TMA03 - PART 1

According To Eve

In the beginning all the world was sepia;

I know because my mother kept a picture-

an ochre bridge that spoke of long ago,

a plate of burnished bronze pooled dead below,

when Frith flared crimson, stewed blood orange skies                              

that warmed the animals who rustled by

the woods where merry men danced to the lyre

and witches sang Cat Stevens round a fire.

A constant copper dawn where none knew night.

Shadows of bones and crows, Shepherd’s Delight.                                            

When I was small and mostly all was bright,

the grass was green like Wednesdays and the night

and day agreed to share the Godless land

and so those bygone times were at an end,

had given way to clocks and parking meters,                                                      

corrugated iron, gum, Blue Peter;

unless you were a pupil at our school

who every morning marched into the hall,

a dusky cave where dirty curtains closed

the tired, streaming children in with those                                                 

whose tales took place before we were yet born,

who tried and died and learned and prayed and warned;

a lesson in the glorious rewards

that come to you if you submit to God.

                             

Daniel, patched from cut-out, faded paper,                                                         

neckless, earless, wearing lace-up trainers,

stroked the manes of peachy-headed lions

and the hero David slayed a cardboard giant.

With aching knees and freezing thighs I sat.

Through gritty deserts formed between the cracks                                              

of dull brown tiles that smelled of old soup skin,

my finger traced the path of the three kings.

A Garden of Eden, built from fuzzy felt,

seduced the innocent ones as they knelt,

enthralled by Jesus’ sacrifice and pain;                                                     

the threat of hell was never far away.

Inspired by these arty, crafty men

I went into the world as it was then;

with young teeth bared, devoured forbidden fruit,

and with elation, saw that it was good.                                                               

TMA02 - PART 1

WRITING ON THE WALL

It’s Saturday night at The Five Bells and here we are, five belles, in a dark, sweaty gig room, feeling like we own the place. After all, we’ve been using this boozer since before most of the other customers were born. I think we’re slightly overdressed for the pub but we don’t get out much anymore. We’ve already knocked back two rounds of tequila before we sit down and are bright-eyed and grinning like overexcited idiots. The band, four blokes that one or more of us have screwed over the years, has started. It strikes me that they look the same now as when they were eighteen. Their teenaged Topshop girlfriends adorn the side of the stage and I think about the men we’ve got who, if we’re lucky, will put the bins out in exchange for a blow job. It doesn’t seem fair.

            We all squeeze onto a bench at the back, straightening skirts and tucking handbags between our ankles. I try to remain both classy and comfortable but there is nowhere to put my pint, so I just hold it, my hands getting colder and my lager getting warmer. Bare-chested boys are flailing about at the front and there’s a young girl wearing nothing but some skinny jeans and an X of gaffer tape over each nipple. I can’t take my eyes off her little flat stomach. She is sitting on a man’s shoulders and everybody in the room is looking at her while pretending not to. From where I am, the whites of their eyes look like the lights on two hundred cameras as they flash furtive glances in her direction.

            ‘Oh my fucking God,’ shouts Marie, ‘have you seen that girl’s tits?’ So much for remaining classy. Her fake shock amuses me as I seem to remember her wearing something similar once upon a decade ago.

            We soon realise the band are still as bad as they were in the nineties and make our way back through to the bar, feeling less like we own the place and more like we’re in the wrong place, although it doesn’t seem to have changed a bit since I worked here ten years ago. It’s an old building with traditional wood and brass fittings but the woodchip walls have been painted almost smooth in red and plastered with posters of Tarantino and Scorsese films. It was here that I met Chris when he worked as a sound engineer. I thought he looked like Jon Bon Jovi. He was gorgeous and funny. I would watch him while I collected glasses, up in his booth, controlling the room.

            ‘God, why are you going to that shit-hole?’ he’d said tonight as I got ready to leave.

Tonight’s get-together is for Kelly, whose boyfriend decided a week ago that he was leaving her and the baby. Apparently he’s scared or confused or pressured or something. I told her three years ago that he was a waste of space but now I shut up and do my bit. I pretend to be surprised, share in a toast to the hope that he gets hit by a bus and exclaim that they’re better off without him anyway.

