Creative writing examples

The following pieces were written by students on a creative writing course run by Bill Eaton at Plymstock Library.

A pile of papers

Carbon paper black and blue

Gone, so long ago now gone

Izal paper, outdoor loo

Called The John, now both have gone.

Writing paper goodbye too

Text on mobile phone - Dear John.

Exam papers, times up, phew!

Jackie Francis

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Loneliness

Aloof, alone and lonely

The smell of decay entwined

In skin hued from grey to blue

Long evenings, cold dark nights

Opaque invisible winds

Unstoppable tears within

Overwhelming silence

The silverback mourns his mate.

Alan Grant

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This piece was created from an exercise that involved taking two separate childhood memories from fellow classmates and then combining them into a new story. For his source material Roger was given the following recollections.

1. I was told to keep out of water. One day I slipped down a river bank and both feet got wet. Walked home waving socks in the air trying to dry them. Got home. Was accused of getting my shoes wet. I swore that I hadn't been near water. "Don't lie to me" and I was hit round the face by the sole of a wet shoe. We looked at each other both knowing we were in the wrong and burst out laughing.
2. Pushing my brother and sister to the council nursery before going to school. Then collecting them afterwards. I was 8 and did this on my own.

Two Bits Together

Roger Avery

Mum's new boy-friend was a bit heavy-handed when it came to dealing with us kids. There had only ever been Mum and me since Dad walked out on us when I was just 8 years old. Now Harry was 'the man in charge' - I refused to call him 'Dad' since he hadn't yet married Mum, so didn't really deserve that honour. 'Mister Lewis' was all I felt he was entitled to, for the time.

"Peter, why won't you call him 'Dad'?" Mum had asked me when, after having been living at our house for a month, he brought his son, 7, and daughter, 2 years younger, to live here as well. The three of us kids shared the same bedroom; us lads in bunks and the little lass in a screened-off big cot. It was great fun playing Pirates with Tom, since I could always be 'Captain Hook'. The bunk was our ship. (Harry suggested we call it The Bounty. Seemed a good enough name; with reluctance, I agreed.) Little Nel was sometimes a princess needing rescuing; sometimes a slave-girl to be captured; sometimes an evil person Harry called a 'siren', that would 'lead men to their doom through her female charms'. (Took me a long time to find out what they really were. Then I took it to be the odd behaviour of our teachers when they asked us to do something we thought was daft. Didn’t they’d go on and on about how we, as children, had to 'do as we were told'.)

After the summer holidays, it seemed pretty plain that Harry wasn't going to marry Mum. "Please, Peter," she pleaded. "It would make things so much easier. We would be a real family again."

"No", I said . and 'NO' I meant.

When Mum asked Harry what he felt, his answer was "Lad's old enough to know his own mind. I respect that. Just so long as he does as he's told." But of course I didn't do as Harry told me; not when he put on that Schoolmaster's voice that expected instant obedience. "You've only got yourself to blame" was little comfort from Mum, when Harry had up-ended me, or cuffed me, when I'd answered back.

So here was I, the oldest, having to take Tom and Lil with me to school each day. After lessons, we'd meet up and come back through Victoria Park. Swans and other birds would be swimming in the boating pond or waddling up and down the slope where they launched a canoe into the water when anyone wanted to use it. It was a favourite place of ours. Both Mum and Harry knew about what we did, especially after Lil had blurted out that she liked to see the 'swimming birds'. And that prompted Harry to remind me "You’ll be in trouble, Peter, if you get wet in any way!". Usually we just did the 'mess around', not going near the water's edge but preferring the swings and frame to expend whatever small amount of energy we had left, we’d had a full day's schooling, after all. But it was nice to run wild in the real open space before being 'sent to our room'; even though that was a make-believe 'ocean', wild and with no end to it that we could see.

