Creative Writing Degree

Creative Writing: Is it really worth it? Short answer, yes. Creative answer, this:

When choosing a degree to study at university there are a lot of factors to consider, sometimes so many it makes you want to live in a hole under a rock. I had never really thought about what I wanted to study, or what career I wanted in the future, until I visited a University Fair in my final year at college. I didn't know Creative Writing was even a thing and was looking into universities that taught Journalism; although I was a little apprehensive about that. I didn't think I'd have the confidence to be a journalist, not really; especially after I found out you'd potentially have to a screen test in front of cameras and possibly an exam before you'd even be accepted into a university. No thank you. In that respect finding Creative Writing was a life saver. All the creativity and writing without an emphasis on scary public speaking and exams.

Having studied Art, English Literature and Language, and Media Studies at A-Levels I was used to the comments about 'doss subjects', and my work not being very hard. It's true, I never found it hard, not because it was 'doss' though, but because I was good at it. I didn't mind the comments as I would rather do these creative 'easy' subjects that Science or Maths, which just thinking about makes my toes curl and my body shudder.

Choosing Creative Writing for a degree didn't mean the comments stopped. Out of my home friends I was practically the only one doing a creative subject, while most of my friends did some sort of science or humanity. That was fine by me. My first semester, while hard because I was away from home, was thoroughly enjoyable and inspiring, yet when I came home for the Christmas holidays I was bombarded with the 'doss' comments again but in a slightly more condescending and passive aggressive way. My friends said things like, 'I have lectures from 9 to 5,' and then upon hearing that I had a maximum of 12 hours a week they would reply, 'What could they really teach you anyway?'. Or, 'My tuition pays for the chemistry rooms and all the lab equipment, yours only needs to pay for pencils and paper.' (the sore point being that Arts were getting cuts and my university didn't even supply that).

But while they acted like their courses were far superior to mine, I was never jealous, because I enjoyed my course; I was excited to do the work and it was easy for me. I didn't have gruelling exams which required late night revision sessions; my essays were subjective so there were no wrong or right answers as long as I had the evidence, meaning I could express myself happily without (too much) fear. Not only that, my essay subjects were interesting, too, I got to write an essay about Batman, for goodness sakes! To top it off, my set texts were (mainly) enjoyable fiction, something you would voluntarily read, not hefty books of equations and numbers, which make your head spin. While others sat in the pub and complained about the work load, or going home early to revise, or the stress of their dissertation, I would smile a secret smile to myself and think of all the brilliant short stories, poems, screenplays, comic books, first chapters I had written, and how it had been so perfect for me.


I was sad to leave university, although happy to get away from overly harsh and picky markers my lectures had become. But I definitely believe my degree helped to shape me into the person I am now. I was a bit lost before university, being painfully shy and self-doubting, with no idea where my future was heading. Creative Writing opened a world of possibilities while not restricting me at all. It's amazing where a degree like this can lead you.

Considering the current job - money - housing - life crisis our country is currently facing, I was lucky to get a job only a couple of months after leaving university, and in something relevant to my degree. My employer admitted that it was my degree in Creative Writing that caught his eye, and not a day goes by without him saying something like, 'I'll leave this to you, you're the creative one,' or, 'You probably already know this having studied Creative Writing.' He comes to me for advice on many things regarding the company, Litphonix: a brand new audiobook company, and lets my creative energies flow.

A friend who studied Chemistry is still sending out job applications daily, while
sitting at home bored, watching multiple television shows. Another friend with a degree in Engineering is stuck in an administrative job while he searches for something better in his field. A lot of the others will be going on to do Masters, for lack of job opportunities, or for the security that university offers, allowing them to put off the adult world for a little bit longer.

If you ever doubt whether Creative Writing is a suitable subject, stop doubting it right there! It's more than 'making up stories', and I know I won't be the next J.K. like everyone jokes, but it was incredible in helping me find who I was, what I am, and who I can be.

Look at all my favourite pieces of work: here.

The Stone Men of Raksaka

This is my third piece of writing to receive a First - 79% in fact, and supposedly 80% is publishable. I had a good feeling about this piece before handing it in and I thoroughly enjoyed writing it too. It is almost an intervention or retelling of a piece I did for Fiction for Children, Royalteen. It's a more adult, less superficial version at least. I was reading Game of Thrones at the time and you may see some similarities between the two. So if you loved that, you'll love this.
It's only the first 2,500 words, but I am planning on finishing it as a novel and hopefully getting it published. I said I would write it this week but instead I've been watching Disney movies. It's an addiction.
Sci-Fi and Fantasy was my favourite module of this year and in hindsight I really wish I had done a fantasy for my dissertation. But what's done is done.

I hope you enjoy reading this as much as did writing it.

The Stone Men of Raksaka

He piled sand upon his knee and watched as it skittered down his leg, catching in his dark hairs. Between his dry fingertips he crumbled more, creating a gritty mound. Sighing, Emin leaned back on his elbows, the sand tumbled back to earth. It was warm on his skin; the sun had yet to bake it to blistering heats. Staring far across the desert he was sure he could see the grasslands of Helmriche, but it was more likely to be a mirage.

He’d foolishly tried to walk there when he was younger. At sundown, he had snuck from the hut and started out across the Desert Lands. Even at night the desert could be a dangerous place. Dirt dogs tracked his every step and he had not been sparing with his water. He’d still been able to see the huts of Raksaka when he finally decided he had to turn back. He’d slunk back in as quiet as a whisper, but his baba had heard.

                ‘You want to go walking? Let’s see how far you can walk after this.’

                Emin ran a finger across one of the shiny white scars that laced his legs. He hadn’t walked for a week after the whipping; every time he’d tried the wounds would reopen.

He rolled over in the sand, savouring the peace. When the sun rose between the Eastern Lerrnayin Mountains, Raksaka would awaken. The women would be the first, tending to the skinny goats and the dry crops. Then the children would come from the mud huts, begging their maminka’s for food they didn’t have. The children would have to be satisfied with wheat and water.

