End of Term Trip to the National Gallery and End of Term Roundup

On Monday, myself and creative writing students took an end of term trip to the National Gallery. Now, the NG is one of my favourite places. Not only is it a beautiful Neo-Classical building, not only does it have a wide, well-organised and world-class collection of fine art, but it is also free. This makes the institution a place for pop-ins and days out, for casual dalliances and serious study.

                We started off by looking at the use of iconography is Christian painting. We have studied Panovsky’s theory of iconology in our lectures before and so we put this knowledge to use by going ‘Saint Hunting’ in the gallery. One saint in particular, Saint Stephen caught our attention as he is often depicted as having rocks balancing quite awkwardly on his head! This was because poor Stepthen was stoned to death in about 35AD…

                Still, after these rather sombre reflections, we then looked at some famous paintings to see how artists such as Rubens, Caravaggio and Brueghel have depicted Biblical narrative. One of the most fascinating things about the visualisation of narrative is how the static visual form (the painting) still manages to connote and suggest a sense of before and after. While being necessarily ‘static’, a writer can see analogies between the writing and the image and they share a similar vocabulary, a vocabulary that allows them to speak to one another. 

                Overall, a good trip where I got the chance to speak not just about my love of writing, but also about my love of some of my favourite paintings. Having this job really is grand.

                But now I draw you reader to some final reflections. This is the end of the first term of Creative Writing at UCA and personally speaking, I think it has been a considerable success. ‘Of course he’d say that!’ I hear you complain. But I think the work of students and staff has been considerable:

-          Developed and run an original creative writing course that balances analysis, reading, writing and workshopping.

-          Student feedback on the course has been resoundingly positive and student views on learning and course structure inform the future development of the course.

-          We have been visited by writers such Alex Garland, Hannah Vincent and Lisa Dart, with more to come next term.

-          A regular series of Writing Sessions have taken students to galleries, archives and libraries to develop their writing in new spaces.

-          Students took part in workshops run by creative resident Sonia Friel. Workshops developed their experimental writing skills and taught them about surrealism and OULIPO artists.

-          And of course an end of term trip to the National Gallery!

Right, now for a Christmas of marking, marking, marking…

Dr Craig Jordan-Baker

Subject Leader and Lecturer in Creative Writing

cjordan-baker@ucreative.ac.uk

Here in my Room. Harry English. Group B

Harry English.

Writing Sessions Programme for Term 2 Announced!

(W)riting (S)essions (P)rogramme

Writing Sessions are designed to provide a stimulating space where Creative Writing students can experiment, cogitate and stimulate creativity. The programme offers chances to write in a variety of inspiring places, where you will be exposed to objects, sounds, slideshows and artworks. Sessions take place throughout the term.

6^th January: Hockey Gallery (Image of the Road)

Delve into the gallery to explore links between text and image. Includes short talk on the latest exhibition.

13^th January: JL16

A unique opportunity to work with advertising students who will turn your writing into an event!

NOTE: Day starts at 9.30

20^rd January: Animation Archive

Work with the contents of the archive to generate new work.

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27^th January: Crafts Study Centre

Immerse yourself in the study centre galleries. Includes a short introductory talk.

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3^rd February: The Reading Room (Library)

Research and understand obsolete media to inspire hand and brain. Includes introductory talk.

10^th February: Hockey Gallery (On Reading)

Delve into the gallery to explore links between text and image. Includes short talk on the latest exhibition.

17^th February: Walk to Farnham Castle

Explore one of Farnham’s oldest structures engage your creativity in an amazing setting.

3^rd March: Crafts Study Centre

Immerse yourself in the study centre galleries. Includes a short introductory talk.

10^th March: The Reading Room (Library)

Be introduced to UCA’s many digital resources and find inspiration for your writing.

17^th March: Sculpture Garden (Meet at main reception)

Use all your senses to explore UCA’s very own sculpture garden.

24^th March: Trip to the British Film Institute

End of term trip to one of the UK’s most important creative organisations. Film, talks, exploration and more!

