Exeter’s Creative Writing Society continue to impress as Peter Tse submits yet another beautiful poem…
The Sculptor
My friend crafts ice sculptures,
a daily struggle with science,
with cold irreconcilable facts:
Ice thaws at 0.1 degrees;
actually at anything over zero.
For scientists that’s zero to the power of whatever,
For my friend it’s removed from the arctic room.
I’ve seen him poised in concentration,
beads of sweat falling, despite the cold.
Take that science.
They are gorgeous, glinting in the light,
but to touch them is to ruin them.
It numbs your fingers too.
Once they’re done, served their purpose,
he melts them down himself.
Days to make, moments to finish.
There’s no sign left of his endeavour.
Except for the perfect image in his head,
in the recesses of his memory,
soon to be his sub-conscious.
Where science keeps its distance.
This week we chose a dark and mysterious piece of writing to showcase Exeter’s creative writing talent. Read on and see what you make of Charles Bowen’s invisible man…
Photo by kevinrwalsh via Flickr.
Sifting through the gentle susurration of the masses, I am a ribbon of smoke in a wilfgire, unnoticed and irrelevant.
I scream, but only I hear it, the world beyond living, its life unfettered by thoughts of mine. No one sees me, though I may strip to the pale flesh which strives to give me presence.
I have struck, I have clawed at the fresh throats of the ephemeral pawns who pass me by, yet still I am just a wisp, creating nothing save my thoughts and my vacant sentimental pain.
So it has always been, I against the world and the world continuing on its weary way. Some may see me, I cannot tell, but only as far as I consider the banalities of solipsism can I entertain this life; their minds are as lost to me as their bodies, and perhaps I cannot know what I cannot feel, but as I wallow untouched beneath their trampling feet I must face the reality that bitter reason presents.
I have no thought of an end, just as I have no memory of a beginning. I can live only as I am; I must forgo the mirage of solace or resolution, and face the apathy under which my cruel lot has been drawn.
Sifting through the gentle susurration of the masses, I am a ribbon of smoke in a wilfgire, unnoticed and irrelevant.
Following a society workshop session on the subject of “Silence”, we asked Exeter’s Creative Writing Society to send in their inspired work. What follows is a moment of silent pain and humiliation…
Dying in 50 Pound Nike Sb Vulc Rod Men’s Shoes
He stood in the backstage area which consisted of a room, a chair and a mirror in which he looked at himself. He began to doubt whether he felt “funny” in his shoes, and whether the audience would think he was good. His face was perspiring constantly.
A man came in and gestured that it was his turn. The room was vibrating as he walked on stage. The audience stared at him, judging him. Their smiles from the previous act faded. His hands were shaking and he could feel the sweat on his palms. He clumsily adjusted the microphone to his height and took a sip of water so he could speak.
He said “Hello” while looking down at his £50 Nike shoes. The audience said “Hello” back. This was a good start, he thought.
He started doing his act, hoping the audience would laugh in the right places and not heckle him. He really didn’t want to get heckled.
Two minutes into his act no one was laughing and he felt like everyone in the room silently hated him. He was shaking a little more now and looked nervous. He realised this, which made him shake even more and look more nervous. He realised this too, which made him shake even more and look more nervous, and so on.
He continued with his act even though he was the only one self-consciously laughing. He became distracted by a woman at the back of the room having a phone conversation. Not because it was rude, standing on a stage demanding people listen to you is rude, but because people seemed to be more interested in her than him. He wished someone rang him so he could answer his phone and talk to someone – Samaritans, preferably.
He didn’t feel bad really. He felt sorry for those who were listening; it must be very uncomfortable to watch a man die a social death. He wished that someone would come on stage and hug him and say “It’s okay” repeatedly, while the audience would feel bad for not laughing.
At the end of his five minute set he walked offstage to insincere applause as a fat man shouted “gay sex” at him. He sat in the dressing room in silence. “It’s the shoes” he thought.
To kick-start the new year the Exeter Creative Writing Society were set the challenge of creating a piece on the theme of “resolutions”. Read on for Naomi Pacific’s emotional interpretation of this task…
Photo by Giles Douglas via Flickr.
