Activity 7.5

Begin a story with the line:

     I thought I would always remember this, but over time it has become blurred.

Use a narrator who struggles to piece a memory together. The memory can be triggered by a chance meeting or the discovery of an old letter or photograph. Write up to 500 words.

Activity 7.5

 I thought I would always remember this, but over time it has become blurred. I know what happened of course, some things you never forget, but had we really been so young? The strange thing about youth is that every event is important; every year, season, defined by milestones in one’s life, friends we have, parties we attend and love we lose. After the age of about twenty the years just seem to blend together. But youth is also deceptive. At sixteen I believed I possessed the experience and looks of a woman of twenty-one. Perhaps this is why I am so confused about that period of my life. We spend our childhoods training our minds to think they are older than they are until, somewhere around the late twenties, they are thrown into harsh reverse and told that we are actually only babies, no grey hairs yet, thank you very much!

     But this photograph has spoiled a lifetime of contented deceit by exposing the truth. It couldn’t be much clearer. It was taken by Joe Mailer with his first camera, in colour too. There were ten of us in all and I remember thinking that the shot had to be just right. Camera films were expensive in those days and Joe had set a timer so he would be in it himself. I had snuggled deep into the arms of John Vickers, my sweetheart at the time. He had felt so strong and warm and this photo was going to last forever, proof that I was his girl. Looking at it now all I see is a boy – skinny and freckled, a child compared to Ally. It’s funny but she looks just the same here as I remember her. Blonde hair in pigtails, her arms folded like a boy, shiny lips twisted to one side in a devious smirk that Jane Russell would kill for. Then there were the blue jeans. Ally was American and the only person we knew who wore denim and chewed gum. She was confident and tomboyish but lusciously feminine in a way that I, with my pleated skirt and tight sweater, would not understand for another ten years.

     In the picture, I’m smiling like Vera-Ellen – all cheeks and teeth – but my stomach was doing somersaults. John’s chin rested on my head but all I could taste was Ally. I had been sure he would smell her on me but I needn’t have worried. I realise now that he would never have recognised the scent of a woman. The affair, I suppose you would call it, must have gone on for some months but for the life of me I can’t remember it ending. Did she move back to America? Was there a tearful farewell? Or did we silently go our separate ways?

     I never told anyone the truth about Ally and me; perhaps that’s why it is so hard to recall clearly. Until now, it has only existed in my old, unreliable memory. But now I have proof. Proof that I was her girl.

Activity 5.5

Here's a stab at one of the activities for my OU course.

Activity 5.5

Choose two characters from the following list and develop their voices: a fitness fanatic; a disillusioned nurse; a bored, gifted student; a jovial social climber; a music-loving dentist. Make the voices different in rhythm, sentence length, vocabulary, and degrees of eloquence. Write two monologues of up to 300 words each.

A DISILLUSIONED NURSE

Did you administer the patient’s medication? Yes. Tick. Did the patient accept them freely? No. Tick. What approach did you employ to ensure the patient received their medication? I kneeled on his testicles and told him I’d flush his mobile phone down the toilet if he didn’t eat the bloody pills. Tick. I wish. That’d teach the little sod not to drink and drive. I wish I’d seen his face when the police turned up (three hours later). Just one more night in A&E. Just tonight, then four days off. Let’s see what little toe rags they bring in tonight. Girls with black eyes and skinny legs and lads covered in blood they refuse to wash off. Pikey-chav-scum, Ruby would call them. Thank Christ she never became a nurse. Three minutes left. Tea’s cold. No time for another. Sheila says they want anyone working the night shift to start wearing stab vests. Probably just a rumour. Should have stayed at The Lodge. Jean said Mary’s retiring, maybe I could get a transfer. I wonder if poor Mrs Richards died. All those little grandchildren. All that love. It makes no difference in the end. One minute. I wonder what Mick’s doing. I hope charlotte’s in bed. She was still angry when I left. No way am I letting her out ‘til ten when there are pissed kids driving around in cars. If something happened to her they’d bring her here. Charlotte on a stretcher with black eyes and skinny legs. I’ll give Mick a quick ring just to check.

