Course Work - English Descriptive Writing - TBC

Her body was sprawled in a demented cross, not unlike the fragment of necklace torn from her neck a lifetime before. Her rustling breath both racked and aided her startlingly human verve; she took solace in the shrouding darkness for he could not be seen in her line of sight. Head twisted roughly to the side with the appearance of a woollen doll, and certainly with the fragility of such a plaything, the last few stragglers of blood slithered from within the jagged edge of torn tissue. The colour of her skin had drained away as he had retreated from society. This irrefutable fact – coupled with the remnant of a warped sense of history – was what bound the two together.

And what had led him to this.

A quick punt to the rocking chair and it began to slowly convulse as she did; the thud mingled with her strangled breaths, spilling into the compilation of sound as mere background noise. 

He flickered between the dark aura of a chthonic deity and the latent vestige of that frozen organ concealed inside his chest cavity, a segment of which she had formerly and malevolently stolen from him.

Bitch.

"You brought this on yourself," he whispered matter-of-factly. "I hope you realise that," he paused, gathering his words, "and I hope you realise that I had to do this, for purely selfish reasons I know, but you have no one to miss you apart from... you, and even you can't perform miracles from beyond the grave. I'd always wondered what my last words would be to you, so much so that it was bordering on a juvenile fantasy. I could have gone for the cliché, but I'm not one for following the crowds, you know that. Then I thought, hey, I should construct a prayer of sorts, but neither one of us was the religious type, and, besides, no one would be here to listen, and that would have been a real shame. So, this is me being spontaneous. You said you wanted that, didn't you? Spontaneity." He grinned. "It's your lucky day, darling, I'm giving you the whole bloody shebang."

He swam in an oasis of magnificent death; the water had lapped at his heels on many occasions, but, with gleeful satisfaction, the plunge into ecstasy had been made. Metaphoric horns receding behind his hairline, he grappled with the decrepit, splintering chair at the far end of the room, struck down by returning rounds of memories…

…Abdomen undulating as the adrenaline stained her tightened body, with an animated guise, she advanced towards the man who could do no wrong.

She let him have it.

Each strike, jab, blow, resulted in a squirming of internal organs, the metallic taste of warm blood to batter his tongue, and a crack as knuckle met unguarded skin. Conventionality did not have any place there, only blind terror and the struggle of human life. All of his insecurities, his fears, his crushed aspirations scattered into the strained atmosphere as one amorphous catalyst for revenge.  The rocking chair clattered against the hard ground, its gait so rapid, so violent, so uncontrollable, that it sent him even further towards the edge – that nearing edge between sanity and the tumble into madness.  

Nobody could have stopped it.

But, if nobody could have stopped it, then why would a steadying rise of a foot, a hardened clutch around the wooden ankles, or a period of measured waiting have brought an end to the ominous heaving?

Perhaps a better phrase would have been: nobody needed to stop it, because he had done so himself.

Back in the room, he melted into the dark background of the walls, (as to shield his uneasy expression),  though such camouflage was not needed for his past had sealed her eyes close in a futile attempt to either retain some gold-dust-like energy or blot out his features. The latter, he reflected, was less probable.

Even when he looked upon her now he could only see one thing: the weeks, months, years of discoloured skin and broken ribs. He had taken care to mirror those on her; her bone had splintered like timber, her scream had erupted like that of a newborn, raw, poignant and needy. But he wouldn't harm a child. They were innocent, light of nature, and hers was dark. 

Her breathing slowed. The rocking chair creaked to a halt. 

LETTER TO ROSIE MARCEL

Dear Rosie Marcel,

I want to start by saying congratulations on your marriage. I hope you had a spectacularly excellent day and I wish you both well in terms of the future - you truly deserve happiness.

I've written this letter to tell you how much I love you in Holby. Jac is my favourite character of all time, purely because of the amount and vastness of her depth. In essence, she's not just a two-dimensional bitch. To construct a rather spontaneous metaphor, Jac is like an onion. She has many layers to her; some can make you cry with laughter, and some can make you weep with sadness. That's what makes her one of the best characters to ever grace Holby's corridors.

