Creative Writing Work (1 Viewer)

[ytsersios]

So I just did my creative exam. It gave us 3 stimuli and would pick one on the day of the exam. I prepared 3 separate creatives. And just as is my luck they pick the stimulus for which I have the worst creative for. So here are the other 2 creatives seeing as they are unadaptable and I hate wasted effort. Enjoy!!!

Stimulus 1 - (picture of blank street signs)
The Legend of Stanley

The room stank of old socks and mouldy cheese. Complete darkness enveloped the tiny room, since no windows were built in the basement and the ragged heap of curtains permanently blocked out any of the outside world. The only objects in the room were a wooden bed, a computer desk and a wooden chair. The only light came from an ajar door. The other door to the rest of the house was completely locked. Stanley sat, still as a statue, staring at his screen, seemingly unaware of the state of his room.

A hatch in the locked door opened, “Dinner’s ready Stanley”, said a woman’s voice. Stanley glanced up at the hatch as her hand presented him with a plate of pizza. He stood up and walked to the door to collect it. The hatch closed and he returned to the computer screen, to continue staring at it for all of eternity.

The end.

But then something strange happened. The computer screen began flickering. Stanley could not continue to stare at a flickering screen. It kept flickering until it changed to a bright, blue and an ear piercing screech was emitted from the computer. Stanley took off his headphones and stood up, mouth open, and hairs on end. This had never happened before in all his 16 years of staring at the computer screen. Stanley did not know what to do. There was nothing left to do. But fix the computer. But Stanley didn’t know how. He had to find someone who could fix his computer. He knocked violently at the locked door to his house, but there was no response. But then he noticed that there was another door, and it was open. Stanley had to do the unthinkable. Stanley had to go into the outside.

Stanley cautiously approached the door, tiptoeing on his feet. As he emerged from the trench of his home, Stanley saw light. His hands raised instinctively to cover his eyes, as if a flashbang had gone off and his mouth opened wide, as if skipping a breath. This was an astonishing sight for Stanley – for he had never seen light beyond the screen of his computer. He was so blinded that it took 10 minutes for him to recover from his astonishment. The photoreceptors in his eyes just couldn’t absorb so much at once.

Now that he was on the outside, Stanley did not know where to go next. Who would be able to fix his computer? There were only two choices he could make coming out of the trench. He could either go to the left side of the street or the right side. He decided to go to the left. As Stanley stumbled down the street he noticed the silent street was empty. It consisted of a slab of road in the middle and houses and lawns bordering both sides. He continued until reaching a crossroads. This wasn’t just any crossroads – there were three paths protruding from the crossroads. There was a set of street signs just beside the crossroads, pointing to the direction of those paths, but they were faded, almost completely blank. Stanley did not know which one to take so he just took the path on his right.

After a while of steady walking, Stanley, still not fully recovered, came upon a brightly lit, green filled park. In the park, there were many children frolicking with each other. Voices of laughter and joy filled his eyes and ears. A look of bafflement came across Stanley’s face. How could humans find enjoyment in such activities? The only joy he had known was staring at his computer screen. He decided that no one here could help him fix his computer so Stanley returned to the crossroads.

Stanley now took the path to his left. The sky began to darken, and air began to stink of cheese and excrement, as he continued down the path, although it didn’t elicit any response from him. He then started to see people. But these people weren’t happy or joyful like the last group. Fully grown adults were lying on the ground, sitting against walls, flies surrounding them, some unable to tell if they were sleeping or dead, nibbling on the crumbs strewn across the street which had a trail leading to the sewers. Stanley maintained the same blank look on his face as before, but it was a different sort of bafflement. After wavering through the silent street for a while, Stanley decided that no one could help him fix his computer here so he returned to the crossroads.

This time, Stanley took the front path. The sky grew bluer and the air became clearer as he continued down the path. He came upon monumental buildings and fancy looking people in sharp suits and dainty dresses. This place was bustling with activity. Stanley thought that these people must have stared at their computers for a very long time. He decided that he would find someone here to fix his computer. Then, as he walked along, Stanley witnessed a scruffy, faceless man in ragged clothes being beaten up by one of those men in sharp suits. He thought this absurd. Stanley walked up to them and ask “Why are you hurting him?” to the sharp dressed man. The man replied with some obscenities that Stanley had never heard before, even in all his days of staring at his computer screen. Despite this, Stanley stayed, thinking that this man would be able to fix his computer. But soon the scruffy man emitted a sound so horrible that it was indescribable.. Even Stanley could not just stand by and watch. He decided that if this was how staring at computers would make people, then he would stop staring at his computer.

