In the Creative Writing classes, we read of course, but it’s the writing that is our main focus. During this unprecedented time of covid and quarantine, of isolation and silence, St. Stephen’s writers continue to produce remarkable, imaginative work. From Harare to Hades, from the elemental to the interior, from the artists of the Renaissance to the fragrant fields of last May, Creative Writing students take themselves and their readers on fantastic journeys.

I am sure that you will enjoy the work of these students -- just as much as we enjoy discussing the early drafts and ongoing ideas in the Creative Writing workshop. Bon voyage!

Moira Egan

Creative Writing Teacher

(After “Elephants” by Carol Ann Duffy)

 

When I was a kid

I imagined that when I was born

I was not delivered by a stork

but by the trunk of an elephant.

 

I could all but feel the rough skin

wrapped so gently around me,

the soft swaying of a trunk,

the thuds of giant feet on the Zimbabwe plains.

 

I imagined they found me

in a tree by where they would bathe,

their skin still slick with the water

walking over fences and fields.

 

I used to imagine that when they found

someone they trusted

to take their strange charge,

they gave me an elephant's funeral.

 

I imagined they covered me

in a loving tomb

of palm fronds and foliage,

a baby no longer theirs.

Change glides in,

incising a slit

into the chilly navy sky.

The bead of luminescence

slides through the night carpet.

 

Little twigs checkered into

their own delicacy.

April mornings curtain the light

onto blush petals.

Slowly,

they slip open:

overflowing with pigmented hope,

rich with the sweet scents of spring.

Enchanted by the charm of the sun,

their cocooned little skirts open up,

unveiling their champagne color.

The month has come,

hence the days to party have begun.

Here we know it as a festival with crazy spaces,

in ancient Venice it was a time of hiding faces.

As they did, we’ll walk streets with high spirits

and glide through the city with twirls and pivots.

Without any knowledge of who is who;

cluelessly roaming, not discerning what’s false and what’s true,

we’ll talk and perceive with our eyes

until the ecstatic party spirit dies.

Like in the city of water, a silhouette enters:

pitch black, creeping the streets he ventures.

A bird like mask meant to scare away illness,

disease in the air should have been trapped in utter stillness.

His pointed beak stabs the livelihood of the festival,

shutting out our speech now barely perceptible.

His heavy mask made him a monster,

black hat, eerie presence...they called him the plague doctor.

A figure like that was meant to kill evil,

push away mad spirits and all that was lethal.

But today our life is not so;

bodies drop dead, we come and we go.

A plague just like that of great Venice,

a catastrophe splitting society, to our people a menace.

The difference between now and then,

is the hanging shadow of ruthless death.

I wish you could smell

the orange flower

when the clouds turn cold

It licks off the moonlight

weight on its petals

and sips the nutrients of gloom

dusts the bugs who too

napped for four sun cycles

and drooled all over its abundant

face

 

Two echoes away

dozens of honeybees

carrying baskets on their backs

fly around in the black-blue fog

Their wings circadian

and their senses hone

 

Six minutes in

the sky is painted with gold

dust and rain

An orange flower bathes

in juice and sings

to the brim

If you, @Dr.faust, could become anyone,

who would you become?

 

I would become I myself,

for what is the need to become

someone else?

I @Dr.faust am the favorited

son, the sun of my people

and the song of their hearts. I,

@Dr.faust, am the one on

your screen, your eyes mine

and mine benign like the color

of a lit skyline- is that not enough?

I @Dr.faust am the persona

of the Mona Lisa, I am the mirror

of beauty, desire, lust: Roma.

I am the only face

you face every day, the one

you love, the one you like,

swipe-right, excited.

I, yours, mine, I

am the one to blow you

kisses at night, I

am your messenger

from the skies,

I, yours, my

hair, lips, intertwined,

I, your

likes,

I!

 

…

Is that not enough?

Watch my likes grow

like twines by night,

watch my people

gift me gifts delighted

at my hiss of thanks

and no more;

watch my persona

fly like a kite

bit by a dog,

watch my hair, lips,

intertwine like vines:

loss of foresight.

Watch, hear the applause

of mine and taste the grace

I behold, for I, and only I,

Authorize.

 

@Dr.faust am I.

