Focusing on the craft of Creative writing

Year 10 English students have been studying Gothic Literature, closely examining the writing choices of classic authors such as Edgar Allan Poe, Charlotte Bronte and Victor Hugo. 

Students then emulated the stylistic choices of these writers in their own gothic compositions, composing their own unsettling imaginative pieces. Here is a sample piece:

Thornridge Outcrop

Pacing past shiny stones,

We found ourselves at peace, alone,

Vast fields of grass set us far from home,

From atop the peak that held his throne.

We hastily gathered the items of our afternoon entertainment atop the rocky outcrop, the air which was sweet and clear when we arrived had suddenly turned a frigid grey. The wind whipped my hair sharply, bitter cold biting at my legs as I picked up metal cups.

“Hurry!” I screamed to my brother, my voice catching in the gust. He had abandoned our belongings in pursuit of the chaotic state of the moment, skipping along dampening rocks, “Hemlock! Now!”

Despite his infuriating insolence, his giggles filled my ears with bliss the same way it did when he sang, always two rows in front of me, in the Thornridge Church Sunday Choir. Rustling leaves from the valleys below were his orchestra, sweet songs of the Lord’s praise only complemented his innocence: the innocence of a boy whose voice was so pure in falsetto that one could not help but be immersed in the grandeur of his existence. But this time was different, and as much as I wished to deny it, a ringing of an unknown and sinister depth was apparent between his shrieks of gospel.

The rain grew heavier as if to accompany his song, plummeting at a vehement diagonal in great lashes, granting us earthly occupants the gifts of Blue Yonder’s temperament. I gazed upon the sodden stones where my brother stood.

Yet he was absent from his position.

Contrary to a mere second previous, Hemlock had vanished, all trace of his being seemingly reduced to the wind, his very essence compelled from familiar physicality. The deluge played predator to my line of sight. I struggled to comprehend the torrents. Where had it taken my brother?

Between the icy slits in the darkening sky, I made out the desolate valley we had trudged in to lie amongst piercing grass and stubborn vines, beyond withering trees set in jagged lines. Foliage drew me forwards in frantic haste, I longed to cry for salty taste, I wiped at the sky streaming down my face, I screamed for his answer, doubling my pace. The heavens aren’t kind in the way they’re meant to be, they left me behind, yet I implored, I cried, I begged the Holy Three:

“BRING MY BROTHER BACK TO ME!”

Crack! The cosmic abyss split in two, the startling sound caused my feet to misconstrue, I tumbled to the ground, to the earth I was bound, and to my horror I found Hemlock’s ghostly, pale features entrapped within the glassy reflection of the pool around. It drowned; and in hymnody it unleashed a ghastly sound:

“I see a crimson stream of blood,”

Soprano chased me through the mud.

“It flows from Calvary,

Its waves which reach the throne of God”

Ringing caught me in the flood.

“Are sweeping over me.”

He ripped me apart; A devil to judge. Wailing, I staggered through the sludge. Why had it taken my brother?

I sped through the twisting trees, crimson trickled down my knees, his image followed me in ones, twos and threes; six, six, six had answered my pleas.

Ice shattered my uncut hair, my cheeks were torn to thorns’ compare, the gale stole my voice in prayer, my waning faith had no repair. I stumbled, trudged, through wooden knots, rugged sticks snapped with rot, I emerged from the trees and I came to a stop; I was glued to my place, consumed with shock;

For I stood back at the top of Thornridge Outcrop.

Pacing upon pasty stones,

I find myself estranged, alone,

Vast valleys of glass set me apart from home,

For now I know the great unknown.