All Writing Sessions take place on Tuesdays between 10.30am and 12noon. For more information, contact:

cjordan-baker@ucreative.ac.uk

the stars reflected in her eyes by Azaria Messingham Group A

She lay there with her eyes wide open, unmoving in the chill of the night air. Her eyes were once the windows to her soul, now they were just cold empty blue orbs. No life, no soul shone through them. The only light was the stars reflecting in her eyes.

He sat there and gazed at her. She lay there unmoving on the grassy hill. She had never satisfied him until the moment when the light faded from her eyes as his hands gripped her neck tightly. There was nothing greater that the sound of her gasping for breath, the hint of betrayal clear in her eyes. Of course this wasn't the first time he'd done this. Every time he killed someone he got that familiar rush of pride. He lay back and let the stars reflect in his wide green eyes.

An Obsessive Love, By Malachi Fernandez (A)

She began moving away from me, but I pursued until her back was against the wall. She didn't understand, I thought it would have to be this way.

"What the fuck do you mean it was you!?" She screamed, tears streaming down her face “I’m calling the police you fucking psycho, stay away from me!"

She began dialling 999 but before she could start the call I lunged at the phone, knocking it towards the other side of the room. She tried to fight me off to reach her phone but I pushed her over, resulting in her knocking her head on the dining table where her beloved fiancé had been rightfully murdered. She was dazed. I was infuriated that she wouldn't accept me; I did this for her;

"I don't want to do this, but I will do it out of love, so we will be together for eternity" I belted.

I grabbed her by her hair and placed my full bodyweight on-top of her, I looked into her beautiful blue eyes with tears flowing from them and said;

"I love you Vanessa, I have loved you for years. All I want is to be with you but that is not what you want. I will love you in life and in death. We will be together in the afterlife"

Upon finishing what I want to say, with tears coming from my own eyes, the first time I had ever cried as a man. I wrapped my hands around her neck and began to slowly choke the life out of her. She still tried to fight it, clawing my face and eyes but I didn't let go, I did this out of love. I chose asphyxiation because it was intimate, passionate and because I love her.  Within around twenty seconds she fell unconscious, but I didn't stop there, my grip did not loosen, I continued until her heart beat no more. She was dead.

I cried. I cried so much. I held her motionless body next to mine for hours. Her body lay right in front of me as I write this. The public and media must understand this is what unrequited love has done to me. I must leave this world so I can be with her; I hope that in the next life Vanessa and I will be together. I shall kiss her still warm lips for the first and last time before I take my life. 

Vanessa Eldrige, I love you and I shall for eternity 

The Birth of a Demon

By Alex Hamilton GROUP B

Fleeing through this barren tundra

I slip over the silk covered mountains

Like oil over water

I see him, lurking like a shark

That Ustioian bastard in the Eagle!

Hunting my prey!

My eye’s gaze through the blizzard

The pride of Belka on the run!

I unleash a Sidewinder, howling of the rail

Like an attack dog chasing it’s victim

The screams of danger in my headset

Tearing to the right, popping flares as I go

Sweat drips down from my neck hoping, praying,

I Tricked the spear of death it streaks pass me

I punch the air in relief

I smirk, nice move buddy!

Show me a another trick

But I’m still the Hunter,

You’re a Rabbit on the run

I launch once more into the cold skies 

The shrieks of danger return

I panic as the flare counter displays a lonely zero

the fear of futility takes hold

Good by my wife, I was bested in these skies

A bang a fireball I live no more 

A ball of flame on the floor 

A man breathes no more

Now just a tally on a wall

Taken by the ravages of war

But one day I will be like him......

And I will meet him once more 

My Mistake, Group A workshop, Alex Dinnadge

My Mistake,

An accusation based on poor accumulations.

Her angelic looks graffitied by devastation

Her eyes bursting with despair.

Her head filled with what could have been, but can be no more.

 

We sit face to face; she occasionally breaks through the tide to peer at me.

I stare at the result of my destruction,

My skin pale with regret and sorrow.

Her skin beaming as the light bounces from her watery complexion.

Making her glow.

 

I slowly move towards her,

Trying not to shatter her fragile interior,

I gently polish my thumb across her cheek,

Trying not to scar her wounded exterior.

I feel her tears fall onto my guilt soaked soul,

 

With her cup of strength half empty,

She pushes my hand away.

