Creative Writing Task

Statement of intent:

In this creative writing piece I have placed my reader at the lakefront by using a variety of figurative language techniques such as metaphors, similes and personification.

It is summer, mid-afternoon at the lakefront, heated and humid, the salty sweat flooding faces, the vibrant grass beginning to turn yellow, the overwhelming torrid air suffocating throats desperately needing a cool beverage. Sunburnt redden people scramble into the brisk body of water hiding from the scorching sun. The lake to the people in summer is the paintbrush to an artist, an essential.

Listen. Groaning car engines sweep the main road, deeply exhaling poisonous fumes trying to catch its breath. Children, the reminiscences of youth life to all parents, indulged the refreshing glacial meltwater of the lake. Laughing. Chuckling. Squealing. Sounds of a joyful melody. Innocent vibrations of their voices echo within the encased mighty mountains. The mountains are a stadium to the lake. Surrounding in a towering 360 degrees, they admire their detailed portrait through the canvas of the glistening lake. In the far distance of the water, a dark brown speck floats gradually towards the golden sandy shore. By only a squint you were able to tell it was a piece of driftwood. Playing Peek-a-boo with the lake as the clouds would glide past, the scintillating sun stood tall amongst the plain light blue sky. Sunup, sundown, the lake never sleeps.

It is Sunday afternoon. The drooping green leaves waltzed side to side as its partner shade followed. Casting a pitiful patch of shade, families set picnics under the stretched willow trees. The visitors are hungry. Chips, dips, crisps, the peckish people fill their lunchtime hungry stomachs. Through the windows of a white campervan, the parents frantically rush as two tired children’s faces are smudged against the window, hunched fast asleep. Across from the shore, Wimbledon white seagulls waddle in packs stomping their webbed feet. It is time for them to eat. Storming picnics they circle the food prejudicially squawking in demand for scraps. The seagulls at the lake are the hyenas of the savannah, scavengers. On the statue still lake, rounded rocks ripple the water as they skim towards the horizon. One skip, two skips, three skips. Emerged from the waters enlarged circles rapidly spread. Skipping like the kids at the primary the rocks would eventually sink. And after more green-headed ducks flew by, the luxurious lake was once still again. Back in the campervan, the children’s stance is now straightened, impatiently waiting around two polished paddleboards. “Dad! Hurry up, the sun is going to go down,” the little girl chirped, angelic and articulate. The brown speck is no longer a speck. Eyes widened, stranded in the middle of the lake, is now a deeply cracked light brown isolated piece of driftwood. Sunblock, hat, towel, families tiptoe past the sharp white stones into the delicate sand beneath the lake. Relishing the last moments of light from the now dim shrugged sun. Past the rigidly sat elderly man on the mossed over wooden bench in the afternoon glow. Where his ice block would have melted, leaving only a bare brown narrow stick held in his hand.

Look. On the grass beside the stones, the ancient willow trees protrude their slim branches towards the sat gloom orange sun. Beneath the slender branches, packets, containers, wrappers, are left from the picnics waiting to be picked up like a passenger awaiting the bus. At the gravel carpark, cars are the shoppers on boxing day. Chaotically clumped, deafening horns take over the tender melody by the now exhausted children. Urgently, reckless drivers exit onto the main road. Stressed. Wanting to get home. Pleading if they could escape the agonising back pain labouring at the office the next day. Begging they could evade inhaling putrid fumes from immense industrial trucks. Wishing they could flip the hourglass back to Sunday mid-afternoon where the gleaming sun remained high.

There you are, standing face to face with yourself, distorted by the now ruffled mirror of the lake. Washed up is the sodden piece of driftwood. Lonely. Just like the image reflected from the shallow water. You can now see every wrinkle in the driftwood. From the minuscule crevices to its three scratches like the trademark of Adidas. The melodic waves of the lake calmly crash against the shore. Sshhh. Sshhh. Sshhh. And as the mellow shush of the waves relaxes your bones, you now outlook the late-afternoon lakefront.