ENGLISH - CREATIVE WRITING
Martha
Martha sits on the deck , eating watermelon . She takes five bites all at once , hungry for the taste of summer . Pale pink juice rivlets dribble down her chin . She spits the seeds across the sky , and they stick to the clouds like little brown raindrops . One stops short in its flight and lands in the grass . Martha frowns . Her small face is harsh ; demands attention . High cheekbones , spring leaf eyes , wildfire black hair . She is a shiny , glaring , seven-year-old thundercloud . She ’ s full of storm and electricity , but the sun shines through her easily .
Spotting a bird in the sky , she flaps her threequarter-eaten watermelon slice and shouts , “ Look ! Look ! It ’ s a swallow ”. Her voice sounds oddly tinny , almost far away . I try to find the bird but it ’ s too small for me to see . Looking back at Martha , I see she ’ s filled with excitement , her grin inflated like a helium balloon . She jumps up , leaving her watermelon skin on the deck , a pink and green fingernail moon on the brown wood . Arms lifted , she skips across the grass , imitating the swallow . The stalks snatch at her feet . Out of nowhere she stops . Mid-step , she is framed in her green-blue-green backyard . Frozen in time .
I click off the videotape and shut my computer .
Martha now sits on the old green couch . She sips a chamomile tea ; stares at the forlorn sky out the sliding door to the deck .
This Martha is so different from the girl on my computer . Time and gravity , hand in hand , have etched their marks into her face , her hair , and her overworked body . She is a canvas , and the artist is using a lot of grey paint . Even her spring green eyes have shrivelled , autumned . She is someone who is no longer watched , instead sits back and watches . I often wonder what she sees when she stares for hours on end . Is her vision littered with the ghosts of dinner visitors and relatives that have walked through the halls of this house ? Is she searching for memories from her childhood , running through the rooms and hiding in the cupboards like skittish little mice ? She doesn ’ t seem awfully captivated by the parts of her childhood that have been caught , reeled in , and stacked neatly in a yellow pixel folder . I get the feeling she ’ d rather play hide and seek with her memories , lying in wait for them until they stir from the shadows . I get up from my chair and walk to the kitchen . The house speaks to me in groans and whispers . I grab a tin off the bench ; open its pansycovered lid . I traipse back and leave it on the couch next to the faraway woman , and pad off down the hall . Her voice follows me up the stairs .
“ Thank you darling ”, she says .
And then my mother goes back to her game of thoughts , aided by tea and gingernuts .
Sophie Tiedemann Year 12
The Street-Cleaner This fictional prose is meant to entertain .
A warm trickle of blood drips from my forehead as I gain consciousness . A dim bulb flickers in the centre of the ceiling , casting sinister shadows around the room . There is a camera in the corner ; its ‘ on ’ light flashing eerily , illuminating the room with an ominous red glow . With blurry vision , I try to scan my surroundings . The room is empty other than the camera and a heavy metal door to my right . I sit up , my head pounding and hands trembling .
‘ What the hell happened to me ?’ I think to myself , struggling to account for the last few hours . Shakily , I push myself off the ground and stagger towards the door . The concrete chills the soles of my bare feet . I ’ m sure I had shoes on .
I reach for the silver door handle and push and pull , but the door doesn ’ t budge . I ’ m stuck . Panic starts to overwhelm me , followed by anger . An ear-piercing scream escapes my body . I pound the door , desperate to get out of this dungeon . It nudges forward . I push again . Out of nowhere , a deep voice chills me to my spine .
“ You have until sunrise to escape .”
I know this is my chance . Using my entire body weight , I slam into the metal . The door swings open with a click , sending me tumbling to the floor of the next room . Instinctively , I reach out to soften my fall , but as I smack the ground , excruciating pain stabs my body . Broken glass covers every inch of the floor . It slices at my face and slashes at my hands and knees . The pain is paralysing , but my time is limited . Bracing myself , I get onto my feet . Another door sits across the room , mocking my pain . My veins pulse with adrenaline and an idea forms in my head . I take off my jacket , put it on the floor and step onto it . The glass shards push deeper into my feet with each step towards my freedom . As I reach the door , I cautiously push it open , the pain shooting through every inch of my body enough of a reminder of last time . It gives straight away , opening to a stairwell . I sprawl out onto the floor , the pain unbearable . The quiet hum of a generator fills the silence between my shaky breaths , but there is another noise : clanging . I freeze up , tension raking through my body . The noise stops . I let out the breath I ’ ve been holding in and rip the pieces of glass out of my skin .
I desperately need to get out of this deathly maze of rooms . I ’ ve been limping around for hours , leaving a trail of blood behind me , just to find locked doors and dead ends . The shards in my feet that I missed are getting more painful by the step . I feel like I haven ’ t eaten in days . My tongue feels as cracked as the dry earth of the Californian desert . I feel as if my organs are slowly shutting down , forcing me to give up . The clanging starts again every so often . A quiet , low rumble echoes through the hall . There is no end in sight . I turn around a corner identical to the last hundred corners , but something catches my
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