Creative Writing

Niamh Smith He had never seen such beauty; her raven tresses hanging down in thick strands, the intense pools  of blue that were her eyes, the porcelain skin of a china doll. He had been watching her for years and had never dared to show himself. I would scare her if she saw me, he thought, but still he followed  her to the empty study. She sat down at the archaic mahogany desk, but instead of writing a letter  (that was what he had done in his lifetime, he observed) or switching her computer on, she sat  there, alone in quiet thought.  It was a perfect time for him to reveal himself. She had often remarked to her friends that the study  was haunted, and she had little idea how right she was. She did not expect, at that moment, to feel a  soft hand...

I wake in morning, in the ruins of myself, in a tangle and un- tangle of small destructions, (and greater ones) and these destructions, they run machine-like, calculated, soldier-march their way into the roadwork of my grandfather’s veins I wake in morning, to black tea and all the newspapers,     to the stories of Nablus, of back-home      of home, he says, that is much more home     than this skeleton one will ever be my grandfather, he speaks of dust, of bombs, of the houses they took and all the bodies, but my grandfather, he also speaks of weddings, of singing and of fields, ...

The twinkling stars became her closest companions. The moon; her confidante. And the blanket of darkness that infinitely stretched high above; her protection. For they restored her faith in the existence of solace and blessed her with silence and safety. She found that the heavy slumber chained the ugly monsters of daylight down, granting her the freedom to feel and breathe at her own pace and will. A chance given, for her internalised agony to be alleviated through shedding tears.  For the merciful night too, had heard the echoes of her endless pain. And with all its power it pushed the sorrowful day away, so it could thereafter comfort her, limitlessly. Adeela Bhutta  @pain_in_words_xo

I cannot swim, but I grew up beside the water’s edge. I fell in love by the riverside, feet dangled over the ledge. Then I flew  across the ocean; an insurmountable wedge between us. And so now I float on life by the lake, waiting always  to find myself awake, not by the water, wherever it may be, but by your side- indefinitely. Mercedes-Georgia Mayes

We’ve all been here before: it’s the dreaded stare at a blank document. The pacing around your single-bed dorm room at 2 a.m. The fingers hovering over the keyboard. You’ve been sitting here for hours and hours, but the words just won’t come.  If you’ve ever found yourself in any of these situations, congratulations – you’ve experienced the bane of every student’s existence: writer’s block. I reached out to some of the most experienced on the matter, Royal Holloway’s Writing Society, to try and crack the code behind the debilitating curse of this creative slowdown.  You might be wondering: what exactly is writer’s block? Cathy Snarey, Treasurer of Writing Soc, describes it as that feeling of being up against a deadline, but there’s simply nothing valuable on your mind. ‘Yo...

In this (very) short story contest, I received so many interesting and clever submissions that took the prompt of ‘earth’ and explored it, turning our preconceptions about nature, humanity and climate change on its head to create powerful, punchy reflections on our world.  I’m excited to share with you the following excellent pieces which respectively came first, second and third in this mini-competition!  1. Jellyfish Jaimi Morter  I used to live in Yokohama, right on the border of the Ooka river. Cherry trees had scattered the banks and often, when I was little, I used to pluck the shiny red orbs from the low hanging branches and slip them into my pockets to take to my friends at school. I think that’s probably the happiest memory I have of my home. When I c...

Illuminations “It’s not like stopping for McDonalds twice in one trip would be a bad thing.”   Anna rolled her eyes, turning slightly in her seat, a trace of fond exasperation gracing her features. She was unsurprised when her gaze met the back of Riya’s dark, disheveled hair. The younger woman’s forehead was pressed firmly against the glass of the passenger seat window, already having moved on from their last altercation to a cluster of lights in the outlying night. Smirking, Anna reached forward to hold a button and the window proceeded to hum to life. Riya yelped as her makeshift pillow lowered and her head jarred against the frame before she took advantage of this lack of restraint and launched her head through the gap. Anna, momentarily distracted by Riya’s hair flying t...