The men would rarely leave their mud homes, preferring the coolness inside. His baba cursed the gods if he was ever called from his hut - even if it was a summons from the High Leader.

The Savasci had to be at the training yard an hour after sunup. Emin was expected to be there.

When he heard the bustling maminka’s and their squalling children Emin knew it was time to get ready. He looked back into the distance, over the Desert Lands, to Helmriche. It would always be a mirage.

* 

The Savasci hut was dry and dusty. The hot air and the stench of sweat suffocated Emin. His mouth felt like it was full of sand and he could only think of water and fresh air. He stood straight like the other boys, all wearing rough leather tunics, with notched swords at their hips; swords taken from the corpses of raiders. Emin was not the tallest, but he was the oldest at six-and-ten. He’d been in the Savasci for three years and knew what Chief Devrim was saying by heart.

                ‘They steal from us. Every day they steal a little more. First it was land, then our riches, crops, and animals. In the night they kill our men and rape our women. Everything they have is rightfully ours. We shall take it back.’

                It was the same each day. The Easterners of the Six Kingdoms were deceitful, thieving bastards that deserved to rot in the pits of Felaket for robbing the Raksaka’s of their land and birthright.

                Emin joined the boys as they raised their swords to the air. Some of the novices had to hold their sword with two hands to hold it steady. The Chief spoke in his booming voice.

                ‘Out of the sand come men of stone. These men are brave and strong. These men shall not be defeated. These men are the Savasci of Raksaka!’

Emin fought in the yard against Direnc. He was only small, aged two-and-ten, making him one of the youngest of the Savasci, and barely a challenge. Emin had been training with Direnc since the last turn of the moon, but his swordplay still lacked the Savasci passion. His long dark hair was tied back with a piece of knotted grass, a frown of concentration screwed up his face. Emin blocked the boy’s attacks easily with a flick of his sword. They were unlikely to ever claim back the East with only a handful of children. Especially as the men of Raksaka lay in the shade, sweat beading on their wrinkled faces, being served by their sandwives. They don’t deserve the Eastern lands anymore, Emin thought bitterly. With a sudden burst of anger Emin swung his sword hard at Direnc, who made a clumsy block, tripped over his feet, and landed heavily in the sand. Training with Direnc reminded him of his first suns with the Savasci. He had been worried about joining; he never wanted to kill anyone. He had thought that it might earn him Baba’s respect. Yet he’d been part of the group for three years and done nothing more than train with battered swords, and his baba still treated him with contempt. He was beginning to wonder where the honour in being Savasci lay.

                Sheathing his sword, Emin then gave a hand to Direnc. ‘You fought like a true stone man,’ Emin told him.

                ‘I felt more like a mud man,’ the boy replied, dusting off his tunic. ‘You are a true stone man, Emin. I heard Chief Devrim say so to Cetin.’ Direnc grinned.

                Emin pursed his lips; anything said to his baba was not a good thing.

                ‘Go train with Tarik,’ Emin ordered the boy. ‘I must speak to Chief Devrim.’

                Direnc chewed his lip, his eyes wide. ‘Did I say something wrong?’

Emin smiled. ‘A Savasci should never doubt.’

Direnc nodded eagerly. ‘Never doubt. Never fear. Never flee,’ he recited.

He ran to Tarik’s side calling out over his shoulder, ‘I’ll beat Tarik, and then you, Emin!’

 *

Emin couldn’t find the Chief that afternoon. He searched the Savasci huts, the yard, and down by the Kushca tree. When he asked Devrim’s sandwife about his whereabouts she shrugged and shook her head. Emin knew that it was too hopeful; why would Devrim share his business with a sandwife? Maybe the Chief was taking the watch. Many had heard the Dirt dogs howling at night, and torches had been spotted in the darkness.

As the sun dipped below the peaks of the Western Lerrnayin Mountains, Emin trudged back to the hut he shared with his baba. With any luck he would be asleep. The fat man was snoring loudly on his bed of straw, flies buzzing around his head. Every so often he would raise an arm and try to swat them away. Emin removed the sword from his hip, but was too tired to take off his leather tunic. With a yawn he collapsed onto his own straw bed. He briefly wondered why the Chief would talk to Baba before his eyes shut and darkness enveloped him.

Women’s screams woke him. Fire flickered shadows around the hut – a hundred demons of Felaket. Emin leapt to his feet, sword in hand. His baba snorted and rolled onto his back.

                ‘What’s going on,’ he slurred.

                Emin didn’t answer.

Never doubt, he thought to calm his racing heart.

He flung back the grass curtain that covered the doorway. Outside huts were on fire; people were running and screaming, flinging sand on the flames. In the chaos men in chainmail ransacked huts and grabbed women and young girls.

Never fear.

On his left, Emin saw a child crying for his maminka, watching as she was dragged away by a tall man, his armour glowing red in the firelight.

Never flee.

                Emin charged the man, but he was too quick. He shoved the woman away and unsheathed his own weapon. Their swords rang together in a clash of steel. Emin sidestepped a swift blow, then another. The man was taller and heavier, with much more protection than Emin. But that didn’t stop him. He took a deep breath and swung his sword low. His blade caught the attacker in the knee, in a gap in his armour. The man’s leg buckled, but he wasn’t seriously hurt. Emin wasted no time. He brought down the hilt of his sword on the back of his head. The man fell face down into the sand. The woman squeezed Emin’s hand before running to her child. They disappeared into the night.

                Emin had no rope to restrain the raider; he only hoped he would stay unconscious. He gave him another smack with his sword just in case. Hurrying to one of the burning huts, the heat leapt at Emin’s face, tears stung his eyes. Grabbing handfuls of sand he helped the others to put out the flames.

