HELLO
would you guys mind marking my creative??? It's super rushed and it an obvious first draft because if you read through there are heaps of inconsistencies that I'll probably fix later xDD. But more specifically, could you guys give me pointers on how to improve the portrayal concepts of discovery within my creative ??
CREATIVE DRAFT 1
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Each jagged limb clawed its way relentlessly to its next position. The confining room stood proud in its entirety. Heaving himself from his wooden chair, he glanced at the calendar. ’September 1st’ it unforgivingly announced.
The bedridden sun still buried in its cloak of anxiety cast a lone shadow on the floor, barely warming the faceless faces which were smothered to a blur from time. The empty frames attempted to comfort his bare walls and salvage whatever kindling flame that still flickered in the remnants of his worn being. Several black and white photographs hung frozen in the unfruitful attempted to entrap the absent. Instead, tired and muted frames of grey and insipidity that lined the walls did most of the preservation, trying to compensate for the lost vibrance that he once had.
He missed everything. When he still had it. When he could still embrace it. Now, life was like this. Life was just .. life. He exhaled loudly. “What will it be today?” he thought to himself.
As if telepathic in its nature, the tarnished floor boards groaned in reassurance as he sank into the stool in front of the easel. Despite the cheapness of the wood, it still stood brilliantly. But it was almost succumbing to ruin, about to collapse from the heavy burden of imperfect and unsatisfactory canvas after canvas that encumbered it everyday.
He lethargically lifted the cup to his mouth anticipating the fresh steam of morning coffee as it tried to frighten the haunt of winter. He savoured it slowly, sip by sip, in attempt to preserve the seeping warmth it generously shared.
He sat down, facing the glass frame which prevailed the landscape beyond. A gust of wind rattles the glass barrier, unable to penetrate its haughty austere. Outside a flock of birds crowds and nestles amongst the bare tree relinquishing the open air. How wondrous he pondered, captivated as each bird flitted about the boughs and tended to each other. Their powerful crimson headdress defied the ashen ambience of the chilly morning, riding the thermals above as if in a graceful dance. Inside their fragile bodies, their hearts were beating, lungs were expanding and contracting, muscles tightening.
They paid him no attention.
Enticed anyways, he began to etch tendrils for each branch, engraving the rare moment onto his canvas. But the pencil disobeyed his mind, his fingers clutching its weak wooden frame anxiously as it quivered in his grasp. The curvature of their wise beaks had become the squabble of pigeons whilst their powerful wings appeared meagre upon the linen somehow. He concentrated upon the affinity of the birds but could not rid the aggravating transparency of the glass which still managed to impede his view. Scrapes and scratches, scrapes and scratches, the usual disappointing rhythm.
A spray from the heavens suddenly came. Droplet by droplet grew into unrelenting pelts, dampening voluminous spreads of feathers. In a frenzied bid of farewell, the beating of wings disrupted the rhythmic tempo of the raindrops on his roof. Fallen leaves tumbled to defend its territory from the onslaught. Each droplet alighted the coolness of wild vortices, falling, emptying, as it washed away everything his eyes laid upon. The innumerable little cascades frightened each bird as they alighted to find a haven, leaving him behind staring at the skeleton of the tree. The curtain of water had begun to obscure his view of the outside.
But their departure didn’t sadden him, nor did his sadness cause their departure. He was used to things like this.
Rain enveloped, imprisoning the confines of his room. It was just him, and the rain on this melancholy morning.
He set down his pencil in the usual makeshift Heinz can which sat there pertinently, expectant. Instinctively, his body picked up the monotonous canvas as he had done day by day, contemplating whereabouts to lay it amongst the mass assemblage of many others. Now sinking into the leather sofa, he turned on the radio to fill the voids of silence, yet also to drown out the pelting rain as he tried to defiantly enlarge the asphyxiating walls, searching for accompaniment. (?) not sure haha….
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The pummelling of tiny hands softened down in a final strum. He noticed because he could make out a slight muffled tingle. His ears perked in anticipation, his eyes darted towards the window, but a curtain of droplets still veiled. What was it?
The distant hum seduced his ear as he obliviously walked to the window. He laboriously pushed it open. Startled, a cascade of sunlight rushed inside and pulled him outside in liberation. The wooden photo frames had now become apparent in vibrant shine of mahogany.
The buzz modulated into a chorus of low chimes, his heart palpitated in unison.
Against the stern boulder-like clouds which threatened to swallow the sky, dainty wisps of periwinkle greeted him through rifts the fog could not reach. His mouth agape, the grandeur of everything around him
The sound grew louder now, changing from an indistinct warble to a light trill.
The briskness of the wind made the branches waver to its melody as if inhaling and exhaling the perfumes of the fresh damp soil. He himself, hypnotised by its crisp enchantment, taking another cautious step onto the greenery.
He bent down to caress the rich tones of the earth below, darkened yet enriched bathed in the thrill of the radiance of the sun.
He could hear it properly now! A grandiose angelic chorus heralded in crescendo as a cascade of brilliant red swooped in, encircling above and around the birch. Its silvery poplars rose spangled with dewy glittering of gold and green in welcome.
Smiling, he planted his easel onto the evergreen grass and gripped his brush. He visualising an intense spectrum of hues upon the frosted blank. Meticulously, he carved strokes onto the awaiting linen.
A stroke of vermillion, a stroke of scarlet.
A stroke for each bird that returned.
Concepts of discovery that I want to show:rediscovering something that has been lost - passion, inspiration and beauty
type of discovery: creative(his passion and talent as well as inspiration), spiritual(enlightening) and emotional (isolation), physical (sublimity of nature)
catalyst for change
discoveries can be far-reaching and transformative for the individual
reflection and character growth
his literal discovery: his attempt to capture and create the landscape on his canvas will not be fruitful from the inside
THANK YOU <3
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Topic: Free AOS Creative Writing Marking! (Read 286406 times)