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

Beware of the Brew - Alex Dinnadge Group A

Beware of the brew

Her eyes bulging,

Her face fuming,

To shout at me would be time consuming,

Her stare, just as effective

Feel like I’m being mentally infected.

I break her gaze,

And glance around,

To be haunted by what my eyes found.

A spear, knives and some cacti,

Run Alex run springs to mind.

I walk around to shield her view,

On potential weapons in the room.

I suppose the cactus won’t be too bad,

Maybe she is better…. Nope she’s still mad.

I say sorry, bringing out the keyword,

She looks at me as if what I've said is absurd.

Does she want to be cuddled?

Maybe she will get muddled,

Mistake it for an attack,

To which she will fight back,

Am I a daydream believer?

Or is she holding a cleaver?

Like Usain Bolt my timing is critical,

But I’m not Michael Jackson; I’m not a smooth criminal.

The door is locked,

Is her gun cocked?

Weave and zig-zag,

Or lay in a body bag.

Hoping she’s a pacifist,

I sneak a peek at her fists,

Tensed and closed,

I’m weak and exposed.

My frail exterior cannot be missed,

I’m looking a bit like Oliver Twist,

Not pleading to have some more,

But to open her front door.

But if I leave her now, will she hunt me down,

I’ll take that as a yes from her permanent frown,

I fall down into the corner,

‘Stay away!’ I warn her.

‘Come on, I’ll make us a tea’

I enter the kitchen timidly

Is she going to spike my Typhoo?

Probably, if I’m judging by her regular brew,

Ask for one sugar, and she gives me two,

So much sugar that you have to chew.

I slurp my drink,

And sit back to think,

I think Im forgiven,

Another chance I’ve been given,

We will celebrate with champagne,

And maybe chow mein,

This sugar really looks like cocaine.

Feeling drowsy, I try leave,

But I stagger like I do on New Year’s eve.

Falling to the floor with an almighty whack,

I can feel some hands grabbing my back.

Like a broom, I’m sweeping the ground,

She is pulling me somewhere I won’t be found,

I can feel the end coming close,

Can’t believe she gave me an overdose,

And as I stop being grabbed,

I lay slumped with the relief that I was not stabbed.

By Alex Dinnadge

A Reply

Approached her downstairs at a Camden bar,

my “rolled up sleeves” and your black guitar.

I said “What did you do with him today?”

Her drink there poured (another Tanqueray).

She was my bella, my pride.

I shouldna let you die!

It was her time to live no more.

I told her she’d be lucky if she cheated the law.

She needed her health,

And I knew, she did.

I told her, “no more doubles”.

For just a couple more quid.

I knew at first a media ploy,

As time went on it became decoy.

I’m thinking of you and your tattooed bows,

Your beehive hair and your tight fit clothes.

Went up to meet your friends and sister.

I do miss you still but I feel so bitter.

You couldn't even finish your tour,

I told you I would be your       only cure.

You lost all of your wealth,

Again I saw, you did.

I told her, she was artful.

Just like when we were kids.  

Carina Roots

Monsters by Azaria Messingham Group A

Monsters 

by Azaria Messingham Group A

We are the monsters from the fairytales

We're supposed to be the bad guys

No one expected us to be good

And we weren't

We are the monsters under the bed

Hiding, waiting for the perfect moment to strike

To rise up and roar.

We were the monsters in the cupboards

Peeking through the keyholes

Watching you sleep.

But forget those monsters,

Most of all

We are the monsters in your head

Stamping on and crushing every shred of hope

That you once had.

We make you destroy yourself

Bit by bit.

We are the monsters that beat you down

Make you feel useless

Crush your dreams, but

You are the monster that lets us do that.

Creative writing group A- Vermillion

I found something short that I wrote sometime last year. I don't really remember writing it, to be honest, but I found it whilst rummaging around my folders. I tweaked it a little and it's probably not as long as it should be, but considering how late I'm posting this, I thought you guys might appreciate something of less length so that your WAFs can be prepared in time, or however it works. I'm very sorry, but here we go.