The fire was almost smothered when more screams filled the air. Emin grabbed his sword and ran. Down near the Kushca tree an intruder was fighting two Savasci at once. The boys’ old dull blades were no match for his longsword, but they battled on, parrying and blocking. Lying by the enemy’s feet was a small crumpled body. Long black hair covered the face of the child. Emin’s blood boiled. For the first time in his life he finally understood what the Chief had been saying. These Easterners did rob them of everything - even their children’s lives. With blood coursing through his veins, Emin lowered his sword and stormed the attacker, taking him by surprise. It was in those precious moments that Emin managed to plunge his sword into the man’s side. It tore through leather, skin, muscle alike, getting caught on the bones of his ribcage. He let out a gasp of scarlet spittle. The two young Savasci stared at Emin, their faces pale; one’s leg was drenched in dark gore from a gaping wound on his thigh. Emin’s heart pounded in his chest. His lungs burned with every breath. Adrenaline pumped through him. He kicked the fallen man before turning to the small body. Pushing the hair aside his heart stopped.

Little Direnc.

Emin dropped to his knees and cradled the boy’s head in his lap.

‘You are a true stone man.’

 *

Devrim, Baba, and the High Leader, Hakan, stood in front of him. He’d never met the High Leader before. He was one of the darker skinned men of the clan, with oiled black hair that hung around his shoulders. His face was beardless, uncommon in the Raksaka. Thick dark brows lowered over his narrowed eyes. A massive cudgel looked weightless in his strong hands. He rearranged his fingers round the leather grip causing the muscles in his arms to flex.

Devrim was talking animatedly while Hakan stared at Emin, his face hard. Baba had his huge arms crossed, scowling darkly, bearing his yellowing teeth.

                ‘I told Cetin four suns ago that Emin was one of the best Savasci and what happened at the raid only proves that,’ Devrim insisted.

                Hakan’s eyes roved over Emin, who tried not to squirm under his intense gaze. Was he one of the best Savasci? He hadn’t intended to kill that man, but he’d been so angry. The dead man plagued his dreams. Direnc haunted his nightmares.

                ‘Pah!’ Baba interrupted. ‘This boy is a runt. Not worth wasting your time on.’

                Emin had expected that, but Devrim seethed.

                ‘This runt killed an Eastern raider and allowed us to capture another, while you sat on your craven arse, hiding with the women.’ Devrim spat at Baba’s bare feet.

                Baba lunged at him, his clenched fist slamming into Devrim’s jaw. Hakan watched them fight, his lips pressed into a thin line.

                ‘Enough!’ He slammed his cudgel down on Baba’s back. The man buckled with an agonised cry. Emin knew it would take more than that to bring down his baba for good, though. Devrim shielded away from Hakan’s cruel cudgel. His lip was broken, and his left eye swollen shut. Blood dribbled down his chin. Hakan heaved the fallen man to his feet. Baba’s nose was bent and one of his teeth was missing. The High Leader leaned in close to Baba’s face.

                ‘Your boy is of the Savasci, a stone man,’ he said in a deathly quiet voice that Emin strained to hear, ‘and he is more of a man than you will ever be.’ He threw Baba back to the mud-packed floor.

Emin looked up at Hakan careful not to show his fear.

‘Emin, son of Cetin, because of your deeds three suns ago, on the night of the raid we have an Eastern solider as hostage. With some persuading he told us news of the Six Kingdoms.’ He pulled out a leather pouch from his jerkin and emptied the contents onto ground. ‘Six fingers for six kingdoms.’ His smile was wicked, and Emin saw his baba pale at the sight of the bloody digits. ‘The greedy king of Adruhal has arranged a marriage between his daughter and the prince of Minadril.’

Emin nodded, unsure why the betrothals of far off kingdoms were so important. His baba sat up and spat a glob of blood onto the dismembered fingers.

‘Who those thieving bastard-kings sell their whore-daughters to is no concern of ours. We should be sending our strongest swords to the boarders, to avenge our dead and take back our women.’

Hakan’s jaw clenched. ‘Devrim, take Cetin back to his hut. Make sure he stays there this time.’

Devrim yanked Baba off the ground, wary of the man’s fists. To Emin’s surprise, his baba let himself be dragged away. A dry zephyr fluttered through the grass curtain that hung across the doorway. Emin was aware that he was now alone with Hakan – and his cudgel. He stood straight, shoulders back, even though his hands trembled.

‘Cetin was always rash, as I’m sure you know.’ His eyes flickered over the scars on Emin’s legs. ‘But he was a strong Savasci in his youth. He grew too attached to his sandwife though, some woman he stole from Helmriche,’ he said in musing.

Emin eyes went wide; his lazy baba had been a Savasci and his mamika had been from Helmriche? He’d always been told she was a weakling woman from the Feros tribe.

Hakan noticed Emin’s confusion. ‘A tale for another day perhaps,’ he said, though his dark eyes glittered. ‘Emin, I have a task for you, one only fit for a true man of stone.’

Emin had a feeling he wasn’t going to like what the High Leader was about to say. Killing one man shouldn’t make him a stone man, yet he was the eldest Savasci and the best with a sword, rusty and notched as it was. But he never liked fighting, or ever truly believed in the Savasci way.

Hakan’s wicked smile was back. ‘I want you to go to Minadril. Infiltrate the castle. Become part of the royal guard. Befriend this little prince. Go with him to Adruhal to meet his bride-to-be. Then kill him.’

Emin finally spoke. ‘Kill him?’

‘Slit his throat from ear to ear,’ Hakan agreed. ‘Or kill the princess. Whichever one you kill, the blame will fall on the other. Minadril and Adruhal will be at arms soon enough. The other kingdoms will be quick to join sides. The Six Kingdoms will be in chaos.’

Emin’s heart pounded in his chest. They wanted him to kill a boy? He couldn’t do it. He would not. Savasci meant brave warrior not sneaking murderer, he thought. Hakan sensed his reluctance.

