of inspiration, the hours on a flight or in a car let my mind wander more freely with nothing else to do. The common place book has been a more difficult habit to have, I tend to research online and don’t like printing big things, also if I’m on my phone, which I often am, it’s a pain to always email site addresses to myself. But I have been saving ideas to Pinterest when I find them and recently I started using OneNote to save other websites and pictures. Some of the research has been hard or uninteresting to conduct, such as genres which I’ve looked into a lot, but when researching utopia and dystopia I became so interested I wrote a scene for both rather than choosing one or the other and made them parallels. One of the reasons for this is that I already did some dystopia writing and it was exciting to see its origins and how it has evolved.

Utopia

The world is bathed in yellow. Warm sunlight shines through the window in almost solid rays, warming all it touches. A black cat stretches in the golden glow, yawning wide her pink mouth and settling on the rag rug for a nap, basking in the glorious heat of the midday sun. Her nap is only interrupted when the sound of children’s voices broke over the still and the clatter of footfalls broke the peace. Pushing the door open the mother of the house enters, followed quickly by her two children who burst into the living room and cause the black cat to seek refuge in other, less chaotic, places. Laughter fills the house as music emanates into every nook and cranny, soaking the house in its happy tunes.  Outside there is the whistling of the father’s own songs, wafting up from the garden and through the open bathroom window. His hands are busy at work, creating masterpieces of wood with his tools, and his head is far off in the clouds of thought. Next door the smell of cooking colors the air, fresh cake. The scent floats over the cropped grass and down the pebble path, tantalizing the mouths of the neighbours and catching in trees. A sprawling neighbourhood spreads out over the county, only giving way to woods and fields after that and encompassing the country with green down to the blue sea and grey mountains.

Dystopia

An alley cat squints into the dark, the almost permanent twilight that hung over the smog filled city. Sensing prey she tenses, one good eye narrowed to a concentrated slid as she waits, poised to strike.  But it turns out to only be toy mouse that someone threw out, its battery short circuiting as it gives a dying spin of its wheels. Stalking back to her perch on an old air conditioner the cat waits, tail swishing lazily as the only indication of her impatience. A scream cuts through the poisonous air as the footsteps of two children race down the alley, dislodging the cat and causing her to break for cover. No fool would trust humans. Curses and threats follow the children’s retreat, an empty plastic container bouncing off the pile of rotting trash as it was aimed at their fleeing shapes. The children will hide until their mother calms down, there is nothing else to be done, ankle deep in decay they crouch and hold one another. Somewhere in the distance harsh sirens wail, the noise grating even the dulled senses of these urchins, but they pay no heed for the alarms are not for them. Far off the culprit of the noise disappears as explosions rattle the last broken glass from a graffiti covered building. The slogans sprayed onto the concrete have started to fade along with their significance, there is no longer any hope behind them, no one even bothers to make them anymore. There is no room for rebellion or art here, survival is much too draining. Above the smog that covers the city thins out to reveal a red sky, a sky of a fevered earth. But no one cares for nature, it is as rabid and wild as their fellow humans, changing with frightening swiftness to sweep away all in its path

Hands shaking I pull my pyjama shirt over my head and reach for the clothes set out for me, a navy uniform. Picking up the short sleeves t-necked shirt I pull it over my head and reach my arms through the sleeves. I straighten the fabric and feel sweat wipe off my palm.

“Oh very professional,” I mutter. “Nice going Max, you’re already a wreck.”

Stuffing my feet into the trouser legs I buckle my belt and take a calming breath. Everything is going to be fine. As I do up the buttons and zip on my jacket, the same navy colour that buttons to the right side of my chest, I catch sight of my reflection in the dark window it’s like seeing a ghost. I look the image of my father. Carefully running a comb through my hair I flex my fingers and pin my badge of office to my chest. The silver wings have served me well, I am almost sad to be promoted, but with the god cross I am about to be rewarded with comes the opportunity to make my mark. I do not intend to waste a moment of this new role, it is what I have long been dreading and preparing for, but I know I am ready and the people both need and wish me to aid them.

Stepping out I shut the door behind me and nod to one of the juniors, he smiles back at me eagerly and bids me good luck for the promotion. I don’t quite know how I became a favourite with the youngsters, maybe because I acknowledge them, maybe because I still think like them, but for whatever reason I am grateful. I am barely four years older than most of them, 21 to their 17 years, and I feel most comfortable around them than with my seniors or even my peers. Perhaps in time I will become a mentor, I think I would enjoy that if I did not have to be so harsh on my pupil.

