Stories:

Pearl

I closed her eyes and breathed her a gentle lullaby, laying her head down on the pillows of concrete
that circled her. Her knuckles were bruised with the stain of my lips, not too dissimilar to how her
skull had sewn a bloody patchwork into my own.

Fallen from grace, you could call me as I slumped into the leather train seat, the rosy flush upon my
neck that sprung half-way up to my cheeks. It was a dead-giveaway. These people on the train
glanced in their supposed knowing. How delightful it was to me that they hadn’t a clue.

The dawning spears of sunlight pierced me and that moment I was crucified. I was crucified, like the
strange man in the crucifix I had choked around my neck. Their eyes stabbed holes in my humanity
and their whispers stitched a crown onto my head. Martyrdom was far from the bitter reality.

Perhaps tomorrow she’ll be on the news: Lauren Turgend found dead on Seven Albert Lane, second
account of double-stabbings reported the week of the seventh of the ninth. To them she is merely a
number. To me she was hardly a game.

Tomorrow’s serial killers are to be shaped by my own blissfully wretched generation, soaked in the
sins of their predecessors. My parents ripped holes in my empathy and my teachers caused loathing
to ooze from my brain. Is it by chance that I am this way? Would you tell me that if you looked me in
the face?

The problem here lies within our perception of life: ever since school we are taught to draw halos
around what is right and strike down what is wrong. We cast out irregularity from our lives. It is
burnt, it is no more. I do not say this out of scorn, I say this out of experience. Parents cast a girl out
of the warmth of her home several years ago and threw her onto the street with little more than a
piece of toast and a bag which fell at her feet. That girl became a monster and drove herself insane.
That girl, her and I share a name, but her brain has been so twisted that I can no longer call it my
own.

The problem here lies within perception: the world perceived my lover as alive. I perceived her dead.

Chioma Onwuezobe

4 years ago (edited)

This is an example of what I mean

A cry pushes past her lips. Samira is alone. Alone, with nothing but her frenzied thoughts for
company. As she comes to reflect on this, she feels an ache course through her, burning a hole the
size of an acre through her heart. An abyss is left in its place, a submerging pit of darkness, filled with
misery and deep dark regret.

Deep, dark regret. Regret for her decision. She curses herself for letting her mind allude to the idea
that he'd show up, along with a soft smile worth a thousand apologies, paired with bright eyes that
could encompass all thoughts and feelings. They held the power to stop her from thinking properly.

That was Samira's thought process then, when she had first embarked on her journey. Her heart was
as light as leaves fluttering past her. Her lips were prepared to be as docile as paper, ready to comply
with all his hopes and dreams. Then, his absence was made known. It led to anarchy.

Being unable to meet his needs , Samira began to neglect her own. Her own hopes and dreams hung
in the air, frozen and indignant as time swept past. Like great gusts of wind, they moved locks of her
hair back, tickling the sides of her cheeks.

Time moves on, yet Samira remains stagnant. Halted in time. She's still by the dock of the bay,
prickling with contempt, her impatience standing tall. But her surroundings do not adhere to
standing stationary. They themselves transpose through time. The sun retiring to sit beside her, the
skies growing darker and the clouds growing heavier. And for a moment, its still. There's no
movement surrounding.. Then something suddenly snaps inside of her and chaos is instantaneously
unleashed within her.To the eye, Samira looks perfectly sane, but deep down within, her mind is
screaming torrents of abuse, her lungs burning in agony, her mouth brimming with sawdust.

Samira pulls her legs inwards, sniffing profusely, her arms tightly wrung around her, her breathing
heavy, the tears in her eyes blurring her vision. She feels like a solider who has just gone out to
battle, for she is wheezing in pain as if she has been struck. It does not relent, the talons of anguish
clawing into her, ripping her to shreds. Leaving nothing in it's midst, but a girl of slight frame, her
piercing cries causing her whole body to fall into a convulsing rage.

