Creative Writing

This week, SPS is celebrating the work of John Milton, who died 450 years ago this coming Friday.  Here at the blog, we're using the occasion to shine a spotlight on some contemporary Pauline writers, all of whom took a creative writing EPQ. Today, we have 'Pianoman', a short story by Sanil Ganguly, and an extract from an epic poem by Max Swinnerton.  

Sanil's EPQ was a collection of short stories, inspired by different elements of Roald Dahl's writing. Several of these stories feature the macabre twists associated with Dahl's best known work, but others also develop less familiar aspects of the writer's style, such as 'Pianoman', which explores Dahl's interest in blurring fantasy and reality through the story of a pianist reaching the peak of his art. 

'Pianoman'

Sanil Ganguly

The pianist sat peculiarly on the chair. His posture was slumped and every part of his body seemed to be moments away from succumbing to sleep. His fingers and eyes told a different story. His fingers were long and slender, and as they wandered purposefully up and down the keys they boasted years of dedication. Even a deaf man could appreciate his ability, as he turned the white marble into a dancefloor, where his hands could twist and turn, gliding up and down the black and white ridges. His eyes moved in harmony with his fingers. They shone brightly in the dim room, which was illuminated by a solitary candle, which quivered on the corner of the piano, and the moon, which poked through the window that was tucked away in the corner of the room. While the light from the moon and candle was faint and tired, the light from the man's eyes was fierce. His eyelids had been peeled all the way back, revealing deep green pupils which were fixed to his right hand, and followed it exactly as it raced up and down. Deep below the fury which they displayed, there was a hint of marvel, as the eyes too were in awe of the delicate fingers.

The fingers then began to accelerate. The right hand began a frenzied onslaught onto the keys as it clambered up the piano. The left hand, which had been sullenly prodding the lower keys on the piano, also sprung into life and leaped up into the air before landing deftly towards the far left of the piano. There it trembled deliberately, sending the white keys sinking into the piano and revealing an ugly noise from beneath them. It wrangled out, rudely interrupting the sweet melody which had soared from the piano moments before. The right hand froze in panic, as the pianist's long haired head bowed. The room sat in anticipation as the chord rang out, the keys incorporated within fighting with each other in an attempt to take centre stage. It hung in the air uncomfortably, making each second more agonising. It lingered for a moment longer until it finally dissipated into silence. It was not redeeming silence however, and the piano looked up at him in desperation as it squirmed. The discontent grew ever stronger as the room stood on end, with the candle flame coming to a halt and the withered plants leaning in, waiting for the inevitable vindication of the piece.

The pianist smirked ever so slightly, as he drew his hands up into the air and let them dangle momentarily. His eyelids had slid over his eyes, shutting off the outside world. His whole body straightened, with his head picking up and his spine stretching. His mouth opened slightly and he took in a deep breath, blowing out his chest and tensing his core. From afar it looked as though he was levitating, as his whole body seemed to float. For a moment he was perfectly still, his hands splayed out as though he were a puppeteer.

His left pinky then quivered, ever so slightly, before his hands collapsed. As they fell he arose, his slight and unassuming build expelling grandeur as the bellowing piano provided the soundtrack to his ascent. His fingers had crashed onto the keys, but the moment they made contact they nimbly sprung up and began fluttering across the piano. The sound was bold and calculated, powerful yet fragile. It filled the room, whirling and spinning within its confines, searching for any exit where it could seep out. 

Each note leaped up from the piano, immaculately falling into the tapestry being woven around. They rang through clearly, each savouring their short moment before being replaced by the next as the man's hands cascaded up and down. They moved to their own rhythm and tempo, but in the air their notes embraced each other elegantly.

