Creative Writing monologue for Y10

Wrote this as "what a good one looks like" in 10 minutes or so, have since looked at it, considered it's worth as an actual piece of writing, so thought I'd post on here... Enjoy

CONFLICT

It always seems to end this way. Me, inside my own room, thinking to myself about how unjust this is. She never has to go through what I do. Sometimes I see myself as being stronger and more resilient than her, but it never matters in the end. She never gets the punishment. Just me. I don’t want people to think I’m being unfair, or unkind. I love my sister. She means everything in the world to me. I think her behaviour is disgraceful, bordering on evil; I would never be that bad. What she does is unforgivable, but it’s not her I blame. It’s them.

The old people.

They look at me like I’m some dirty piece of mud that has become stuck to the bottom of their shoes. The shoes of the righteous. The shoes of the dictators, more like. While she just carries on behaving as though she couldn’t set a foot wrong. The second coming perhaps. She could walk on water in their eyes, complete feats of impossibility. Me, I barely put one step forward, a great accomplishment in my state if you ask me, and I get told off. It’s not YOUR turn to walk, it’s your sister's…

She even has more drama than me. Her tears works are second to none, she would do well to invest in waterproof mascara, but I think that just adds to the effect.

They’re fools. They fall for it every time.

Wait, what is she doing in my room? Mum? Dad? Why are you putting her in here with me?

Play nice. PLAY? NICE? With her? No, I don’t want her in my room. Please don’t leave me with her. You’re my mum, my dad! How can you do this? How can you turn a blind eye to the bruises, the marks? Don’t go.

Please.

But they do. And I roll in my cot, begin to wail, and wait for the pain.

The Gun

Only a week had passed
Since the tragedy occurred.
76 innocents on the isle,
Visited by the Devil's acquaintance.

Gun toting,
He slaughtered the prodigies,
Lambs that were faced by a wolf,
Dressed as a shepherd of the law.

The world wept,
Sharing the pain of losing
a few, but too many,
Promising pieces of our future.

A future we need,
And a future that was stolen
from them.
Cruelly early.

It was said afterwards
That there was little hope for them,
The attack was something no-one could have forseen,
And the gun was powerful.

Now I sit,
In my tent, far away.
Surrounded by two thousand youths,
As a young teen fires his toy BB gun.

The sight
leaves a bitter taste on my tongue,
The
pop
pop
pop
of plastic pellets,
Sending shivers down my spine.

Adults admire
the ignorance of youth,
Whereas I,
In my youth,
Turn away in disgust.

Sunburn

The itch begins at the red patches,
One each,
On the pair of pieds,
In a lovingly decorative pattern through the sandals.

The man looks down...
Shit.

BLS:
Boiled Lobster Syndrome.

The man  loudly complains,
Of the skin that is
definitely
going to blister.

He moans about the aftersun
he should have packed.
He lazily declines the Savlon,
kindly offered to him.
He wishes he'd stayed in the shade,
Or worn socks with those sandals.
The fashion police would have to just do one.

Finally, the man,
in his
AGONIZING
pain,
Calls to his mummy,
And orders her to put on the
Soo-oo-oothing ointment
previously offered.
The crustacean's friend.

She puts on the cooling creme
And the man sighs in relief.
And continues to moan.

For although I refer to him as a man,
As he should be at
25 years of age,
He is but a boy.

Aren't we all?

Maybe not the girls.

The Pope Hearts AIDS

The Pope and his Aids
are in the pharmacy.
They walk past the rows
of shelves laden with sweets
to soothe the throat,
The tablets to settle
the stomach.
The vast richness of
hayfever remedies.
And pause.
Pause.
Pause.

Condoms.

"This will not
do", says the Pope
to his Aids,
gathered around him;
a host of bobbing apples
floating in a barrel of
false enlightenment.
"This is an abomination!
A blasphemy to the Holy Trinity!
Remove them from this store or I,
Will
Leave."

The Aids rush around him gathering
every flavoured, ribbed, extra large offence,
and dumping them in a pile next to the holiday lotions,
Three for two on suncream that would protect from Hell's fire.

The excommunicated prophylactics sit in a pile,
Waiting for their judgement of fire and brimstone,
As the Pope turns to his Aids,
and says,
"Sometimes, in this world of sin,
we need to stick to the rules,
That I make,
For everyone's safety.
How can the world
NOT see this?
Sometimes I think it's just
you lot and me."

Because, as we all know,
The Pope loves his Aids.

Bible Studies

My group is friendly,
Made up of many nations.
The Italians, Spanish, French,
Portuguese, Polish, Romanian,
Ukranian, Hungarian, Dutch,
And English.

But their group laughs.

Each group of people have brave translators,
To cement the feelings of goodwill,
And pass on the news of Jesus Christ,
Their words flowing around the room like
A whisper of breath,
blown from a pair of lungs with great importance,
Gathering volume as the imformation creats a backlog of understanding.

But their group laughs.

The Brother begins the discussion,
And the discussion is deep,
And the discussion is dull.
Heads begin to turn towards the back of the room.

The other group laughs.

The Brother is under pressure now,
his flock headed towards the greener grass.
He must keep their attention,
And bring them back to the fold.

Juggle,
Or something...

But the other group laughs,
And still he trusts in the faith of the word.

And the crowd goes wild!

In the other room.

And yet while the Brother has lost the battle,
I was lost before it began.

Religion Camp Pt 2

The disillusioned atheist,
Bags stowed away safely,
Joins the rest of the Religious People,
On the pilgrimage to Religion Camp.

The bus is only half full,
Yet the smell of Religion is...
Miraculous.
The smell of Our Lord, Jesus Christ.

The two hip vicars,
Both young,
Shepherd their flock into their seats,
Legally reminding them of the seatbelts they must wear.

Would Jesus not save them if we were to crash?

The organiser, sat at the back,
Is subjected to the torture of the mad youth,
Yelling their devotion to the Lord,
By stopping up 'til one and discussing Capital Punishment.

And lo!
The ferry looms nigh.
The Religious People pile off,
Eager to praise God over an overpriced cup of coffee.

The angry Godlings rush to the deck,
Smoke inhaling and exhaling through their prayer-holes,
Continuing their earlier discussion,
About staying up 'til one and hanging paedos.

The atheist, the organiser and the father (non-clerical),
Our third character,
Gently perambulate towards the bar,
Like the beginning of some xenophobic joke.

And talk turns to the mad youth,
The hip vicars,
The odd couple driving the bus,
Making deals on who is going to swap seats.

The atheist, having sat next to a tasty girl on the way,
Is not inclined to give his seat up,
And the father has come back from camping, and needs his rest.
So the organiser draws the hypothetical short straw.

Fitting.

In what seems like mere seconds,
The announcement comes,
via the new improved crackly tannoy,
to return to the coach.

And now begins the slog.
The long, arduous part of the journey.
The part where hours seem like minutes,
And minutes seem like hours,
Like some retarded board game involving a timer.

Pick whichever one you don't like.

The part where you aren't sure whether
You're awake,
Or Asleep.
The part where eyelids
Droop,
And heads roll,
Onto uncomfortable
Neighbours
Shoulders...

Zzzzzzzzzz.

Water

I eye the water bottle nervously,
Grasped between hands of vengeance,
Mischievous hands.
Please dont!
I dont want to get changed.

SQUIRT.

I'm going to need five minutes guys.