Y8 Creative Writing
In Year 8, we have been studying ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’ - a long poem about a sailor who shoots an albatross and suffers as a consequence. These diary entries are inspired by the gory moment when the mariner sees a ship on the horizon. Well done to Y8 for all their hard work in English this year!
Valza 8T:
The ghostly ship drew closer, and we watched, paralyzed in fear, as Death and Life-in-death cast their dice. The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with colours: blood orange and deep purple. Then, with a chilling laugh that echoed across the water, Death won. I saw the mariner’s face - a mask of terror.
One by one my shipmates fell. Their eyes glared at me, accusing, full of pain and regret. The mariner was still alive. Alive but cursed, with the weight of sin upon his face. I tried to look away, but I was drawn to him, the way he was suffering.
Now I’m alone, or so it seems. The ship is silent. The stench of death is overwhelming. I write this as a record of our tragic journey before Death claims me too. May God have mercy on our souls.
Laura 8R:
Still. Quiet. As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean. Sounds like something the mariner would say, if he could speak. We didn’t talk about him as much as before our throats and tongues became barren from lack of water - water everywhere and not a drop to drink - but just let him limp from his chains at night, feeling the weight of the lucky bird hanging around his neck and groaning at the stink of rotting flesh. He killed our lucky bird. He must pay the price. That albatross, it was a blessing from God, granting us wind and weather and water. Water. Its magnificent wings hang from the mariner’s neck, the tips touching the water-soaked floorboards - dead. We’re next.
But the mariner brings his arm to his lips and we all stare as he lets out a cry of pain, then presses his arm to his lips again, to where he bit into it. Blood staining his teeth, he shouts ‘Ship! Ship! Ship!’ He can speak, he is talking. Suddenly, without thinking, we follow suit and yelps sound out around the deck. My teeth sink into my wrist but I’m so desperate I don't care for the pain, and some of my lingering thirst, formerly unbanishable from my mouth, is replenished by the bright red wound that tingles at the back of my tongue.
I run to the edge of the deck. A ship, only a dark silhouette in the sunrise. But as it sails closer, even though we had called for it day and night, a horrifying realisation dawns on me and my crewmates. No wind, no sail. And as it sails closer, and when the sunlight hits the ship, we see it for what it is.
