“While there may not be a book in every one of us, there is so often a damned good short story.” (Jeffrey Archer)
I my wierzymy, że w każdym z nas jest historia warta opowiedzenia! Dlatego wzorem lat ubiegłych, na zajęciach z Pisania kreatywnego tworzymy nasze opowieści! Każdy student uczestniczący w kursie może wybrać swój ulubiony gatunek: romans, horror, kryminał, lub cokolwiek mu w duszy gra! Na tym etapie kursu każdy stworzył już swojego bohatera. Ale jacy to są bohaterowie! A jak opisani! Niejednokrotnie można odnieść wrażenie, że zamiast prac studentów czytamy fragmenty prawdziwych książek! Zresztą z pewnością część tych opowiadań trafi do drugiej części tomiku opowiadań studenckich pt. „Journeys in Narrative”! Będzie się działo!
Jeżeli chcielibyście sprawdzić jakich bohaterów stworzyli nasi tegoroczni studenci, zapraszamy do lektury wybranych fragmentów:
***
Meet detective Hubert Wine. It's not his best day. He stares at the window, where the raindrops turn into small rustling waterfalls. There are transparent boxes at the windowsill, with evidence from the most important cases solved by him. He has no right to have them in a private collection, but he treats them like trophies, which motivates him to further work.
He adjusts his glasses. His ophthalmologist said that with his slight astigmatism they are unnecessary, but without them the world seems blurry to him, like a child's inept drawing. The blood-red frames are his distinctive sign.
He touches his face. A harsh rustle of his several days old beard breaks the silence. Hubert smacks his lips and takes another Airwaves gum - his wife forced him to quit smoking half a year ago. She couldn't stand the smell of his skin, which was like an overfilled ashtray. And he coughed at night, which sounded like an old dog barking.
He is wearing a suit, old enough to remember old Yugoslavia.
He never pays any attention to his clothes.
Now he has a more serious problem. He must catch the murderer, before midnight.
(Autor: Kasia Kołodziejska)
***
Thomas Jardak woke up abruptly in the middle of a night with a cottonmouth and splitting headache. He was lying on the sheets strung across the bed, still wearing the uniform he had worn for his farewell party last evening. After letting out a bellowing groan, Thomas stood up and shambled slowly to the bathroom. He took a sleeping tablet from the cabinet. When he was going to swallow it, he saw his reflection in the mirror and paused. The face in front of him seemed rather round with dark, unruly hair covering much of the forehead. Below the bushy eyebrows were brown, inquisitive eyes, set close to the fairly big, hooked nose bearing some marks of a nasal fracture. Wide mouth, an unkempt beard and a skin complexion slightly darker than most Caucasssians’ completed the look of a person you do not want to mess with. The face in the mirror looked older than his 38 years, but bloodshot eyes, pasty skin, bags under his eyes and overall tiredness would make everyone look older. One could argue all these side effects of alcohol poisoning were a small price to pay for a wild, five-hour-long farewell party after serving 20 years in Directorate’s Police Force. But at that time all Thomas wanted was just to get back to his bed and fall asleep. That’s why he grabbed an additional sleeping tablet to ensure the desired effect and washed them both down with some water. After the foul taste in his mouth was replaced with a hint of chlorine, he turned off the faucet and shuffled towards his bed. On the way back to the bedroom he fought an uneven battle against the uniform’s buttons, but he had to settle with a partial victory, having managed to undo just the top two. When he fell on the scratchy blanket doubling as a bedsheet, he noticed a familiar shape of his cell phone next to the pillow. “I really need to sleep it off,” he thought. With the last fleeting glimmer of consciousness, he turned off the phone and dozed off.
(Autor: Tomasz Jardzioch)
***
‘May I take your coat, Mr. Rosselicht?’ the maid sent by Lady Karlsen asked with a trained indifference, but the corners of her eyes, barely visible under the poppy-colored hat, betrayed her slight concern. It was a rare occurrence to see a common maid to be dressed this extravagantly. Her hat was complemented with a white-red dress embroidered with, what I think was, Karlsen family coat of arms: a small red bird, a cardinal sitting on a branch of dark oak. I could not decipher other symbols on her clothing as my eyes were not as good as they were before joining The High Inspectorate.
‘Of course, my dear,’ I responded gently. ‘Can you tell me where your charming madame is? I came a long way from Munich and I much desire to speak with her. I’m afraid I simply do not have time for your services or house tours,’ I said quickly, before she managed to whisper one of the formulas that her master taught her to bully her lady’s guests.
‘She is currently occupied with preparing herself for the evening, milord. She dispatched me to help you on getting acquainted with our humble estate...’ She sighed as the true meaning of my words got to her head and she realized she wouldn’t hold me for long. ‘If you truly do not have time for this, then I guess we should head to the dining room. Our cooks are preparing the meals. However, remember that it may take some time.’
‘Splendid...’ I replied cynically to the maid, ‘Then lead me straight there, servant girl.’
‘I assure you we will take the shortest possible route,’ she responded with a thin smile and I realized that it was a lie. A very unpleasant attack to my crumbling patience.
Before we started our journey to the dining room, which I felt will be long anyway, probably with some boring stories about ancestors of Lady Karlsen, whose portraits were hanging proudly all over the place, I took a quick look at my poor, grey face that was clearly visible in the tall, silver mirror standing on my left. I had to look majestically enough not to disturb the honor of The High Inspectorate, and yet very modestly and trustworthy to get along with people more easily. My face was working hard on that second expression. At that time I was 36 years old, yet scars, wrinkles, and bruises buried deeply in my skin made me look like a beggar on the verge of death. And the anemia... my God! My skin was so pale that no one even expected that I am German; most people thought that I came from the far north, which was ridiculous, considering the hair, which my head was blessed with moderation, was the color of the burning tar. Only my eyes, damaged from the long nights spent at my office, reflected some of the now withered youthful glow, and even they were wrapped with horrible natural shades in the color of the maid’s dress.
(Autor: Tomasz Borkowski)
***
Darren was walking around the desk nervously. His office wasn't a very cozy place. The wooden floor was squeaky even when nobody was walking on it. The walls were grey and dirty. In the corners lazy cobwebs were swaying. It was the wind that set them in motion, squeezing through an unclosed old window. On the windowsill, as well as on the desk, there was a heap of documents, covered with dust and burned cigarettes. There were no picture frames anywhere, not even a private coffee mug. The only personal things he kept at work were his diplomas and gym clothes.
The sheriff was a chaotic person, unlike the law enforcement officers he knew, which may have influenced his success. Only he knew where to find the documents or where the spare pens were. That is why he rarely went on vacation and devoted all his time to work and further education.
He approached the portable corkboard and gently followed the colored threads with his finger. They all came from one point they hadn't reached yet. The red ones were for the murdered and the blue ones for the evidence found at the crime scene. There was another thread on the board – a lilac one. This one indicated a photo from the city surveillance system, where a young brunette entered a blue Ford. Darren knew he had to find her at all costs and his technicians were on her trail.
After a while, he heard that someone came into the office.
‘I've got a witness for you,’ the Deputy Sheriff said, leaving more documents on the table.
Darren turned around. At the door he saw her – his future victim, Lily.
(Autor: Sylwia Szpecińska)
