Hey, for English we've been asked to do a creative piece of writing for belonging. Mine's pretty abstract but any comments on it would be great. The line we had to work with was: It’s okay to stand out to be different. Isn’t it?
Anyway, here's mine.
Belonging: It’s okay to stand out to be different. Isn’t it?
He stood out on the empty plateau, his figure a pinpoint of visibility against the dull swirling greys dominating his surroundings; A mere speck of interest, drowned in a sea of anonymity. As he made his way further into the gloom the blank abstract turned into a swirling mist, enveloping him in its weight. When the mist cleared the empty plateau returned, except now bereft of the speck of interest which had previously stood out from the nightmarish wastelands of hell.
He woke in a familiar environment – familiar, but different. It was his home. Or rather, what would become his home. There were elements of congruency between him and the place; the living room was still dominated by the now out-dated chimney, the doors were still in the same place, but everything else was different; rather than the glossy wood that had floored his home, this one was covered in a white, antique carpet, and the kitchen was different; instead of the oven and fridge ensemble that he was familiar with, the room was now filled with a series of cupboards, with a miniature, colourful fridge off to one side. Outside, even the landscape was different; the fences were all in the wrong places, and instead of horses, cattle roamed the paddocks, and even a few pigs and sheep. The dams of his home had mostly disappeared, with only one of the bodies from his memories present.
Looking down at his hands, he noticed that they were not made of skin. He could see directly through them and into the floor, with only the faintest of outlines demonstrating his existence. He looked through the mirror that hung above the living room bookshelf, but where he looked there was only blank wall. He was lost. He was in the past.
His fear was interrupted, however, by a male figure walking in through the door. Tall, large and robust, the man was yet another element of unfamiliarity to him, a lost face in a dream. He wore battered trousers, stricken with mud, a new blue and black shirt covering his midriff. On his feet were rubber, thick soled boots, absolutely covered in filth, trailing from him like a train as the man made his way through the house.
Absolutely terrified, he sat there, petrified as the man made his way towards him – how was he to explain what he was doing here? How was he to explain that a stranger, an inadvertent time traveller, had simply appeared in the living room of this man’s supposed home? He drew himself in closer out of fear, awaiting the man’s wrath. God he was pitiful.
The man drew closer and closer, and then just walked through him, and onto an adjacent room, as if the person from the future cowering on his living room floor didn’t exist. The door slammed shut behind him.
The person on the floor, still cowering had his eyes shut and hadn’t realise that the man had completely walked through him, oblivious. This realisation gave him thought, gave him power, and he had already started walking through the wall when he felt an invisible shock of energy run through him. He touched the wall again and was again shocked, as if an electric fence, or barrier. He was trapped.
Another man was walking through the wall, a younger version of the one preceding him. He was dressed similarly, in poor quality clothes drenched in mud. There was a tired expression on his face, weary, as if he had lived beyond his years. This man was more familiar, and he realised he was staring at his father. Shouts could be heard from the room the first man had entered.
‘WHERE IS THAT BOY?’ he bellowed through the paper-thin walls. Before him, his father looked frightened, developing an expression to his own mere moments before. Seeing his father in such a state sent chills through him, and he retreated back into a ball, against the painful barrier of the wall. The first man then thundered into the living room, continuing in his chastisement of his younger doppelganger. With each word, the younger man’s expression worsened, finally deteriorating into tears at his father’s harsh remarks. The elder man took several steps towards the second man, and raised a hand behind his shoulder. In the background he could hear the faint sounds of a baby crying.
He was once again amongst the swirling greys of his prison, the blandness of his environment driving him to the point of insanity as he tried to comprehend what he had just witnessed. As the grey clouds drew closer he realised that they were in fact shadows, silhouettes of people gone and forgotten. He let out a scream, realising his reality, before disappearing in a sea of grey as the silhouettes reformed into shadows, the pinpoint of interest disappeared in a smothering of grey.
Anyway, here's mine.
Belonging: It’s okay to stand out to be different. Isn’t it?
He stood out on the empty plateau, his figure a pinpoint of visibility against the dull swirling greys dominating his surroundings; A mere speck of interest, drowned in a sea of anonymity. As he made his way further into the gloom the blank abstract turned into a swirling mist, enveloping him in its weight. When the mist cleared the empty plateau returned, except now bereft of the speck of interest which had previously stood out from the nightmarish wastelands of hell.
He woke in a familiar environment – familiar, but different. It was his home. Or rather, what would become his home. There were elements of congruency between him and the place; the living room was still dominated by the now out-dated chimney, the doors were still in the same place, but everything else was different; rather than the glossy wood that had floored his home, this one was covered in a white, antique carpet, and the kitchen was different; instead of the oven and fridge ensemble that he was familiar with, the room was now filled with a series of cupboards, with a miniature, colourful fridge off to one side. Outside, even the landscape was different; the fences were all in the wrong places, and instead of horses, cattle roamed the paddocks, and even a few pigs and sheep. The dams of his home had mostly disappeared, with only one of the bodies from his memories present.
Looking down at his hands, he noticed that they were not made of skin. He could see directly through them and into the floor, with only the faintest of outlines demonstrating his existence. He looked through the mirror that hung above the living room bookshelf, but where he looked there was only blank wall. He was lost. He was in the past.
His fear was interrupted, however, by a male figure walking in through the door. Tall, large and robust, the man was yet another element of unfamiliarity to him, a lost face in a dream. He wore battered trousers, stricken with mud, a new blue and black shirt covering his midriff. On his feet were rubber, thick soled boots, absolutely covered in filth, trailing from him like a train as the man made his way through the house.
Absolutely terrified, he sat there, petrified as the man made his way towards him – how was he to explain what he was doing here? How was he to explain that a stranger, an inadvertent time traveller, had simply appeared in the living room of this man’s supposed home? He drew himself in closer out of fear, awaiting the man’s wrath. God he was pitiful.
The man drew closer and closer, and then just walked through him, and onto an adjacent room, as if the person from the future cowering on his living room floor didn’t exist. The door slammed shut behind him.
The person on the floor, still cowering had his eyes shut and hadn’t realise that the man had completely walked through him, oblivious. This realisation gave him thought, gave him power, and he had already started walking through the wall when he felt an invisible shock of energy run through him. He touched the wall again and was again shocked, as if an electric fence, or barrier. He was trapped.
Another man was walking through the wall, a younger version of the one preceding him. He was dressed similarly, in poor quality clothes drenched in mud. There was a tired expression on his face, weary, as if he had lived beyond his years. This man was more familiar, and he realised he was staring at his father. Shouts could be heard from the room the first man had entered.
‘WHERE IS THAT BOY?’ he bellowed through the paper-thin walls. Before him, his father looked frightened, developing an expression to his own mere moments before. Seeing his father in such a state sent chills through him, and he retreated back into a ball, against the painful barrier of the wall. The first man then thundered into the living room, continuing in his chastisement of his younger doppelganger. With each word, the younger man’s expression worsened, finally deteriorating into tears at his father’s harsh remarks. The elder man took several steps towards the second man, and raised a hand behind his shoulder. In the background he could hear the faint sounds of a baby crying.
He was once again amongst the swirling greys of his prison, the blandness of his environment driving him to the point of insanity as he tried to comprehend what he had just witnessed. As the grey clouds drew closer he realised that they were in fact shadows, silhouettes of people gone and forgotten. He let out a scream, realising his reality, before disappearing in a sea of grey as the silhouettes reformed into shadows, the pinpoint of interest disappeared in a smothering of grey.
