writing-creativo

[writing-creativo]

[writing-creativo]

@mucho--love

Agatha Christie Weekly #3: And Then There Were None (Review)

https://beawrites.weebly.com/literature/agatha-christie-weekly-3-and-then-there-were-none-review

[writing-creativo]

Agatha Christie Weekly #3: And Then There Were None (Review)

https://beawrites.weebly.com/literature/agatha-christie-weekly-3-and-then-there-were-none-review

[writing-creativo]

Agatha Christie Weekly #2: What Makes Christie’s Work Still Relevant Today

https://beawrites.weebly.com/literature/agatha-christie-weekly-2-what-makes-christies-works-still-relevant-today

[writing-creativo]

My main problem as a writer is that I don’t write because “I have a story to tell”. I write because there are worlds I want to visit, ideas I want to explore, people I want to meet, conversations I want to hear, emotions that I want to express, and impossibilities I want to make real.

Which means that I still need a fucking plot.

[writing-creativo]

TOP 5 AGATHA CHRISTIE BOOKS (a rather spoiler-free list)

https://beawrites.weebly.com/literature/top-5-agatha-christie-books-a-rather-spoiler-free-list

When I was fifteen I picked up my first Agatha Christie novel for a school assignment. Ever since, my love for the author’s work has developed into a slight obsession and I can now consider myself a fairly avid fan of these books. And a quite well read one, if I may say so myself.

If you’ve never heard of Agatha Christie before, or don’t know much about her, she was a 20th century mystery writer who dipped into multiple genres – she wrote everything from novels, to poetry, plays, and even travel books.  Her most well-known characters are detective Hercule Poirot and the endearing Miss Marple, who always seem to be able to defeat even the most ingenious of murderers.

Not only is she the best-selling novelist of all time, Christie’s books encompass a period of roughly five decades. This means that besides the detective work, we also get a peek at life in Britain during most of the 20th century.

Now, I’m in no way a literary expert on Christie. She’s an author I enjoy reading and that’s about it. And like any reader, I have certain peeves that will influence this list. Whether you agree with me or not, don’t take this ranking too seriously and explore the books by yourself, which, after all, is the best part of discovering an author.

With all of that said, here are what I consider to be Agatha Christie’s top 5:

1.       Murder on the Orient Express: This is perhaps the most predictable place on the list, but there’s a reason for that. The setting consists of a luxurious train connecting Istanbul to Paris in the 1930’s, stopped in the middle of nowhere due to a snowstorm. If that doesn’t lure you in already, it also has the most interesting and iconic twist in all of Christie’s books. So interesting that even Hercule Poirot himself is left questioning his own morals, which is a quite rare occurrence. It dips into the reasoning behind murder and you may wonder yourself how morally wrong it is, after all.

 2.       Endless Night: If the ranking started with a classic Christie mystery, this is the one I find the most unconventional of the lot. It’s a stand-alone novel whose protagonists are a young couple trying to escape the suffocating environments they both grew up in, and whose lives you get completely wrapped up in. That is, until one of them is murdered. The story is told in 1st person, and it’s written in a very peculiar tone. It’s a psychological thriller with an almost gothic atmosphere to it, and even dips it’s toes into the supernatural.

  3.       Death on the Nile: Another classic work featuring Hercule Poirot (you may be starting to notice that Miss Marple isn’t exactly up my alley). This time it all happens in a cruise through the Nile during the 1930s, where a love triangle takes unprecedented proportions. Not only is the setting delicious, the characters are extremely captivating and written so wonderfully you get caught up in their drama straight away.  

 4.       The Hollow: This is what I like to call the “Wuthering Heights” of Christie’s novels. While Endless Night has the gothic element, The Hollow gets the despicable characters in all their glory. I wouldn’t call them “evil”, in the Heathcliff sense of the word, but they’re so morally grey that you don’t know who to root for, while also being completely invested in them. To summarize it, Dr. John Christow is shot by the pool during a family meeting and it all goes south from there. And while Poirot solves the puzzle once again, he isn’t the real protagonist of the story.

