Sunsets - Shapeshifting Sunsets by Jennifer

We all recall the end of a typical animated movie - the protagonist returning to his relieved family after heroically defeating the villain. A heart warming reunion, foreground to the sunset in the the distance, symbolising a closure whether it be plot-wise or emotional. The sunset marks the end of the day's turmoils, of a retreat into the tranquil familial sphere from the perils which thrive on the energy of sunlight.

Yet at the same time we hear of the danger in the final rays of the sun as it makes its descent, the inevitable conjure of endless imagination - thieves, murderers hiding around the corner of every sombre alleyway. The smell of covert criminal activity springing to life with the death of sunlight, the taste of the awakening of the city's other facade which laid dormant in the daylight hours.

But what is the mystery behind the sunset? Why does a simple, daily phenomenon hold such ambiguity? Perhaps, as does human tendency, we have glorified the sunset and bestowed it with much greater significance than it constitutes. But who is to say that this bestowed significance has not shaped how we discern night and day?

Author's Note: 196 words. Sorry about the short post. I intended to address the many different meanings we take out of a sunset, and to pose questions about whether there was a 'correct' interpretation and whether such an interpretation would be time/spatially dependent. I'm not very satisfied with the ending, but can't exactly pinpoint what. Sleepy. Going to sleep. Good night.

Sunsets - The Sun Sets by Maggie

The Sun Sets

One day the sun went down and never came back up. 
I know this because I woke up to darkness. 
“Hello darkness, my old friend.” I greeted. 
It responded with a sound of silence.

I felt my way around to the window. 
That tiny window above the bookshelf. 
Oops. I think I just crashed into something. Or someone. 
Who else could be here?

Finally, I had reached the window. 
A small slit into the heavens. 
I exhaled. My breath fogged up the glass. 
That’s no good.

I squinted. Forcing my vision to clear.
My pupils to dilate. Take in the light. 
I could have wiped the fog away with my hand.
But humans are absurd.

Concentrate. You had to concentrate. 
It can be devious. 
The Sun can hide.
Sometimes its presence was muffled by the clouds. 

But it wasn’t. 

I went to the horizon and peeked over the edge.
I said, “Sun, why aren’t you getting up?”
“I’m a dying star.” It whispered back.
Like a voice caught in a vacuum.
It was going towards oblivion. 

Oh. 

Author's Note: Ha. Me? Author? What a joke. Okay. I'm the first one to give up and post my piece. JUST A FAIR WARNING THOUGH. This is not poetry. It's...like crappy sentences separated into groups of four. There's like no flow. I don't know what I was doing. It's approaching 11pm and I better just post it and get it over and done with. (Please don't laugh at me. Or pretend to be nice. :C) In my defence for this bad piece of writing...I was stressing over about uni. WHICH IS TOMORROW. D: 

 

Sunsets - Special Pilot

No stimulus provided.

Due: 11:59 PM AEST 02/03/14 

#WRITERSNEVERDIE

Hey guys! Exciting news!

We're back with a new series of beautifully written pieces for your personal devouring and enjoyment, delivered live and flapping like freshly floundering salmon straight to your computer screen.

Our new program schedule will be broadcasting individual pieces every second Sunday, starting from the Special Pilot episode this weekend, before university starts for your loverly writers.

And on that note... Introducing, the writers of this season!

• Your beloved returning cast: Jennifer, Alicia and Katrina 
• Fresh meat: Maggie and Alison

But this season, there's a twist.

Gone are the 30 minute writing restrictions. Gone are the restrictive genres of belonging. GONE ARE OUR BORDERS.

This season... our hearts, minds, creative limits, and procrastinative abilities can't hold it back anymore and are letting it go! (sorry)

The new rules:

• any written text type is cool. (e.g. short story, poetry, scientific report, documentary, speech, presidential address, resume etc. BE CREATIVE) 
• the minimum effort required needs to feel like you actually really tried ok?
• no writing time limits 
• one prompt a fortnight - must be addressed sufficiently in your piece. do not include it as a random reference. you still have to use it like you would a stimulus in high school, just maybe a bit more creatively this time. 
• each πece is due Sunday 11:59 PM AEST

Happy imaginative writing, and may the motivation be ever in your favour! 

Don't miss out!!!

Revival Request

Hey guys, let's revive this blog after our extreeeeeemely long hiatus!

I was thinking that as well as creative writing, we could have other modes of writing too ... like feature article type opinion posts (if you know what I mean, we might even have to do a bit of research on the topic). So maybe we could have a committee of some sort to decide the type of writing, the stimulus/topic it's going to be on (it could be a normal stimulus like the ones we've been using, or it could be a controversial topic e.g. euthanasia, or a topic inviting opinion-fuelled discussion e.g. the questionable existence of bus timetables), and other specifics (like compulsory vocab or whatnot).

But I guess this wouldn't work so well with a time limit ... maybe we could just say that you have a whole week to work on it or something, and you just post what you've got at the end of the week? (No peeking at the drafts though haha!)

I thought that this would be good preparation for uni as well ... where we're going to need to engage in some academic writing :)

Any opinions, etc. welcome in the comments! This is just a proposal hehehe ...

