Creative Wiritng Club: Week Two

Today in CWC, as well as writing up our poems neatly (in felt tip on coloured paper), we also wrote Haikus.

Normal poetry is one thing, but Haikus? This was a challenge. We had three themes - Nature, Summer, and School. They all had to be positive, so no 'School sucks' Haikus. Here are mine:

Nature

Feathery fingers

Quiet whispers in your ear

Invisible friend

 

Summer

A golden flower

honeyed drops of bright pollen

scatter to the earth

 

 

School

Avid learners

wise teachers, sharing knowledge

A place of worship

Although Haikus really aren't my thing, I was pretty chuffed with how these turned out. Though maybe most people wouldn't consider school as a place of worship!

Creative Writing Club: Week One

I recently started going to the Creative Writing Club at the school I work at. I have started writing again but I thought I needed more inspiration if I was going to keep it up. Not to mention, I want to make myself known in the English department. My aspiration is to work my way up from TA to library assistant or similar, hence why I also did Year 9 Books and Beyond, a reading challenge. I also don't want to let my Creative Writing degree go to waste.

I'm not the only TA at CWC but most of the other attendees are Year 9 or below, a big change from University where I felt like a toddler doodling with crayons while everyone wrote masterpieces. This week, as it was so sunny, we went outside to the grass bank to write about summer.

Our task was to split our page into boxes and write about the five senses in an imaginative way.

Here are some of my lines:

Sight
The sun winks off car windscreens, like light off ocean waves.
Students are scattered across the field amongst sprinklings of daises and clovers.

Touch

The warm breeze brushes through my hair like a lovers caress.

Despite the warmth of the afternoon sun, the damp of the waterlogged earth creeps through the fabric of my dress.

Sound
Children's playful cheers are carried across the valley on the wind, so carefree after the captivity of school.

Smell
The air is warm and thick, bristling with ozone, bringing with it the threat of an early storm.
Fresh cut grass infuses the air as hundreds of people decide, as if connected, to mow their scraggly lawns.

Taste
My mouth is parched and the sheer azure of the sky makes me crave the cool splash of water.

After we wrote our lines we went around and shared them, 'magpie-ing' from each other, which meant nabbing the best lines other people wrote. Lots of the students had some really unique lines; I could never have written like that at their age, so I was thoroughly impressed.

We returned to the classroom and used our lines to write a poem. I baulked at the idea as poetry really isn't my thing, but I gave it a go anyway.

From the sea
over the hills
across the moors
it ruffles the emerald leaves of trees
ripples the delicate glass of ponds
helps the young birds take their first flight
With it follows
cut grass
fresh fields
greasy burgers,
the scents of summer come early.
Warm and demanding
it forces them out of
coats
jumpers
and scarves.
It pulls at skirts
tugs at shirts.
Runs its fingers through hair,
gentle as a lover,
as constant as a mother.
The wind brings the change
yet, he himself, is constant.
Never ending,
never leaving.

I didn't think it was too bad. Next time we'll be writing them up neat to put them on display in the corridor. In conclusion, CWC was enjoyable and I'm looking forward to going again!

Second Year Complete - Grades and Assignments

I have handed in my last assignments of second year. I am now done! How quickly those two years have gone by, only one left now. It's actually quite sad, I don't want university to end.

So, the three final pieces I handed in today were called From Earth with Love, Gaia's Final Revenge, and a textual intervention piece, Mark Desade's Misfortune of Curiosity. I'll be posting them here in the next couple of days.

Today, I also picked up my grades.

I had butterflies in my tummy as I stepped up to the counter. I thought I was only able to pick up one piece of work but the guy behind the counter handed me three. I waited till I was outside to look. And then I peeked at the grades...

67% 66% 67%

Wow!

I got 67% for my presentation. That's right, I did well in a presentation! Me! I just read through the comments and the only bad thing seemed to be that we read from a script. Not totally fair as she did say we could do that, but whatever. I am so chuffed! I knew making those cakes would get us a good grade.