As I push these thoughts aside I quickly check in with my overseeing officer, technically this should be my old mentor but I have fey terrorist attacks to thank for her death, I miss her more than ever today. Captain Hazel was the best officer I’ve ever known, maybe that’s just hero worship talking but I have no less admiration for her now she is put to rest. She is the very reason I am here to take this promotion. Walking down the corridor with precise steps her words ring in my ears, “You joined because you wanted to help and protect your people, I respect that, but you must understand that it will never be easy, whether it’s learning to handle unimaginable pain while waiting your chance to gut your enemy, dealing with people who should be locked up for sheer stupidity, or sitting filing paperwork at one in the morning knowing you’ll never be thanked for it. That’s what will help the people of Haven, to be what they need not the dashing hero you want to be. It’s not kicks and flashy gadgets here boy, you want that you know where the door is. But if you truly want to help, be prepared to sacrifice everything.” And she had sacrificed everything, I’d seen it with my very eyes every day I was with her. In the end it had taken her life, and although I had come to terms with her death it still impacted me even now two years later. I would never forget her.

With her memory safely tucked under my shirt I stepped out to wait my call, standing to attention with the rest of the boys while we waited for the general to signal that we may be seated. The call finally came and I was relieved, my legs were suddenly shaky. I could face death, gun fire, and angry mobs without betraying any signs of anxiety, but this was something else entirely. The words were a buzz in my ears as I waited, the announcements praising the courage or resourcefulness of this or that soldier, I was pleased to see a few of my comrades up there being acknowledged. Finally it was my turn and I walked up to the platform in a daze, listening to the general go over my exploits. I suppose I was a hero, but I couldn’t help feeling as if he were speaking of someone else, it had never seemed so glorious in the moment. It had been almost….normal. What else was I to have done? Let the enemy get to innocents, I don’t think so, that would have been going against the very core of my being.

I suppose it had been brave, taking charge of a troop of soldiers when our leader was shot and his deputy gravely wounded, it hadn’t really been my place. There were other men, worthier soldiers, more qualified soldiers, but when I had started speaking, started calling out for silence they had obeyed. They had obeyed and I had used whatever skill I had to get them all out alive, it hadn’t been courageous, it had been pretty stupid, but it had worked that was all that mattered. We’d only lost five men that day and I am glad for that small consolation, I dread to think what would have happened if I had made the wrong call. All twenty men and the village we were defending could have gone up in smoke.

Jolting back to the present I felt the gold cross being pinned to my chest and my hand shake that of the general’s. As I was sent back to my seat my mind finally registered what had happened and what that meant. I outranked most soldiers now, even my old mentor, what would I do with that? I had no idea but a ghost of a plan was already coming together, schemes I had only dreamed of beginning in my apprentice days. I was going to help in any way I could, I knew what it was to sacrifice everything and I was not afraid to do it, whether I was filing papers or holding the gun I had full intention of changing Haven to a city safe enough to live in as they did in the old days. I am a wild dreamer I know, and often don’t stick to the rules, but all that mattered now was that I had a plan and I knew both my mentor and father would have approved of it.

“Right and wrong, what a complicated concept,” old Issengre murmured. “Who decides? The hero usually, or rather the survivor. Those are the ones who write history. Do you think humans are purely right and wrong? Good or evil?”

“I…..” Arflow hesitated. “I believe everyone has the potential for good, but often don’t allow for that potential,” he answered carefully.

“A wise answer,” Issengre remarked. “But a little naive. How would you justify violence then?”

“I……” The boy paused again and swallowed. “I don’t. But I can justify defence.”

“How so?” Issengre probed.

“Defence is an act of balance, it’s a reaction. Violence is a tool, and like any tool it is neither good nor bad, it’s only what it is used for. It can be to defend a child from harm or to do that same child harm. There’s not much in the world that is always evil, humans are most certainly not so, but the choices of every tool are in the hands of humans and they are the ones to blame. They are the ones who turn a tool evil or good, and their actions and choices are what taint themselves evil. No sir, I don’t think humans are purely right or wrong, however I do think that the consequences of their actions are what we make of them and we may use anything for good or evil,” Arflow explained, struggling to get his point across. “I think it’s a fine balance and the answers aren’t in humans, it’s in their hearts and intentions. I’d like to think no one is evil just misguided, but the world differs from this belief so I am forced to take action, but I take no pleasure in condemning others.”

Issengre’s eyes twinkled. “That was a big speech for a small boy, who taught you all that?”

