So a few of you might know that a couple of years ago I attended a creative writing group. At the writing group we decided to start a group project. I wrote the prologue. It’s just a bit of fun, but I thought it might be worth sharing. Hope you enjoy!
“Shall we get on with the group then?” said the librarian, turning to look at the small group that surrounded him. He was sat on a main seat, with 6 chairs around him in a relatively round circle. He could imagine himself as a viking king and had the beard to go with it. He was the head of his round table; and the library, his castle. Tullycarnet Castle! He looked at his army of six waiting for them to bring fourth their latest offerings from the other realms. In reality however he was waiting for one of them to present to him a piece which they had written at home. No-one spoke up. Now resorting to names the king gauged an almost threatening tone of voice, perhaps wanting to make an example of one of his soldiers; or maybe he was just fed up with everyone bringing nothing to read.
“I eh.. I eh.. Have eh, a,” one of the younger lads spoke. There were two of them at this group of six. Two best friends who knew each other well and were ready to overthrow this King given first opportunity.
“You have a…?” questioned the librarian.
“I… I, have a piece,” spoke the young lad, “another chapter.”
“Well! Read it,” snapped his King.
The young lad took his phone from his pocket. Pressing the button at the bottom, frantically panicking as the pressure mounted from the flickering eyes all staring at him. It was to no avail.
“It’s, uh, it’s, it’s dead.”
“Didn’t I tell you! Those electronic things are a nuisance! You must write with pen!”
Perhaps the King’s crown was safe afterall. He scowled at the boy who dared speak and not have any work. Taking out his pipe and in a single puff he put the group under his spell as they sat mesmerised as the sinister white smoke invaded their personal space. The librarian put the electronic pipe back into his pocket and carried on with his discussion.
“Does nobody have anything to read?”
One of the two older women spoke up, this one being the more elderly of the two. Her name was Hazel. She was frail at first glance; although given longer looking at her it might suggest that she was once a great warrior of battle, a powerful figurehead, perhaps a strong woman who had a great place in history. Yes. It was plain to everyone that Hazel was the mighty Joan of Arc!
Hazel prepared to wage battle with the king; taking out her sword and shield. Opening her journal she flicked through the many poems that she had written across the many years of her life. Each one a sonnet, an accompaniment to war, the theme tune of anarchy! Finally she raised her great sword and it met with the page. Writing with the biro in her hand she jotted down the day’s date.
“I think I’ll read this one.”
She grabbed her bag, perhaps reaching for a secret enchantment, perhaps a secret weapon! Perhaps this was the moment the tide would turn! And the King would become the customer! Finally after a long and deep search into the depths of the abyss she pulled out a pair of reading spectacles! These were her secret weapon, as she prepared herself to enter this savage duel with the King!
“I just need to put these on, they help me hear,” she proclaimed. It was a sentence that made little sense, but it was to be believed as she squinted at the pages that sat in her hands.
The poem was a great sonnet about birds. She weaved a beautiful tapestry in the mind, creating colours and images that flowed; cutting down the powerful king with each sweeping turn of her tongue. This was Joan of Arc of old, and Hazel at her best!
Breathing heavily the surrounding five members in the group took applause when Hazel finished her duel. They were awestruck at the battle that had taken place before them. Fixated at the King’s face, trying to read any flicker of emotion hidden beneath his bushy beard.
“That was… Sweet,” said the King mounting his first line of defence.
“It was beautiful,” claimed Morning, the other elderly member.
The librarian leant back, combing his beard with his fingers. Hazel looked around the group for approval, hoping that her braveness could inspire another member to read a piece out loud.
Yet reality struck, this was not a middle age battle. This was a library in the middle of Dundonald, on the day of the end of the world. Nobody had any reason to battle, it was time to team up. Time to mount a defence and time to battle the evil forces that were bringing about the end of this planet, and time itself. There was no king, no Joan, no battle. This was simply, the Creative Writing Group getting ready to duel the forces of evil in a Poetry Slam. In a large, empty library, with nothing but themselves, and a few thousand books.
Suddenly the lights flickered, teasing each member as they almost went out. In that moment of panic everyone turned to look outside, searching for light. Nothing. The world had turned to darkness, the only light seen was from the sky as lightning echoed and clattered amongst the clouds.
“The end is neigh,” said Peter, a male member of the group.
“Neigh?” questioned the librarian.
“Nay!” said Davie, the other younger member butting in.
“Nigh!” said Leon, the younger member who had attempted to read previously.
“Yes! Nigh!” repeated Peter again, “the end is nigh.”