With a determined look on his face, Stanley abandoned attempting to fix his computer. He returned to the crossways. He retraced the path he took, and found his house again. Instead of entering his trench, Stanley walked up the stairs to the porch and knocked on the front door. A woman opened the door with a dumbfounded look on her face.

“Hello, how can I help you?” she said. *

“It’s me, Stanley, it’s me mum.”

“Stanley? Why aren’t you in your room?” Her eyes were wide open staring into Stanley, not even blinking.

"I can't"

 

[FiendChain]

This is the most beautiful piece of writing I have ever read

 

[ytsersios]

Stimulus 3 - a briefcase on a road
The sound of raining artillery in the distance rumbled, echoing through the caves. Faint light filtered through a distant opening reflecting off the cave walls in a dense navy blue. The ground and ceiling occasionally crackled with dust and rock, each shell casting doubt on the integrity of the tunnels. The smell of dirt and mud interfused with a poignant rotting stench, a pervasive miasma which would overcome any sane man. Only quiet chatter overrode the constant static of the explosions outside.

Takumi ran through an endless tunnel with a faded brown briefcase in hand. As he ran further, light started to protrude out of the distance. Hiro trailed a mile behind. They arrived at a group of exhausted men, just beside the tunnel exit. The cacophony of war had never been so vivid.

“Colonel Takada, sir!” Takumi saluted. Lieutenant Ibu turned around, glaring, chin down, and stared down Takumi.

“Private Takumi, I thought we told you to remain on guard to watch for any surrendering cowards!”

Colonel Takada stood out and put his arm out in front of him as if holding out a katana.

“Ibu, step back. This could be important. Takumi, speak”

“Sir, we have found the enemy’s secret documents, from a dead soldier”, Takumi declared, presenting the colonel with the open briefcase. He handed over the documents. *

Takada slid on his glasses and unfolded the scrap of paper. He examined it intently for a second and glanced up.

“It’s a letter from someone’s mother” He cleared his throat and proceeded to translate cautiously.

“Dear Kyle, I have sent you some of your favourite magazines! I hope you enjoy them. Yesterday your brother ran out of the house at 2 in the morning, shouting about German spies. The neighbours were furious. Anyway don’t worry about us. Just take care of yourself and come back in one piece.”
Takada took off his glasses as a couple of men stood up, their gazes blank, faces half lit by the incoming light.

Ibu interjected, “Is that all?”

Takada continued, “And remember what I told you – act not by the code of others, but by your own. Love, mom”

The silence in the caves was interrupted by a screaming soldier running towards the men as a deadly column of dirt and dust detonated beside them. The group quickly fled inwards to the cave, splitting up in the chaos, leaving the closed briefcase behind.

Takumi and Hiro met up with each other again at their old resting place.

“I’m sick of this. I’m going to surrender.” Hiro yelled in hopelessness.

“You can’t. You are a soldier of the emperor,” Takumi calmly replied.

“Do you know the real reason why I’m here Takumi? Why I was expelled from the Kempeitai?”

Two men walked down the narrow path, bound by uniform houses on either side. The street was completely silent. They continued in silence, when a sudden eruption of muffled barking filled the air.

“Hiro – that animal is hindering official government operations. Take care of it.”

“Yes, sir!” Hiro hastily abided.

Two solid knocks on the sliding door. It opened up.

“Ma’am your pet is interrupting official operations. I have orders to silence it,” He stated.

“Please... no,” she begged.

“Take him around the back”. Hiro marched to the backyard with the woman and dog. He drew his pistol from its holster, pointing it downwards. He raised his weapon, and aimed it at the animal. Then, as his hands came in contact with the trigger, he pointed it to the sky, before squeezing it. He leaned in to the woman, who had tears streaking down her cheeks, eyes squeezed shut and whispered “Make sure he stays silent.” She rapidly nodded.

Hiro returned to the street. “It is taken care of, sir.”

“Good”. As they walked onwards, the familiar bestial noise sounded again. The officer retraced his steps, forced open the door and entered as two gun shots, screaming and crying was heard.