A MUSIC-LOVING DENTIST

Just shut your mouth, how can you say I go about things the wrong way? I wish he’d shut his mouth, he stinks of vodka. Good night was it, mate? I bet you didn’t wanna come here today. I see you’re looking at the Ramones poster on the ceiling, mate. I knew that was a good move. He’s old enough to remember The Ramones. Upper second molar. Gotcha. Hey Ho Let’s Go! We should cover that in the band. Millie’s broken up with her boyfriend again. I’ll see if she fancies coming to the gig tonight, cheer her up. She needs some Rock n Roll in her life…maybe she wouldn’t be late to work then. I’ll ask her when Stinky Pete’s gone. He’s a man who’s got too much Rock n Roll in his life. Mate? I don’t believe it. He’s fucking asleep! Never mind, we’ll soon sort that out. Sorry mate, did that hurt? You might wanna stay conscious for this next bit, then it won’t come as such a shock when I do this- doh! Ha. He really hates me now. Better end with The Kaiser Chiefs tonight. Ruby Ruby Ruby Ruby! I can’t believe she’s twenty-one already. I can’t believe she wants to spend her birthday down the Lion watching her old man’s band. God, I hope Gary doesn’t get too pissed. Jan’ll floor him if he tries it on with Ruby again. So’ll I if I have to listen to another version of Shiggy Shtardusht. Nearly done, mate. You’ll be tucked up back in bed within the hour. Sho where were the shpiders? Niow, niow niow niow niow niow niow, niowwww. Thank you very much.

TMA01 - PART 2

This is a short piece I submitted for my OU course and was quite pleased with the grade.

When You’ve Got To Choose

In a hotel room in Covent Garden, a drama was unfolding for Max Kessler. It was a symmetrical room, decorated in beige and yellow tones and dominated by a king-size bed. This was where Max perched, the television and minibar to his left and a couple of arm-chairs and a table to his right. In front of him, a vast mirror reflected the whole scene back. He was a handsome man of twenty-nine, although he was often told he looked younger. Tonight, his body was rigid with adrenalin that would frequently reach the point of panic. Looking into the glass, Max was sure this showed on his face. He took a long draught from the miniature bottle of wine. ‘Follow your heart’, his mother had always said, but Max suspected she would feel differently if she found out his heart had led him to this expensive hotel room.

     He tried to relax and watch the news for a bit but the headline had not changed all afternoon – ‘MARGARET THATCHER DEAD’. A statement from her daughter was being played for the fifteenth time and then was replaced by footage of a crowd gathering in celebration at Trafalgar Square. Alone, in the privacy of his room, he allowed himself a small smile and then reminded himself not to think ill of the dead.

     Max stood up, took a 10p coin from his trouser pocket and flipped it clumsily. Heads cancel, tails do nothing, he had decided. It landed on the floor. He peered down at it – heads for the third time in a row. He was starting to feel light-headed and wondered if he should take the coin’s advice and cancel the appointment. After all, he had done nothing wrong yet. His wife knew where he was; she even knew his room number and every theatre performance he would be reviewing that week. One phone call and the guilt would be gone. He could order some dinner from room-service and watch a film. Iris would understand. His train of thought had followed this same pattern all day but whenever it came back to Iris, he knew that he would never call her. He had come too far.

     Returning to the bed, Max allowed himself to think about her. Iris. Mrs Randall. Actually, he had no idea if she was a Mrs but with a little embarrassment he realised he liked the way it sounded. They had met the previous day at a party after the opening night of The Graduate. The irony was not lost on Max, of course. In fact, he wondered if it might be a sign that their meeting was meant to be. He had been struck by ‘Mrs Randall’ the moment she made her entrance. She was a small, curvy, woman of about fifty with warm, freckled skin and black hair laced with rich iron streaks. She excited Max like no other woman ever had. He felt hot and furious when he observed Richard Collins from The Times trying to lay his hand on her waist - the clown – and uncharacteristically nervous when she chose instead to join Max’s own table.

     ‘I am in politics because of the conflict between good and evil…’

     The voice of Thatcher from the television interrupted Max’s thoughts about ‘Mrs Randall’ and yanked him back to reality. As a boy growing up in the Eighties, he had known that voice as well as his own mother’s. In some of his earliest memories, he could not even tell which was which. Strangely, it was his mother’s voice that had inspired the guilt that had visited him so much in the last twenty four hours, not that of his wife. He supposed it was because, after two years of marriage, he hardly knew Karen. He was very fond of her but there was no passion. Their union and her devotion to him had been causing Max guilt and resentment every day since his mum had introduced them. He owed it to Karen to free her from the farce their relationship was.

     ‘She’s old enough to be your mother!’ Max’s mum would say about Iris, ‘she won’t want children at her age.’

     There was a knock at the door. Max’s heart jolted. He pointed the remote at Maggie with her ‘Victorian values’ and she disappeared with a flash. There was no place for her in this room tonight. For the first time in his life, Max was going to allow himself to be happy. He opened the door and Iris stood perfect as ever, smiling. She placed a hand on his cheek and kissed him firmly on the lips. There would certainly be guilt but it would wait until the morning.