Arflow’s foot scuffed the ground as his ears turned red. “My dad, he’s a professor but he used to be in the army. Does that still count?”

“Of course it does, only don’t always look for someone else to lead. Your own ideas are just as valid,” the old man reminded gently. “Now come help me collect some new specimens for your dad’s museum, I thought I saw an abandoned swallow’s nest back there.”

Piece sent in for assignment 1

Two boys sat alone in the cell, bruised and homesick, it was a wonder they were still smiling. Fire sparked in the dark and the older Pyrokinesis twin lifted his hand to the wall, taking the other hand, which was already crackling with a merry blaze, he began to scorch the wall surrounding it. Letting out a whoop he nudged his brother.

“Look! It’s just how Ash showed us,” he pointed. His twin grinned and stood up to summon his own fire, placing his own hand print on the wall.

“Oh that’s cool! Betcha I can make a better one than you,” Coal taunted, twisting his hand to form the head of a dog by tucking in his fingers and burning the area around.

Blaze scoffed. “It was my idea, watch.” He began his own set of shapes until the two began on a group project with one making a shape and the other projecting the fire. Their laughter rang through the jail, causing old prisoners to blink awake and guards to frown in confusions as the two created their own happiness out of the rubble.

Continuation:

                Days later found the boys hauling rocks in the Queen’s quarry. Both were exhausted and hungry, straining against ropes tied across their heaving chests to drag boulders away from the excavation site. When Coal fell, tripping in the uneven ground and falling on his face, Blaze was there to yank him back up. The older twin held his brother upright, dusting him off as he kept an eye out for the overseer.

“Come on,” he whispered, moving the straps on Coal’s back to ease the strain, but Coal shook his head.

“I’m too tired, I don’t want to. I’m so tired.” The boy was on the verge of tears, weak with hunger and fatigue.

“You have to!” Blaze hissed. “Come on, I’ll help you,” he insisted, stumbling along next to Coal as he did his best to pull his own load and help his brother but the effort was too much. Both boys fell and even Blaze felt tears of frustration and desperation slip down his cheeks. “We have to keep going,” he whispered doggedly, trying to find the strength to stand and coming up with nothing.

Beside him Coal had his eyes closed, soaking up the firm ground beneath him and not having to move. Finally he spoke. “I wish dad were here.” It wasn’t much more than a whisper but it brought Blaze’s heart plummeting to new lows and the world turn grey. He did wish his father were there, but he wasn’t, in fact their father had been killed before their own eyes days ago. They were alone. Somewhere in that castle that had once been their home was their older brother, but the twins knew better than to ask for help there, Ash would be under closer guard than them and their father’s last wish had been for them to look after him. No, they were on their own.

“Race you to the rock pile,” Blaze mumbled, it was a crazy idea as neither could move but he tried anyway. Moving a leg he bent his knee, slowly sitting up and getting to his feet, always concentrating on the next limb to move. Beside him Coal stirred, opening his eyes, then he too tried to stand. Slowly, one foot in front of the other, the boys began to move. Each step was painful, and almost impossible bearing such a weight, but an hour later saw them staggering to the rock pile. Coal let out a breathless whoop, punching the air with glee.

“I win!” He crowed although they had arrived at the same moment.

“Did….not….” Blaze panted, hands on his knees and bent over trying to wheeze his way back to breathing normally. “I….won….”

Coal tore the straps off his rock and staggered upright as he rubbed his shoulders. “Rematch?”

Blaze’s white teeth flashed in his dark face as he lifted his head. “You’re on.”

Original Freewrite

Valley, dale, woods, trees, all of these are greens and browns. Why is that? Is there something in the color we should learn from? In old theatres they had a green room to ease the actors’ eyes after being in harsh lighting so much. So is green a soothing color? Natural? What would happen if we lived in a red world? Or a blue one? Where leaves were purple and trunks navy? What effect would that have on the world? Would the red world be violent, driven crazy by the ever surrounding color? And the blue world always be in mourning? Is our green world supposed to resemble peace? Because it’s not working too well. Or is the middle east red, the arctic white, the islands yellow, and the forests of europe, canada, and new zealand green? Are they the colored worlds to us? It would explain the wars in the middle east right now for sure and Canada’s placidity.

Continuation

She was as blood red as the rising sun, appearing on the crest of the hill in all her glory. The grass curled and died under her tread, and the sky seemed to stain itself in ruby hues. Even the wind was tinged scarlet for her. Some called her the phoenix, the flame, the change bringer, they looked to her as to a beacon of hope. Every day she drew closer to the castle, and everyday her numbers swelled. Each village and town she walked through her color would stain, driving the people into a madness. They were baying for blood, and there was no one better to lead them than this fire lit queen.