Enough!

I follow the aisle

you etched between

the green.

The pavement is soft,

trampled flowers

that I’ll trample again

to find you.

The wispy grass

strokes my hands

as I brush through it,

as it grazed yours

and scratched

and hacked.

True blades,

they cut you down.

Your trail ends here.

where you left me

for below.

You won’t come up

again

til the moon faces me

thrice more.

By then the flowers

will regrow.

You’re centered in their frame

pearled gates opened

for you

float

like children’s bubbles

 

pop

 

before I reach.

And you soar above cotton

meadows

that tickle my ankles-

they call me down.

 

We watch you dance

with honeyed rays.

The sky in all its lenience

drapes you in its

cape.

 

I lie amongst white petals
cushioned in the green.

 

Your laughter

reaches out,

hoists me in the dream.

 

But as I bow

to warmth

in this celestial ceremony 

 

winds draw clouded curtains.

 

Your only trace

a rosy blemish on my

skin.

The water violently beats the tall body of the rocky wall,

expanding with a scream

retracting with a whisper.

Again and again, every time more abrasive

again and again, overflowing

an exhibit as violent as death

that seems to turn the scene into something alive

from numb to absolute

from perished to blossoming.

The intermittent wind keeps hitting

it never stops,

sometimes viciously persistent

other times lullingly gentle

and in the middle of the whole

stands a mountain

tall, able to elevate itself higher than the fog,

it stands robust, it looks immense.

The wind strikes and strikes,

but it gets bogged

and yet it strikes and strikes,

it doesn't stop, like a mortally wounded beast desperately fighting on

it slowly seeps into the cracks.

The silent shrieks of the colossus breaking can be heard

withering within

consuming in itself

until the mountain will be no more

Where shall I go,

Sway,

Stomp, when I feel utterly lost.

How do I move,

Speak,

Think without having your hand in mine?

I am lost.

 

My world was flat, you have now made it a

Rhombicosidodecahedron.

You drive me insane yet I do not know how I feel.

I have nothing but rage and confusion coiling in my veins,

My veins, how could I forget?

You have turned my veins into demanding vessels,

They siphon out all common sense,

They simply yearn for you.

 

I am dancing in a field of daffodils,

The golden flowers follow my every move,

Longing to join my feeling of movement, of merriment.

They eye me but I do not care.

I am at sea. I am in the garden's koi pond.

I am swimming between red koi,

As they zip past me, surrounding me as if I were drowning in a fire,

Their black dots threaten the love, the red.

I cannot breathe, yet it is breathtaking, and I can’t stop staring.

They lure me, as English roses do to gardeners.

You are my red carnation and my anemone,

And all I ask of you

Is to give me a jonquil.

春晓

【唐】孟浩然

春眠不觉晓，处处闻啼鸟。

夜来风雨声，花落知多少。

 

Spring Morning

Spring. Waken to an already bright day. All around. Tweet, tweet, the birds sing as they play.

Rain. Last night’s drizzle with the gentle breeze. How many fragrant flowers did the wind seize?

Deafening roar softened by song

from aeons ago

Moon frozen and oath torn apart

Timid rhino fret and turns to stone

 

Feared zero has come.

 

Comfort, Discomfort, Danger all gone

Boredom, Annoyance nowhere to be found

The time has come

What used to be fiction is now reality*

Our beating heart is slowing down

 

Bang.

 

This is the End.

I’ll go to the gym once or twice in a week,

spare two hours each time

from the greater half I spend asleep.

 

Run, then stretch, then on to the floor.

My face, fire-red in the morbid mirror.

 

Let the oppressive blue plastic mattresses

be the judge of me.

I can feel the heat of their gaze,

from my head to my foot, upon me.

 

Those stacked up so orderly,

like the tiers of the birthday cake

that I ate,

that’s still seared in my memory.

 

I was three.

 

But it still makes its home on me.

In the great beefy bulges of fat

that fester on in my arms, in my thoughts,

and on these bones I’d happily break

if it would take some of the weight

off this vessel I’ve been restricted to all my life,

In which I’ll likely die.

 

Tell me, will they bury me?

The friends who mocked my physiognomy,

peeled back every layer

of hope I’d kept as a shield

to my unforgiving insecurities.