THE MONSTER PARADE

Again, this one still needs some work but I thought I'd post it in case I never end up coming back to it. Happy Halloween!!!

THE MONSTER PARADE

Nicky was cold when he woke up. As he reached out for his blanket, he realised with a smack of fear that he was also wet. He scrambled up and looked down at the large dark circle on his bare, already yellowed, mattress and began to cry. Mummy said she would kill him if it ever happened again. Nicky squeezed the pink blanket to himself. He stared around for something that could help him but, as always, all he saw was his cluttered room and the grey, grubby wallpaper. He tried rubbing the wet bed with his blanket but it made no difference.

     There was nothing for it. He would have to leave the house and run away. He thought about the monsters that lived outside and was scared but Nicky remembered the last time Daddy had wet his bed. Mummy had hit him with a bottle and then they had a fight and both of them went to hospital. There was still glass on the stairs.

     Nicky went to the window and rubbed away a patch of dirt with his shirt-sleeve. Usually he was too frightened to look outside in case he saw the monsters and got nightmares like when Daddy showed him that film with the old lady in the bath. Nicky was glad to see that the street was empty and even more happy to see that Daddy’s car was gone. It was always safe for Daddy to go out because he was bigger and the monsters were scared of cars. If Mummy was asleep, Nicky could just walk out the door. He had never been outside before but he had no choice. Even if Mummy didn’t kill him, she would definitely shout and hurt him and his arm still hadn’t got better since he knocked her ashtray over.

     Nicky couldn’t tell the time and didn’t have a clock anyway but the sky was starting to turn dark. He should go soon.

     Just then, he saw two of the Men In Yellow walking up the street. He jumped back from the window, hoping they hadn’t seen him. Forgetting the wet patch, he crouched on his bed. Daddy had told Nicky all about the Men In Yellow. If he was to see one, he had to tell daddy straight away. Everyone knew that if you went outside the monsters would get you but the men in yellow would try to get in your house and that must never happen. Nicky had spent many nights awake, thinking about the Men In Yellow. He couldn’t believe he was about to go out there but he was going to be brave, like Ben 10. It would be hard because he didn’t know what the monsters looked like or even what they would do with him if they caught him. Mummy sometimes said that Nicky was a monster, so maybe they’d like him. They might look after him. If they were like the Cookie Monster it wouldn’t be so bad.

     Nicky searched through the heaps of clothes in his room until he found a jumper and some trousers. Mummy always said it would be too cold for Nicky outside but if he took his blanket and some of Daddy’s socks, he thought he would be okay.

     When he was dressed, Nicky squeaked his way down the stairs on tiptoes. He could see Mummy’s feet over the end of the settee and peered round the door to make sure she was asleep. She was. Nicky relaxed. He knew that nothing could wake her when she was sleeping. He knew he should leave quickly before Daddy came back but decided to take one last look at her. He started to cry again because he knew this would be the last time he saw her. She was wrapped in a dressing-gown and snoring. Nicky kissed her on the cheek before taking himself and his blanket quickly through the kitchen and out the back door.

     He found himself in a small garden he never knew was there. He was surprised to find that he was no colder out here than in the house but the air he breathed felt icy and fresh. Nicky stood where he was for a few minutes while he thought about whether he was doing the right thing or not. In the end, it was clear he could not stay, so he started to walk. Once the decision had been made, he found it easy to keep going. He started to enjoy the feel of the night air rushing at his face as he ran down roads, sticking to the pavement where he found there were no cars, turning corners, following the lights.

     It was when he stopped to catch his breath that he saw the first monster. It was a clown. He knew this because there was one just the same in one of his cartoons. Nicky watched a lot of cartoons, even though he didn’t understand most of them. Now he waited as the clown walk towards him, excited and scared at the same time. The clown saw him staring and smiled at Nicky with a big, red, silly, mouth. Nicky giggled. He liked clowns. He watched until it went round a corner and out of sight. Perhaps Nicky was a monster and that was why the clown-monster had smiled at him.

     There was lots of noise coming from a road up ahead and Nicky saw it was packed with monsters. He ran towards them, wanting to see more clowns, and was delighted to see hundreds of monsters of all sizes. He was unable at first to do anything but stand with his mouth open as monster after monster marched down the crowded street. Music was playing and some of them were dancing.

