Creative Writing The short story by Etgar Keret is about the metaphorical aspect of creative writing using two characters; Aviad and Maya‚ husband and wife who have recently gone through the tragedy of a miscarriage. The story begins with Maya‚ who has been encouraged to attend creative writting workshops in hopes of getting out more and moving on rather than sitting at home dwelling on the lost child. Aviad at first seems quite pleased that Maya has been doing well in her workshops‚ however
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and use these words- belonging/ not belonging/exclusion and synonyms. Consider: Exploring a shift from belonging to not belonging and alienation The nature of belonging in this situation Motives‚ catalysts Consequences‚ results‚ effects Feelings and attitudes Use key social identities that anchor or challenge belonging: family‚ friends‚ race‚ ethnicity‚ religion‚ class lifestyle or leisure activities STRUCTURE OF SHORT STORY / NARRATIVE Jump to ‘belonging’ as soon as possible
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BRIANCA LE Creative writing: Belonging A swirl of heat engulfed the outline of my body‚ its elongated fingers clawed at the edges of my jaw line. Their torturing grips strangled me through the airport security doors. The smell of oil and putrid stench of armpit wafted around my nostrils. Its odour gradually deprived me of rationality and soon dizziness overcame me. Before I knew it‚ I stood in front of a taxi‚ outside the airport and already heading towards a thin Vietnamese driver. His bony elbow
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Creative Writing I jump back as a black feline shoots across the path in-front of me. I catch a glimpse of its matted fur; a screeching hiss pierces the night air as it encounters a mammal in the undergrowth. They say a black cat at night is bad luck‚ but I honestly doubt my luck could get any worse in light of recent events. “Get out‚ you don’t belong here anymore”‚ “Just looking at you makes me sick. Leave now and get out of our lives”. It’s funny how the ones who are meant to love you the most
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Creative writing piece based on the short animation film ‘Alma’ The streets of Barcelona were plastered with sludge and the rooftops were being bleached by the purity of the white snow as it falls gently‚ caressing the slates that have been fractured by the intense heat of the Spanish summer which‚ had long since passed. There were very few people scattered around the city‚ as the bitterness of the wind was far too cold for someone acclimatised to the normal heat of Barcelona. With the
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Creative Writing - Belonging The clear‚ bright and enlightening blue skies greet my face as I ponder through my thoughts in my head. The sun blossoms it’s radiating sunlight‚ which glisten and reflect off the tranquil‚ wavy sea to reveal elements of a mystifying‚ inexplicable‚ yet convivial world. My heart beat pulsates through my ears… so silent and blissful this world of beggaring-description‚ words could not hope to utter moments like these. It was the idea of confronting‚ change and experience
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Creative writing As I wind down my window piercing sounds of cicada instantaneously bash my ear drums with their high pitched drill echoing into the bush. Hot air swells into the open window‚ and is being pushed back out by the ice cold air conditioning which effortlessly hums out of the vents. The strong sweet smell of summer fills my nostrils with every breath I take. It was just like I had left it so many years ago. The rigid road leaves a enormous dust cloud behind me. It feels like I am a
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Creative writing is any writing that goes outside the bounds of normal professional‚ journalistic‚ academic‚ or technical forms of literature‚ typically identified by an emphasis on narrative craft‚ character development‚ and the use of literary tropes. Due to the looseness of the definition‚ it is possible for writing such as feature stories to be considered creative writing‚ even though they fall under journalism‚ because the content of features is specifically focused on narrative and character
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‘Please take a seat‚ I will be back in a second’ Said Mr. Alford‚ as he pointed his hand towards the lounge. I nodded gently as I walked pass my parent’s old bedroom. As I looked around‚ the bedroom itself hadn’t changed much since I was a little kid; I haven’t seen it in a while thought. I remember how I came in here a lot in the middle of a thunderstorm at night to wake my mother up‚ as I was too scared to sleep by myself. My father hated that! However‚ my mother always laughed her head off as
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I was disappearing again. I could feel it. I could feel the sterile white walls slowly sucking all the colour out of my skin. I could tell that the iron bars covering my window were slathering at the curve of my body. They were tired of always having to stand up straight; they too were slowly taking a part of me. They were taking my outline. The fluorescent light was burning the colour from my hair and the whispers were carrying it away strand by strand. I screamed and screamed for them to stop
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