The 66% was for my Fiction for Children piece, Royalteen. It's a great grade but I'm still a tiny bit gutted. I thought it may be First Class material, but obviously not. The comments were good, it just seems like I need to make my writing more funky, get into the teenage voice more. I suppose this will all help towards my ECP. And this was marked by the lecturer who I thought would be harsh. But she marked this piece and the presentation nicely so I'm not too worried about having her as a supervisor any more.

The other 67% was for Creative Voice, all the Sketches I did. My marker particularly like The House at the End of the Road, so that's good. The criticism was that I should 'show not tell' but I think that's something that everyone does and takes a while to grow out of.

Overall, I'm a pretty happy bunny. Let's hope the other three grades are just as good. 

Sketch - Your Housemate Hitler

This is the final sketch out of the four and is based on voice. We were given the task of writing from different perspectives. First, we had to think of a situation we had been in involving lots of people. I chose a time that was very stressful and upsetting for me and it involved all my housemates. We then had to write about that situation from another person's point of view and in the first person...if that made any sense! After that we had to write the same situation but in the second person (you). Lastly, we had to write it again from our perspective but in the third person, and I'll tell you now, it's weird writing your own name in a creative piece!

So this piece is expanded from the second person one. It is very off-putting writing in the second person for the first time, but also a little bit enjoyable. It's new and different. Tell me if you think it works/you like it. It's also a little bit bitchy (apologies) but it is how I really felt about this situation.

Your Housemate Hitler

You and your housemates have been called into a house meeting. You know you shouldn’t be there but one of your housemates has caused a fuss. She doesn’t like her room and you’re the one to blame. Yes, it doesn’t make sense but that’s life for you. She says that you and your boyfriend have the two biggest rooms and it’s not fair. You tell her you’ve measured the rooms and that yours isn’t the biggest, in fact, it’s only one foot bigger than hers. She doesn’t even have the smallest room. She sits in silence before saying it’s not about the room size. It’s about her condition. She says it’s too dark, she gets SAD, you know, Seasonal Affective Disorder, and she needs a big window, like your one, to get more sun.

Bullshit.

You stare at her across the table, finding it hard to believe what you’re hearing. Last week she was an insomniac, then she was depressed, and now she has SAD too? You say if she wants sunlight that badly she can go sit outside. She doesn’t take that well. She changes tact. She says she doesn’t mind her room at all, what she really hates is your unaccommodating attitude. She thinks you’ve been horrible to her all term; you haven’t met her emotional needs. You tell her it’s only one week into term; you’ve barely even seen her, so how could you have time to be horrible to her as well? Your hands shake from the injustice. You’ve never wanted to hit someone this badly before and you’re not even the aggressive type. There is an awkward silence when no one says anything. Then she comes out with the killer strike.

You are a dictator.

She says everyone thinks it too; they’re just too cowardly to say anything. You look at the rest of your housemates, the ones you thought were your friends; they look down at the floor. Your blood boils and the temptation to leap across the table and throttle your bitch of a housemate is just too strong. You didn’t realise that telling people to do their washing up was on par with Hitler committing mass genocide.

Sketch - Agricolaphobia

Here is my third sketch, it is also the longest one at 828 words. It was originally called Farmerphobia but I realised after I have handed it in that it would have been more clever to do it Latin, hence Agricolaphobia.

This is actually a relatively true story as my friends and I did have dens up by Jo's house. We loved playing in them and many things happened to us while we were up there. One time, we buried a dead mouse and then a few weeks later wanted to look at its skeleton. So, we dug it up only to find piles of maggots. That was not fun. Another time we were climbing in the trees. Well, I wasn't. I hated climbing trees as I thought I would break all the branches. However, Jo and Izzy loved it. Jo was practically at the top of the tallest tree when she fell. It must have been about 30 feet but she only got a scratch on her forehead. It was an impressive feat.