My Creative Piece for Tuesday's Workshop

Dragon Fire

Prologue:

A story about my life

Normal fairy-tale stories start with ‘once upon a time’ or ‘long long ago’ but this isn’t a story. Ok it’s filled with dragon people, elemental wizards, aquarians and more but this is a tale of a person’s history - A life

My life

My name is Royale. I am part of the Dragon Fire Tribe. I am one of three but the only daughter, which can be seen as befitting considering how out of place I am within my life. Basically I am a fire heart that cannot breathe fire and to add to my dramatic story of a life, my father is the king. My brothers (twins) on the other hand are great and powerful fire hearts both together and apart. They are skilled warriors and in all, a fine example of high classed royalty. As for my mother, well she is a mystery and father refuses to speak of her. Well in short this is my poor excuse of a life but little did I know that I was not named royale just because of my lineage.

Chapter One:

The Calling (My school trap)

It was about five in the morning, the sun peaked at me though my heavy velvet bed curtains. I was having an amazing dream about how wonderful my life would be if I was stronger and more talented, how women would envy and admire me and men would bow at my feet and ask for my hand in married. When I suddenly heard “Royale! , ROYALE! Get up, you lazy wolfblood!” No surprise. That was Jason, one of my older brothers and this was his wonderful way of waking me up in the mornings. Screaming my name, Shouting abuse and jumping on my bed. Who would believe he was older? “Royale, you'll be late for your first day of training!” Jason shouted as he tried to knock open my door “get a move on, you air breathing Aquarian! “. Dam! I’d forgotten about that, father thought it would “help me develop” if I started training with the fire warriors. “I'm coming! Give me a minute” I replied with all the energy my tired body would give me.

An hour later, I found myself stood outside campus. In front of me through giant heavy blacken barred arches, was this beautiful, magical yet slightly creepy building. It was about eleven floors tall but it seemed to go beyond the sky itself, its huge stone walls were dark and matted with greenery – obvious signs that it had stood there for ancient years. “Ok” I unconvincingly muttered myself “Do your best. Actually on second thoughts, just make sure your still breathing by the end of the day”. I stepped through the blacken barred arch, I could not help feeling small and powerless as I did so, which almost by instinct had made me turned round and look back, From then on, I knew there was something not quite right about this place, it made me feel uneasy. I took a deep breath in and turned back around to continue my unwanted journey towards the academy, when I notice a man standing by the front entrance.

He looked too old to still be standing strong on his own two feet and it was clear his now white and thin hair was once thick, luscious and red. He wore an odd coloured waist coat on top of a black shirt with stained brown trousers which looked far too big for his stature. Just looking at him, I thought ‘what a weird and tatty old man’ but then my eyes were drawn into his fiery blood brown ones and they told me straight away he was a man to be respected as well as feared. Those eyes seemed too youthful to be on such a tall, slim yet old frame yet those eyes also seemed tired, like they have seen far more than they should have.

Something I wrote about someone somewhere sometime ago...

I once knew a girl who judged intentions by outward appearances, and outward appearances by preconceived ideas of people and experiences, experiences which weren't necessarily her own. She would go on a date with you and you'd turn up in brown brogues, her favourite colour of her favourite shoe and by this, she would judge your position and intention in her life, she would connect the dots she had already mapped out for you and though you may not be aware of it, you would occupy her interest and obsession for as long as she could keep up this charade of who you are and what you mean; as long as she could box, package and deliver you to your intended purpose in relation to her, she desired you. She desired you and anyone she may meet or bother with to fulfil a beaten path within her, she desired you not for you, but for what you could achieve in her hunger-game. She consumed the spirits of pets and people and assigned them traits and past lives, destinies and thoughts, secrets and intentions and all sorts. She targeted the open and the weak of mind, the malleable and the ones who doubt or lack solidity and she would tell you exactly who you are and you, craver of whatever you see in her, will agree until the charade she has created, the one you've allowed to be created, shatters and breaks down; until something is taken wrongly or rightly but nonetheless hurtfully. When the curtains fall and the light returns you may realise you were this willing wet clay she moulded, you may realise this and choose to leave, equally as likely you may realise this and choose to stay, depending on your character. The girl I once knew has been sectioned, hardly justifiable despite her personality, for all she had ever done wrong was believe the lies she was told. 

- by Victoria Vinet