 5.       Sad Cypress: Sad Cypress is a recent read that took me by surprise. It’s somewhat of a court drama. You catch up with the plot when the murder has already happened, and the main suspect is facing accusation in the court room. That would be Elinor Carlisle, who I find to be one of the most interesting and relatable characters in all of Christie’s work. While the final twist isn’t too memorable, your attachment to the characters (or mine, at least) makes the whole process of the trial almost unbearable, even though you don’t doubt any of them could truly be guilty. This would’ve won a much higher spot on the list, wasn’t it for the inconsistency throughout the book. It’s divided into 3 parts, and while the first one is phenomenal, the pace slows down and picks up randomly throughout the other two. Hercule Poirot makes yet another appearance, but it’s such a small part that the story would’ve refreshingly managed without him, which Christie admitted herself.

 And that is it. This ranking isn’t set in stone, and I promise you that in a week or two my opinions will have changed drastically. But as of right now, these are what I consider to be the five best detective novels, dare I say, of their century.

 As you can see, I favour Poirot novels and standalones over Miss Marple books, as well as character development over big twists. If you’re not like me and despise the Belgian detective (almost) as much as Agatha herself, you may not find these as interesting as I make them out to be, or at least tried to.

[writing-creativo]

Caroline believes

Note: That scene from The Haunting of Hill House where Michiel Houisman sees his dead sister and has a stroke is my insp for this, but I went a little tamer. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mLaPtl8jBt8

Besides the crackling fire, only two sounds could be heard that night at Magman’s Lodge – The soft but persistent rain banging on the glass windows and Caroline Wagner’s heels on the decrepit wooden floors.

-Caroline, darling, could you perhaps invest in a more… Silent!…Activity?

By the fireplace, James Gimenez had buried himself so deep into the armchair that he was barely visible from the back. On his lap sat a tired old book, yellowed by time.

-It would be my pleasure, darling, were there any other activities available in this house other than appreciating the mold in the fine ceilings.

He let out a chuckle before resuming reading.

Now too stimulated by the conversation, Caroline slowly approached her fellow guest, ripping the book from his hands and reading it out loud.

-“There had been a moment when I believed I recognised, faint and far, the cry of a child; there had been another when I found myself just consciously starting as at the passage, before my door, of a light footstep. But these fancies were not marked enough not to be thrown off”

- Car- Give it back! Shut it, you’ll wake everyone up. – Now upright in his chair, the young man aimlessly tried to reach for his book.

- I’m appreciating a fine piece of literature, have some respect. Besides, no one will wake up Aunt Maude, it’s beyond human reach.

James sat back and closed his eyes before letting out a deep breath.

-You’re dreadfully annoying when you’re bored. But please, do entertain yourself.

Amused rather than offended, Caroline Wagner adjusted her skirt and sat on an old dusty chair facing her cousin.

-Do you really believe it? – She said, challengingly.

-Believe what?

-Ghosts, you idiot. That’s what the book is about, isn’t it? It’s oddly appropriate, you know? A big old house in the midst of a stormy winter night. Objects and gadgets so old that you can no longer trace them back to their owners. The two of us, too blinded by the innocence of our youth to notice the shadows of the past lurking behind us.

-Well, if there are any supernatural entities (in which yes, I do actually believe, thank you for asking) in the room, then you’ve made them too self-conscious to show themselves already.

Caroline looked around the room, searching the corners for something she knew she wouldn’t find. It was enough of an opening for the man to recover his usurped book. As a sign of defeat, Wagner laid back her head on the brick chimney, cushioned by a ginger untamed mane. And she stayed like that for a while. Staring at the fire until her eyes watered, until a loud sound made her jump, hitting her head on the wall.

-And you, do you believe it? – James smacked his book closed, continuing talking as if there was still an ongoing conversation.

-Christ – She rubbed the back of her skull - No, I can’t say I do.

-You don’t?

-No, I don’t. I’ll believe it when I see it, and so far I can’t say I have. They’re made up stories, that’s what I think.

-Just because you haven’t seen something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. It would be an awfully boring life if reality was narrowed down to your own personal experience only. It is barely a new phenomenon, really. There are reports of the paranormal since the dawn of mankind.