‘Never doubt, never fear, never flee, Emin. You will kill the Minadril prince, if not you’ll be left to Cetin’s mercy. I’m sure he would hate to have a son as gutless as he is. Or maybe, I’ll kill you myself.’ He hefted his cudgel onto his shoulder. ‘What will it be?’

‘I’ll do it, High Leader. I’ll start a war. For the Stone men of Raksaka.’

Hardwired - A Creative Vision of the Future

I recently received my final two grades of the year, and they're my best yet! When I pulled them out of the envelope and saw 74% and 78% a huge grin broke out across my face. Two Firsts! My mission for my final year of uni has been achieved - to get at least one First.
The amazing feeling still hasn't worn off yet, and it has really inspired me to write more. So next week, when my social life is a little less hectic, I am going to do some serious writing. Maybe I'll get a good chunk of a novel done. Here's hoping at least.

One of the pieces is a short story, untitled at the time of hand-in but I've now entitled it Hardwired. I was so nervous about this piece as the lecturer was incredibly picky about everything. I edited it over and over, then had my friends and sister read over it many times too. This assignment was for the Creative Visions module - looking at life in fifty years time. I was going to write the first chapter of Tainted Blood, but the lecturer tore it apart, so I ditched that idea. I figured in a slightly more down to Earth, more compact short story she would have less to question and complain about. My last Creative Visions piece Logged On got 64% with feedback saying the ending could have more of a twist, so I took their advice.

Anyway, less talk, more reading...

Hardwired

Life Beyond 2050

He stumbled through the door, the hallway lights turned on automatically.

‘Lights down,’ he slurred, shielding his bloodshot eyes from the glare.

They dimmed and he lowered his hand, leaning against the wall for support.

‘Jensen?’ Sylvee stood at the end of the hall. She looked like a ghost, shrouded in a long white dressing gown, her pale hair curled over her shoulders. There was no smile to greet him, no hugs, no kisses. Wobbling slightly in the spinning room, Jensen stood up straight.

‘Where've you been?’ Her voice was controlled.

‘Out,’ he said, trying to meet her cool stare.

‘Out where?’ Her tone never changing.

‘Just out,’ he growled as he pushed past her to their bedroom. She didn’t flinch; she only stood there, watching. Jensen wanted to apologise. He always did, yet the words never seemed to come.

The full beam of the lights in the bedroom burned his eyes and he ordered them off. The darkness was better; he could avoid Sylvee in the dark.

He fumbled with the zip of his overalls. He’d gone straight to Alfie’s from the wind farm, and they smelt of beer and illegal cigarettes. Tugging off his dirty clothing he called for the laundry chute. A hatch opened in the wall and he dumped his clothes down the tube. He had crawled under the starched covers when Sylvee came in. Neither of them spoke as she shed her gown and climbed into bed next to him. She lay on her back staring up at the ceiling, whilst he curled up on his side facing away from her.

Even in the darkness the room was still spinning and Jensen breathed deeply to calm his churning stomach. He was regretting spending so many credits on what tasted like heavily watered-down piss. A sudden turn in his gut made him desperate for the bathroom, but he could tell from Sylvee's breathing she was still awake. Rubbing his stomach, he urged it to settle. He couldn’t hold it any longer. Saliva flooded his mouth and his throat convulsed. Pushing back the covers he stumbled to the bathroom. Vomit choked him, and he couldn't order the lights on. Kneeling on the cool tiles, he threw up in the dark, hoping he aimed right. Soon his stomach was empty.

‘Flush,’ he ordered as he got to his feet. He took his time brushing his teeth and gargled multiple times. When he entered the bedroom again he could see Sylvee's eyes were still open wide, reflecting the dim light of the solar lamppost that seeped through the curtains.

Jensen sighed. ‘Go to sleep. Please.’

For a moment she didn’t move and he thought to repeat himself. Then she rolled on her side and closed her eyes. Jensen practically fell into bed, suddenly exhausted. Once again he promised himself he wouldn’t go out again. And once again he would think of her and the urge would be too strong.

*                         

When Jensen awoke the next morning, Sylvee’s side of the bed was empty. The curtains were open and warm sunlight spilled into the room. Grumbling, Jensen pulled his pillow over his face. He knew he’d have to get up eventually but the thought of his wife sitting in stony silence at the kitchen table made him want to tear his hair out.  With a yawn Jensen rolled out of bed to his feet. The wall next to his bed flashed brightly.

‘Eleven forty-two am. Sunday the eighth of April 2063. Dagenham weather: sunny spells with highs of twenty-four degrees. The main headlines today are-’ Jensen cut off the chirpy infovoice with a hasty swipe. Sylvee would know he was awake now.

He padded into the bathroom, making sure to lock the door behind him. Rummaging through the medicine cabinet, ignoring the Paroxetine, he grabbed a brightly coloured box. Hangover Ex! The New Morning After Pill was written across the front in bold letters. There was only one capsule left in the packet. Jensen swallowed it with a glass of water. Instantly his queasy stomach was gone and the sunlight no longer pierced his eyes. He still didn’t feel any better about facing Sylvee.

Once he’d showered and dressed he slouched into the kitchen. Sylvee sat at the table, her back straight and stiff. Her hands rested on the table, a full cup of tea sat in front of her. A film of milk covered the surface. She looked directly ahead, her gaze flickered slightly when he sat down next to her.

                ‘About last night,’ he started.

                ‘You’re a grown man; you’re free to do what you want.’

                It was not the answer he was expecting. He wanted anger, shouting, fighting.

                ‘No, I shouldn’t be free to do what I want. That’s not right.’ He slammed his fist down on the table.  She blinked at him.

                ‘If that’s what you say,’ she agreed with the smallest of nods.