     Some had white faces, some had big teeth or wings and many of them carried glowing orange balls with jagged faces on. Some held hands and a couple of the smaller ones sat on the shoulders of the bigger ones. All of them were smiling and so was Nicky. He joined in the crowd and it felt warm.

     After a little while they all stopped and stood or sat in groups. A wonderful smell floated over to Nicky and he realised it was coming from the food the people were eating. He thought that monster food must be delicious and went to find some. Behind where the group was biggest was a long table where monsters were giving food out. Nicky knew he looked a bit different to the others, so was shy about asking for some but the smell was so good! He made his way through the crowd until he was face to face with a tall monster with long, black, hair and a green face. It said nothing to him.

     ‘Can I have some food?’ Nicky said. He did not know as many words as Mummy and daddy but he hoped the monster understood him.

     ‘What would you like?’ said the monster. It had a voice a bit like Mummy’s.

     ‘Can I have some food?’ said Nicky, ‘I’m hungry and smells good’.

     The monster put her head on the side and looked at Nicky for a while. Eventually, she handed him a round sandwich with something hot and brown in the middle. Nicky smiled and started to eat it quickly. He’d never had hot food before and had no idea that it could taste like this. When he was done, the lady-monster handed him another.

     ‘Are you on your own?’ she asked.

     Nicky wasn’t sure what she meant. He looked around at all the happy monsters. ‘I’m a monster’, he said.

     ‘Wait there’, the lady-monster said. She came round to his side of the table, carrying a cup of juice and a small bag of sweets. A few of the other monsters that were closest to him had started to notice him too now. They looked concerned, their noses wrinkled. The lady-monster led Nicky to a stone statue and told him to sit down on a step, eat up and she’d be back in a minute.

     While Nicky gobbled up his dinner, thrilled by all the new tastes, he saw that the lady-monster was with some of the Men In Yellow. They were talking and looking at Nicky. For a moment he was scared again but then he remembered that he was like them now.

     The Men In Yellow came over to Nicky and one of them crouched down in front of him. ‘Hi there’, he said. Underneath their hats, the men in yellow didn’t look much like monsters at all. ‘What’s your name, mate?’

     ‘Nicky’, said Nicky, ‘are you going to look after me?’

     The Man In Yellow looked surprised, and then said, ‘yes. Come with us and we’ll take care of you’.

     Nicky realised he was crying again but this time it was because he was happy. He felt happier than ever before. His belly was full and he was warm. Mummy wasn’t going to kill him because the monsters would take care of him. He had been brave and now he was going stay here and live with the monsters.

 

FREEWRITE 1

Freewriting
In freewriting – a term coined by Peter Elbow – we permit ourselves to associate freely, that is to write down the first words that occur to us, then whatever that makes us think of, following the train of thought wherever it goes. It can feel uncomfortable, especially at first. You may feel that what you are writing is silly or unseemly or banal. You may feel a strong urge to stop or control it. But don’t. You will often be surprised, even delighted, by the liveliness and power of the ideas and words that emerge.

A long time ago...

‘A long time ago’, everything was better. Even if there was a war on, people seemed to cope. It was probably because alcohol and fags were so cheap then. I’ve had some great times and they were all ‘a long time ago’. Songs, food, smells, photos, places, TV shows, all remind me of these wonderful times but I know for sure that some of them weren’t that great. In fact, some were awful. However, we still get nostalgic about the bad times. I think nostalgia is the best way to describe it. There should be a word that means ‘negative nostalgia’. Maybe there already is. My Granny told stories about the family all sitting up late together getting drunk. It sounds like Hell to me – sitting in a stuffy living room with a fire that is too hot, drinking gin with ones relatives. I don’t think I could handle taking the kids to school the next day with a hangover, waiting to see if the air-raid siren goes off. Why do we always remember things as being better than they actually were? Maybe I haven’t suffered enough. Maybe if something really horrendous happened I wouldn’t remember it in that way at all. Maybe that’s why we sometimes return to things we know will hurt us. Maybe it’s because we just want to be younger again, get as far away from death as possible, a need for something that has already happened, that we know the outcome of, even if it is a bad one. Maybe that’s why little children still cry for a mother that abuses them. Perhaps we would do best to go so far back that we had never been born at all.

This is one of my first attempts. I think next time I'll try to focus more on imagery and words, rather than ideas.