-Oh, but it is a very boring life indeed, my dear. Even if you have, let’s say, experienced it – the paranormal, the afterlife, whatever you want to call it – it’s all in your head. It’s the answer we find to process our own mortality. Same thing happens with religion and whatever concept of God and Fate we’re compelled to believe. It’s what we came up with to answer answerless questions. Besides, that’s exactly the point of what you’re reading.  – She arched her thin, drawn in brows - The author never clarifies whether or not the spectres are real or the narrator’s invention. Clever.

The speech was followed by heavy silence. James looked at her behind his thick glasses, a blank stare. Taking it as a victory, Caroline went back to the flames.

-I experienced it. Or I like to think I did. After my mom… You know - after that - I saw her. I was just a kid, but I saw her. She used to stand by my bedside and watch me. Not in a scary way, I was never afraid. But she kept me company, as morbid as it may sound. Aunt Maude always told me it was just bad dreams, that it was normal with everything that had happened. And she may have been right. But it doesn’t make it any less real. It was real enough to me.

For perhaps the first time in her life, Caroline didn’t know what to say. So they just sat there in silence, listening to the distant thunder. It was James who broke the silence once again.

-You should share your theological thoughts at church next Sunday. I guess it’s getting late. I’m going upstairs, are you coming?

-No, I’m not tired yet. Have a good night.

With that they parted, and Caroline graciously exchanged the shaky straw chair for the now empty armchair, which was still warm. She couldn’t tell if she had said the wrong thing. After all, he had asked for her opinion. But then she also had the terribly inconvenient habit of turning her opinions into harsh objections. It was lost in these thoughts that she felt her eyes fall for the spell of the fire, and so she just sat there, neither sleeping nor awake.

She couldn’t tell how long she had been like that. The rain was now louder, heavier, and the thunder was closer. She didn’t want to open her eyes, she didn’t want to move. And yet her brain told her to do so, she had to.

Caroline opened her eyes. The fire was out, and as if her senses were only now reacting to that fact, the room got colder. In front of her, James sat in the little chair. Their eyes crossed, and he gave her a smirk.

-What? Was Maude’s snoring too loud for your beauty sleep?

He didn’t have time to answer, for as rumble came their way from the main staircase. Caroline turned around, still a numb and disoriented.

-He’s gone. My James! My poor little James! – A large woman in a night gown and sleeping cap came down in hysterics, holding on to the handrail - He’s gone.

Unable to process so much at once, Caroline turned to her cousin, searching the room for aid. But there was no one there. The straw chair was empty.

-He’s still lying there. There was a loud bang, and I woke up. And I didn’t know what it was, so I thought I’d come downstairs to see. But I left the room and I found him lying there on the floor. I couldn’t tell if he was breathing. I don’t think he is. – There was a pause – First my Marjorie and now James. They’re gone. Gone.

[writing-creativo]

Could it be? Her? Writing again?!

https://beawrites.weebly.com/creative-writing/january-19th-2019

[writing-creativo]

https://beawrites.weebly.com/creative-writing/the-great-tragedy-of-ann-bowley

There she lay on the floor, covered in red stains that made their way through the white night gown. A ringing sound buzzed in her ears, echoing through her head. Nothing else. Ann opened her eyes. Above her, the high ceiling stared mockingly at the fallen below. The glass chandelier still swinging, its reflex twinkling around the room. She could feel the metallic taste of her own blood, not knowing where it came from. There was no pain, only quiet, cataclysmic relief. She first tried to speak, and then to scream, but no sound came out. Her body pressed against the wood, a thousand invisible weights dropped on her as if the whole room had fallen to bury her, to suffocate her.  It was with great endeavour that she managed to turn around, using her arms to drag herself out of the living room. Beneath her, water and blood soaked through the clothes, reaching the stone-cold skin. She moved softly through the floor. Gory, gracious movements.  As she reached the doorway, it all lifted. No more weight, the pressure was gone. The house was plagued with deafening silence, but shadows approached from the edge of the staircase. That’s all they were, harsh, silent contours in a vacuum. Ann Bowley opened her mouth once more, begging for a wail, a screech, a final cry for life. ​ But the shadows didn’t stop, they didn’t look. They kept on walking, approaching her, trespassing her.