                Suddenly, all the fight left him and his headache came back despite the pill. ‘It is what I say.’ Jensen stood up quickly and went over to the countertop. ‘Coffee, black.’ His voice seemed too loud in the silence of the room. There was a whirring in the walls and a cup of steaming coffee was revealed behind a hatch. This is more warmth than I’ll get from her, he thought as he cradled the cup in his hands. Jensen watched her as he drank. Whatever she was feeling, if she could even feel, she hid it well; her face was expressionless. 

                ‘Go, do something with yourself,’ he found himself saying.

She looked at him then. ‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know. Fluff the pillows. Read a book. Take a walk. Do whatever, just stop sitting there.’

She nodded, got up from her chair, and left the room. Jensen hadn’t meant to sound so rude; he just couldn’t control his temper around her anymore. He put his half empty coffee cup carefully on the counter, resisting the urge to smash it against the wall. His thoughts turned back to her. Her gentle eyes and loving lips. Tonight he’d be with her again. He could never keep his promises.

The phone rang and Jensen hurried to answer it before Sylvee could.

‘I got it,’ he called out.

Looking at the screen he recognised the number straight away. He debated whether he should answer it or not then swiped his finger across the screen.

‘Hey, Jen,’ Matty’s cheerful face appeared on the monitor. ‘What night is it? It’s bowling night!’

Jensen could not share his enthusiasm. He picked up the handheld receiver. ‘I told you not to call me. What if Sylvee picked up?’ he hissed, looking over his should to check she wasn’t close.

‘I wouldn’t have told her anything,’ said Matty, his cheeriness gone. ‘I got you.’

‘I know you do. It’s just been a rough morning.’ Jensen massaged his temples.

‘Guess that means no bowling.’

‘Sorry, I can’t. I just keep thinking about her.’

‘Look, Jen, this is going to come out eventually, you can’t keep her a secret forever. You know I’m fine with it, but the others, well, they’re not as understanding about this sort of thing.’

‘You’d think people would be more open-minded these days,’ Jensen said grudgingly. Everything Matty said was true, but he didn’t want to think about it. Not now.

‘Well they’re not. Jensen, I don’t want you to get hurt again. I was there for you last time but I can’t keep doing it. You have to tell Sylvee the truth or get rid of her.’

‘I know. I love her so much though; I can’t just stop seeing her. It’s too painful.’

‘Life is painful. Let me know if you change your mind about bowling.’ There was a beep as Matty hung up.

Jensen placed the receiver back on the wall, ignoring the advert for a new upgraded phone that scrolled across the screen. Matty was right, he needed to tell Sylvee the truth and live with the consequences. He was being selfish and it wasn’t fair to anybody.

Jensen sat opposite Sylvee and watched her as she played with her food. His lupine steak was tasteless and every mouthful was an effort to chew. He thought about what Matty had said. He did need to end it, but he had to know he was doing the right thing.

‘Do you remember, a couple of years ago, when we had just started dating? I was trying to be cool and threw that bottle at the recycling bin but it completely missed. You picked it up, and as you walked over to me you said “Your awful aim will cost you hundreds of credits in litter fines one day.” Then you popped it over your shoulder and got it in the bin straight away.’

                ‘I don’t recall that. Was it important?’ Sylvee said as she pushed her peas around, the fork scraping on the plate.

                I fell in love with you that day. ‘No, nothing special, just a memory.’

                Silence hung between them. Jensen looked down at the remainder of his meal and grimaced. He got up suddenly and threw it into the compost chute. All food waste in the apartment complex went down chute to the compost heap, which was then spread on the surrounding gardens and parks. Sylvee had once lost an ill-fitting bracelet down there. She’d said it was a precious heirloom of her Grandma’s, so they’d spent the day digging through rotting vegetables. They’d shared a shower after too. But she probably didn’t remember that either.

                At the sound of the fork scraping on the plate again Jensen turned around. ‘Would you just eat the damned food.’

                Jensen watched her take the first bite but soon left, his head pounding.

*                         

He had wanted to go out that night, to drink and be with her again, even if it was for just a few hours. But he had work tomorrow and he already had two warnings for being late. Another would see him fired.

He had tried to sleep. In his dream an army of Sylvee’s chased him down a narrow corridor. The more he ran the slower he went. The corridor was endless. Each one of them screamed, ‘It’s your fault I’m like this!’ One eventually caught him. Her thin fingers bit into his flesh. He wanted to scream but no sound came out. ‘It’s all your fault!’ she shrieked as she tore off his face.

He woke up in a cold sweat, breathing harshly. He tried to remember the dream but it was already fading. No longer tired, he lay next to his wife, yet all he could think about was her. How she had felt lying next to him in bed. His arms wrapped around her, her soft body warm beneath his chest, feeling her heart beat in time with his.  The cold woman beside him was no more than a stranger.

When his alarm went off he leapt out of bed.

Beep. Beep. Beep. ‘Seven am. Monday the ninth-’ Jensen swiped a hand across the alarm screen shutting up the infovoice before it could wake his wife. He pulled on fresh grey overalls and headed out the door, careful not to make a sound.

*                         

The Dagenham wind farm was already bustling when Jensen arrived. The turbines needed plenty of maintenance checks if they were to supply the South East with enough energy. There were still plenty of people opposed to the idea of wind farms too; Jensen couldn’t believe how narrow-minded society could be.

                ‘Hey Jensen,’ Randal said as he scanned the schedule. ‘You’re on E-13 today.’

                ‘E-13? That’s on the other side of the estate.’

                ‘Yeah and we’re out of solar carts I’m afraid. Looks like you’re walking.’ Randal smiled crookedly.

                Jensen knew he shouldn’t be surprised; that was his luck. The hammering in his temples grew, and no amount of drugs would help. He needed the booze, and her. He grabbed his tools from Randal before setting off between the forests of turbines.