GRANNY'S FUNERAL

This is a little chunk of something that I hope will one day end as a novel. As always, it is not a final draft, just me trying to put some ideas in order. Secondly, for any family reading this, all the characters are 100% fictional and not based on anyone I know. Thanks in advance for any feedback. x

Kat clicked her way down the aisle in her new, shiny stilettos. She had hoped they would make her look taller and more graceful but now she was sure she looked – and sounded – like a drunken pig, tottering on its trotters, the noise echoing blasphemously through the church. Finding an empty pew in a middle row, she squeezed in and slid right to the end. She felt pleased with herself for finding a spot that was safely tucked away in the corner, the solid arm-rest and high wooden backs of the seats a comfort to her. She judged that she was not so far back as to appear disrespectful but could slip out relatively quietly if she started to feel ‘uncomfortable’; after removing her shoes, of course.

Kat had decided to turn up alone today and pretend to be normal, just another one of the mourners paying her last respects. Unfortunately, the fluttering she was sensing out the corner of her eye told her that her mother, who was waving her arms in Kat’s direction, was not going to stand for it. She let her gaze flicker for an instant to where she was sitting in the front row and cringed at the wide vacant space she was angrily pointing to. Kat pretended not to notice but instead leafed through the little booklet she had been handed when she entered. She skipped the words and focused on the numbers printed in bold under each little section; 10 minutes, 3 minutes, 6 minutes… It was going to be a long service.

Now Kat did start to feel ‘uncomfortable’. Her corset was too tight and the smooth, varnished seats on her tights were making her thighs itch. Her heartbeat had sped up and her stomach was flipping like a frantic fish. She breathed deeply, reminding herself that it was Granny’s funeral and the least she could do would be to sit through her bloody service. She should not have drunk that extra glass of wine last night…this morning.

Just then a couple and their two children, none of whom she recognised, filed in beside her. Kat instantly felt relieved, less exposed. She had been worried that some family member would spot her alone and decide that she needed company and for this reason she liked her new neighbours immensely. The parents smiled at her, so she smiled back. They must have believed she was normal.

Kat looked at her watch and wondered if she could fit in another cigarette but she suspected her mum would be ready for her. She would appear suddenly, lay on a heavy guilt-trip and Kat would be forced to sit at the front with all the old crying people. It would not have been hard either; Kat did feel guilty.

She felt guilty that she was in a church when she didn’t believe in God, she felt guilty that she had screwed Rob again last night and turned up today with a hangover, she felt guilty because she knew she would not cry, she felt guilty because she secretly wanted the vicar to notice her cleavage. Kat felt guilty because she was a terrible person. Even this was not enough to provoke a few tears. Again, and not for the first time that day, she wondered what was wrong with her. When did she become this person?

Kat looked back to the programme of the service she still gripped and examined the photograph on the front. Thankfully they had used an old, slightly fuzzy, picture of Granny. She was younger than Kat had ever seen her, sitting in a garden chair with a chubby infant on her lap. She had been rather pretty, if not a little severe-looking. Her black hair and dress contrasted sharply with the ball of lacy, frilly baby she held. Kat was surprised by how thin Granny had been and instantly developed a new, deeper respect for her.

The hall was filling up and the crowd were murmuring in low voices when another series of clicks cut through the noise. It was the other Katherine, Kat’s cousin. She was dabbing gently at her face under a little black veil. Kat did not even try to hide her distaste. Who the fuck wears a veil to a funeral nowadays? She thought, ‘someone who wants to draw the attention away from the poor sod in the coffin and onto them’. Knowing her cousin as she did, there was no doubt that this was the case.

Their mothers were sisters who had been in competition with each other as long as anyone could remember. It was only natural that, when they fell pregnant around the same time, nine months of squabbling over names would follow. No one really knew which of them first had the idea of naming their daughter after Granny, proving their devotion to her above all others, but it had been Kat who was born first. Katherine had followed five days later and now they both served as a reminder of the lifelong feud that was still raging silently between the sisters. Despite being born second, Kat felt it was Katherine who had the last laugh. At least she had retained her full Christian name. Kat, on the other hand, fancied that one day she would hunt down the person who first started calling her ‘Kat’ and punish them for giving her a nickname that rhymed with ‘fat’. She knew it was only a matter of time before someone else noticed the connection and she would then be known as ‘Fat Kat’. She couldn’t live with that.

A215 - Weekly Writing Challenge 6.

Week 6 - Twitterati

Write a piece of fiction using only 140 characters. This challenge is designed to make you think about your words, your letters and your punctuation. Write something that will allow your reader to fill in the blanks.

Remember, this is not 'up to 140 characters' - it is exactly 140 characters!

To be completed by Tuesday 20th September.

F WIDOW seeks M, 51. Must like The Who, real ale, drive a red mini, smoke a pipe, have freckles and always pretend to forget our anniversary

A Quick Poem

Today is our birthday.

