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Creative writing portfolio for a piece I made myself including a commentary. It is an example of a standard grade.
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Humanities (Falmer), Craig Jordan-Baker, LL614, Creative Writing ProjectFORBS
In a remote village, in some rural, sleepy town, there hung a crescent shaped moon in a blackened
night sky. In its company lay a scattering of stars, which casted a muted glow over the land below.
Shrouded in streams of ivy and clusters of pale hydrangeas, there sat a cottage. It maintained a very
petite yet frumpy facade, discoloured brickwork barely visible beneath the layers of organisms which
hugged its every curve. Four very frumpy single glazed windows, supporting remarkably aged lattice
shaped muntin bars, were slumped in each corner of the house’s front facing visage. The window
panes, which were now murky and worn from their years of fixture, had misted over from the
spread of warm air that radiated from the crackling log fire downstairs. Every so often, a parade of
wind rattled the frames and made the house shiver. Indoors, even the halo of flames from the
candelabra that had been placed daringly close to the edge of the window sill flickered anxiously. In
that same room, where the log fire cackled away in delight, there was a fairly spacious living room,
laced with wide, uneven streaks of what was once a bright emerald green wallpaper. It glazed the
walls throughout the home, flaking every so often, where it slouched into the dim cornicing. A
handful of paintings situated themselves very awkwardly on one of the walls in an arrangement that
sought no structure; some were slanted, some were higher up on the walls and others were lower
down. A crowd of old furniture had been dispersed within the dimly lit room. One crimson stained
armchair, in need of renewing and a broad, wide sofa shoved up against that very wall of graceless
canvases. This was a home to a family of three.
Marcus Thorn was the man who sat slumped in the armchair. He had a wide frame which favoured
his torso but rather slim athletic legs. His spine was ever so slightly hunched in the style of an upside-
down fishing hook, and this was always apparent whenever he sat down on something that did not
offer him back support. Hence, why he tended to gravitate toward the remote armchair. A full and
dominant moustache graced his sullen face, averting the attention away from the many freckles and
lines that his olive skin was ripe with. One could tell he was a shepherd. He had long been a
shepherd too, ever since his father died very young and mother had proven unfit to take over the
profession.
Marcus’ eldest son, Arthur also had a stout stature. His eyes were the same emerald hue as his
mother’s, but as he grew, puberty had fashioned him with much harsher, sharper features, which
tended toward neither of his parent’s appearance. Arthur was born during an arduous winter. No
doctor or midwife was able to make it in time to aid in his mother’s labour due to the intensity of
, Humanities (Falmer), Craig Jordan-Baker, LL614, Creative Writing Project
snowfall that year, so his mother managed to give birth to him with only Marcus at her side.
Strangely, Arthur seemed to carry a similar solemn attitude around with him, as if the season had
birthed him itself.
Elliot, the young buck of the family, possessed a much more graceful energy and physicality. Though
he was similar in height, his frame was much looser, leaner. His cheeks, often flushed, complimented
the freckles that kissed them as well as the subtle shadow his lashes cast across his high cheekbones.
Born as a child of spring time, he was a welcome blessing for his parents. He too seemed to resemble
the season he was born in as a sensitive and reflective young man, full of promise somehow...
Elliot had tucked his feet underneath a grey quilt on the sofa, his hands curled around an old
battered copy of Great Expectations. His older brother sat beside him, both feet planted firmly on
the floor with an arm rubbing his shoulder, caressing it slightly. In his other hand, he fiddled with the
arm of a small figurine. ‘You are my little soldier, Arthur’ his mother used to say. ‘Never let anyone
tell you any different’. A hint of a smile twitched at the corner of his lips as he reminisced...
She was the proverbial ribbon that tied these men together: Elena. A mother, a daughter, a wife. A
lady who’s smile could lift the spirits of any ill-tempered soul. Or at least, it may have been her
smile...She had a lean figure which affirmed her strong and feminine presence when she entered a
room and her hair, ringlets of brown thread, framed her oval shaped face. Her soul was just as
delicate as it was caring. This was before she had fallen victim to the sickness that took her...After
spouts of memory loss and a debilitating loss in ability to physically talk to her family, she soon
passed as a consequence of early onset dementia. She died when they were both too young, yet
they were old enough to remember her essence and the witness the dark hole it left in their father’s
heart. And when the day came that the boys inevitably asked for the specifics what had caused their
mother’s death, Marcus had told his sons that she was “unhappy” with life. So much so that it drove
her mad and that made her a threat to the boys. He insisted that death was the solution to all forms
of grief and madness. ‘It was for the better; the simplest solution’ he’d say, ‘Just as you would kill a
mad sheep.’ He could have just said ‘Thank you’. But he never did. He would repeat this even to the
strangers and tourists in town who asked about her death, and every single time he would turn his
head away to avoid their bewildered expression.
Elliot thought this was strange. He felt a protectiveness over his mother’s memory which he believed
his father seemed to lack, even though time would suggest his father should show a greater
fondness of his dead lover. But Elliot always was ever the romantic.
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