[writing-creativo]

tumblr is dead where the fuck am i supposed to get validation from now 

[writing-creativo]

Sleep Paralysis

Loosely inspired by “Probably Shit” by Mafalda Alves @dream-and-take-a-chance

https://beawrites.weebly.com/creative-writing/sleep-paralysis

I could still feel the heat of the fireplace, now flaming through the left side of my body. My head was the only thing still in place, with sweat dripping on my temples and lips too dry to allow any sound.  All else was floating, resting above me, a body that was no longer mine. I tried to move my fingers first. Then my hands, my arms, my legs, my feet, my toes. Nothing. My touch became blurred, my members petrified. I was warm and bleak, a pulsating human heart trapped beneath a skin made of stone.

Suddenly, I opened my eyes, and with vision came a distorted ring of sound. There was static, and mumbling, and taping, and laughing, and fire crackling. I couldn’t trace what I was hearing. But I didn’t hear it, really. It wasn’t there. Those were echoes of my mind, reverberations of my thoughts.

My head was stuck, cemented to my neck, and my eyes the entrance to a tunnel that couldn’t broaden. On the other end; her. She was there, where she always was. Staring, mumbling and taping, and laughing. Brisk little laughs, devoid of life.

And then darkness.

[writing-creativo]

Write in your native and second language so you suck at both and excel at nothing

[writing-creativo]

I’m a blogger now dudes

[writing-creativo]

Untitled

https://beawrites.weebly.com/creative-writing/november-29th-2018

Os relógios marcavam as sete horas naquela manhã de nevoeiro, e a pouca visibilidade fazia com que os peões, com o seu paço apressado, esbarrassem uns contra os outros no passeio. Mais apressada que os restantes, Valentina corria por entre a multidão, encontrão atrás de encontrão, tentando chegar até á livraria Ambrósio antes de uma hora já passada.

Numa pequena divisão aberta ao público na rua dos Santos, o senhor Ambrósio, escondido entre estantes e caixotes, olhava impacientemente para os ponteiros. Finalmente, ouviu-se o tlintar da campainha, seguido pelo ruído abafado de livros em queda livre.

-Bom dia… Peço… - Ainda ofegante, Valentina tentava falar ao mesmo tempo que apanhava do chão os livros e papeis que tinha deixado cair – Peço desculpa pelo atraso!

-Seja bem aparecida! Não andei à procura de empregada para passar a manhã aqui sentado.

Irritado, o livreiro levantou-se e colocou dentro da pasta uma mão cheia de papeis que tinha ao balcão.

-Portanto.. Ah! Isto precisa tudo de uma bela limpeza, o pano do pó está mesmo ali, tira livro a livro e vai limpando. Se porventura alguém aparecer e quiser comprar qualquer coisa, há uma tabela de preços mesmo ao lado da caixa registadora, está organizada por autor. Eu vou estar ocupado até à tardinha, venho cá só fechar a loja e ver se deixou tudo em ordem. Se tiver alguma questão, use o seu bom senso.

Sem deixar tempo para perguntas, Manuel Ambrósio enrolou-se num cachecol e saiu da loja. Valentina ainda tentou interrompê-lo, mas já não foi a tempo, ficou sozinha entre papiros e bugigangas. Despiu o casaco e olhou à sua volta. Por um momento, fechou os olhos para apreciar o cheiro a tinta e a papel antigo, rodopiando, de seguida, por entre as estantes, como uma criança a quem tinham oferecido um tão desejado presente de Natal.

Mas se queria aquele emprego, não havia lugar para distrações. Pegou de imediato no pano de limpeza e começou a tarefa. Retirando cuidadosamente os livros das suas posições, na sua maioria mais velhos que ela, alguns anteriores até ao senhor Ambrósio, retirando o pó das cavidades mais estreitas. No entanto, trabalhava a um ritmo de caracol. É que Valentina não conseguia pegar num livro sem o folhear, e a maior parte daquelas obras não conheciam uma mão humana havia anos, não sendo, por isso, menos merecedores de apreciação.

Assim, vagarosamente, chegou à secção de história natural. Com um exemplar de “Insetos do Mundo” debaixo do braço, esfregou a madeira e, antes de voltar a colocar a enciclopédia no sítio, abriu-a e fez uma curta pausa para ler as legendas. Olhava também para as imagens das mais diversas criaturinhas, e estava quase a chegar à página 119 quando uma traça atónita voou em direção aos seus olhos.

