Creative Writing 

What are you waiting for?

In the Year 10 Creative Writing elective, students were asked to write a single scene where a character is waiting for something. The focus was on exploring the use of sensory descriptions and emotive language to create a dominant impression. 

The range of responses from the class was intriguing and delightful to read. Here are two reflective, compassionate and evocative examples for you to enjoy.

Storm by Finn Tweedie

I ran through the pouring rain, through the storm, searching for a place I could rest and wait this all out. The rain pounded into my head, like bullets falling from above. I ran for a long time, searching for a place that would be safe from the rain, somewhere that I could lie down and rest.

Finally, I reached a train station. Abandoned at this moment, because who would be crazy enough to be out in this storm. Some of us had no choice. There was an alcove in one of the walls, with a bench and a roof for waiting for a train. A sharp, flicking yellow light illuminated the alcove uncomfortably.

Shivering, I lay down on the hard wooden bench, and harsh metal bumps poked into my skin, meant to prevent people like me from sleeping. From existing. I didn’t care. There was a roof, and that was more than what I could say about where I slept last night. I shuffled around, trying to sink into myself as much as possible to conserve heat. I just had to wait out this storm.

The wind was thousands of knives, slicing through my skin and stabbing my face. It howled through the trees, throwing them around ferociously. It was a jet engine, deafening and horrible, howling through the sky, the trees, the buildings, tearing through with a high-pitched wail. It brought with it the rain, each droplet was a bomb, crashing down into the earth and sending explosions of water up like shrapnel when they hit the ground. It sprayed out chaotically and violently, splashing my face despite where I lay in the alcove, supposedly safe.

My shivering got more violent, my teeth crashing into each other, and my body used its last energy to try to keep me warm. To try to keep me alive. However hard my body worked, however, the storm worked harder, sucking all the warmth out of me instantaneously.

I curled into myself even tighter, like a human pill bug, trying to squeeze my jacket into myself as if it would somehow have a hidden store of warmth inside of it, like if I just squeeze hard enough, maybe the cold will go away. Maybe I would be able to wait out this storm.

My breath made huge clouds of icy mist in front of me on every exhale as if sucking the warmth out of me. Slowly, I started to get colder and colder. My breaths came out shallower and less frequent, and my shivering slowed almost to the point of stopping. My heartbeat slowed.

As I huddled closer into myself, the cold went away. A warmth washed over me, through me, as relief did the same. My breath no longer left an icy mist. The pain of the cold washed out of me as this beautiful wave of warmth replaced it. But still, the storm continued outside. The rain and the hail still fell, and the trees still strained against the wind. But I didn’t care. I felt warm and safe. As my vision darkened, I didn’t fight it, I let the warm embrace crawl over me, until my eyes closed and the world went black.

Dry Cheese and Rain by Elliot Loveday

He felt the tree against his side, rough and warmed by the sun. The air was warm and vibrant, the smell of earth and new growth intermingling with the sharp tang of wine and cheese.

A blanket lay on the ground, the white wool glowing in the golden late-afternoon sunlight, contrasted against deep crimson stripes.  Birdsong whistled and warbled among the foliage, hidden, but still known, like the end of a long summer. 

The man watched as an ant clambered up the reddish-brown bark of a root, carrying a crumb of bread, spilled from the soft loaf that he had prepared earlier. The first pang of unease shot through his contentment.

Glancing at his watch, he straightened and brushed down his flannel shirt. He could feel the miniature cogs turning in his wristwatch as the seconds ticked on and on. A cloud drifted across the sun, and shadows scattered along the ground. He watched another ant seize a crumb and scramble away, soon joined by another. Another minute passed, and he felt a trickle of sweat drip down his neck.

The afternoon felt suddenly lacking in lustre, the trees less vibrantly green, the smell of warm earth suddenly too bitter, the birdsong jarring to the ear. He felt a muscle above his eye twitch, and he rubbed his hand down his face, trying to calm himself. 

Nausea joined the cold anxiety congealing in his stomach. Pessimism greeted paranoia, and dejection joined hands with disappointment. His shirt felt too rough, and his jeans were too tight, and his palms were sweaty, and what was he waiting for anyway? He already knew she wasn’t coming. 

He shook his head, trying to shake away the irrationality that was creeping up on him. He sat down and tried to enjoy the rest of the afternoon, heedless of the watch’s hands ticking ever farther apart. 

The sun was dipping against the horizon; swaths of gold, red and orange light illuminating the soft grass, casting twisted and unusual shadows. The air felt heavier, richer, and different smells were drifting along a soft breeze. He could smell cooked meat from someone’s dinner, a crispness of approaching night, a sharpness in the clouds gathering in the east, and hints of cool rain at the edge of his awareness. 

The day-birds had settled down, and now there was just the faint whistle every so often. It was now possible to hear the leathery flap of bats coasting the air currents. The man bit into a piece of bread he had cut, hours ago, and placed a slab of cheese on top. The bread was stale, and the cheese was dry, but there was a sort of contentment in the melancholy.

The sun finally withdrew its last fingers of light from the sky, and darkness befell the city. The man poured himself a glass of wine, sipping and savouring the bitter-sweet taste as he watched the stars blink into vision, a blanket of cosmic fireflies. The night grew colder, and the first spots of rain began to patter down on the leaves of the tree above him. He could hear an owl hoot, and somewhere far in the distance, two dogs were barking to each other. He stood. As he packed up his picnic, the rain beginning to fall fast, a lightness graced his face. It was not a good day, and neither was it a bad one.

He walked out of the park, his shirt stuck to his skin, his hair dripping, his shoes already collecting buckets of water, and he smiled.