Well guys, I have a bit of a treat for you this week. I have decided to share some of my earlier attempts at writing with my loyal readers here.
Whenever they do interviews with writers, they always ask them when and how they started writing. Usually the answer is that they wrote a play for their dolls when they were a child, or entered a short story competition. In my case, the first original story that I ever wrote all off my own back was about a young girl hunting with a Saluki dog in Arabia. But the first thing that I ever sat down and properly produced was Redwall FanFic entitled, imaginatively, Lupwa’s Story. (more…)
As part of my third year studies here at Portsmouth, I took a unit entitled Fan Fiction, where we had to produce an original 2,500 word piece of fan fiction based on certain criteria. I wrote a piece entitled “The Younger Miss Bennets”, which explored what happened to Mary and Kitty Bennet after their elder sisters got married at the end of Jane Austen’s “Pride and Prejudice”. You can read it here. (more…)
Although it is considered a
Basic skill, I
Cannot alphabetise easily. It isn’t that I
Don’t understand the concept, I just find it
Extremely hard to apply the theory of the ABCs when
Filing. Often it is taken for
Granted that one can use this system to find things in a
Hurry. But
I cannot.
Just as different people have a certain
Knack for maths, while others struggle to cope, something
Like sorting from A to Z can strike fear into the hearts of some
Men (or women, for indeed we must be politically correct
Nowadays). I
Often find myself thinking that courses should be
Provided to assist unfortunate folk such as myself. Perhaps you think me
Queer? I’m sure others would agree remembering the order of the letters can be
Really difficult at times. To most, it is
Such a simple
Task, but to people like myself it is an
Undesirable chore to be avoided at all costs. I would got to
Very great lengths to devise a new, easier system to save people
Wading through the alphabet all the time. I ask Santa at
Xmas every
Year to please invent for me a new filing system so I can stop
Zipping about the office like a fool, humming the alphabet to myself.
You use only the purest poisons,
You help the environment by planting weeds,
You sow your wild oats by moonlight,
And use the daylight to harvest hemp seeds.
E numbers seem strictly illegal,
It’s not safe unless it is green,
Free from artificial preservatives,
And low on salt, sugar and caffeine.
You say that you’re not on the dark side,
But mushrooms won’t grow in the light;
But as long as the drug is organic,
I guess that you must be alright.
I wonder how many people on the planet are bored right now;
A million, a hundred, just one…just me?
There must be someone else, in the billions of people out there
As bored as I am now.
Bored, boring, boredom. So very very bored.
If I was a linguist, I’d say it in a thousand languages;
Bored, boring, boredom. So very very bored.
I wonder how many words there are that mean the same as “bored”?
What would the thesaurus say; are there any different ways to say
“I am bored”?
Should’ve asked the thesaurus. Bored, boring, boredom.
I am uninterested
been and got the thesaurus, been and looked it up,
I was right, there are many ways to say it -
fed up, tired and jaded.
So very very jaded.
Time moves like an elderly snail and I am stuck here,
Writing a poem about how very very bored I am.
How very very bored am I?
So bored that even my boredom is boring.
You know you’re bored when you look up alternative words for bored.
Bored, boring, boredom, so very very bored.
You know you are bored when your boredom becomes inspiration,
When a poem about your boredness is more interesting than drying paint.
I write about my boredom, but it does not go away.
My boredom stays, I stay bored.
Bored stiff.
Bored to death.
Bored to tears.
Bored out of my skull.
How very very bored am I?
I am bored.
I wonder how many people on the planet are bored right now;
A million, a hundred, just one…just me?
00:00, the computer screen reads,
Downstairs, the old clock is struggling to chime out twelve,
My watch beeps,
And I am awake, writing.
Quenching the flames of my ideas,
With the written word, black on white.
My inspiration is a nocturnal beast,
Waking only in the dark to aid me.
I am tired, but the beast will not be neglected;
He is savage and hungry and cruel,
He needs feeding,
And his diet is the words I write.
He cares not if they are trash,
Written now to be thrown out later.
He cares not if they are messy,
Or spelt wrong; they taste the same to him.
I can taste the words too,
While the world sleeps in peaceful repose,
I am alive.
For the first time since waking, I truly live
As the characters and dialogue,
And descriptions and thoughts,
Flow across the blank page.
I am the words I write.
One side is full; now two, now three,
And my pet is satisfied with his feed.
The words dry up within me,
The piece becomes tasteless and bland;
It is time to go to bed.
It is past midnight.
It is early morning.
I leave the pages which now hold part of me on my desk,
And drift into deep dreamy sleep.
My inspiration grooms itself,
Exercises and then,
As the first rays of dawn touch the windowsill,
Crawls into its own bed,
To come awake again,
Tomorrow,
At midnight.
If streets could talk, this one would have some stories to tell, I’m sure. And not the kind you find in city guide books, telling you on what date such-and-such a famous person marched down it; not history, but something more tangible and currently real.
It would tell of the early morning, when it begins to hum to life as the shops along its length unlock their doors and prepare to welcome customers. It would tell of pretty university-aged shop assistants with ponytails that swish like pendulums when they walk, and their fashionable shoes that click satisfactorily across its cobbles. It could describe the rays of the sunrise glinting off the glassy surface of the windows, creating small rainbows of refraction that flicker and dart. (more…)
Every Sunday, after lunch, Donald Wickens called at 211 Albert Road for Miss Hattie. It had become such a tradition that today she was sitting by the window with her hat already on, awaiting him when the clock struck three. She played distractedly with a wisp of tawny hair that refused to stay in its place, as she watched out the window for him. She pretended to read her youngest sister’s new book – a Beatrix Potter – but couldn’t really absorb the tale of the kitten that was almost turned into a roly poly pudding. When she finally spotted Don walking jauntily along towards the jeweller’s only propriety stopped her from flying to the door to greet him. After paying his respects to her parents and siblings, he offered her his elbow and they set off along the road. (more…)
The thin passageway was as dark as blindness in front of her; the tiny shaft behind her where the midday sun penetrated the mountain afforded her light for only a few paces, then snatched it away and left her to walk the path alone. Sound also surrendered to the blackness, and she no longer heard the comforting song of the summer birds, or the rustle of the wind as it told secrets to the trees, just the soft scraping of her leather shoes on the stone floor. She tread carefully, taking her directions by feel rather than sight, running her fingertips along the damp rock on either side. Presently, the faintest of lights appeared far in the distance, and the smell of iron pierced her nose. Charis’ heart clenched with each step she took towards the yellow glow, but she did not falter in her path. Whether she accepted it or not, this walk was her destiny. She would not be back this way again. (more…)
They say you can never go back,
But I did.
Back to Calgary in the first week in July:
When men in blue suits take the morning off work
To wait for the parade,
Wearing cheap cowboy hats they got free in the paper.
I went back to the fairgrounds in the afternoon heat;
The smell of grease and cinnamon sugar
Entice you to buy
Warm mini pastries and Snapple ice tea.
I went back to the street corner, amidst the crowds,
Where every year I was lifted
Onto Daddy’s strong shoulders,
So I could watch the horses and floats passing by.
But this time I watched from my own two feet,
As the street cleaners smeared horse mess away.
The day was overcast and the doughnuts were cold:
I went back to discover
They were right.