He returned to swing a bulged fist at Hiro in the temple.

“Takumi, Hiro!” A voice permeated from the distance. Several footsteps followed. “The general has ordered for an assault against the enemy. We must go with the colonel.” Hiro quickly glanced at Takumi, then, as fast as a bullet, took off in the other direction.

“Quick! Shoot the traitor!” shouted one of the men. Shots were fired but none of them managed to find Hiro as he vanished into the darkness. Takumi got in line at the back.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” one of them announced. As they marched, Colonel Takada appeared beside Takumi.

“Private, I’m going to assign you with a special task.”

“Yes what is it sir?”

“All the letters that I’ve been writing – the letters you’ve been writing… They were never sent out.” He presented Takumi with a dusty leather briefcase. He stopped and set it down on the ground, then unlocked it to reveal a plethora of faded and folded white. “I want you to burn it. All of it.”

“Yes sir! As you wish.”
As the men reached an outing ahead of the tunnels, Takumi stayed back to carry out the Colonel’s orders. He looked up to check where all the men were. They were all in the distant, raging battlefield, and just as he was about to ignite his lighter, closed the briefcase, and began digging at the dirt with the shovel he had carried with him since day one. After 30 minutes of labour, Takumi slid the heavy briefcase into the hole and proceeded to bury it in the dirt and rubble.

***

He joined the men at the very back. As the general gave the order, hundreds of men charged in under the Rising Sun. Hundreds of weapons were fired and hundreds of anguished screams of “banzai” were sent across the battlefield. Takumi remained the only one beneath the dead shrubbery, and closing his eyes remembered the words of Kyle’s mother. He raised his hands high above his head and slowly crept out into the open.

Thanks let me know what u think

 

[FiendChain]

I am most definitely not stalking this djentlemen

STIMULUS 1 – SIGN POST
Humans are so gullible when it comes to the truth, their belief in the fact that their lives are in their control. Everyone is society follows orders, whether it be a house maid to her boss, or her boss to her boss, up until the CEO, and even then he follows what his directive board and shareholders tells him to do. It’s all a grand illusion, setup by society to give people the false sense of control over their lives.
People stroll down the street, looking at the signs on the road and reading them for truth so they can follow them and reach their destination. Does that sound like control? We follow signs the way we follow orders, because it promises us a reward if we follow them. For the signs we reach our destination, for orders we get our pay checks so we can continue eating and deluding ourselves into a sense of control.
There’s a man, a generic man, wondering the streets and staring at signs as if it would help him reach his destination. He’s lost and confused, scared about the thought that he might be unable to get home and reach his computer in time to submit his work for the day, with absolutely no control over his life. What if we got this man, a generic man, and put him on a street with no directions, nowhere to turn to when he needs orders. What then?
The man creeps along the streets, pacing around in the freezing air with fog condensing under his neck. This terrified individual frantically rotates his head as if though it was on a pinwheel, his expression becoming blanker each passing minute as the world around him distorts into a blur. Dazzled and perplexed, he searches for answers as to where he is. He feels like he has travelled miles, his legs completely weakened by his extreme fatigue. As he gazes up at the looming sign, with frost forming from its arrows pointing to where to travel next, the realisation of the sign post occurs to him. Completely blank, with absolutely no writing on it, with every arrow shooting off at random directions and sending this generic man into a panic.
He is released from his prison, no longer constrained by the orders given to him, no longer under the illusion of control that gives him some comfort when he sleeps. Instead of pursuing the infinite possibilities that await every corner he turns, he cowers into the crevice of a building and curls up into a foetal position like a child scared by the truth that Santa doesn’t exist. This idiot is freed from the illusion of truth, and he begins to his new found control over his life in fear for his own existence and sanity. He has awoken from a deep sleep, and into a world where he no longer takes orders from anyone.
As this man, shall we call him Bob? It’s a rather generic name, rather suiting for such an individual. Well then, Bob begins to latch onto the walls, his fingernails digging into the grit between the brick, the sound of his fingers scraping along the cold and rough surface of the wall. As he begins to look around, he slowly but surely must realise where he right now? The intersection to nowhere! As he checks every street at the intersection, the barren wasteland forms in the front of his vision as he sees where he is. Bob feels stronger now, like he has been freed of shackles that have burdened him since his birth, and feels like he can run off into the distance. Limitless possibilities, with no one to tell him what to do ever again. He begins to run off down the street, the lamps now darkened as they extend into the infinity, unable to shine a light into the road ahead of this man called Bob. The sands around him begins to shift across the streets, as the barren wasteland covers up the remains of the anomaly, a street intersection in the middle of nowhere. The sands of time begin to cover up the anomaly, and Bob continues to run into the darkness, realising that there is no definitive goal in life.
The signs on the sign post begin to form letters, but they become unrecognisable. Their form slowly shifting overtime, the jumble of letters flowing across each other as if they couldn’t decide what their destination was. As Bob begins to run off, the words begin to scramble more, their control over this man becomes lost, and they continue changing for all of eternity, because this man has realised there is no true destination where he is going. His illusion of control has been broken, and now he experiences true control over his life and continues his life, recognising the unlimited possibilities that are presented to him.