"Shell Shock"
Blissful beams of light pierced through the blue skies, placing a spotlight upon the man as he sat
down on the bench. The trees delicately shivered, outstretching their arms before him. Content in
solitude, he gazed upon the kids playing hopscotch and was swept back into 1930: the year his first
daughter was born. Life was perfect back then. If only he had known that in nine short years, he
would be windswept into conflict. The war ended but memories never did. Sometimes they
materialised into faces, sometimes they materialised in to places in time. But they were always real,
just like the man who was suddenly sat next to him.

The man was smart, but it was pecular: the clothes he was wearing was not a type he’d seen since
his demob days working as a postman. Even so, his face seemed recognisable, but he couldn’t quite
place a finger on it. It almost looked like his brother, Frank. But, of course, that was ridiculous, and
he quickly shook the idea off immediately. After all, his memories were deteriorating by day.

The man didn’t quite look right though: he had a visible tremor in his right leg but carried a calm and
determined air.

“Are you okay?” the man asked, furrowing his eyebrows

“Y-yes sir!” the man responded, eyes transfixed on the tree in front of him like a rifle readying his
shot.

“I’m not your commanding officer, son- my name’s Carl” he chucked

“And your name is?” leaning over to give him a handshake. But, the man ignored him, his eyes still
trained on that infernal tree.

“I’ve killed dozens of Jerries’ with my Enfield, I never forget a face and when I close my eyes all I can
see are those faces” … a sheet of tears formed on his pupils. Murder swelled in his crimson bullet
hole eyes: “BOOM!” the rifle guns permeated through him, and the tears became even more
apparent in the autumnal orange hue. He blinked them away in an instant. Calm again.

Carl raised his eyebrows. These were his memories too. Memories that were better locked away
gathering dust. Little did he know; this man was still suffering deeply because of it. It had taken him
years to get out of his own calamitous state which war forced him into. Some people just never get
over it. And now, at the end of all this, he could finally look back on a life well liven.

Carl looked up to see the trees once again: they stood lifeless and drooped. The park was washed
out like an old faded photograph. He blinked. Everything came back into focus. The man was gone
and was replaced by his caregiver, Emma.

“Away with the fairies again, Carl?”

He looked at her puzzled and bewildered.

“H-he was right there, I-I was sure of it”

Emma frowned: “Who? I’ve been sitting here all this time”

Those eyes.

Those dark, unfaltering eyes.

I was yearning to know the secrets they held, locked up within the ever-expanding chasm.

Every detail on his face intrigued me: the scar, just above his raised eyebrow; the shaggy beard ,dirt
embedded within; the lack of emotion as if he had seen all that this world had to offer. Despite
having borne the brunt of human life - his joints creaked almost audibly while his body decayed - he
was shockingly peaceful, as if in harmony with the universe around him. Exuberance radiated
outwards, perhaps a manifestation of his content as the whole of the bus glowed with light.

Something drew me towards him. My legs moved out of their own accord, as if an ancient primitive
instinct had been reborn, pulling me, dragging me to this man and when those eyes gazed back at
mine, everything was revealed.

Visions after visions flooded my mind” cries of men, cries of children; visions of blood of untamed
greif; and then the innocent, pure memories of a childhood gone by.

I saw the fighting, the bloodshed from the trenches. Misery hung in the dark, thick air as the winds
flexed their muscles in the east, whipping the clouds into shape, forcing them along the sky. The
soldiers shed more tears than the clouds that day, despite the black jackboots of rain that stomped
across the horizon. The cold filled my body to its core - to the source of my happiness, my pleasure -
corrupting it with savage, bitter rainfall, as if a long dead tyrant had been reborn, armed with a
winter’s fury. The tyrant had built up his army overhead: the closest clouds wore a battleship grey
while those behind were streaked with the black fumes of charred coal. They launched down volleys
of thunder, the CRACK echoing, haunting us well after its body had left.

And then the man next to me, both of us ankle deep in a horrid mixture of faeces and dirt, gazed
down at me with dark unfaltering eyes’ with a scar above his eyebrow.