On this particular day, in early autumn, Lil had saved some pieces of bread from her lunchtime sandwiches and wanted to feed the ducks on the way home. I'd supposed she'd throw the crumbs to the ducks from the bank, so I wasn't particularly watching either Lil or Tom. When I heard Tom shouting "Lil!  No .. Lil!  Come back!", I turned to see her strolling down the slip-way, flinging the crumbs over-arm and getting them more in her hair than anywhere else. He was running down the leaf-strewn slope. The inevitable happened. Tom slipped onto his bum and slid feet-first down the slope not stopping till his feet were in the water.

Ah well .. "Lets go home", I said. Tom took off the squelchy socks and all the way home waved them about to try and dry them which was hopeless, of course.

Calamity! Harry had left work early that day and was drinking tea with Mum at the kitchen table. Tom tried to hide the wet socks, but Lil was too excited with the events not to blurt out that her brother had "fallen in the water". Ugh . aw. Half getting up, Harry turned to me; and as he blurted out "I warned you about going in the water!" he swung his arm to cuff me but forgot he'd been drinking tea, so I got a tea shampoo, not good, the sugar was the worst.

Mum's mouth opened so wide .. but no sound came out .. well, maybe a small squeak. I couldn't believe what had happened. And, it seemed, neither could Harry. "Look what you'vee done, Lil", said Tom accusingly. She promptly burst into tears.

Completely at a loss for once, Harry stepped forward; and before I knew what had happened he was hugging me and saying "I'm really sorry, son .. I mean, Peter .. I mean .. Hell no, I don't know what I mean." I'll swear I heard the Sniff .. sniff , of him fighting back a tear.

"It's okay, Dad," I found myself saying before I realised it. Mum gasped with delight, laughed aloud, and made it a three-some. Tom and Lil weren't quite sure what was going on but knew that it was a major event that everyone had to join in .. so they joyously clasped our Dad's legs and jumped, shook and danced with the rest of us.

---

A short story

Joe opened his fly and with a jet of warm urine wrote his name in the virgin snow. He watched the slow spread of the yellow stain obliterate his name then turned and walked over to a group of men slouched around a fire. No one spoke but at broken intervals one of those warming themselves would look towards a phalanx of Metropolitan police officers

Mike read the text on the computer screen. It wasn't a good start to his story but he couldn't see how to correct it. He decided to have a paper copy and moved the cursor on to the print button. Rising from his seat he stretched his back. Five hundred pound to produce a short story and he couldn't even compose a first paragraph. He stepped across to an old plastic topped table; poured hot water into the solitary mug and stirred in two spoonfuls of instant coffee. Picking up the sheet from the printer tray he sat on his unmade bed, sipped the coffee and began to read out the first sentence. Sometimes the sound of the words enabled him to correct a problem but this wasn’t one of those times. The main character was there in his head; a coal miner, fiftyish, thick moustache a hard man worried that he would lose his job if the strikers were forced back to work. The story would tell itself if only he could write that first paragraph.

Many times he had promised himself that he would not get involved in hair brained schemes but once again here he was breaking that promise. As usual it all started in a public house. He was sat in the Leather Bottle enjoying a pint and gazing at his image in the mirror behind the bar and wondering if he should grow a moustache. As he ran a finger across his upper lip he became aware that a large man had just sat on the seat next to him. He glanced at the mirror and saw the reflection of a long time friend.

"Hi Pat," he said looking at the image. "Haven't seen you for ages, how's Parliament these days?"

"OK! Been busy though, how about you?"

Mike ordered two pints but when they arrived Pat insisted on paying. Mike played with a beer mat then looked at his friend. "I take it you've heard that I lost my job"

"Yes and a few other things, like your wife and the house. After the next general election I'll probably be out of a job myself."

Mike nodded, "Welcome to the club of the middle aged unemployables." As he spoke his eyes drifted over his friend's body seeking signs of ageing but he was disappointed. Pat was unchanged from the man he first met at Strathclyde University twenty odd years ago; tall, broad shouldered and flat stomached; a good example of the alpha male. There were times when he wished his friend had matured into a slob, someone like himself, someone who drank too much, smoked too much, ate too much and exercised too little. He knew he had deteriorated. The bitter, angry man of his mid-twenties had softened along with his hard muscles and callused hands. He had even retained the red hair and light complexion that implied to other Glaswegians that he was probably a supporter of Celtic; It was Pat and that red hair who had introduced him to the violent tribal culture of Glasgow.