We play games in the garden all day.

I am in love.

Lucy says we shall grow old together.

Today is our birthday.

She is so much bigger than I.

I’m sure I’ll catch up.

Lucy says I can sleep in her bed.

Today is our birthday.

Lucy wants to play dress-up.

I bite her.

She thinks because she’s big she can boss me around.

Today is our birthday.

I haven’t seen Lucy at all.

I leave a present on our bed.

The next day she shouts at me.

Today is our birthday.

We are thirteen.

I wait for my life to begin.

She seems so much younger than me.

Today is our birthday.

Lucy is happy.

She has colours painted on her face.

I am tired.

Today is our birthday.

I stay in bed.

Lucy sits on me when she comes in.

I think I’m getting smaller.

Today is our birthday.

I think I am dying.

Lucy cries while she strokes my hair.

‘Goodbye, my Puss’.

A215 - Weekly Writing Challenge 5.

Week 5 - Flash Fiction

 Write a piece of flash fiction using the prompt 'now or never'

Guidelines vary with regards to Flash Fiction; some being as little as 300 words. For the purpose of this challenge, anything up to 600 words is acceptable.

NOW OR NEVER

Sarah made her way gravely towards the front door. Before she entered, she wriggled off her engagement ring and slipped it in her jeans pocket. It helped a little. She felt like part of the dreaded task was already completed.

It was not that she did not love Matt anymore; she just hated the way he rolled his cigarettes, the sounds he made when he ate and the smell of his shampoo. Sarah knew her complaints were unreasonable and that he was no different now from the clever, strong, handsome man she had adored six years ago, so maybe it was her who had changed. She used to get jealous when she saw women pointlessly flirting with him but now she longed for him to have an affair. She thought she would burst with joy if that happened. Anything would be better than the look of shocked devastation and the tears she would soon have to face.

Sarah had hoped Matt would sense there was something wrong when she started joining clubs and going to pub quizzes just to avoid having to stay home with him. Finding excuses not to have sex was the hardest part as he knew better than anyone what an appetite for it she usually had. Sometimes, she found herself trying to start arguments, hoping he would get so sick of her that he would leave. None of these tactics worked, however. If anything they made him quietly miserable, while being even more eager to make her happy. She often cried when she thought about her treatment of him and had decided today that he deserved to be told the truth.

Sarah noticed her neighbour was eyeing her from across the road and realised she could not stand on the doorstep, fiddling with her keys, any longer. With a deep breath she opened the door. She could not have felt more scared if she had been walking to her death.

‘Matt?’ she called, closing the door.

He appeared from the kitchen to her left, looking serious and pale.

‘Something’s happened’, he said.

I’ve been seeing someone else; I’ve been seeing someone else…Sarah’s mind chanted desperately, praying these would be his next words.

‘My dad died’. Matt’s eyes fell to the floor while he covered his crumpled face with his hands.

Sarah rushed to her fiancé and wrapped him in her arms, while behind his neck she replaced the ring that, for a few minutes, she had been free from.

A215 - Weekly Writing Challenge 4.

Write a short piece of prose, poetry or fiction inspired by this photo. You don't have to mention the picture at all; just see where it takes you.

For example - You could write a short piece about a man walking in the rain; how is he feeling? Where has he come from? Where is he going?

ANONYMOUS

The woman in black, she walked ahead of me,

So strong a figure I had never seen,

Another city worker, possibly?

To me she was Titania, Nature’s Queen.

The trees arched high above her hidden face,

Protective of their mistress on parade,

An ebony statue hailed her from its place,

As she, even this modern world obeyed.

The rain created mirrors everywhere,

So on each surface her reflection showed,

A part of all that lived and breathed the air,

How humble did I feel to share her road.

Now, when I weave through overcrowded streets,

I see her influence in all I meet.

A215 - Weekly Writing Challenge 3.

Week 3 - Rewriting Fairytales

Choose a fairytale that you like and rewrite it changing any/all of the following elements:

Point of view - For example, rewrite Snow White from the perspective of the Wicked Queen
Genre - For example, how would Cinderella fare in Chick-Lit, or Sleeping Beauty in Psychological Thriller?
Time - For example, can you image how Hansel and Gretel would translate into the 21st century? A couple of ASBO kids eating someone's house..

INT. WINE BAR – AROUND LUNCHTIME

SNOW WHITE: What are you drinking?

SLEEPING BEAUTY: Just a coke. I’m still on that medication. Anything else will send me to sleep.

SNOW WHITE: Just a little one?