            ‘I don’t even care if he’s with someone else,’ she says, ‘I just can’t understand why he wouldn’t want to see his baby.’

            ‘Because he’s a prick,’ says Marie.

            ‘Maybe he’s just feeling overwhelmed at the moment and a bit of time away-,’ says Sadie.

            ‘Will make him less of a prick? I don’t think so,’ says Marie.

            ‘Remember when you went for your scan…’ says Lisa.

            ‘Exactly,’ says Marie.

            ‘…and he stormed out when he found out it was a girl,’ says Lisa.

            ‘I know,’ says Kelly.

            ‘If that was me I’d have told him to do one right then and there,’ says Marie.

            ‘I know,’ says Kelly.

            ‘So just be thankful you found out early on what he’s like,’ say Lisa.

            ‘And you’ve got us,’ says Sadie.

            ‘I know, fuck him,’ says Kelly.

            We’re good friends and mean well but I can see these wise words are really no consolation to Kelly, a sweet girl who currently has the look of a lost child. I feel bad for her but can’t help wondering why she invested so much in that bloke. Chris may be a lazy bastard but we have a laugh and he loves the kids to death; probably more than he loves me, actually, but I think I prefer it that way. Anyway, it’s not surprising after all these years. His relationship with them is still fresh and they are growing every day, while I am certainly past my best.

            I’m trying to think of something useful to inject into the babble of conversation when Brendan Donnelly arrives at our table. Bollocks. That man should have a built in siren that goes off every time he walks into a room so that any unsuspecting female has time to get her words straight. I mutter hello so casually that it seems rude and then escape to the toilets. I pick the cubicle on the right. I don’t know why but it is just the one I always go for. Amazingly, this room is also unchanged. It looks the same as it did in 1997, when me and Brendan had our ten minutes of passion in it. The walls are decorated with pages from newspapers and it has one of those short, pointless doors that look like it belongs in a saloon. I notice some graffiti on the back of the door that looks familiar, like a faded photo of an old face you once knew well but haven’t seen for years. ‘CUNT ON YOUR MUG’, ‘MCMURDER’, then ‘THE NOISE WE THOUGHT WOULD NEVER STOP DIED A DEATH AS THE PUNKS GREW UP’. Sitting down to pee I hear those lyrics in my head. Shit, maybe it was even me who wrote them there. I’m flooded with childish nostalgia. I think about the time I’ve spent in this place, the long afternoons as a student, surviving on a diet of crisps and Carlsberg, waiting for happy hour to begin. I try to remember when the pub stopped being a second home to me and became a graveyard of memories. I go and have a couple of kids and return to find that it’s is full of children who buy their clothes at Staples. I reckon I could trace most of my life through what’s on these walls.

            I get up and look behind the lid of the toilet and find it’s still there – B.D + L.R. Even at the time it had seemed juvenile but I was flattered that he wrote it all the same. I thought it was romantic and solid. The letters looked right together.

            I hear the door open and someone shouts my name. It’s Marie.

            ‘Yeah, I’m in here,’ I shout back.

            ‘Can I come in?’ she says, and before I know it she is crawling under the door, twisting like an over-stuffed snake to get her hips through.

            ‘Sorry,’ she says, ‘I was desperate.’ I move to let her reach the loo but instead she pulls down her top and bra and leans over the sink.

            ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I say.

            ‘I don’t know what else to do with it. It’s killing me,’ she says, laughing. By ‘it’ she means the milk that she’s now projecting from her breast, down the plughole.

            ‘Christ! Let me out,’ I say as I push past her and out the door. It’s funny how Marie forcefully lactating in a pub toilet strikes me as obscene, whereas my quickie with Brendan inspires fond memories of a lost era. I remember gripping the back of the toilet system, wondering if anyone on the other side of the frosted glass window could see what was going on. I don’t think I cared much.

            Suddenly I think about Sam, Marie’s little baby. I imagine him at home, writhing on her husband’s lap as he tries to convince him to take the bottle, while she pisses away the glorious brew that is meant only for him.

