Impossible Task

So on Wednesday night I had to complete a writing task for creative writing, due in the next day. It was 500 words, and it wouldn't have been so hard had the instructions been less complicated. I worked on it all day and the ideas only came to me at 3am. I gave it a quick edit this morning before I had to read it out so this is the second draft. First take a look at the instructions we were given, and see what I mean by impossible. Or near impossible. But I gave it a stab.

'Describe a building in 500 words. It must be from the perspective of a woman or man who has just lost their son in the war. You must not mention the son, or the war.'


Here's my take on the task.

I stood at the bottom of a long winding driveway, the ground littered with confetti trodden into the grass. I looked up at the turreted roof and grand spire and acknowledged the intricate detail on a background of blood-red skies. I’d been here before, but never had the time to stop and really look. I’d always been rushing, usually in vibrant colours and oversized hats. Only a few times in monotone like today. But I blended in well with the surroundings; dull brick, grey stones cluttering the lawn. I wondered how anybody could observe a joyous occasion in this morbid building. How could anyone welcome new life into the world or celebrate the joining of two people in marriage surrounded by the constant reminder of death? Right now, stood just inside the gates I was just meters away from bodies buried beneath the ground. Walking over memories and lives cut short. Treading on the past.

The wind whipped up and the trees swayed in sympathy. I pulled my black coat more tightly around myself and wondered why I’d stood there in the cold for such a long time. My eyes narrowed as I watched church-goers returning down the path with smiles plastered across their faces, enlightened with a new-found appreciation for life. I sighed and doubted that I’d find any here.

A woman walked past me and leant down before a gravestone. Of all the places you could visit to remember somebody you lost, this had to be one of the most ghastly. So there were flowers and notes claiming everlasting love but these mere amenities didn’t cloud the overwhelming deathly atmosphere.

It was eerie too, and lonely. The uncomfortable pews for seats and long, echoey rooms. Such a mysterious building when you’re alone. I bit my lip. Candles lined the front wall and seemed to flicker as the sound of my footsteps filled the room. As I paced down the central aisle my eyes rose to the stained glass window casting a red haze over the sanctuary. Reaching the front I struck a match against a matchbox. It snapped in two and fell to the floor. Frowning I took out another match and struck it three times before it lit. I picked up a long white candle with the other hand and held the flame to the wick. Replacing it in its stand I forced a brave smile and sent up a silent prayer. The flame danced before my eyes but only brought distressing images to my mind. I took a twenty pound note out of my purse and posted it into the donation box. And with that I turned and left. I refused to cry as I knew the next time I’d be there there’d be no way I’d be able to fight back the tears.