SLEEPING BEAUTY: I can’t…oh go on then, I’ll have a vodka.

SNOW WHITE: A pint of lager and a vodka please.

SLEEPING BEAUTY: And coke.

SNOW WHITE: A vodka…

SLEEPING BEAUTY: Double…

SNOW WHITE: Double vodka and coke. Cheers. OMG! Did I tell you about Cinderella?

SLEEPING BEAUTY: No! Is that the girl with the hair? I love your lipstick, by the way.

SNOW WHITE: Thanks, Babe. No, that’s Rapunzel. Cinderella’s the one from work. Remember?  Her mum died? Her dad’s really sweet but he married that massive bitch? With the two daughters that were in the year above us? They’re bitches too?

SLEEPING BEAUTY: Oh yeah, I remember.

SNOW WHITE: Well get this:

SLEEPING BEAUTY: The one who smells a bit…

SNOW WHITE: A bit what…

SLEEPING BEAUTY: Like she works in a kitchen.

SNOW WHITE: Yeah, whatever. Anyway, you know that party the Prince had on Saturday?

SLEEPING BEAUTY: Uh, don’t. I’m well gutted I didn’t go.

SNOW WHITE: Well did you hear what happened?

SLEEPING BEAUTY: He’s well fit.

SNOW WHITE: You know! Anyway, Cinderella’s dad is friends with his dad.

SLEEPING BEAUTY: No way!

SNOW WHITE: Yeah, so the whole family get invited but just before they leave, Cinderella has a bit of a barney with her step-sisters. They tear her brand new Karen Millen dress…!

SLEEPING BEAUTY: Shut up!

SNOW WHITE: Yeah! And somehow she gets the blame and has to stay at home, missing the party!

SLEEPING BEAUTY: That’s cold.

SNOW WHITE: Yeah, but, and this is just what I heard, while the rest of the family are at the party, this woman turns up claiming to be an old friend of Cinderella’s mum’s. After she hears what’s happened, she buys her a new dress…!

SLEEPING BEAUTY: What?

SNOW WHITE: …pays for her taxi, and packs her off to the party!

SLEEPING BEAUTY: That’s mental!

SNOW WHITE: That’s not the best bit. In all the rush, Cinderella’s forgotten her shoes, so this mystery woman gives her…GIVES HER…the Manolos off her feet!

SLEEPING BEAUTY: Fuck off!

SNOW WHITE: Seriously!

SLEEPING BEAUTY: So did she go to the party? What did her parents say? (Pint of lager and a double vodka and coke please.)

SNOW WHITE: They couldn’t say anything because when she finally made her entrance, the Prince couldn’t take his eyes off her! Apparently they were dancing all night while her skanky sisters just sat alone and watched.

SLEEPING BEAUTY: Wicked! So are they together now?

SNOW WHITE: I think so. At least, when she got a bit tipsy…

SLEEPING BEAUTY: As you do…

SNOW WHITE: …As you do...and lost one of her shoes. No, no, it’s okay, listen! She lost one of the shoes and He. Brought. It. Back. To. Her!

SLEEPING BEAUTY: Awww, no way! I’m so jealous!

SNOW WHITE: I know! She so deserves it though, bless her.

SLEEPING BEAUTY: I know! Awww, bless her.

SNOW WHITE: Pint of lager and a double vodka and coke please.

Dedicated to the Mr. Bloom Is Fit Club. :)

A215 - Weekly Writing Challenge 2.

Write a vignette using 'we meet again' as your prompt. This may be interpreted however you wish. There is no minimum/maximum word count but you should remember that a vignette is not a story; it is a snapshop, a slice of life. A vignette does not have a plot, it focuses on one scene and tells us something important about the character/s we use.

VIGNETTE

I'm going out tonight, I don't know if I'll be alright.

The song sounded repeatedly in his head as it had done for weeks now. Greg stood at the window, looking down on the street he had once loved. He tried to steady a mug of tea in his shaking left hand while fresh blood seeped through the bandage on his right. Somewhere inside his being he still knew what he was about to do was wrong. As the boys began to gather around the bench in the park across the road, he made a final attempt to see them as people and to forgive them for what they had done to him. The old Greg would have blamed the government, the parents. His efforts were useless. He was not that man anymore.

I won't fight for a cause, don't want to change the law, leave me alone, just leave me alone.

The usual chorus of raised, aggressive voices floated up to his flat, accompanied by the vicious barking and growling of several terriers – abused, damaged monsters that were once innocent pups. It was too late for them now. Greg felt anger he never knew he was capable of. He had stopped shaking and was beginning to feel excited. He looked down by his foot at his own dog, which had started to writhe and yelp on the floor, its eyes begging him to stop the pain. The guilt he had felt all day vanished with the arrival of the deadly rage within him.