My infatuation with Brendan Donnelly began when we were still kids. I remember us ambling home from school together. It was raining and dark. I had wanted him so much but had no idea what to do about it. I’d done other things with boys by then but he was innocent. He had stupid floppy hair and glasses and was tall, so that his school blazer didn’t cover his wrists. I was nervous. I wanted to kiss him or fuck him, I wasn’t really sure which. So, tooled up with these lustful urges, I did what any other horny thirteen year-old would do – I pushed him in the rain-soaked bushes and laughed at him. I always assumed we’d get together in the end but as we got older, I got fatter and he got more handsome. Now he’s engaged to a lovely, clever, pretty girl. They’re planning a wedding abroad and lots of beautiful babies. I secretly hope she’s infertile or an alcoholic or suffers from irritable bowel syndrome.

             By now a few more old faces have joined our table and the girls are each answering the usual questions about the health of their children. The thing about having kids is that everyone thinks you want to talk about them all the time. We often complain to each other about this but still find we can talk enthusiastically for hours on the subject when asked. I catch the words colic and Iggle-Piggle. Brendan is sitting next to me, looking like he’s about to ask after my children. For some reason it doesn’t feel right talking to him about my life at home, so I get in first and ask how his girlfriend is.

            ‘She’s-’

            Fat-?

            ‘-fine,’ he says, ‘she’s in Liverpool for work’.

            Now I’m irritated. I don’t hate the girl. It’s him that gets to me the most. He’s so bloody charming. The pair of them gets along with everyone and probably are the perfect couple but I don’t see why the princess should get the prince. It’s not the way a fairy tale should end in my opinion. The injustice of it stings me and I’m angry with him for turning me into a bitter old witch.

           

It’s almost last orders and I’m having a fag outside with him. My toes are numb from the cold and across the courtyard Sadie is throwing up while Marie holds her hair back. It’s not been a bad evening.

            ‘It’s been great to see you again,’ says Brendan.

            ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘we should do it again when what’s-her-name’s back from wherever-.’

            ‘You know, there’s not a day that goes by I don’t think about you,’ he says.

            At his words I skip a breath. With hazy vision I study his face and it is honest and beautiful. Thoughts and emotions battle for attention in the different areas of my drunken body. I naturally assume he’s drunk too but that doesn’t stop my heart from tearing itself apart in my chest. Is it possible that after all these years he feels the same? There had been times I worried I’d only settled for Chris when it should have been Brendan but never dared think about it for long. We have children who I love and they are part of Chris. How could they have turned out so perfect if the match was wrong?

            ‘Just wait here,’ I tell him, ‘I’ll be back.’

            I concentrate on walking steadily and elegantly to the ladies’ because I can feel him watching my arse as I go. When I am locked inside I sit on the seat and try to separate my thoughts. I stare at our initials, burned into the wall. I had been sitting on his lap, the two of us quiet and content, smoking cigarettes, when he used his one to burn our initials into the paint. I didn’t feel like we’d just had a shag in a public toilet cubicle - I felt romanced, relieved and happy. What had happened afterwards? I didn’t see him for a while. I was heartbroken and hurt that he hadn’t called me but couldn’t tell anyone because it was a secret…because it was sexier that way…because he’d had a girlfriend….

            Suddenly I don’t feel very drunk at all. The words on the wall seem to transform in front of me. They are crooked, rushed and a toxic yellow. They are poison.

            This is where he keeps me, reduced to two anonymous letters. It’s the same place that Marie comes to hide her other life, where she pours the evidence of her soft, motherly side down the drain. I’d thought Brendan was a serial monogamist; my turn was sure to come round sooner or later. Besides, what we had was older and deeper than anything he could have had with those other girls. I need to get out.

            I walk quickly through the emptying pub. Brendan doesn’t see me but I just have time to catch sight of him sitting at the bar with his chin on his folded arms, the lights from the fruit machine dancing over a bald spot on the crown of his head that I could swear wasn’t there half an hour ago. I’m not angry with him now because I realise I’ve seen something he never will. I close the door on the museum of my youth and I can’t help smiling. I decide I’ll visit again one day and Brendan will still be there because that’s where I’m going to keep him, a relic amongst the scribbles and the woodchip. (2292 words)

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.