Am I likely to forget that humiliation?

 

Not quite.

 

But I wonder what they can see as right

in their nit-picking austerity

They might even think they’re helping me.

But it isn’t very comforting.

And the pillowed-out bulge of my stomach

is not soft

as it ought to be.

I like things neat.

 

Carefully, I keep,

every object I own in order.

 

Under the surveillance

of two unrested eyes,

I keep trained, a world,

in rhythm and time,

entirely mine.

 

The books that line my shelves,

from left to right,

in colour and kind,

and alphabetised,

are my domain.

 

Why the cushions

on the couch

in my living room

must be fluffed

three times a day,

I’ll never know.

 

But, that the crude

clump of laundry,

freshly washed and folded

in my living room, however new,

will never do,

 

is an absolute truth.

 

The dawn of every day

sees the creation

of fresh new rituals

for me to pursue:

 

take a ruler to the roses,

so their stems might

stand straight too.

 

Clandestine, I crawl

in the wake of an habitual ideal,

which, to chase, is to feel.

 

So I will continue to.

To divide up my food,

by colour, cradling

every bit of control I can foster.

 

I, the imposter,

will keep spotless,

a world, that listlessly,

Tirelessly, faultlessly,

 

Will forever be lost to me.

I stand upon the unwoven grass,

a juniper-colored grass

that hugs my bare feet

the rain soaks the ground on which I stand

the holy water bathes my hair

the gray above is clear, all the clouds have sought shelter in my mind

 

I sit in the growing grass

an olive-toned grass

the wind travels in between the naked branches

It hides in between the blooming daisies

the sounds wrap a blanket around my shivering heart

the tune of the wind and the melody of the grass

 

I lay underneath the tall grass

a grass covered in an emerald shine

a grass that is now warm

It whispers sweet words in my ears sweet words

and whilst the sun kisses my cheeks

the world spins as I fall asleep

In the grass that grows.

The footsteps were many countless puddles left behind

in the soil beneath.

A summer's day of despair, they would call it,

With the hot humid air floating alongside the clouds.

Until, all at once, the inhalation of such air

Crushes the lungs-

Without leaving room for any feeling of mere excitement

For a sunny summer day.

And the feet dive into the earth once again,

The worms and bugs whine for help,

Their shrills deafening

And their fainting heartbeat a distant echo.

Your summer slippers remain dark, with the blood of the bugs.

But You don’t look behind. 

You look at the lady dancing in the field.

She looks splendid with her braided hair, almost unreal.

Barefoot she sways, humming a familiar sound.

Her white dress drapes on the ground as she come closer,

Her aura emits a vibrant sunshine of warmth

she welcomes you in her arms

As a mother holds her baby, she holds your head on her chest

And fills your eyes with sleep

As she becomes a part of your soul, forever within your skin.

For the time has come

For you to dance in the field.

It was raining

The day you left.

You leave behind three half-empty

Paint palettes--

Or are they half full?

From those same palettes you used

To make those paintings--

Telling stories that only

Made sense in your head.

I’ll paint like you did

Under this roof--

Just a little different.

I wash away the

Reds

And the

Blues

That coated your hands too-

once.

Your walls are now bare,

Everything gone--

Not even a single hair

Not even a single tear-

Drop, drop, dro-

You're starting a new life now.

And so am I;

We have both turned a page.

Though it's no longer

The same book.

A vile perfume fills the air.

Many cannot smell it.

Many do not seek it.

It is the smell of greed

the smell of hatred

There!

upon men’s lips.

Carelessly unleashed

upon the world.

A vile splash! of paint

coats

the ballroom walls

where dead dancers dance

a song full of life;

shattering criticism

a lion, ready to pounce!

A vile color fills your eyes

the color of lies

the color of judgment

as the ghost in the corner

tells you he loves you.

A vile order

from that voice in your head

shakes you awake

for the second time

or is it the ninth?

For this is the world we live in-

A vile

Vile

world.