I woke up amongst a forest of wheat, in a valley glittered in wonder, illuminated in light. The blanket
of wheat wrapped itself over an ever-expanding valley, as the sun dripped warmth like hot wax upon
my now rosy cheeks, both soothing and comforting. The valley glowed with light, as a warm, earthy
breeze wafted over me, almost infused with pure ecstasy. The horizon looked like a golden shield
beaten by a hammer, as if a great Greek God had been reborn to hurl shafts of glorious light upon
my innocent spirit. Oozing elegance, the sky showed off it’s artist trickery: cobalt blue depths, azure
outlines to the few white clouds, a sapphire halo around the sun. not even the most deceptive of
serpents could lure me out of this Garden of Eden.

And then the boy next to me, lying on his back with his hands cupped behind his head, gazed down
at me with dark, unfaltering eyes, with a scar above his raised eyebrow.
Aditya

5 years ago

Love the video Sir! I was wondering if you would be able to mark an essay I wrote on Lady Macbeth. I
used the extract and question from the specimen material. I understand if you don't have time but
any help would be much appreciated. Thank you for your excellent videos!

To a certain extent Lady Macbeth is presented as powerful in the extract and the play as a whole,
however this power is undermined by her desperation and the male characters in the play.
Shakespeare constructs her to represent the majority of women in the Jacobean era and also shows
that she is a victim of the patriarchal society. Lady Macbeth is presented as powerful in this extract
when she demands the spirits to “unsex” her. The imperative verb of “unsex” suggests her power
and strength: she is demanding evil spirits to take her femininity away despite knowing that she will
go to hell. For a contemporary audience this would be deeply unsettling since many would be fearful
of the supernatural and of being dammed. Lady Macbeth is willing to deal with the supernatural and
so is seen as brave and powerful- characteristics shared by men and, in particular, soldiers. She can
then be seen as a character that is going against the patriarchy, which would not occur in many plays
at the time.She is further presented as powerful when she tells Macbeth to “look like the innocent
flower. But be the serpent under’t”. The simile of “the innocent flower” can be interpreted as her
mocking Macbeth’s feminine qualities- qualities which she appears to no longer have. This would be
very dangerous for her as it could be dangerous to mock a warrior. However, she comments on hi
masculine qualities of “being the serpent”. She is hence very manipulative and a powerful woman.
The metaphor of “the serpent” is an allusion the biblical story where Adam and Eve get tempted by a
serpent. A Jacobean audience would immediately understand the weight of such an allusion. It is
clear she will be punished. Her fearless nature combined with manipulative skills presents her as
powerful. Shakespeare structures the text to present her as powerful. The extract is very early on in
the play and a female character to be given a soliloquy so early would be very strange. By giving her
this soliloquy, she is presented as powerful; she would be listened to by the audience and would be
centre stage. Many women would be subservient to men and not have this much influence. In
addition, Macbeth sends her this letter despite knowing he will meet her soon. His dependency on
his wife presents her as powerful.This power is subtly undermined in this extract and throughout the
play. In the extract she keeps Duncan “under” her battlements. The preposition of under emphasises
could be seen as her way of showing dominance. Alternatively, we can view this as her desperation
of power that she cannot obtain by just means. This is echoed when at the end of the play, the
audience hears “a cry of woman within”. This stage direction is what signifies her death. Lady
Macbeth is killed off stage, which presents how powerless she really is and how, despite assisting in
regicide, she still obtains no power because of one reason: she is a woman.Her weakness is further
presented when Shakespeare writes Macbeth to completely undermine her power. She is told by
Macbeth to be “innocent of the knowledge dearest Chuck” when she asks for more information. The
word “dearest” could be Macbeth showing endearment to his wife, but most likely it represents his
lack of respect for her. The adjective of “dear” is used several times by Macbeth when he addresses
her and so presents how he sees her as inferior. The development of Lady Macbeth is a salient
feature of the play as it presents the overwhelming power of the patriarchy. We are made to
sympathise with her as she says “Had he not resembled my father as he slept, I had done’t”, which
shows her humanity. “Macbeth” can be interpreted as a feminine text as she is a woman who
restricted from opportunities due to the society she lives in and so Shakespeare attempts to make
the audience sympathise with her in order to promote change