Alone on the great hill, the blue king waited on his throne alone. Long years had this man ruled, and long had his people loved him, now they were at the mercy of this terrible chaos and the old monarch’s heart ached for them. He knew he was fading. Once he too had been young and terrible, had commanded and lead his people like no other, but now his color was fading and he could no long inspire the same way he used to. He was alone. No wife, no children, not in a very long time, and the grief had stained him forever blue.

Far to the south a maiden scrubbed the floors of her father’s house, an outcast and hated, for she bore what no one else in the kingdom held. She was the girl of many colors. Each had been splashed at her as each of her tyrant lords sought to turn her their way, yet she had absorbed them all and made colors of her own, she alone the red queen could not bend to her whim.

The girl stared up at her tousle headed companion. “How come they agree with me now? I’m not even there now! I worked so hard to get them to agree with me but now I’m gone everyone suddenly thinks I’m some hero!”

Charles chuckled. “Death is a funny thing sweetheart, it often make martyrs out of villains and forgets the heroes. Nothing like the ultimate price to remind people how short life is.”

“But I died!” The girl pointed out. “What’s so glorious about that, I thought it was kind of pitiful being hit by a truck. I thought they would think I was an idiot crossing that busy road every week.”

The boy grinned. “Hardship is often glorified by those who don’t understand, that’s why people dream these ridiculous dreams about things that would scare the daylights out of them in reality. But did you think it was worth it crossing that road?” He asked sitting down next to the pale girl and watching the workmen, who were oblivious to their spectral audience.

“Well….no,” the girl admitted. “I suppose not worth dying for, but I did love to dance….”

“That’s what they remember then,” Charles whispered putting his mouth close to her ear. “They remember the girl who loved to dance so much that even the risk of death wouldn’t stand in her way.” He drew back and patted her hand fondly. “People like that, they need brave heroes to remind them to face their fears. That’s why they try in vain to make up for what they couldn’t do for you in life.”

The girl smile, a little flushed at Charles’ words about her. “Well if they’d built a bridge for me when I was alive I wouldn’t have had to cross that busy motorway,” she complained under her breath. “It’s hardly any use to me now.”

Charles nodded and stood up again. “Maybe not, but it means others won’t be hit by trucks in the future. It’s nice to be remembered isn’t it?”

“What, remembered as the girl who crossed the motorway every week to go to ballet lessons because her family couldn’t drive her there?” The girl asked, then seemed to see the humour in the situation and smiled. “I suppose, some have monuments built to them, some have practical things made in their memory.”

“Come on,” Charles began and pulled her to her feet. “It’s time we began work, the world isn’t going to help itself you know.”

The two ethereal beings vanished from the construction site of a bridge, built in the memory of a girl who had been hit by a truck a year before, a girl who had braved the road every week in life to get to ballet lessons, and in death now braved the horrors of protecting others like herself.

OCA Writing course Assignment 1

Exercise 1.1

Two boys sat alone in the cell, bruised and homesick, it was a wonder they were still smiling. Fire sparked in the dark and the older Pyrokinesis twin lifted his hand to the wall, taking the other hand, which was already crackling with a merry blaze, he began to scorch the wall surrounding it. Letting out a whoop he nudged his brother.

“Look! It’s just how Ash showed us,” he pointed. His twin grinned and stood up to summon his own fire, placing his own hand print on the wall.

“Oh that’s cool! Betcha I can make a better one than you,” Coal taunted, twisting his hand to form the head of a dog by tucking in his fingers and burning the area around.

Blaze scoffed. “It was my idea, watch.” He began his own set of shapes until the two began on a group project with one making a shape and the other projecting the fire. Their laughter rang through the jail, causing old prisoners to blink awake and guards to frown in confusions as the two created their own happiness out of the rubble.

Exercise 1.5

Cold air and misty top, swirling grey of solid air, dark green trees that catch the smoke, mysterious as forgotten ghosts. On the edge of the drop, the jungle beneath drifts in and out of sight, the whiteness shrouding the ancient splendour. Wooden balcony, fresh air, enough to wake the mind up. The fog has fallen, but cooled the still, the muggy confusion is no longer here. The silence is hushed, muffled by cloud, like the changing of worlds at the top of the faraway tree. A bridge between worlds. The trees are feathered firs, the air is so cold, and the rocks grey and bold. The monks still moan, and the people stained brown, the red fabric wrapped, and the garlands still show. On a clear day one can see for miles, but on a day like today there is only what stand feet away from you. As the distance grows further the whiter and more indistinct the objects become. People become vague outlines and trees looming structures. Yet the mountain is high, the mist cold to touch and elusive as a forgotten thought. It is like being trapped in the mind of a giant or some sleeping monster. Despite this there is laughter, smiles, tourists with their bare legs and flashing arms, who brave the cold without a doubt. Who knows how they found this corner of the world, Chinese perhaps, Thai students, or one of the many droves of Americans.

