Monday, May 28, 2012

Oh Looky, I Actually do Write ( Occasionally...)

So, I don't know if you've noticed, but I kinda haven't...been online for......a while ( *shame*). But luckily, I actually have a few ideas for posts, and that combined with Memorial day weekend might just mean I get to do some blogging! (emphasis on "might", I do have a life you know).

Sadly, those tidbits of Rachel Wisdom shall have to wait, cus I have an art project to do. But in the mean time, I figured I'd share a little creative writing I did for a school assignment.

NOTE: I kinda wrote this on the bus and in lunch the day it was due, so its not exactly.......good, haha. In fact, on second thought I'm kinda wishing I took time to edit before posting. But hey, it is what it is.

Oh, and the assignment was to write a short story about an archetype ( I chose the sage).

            I reach up to pull the dusty volume down from the shelf, but am forced to stop by the sharp pain in my side.  “These old bones don’t work quite as well as they used to, eh.” I mutter to myself as I slide over a short footstool.  A few moments later I hold the book in my hands and pause to stroke the dark leather, worn smooth by years of curious hands.  I breath in deeply, feel the smell of paper seep into my bones.  The smell of a bookstore.  The smell of home.  The desire to open the pages and immerse myself in their timeless tales nearly engulfs me. But no, I have work to do.  After checking the binding, I blow the dust off the cover and set it aside, then climb back up to reach for the next one.  I am stopped once again, not by the pain in my bones, but by some sixth sense that impels me to turn around.  And turn around I do, just in time to see the small form of a child dart behind a shelf. “Well, well, well,” I chuckle to myself, “What do we have here?” I make my way over to the young one’s hiding place, peering around the corner to find a boy of about 5 or 6, huddled on the floor clutching a small book.  I smile gently at the child, hoping to assuage the fear of chastisement I see rising in his tear-stained eyes. I crouch down beside him, gently taking the book and turning it over in my hands. “Robin Hood, huh? Great story. Great man, too.” I smile once again at the boy over the top of my glasses.
            “He was brave.” The boy pipes up after a moment.
            “Yes. Yes he was. I’m sure you’re brave too.” But the boy just shakes his head and looks down.
            “My sister thinks I’m not brave. She says I’m a baby. She doesn’t like me.” Although he refuses to look up, I can see a tear trace down his cheek.
            “Well, I’m sure that can’t be true. Why would you think such a thing?”
            “Today  I wanted to play with her and her friends. But they wanted to leave the park, and I didn’t want to, cus I was scared.  She said I didn’t deserve to play with them if I was such a baby.” The boy hiccups as me quickly wipes away a tear. “So I tried to follow them, but I got lost. And then…” His voice is now a whisper. “I saw Robin in the window.” He looks up now, his eyes wide with an unspoken plea.
            I take a breath. “Well you see,” I settle down on the floor beside him. “I think what you did was very brave. I don’t know if even I would have the courage to venture out of the safety of the playground. And you came in here, too. That must have been scary. You see, you are a brave boy. Your sister just might not realize it yet. But that’s okay. She will.” The boy sniffles and nods his head, and we sit for a moment in silence.
“You know what,” I take the book and place it in his lap, gently folding his hands around the crisp, new cover. “I’m going to let you keep this. And anytime you aren’t brave, or like you aren’t good enough, I want you to read this book and remember today, and remember that you are brave, okay?” The boy stares down at the book and nods. When he finally raises his head, the tears are still there, but there’s also a hint of a smile on his lips.
“Thank you.”
It’s quiet and simple, and suddenly he’s up on his feet and hurrying to the door with shy, soft steps. He pauses at the door for a moment, his hand on the handle as he turns back, his smile now clearly visible. The smile I give in return still lingers on my lips long after his small form has disappeared down the street. 

So...what do you think? And when was a time you wrote creative writing for school? What did you write about?