My hope leaks away like the mascara from her eyes.

Knowing that my error is fatal,

I turn away for the last time.

Alex Pritchard Group A Workshop- 'The Eye of the Storm'

Maxwell’s suit clung to him as he sprinted through the streets, almost propelled along by the fierce winds. He was soaked to the bone, but currently adrenaline had taken a hold of him, and he had no time to worry about anything else other than escape, his other senses fading to the back of his mind. tripping, he tumbled to the ground face first, and a large crack echoed outwards, swallowed up by the winds and crushed by the falling buildings. Maxwell smelt blood through the damp rain, and his face and nose were red hot, but he had no time to be feeling pain. He noticed that the contents of the suitcase he had been holding had emptied, sending valuable documents and money flying everywhere as the wind stole it. A group photo of Maxwell and his family flew past his vision before being destroyed by the rain and turbulence. As he began to get up, a piece of concrete rubble flew over his head, destroying a nearby car. If he’d been faster he would have likely been killed. Maxwell quickly made the decision to find an open space where he’d be less likely to be crushed, such as the nearby field. He picked up his suitcase and resumed running, as a anguished roar sounded from the skies above, shattering the clouds and the sky above like glass, leaving only the black void of space.

Scrivener Session

 Dr Lisa Dart on poetry and painting

This week in creative writing we have been sniffing, grasping, listening, sipping and glancing. We have been seeing and smelling and hearing and feeling and tasting. In short we have been thinking about the senses and how our senses are not single primary colours which stand alone in paint pots, but are on the palate of our consciousness and are mixed into different shades and tones.  After all, we hear ‘sweet’ voices, we comment on ‘rough’ manners and annoying sounds ‘grate’ on us. These simple and common examples show us that we are aware of the synaesthetic: the understanding of one sensory stimulus in terms of another sense. You might call it a sensory mixing of genres. 

In line with this idea of understanding one thing in terms of another, we have also been looking closely at the relationship between painting and poetry and how writers have had the urge to capture visual art in words. This is known as ‘ekphrasis’. It was then by some near-miraculous stroke of luck (or planning) that we invited Dr Lisa Dart to our second Scrivener Session to read from her collection, ‘The Linguistics of Light’ (Salt 2010). Like Auden and Keats, Lisa follows a long and fascinating tradition of poets who respond to visual art works and try in some sense to summate them, to grasp them, to sense them, in words. 

Her recent collection contains a sequence of poems responding to the work of the American painter Edward Hopper and along with slides of the paintings, Lisa read from works and engaged the audience in an exploration of her motives, her techniques and her troubles in writing ekphrastic poetry. Her poems individuated themselves by their focus on light: not just the light of Hopper’s paintings, but of the symbolic energy and the grammar of light. I remember clearly two descriptions of light that ‘struck’ me. The first was ‘gape of light’ and in another poem, the ‘brunt of light’. Both of these are highly original, but they work on our synaesthetic ability with brilliant force and we understand them almost without effort.

This Scrivener Session was intelligent, engaging and there were some great- and very difficult!- questions put to Dr Dart. Though perhaps what grabbed my attention most was Lisa’s discussion of the ambitions of poetry and how she desires work that is sensitive to philosophy; to the ebb and flow of ideas, of presuppositions and problems. Here, Lisa spoke of poems being beautiful and satisfying, but also of poems going beyond this, to touch the intellect with, well, its light I suppose.

There’s food for thought. And if it is food for thought, I wonder if there is any such thing as intellectual obesity…

- Dr Craig Jordan-Baker (c.jordan-baker@ucreative.ac.uk)

 If you would like to find out more about Lisa’s work then please follow the link to the Salt website, where her collection can be purchased: 

http://www.saltpublishing.com/shop/proddetail.php?prod=9781844710546

Roadkill - Cesar Badillo (Group A)

I found myself, one day, sitting on a bench. The sun was strong and the day was young, but the shadow from the neighboring tree guarded me from the most unpleasant heat. Comfortable and bored I pondered on the tribulations of the world. A hundred dead in the middle-east, I remember reading - murdered by a dictator’s brutal regime. A masses cry of protest silenced by the violence of the police, I remembered hearing. I contemplated these events and what they meant.

