понеділок, 5 вересня 2016 р.

#45daysofblogging 17: Creative writing

Day 17 - September 3

I’ve always been a storyteller and I guess I will always be one. I’ve loved writing almost ever since I’ve learned how to write properly. And before learning how to write I was just drawing my stories – very badly, I have to say, because I don’t know how to draw. But what was important is the intention!

I still love writing and telling stories, even more than before. This makes me one of the most talkative people you will ever meet, and I’m not even exaggerating. So I feel like taking online courses on storytelling and creative writing is beneficial not only for me, but also for people around me, hahaha.


All jokes aside, I’ve taken many courses through the years, and I’ve chosen few of the drafts I personally like. All for your pleasure!

All of these pieces were written for online course on Future Learn, where we were asked to write stories based on photos, videos, different writing techniques etc.

P.S. – none of these are autobiographical, I just love creating different characters. 


I’ve never learned to swim. My brother always said that anyone can do it, you just need to throw them in water. On hot summer days by the lake we used to bath in the most shallow place, and even there I had to walk on my toes not to drink the water. I remember those days as no time has past – dragonflies on water lilies, melancholic cows, our dog, running after butterflies. 

My brother used to pick me up on his shoulders and throw me in the water. Just like that, without any pause. 

“Come on, swim, you can do it!” 

But I preferred to sink to the bottom and to sit there. Through layers of greenish water I saw huge figures of people standing over me, fantastic shapes, created by water lilies’ leaves, and huge yellow sun - so far away, in another world. The bottom of the lake was quiet and peaceful, my own green kingdom. I was so happy there… 

“Gosh you’re useless! No survival instinct, at all!” 

After this words my kingdom usually broke down into pieces. Green quietness disappeared. Sun was burning my nose, the kids on the other side of the lake were screaming and jumping into the water, the dog was barking at a lazy red cow. I was in my brother’s hands, trying to learn how to breathe again. 

Who can ever blame me for not wanting to swim? 


She was the weird kid. Tall, skinny, with red hair and myriads of freckles, she was always sitting in the last row and reading, even during the lectures. She was also skipping a lot, but somehow always managed to get good grades. Girls hated her, guys didn’t care about her that much, professors loved her, but never skipped a chance to make an example out of her – a good one or a bad one. 

When she wasn’t reading, she was drawing – lilac outside of the window, her neighbor’s fat red cat, old funny cars she saw in Italian movies, Egyptian pyramids, people, she’d never met. She was feeling both like she’s wasting her life and like her life haven’t started yet. Life was big and bland, like a loaf of bread, and she wanted to tear it apart, piece by piece, to get an answer to the one and only question – is there a heart? 

But she didn’t. Instead she was going to university, reading, drawing, getting unexpectedly good grades, taking an old tram, walking around the oldest parts of town, watching movies in cheap cinemas, drinking endless cups of coffee from coffee stands and knitting warm scarves. Each day was simple and complex, and she kinda liked it. 

Life was going on. 


The sleeping bag that Alex borrowed her was soft and smelled like his cat. 

“You can keep it, - he said yawning, when she showed up on his doorstep at 6 a.m. on Saturday. – And never ever knock on this door before midday, capish?” 

The morning was foggy and fresh. She bought a cup of black coffee in a stupidly overpriced coffee shop by his house and drank it sitting on a bus stop. People were passing her, not realizing that they are witnessing the birth of a new person. 

Around 7:30 she through away the cup with her horrifically misspelled name, written in a thick black marker, and put her hand in the coat pocket, just to touch the ticket again. Here it is. Her only bag was waiting for her in a luggage locker at the Northern bus terminal. 

For the first time in her life she was completely free. 

See you!

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