Atordoada, viu o bichinho esvoaçar contra o candeeiro de parede e pousar atrás deste. Sorrateiramente, esticou o pano e apontou-o à criatura, mas esta conseguiu escapar antes do golpe fatal, acertando em cheio no lampião que, com um estrondo, se estilhaçou no chão.

Por um momento, fez-se silencio absoluto na livraria e Valentina olhou à sua volta para ter a certeza de que nenhum cliente tinha assistido à tragédia, mas rapidamente voltou a sua atenção para a traça que, trocista, ajeitava as asas sobre os sonetos completos de Hélder Corrimão.

Pegando novamente na arma, fez pontaria com o pano e lançou-o, como se lança uma fisga, contra o bicho. Desta vez teve sucesso, o monstro caiu morto no chão, à mercê de uma heroína assassina. Mas o que caiu também foi a estante, baloiçando para a frente e para trás, batendo finalmente numa outra sua paralela. O efeito foi rápido, mas agoniante. Num efeito dominó, as restantes estantes tombavam umas sobre as outras, esmagando as obras sobre as quais tinham o azar de cair com o seu peso maciço.

Valentina observava a desgraça por si provocada, que parecia não ter fim, com o pano ainda na mão. Quando finalmente cessou, ficou ali, especada a olhar para o caos que se tinha abatido sobre a livraria. Caindo em si, deixou-se encostar à parede onde outrora tinha estado o candeeiro, não querendo também ela colapsar ali mesmo.

Quebrando o silencio, a campainha tocou pela segunda vez naquela manhã e Ambrósio entrou na loja.

-Não sei incomode, deixei cá… A carteira…

[writing-creativo]

La Maison Foncé

Note: I haven’t done creative writing in portuguese for literally years now so I’m sorry if this is messy af. I’ll still be posting in English but I felt like making a change for once

http://beawrites.weebly.com/creative-writing/la-maison-fonce

Era um final de tarde tempestuoso na serra de Monstat e, num dos caminhos de cabras que a atravessavam, Luís Penha empurrava, sem sucesso, o carro atolado na lama. Era a força de um homem contra a da natureza e a de objeto amovível, portanto, havia que procurar outra solução. Olhou em seu redor, por entre as árvores, e o único sinal de civilização era uma casinha, ainda iluminada, no cimo do monte.

Sujando os novos sapatos de camurça, abandonou o veículo e subiu a encosta. Ao longe, a casa era uma mera sombra da qual se distinguiam apenas as janelas brilhantes, mas, de perto, tomava a forma de uma mansão enorme e angular, com contornos sinistros.

Apesar do calafrio que lhe subiu pela espinha, Luís, que pingava água e lama, tocou à campainha. Teve de cobrir os ouvidos, pois, assim que premiu o botão, o som metálico e estrondoso de um sino ecoou sabe-se lá por quantos quilómetros.  

A porta descomunal abriu-se, mas do lado de dentro via-se apenas uma figura pequenina, uma criança. Voltou a fechar-se e, após alguns segundos, o visitante foi recebido por uma mulher alta, loira e de postura impecável, com um mantão negro que lhe escorria dos ombros.

-Boa noite… Peço imensas desculpas pela invasão, mas o meu carro ficou preso na estrada lá em baixo, e não o consigo pôr a andar novamente, nem bateria tenho no telemóvel para chamar um reboque. Acha que poderia entrar e fazer uma chamada?

-Foncé, Catherine Foncé. -Foram as únicas palavras que saíram da boca da mulher, mas, após um momento, continuou, com ar reprovador – Não possuímos desses… Aparelhos… Se quiser esperar pela madrugada, talvez o meu marido possa ajudá-lo.

Ao dizer isto, uma figura surgiu, espreitando do lado direito da ombreira. Um homem sorriu-lhe, mostrando dentes brancos e cuidados.

- Pela madrugada? Eu… Bem, nesse caso, acho que terei de ficar… -Com o mesmo ar severo, Catherine Foncé abriu a porta e deixou-o entrar, revelando o interior da mansão.

À sua frente, estendia-se um longo e estreito corredor, iluminado por enormes castiçais presos na parede revestida por um papel de parede preto com relevos dourados. Lá ao fundo, a menina que tinha visto anteriormente olhava para ele, especada.