Horrible, I thought – to have the ideology of a few affect so deeply the life’s of many. What reason did these men have to so cruelly oppress the people they are meant to protect? After so many centuries of bitter strife and war, history did not seem to change or learn from its mistakes; tragedy only seemed to escalate with the improvement of tools we made to further cause calamity.

As the sun changed positions in the sky, its rays found ways to break through the cloak of leaves the tree provided. These projected spots of warmth along my face that mildly irritated me, but the wind started blowing and supplied me with a balance in temperature that made me stay where I was. After all if I moved I’d have to deal with the intensity of the sun until I found a better place to sit.

The state of contemplation I was in was abruptly broken by a most horrendous sight. A cat that was making its way across a street was struck by an incoming speeding car. The vehicle slightly rose as the animals fragile body was vacuumed under the wheels of a 2003 Chevrolet Suburban SUV. Its body burst under the weight of the car. His carcass was dragged a few feet along the street and its viscera crudely spread across the asphalt. Its gore painted the adjacent stalls selling goods and food along the side walk with crimson rorschach’s. The SUV, barely acknowledging its action drove off; leaving the violent painting to be appreciated by its unfortunate witnesses.

Unsure of what to do I stayed under the protection of my guardian tree and observed. As people crossed the busy street, they barely threw a glance at the fresh corpse below. They registered the once breathing cat to be there, but only so to move around and past it.

As the day grew old, the sun began to die – the heat that once overwhelmed the streets, began to fade. The scene in front of me began to feel more like picture, the carcass had been there for hours; barely moved. A miasma began to fill the streets and people increasingly began to dedicate more time to the unfortunate sight. The smell grew more pungent by the passing of the minutes and it became more difficult to ignore. Someone that had been working on a stall took it upon themselves to dispose of the rotting corpse and haphazardly picked up the bowels of the cat and sealed them on an opaque garbage bag.

I grew tired and sore. I stretched my limbs and prepared to depart from my once comfortable spot. I groaned as I stood and reached into my pocket to take out my headphones. I tuned into the radio and began to make my way home.

“This just in: 172 casualties due to a chemical attack in Syria”

[Sorry for the late post]

Group A. 'Saudade' Megan Turner

March 16^th – I’m sad to leave my house. My home. I’ve grown to know it as I’ve grown to know myself over all these years, down to every crevice in the walls, as I slide my hand over the pale surface like an old friend’s face. My old cracked painting of two children, a girl and a boy, playing hoopla together. The warm cosy fire - every creaky floorboard is comfort. The ghosts that haunt me here - but how I have grown to love the memories, bathe in them, bad and good. Because they are all lessons. Making us all stronger. And now, one of the strongest things I’ve had to do, although it sounds pitiful, perhaps even pathetic in comparison to previous encounters, is to leave my safe place, the only place I truly know anymore.

I still struggle with independence. I have used my last drops of energy to do things for myself, my own housework, laundry, wash myself, dress myself…I am an adult. And how degrading for circumstances to be any different. My body is weak like a delicate butterfly. Although I didn’t see it back then, I was once as beautiful as a butterfly. And had the freedom to fly away when I wanted to as well. Now all that remains is the feebleness that has possessed my shell.
I stare out of my frosted window for one last time, and leave.

I arrive at Annie Manor. So many others just like me, staring at me. It reminds me of my first day at the post office. Luck was on my side since so many people during that time were on a desperate struggle for work and walking in late to see all those timid eyes, in exactly the same position as me. Scared, bewildered, frightened. Maybe even concerned for their destiny. Succeeding. Failing. I wouldn’t be so concerned with that here. I have already reached my future, I am now simply riding the aftermath. But those eyes, like a herd of deer in the lights of an oncoming car. Unsettling.

Greeted by a small Spanish girl, very pretty with dark eye makeup that enhances her dark green eyes and bright white teeth that seem to sparkle even in the dim light, I am shown to my room where my belongings are mostly out of boxes and arranged for me by my daughter. Sitting down on my bed, my furniture is here but it is not the same room. I feel lost, apprehensive…trapped.