It was over an hour before he finally reached E-13. His head had pounded with every step. The turbine was over a hundred and twenty metres tall if you included the rotor. When he first started work there Jensen had nightmares that the entire wind farm had fallen over in a domino effect and crushed him, the rotors slicing his friends and family to pieces. A shudder washed over him as he looked at the slowly rotating blades. Just get this work done. Then you can drink and be with her, he thought as he unscrewed the work hatch. But Sylvee will still be there. His hand tightened around the screwdriver. His conversation with Matty ran through his head. He needed this to be over with. He put the screwdriver away and glanced at the other tools in the box, one especially caught his eye. He would end it tonight.

*                         

Unsurprisingly, Sylvee was sat at the kitchen table when Jensen got home from the farm. He had considered going straight to Alfie’s but he knew he had to deal with his wife first.

                Her blonde hair was perfectly curled as usual, her pale skin unblemished and smooth. The top she was wearing had been one of his favourites, low-cut and clingy, but now he felt nothing. Cold, blue eyes flickered over him as he walked behind her and ordered his coffee, but otherwise she didn’t move. She would have been perfect, he thought, but she just wasn’t her. As his coffee was being made, Jensen fingered the object in his pocket with a shaking hand.

                ‘Work was fine, thanks for asking,’ he said, hoping she didn’t hear the waver in his voice.

                ‘That’s good.’

                The coffee was done but Jensen didn’t pick it up. Instead he drew the tool from his overall’s pocket. Staring at the back of her head, the hammer suddenly felt too heavy in his hand and he was afraid he would drop it.

                ‘How was your day?’ he asked. If she would just say something, anything, that could change his mind.

                ‘It was fine, thank you for asking,’ she said, not even turning around.

                Jensen closed his eyes, shook his head. The hammer slipped in his sweaty palms. He raised his arm up. He thought back to all the days they had spent together, before this. They were carefree, they were happy, they were in love. But it could never be the same again.

                ‘Can you even say it?’ he whispered, a tiny bud of hope still growing inside him.

                ‘Say what?’

                ‘That you love me!’ he said in a sudden burst of passion.

                ‘I can say it, if that’s what you would like.’

                It’s not what I want, it’s what I need. ‘Say it.’

                ‘I love you-’

                He brought the hammer down heavily on the back of her skull. Jensen felt it collapse beneath the weight of the tool. Satisfaction sped through his body as he swung it down again, this time harder. Pieces of skull, circuits and wires scattered over the kitchen floor. Again and again he brought down the hammer until the back of her head was an electrical mess. The body slumped forward, all the stiffness gone. Jensen took a deep breath, the hammer slipped from his grasp with a loud thunk as it hit the linoleum. The sight of a synthetic flesh with blonde hair attatched made Jensen retch. Tears chocked him. The pain in his head almost blinded him. Slowly, he lifted the head off the table. Its eyes had reverted back to factory settings. Grey with no pupils. He let it drop. He wanted a drink, but even that wouldn’t bring her back now.

                ‘I’m sorry Sylvee. I should have let you go instead of clinging on. Now I’ve lost you twice.’

Creative Writing at the University of Winchester

Yesterday was the last day of term, but for me my course ended back in April. I can't believe how fast it has gone, I can still remember my enrolment and course talk perfectly, and how my tummy was knotting itself. When you start university everything feels so daunting and big, then you live through it and find it's not all that bad, in fact, it's really fun.

The Student Union -  Many fun times were had here!

Taking Creative Writing was the best choice I ever made. I actually enjoyed doing most of my assignments (not the rationales of course) which is a big deal at university. All the modules were interesting and fun, with only a few dull moments, primarily in Creative Voice, which was a compulsory module. At first the most appealing part of the course was no exams; I get super stressed and freaked out by exams. Whenever I tell someone I don't have exams they're surprised and a little bit jealous, and I secretly laugh at them in my head.
But now I realise that the creative freedom I had for my dissertation was amazing. Others talked of how hard their dissertations was, and how they had to force themselves to write it; but I really loved writing mine, I wanted to write it and I thought about it all the time. It was probably one of the best things I have written (though sometimes I think it was awful - all part of being a writer) and although it was stressful it wasn't nearly as stressful as writing 10,000 words on Shakespeare, Feminism or something as equally mind-numbing.

The Stripe Lecture hall

Creative Writing has, of course, had its highs and lows like anything else. Getting bad marks, not knowing anyone in lectures, having to do presentations, and worst of all 9am starts. Yet there have been many more highs; getting a First on something I worked really hard on, laughing with friends, reading new books I would never have thought of, writing things I would never have dreamt of, and finally getting a degree in something that I enjoy doing. How many people can say they have done that?

Even though I was terrified of workshops and reading my work aloud people were nice about it, will helpful comments and kind smiles. No horrible things were said, well, at least to my face! And, while I may still not be one of the 'popular kids' I made great friends none the less. At university everyone is there because they want to be there and they love the subject, and if they realise it's not for them they drop out pretty early. The people on your course are going through exactly the same things as you are; they find the same lecturers infuriating, the same modules uninspiring, and they probably hate reading Wolf Hall as much as you do. People are right when they say you make some of your best friends at university. For Creative Writing having a group of close friends is even better, because they are willing to read your work and give you constructive criticism  They know all about grammar and sentence structure; they know what your lecturers will like or absolutely hate; and they just love to read anything!

My friends back in first year -  how we've changed! 

Three years seem like a long time, but they're really not. I will remember every minute of my time at university and I'm so sad to leave. I now have to start to writing by myself with no deadlines and no briefs, and that scares me. I don't want to start an adult life where I work 9-5 and then come home too tired to write. I have so many stories in my head and I don't want them to stay there, I want to let them out. So I'm making a promise to myself here, that I shall write, always, and I will never forget my university years. 

The Call of the Owl

This is my first fantasy creative piece for the module Sci-Fi and Fantasy. It was hard to write at first but once I got into it I really enjoyed it. part of me wishes I had done a fantasy piece for my ECP now. 

