Page 8
Dulwich Despatch
Creative Writing: Under the Bridge
Grandad had promised me that those days were just water under the bridge now, but I knew otherwise. I had seen them in their dog-fur coats, looking like a cross between Inuits of the North and the shrunken heads of the Pacific Islands. They were very secretive in their ways. Only the bravest of trolls poked their miniature heads out from the darkness that lurked under the bridge. The goblins were more lively, but at risk of discovery. I often heard their obscure instruments as they squeezed a tune from the century old designs. Walking home from school, I would listen out for them, desperately hoping a melody would emanate from the shadows. There I stood, frozen in the bitter cold, waiting for a sign of life. I had made the decision not to return home from the market until even the tiniest peep had escaped from under bridge. I sat down on a crumbling rotten bench and watched an army of ants silently invading termite territory. Above me, the weather had morphed into a collection of clouds that were darkening every second, but the rain held off unwillingly. It was as if the individual droplets were on the verge of a show with the clouds as their curtains. Suddenly, I saw a flash of snot green from the corner of my watery eyes. What must have been the smallest, frailest, and eeriest creature on the planet moved towards the opposite bank like it was sprinting in the thickest of mother’s gooseberry syrup. His reedy hair danced ecstatically in the chilly, early spring breeze. In a flash, his ratty face nipped round to glance at me and his complexion stuck like glue in my at once confused mind. The shaped pimple that must have been his nose glinted in the sun underneath his detailed, amber eyes that seemed to be bulging from the rest of his features. The delicately tinged skin that adorned his face was wrinkleless while still maintaining a human form. I watched as his handmade coat fluttered in the wind, writhing like the dog it was made of just before its death. A loosening strand of string that overlaid the rough seams finally left its homeland and ventured out into the world. I excitedly stretched out to get a feel of the craft of the goblins, but as I looked back to the darkening, murky, waters in front of me, I realised that my movement had distracted me from the young creature. I gazed down at the gentle piece of cord in my soft hands in dismay. Then I clutched it in my sweaty palms as if it were my last means of survival, and set off down the lamplit cobblestone road.
Alex Whitwell, 8L
(This creative writing was written in exam conditions during the end of term English test)
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