STIMULUS 2 – BOOKS
This professor, a rather nimble and frail man strides around his room, clawing onto the thick leather cased book in his bony hands. The cold and dark room extends past the reasonable, with the ceiling arching over ready to collapse onto itself. The barred windows, with vines growing around them trap light from entering the silent abyss within the room. The hoarse gasping of the professor as he turns each page with the utmost care, and slumps into the embrace of the antique chair that is dwarfed by the room. The sound of his worn shoes smacking onto the cold wooden floor echoes into the distant corners and close the room around him. As each page is turned, the sound continues to reverberate around the room until the next page is turned. Every hour of every day, spent turning pages and moving around looking for another book.
The books promise the tale of adventure, excitement and exploration of imaginary worlds that are incomparable to the real world. But the professor knows nothing of the outside world, and hasn’t been out for the past 10 years unless for the occasional medical check. He lunges at the dumb waiter when food arrives, his hands still clawed to the leather bounding on the book, threatening to be torn off. His gaze resets onto the pages, and his eyes track the thousands of words on each page until the next page or next book has been finished. He continues his adventure, his quest for discovery of new worlds, as shadows creep over his shoulder, hungering for his presence.
As the supply of books begins to dwindle, the attention of the professor transitions elsewhere onto the surroundings of the room. His eyes now focused onto the twinkle of light in the corner in the room, illuminating the dark and inhospitable abyss in which the professor lurks in. As he approaches the object, his entity now escaping from the grasp of the shadows, he discovers a flower growing out of the cracks in his wall. The stub of a flower, its petals still concealed in its enclosure, as it prepares to grow into something larger, sunshine glimmering off its moist leaves and sparkling brilliance onto the professors wrinkled face.
Every moment from then on the professor began to care for the flower and nurture it. He opened his window shades, which had be shut tightly for years, and allowed the sun to shine onto the petal of the flower. Every day the flower would grow further into the wall, its roots cracking the weak walls which held the professor inside his prison. The flower continues to grow, the cracks perpetuating throughout the façade of the wall, the paint slowly flaking away to reveal the brick underneath it. The walls start to crumble around the damage, and the flower finally pulls down the walls that have imprisoned the professor for so many years.
The dust trapped within the walls is freed, sunlight scattering off the individual dust particles which hadn’t seen the light of day in eons. They flow within each other in the thick air, the sound of crickets and birds chirping in the background, the sunlight peering into the room and searching for the professor, urging him to escape from his enclosure. Unsure, the professor puts his hands outside the gaping wound on the side of the mansion, the gigantic void now being cleansed by the sunlight.
His hands grab at the leaves of a tree, the sound of his hands running across the delicate surface of each stem sending shivers down his spine. His eyes begin to dilate rapidly, the sunlight entering those unused set of eyes and illuminating the world around him. The initial sense of fear, the sound of his heart racing past its safe limit, the tremors emanating from his old and crippled body, are overwhelmed by the awe his exposed mind is experiencing. The sensation of seeing what is really real and being able to interact with it surpasses everything that the professor has read before. Tales of adventure which the books have promised him are incomparable to the majesty of the real world.
The professor crawls further into the wilderness, still dressed in his tattered pyjamas and wearing his ridiculous sandals, begins to endure the ultimate adventure. His mansion begins to degrade, forgotten by time, and becomes slowly enveloped in dust which seeps into every corner of the room and begins to fill it from there on. Mother Nature begins to breach the confines of the walls, and the once abysmal void is replaced with the presence of living things, bringing back life to the prison which stripped the professor of his livelihood. His old books deteriorate through the sands of time, their leather bounding being worn down over the many decades to come, the pages being washed away by time.