I really enjoy watching Jac's relationship with Jonny, and can't wait for it to be developed further. I think he's really sweet, and Scottish, (obviously), which is very much apart of his allure, and they could be really good together. But, only time will tell if that will actually happen. If the brilliant writers ever decide to bring Jonny's father in, I really do hope that he is completely unattractive and not an eminent consultant, for reasons you probably understand! The current endometriosis storyline is brilliant, and I really like how Holby have brought it into the public eye - the condition affects over a million women in the UK, and people should be made aware of that.

Basically, your portrayal of the egotistical yet hilarious consultant is brilliant and brightens up my Tuesday nights. Plus, you are a fantastic role model and idol to all of your fans. I look forward to any of her future storylines, and I hope there will be many!

From Bethany

The Corner Of The Eye

This is a poem I wrote for my grandmother's funeral.

The corner of the eye.

The corner of the eye, with bounds unknown,
Veils secrets so extraordinary, so prone
To revelation with a quickened glance,
Like a switch, a Blitzkrieg advance,
That the line between both twins,
Appears vague and blurred within
The corner of the eye.

The corner of the eye, with minute vision,

Captures those memories without collision,
Or a splotch, or a smudge, or a smear,

Nor with the consequence of ink, dear,
Dear darling, dearest, dear Mr, dear Mrs,
On tear-stained letters followed by reminisces
Read by the corner of the eye.

The corner of the eye is exercised seldom,
Spare the tears with floodgate latent, unwelcomed,
When looked upon the lost by matter of guise,
‘Cos those ghost-like professionals, with improvised
Words, divergent to their closed-book souls,
Deem the paper more worthy than to console,
Those tears from the corner of the eye.

The corner of the eye, open to fire,
Blazes with a inconstant shade that doesn’t retire,
Those million phantoms with decontrolled faces, 
Deserve more than a thousand embraces.
And to the solemn song they sigh:
We love you dear darling, and, goodbye,
We’ll see you again in the corner of the eye.

The corner of the eye, where they are stored,
Ever since the cutting of the cord,
Enclosed in that eternal, umbilical orb,
Can they, reflectively, be absorbed?
A quick glance into a window, a mirror,
And they are so, so much nearer
To the corner of the eye. 

And to the living echo, they sigh:
We love you dear darling, and goodbye,
We’ll see you again in the corner of the eye.

English Course Work - Dystopian Story

The Satellite

The mechanical spirals contorted wistfully with a determined desperation to transform - manufactured, metal DNA suspended in the outer atmosphere. Various landing platforms, which contracted on demand, concealed the entire left side of the spacecraft, primed for the inevitability of a new arrival. The place was devoid of sound, for modern technology had never mastered the control of a vacuum, and, therefore, the slight buzz of the transmitting signals could not be heard. Inscribed into the side of the ship, adorned with a sinister logo, were the letters: A, B and C – (an ancient abbreviation).

The spacecraft oversaw Earth - a horrid mutation of the concept of God. Though it bore no visible windows, humans were forever reminded of its prominent capability to see.

And what a civilisation to observe. 

A morally distorted world on the brink of super nuclear war, Earth, and its surrounding web of miasma, was shattered beyond repair. Broken from battle, defences frail, the 121^st century brought nothing but desolation to its overbearing population; so, when the amount become too much, The Satellite was used in overdrive.

Immediately, an oblongated ray of translucent light – (the transmit beam) - entered the planet’s atmosphere; the end undulated like the spine of some gargantuan sea monster, plucking the weak from within the murky depths of the globe. Those deemed unfortunate enough to be selected were swiftly transported to The Satellite, where they waited to discover their uncertain fate.

***

Light hit the multicoloured walls, producing a shimmering palette of red and yellow in thin tiger stripes. Recessed ceiling bulbs offered a solution to the darkness of the space outside. The intensity of a sudden wave of increased temperature unsettled his perfect equilibrium; his face found the floor in seconds.

