Hi guys,
So, here I am, doing some boring IGCSE creative writing assignment. I need some people to critique it, as in, give me feedback on how I could improve. As I seriously don't want to fail English (Was borderline last year!)
It's a creative writing piece, purely descriptive. So basically I'm not trying to tell a story, but trying to describe a place. (Or event... Without actually telling the story... If that makes sense.)
The Bearer of Light
They stand in saturnine silence – not even the howl of bladed wind; the lashing of ice-cold sleet nor the electric black rumblings of thunder could distract them from their post. Like watchmen, they keep vigil over the fjord – they stare into the gray fodder of the horizon with their sightless eyes, seeing beyond the frigid depths of water that snakes its way across the gorge. High atop the canyon, upon a small mesa of crumbling rock they jut out.
Once, they were grand. They were a network of towers; stone, brick and mortar slotted in so perfectly, so intimately, that it was almost meticulous. Built in times long past… They are mighty no longer. Like a grizzled warrior advancing into the failings of old age, this once resolute bulwark of gray stone has fallen into disrepair. Many of the towers that remain do so precariously – they stilt and crook at awkward angles, missing a capstone, or brace or guy – whittled away gently by the ever present wind. And when those loose stones are snatched away, they are gifted momentary flight – until they plummet like torpedoes into the darkness below. A soft plunk is the only sound when the wayward stone slips into the deep – where it is instantly forgotten.
Shaped like octopodes, the towers consist of a central turret attached to hundreds of metal chains, which protrude defiantly into the unerring sky. To support the tower in its unsteady position, the metal chains anchor the tower to the surrounding cliff-face, fastened into place by a massive iron ring. The unknown architects constructed these sentinels for a reason – a purpose long since lost to the eddies and flows of time. The ashen blocks of stone are slowly
being recoloured – the muted green of the vines and moss encroach upon the upper tiers of the spire, reaching for the heavens themselves. At the base of one of these towers lies an old door; the wood is discoloured and brittle, held in place only by a brace of cast iron. All you can see inside is the meandering of heavy motes of dust against the blackness of the tower. For such an ancient structure, no outside light has managed to penetrate its cloak of shadows – the only thing noticeable is the lack of noticeable things.
So light up the darkness with a torch. Through the flickering illumination, a sombre staircase greets you; spiraling skywards into the cover of darkness. A vile, putrid smell makes you gag for a second… but lingers in your nostrils much longer. The odour reeks of sulfur, mixed with the unearthly combination of burning plastic and smouldering tar. Thankfully, the smell is gone as fast as it came. The sound of your steps upon the chill stone blocks of the stairwell echo, resonating in the air much longer than they ought to. All the while a pale chill moans and whispers from over your shoulder, leaving you tense – this is no mundane place… That much is certain.
Up and up and up, the stone staircase rises. The blocks that function as steps have been worn smooth from age. Despite the creeping ivy that chokes the outside, there is a profound absence of life inside – no chittering of mice, or spider’s embroidery. But as you climb towards the apex, you being to hear faint noises. They sound like the screams and wails of something unearthly, interspersed with the loud, urgent rattling of metal. Around you, the austere walls have slowly revealed scars of a previous age – gases, clefts and notches pit the walls – some seem to be claw marks, others the slash of a sword of the cleave of an axe. Dark rags of soot also linger, kicked up by footfalls. The staircase ends in a short landing. On either side, earthen red tapestries line the walls… Depictions of flaming daemons, bloody-eyed heretics and occult fiends – raping, slaughtering and pillaging. Houses burn, castles fall. Beyond the macabre art lies a charred wooden door. Carved upon the door is what seems to be a loop of intertwining roses. Upon closer inspection, they reveal themselves to be minute carvings of skulls, grinning eternally. Here and there, chips and cracks mar the perfect intricacy. The noises you heard before are from beyond the door – the screams are now hoarse whispers, the fearful pounding has dwindled to silence. Scratched into the centre of the door in thin, shaky lettering is a single word – Lucifer.
Slowly, you place your hand on the charcoal door – and push.
Outside, the elements tore at the sentinels furiously. But not even the howl of bladed wind; the lashing of ice-cold sleet or the electric black rumblings of tower could distract them from their post. Below them, a writhing leviathan eagerly snapped up the tumbling rocks from above.
Word Count: 798
Any feedback would be appreciated. Thanks!
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Topic: IGCSE Creative Writing - Critique Please! (Read 3317 times)