Here's a photo of me and Izzy sitting on the hay bales in the field. We are older in this picture, this was taken when we were about 13. In the sketch we were around 9 years old. 

Agricolaphobia

As a child, Izzy, Jo, and I had a den in the hedges surrounding a field next to Jo’s house. We played in it every day after school, and soon we had made more dens further up the hedges. However, there was one very important rule about these dens. Don’t get caught by the farmer.

Older kids had told us that the farmer had a huge gun and was deadly accurate, and wasn’t afraid to shoot trespassing children on sight. These kids told us that there was a boy that had gone into the farmer’s fields. He’d done it as a dare. Many people had heard the gun shots that day and the boy’s body was never found. We were terrified of these stories but that never stopped us, we thought we were smarter than the farmer.

One day we were messing around right at the top the field. From there you could see the whole of Ivybridge and I loved pointing out my house. This day was particularly pleasant as it was the height of summer; the sky was a cloudless expanse of blue, the recently cut grass was dry and springy, and the sun was comforting on our bare arms and legs. This glorious heat also warmed the drying cowpats; their stench gathered in your nose and settled in the back of your throat. Oversized flies buzzed happily around the dung, their shiny blue bodies flashing in the afternoon sun.

The heat had made us all lazy and we flopped onto the ground, careful to avoid the dollops of cowpat. We shaded our faces with our arms and chatted absently; the sounds of the field lulling us into a doze. The hum of passing bugs, the chirruping of birds from the bushes, and the occasional rustle of wind through the blooming trees. Then, a low grind rumbled in the ground, disturbing us from our day dreaming. My friends and I stared at each other.

‘Farmer!’ we shrieked.

The clanking of metal and the engine’s whine was only a hedgerow away. We leapt to our feet and legged it down the field. I was always the slowest of my friends and was never usually able to keep up; but that day I sped in front of them, terror leaping up my throat. The grind of the tractor was growing louder. With each beat of my racing heart my panic grew. I wished I hadn’t worn such brightly coloured clothing that day; the farmer would be able to see me from miles away.

I made it to the den first, just as the tractor roared into the field. I collapsed onto my hands and knees, and struggled through the gap in the hedgerow. Nettles attacked my arms, twigs scratched at my hair, and thorns bit my legs. I crawled as quickly as I could, but this still wasn’t fast enough for my friends. I could feel their frantic hands pushing me from behind. In my panic I accidentally scraped against the barbed wire that ran through the surrounding hedgerows. It cut into my back, tearing through fabric and skin. I chocked back a scream and fell into the depths of the den, with Izzy and Jo barrelling in after me.

We lay in a bundle, barely breathing, as the monstrous tractor trundled by. Through the branches I could see the farmer; his dark eyes scoured the area intently. I shrunk down into the leafy undergrowth, trying to hide my bright pink t-shirt from his piercing eyes. Silence fell as the tractor left the field. We all let out sighs of relief.

We had survived one more day. 

*

Two weeks after this terrifying adventure, the farmer came back. We hid deep in our den once more, hardly daring to breathe. I peered through the branches and was shocked to see Jo’s mum walking out to the farmer. I pinched my friends and motioned towards the adults. We all gasped as Jo’s mum turned and pointed directly at us. Busted. The farmer stepped out of his tractor and we shuddered. My heart faltered as he stomped towards us. His hands plunged into the hedgerow, pulling branches apart. Izzy grabbed hold of my arm, squeezing the feeling from it. I wanted to escape, but there was nowhere for me to run to. I stared in horror as the farmer’s head, shoulders, and torso invaded our den.

He didn’t have soulless eyes, pointed teeth, or blood soaked overalls. In fact, he looked like an ordinary man. He smiled at our terrified faces.

‘I hear you like playing in the field, that’s fine as long as you don’t spook the cows,’ he said in a thick Devonshire accent.