Tom Bickerdyke B group

"Struck out"
She was very pretty,
so I wrote her a little ditty.
It was a weak attempt to woo,
no way it would strike true.

Luckily she'd had a lot to drink,
that sharp alcoholic stink.
She was flattered and charmed,
my delicate ego, never harmed.

I decided to go for a kiss,
sure enough, I didn't miss.
It seemed to be going well,
this night was surely swell.

I walked her back to her door,
my desires I couldn't ignore.
I suggested we go to her room,
that's when she chased me off, with a broom.

B - 'Assessment 2' (otherwise untitled) - Victoria

I know Love, the truest Love. I know what it feels like to Love from the depths of my spirit, it's conflicting and confusing and beautiful all the same. Love is not lead into battle by a lording ego, it’s a surrendering to itself. Desires of the flesh have little place meddling with the dreams of the spirit; acquire and require presence, commune with Love through divinity and converse as so too. My soul ties to you; my heart doors swing open for you, for others, for Love. Welcome, and thank you for having me.

My family home is dark. A girl is living here, I don’t know her but she seems nice. I'm with mum in the living room which has doubled up as a bedroom I ask her why she has allowed Evil into our home, I tell her I want change, I want a positive change, information on something troubling, but she tells me nothing I want to know. Something is wrong with my mother, she’s surrounded by Evil and she isn’t fighting it, it’s clear that she has given up, given in to the enemy. Why won’t you fight the Evil? Her eyes snapped at me, followed by a hard, swift punch, I hear my front teeth break and I look down, they fall into my hand and my lips, my gums, they begin to bleed. It was in this moment I knew the Evil in her; I knew why she felt she could not fight. I don’t ask her anything further, she is taken, but I will not surrender. I see Ina, standing behind the glass door of the living room, maybe she’s checking on me. My bleeding face looks over to her, she’s still, smiling obliviously; I want to ask her things my mum refused to answer, but I'm too afraid.

I’m walking along a roof top with heavy eyes that barely open, I cannot see where I am going and I know I’m coming closer to the edge but I won't fall, I’m guided, I’m in control despite this deliriousness.

I'm in a mall of some sort, Evil is before me, formless yet present. Evil wants to make a deal with me: something is hidden here and if I find it, Evil will be lifted from my home. Nothing was made clear but that the key to my troubles, the key to what troubles and destroys my family was here, somewhere, in some form. I run. I run aimlessly through the market, little cartoon-like dinosaurs chase me through double doors and around many corners, they disappear and I end up where I started. A friend stands with me, I don't recognise him. We say something to each other before being interrupted by two blackboots bursting through the front doors shouting, waving guns around. Aimed at me, they say they're here to help. I know one of them, I thought you had been taken, or killed! I can see myself, they tell me they want to help but I run from the guns, one shoots me in the foot and I scream, though I don't feel the pain, I waddle to and out of the fire exit and into an alley.

I remember the girl’s face, the one living in my home, half shadowed in black, the rest lit by a red light. I remember my teeth had grown back. I remember that I could not find my sister, I needed her help against the Evil, I figured she left to save herself.

A night in February, exactly one week after Valentine Day, for which she spent eating, drinking and chatting with her sister, she went to bed with an excited fearfulness pinning her gut to the walls of her insides and a fist, tightly wrapped around her heart. That night was almost sleepless; cut short by fear of morning. She awoke before her alarm, not at all drained from the lack of sleep; it’ll hit me later. A hop into the tub, a long steamed shower to soothe silence into her nerves before she sat, loosely wrapped in a towel, on the edge of the bed staring at the mirror, losing time in thoughts. She was dressed and ready surprisingly quick, there was no double guessing the double denim, the hair, the camo print beanie and the acid wash hippy-cut top. Anticipation has stolen her appetite, so she leaves empty and full. Jay sits by the steps of the station entrance, a thirty-something homeless friend of hers; she would bring him food, share ciggies, hot drinks and they would chat together. This time she had somewhere to be, so she slaps hands with him and tells him she has a date, he says something light-heartedly perverted and they slap hands once more before she heads for the platform. Riding the train to Kings Cross St Pancras with nerves looping and shooting around her body, through her veins and knocking at the backs of her eyeballs. Early, she walks through Kings Cross towards where they agreed to meet: outside a WHSmith store, the one opposite the timetable screens. She awaits her date’s arrival, a phone in one hand and keys swinging and palming in the other. 