Exercise 1.9 – the sort of writer I would like to be

I want to be the type of writer who holds the reader to epic tales of war and strife, battles of heroism, and tyranny being bought to its knees. But I also want to be the writer who niggles her way into the cracks and corners of everyday life, works out issues teens and adults deal with yet do not know they struggle with. I want to be the writer who keeps readers up at night, who is the reason your teenaged daughter is crying her eyes out. I want people to feel loss, and learn to have sympathy for others just by reading. I want them to turn the page and realize, yes that is me. I want them to feel understood, that even if the world hates them that the book is neutral. But most of all I want them to feel hope. To end the story, put the book down, and feel this inexplicable surge of inspiration and joy. To know even if the world is ending around them and hope seems to have flown humanity, that there is just a spark left in them. That time will pass, and the sun will rise again, and better times will come. I want them to understand that to be human is to feel the rainbow of emotions, heartbreak, grief, anger, sorrow, happiness, laughing so hard it hurts, love, satisfaction. I want them to feel it all and more, to show them that this is what makes us human.

Exercise 1.13

It seemed to be pushing against them, like an animal who has tasted freedom and refuses to go back into its cage. – Museum of Thieves p202

It seemed to be pushing against them, like an animal who has tasted freedom and refuses to go back into its cage. The tide was so vast and endless that the operation seemed hopeless, yet it was only with hope that they had begun the mission. Ridiculously ungrounded hope.  Holding back the sea? What lunatic would even attempt such a feat? Them, clearly. The four bedraggled urchins and a bird.

Swallowing hard and securing himself to the shore Skye dug his bare toes into the gritty sand, feeling the cool wet ground hold him and calm his fear. He could feel the pull of the ocean, the fight for freedom. There was a wild, exhilarating sensation of the sheer joy of letting the water run wild, the sea was an ancient creature who had been woken and was about to devour the shore that had so long defied it. It was angry, reckless with rage, and wildly insane with hunger. Racing toward the tideline was a hundred foot wave, easily big enough to kill everything and everything within the next twenty miles inland and wipe this civilization of the face of the planet. It was tempting, painfully so, to ride with the wave, become swept up in the mad joy of destruction. What did Skye even owe these puny citizens who he was striving to save? Nothing. Why was he putting his life on the line when most wouldn’t spare a thought for his wellbeing? He wanted to end them, to destroy all of the known world, to let the might of the elements rip through the pitiful dwellings and careless hearts.

And then what? Whispered a quiet voice inside him. Where would you go? Do you want to be alone again? No. No he didn’t. He had been alone a long time and he had no wish to return to the lost boy he had been. Summoning his strength he sought a way out, no one could stop the sea, but you could divert it.

Reflective Commentary

For the most part, a lot of the writing course tasks were easy. However, what many of them did was emotionally compromise me and it was hard to keep going. I struggle writing emotionally on command, and writing about myself personally, therefore many of the tasks became crippling from what should be a simple exercise. Each time I would have to take breaks in order to come back to the page fresh and with a clearer mind to be able to begin again. For some of the emotion pieces, such as writing from passion I would have to wait for the appropriate moments to write from exactly what I was feeling. Day to day topics were also a problem as they were both boring and loaded questions. Giving my day to day activities deep enough thought to write about them caused a sense of judging and made it difficult for me to write about them in a detached sense. Generally I don’t write from my real life experiences directly, I use them but only to give fabric for something made up, and the subjects tend to drag me down and hold no interest for me.  Many times I would have a dozen different ideas for what to write, such as for the writing from pictures and describing a memory of a place, but was unable to write it due to each idea being dismissed as unacceptable and not worthy. My ideas go through a very specific filtering system, for if they are usable, how far they will go, if I would let anyone read it, if it complies with the exercise, and more besides. I have a fear of misinterpreting the exercises, which often happens to me, and therefore am cautious on what I write regarding it. Writing morning pages and anything self-reflective was equally difficult, both finding time to do so and getting in the headspace to be able to. Mind maps have been very helpful for my writing diary and to get ideas down.