Pat raised the pint glass and drank half in one swallow and then slid a book across the bar. Mike picked it up perused the dust jacket and, from his smug smile, realised that the author Patrick Donald was his friend. He knew that given a few pints and the right sort of company, female for preference, Pat could tell some great stories of drunken sorties through the streets of Glasgow and its pubs. But write a book. That he couldn't accept. Then it dawned. Pat had a 'ghost', some one who turned his stories, which were full of expletives, into something readable. Mike opened the book, read a few paragraphs and realised he was wrong. It was all there, without a single star between the f and the ck. He flicked the book.

"Based on your sordid history?"

"Our sordid history, but don’t worry I've changed the names."

"You actually wrote this?"

Pat smiled, "It wasn't easy. But once published I was caught in a whirlwind and there was nothing I could do except ride the tempest."

He gave a self-deprecating bow and then, whilst consuming a number pints of beer, told of how he had spent the last year writing three novels, months trying to find an agent who thought his work had possibilities and the last two weeks sweating during negotiations for the screen rights of his first book and his position as screen writer for the picture. At the end of his tale Pat asked Mike if he had ever had a book or even a short fictional story published.

"No, but I reckon if I tried I could do it. After all it can't be that hard."

"You mean if I can do it, you can."

Waving aside Mike's protestations he offered him £500 if, within one month, he could write a short story acceptable to Yvonne, his agent.

No problem thought Mike. Now here he was, sat in the lady's office watching her reading rapidly through his manuscript. He could feel his stomach turning. He didn't want charity but £500 would give him a couple months free of debt, and he had earned it. He glanced towards Pat and noticed the clenching and relaxing of his hands. He remembered that action from their Saturday night tours of some of Glasgow's public houses. In those days it meant Pat was tense because he anticipated an attack by Ranger's fans, who, seeing that reddish hair assumed he was a Celtic supporter and their enemy. He was usually right and Mike enjoyed it when he was. He found that a good fight helped to assuage his anger. However, he wondered why Pat was tense today. Could the possibility of losing £500 be worrying him? No, he wouldn't have made the offer if he didn't have the money. Before he could tease out a solution Yvonne finished reading. She looked at Pat; he raised one eyebrow and she nodded.

"Does the nod mean I've passed go and collect the money," asked Mike.

"Yes, and it's in cash"

"Thanks for that. But I'm puzzled. You're so nervous, are you sure you want to pay me that much for a story?"

Yvonne smiled. "If I had rejected your effort, Mr Donald and I would have an argument that he'd have lost."

She told Mike that because of the bond between them Pat wanted him as a partner for the writing of the movie script. Knowing he was a resting journalist she objected as she didn't believe he had the creativity to write fiction. She was pleased his story had proved that he could.

Mike nodded at his friend.

"Let's consider the 500 quid as a down payment for my services. But Patrick, here you are offering me a job and you haven't read any of my yarn; you haven't even read the first paragraph."

Pat nodded to his agent "Yvonne would you be a love?"

She turned to the first page and started to read.

He kicked out the fire that had been burning for a year, and with a thick soled boot spread the residue of a thousand burnt wooden planks over the wet earth. Taking a blackened kettle he poured a little water onto a callused finger and wiped the dust from his lips and moustache. With the remaining water he wrote 'Joe Elliot, Orgreave 1985' in the ash. Wind swirled grey flakes across the damp writing and slowly covered each letter. Joe watched as even this small sign of his part in the struggle against Thatcher was obliterated then walked to his car. Next week he would join other defeated miners on their march back to the pit and then he would think about his future relationship with his son, a scab, a strike-breaker.

"Mike, that isn't fiction that's your dad's story."

Mike's finger smoothed his imaginary moustache.

"Its fiction,' he paused, 'there's a happy ending."

Tom Clarke March 2009