"What color is coat r??" 12:58 

"??" 13:00 

Blue 13:03 

"Where r u?. I hope I'm on the tight place.." 13:03 

I'm outside whsnmith pretty.. Where are you? 13:08 

As she swung and palmed her keys, pacing slowly, heart pounding in her chest like she had been injected with a triple espresso, she turns and there she sees the split of a second of a smile she almost recognises, then she drops her keys. She swiftly picks the keys from the floor, all the while the smile racing through her mind a thousand times over, their eyes meet and they approach each other, not saying a word, just smiling. She took Ina in and held her tightly, she had no words nor did Ina, and they walked side-by-side smiling in disbelief and stepping in love. Some things were said that they would never remember, maybe questions were asked and maybe they were answers. They walked to a nearby Pret, she bought them both a hot chocolate. While she waited to pay she turned to look at Ina, who took her and hugged her. She paid and handed Ina her drink. They walked to the exit towards the long marble seat-like structures just outside, she motioned for Ina’s hand, a bold move for the first minutes of a first date, you might think, but Ina squeezed back and they continued, smiling still to themselves and each other and not speaking but speaking without words but with presence and energy, light and love.

Later, she was home, her door locked. Collapsed on the bed she could only lay there, staring at the ceiling, without the slightest idea of how to express herself, what just happened? I don't understand. She was feeling feelings she had always wanted to feel and always knew she could feel but never had before. Fuck! She cried. Mine is the face of someone who is love struck; love startled. I’ve been left speechless, longing for more. More. More. Her lips, she's kissable, they’re soft. Her eyes are beautiful, light brown portals transporting me into the depths of her, she’s most comfortable. I feel so lost! Your voice, your smile, your kiss, your touch; you're unbelievable.

She knows there's something here, the same something she searched for, there were no descriptions, no instructions, no map and no guide; just move, go, run in to it. It has something to do with Ina, something to do with a lot of things but Ina, she activated it, she is the key. Nothing more than agreeing to meet had to be done; it had already been done, decided.

A month later, Ina escorts her to the station and they say goodbye. Ina didn’t want to drag it out because it made her emotional. She left for Greece, for two weeks or two years or two decades; the time spent apart is relative to what is felt inside and between them, too much was felt, too much for the flesh, never enough for the spirit. I can’t wait to see you again.

Unknown - Melissa Robertson (Group B)

Your face and hands
carved by angels,
yet cease to fill others' eyes.

Your mind as true
and filled with hope,
yet poisoned by other's lies.

Your heart like gold
though not its weight,
yet others' all criticize.

Your soul filled up
with hopes and dreams,
yet others laze and cry.

'SOLITAIRE' BY CLAUDIA ACEITUNO!!!!!! GROUP A!!

CONTAINS SEXUAL/GRAPHIC IMAGERY!!!! BEWARE AND TAKE CAUTION!!!!

Solitaire

I’m on the bed, playing solitaire. This is an uneventful occasion, and one that is repeated often. It’s a cool night, but I’ve decided not to cover up. My skin is cold and I have goosebumps. The radio is playing. Quietly. He’s jacking off to the sight of my body, for no particular reason. In between his muffled groans he tells me about the time he ate too much cake with his father when he was a child. He says he feels like throwing up. So do I. I put my robe on, and head off without saying a word, leaving him and his sweaty body on the chair in the corner of the room. I go open the door to the dimly lit bathroom and sit on the toilet. I think about eating some biscuits and making some tea. I hate tea, but maybe I can pour it on his skin while he’s asleep. He probably wouldn’t even notice. My urine smells of bad cider. I flushed and wiped myself. I took some toilet paper with me. I entered back into the room and saw him, flushed, covered in his own sticky cum. I kindly wiped it, drip by drip on the toilet paper. I look at him as he dozed off in the chair. I carried his frail body in my arms and lowered him onto the bed. His chair sat dazzled in the reflection of the moon. I close the curtains.  

