Creative Writing Part 2 - Narrative

I step into the kitchen, and the door rolls closed behind me. Bending down, I turn the switch on the wall socket, connected to an extension cord which leads to a powerboard which leads to a computer, an Internet router and a printer. Three connections working harmoniously to provide a simple experience, one which we take for granted.

I straighten up, and take a step forward. I turn out the lights, then turn to my right, drinking in the darkness. Walking forwards, I open the heavy, sliding-glass door and step onto the threshold.

I pause.

The moon is bright, shining through the window of the "Queensland" room, one of those half-indoors, half-outdoors deal. The silence is complete, every other occupant of the house asleep long since.
Galvanised, I step forward once more, turning to close the door behind me. I click the switch for the powerful outdoor spotlight - off, on, off, on. The intelligent, programmed light circuit switches to sensor and I continue, satisfied in my knowledge that it will switch off once I have passed.

I remove the broom, propping open the outside door of the back room, then step into the night air. Crickets chirp and cicadas buzz. The door swings ajar, until I supply a final sharp pull, in order to bring it fully closed. I walk across the patio, and step onto the grass.

I walk the length of the sloped yard, weaving and sidestepping presents from the dog, canine leaving which are to be left well alone. At length, the sanctuary of my bedroom, the converted garage, is attained.

Entering, I survey the clutter. A guitar amplifier sits just inside the doorway, its companion the guitar resting across the armrests of a chair which serves as a table, a broken string dangling from its slender frame. The floor is strewn with clothing; some dirty, some clean, but the two categories ever indistinguishable from one another. A wooden acoustic guitar sits in the corner, propped against a wardrobe, well loved and well maintained.

The bed, the goal of my quest, sits unmade, surrounded by the clutter of my seventeen-year-old, teenage boys bedroom. I pick up the small device, charging its battery from an extension lead, and begin typing. My stream of consciousness is intermittently interrupted by the sharp, high pitched beeping of the smoke detector, announcing its need for fresh batteries to the world. Finally, satisfied with the nights effort as a wordsmith, I set my alarm and switch the device off. It's after midnight and I need sleep; tomorrow is Monday, after all. I close my eyes and slow my breathing, relaxing myself to counteract the sound of the smoke detector.

Beep.

Silence.

Beep.

Silence.

Beep.

Silence.

Sleep.

And there you have it. The cumulative efforts of a Sunday night spent writing. Feedback, comments, criticism. Whatever.

Cheers,
Chia

Creative Writing Part 1 - Description

So I was going to bed last night, and started writing in my head. This is the end result...

The soft click of a round, plastic button, triggered by a long, slender thumb with ragged fingernails and quicks gnawed to the flesh. Images fade, colours turn to black.

A metallic ping, as the tiny spot of green incandescence flicks to red.

Silence. Warmth radiates, permeating the air.

 The snap of a wall socket switch, halting the flow of the invisible, intangible, ineffable yet deadly power. Soft footfalls, muffled by carpet and a light tread; one, two, three. Four? A sharp click, the sound of a light switch.

A sudden loss of ambiance. Shadow prevails.

  The low, rumbling rattle, as the wooden door rolls along its track, juddering and shunting. A hollow thonk of wood on wood.

Silence.
Darkness

Perfect.


So, what do you think? I'm about to type out part two, more of a narrative sort of thing.

Cheers,
Sledgehammer