My heart flutters like a butterfly, though I mustn't show it

Your hands atop my crinoline, as we dance to the violins

The crescendos and diminuendos guiding our steps

Mauve and maroon-dressed guests won’t take my eyes off of you
Every memorized move, every word left unspoken

 

Though the night makes my head whirl, your eyes hold me close

Fierce, passionate heat as we glide on our feet

No matter what occurred a day or night ago

Music carries us into the next spin or step

This moment so precious, I will wish it to repeat 

 

The chandelier glimmers, and illuminates the crowded hall

My skirts made of muslin, skillfully crafted by artisans

I get lost in the bottomless blue of your gaze

Never will you fail to entrance me with your charm

Must not be a dream, for my eyes are wide open

 

Pain from a petticoat or high heel will not stagger me

Your redolence like honey, reminds me of a fleur de lis

When one dance feels like eternity cut too short

Please don’t forget me as the stars leave the sky

I will remember this feeling, of when our hands meet

Though after we bow, it is turned bittersweet.

 

Inspired by Por Una Cabeza by Carlos Gardel and Clockwork Angel by Cassandra Clare

Pieces of a puzzle that don’t seem to fit,

A life from birth to death preserved with every stitch.

When a path that is winding and broken gets chosen,

There are two fluffy gloves that keep your heart unfrozen.

All when a soul fears nothing, not even death,

A melody can be made with only one breath.

When emptiness is filled with the joy of the past,

A red box isn’t what’ll make happiness last.

While something like coffee is always around,

Only when you smell it can memories be found.

When an item so basic can make your eyes sting,

A flat piece of plastic can be worth as much as a ring.

As children we receive tiny things with tiny faces,

We hang onto them as we discover many new places.

See, our lives are not defined by the objects we find when cleaning,

But they serve a purpose because our memories give them meaning.

A spirited girl in Renaissance Florence upends a contest to design the city’s greatest monument, in a female reimagining of architectural history, in which rivalry, beauty, ingenuity, and a little blue notebook, are at the forefront.

Fiammetta is the 17-year-old daughter of a renowned Florence artist, Lorenzo Ghiberti. She longs to break into the all-male world of artisans, apprentices and architects who are transforming Florence into the most beautiful city in the world.

Brunelleschi, a 22-year-old architect, has already made a name for himself. But to qualify for the history books needs to score the biggest commission Florence will ever see: The Duomo.

Giorgio, a teenaged boy who works as an apprentice for Donatello, becomes Fiammetta’s accidental best friend and loyal sidekick, as they battle with the Florentine establishment.

Donatello, an already well-established artist in his 20s, and former apprentice of Ghiberti, is friends with everyone, and runs a workshop where everyone hangs out.

______________________________________________________________

 

The Blue Notebook - Wooden Sword Fight

INT - GHIBERTI HOUSEHOLD - DAY

Fiammetta quietly walks through the corridor. She gets to the living room, and finds Vittorio and Tommaso dueling each other with their wooden swords. Tommaso spots Fiammetta, and stops fighting Vittorio.

 

TOMMASO

Fiammetta!

Fiammetta winces

TOMMASSO (CONT’D)

(In a posh voice)

I challenge you to a duel!

FIAMMETTA

Fine. Sir Vittorio, I require your sword.

VITTORIO

Of course, your fireness.

Vittorio hands Fiammetta his sword, and then sits down on the ground near the spot of the duel. Fiammetta and Tommasso are standing across from each other, preparing themselves for battle.

VITTORIO (CONT’D)

In the arena we have Fiammetta, wooooo, versus Tommasso, boooo!

TOMMASO

Hey.

VITTORIO

I mean wooo as well! Okay duelers ready?

FIAMMETTA

Ready.

TOMMASO

Even readyer.

VITTORIO

On your marks, get set, duel!

The two start circling each other. Tommaso lunges first.

VITTORIO

Tommaso makes the first move, and… misses. Fiammetta moves out of the way just in time.

Fiammetta makes the next move, but OH! Tommaso blocks her attack with his sword. Fiammetta’s sword goes flying out of her hand. She is defenseless! Tommaso takes one stab, straight through her! Tommaso wins!

Tommaso’s sword is tucked in between Fiammetta’s arm and side. She pulls it out, starts stumbling backwards, and pretends to die.

TOMMASO

Woooooohooo!

Fiammetta is still on the ground, trying to be as still as possible. Vittorio, concerned, goes over to make sure she is not actually dead. He stands next to her head and looks down. Nothing

VITTORIO

Fiammetta?