I sit patiently and watch him from beside the bed while he sleeps. He leaves me bored and tired by the day’s end. Some days are easier to deal with than others - though there is only so much you can do to keep yourself from imploding. Nothing he does is exciting, his snoring and vomiting are about as normal as cleaning the dishes now. Nevertheless, I am dedicated to taking care of him. It’s what I promised to do. The radio dulls over and creates noise over the chilling silence. I sit and think about how happy he used to be when we would sit down in the park together. Now all I do is tend for him, day after day. There’s no connection, no love. It feels like a dead end. It’s as if we had a peak and from then on it’s just been downhill from there.

Still immersed in my thoughts, he reaches out and grasps my hand. He must still be awake. His touch is surprising to me, and is almost comforting, but I was so shocked by his movement that I immediately took my hand back. He is insulted, and mumbles under his breath. He peeks one eye through at me and looks at me inquisitively.

“Why are you so grumpy all the time, baby?” he slurred.

I refused to answer. He starts smiling, almost drooling at me, as if he were a pathetic young man flirting with a teenager on the street. I turn him and gesture to him to close his eyes.

“You’re no fun.”

Why do I do this to myself? I’m wasting my life with this old pervert. I think about his face - old, and scarred. He never told me how he got that scar, only that his father gave it to him. He is handsome. I think of his heavy breathing, his chest moving slowly up and down whilst he conquerors his dreams, conquering me.

I shut the door behind me and put my coat on. I leave the house. I can’t take this anymore. I need air. My life is a joke, this man is a waste of space. Why do I care for someone whose only meaning for living in the world is to masturbate while gawking at my breasts?

I look at the cars passing by. I sit on a bench by the road. I watch all the drunks tripping over their feet. They look at me and say:

“Why you so grumpy, baby?”

Carmen - Kelley Andrews, Group A

They’re going to ask why I did it. No. They’re going to ask why I did it again.

The last time that I had my stomach pumped, the hospital scraped through the lining of my oesophagus. They tried to pass it off as an accident, but Dina pressed charges. Naturally, the press got hold of that and then the bulimia rumours started. The whole thing was mortifying, but I was grateful for the exposure. I had gained twelve pounds that season and the throat situation had finally killed my appetite. Magazines followed my weight loss for a while. Later that year I was ranked 89th in the Maxim Hot 100.

Dina is probably used to seeing me in the hospital by now. Christ knows that she has no right to complain, but, of course she does anyway. I don’t remember that much of my life in the early days, but what I do know is that we didn’t have any money. My father was always on the brink of walking out on us - that was until he actually went through with it – he must have regretted that because two weeks later I booked the Neutrogena commercial.

“Smile pretty, Carmen! Smile pretty!”

That was always the last thing that Dina said to me before I went in for a screen test. That bitch in velour had been putting me out to work since I was three years old. Her happiness – however temporary – was solely dependant on my income. Whenever I failed an audition or didn’t get called back it was like I had flushed her Prozac down the toilet. Eventually I landed a contract with Disney, and I remember her having the audacity to tell me that all of my dreams were going to come true.

It was laughable at this point to mistake my mother’s investment in me for being anything other than financial.

But why did I do it?

I don’t know.

I had a headache, I think.

I get confused a lot. Maybe it’s due to all of the travel, but it gets hard for me to stay in one place. The longer I stay somewhere, the easier it gets for me to convince myself that it’s home – but it isn’t – just another suite, condo or rehab facility.

Rentals.

My life is a nonstop carousel of rentals. Sure, I pay for it all, but it isn’t like I can claim ownership of anything. Not even my mistakes. I’ll settle for a while, but then something inside me clicks and I feel like I’m trespassing. Soon enough I feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin and I have to get out.

“Highs and lows grow increasingly severe. No appreciable response to meds.”

Sometimes I’m convinced that my life is one big movie and that I’m always on a set. Isn’t that ironic? Christ knows the last time that I made a picture. I’m always this close to getting blacklisted because I’m difficult to work with, so they say. They don’t offer me anything decent, and that hick Jennifer Lawrence is stealing all of my parts. Dina agrees with me for once. I feel like every second I’m not in front of a camera I’m wasting not just my talent, but, my life also.