Parade - The Bus Will Come by Alicia

The Bus Will Come

There is difficulty in maintaining the contents of a mug when it is not built for travel.

Here I am, awash in rain.

Amelia flexes her wrist softly in a circular motion, watching as the opaque brown stuff sloshes gently from side to side in her rapidly cooling mug – it meekly suggests CPS Current Population Survey on its curved face in a thin, grey, bending typeface. A little pale sunlight Toyota hurtles past, jostling the little party of water molecules and city street pollution into frenzy. She takes the chance to look down the busy road, looking for the merest sign of the tall blocky bus shape. There is none, yet.

Leather boots are not an adept demonstration of practicality when it is raining buckets of goldfish.

She totters in the short heels, wriggling her feet in a rather unpleasantly squelchy fashion as she shudders at the sensation of moisture seeping into her toes. Bus, bus, bus, bus where are you? A large droplet of rain has gathered its nearest comrades and has tumbled into her mug. Amelia’s eyebrows wrinkle in a small resigned annoyance as she watches it disperse into homogenousness with habile chemical ability. A figure steps into her peripheral vision, dressed in the mutually-accepted-by-society colours of black, brown, and black.

Amelia decides to swirl the tea again because she can see a small particle of rainwater which has not dissolved into the rest of the watery stuff – she’s not even sure it’s concentrated teabag enough to be called tea anymore.

An umbrella is essential when you see a swivel of cloud dusting the skies.

Rain on me. My jacket can handle it.

Of course, no one thinks to take an umbrella when they work in a petite little bookstore on the corner of Cleveland and Crown; that little plastic bin full of fold up and stick brollies is only for the lovely patrons who flutter in, bringing with them their own smells – coffee, cigarettes, cars, cardboard or even carcinogenic carbon. Amelia is that girl who sits behind the counter at Oscar’s reading a book about physics one day, and hearing the echoing sentiment of ‘old boy’ the next.

Never let tea cool if you intend on drinking it.

Bah! She swallows it gingerly.

That figure from before, on the edge of her peripheral vision, walks over with a smile – at least she imagines it to be a smile behind the darkness that is the hair and the hoodie and the everything dazzling about this newcomer.

Dazzlingly brilliant and as fresh as spring rain – until their hand raises and plops five sugar cubes rather arrogantly into her mug. This contumely from a no doubt self-named tea-genius has offended her. Amelia sniffs discordantly and steps away, the sly letters CPS turning to face the glass barrier of the bus stop instead of the stranger.

The bus will come, but do not expect it to come on time.

The stranger seems oddly put out – their shoulders have slumped. Amelia cannot find it in her tea-loving heart to feel any sympathy for someone who has just ruined her tea.

And yet, in that moment, as her eyes focus away from her thoughts to the distant horizon of the street, she sees that chunky block that is definitely a bus.

The right bus.

She throws her arm out into the gunfire, an imbalance of cold and warm singing as bullets of rain repeatedly strike her bare wrist and open palm. Her shadow stranger does the same. The bus huffily comes to a halt, the base of its steps teetering precariously towards the kerb.

There is a moment where it is just the sound of her cold breath mingling with the sighing of the engine, a romantic backdrop of rain pattering away on the roof of the bus shelter and the bus itself – and then the doors clatter open with some exasperated sounding pumps.

Board the bus, you little peasant.

Mind the gap.

Amelia minds the gap very much. The other steps forth unhesitatingly, jumping over the gutter and into the damp metal shell of the bus. Their steady sneakers beckon. She hastens to do the same, even as she watches with a sinking heart, the deepened wound of her severely diluted tea.

Finally, frisson, when the confined space of the pass traps you.

She sidles over, CPS raised high above her breast at a safe distance from the ground. Amelia does well in dipping her pass, and she listens in pleasure to the chirping duet of the two machines in synchrony with one another – the other has dipped too.

Only then does she remember the predicament of the pass.

A bat-like object comes into contact with her shoulder, continuing forward with the velocity of an accidental steam engine. Amelia can hear the apology on the other person’s lips, but she can only hear her own silent profanity as the foldable black umbrella comes to a shuddering halt right above her mug.

And releases a torrential downpour of sulfurous and haloalkane infested liquid.

Amelia turns instinctively towards the other person, only to glance at the Funny Girl poster behind them, absorbing the long brown locks tucked away in the abyss of a green hoodie. The other woman looks at the poster too, and is amused at an untold joke, understands an untold story, foresees an unforetold future. 

But all Amelia cares about right now is saying this:

No you seriously cannot rain on my parade.

~OvO~

Author's Note: Woah 912 words. I got a lot carried away. Wrote for about 45-50 min. It doesn't relate to belonging - it's a story about Amelia who is a girl waiting for a bus in the rain, remembering some advice, and meeting a lovely young stranger who just happens to annoy her a lot. I'm really sleepy, so most of this is really badly paced and everything. I might fix it later, I just felt so guilty because we have class today and I don't have anything complete to give in. :( 

Also, Funny Girl is the original musical that the song "Don't Rain On My Parade" is from. I didn't know how to end it and use the quote from the stimulus, so I did that. 

Hope everyone else updates soon! :)