FIAMMETTA

BOO!

Fiammetta abruptly sits up.

VITTORIO

AAAAAHHHHHH!!!

Both Fiammetta and Tommaso start laughing hysterically.

VITTORIO

It's not funny! Stop laughing.

They don’t stop. Vittorio, annoyed, goes to sit and sulk on the sofa.

FIAMMETTA

Thank you sir Tommaso, I had a splendid duel.

They shake hands.

TOMMASO

As did I, Lady Fiammetta.

FIAMMETTA

I really must be off now, good day to you both.

VITTORIO

(Quick, and still mad)

Bye.

Fiammetta walks out of the living room, and eventually into her room.

 

________________________________________________________________

 

The Blue Notebook - Therapy Session

INT. DONATELLO’S WORKSHOP - AFTERNOON

Giorgio walks into the workshop, having finished his lunch break, and finds Donatello reclining  on a sofa-chair. Donatello is frustrated. There are only the two of them in the workshop today. Giovanni is busy planning his wedding.

GIORGIO

What's wrong?

Giorgio takes off his bag, leaving it on the nearby table.

DONATELLO

I don’t want to go to the wedding tomorrow.

GIORGIO

What?

DONATELLO

Well of course I want to go to the wedding, and I’m definitely going, after all, its Giovanni, though I still don’t know how he managed to find a wife, and I’m probably going to be bawling my eyes out the whole time, --

Giorgio pulls up a chair, and sits down.

DONATELLO (CONT’D)

But, Filippo is going to be there, and I do not want to see him.

GIORGIO

Who?

DONATELLO

Brunelleschi.

Giorgio chuckles.

DONATELLO

I know it's been a month, but I’m still mad! And I'm still not over him! He had no right to break up with me, only I can do that!

GIORGIO

You were together? Like together together?

DONATELLO

Yeah, on and off for about two years, how did you not know this? Anyway, I was always the one who broke up with him, but it was only ever for short breaks. I thought we were destined to be together. I mean sure, we got on each other's nerves, and it probably was a toxic relationship, but it was our toxic relationship! He would critique my work, because he thinks he is superior to everyone, which he is, but not the point, then I would criticise his stupid hair that’s always so poofy and perfect…

You know, a while ago, back when we were teenagers, which was only a couple of years ago, so not actually that long ago, anyway, we would play the most amazing pranks on our friends. One time we made this guy think he was another person. It was Filippo’s idea, and it was hilarious. The guy actually believed he had turned into someone else. And then he had the audacity to break up with me! Did our trip to Rome mean nothing to him? And you know what the worst part is? The reason he broke up with me is because he started to like someone else, a girl of all people! And a month later I’m still lying here wallowing in self pity. I suppose I deserve it for breaking up with him so many times.

GIORGIO

Fiammetta.

DONATELLO

What?

GIORGIO

The girl, the one he broke up with you for, it’s Fia.

Donatello sits up.

DONATELLO

What! No, it can’t be Fia, I mean do they even know each other?

GIORGIO

Sort of.

DONATELLO

Anyway, even if he did like Fia, there is no way she could like him back right?

GIORGIO

No… She hates him… 

Donatello lies back down.

DONATELLO

That was not a very convincing answer. I feel like you are not telling me something.

GIORGIO

Uh.. You know, I probably should get back to work, paint to mix, wood to paint, other stuff that I can’t think of that also involves paint…

Giorgio gets up and starts walking backwards out of the room.

GIORGIO (CONT’D)

Yeah. Bye!

Giorgio walks out of the room.

Graphite sky,

fog of pepper light

sprinkling the silver sea.

Tendrils of iron clouds

blending into the graphite.

Swirling charcoal.

 

The Sun emerges

dripping in silver;

chrome drops

sloshing and melting

rippling the surface.

Molten metal.

 

The Sun rises higher.

Now shining gold.

Its silver skin shed into the sea,

bright light breaking the graphite.

 

Charcoal crumbling into dust,

smog inhaling the sky and

exhaling it up into the clouds.

Revealing its blue beneath.

Now delicate and unexposed,

as the morning light dances off its clean face.