The Same Old Resolution
“But listen to me!”
she exclaimed after him.
He turned around,
and listened some more.
“I didn’t want to fall for you,
I didn’t do any of it-
On purpose,”
He stood silently and the waves
Crashed behind them, he still
Felt like walking away.
Her hair blowing in the wind,
Something of pain in her eyes.
Rewind, he thought,
Rewind, to when none of this
Happened, she looked so
Beautiful back then.
“I didn’t fall in love with you
On purpose either. And I didn’t
Get mad at you on purpose.
None of it is on purpose,” he
Pointed out to her. She looked at him,
That old face she knew so well,
Thousands of nights spent,
Right at its side, watching it
Breathe in and out, smiling…
And how great the world had been.
“Well let’s go back then,
At least be friends, pretend,
That none of this ever happened.”
She suggested. He shook his head,
“But pretending hurts Sammy,
I’d try and forget but you always
Somehow make it back to my thoughts.”
And she understood because she felt
The same. And he walked away because,
He didn’t know what else to do.
The waves kept on crashing, the cycle of life,
Never-ending.
By Naomi Pacific
Ed. by Georgina Holland – Exeposé Online Books Editor
With a new academic year starting and a fresh batch of eager book-loving students flooding onto campus, we have created an exciting new weekly feature in collaboration with the Exeter Creative Writing Society. Our aim for this year was to create a student-led and student-read online newspaper which showcases the literary and creative gems that Exeter students have to offer. This new partnership is our first step towards achieving this goal. ECWS President Jacob Wellman told us that “it’s really exciting to have this collaboration between two societies right from the get-go. Hopefully this will prove to be the genesis of a lasting relationship”. And now in the spirit of all things new, we present a short story on the theme of “New Beginnings” by student Naomi Pacific – a story of unfamiliar people attempting to be familiar in an unfamiliar place.
New Beginnings
‘Suddenly, silence settled down and there was room left only for the steadied husk of their breaths. Two strangers lying on a bed, the light of the room dooming on them.
“Why doesn’t this feel weird?” she asked him.
He took his time answering, breathing in twice. Their noses were posed on top of each other so that she felt his calm on her.
“We’re just having a nice cuddle,” he answered.
“But I don’t know you,” she answered. She wondered whether he just wanted to get in her pants, after all this is what most university boys seemed to want. But she stayed, enjoying this embrace with a guy she didn’t know.
“You know me,” he repeated for the third time that night. “I have some blue hair and I’m cool.”
She nodded; again, he felt her head rub off on his shoulder.
In her mind the whole room had turned yellow; there was only warmth, and the unfamiliar grounds of the university existed no more. She smiled. He tried to kiss her again.
He shook his head, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have,” he answered, not wanting to pressure her. She smiled again.
He put his arm on her waist and pulled her closer, tighter now. “So why won’t you kiss me, again?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t want to.”
“Why?”
“I’m not that kind of girl,” she answered.
“What kind of girl?”
“I want to be your friend.” She answered simply.
“I can be your friend.”
He was sweet, she thought. But he wouldn’t be her friend. She knew it as well as he probably did. Silence settled down again, he tried to kiss her again, and as in a tango dance she proceeded to silently reject him.
“What’s the most awkward place you’ve ever got with a girl?” she was simply trying to make conversation.
The misplaced question wandered aimlessly through his mind, he could feel the warmth of her right against him; he had a girl in his bed! But he blinked twice and after two “uhm’s” answered anyways “Biology class, we were watching a movie, the lights were off, no one noticed.”
She smiled and didn’t answer, letting the silence wash over her again.
“Are you going to ask me my favourite colour next?” he asked.
“Seeing as I already know your course, I might,” she answered.
And they just lay there, not yet realizing that tomorrow was a different day. That friends aren’t made in bed, but that on this unfamiliar night, in this unfamiliar building, an unfamiliar person to be familiar with was by all means pleasing.’
By Naomi Pacific Ed. Georgina Holland – Exeposé Online Books Editor
The Sculptor
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