Page No: 6 Dulwich Despatch
Creative Writing: A Venetian Scene
The Grand Canal was a kaleidoscope of azure and green hues, emerald ripples glinting in the setting sun. Antonio gazed pensively, absorbed in the beauty of the view. The soft summer sun caressed the
back of his neck. The reflection in the Duomo was burnished, the colour of wheat ripe for harvest, no longer the burning ball which penetrated the layers of clothes with which Antonio found himself adorned in the midday heat. The heady, intoxicating scent of bougainvillea wafted through the slowly dampening air piercing his nostrils with its delicate aroma. A cool, combing breeze, a breath of vitality, straightened his hair. He shuddered as the silken wind swept over him raising goose bumps on his arms. Antonio sighed; the scent of blossom was tainted by the knowledge that the city was not as perfect as it seemed, the acrid stench of decay rising from the canal assaulted his senses. The gondoliers’ melodious tones skipped contentedly through the air as the cloaked figures swayed with the harmony. Chestnut hair drifted in the cool breeze, attracting
"Rio de San Sebastian" by Didier Descouens -
Own work.
Licensed under CC BY -
SA 4.0 via Wikimedia Commons -
http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/
Antonio’s attention. A face as pure as gold, shining, a moon on the dark water. The princess of the sky. Eyes bore into Antonio. A cloaked man scowled through slitted eyes, a lion ready to pounce. St Marc’s glittered, a landmark greater than any other, basking in its dominance, seeping in the intricate pattern of colours swirling around the setting sun. Toby Evans 7E
Creative Writing: Aftermath of the Battle
Plan
Lone survivor, limping, no family, all his friends lost.
The crying of the mourners and widowers.
Unbearable pain.
Barrels of blood pouring away along the cracks in the ground.
AŌermath of the baƩle
The desolate land lies and remains deserted, beaten and broken. The survivor rises up, he limps towards the unbearable tragedies of the heartbroken, mourns, lie beside, all they could do was watch their loved ones pass away. The emerald light bursts into oblivion, scaƩering its light onto the families and widowers as they stretched out to reach the awakening light taking away the ones lost. The bruised and hollowed oak whistled through the wind, breaking the hills and mountainous huddles of the autumn leaves. Bullet shells scaƩered across the land, they crack and crunch beneath the lone survivor, so easily they break like a toothpick. Barrels of blood pouring away along the cracks in the ground. He journeys on down the road to his desƟnaƟon.
Darshanya Whiƫngton-Rao, 8C
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