My friends and I nodded, too scared to speak. The farmer smiled and gave us a cheerful wink before leaving the den. Once he had driven off and Jo’s mum had gone back inside I finally spoke.

‘Well, what do we do now?’

Sketch - The House at the End of the Road

Here's another one of my sketches. This one is based on setting. We had a task in which we had to describe a person through their rooms. The choices were: a middle aged recluse, a heartthrob actor, a writer with writer's block, or a recently adopted child. I didn't really know what I chose as it ended up like a reclusive writer. Anyway, I developed it further and this is the final outcome. I quite like it myself!

The House at the End of the Road

This sketch has been temporarily removed as I have sent it to a short story competition. Hope it wins!

Sketch - The Armani Assassin

I have just handed in my last creative piece of the term, I still have three more after Easter but that's four weeks away!

The next few posts will be my sketches from Creative Voice. These are short pieces that explore image, character, setting, and voice.

I have posted this before as The Mumford Man but it has now been workshopped and edited. So, please enjoy!

The Armani Assassin.

Al pierced the plastic cover of his frozen lasagne with a fork and flung it into the microwave. He didn’t have time to eat but he hadn’t had anything substantial for the last two days. Bar peanuts and crackers from hotel mini fridges didn’t count. As he watched the timer count down the minutes his smart phone buzzed. He looked at the screen.

Oh good, the Boss. Probably asking for another ‘favour’. He’d only just finished one of his boss’s favours. Al scanned the text message quickly. He had to be at the Roosevelt Hotel at eight o’clock. He checked his engraved Rolex from his father, ten past seven. He definitely wouldn’t have time to eat. Leaving the kitchen he headed to his bedroom. He picked out a clean suit from his mirrored wardrobe and carried on to his en suite, kicking off his Salvatore Ferragamo shoes as he went.

He stood in front of the bathroom mirror. Tired bags hung underneath his weary grey eyes. Lines pulled down at his lips and his moustache desperately needed a trim. He rubbed a hand across his face and noticed a few drops of blood already turning brown on the cuff of his right sleeve.

‘Fantastic,’ he groaned. He had tried so hard not to get blood on him this time - it was a very expensive shirt.

He slowly undid the buttons. Instead of chucking it into the laundry basket he just left it on the floor, he’d deal with it when he got back tonight. If not, Maria would sort it out tomorrow morning. Al slipped on a clean Georgio Armani shirt and tucked it into his Ralph Lauren trousers. He trimmed his moustache and dabbed on a splash of Clive Christian cologne, the one that drove the ladies wild. He ran his hands through his short dark hair, he hadn’t had time to wash it this morning, but it would have to do for tonight. He’d only had a short amount of time but damn, he looked good. Al winked at his reflection just as the microwave beeped.

He strolled back to the kitchen; the lasagne smelt delicious but there was no point even trying to eat it. He still needed to get across the city and it was now twenty past seven. He took the meal from the microwave and grabbed the bowl with Rodolfo written on the side from the floor. Al didn’t even need to whistle, his golden retriever knew the sound of his bowl being filled with food from across the room. Rodolfo jumped off the black leather sofa, on which he had been curled up on, and ran over to Al, tail wagging. Al tipped the lasagne into the bowl and put it back on floor. Rodolfo licked his lips before shoving his nose into the bowl of steaming Italian food. Al patted him on the head and stroked him behind his furry ears.

‘Careful, it’s hot,’ he warned with a smile. Rodolfo wheezed slightly, his tongue hanging out, before going back for more. ‘I’ll be back in a few hours hopefully; otherwise Maria will have to take you out tomorrow morning. I’ve got work to do.’ Al petted Rodolfo once more before picking up his suit jacket, which he had thrown on the back of the sofa. He then put his phone, keys, and wallet into his pockets before picking up his semi-automatic. This favour was going to be a tough one.