I got the grade back for this the other day - 69% one mark of a First! I'll be honest I was annoyed because the marker's comments were useless, like 'I didn't know who the main character was', most likely its Pikku the person I keep mentioning. Then, there were only three typos that they picked up on and they said 'best have it read by other readers', three of my friends already had a check over it. I was so close, yet so far. 

I still have hope for my second fantasy piece, which I will post after it's been marked. 

Here is the map that accompanies this piece. Enjoy! 

The Call of the Owl

Based on the stories of the Cherokee

Pikku looked across the city. It was such a change from her home, the small village of Keko, nestled within the mighty trees of the Elema forest. From the aviary tower of the castle, Pikku could see the whole of Mahtava - from the start of the Maht River that snaked down the cobble roads, all the way to the southern wall; an impenetrable barrier that stood above the city, casting dark shadows on the slums. The fortress-like castle was carved out of the very rock of the Varjo Mountains, offering the greatest protection. Before Pikku had arrived at Mahtava she had heard rumours of secret passages leading into the mountain’s depth, but she had yet to find any.

She leant further out of the tower’s window and watched the people as they decorated the main street with maroon banners and bunting of the Mahtava crest. Traders were already setting up their stalls and selling wooden carvings of bears with white heads and paws. The boundary gates were opened and the common people spilled in to join the rich, who were already gathering by the castle gates along the river.

Prince Musta, son of King Vahva, was due back from the Alku Hunt soon. Pikku turned from the window. In Keko she would hunt rabbits and squirrels with her bow and arrow, as her family needed to eat. Here they didn’t hunt out of necessity, but for sport. Outside the walls a massacre would take place; flesh, bones, and blood despoiled the Jahti Planes.  No spear, sword, or axe was spared. Nor was any man. As soon as a boy reached one and five years he was given a horse and a weapon, then sent to take part in Alku. When he returned, he was a man. No woman was allowed on the hunt and for that Pikku was grateful.

There was a rush of air and a hawk-owl landed on the perch by Pikku’s head. It rustled its wings indignantly, golden eyes narrowed.  Tied to its leg was a small scroll. When Pikku reached for the note it nipped at her fingers. She swatted at it.

‘Do you want me to have this or not?’

It turned its dark feathered head, sharp beak upturned, and let her take the note. As soon as she untied the parchment, the owl flew away up the tower. A dirty white glob fell from above, spattering on Pikku’s shoulder.

‘Hey!’ she called out, rubbing at the mess with the sleeve of her tunic.

A hoot sounded from the rafters.

‘No good bird,’ she muttered with a scowl.

Pikku knew what the note would say before she even unfolded it.

Prince Musta is returning.

With a slight nod Pikku tore the note into tiny pieces and threw them out of the window where they were carried off into the wind. She then pulled the horn from her belt and gave it a mighty blow. The sound reverberated across the city. The traders hurriedly opened their stalls and the people flooded the streets. Pikku watched from above as the crowd’s excitement grew. Then, at the far end of city, the Southern Gates opened with a groan. Horns blared loudly. The hunting party had arrived. Pikku hurried from her tower to gather with the rest of the people at the castle gates.

The streets were already overflowing when Pikku reached the gateway. She was too short to see much so she elbowed her way through the gathering to the front. The chattering people cheered as the hunting party rode into view. Horses thundered down the cobbled streets, their flanks slick with sweat and blood. The men that rode upon them had swarthy skin with bulging muscles under their leather tunics. Prince Musta led the riders, a smug smile played across his lips. The banner of the white-headed bear flew above him, whipped about by the autumn wind. Behind him, pulled by two horses, was the body of a black bear, three arrows protruding from its blood-matted fur. Pikku’s stomach lurched. The smell of birds was nothing compared to the stench of rotting flesh. Once within the boundary walls, in the square, Prince Musta leapt down from his horse. As he swaggered to the bear’s carcass he drew his sword from the highly decorated scabbard.

Pikku fell back into the mass and let herself be jostled aside. There was a deathly silence. Then, a metallic twang as Prince Musta’s sword sliced through fur, muscle, and bone before hitting the blood stained cobbles. Cheers filled the air. Pikku fell to the ground as her legs gave out beneath her. She heaved, but the little bread she had eaten that morning refused to come back up. Gagging painfully, she pulled herself to her feet and stumbled away from the square. Jeers and shouting came from the crowd and Pikku couldn’t help but look back. The bear’s head swayed above the crowd mounted on a spike. The shaft was smeared with congealed blood. Flies were already feasting on the bear’s glassy eyes. The spike moved forward, carried by Prince Musta to the middle of the square. He stuck the spike into the ground and faced his people. The noise died down. He raised his arms above his head, his hands and forearms splattered in the bear’s blood. He called out, his voice deep and strong.

‘Let the search for the Etsija begin.’

v  

The tower was stuffy and the smell of bird droppings was overpowering yet Pikku avoided the window.  If she were to look out of it she would see the mouldering bear’s head. The raw muscle of neck had shrivelled around the spike. The fur was scraggy and falling out, leaving bald patches of greying skin. The eyes were completely gone, as was half the nose. Its mouth hung open, dried blood blackened the once ferocious teeth. The tongue was long gone. Pikku was unsure if the flies had got it, or the slum dwellers had.  Her stomach convulsed at the thought.

The bear’s head would remain in front of the castle for twenty-five days, when the Etsija, or best hunter, was found. If Pikku thought the Alku Hunt was bad, that was only the beginning of the true massacre. All the men that went on the Alku Hunt now had to prove they were the Etsija, searching far and wide for the best kill. Some men had travelled across the Jahti planes and brought back the carcasses of the most exotic beasts. Pikku shook her head, it was all pointless.

Only Prince Musta could win.

The solitariness of the narrow aviary tower was overwhelming Pikku. Without the window to look out; the tower was a very dismal place. Pikku left the tower to get water from the well for the birds. At least it’s something to do, she thought, hurrying down the winding stone stairs. Cool wind caressed her face as she made her way into the open courtyard of the castle grounds. As she winched the full pail up from the bottom of the well she thought of the stories of the Etsija she had been told as a child.