Concrete jungle, it ain't safe on the streets.

Greg looked back to the kids, now bathed in the bright glow of a full moon. His dog had gone quiet. When Greg faced it, he was elated by what he saw and was certain he had made the right move. How could anything this beautiful be a mistake? The human blood that ran in its veins had reacted with the moon and the animal was transformed. Though no bigger than before, it now stood on two legs, towering over Greg. Its eyes were completely black and new, white, enormous teeth protruded from its wet mouth at all angles, forbidding it from closing. Greg yelled with pleasure as the beast drew a long, rumbling breath and emitted a deafening howl that seemed to shake the entire building. He briefly noted that the neighbours must have heard it but then remembered that they would be thanking him in the morning when they could walk to the shops without being spat at or mugged.

The monster knew its master and was hungry. Greg grabbed his keys and set off for the second time that week to reason with the thugs who had driven him mad.

Concrete jungle, animals are after me.

This is taken from a short story I never really got to finish. At the time there was a news report about teenagers using dogs as weapons and I thought I would take that a step further and have them trading in werewolves. I wanted to describe the grim world that these kids are raised in and the acceptance of their way of life, the lack of help available to them and their rejection of the little that is there. Just as a vicious dog is usually brutalised by its owner, children are affected by their upbringing and environment. I can't say this is the kind of story I usually write but I couldn't get the idea out of my head. Enjoy!

I forgot to mention that in this story it is the human blood that infects the dog, tainting an innocent creature with the evil of humanity, rather than the traditional human getting bitten by a werewolf, therefore becoming one themselves.

A215 - Weekly Writing Challenge 1.

Welcome! Before you read on, I would like to make it clear that I am no poet and what you are about to read is the first 'poem' I've written in about fifteen years. Like many, I have found it easier not to share my work before as no comments are better than bad comments. However, with the start of this Open University course in Creative Writing, I've decided to just go for it. From now on I will no longer use pen shortages as an excuse for not getting anything written down!

For this first challenge, we were asked to write a poem of 40 lines or less, using 'brutality' as our theme. My initial thoughts concerning the word were of war, prejudice and corruption but I decided, as I often do, to stick to something more personal. In a week or so, my twin boys will be starting nursery and I am a little nervous for them, to say the least. My feelings about this event range from positive excitement to the hysterically irrational, which I think you will pick up on when you read the poem.

So here is my blog, which was finally started after two hours and a bottle of red wine (I like wine - it gives me confidence). I may revise it one day but for now, the only editing it has undergone was to squeeze it into 40 lines, so it is still quite 'free' in style. Thank you for reading!

SEEN AND NOT HEARD

I watch my boy walk away with a smile on my face,

I crinkle up my eyes up until it looks real,

The lump in my throat threatens to choke me where I stand,

I want to run to him and carry him away,

Plug him in his little car seat,

Take him home or to Sainsbury’s or the park.

But they say if you worry, he’ll worry, and anyway,

School has changed since you were there.

Laura Preston has grown up, and out, now,

I know because I’ve seen her in M&S, stuck-up cow.

I wonder if she still digs her nails into other children’s hands,

Laughing as their faces crumple into sobs. I never cried.

She would hold your wrist in position, then the nails would sink in

The soft young skin on top of your hand,

She’d twist them further, pinching flesh,

Strangely intimate.

He looks so small, surrounded by vast, grey concrete,

Soon they are herded into lines - quiet please, single-file.

A life of being sorted, paired, listed, registered,

Separated, grouped and colour-coded, not knowing what to expect.

I think of Auschwitz. I want to cry.

I am overreacting, of course, I know that.

My boy is looking at me! I give the performance of a lifetime-

I bare my teeth and push up my cheeks until the crow’s feet

Scuttle over my eyes.

He is convinced because I am Mummy, and a grown up.

Mr. Hall was a grown up too.

I made not a sound but my mouth gaped in horror,

I made not a sound but yet I was seen.

The teacher gazed as my blood

Beaded across my purple skin,

Baggy-eyed Preston losing her grip,

Angering as her famous nails

Sought out fresh, clear patches of skin.

Still he did nothing.

Pull yourself together! Those days are gone,

No one will hurt my boy- he’s adorable!

The line of nervous children shuffle after their teacher,

He’s kind and they will see that, he’s clever and polite…and he’s gone.

Perhaps I’ll just wait here for a while.