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).
Brave
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?