Maybe I’m just bitter. Maybe I’m irrational. That would make sense. It’s just hard when you’ve been in the industry for over twenty years and nobody takes you seriously. You’re just another child star tying cherry stems at Chateau. And whilst I’m doing that some tacky redneck is receiving her Oscar for Best Supporting Actress.

That’s a joke!

I need to get out - the air is too heavy. Thinking about everything always ends up with me circling back to my parents. My parents! How textbook is that? I mean surely some of this is my fault? Nobody forced me to go into the bathroom and –

My skin is too tight.

My head aches constantly.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever reach thirty.

Scrivener Series at UCA
 

Against the lowering approach of hurricane Gonzago, yesterday evening saw the first of this term’s Scrivener Series talks here at UCA Farnham. I organised this series of events because I assume though I’m a very interesting person indeed, students probably tire of hearing my constant ramblings about Medieval conceptions of moral agency and my love of ale. I reflected that they probably want to hear from writers, publishers and thinkers about things such as literature, creativity and so forth…

 In this first session, novelist, dramatist and lecturer Hannah Vincent read from her debut novel ‘Alarm Girl’. ‘Alarm Girl’ details the struggles of a young girl to understand death, otherness and familial loyalty against the backdrop of post-apartheid South Africa. I’ve read the novel and thought it was a supple and tender piece of work. Give it a go.

Hannah read from the start of her novel before taking several volleys of questions from students and staff. We discussed the current state of creative writing in HE, how a new writer can get into publishing and how the writer must ‘ventilate’ their novels for the sake of the reader.  Most interesting of all for me was the discussion of some of the differences between drama (a collaborative form) and prose (a solitary form). Being experienced in both areas, as well as having been a script editor of the BBC, Hannah was refreshingly comfortable with the different demands of each medium and she spoke convincingly about how writers should learn to recognise and  adapt to different forms, as opposed to closing themselves down in terms of style, genre or subject. This is of course not easy to do and Hannah was clear that such openness is not automatic, it is a muscle that needs to be exercised. 

After this, I tried to chip in with anecdotes about Medieval conceptions of moral agency and my love of ale, but the room found Hannah far more interesting. Overall, it was a fun, informative and friendly event and I was really happy with the numbers and the quality of the questions.

    

    Hope to see many people there for the next of the Scrivener Series!

Dr Craig Jordan-Baker

Drowning. Harry English. Group B

Drowning.

The sea meets the sky and travels on for seemingly forever.

A lone beacon in the distance penetrates the night sky.

Fistfuls of rotten wood littered on the midnight banks.

Stones sink beneath the weight of my boot.

Waves violently beat against the rocky shores.

Icy ocean fear washes over. 

Neck deep in Poseidon's fury.

Sinking into the abyss.

Darkness is growing.

Last breaths.

Drowning.

Harry English.

Group A Workshop piece

Dormant behind Waterside Creek

waits The Statue of Annadelle.

Erected with a failing heart,

loss and emptiness,

it bears his world, feeds his guilt

fuels his blistering ache.

From her dawn,

She saw no colours  - only darkness,

knew not star's night blanket,

knew not lover's bright blue eyes.

For Annadelle - she spoke with the sea,

felt earth's heartbeat

and heard her bellows.

Inevitably bitten by lover's quarrel,

through search and search his eyes grew desperate,

thoughts stampeding left and right.

Lungs tightening, legs exhausted - panting,

panting - halt.

He looked across, wind muffled his face,

eyes glaring - Annadelle tiptoes on the edge

gazing past the vicious waves.

This stormy night, rain pelts the skin,

harsh winds shake the heart.

He cries her name to receive a smile

for she knows his voice all too well.

The wind bellows, the waves slam

onto the pier leaving nothing,

her smile had gone - claimed by the sea.

Panicked eyes, trembling mouth,

disbelief paralyzed his bones,

the waves spit in his face.

Wimping on two knees

his heart gave in,

only to be revived later.

Night after night he sees her on the pier,

night after night he tries to undo,

night after night he wails and weeps,

for his crushed heart bleeds

enough to negate his prescriptions.

ACE inhibitors are of little use now.

 By Hayden Lee