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.