Curling his fingers around his gentle locks, in an effort to combat the scorching sensation that had besieged his mind, he twisted his body into a foetal-like position, waiting out the pain.

Jonathan Maconie stirred unwillingly from his point of advent; he carefully opened an eye, the clouded face of a younger girl the only sight to form within his vision. Everything began to move in a calculated montage of sound and colour - the outside world seemed to have been morphed into a disorienting haze of adrenaline.

“Oh my god, I don’t believe it!” An American drawl threw his whereabouts into uncertainty. As Jonny gave the first proof of the free and proper action of his lungs, he hauled himself upright, flexed the defined scapulas of his muscular stature and cocked his head somewhat.

“I’m sorry, what?” His soft tones were flecked with a strained accent. The wonderfully statuesque red-head held an expression of an altruistic nature. Obviously, the blankness of her eyes supplied arguments against the assumption that she had been genetically engineered, like many of the modern breed, though her beauty said otherwise. 

“Oh my god, you’re from Scotland!” Jonny’s eyes widened incredulously. His outsized horns struggled to recede and he smiled sardonically. 

“How did you guess?”

Her face crumpled, before a strident voice imperfectly articulated the words, “Sorry, ignore her, we just haven’t heard from the Scots since their independence from Briterica.”

At that, an animated discussion took place.

“Right… I’m still at a bit of a loss here, where am I?” asked Jonny, stopping short, and darting at his new acquaintances a look of intense irritation.

Kate flashed him a tremendous smile.

“You’re a housemate! You’re in the house! Isn’t that brilliant? You’re playing the game!”

A sweeping gaze of his new surroundings revealed as such.

In prime position, adjacent to the side wall, was a large eye. Its centred iris, fringed with red, had become an international icon; the design lacking eyelashes paled into insignificance. With a vixen-like intensity, those who dared glance, however fleetingly, at the image was immediately laboured with the thought of never-ending surveillance. Cameras ruled every corner, capturing every hour; every minute; every second to be broadcast live to the entire population.

Mark, noticeably clinging to the ruby settee, said: “That really isn’t fair, seeing as we have an eviction in five minutes!” The red-head’s attitude changed in an instant; she quickly instigated an argument. Its sound fading into the background, the ring of the intercom produced a well-known theme tune.

“You are live on Channel Thirty-five Thousand. Please do not swear,” Jonny stifled a snort at the inanity of it all, “Alex, Kate, and Mark, you have all been nominated for eviction.”

The trio turned to the television without a single lapse in concentration, grasping one another’s hands in their own.

The mainframe’s voice continued, “And the eighth person to leave the Big Brother House is,” there was an elongated pause, “Kate!”

There was a cry of anguish. The red-head’s friends gave her a thousand embraces.

“You have thirty seconds to say your goodbyes and then we’re coming to get you!”

“I’m so sorry,” Mark murmured, a feat unexpected from the arrogant Englishman. He imprinted his cold white lips passionately on her forehead; Jonny observed this act, perplexed. The grip Mark had on Kate’s shoulders failed to loosen, before she mastered the courage to shrug him off. A flash of sheer panic crossed her eyes before they became impressively impassive.

Slowly, she walked towards the exit door, the laser beams skulking from sight. It slid open, and, with a sad glance towards her comrades, entered the cubicle.

There was a hum of power.

The bolt of white light slammed into Kate’s chest, exposing the raw muscle, flesh and bone as it was transformed into a thick, red shower. The air was suddenly electric with the guarantee of bloodshed.

She gazed wildly round, shuddering; fell back and died. 

Jonny fell silent, appalled. He had seen everything – they had transmitted the butchering on their very screen. He turned on the other housemates, eyebrows raised in a question that need not be spoken.

“She’s been evicted,” Alex shrugged, “From life.”

And then the world uncoiled, shooting back to speed.