-Roberte Foncé, é um prazerr conhecê-lo. Não costumamos terr muitos visiteurs! – O homem de sotaque carregado apertou-lhe vigorosamente a mão. – A casinha está toda desarrumada… Vou mandar preparrar-lhe um quarto!

Assim, abandonou a cena, deixando o visitante sozinho com a senhora Foncé e a sua filha, que continuava a olhá-lo tão atentamente, que nem sequer piscava os olhos.

Voltou a aparecer de uma das portas laterais, mas agora acompanhado por uma velhota, que o seguia vagarosamente.

-A Ilianne ajuda-o a preparar o quarrtinho lá em cima!

Assim, seguiram todos pelas escadas em caracol, escondidas atrás da porta, para o piso superior.

O quarto era uma divisão pequena, mas apinhada de bugigangas. Não parecia haver um centímetro de parede que não estivesse coberto por pinturas, na sua maioria retratos antigos, todos muito parecidos com a senhora Catherine.

Luís observava enquanto Ilianne colocava os lençóis na cama. Era tão velha, que cada movimento parecia ser um esforço monumental. A pele enrugada assumia uma tonalidade esverdeada, e os seus olhos eram tão esbugalhados, que parecia constantemente assustada. A visita inesperada podia jurar que via qualquer coisa a mexer-se nos seus cabelos apanhados.

À entrada do quarto, mãe, pai e filha Foncé observavam também a criada.

- Sabe senhorr Louis… Acho melhorr trancarr bem a porta, se quiser dormirr. Sabe, o nosso docinho ainda está a dormirr mas não deve faltar muito para ele macordarr… - Interrompeu a frase com uma gargalhada amigável – E ele faz uma barrulheira quando acorda! - Catherine olhou de soslaio para o marido e revirou os olhos.

Ilianne pareceu demorar horas a terminar a tarefa, tremendo por todos os lados. Luís começou a temer que a senhora colapsasse ali mesmo, mas tal não aconteceu, e, quando terminou, todos abandonaram o quarto com um sorriso amistoso, deixando o hóspede sozinho nos seus aposentos.

Após retirar o casaco molhado e abrir levemente a janela para combater o cheiro a mofo, deixou-se cair na cama e adormeceu instantaneamente.

Acordou sobressaltado, sem saber onde estava. Após alguns segundos de confusão, lá recordou o carro atolado e a família que o recebera, e acalmou-se. Rebolou para o lado para tentar adormecer novamente, mas tal não foi o seu espanto quando viu, ao nível dos seus olhos, uma cara que o observava. Recuou na cama, assustado, e viu que se tratava novamente de uma criança, mas não era aquela que tinha visto anteriormente. Era um rapaz, e encontrava-se suspenso de cabeça para baixo, com os pés presos no teto.

O jovem riu-se, dando altas gargalhadas que se assemelhavam mais a pequenos guinchos, e, ao fazê-lo, revelou os dentes polidos e pontiagudos que lhe saiam das gengivas.

Luís levantou-se, ainda atordoado, e correu para a porta, mas encontrou-a trancada. Aflito com o riso estridente do rapaz, que ainda se encontrava na mesma posição, esvaziou os bolsos em busca da chave, que lá conseguiu encontrar. Precipitou-se para as escadas, mas, antes que pudesse lá chegar, sentiu uma pancada na cabeça, e outra no ombro, e nos braços, e nas pernas, e nas costas. Olhou em seu redor e viu dezenas; não, centenas, de criaturinhas que voavam em seu redor. Morcegos, era vitima de um ataque de morcegos.  Aos gritos, correu escadas a baixo e pelo corredor, abriu a porta da entrada e lançou-se encosta a baixo, em direção ao carro.

Alarmado com o barulho, Roberte abandonou a sala de estar para ir ver o que se passava, dando com o seu hóspede numa fuga precipitada. Apressando-se até à porta, gritou:

-Senhorr Louis, non! Arrêtez! Não vá emborra! Era só o menino Pierre a fazer-lhe uma brincadeirinha… Senhor Louis…. As chaves do carro, senhorr!

[writing-creativo]

Hello, tumblr is dying so i’m gonna start posting my writing on beawrites.weebly.com as well, you might not read anything but at least enjoy my aesthetics