STIMULUS 3 – SUITCASE
Every day this man wakes up, unknowing of the world around him and who he is. He stares at the mirror for several minutes, his facial expressions evolving rapidly within the minutes he has in the bathroom as he reads the notes, laid out for him like bread crumbs. The crunching of the notes in the man’s hand breaks the eerie silence in the room, and he continues his morning routine.
He drinks his milk slowly, taking every moment in as if though it was his last, his eyes frantic. Through the notes he learns that he will cease to exist in a day, like mayflies which die after a day. He goes through a cycle of a day, and his memories reset, forever killing the person on that day. The man hurries frantically out of the house, the door being slammed shut on the way out into the world. This man spends his last day on Earth doing recreational drugs, gambling and playing Russian roulette. He couldn’t care less about the repercussions of this, perhaps for the next version of him to deal with. As he lays back in bed, with markings along the latitude of his arm indicative of needles, he begins to doze off into the gentle night where he will be deleted from existence. His eyes begin to droop, the drugs in his system taking effect over his body and putting him a chemical trance. Approaching the limit of his consciousness, an alarm deploys from underneath his bed. The extreme frequency of the alarm pierces his ears, the sheer amplitude of the alarm shocks him awake from his chemically induced trance.
As he approaches the alarm, he sees the sign evidently next to it. BRIEFCASE IN THE CLOSET. What could possibly matter at this point the man pondered? His very existence was to be erased within the next few hours, but someone in the darkest corners of his personality, through all the reckless behaviour, a sense of urgency develops and he is forced by an intangible desire to acquire the briefcase.
The briefcase he finds is covered in a leather exterior, its tough texture providing a barrier to whatever is inside it. A small padlock secures the briefcase, clamping the two halves tightly shut and preventing him from seeing its inwards. As the sensation of dread and disappointment emerge, an instinctive knowledge of where the key is arises. Unknowingly and being controlled by some obscured aspect of his mind, he gets the key and opens the briefcase.
Another note appears, WRITE DOWN WHAT YOU HAVE DONE TODAY HERE, AND READ THE DOCUMENTS AND DECIDE. As the man searches through the documents he reads the logs of his past selves. Some were as reckless as him, others took a more leisurely and relaxed approach to the situation, but the most disturbing aspect of the entire scenario was the fact none of the personalities remained the same after each day. It was always changed, and shifting like the sands of time. Tick tock time is running out for the man, and he is about to be erased from existence.
When he discovers the concealed document, obscured by the daily logs of all his past selves, he reads a report and journal entries. However these entries were different from the others, they didn’t mention anything about a memory loss. He inspects the documents last date, and realises that it has been 10 years since the report. The report talks about a car accident, and an image of him and a woman and two children appear alongside it. This man becomes confused, panic rushing over his face and a sense of familiarity as well. The two conflicting emotions tear apart this man’s ability to comprehend the information presented before he recomposes himself. He asks why does he already feel like knows this already?
A sensation of utter agony tears across the man’s head, his temples undergoing the sensation of being prodded by two metallic rods and puncturing his skull. Memories from a past life, a life that he doesn’t remember flows into his blank mind. A flow of emotions overwhelm the man, and he begins to moan uncontrollably. The sound of anguish emanating from this man’s mouth echoes through the empty room, as shadows begin to obscure the man as the lights begin to dim in the room. Even though he doesn’t care about those two children, the sensation of pure anguish still punishes him. He cannot possibly continue like this. He asks why he made himself do this. This could have only been orchestrated by himself. He looks at the note at the bottom of the briefcase, which gives him a choice in all of the chaos that he has experienced. PILLS IN THE BATHROOM TO FORGET, OTHERWISE GO TO SLEEP AND REMEMBER.
As the man goes to sleep, he washes down a pill with water, the gulping sound breaking the silence in the room. He sleeps, completely free of his pain from a former life, his eyes succumbing to the iron weights on his eyelids and becoming erased from existence. Another man wakes up in the same place as the last man. This one is gentler and less reckless. He goes to the bathroom, confused about who he is and reads the series of notes on the bathroom counter.