‘It was one and four suns after the Alku Hunt and a man came back, but it wasn’t the Prince,’ her mamma had told her one night by the fireplace. ‘It was a great warrior named Soturi. He dragged a huge beast behind him, a Suuri wolf from the Hamara Lands. Only a few people had seen one before, most thought they were only legends. The Suuri wolf was presented to King Vahva and he praised Soturi highly. But when Prince Musta came back three suns later he was not pleased. Some say the great warrior was banished, others say the Prince killed him, but there are those who think the Prince had him cursed, turned into a bird of the night, an owl; one of the greatest, but least appreciated, hunters.’

‘Oh, mamma,’ Pikku had argued, ‘an owl isn’t the greatest hunter, a bear or a lynx is.’

Her mamma gathered her up in a cuddle and said, ‘You’ll see for yourself one day, little Pikku.’

Pikku splashed her face with water. She hadn’t believed her, but after working in the aviary and seeing the brutish prince, she was starting to reconsider.

Once her pail was full she made her way back to the tower, careful not to spill a drop. The tower was quiet as most of the birds slept during the sunlit hours. She filled the troughs, cleaned the floors, and laid out fresh seed, all the time avoiding the window. She was wiping down the perches when she noticed a small, fluffy, white owl staring at her.

‘Oh, hello,’ she said and gave it a pat on the head.

‘Hoo,’ it replied, nipping at her fingers.

She moved to clean the next perch when the little owl landed on it.

‘Excuse me, I have to clean this.’

Pikku picked up the owl and placed it on another perch. It bristled its feathers, and flew straight back to her. That’s when Pikku really looked at it. There was no copper band of Mahtava around its right leg, and it was much too small to carry any parchment. What amazed Pikku the most, were its eyes. They were the most startling blue she had ever seen. No bird had had blue eyes before. They focused on her with an intensity she had never seen in an animal.

‘Where did you come from?’ she asked absently, staring into its eyes as she rubbed its feathery head.

‘Whoo hoo.’

‘You’re not from here, are you?’ she wondered out loud.

It shook its head. ‘Ooh hoo.’

Pikku stopped stroking it.

‘Did you just answer me?’

‘Hoo.’

‘You can understand me?’

It nodded its feathery head vigorously. ‘Hoo hoo.’

Pikku sat down on her wooden stool, and frowned. The owl blinked at her before hoping from the perch to sit on her knee.

‘Hoo whoo. Hoo hoo. Ooh,’ it hooted quickly, bouncing up and down on her knee. It wobbled as it lost its balance. Pikku caught it before it toppled.

‘Sorry little owl,’ she said as she placed him back on a perch. ‘But I can’t understand hoots. I think the sunlight has confused you.’ She patted it on the head once more and resumed her cleaning duties.

The owl stared after her, then flew higher up the tower with a low, ‘whoo.’

v  

It was the ninth sunset of the champion’s hunt, and no hunter had returned yet. Pikku was about to pour water into the trough before she returned to her chamber for the night when she heard a commotion at the top of the tower. She put down the pail and looked up into the darkness. There were several angry screeches and caws, vicious pecks, then a feeble hoot. From the top of the tower fell a white bundle. Pikku let out a gasp as she realised it was the blue-eyed owl. She put her arms up and caught the feathery lump. Its eyes were closed, but its chest still rose and fell, and Pikku could feel its fluttery heartbeat beneath her fingers. She placed it carefully on the stool. It didn’t move.

The sky was darkening quickly; Pikku grabbed a nearly melted candle and placed it close to the owl. Grabbing the pail, she dipped her hand in the cool water and tried to get the owl to drink. Its eyelids flickered. Holding her breath, Pikku quickly pulled her hand away. Its beak opened and closed. Its wings twitched. The sun finally dropped behind the city wall. A sudden whoosh of cold air blew around the tower. The candle went out.

In the darkness, Pikku heard shuffling and scratching. Pained hoots turned to agonised groans. There was a crash as the stool splintered, knocking over a crate of seed. She fumbled on the ground and finally found the candle again. Hastily, she lit the wick with a flint.

Pikku squeaked. Where the little white owl had once been was now a naked man. He lay on the ground, his muscular arm flung over his face. His massive body filled the little floor of the aviary tower, his giant legs tucked up against his broad chest. Scars riddled his body, from his fingertips to his – Pikku pulled off her outer-shirt and threw it over him.

 Pikku hovered around him uncertainly. The birds in the tower were now awake, not bothered by the mysterious man, as they flew from the window to hunt. After a few deep breaths, Pikku nudged the man with her foot. He didn’t move. She nudged him harder. Biting her lip, she stretched over his body and picked up the metal rod used to open the higher windows of the tower.

She held it above her head and said, ‘Hey, man. Get up.’

She gave him an experimental prod with the rod. When the man still didn’t move Pikku picked up the pail of water and emptied it over his head. Jerking, the man let out a moan. She let the pail drop with a clatter and grabbed the rod.

‘I have a weapon,’ she stuttered.

The man ignored her as he sat up and rubbed his face. Pikku’s arms started to ache and the rod drooped.

‘You can put that down,’ he finally said. His voice was deep and rough. ‘It wouldn’t help you anyway.’

Pikku held the rod higher in defiance. The man raised a thick eyebrow at her, his blue eyes glittering. She leant the rod against the wall and crossed her arms to hide her shaking hands.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded, but her voice still wavered.

The man looked around, then down at the shirt that barely covered him. He smiled as he stood up, the shirt falling to the floor. Pikku’s eyes widened. Cheeks burning, she looked down at the ground.

‘I am the warrior Soturi,’ the man exclaimed, ‘and I am here to claim back my honour and kill Prince Musta.’