On the man's face the smirk had fallen. His momentary contentment had fallen, but it did not give way to the same fury which had emblazoned his face before. It was a sadness which covered it now. And although his lips were pursed and his face was concentrated, melancholy dripped from his eyes, his anguish contrasting the glory of the melody. As his crescendo approached its peak, with his hands reaching a compromise and meeting in the middle of the piano, his eyes squeezed shut. The pianist bowed his head to the piano once again. This was his calling, his moment. He had reached the peak of his craft, and as he chased the climax of his song he realised that this was his finale. His calling had come, his fulfilment so near, and as he approached his destination he felt a sudden longing for the journey. Unnerved, his eyes opened. They were wide, the tiny green veins bulging as they watched his hands unwillingly pull him closer and closer to his end. Terror had seized his face as quickly as the sadness had, as he sensed his piece beginning to dwindle gracefully. His moment had passed, his glory had come as soon as it had left. And as his fingers slowed the terror engulfed him further, what he had just created was unbeatable. No-one on the planet could outdo what he had just done, and no one ever would, including himself. But this could not be it, he had more to give.

He crescendoed once again. This was not his end. His sadness fell away to allow the quiet fury to return to his face. His erratic movements gave him a disguise of insanity, but despite his state of panic his talent remained refined. He leaned inwards. He watched his long pale fingers strike against the long white keys, and in his desperate movements his eyes lost sight of them as they melted into the keys. And as he leaned in further he felt those keys reach out to caress his chest, before they took a hold of him and pulled him inwards. His black suit which draped off of his shoulders like a cape then faded into the ebony of the piano as they became one.

In a world of self-expression, perfection had been achieved. The candle slowly melted away, while the plant which watched on eventually gave in and died, but the melody continued to sing to the empty room. The piano sat in the corner, revelling in its creation. It would never play to resplendent halls or sprawling crowds, but it did not need to. It did not seek validation or plaudits, and its values had stayed true to its initial ambitions. Greatness was its goal, and greatness was now its legacy.

Marvin Gaye playing the piano: one of the inspirations for this story

Max's EPQ developed the style and themes of Pushkin's Eugene Onegin, working towards an epic poem about the Mayerling incident, the doomed romantic relationship between an Austrian prince and his lover.  

Extract from an epic poem

Max Swinnerton

I

But now the golden panels of the ballrooms
and the gorgeous waltzing lovers lifted by the cellists and the
fabulous velvet sofas in the drawing rooms
strewn with minks and pearls and drunkards seeking
respite from the strings under the stooping chandeliers seeping
into glass plump, plush darkness in their handsome costumes–
now are a plainer sort of pretty: spruce and cloth and frost and iron
with fire smiling squatting kicking. What a mad khorovod
or ritual or sacrifice what a portrait or caricature of waiting by the window
with the pleasures of the night, stars lounging on the treetops
and he is late.

What a way to be wed! So much stronger than the depraved ring
groped and handled by grandmother, son, daughter
wined and dined and passed and played. Mine is the truest covenant.
I will see amongst the erect Kovalevsky birches my gleaming bogatyr.
He is riding in finest steel and leather with tarnished sword and news from home.
How we will ride the dusk into the infinite dawn and how we will feel
the bitter winds on our skin and the peeking sun on our rippling bodies.
How he will be my man and I will be his woman.
How these are the only vows I shall ever make.

II

Should it be silk or fine french cotton? No -
The cotton looks too blue. My pearls
are being warmed, my whale-boned corset
is too tight, that ornate, imposing bottle
of fine Arabian perfume has gone to dregs.
My maidens paint me like the matryoshka:
Such a pretty little construction of
such airy intricacies. My husband waits for me.

He is outside the door blending with the wallpaper
In his most gaudish of green jackets and frilliest of collars.
‘You are like a Canaletto portrait, darling,
a muse for all men and jealous girls to ogle'
I slink behind his giddy stride to the carriage in the courtyard;
We ride out and I see him with no nuisance of the light
He is caressing the pomades in his hair and murmuring of hunting;
How I miss my maidens’ silence on this voyage of the night!

A jolt then a crescendo then the din begins to pour
into my ears and pearls and I am flying up the steps
to a clangour of spit, lip and shuffle. Mon chéri
has lost himself in an audience of mink and lynx;
They are dining on his tough pink flesh.
How the chandeliers do flatter me -
the dripping cachalot candles too;
I am the glamorous Siberian roebuck
In sea of flaky snow and erosions who

Is waiting in the hallways by the ballrooms by the doors
Grotesquely brass-clad, panelled, gold-adorned.

From the Royal Ballet's production of Kenneth MacMillan's Mayerling

Many thanks to Sanil and Max for allowing us to publish their work.