Year One - The Monster on the Rock by James Lancaster

His eyes glowed like smouldering coals in the pale darkness, lighting the distant path through the burnt jungle remains that jutted out of the coarse sand. He prowled across the cooling floor of the outback. An old predator, a master of his craft honed over years of practice, his style handed down by generations of forest creatures that mastered the shadows and the trees. They grew strong on the flesh of the earth shaking beasts that roamed the woodlands devouring the lush plants that wore sun-breaking fronds and made a canopy that even the solar flares couldn’t pierce. But the gods gave them no heed any more.  Their world had new masters, masters who knew fire, and the first names.

Long ago he hunted here, reared from the pouch by a scarred and beaten Mother. Her jaws built like massive shears, possessing a bite that split the bones of her enemies with a single slice. Her eyes glowed with warm light in the cold outback nights, her paws tipped with fearsome claws but padded with soft fur. She was the last Marsupial Lion, with the last Marsupial Lion cub

The canopy of his youth now lay broken and tattered, even his claws, sharpened over years of careful tending and whetting, seemed blunt in comparison to force which shredded the canopy so long ago.

He remembered hiding in the cold shadows of the trees, descending upon the unsuspecting prey and cracking their bones with his teeth. He mastered the art of waiting, never making a sound or breaking his concentration. He’d wait hours for his prey, but they’d always appear, and he was never unready.

But hours soon turned into days, and the days into weeks. He clawed at the marrow of rotting carcasses and snatched the crawling forest lizards and burrowing beasts for mere morsels of meat. Stoking the furnace of his stomach to crawl on, forever searching for his massive peers. The sun rising and falling in the blue sky, as the minutes wore by at a glacial place. On his road he still saw old tracks cracked into the cold sand, the Mihirung bird that grazed on the tallest trees, the Diprotodon, the marsupial rhino whose feet crack the trees and snap bones with a single flex of his jaw. Peaceful herbivores made into fierce fortresses against the hardiest predators. But now their tracks lead only to cold bones rising out of the ground like fallen monuments of a conquered race, forever remembered, but never understood.

And even his ancient enemy, the Great Roamer the massive lizard who knew no master. He had not been seen for many years, perhaps he’d found a new land away from here, a land still green where the river carved by the rainbow serpent still flowed. But places like that only lived in the Dreaming, a place beyond hunger and pain.

In the distance, he spied a flickering light, dancing orange on the bush as shadows whipped silently across the rocks and boulders. He crept behind the dry and brittle branches, fascinated, yet fearful of what lay beyond.

Small primates, who spun long spears and hopped from foot to foot, howled a fierce cry at the chilled glow of the moon. Their faces painted with swirls that seemed to echo the stars above, their hair trimmed and shaped. Their bodies hairless and smooth, the foreigners, the ones who came long ago, who rode on floating trees and built tree-branch shelters on the shoreline. The old carnivore kept his distance, for they spoke to the bushfire, the primal force that ripped the forest apart and charred the green beyond repair. They drove away the Mihirung and the Diprotodon, even Great Roamer turned and ran when their war yell sounded. But the Marsupial Lion, he stayed, for fear had long since stopped mattering to him. Hunger ate at his mind, and all he saw was prey.

But the lion stopped.

The Primates pulled one of their cubs off of the ground, it sat and played with a tiny carving. A small, wooden Lion, the cub turned to one of the hunters, asking about the strange form he held in his hand. His father knelt in close, he curled his fingers like claws, and growled, he sat his son back down. The child fidgeted and laughed, his father put a finger to his lips and told him to quiet down, as he prepared to recite the tale. “This is the Coleo, strongest of all, stronger than Great Roamer, stronger than Bunyip, and faster than Mihirung.” He made a playful growl, and his son jumped back. The father laughed as he lifted his son onto his shoulder, and continued his story . His gaze turned to the stars, and his face became as stone as his long stare beheld the stars above. Old memories and stories, half remembered, and his own experiences ran through his head. He turned back to his son and said “He watches from the trees, pouncing on whatever crosses his path, no matter how large or how strong. Do you know why?”

“Why?” The boy asked, wide eyed and breathless.

“Coleo has no fear in him, the Lagunta, who lurks in the bushes and waits to steal his kills, envies him so much. That he wears the same stripes in the hope he will be as bold as the Coleo.” He drew stripes in the sand, and around it a round powerful body and strong legs, and finally. The stern brow and strong jaws of the Coleo took shape. The boy ran his hand over the muzzle in awe, and his father patted him on the head. “But when Lagunta gets too bold, and tries to take from Coleo, well, Coleo puts them in his place. How does he do it?”

“He Roars!” The boy yelled, giving several high pitched screams as the other hunters turned and looked at them. His father picked him up and but him back on his shoulder, as they went to rejoin the dance.

The Lion spied a pack of Lagunta in the distance. Their glowing eyes betraying their position, they understood what was to come. The Lion, reluctantly, also understood. His skin clung to his bones, and even the Lagunta, who circled them as quietly as they could manage, began to covet the legendary boldness of the Coleo. But they remembed the Lions jaws, and kept their distance.

The Lion walked from his hiding place, too tired, too hungry to run. He could only walk after his prey. His muscles heavy on his bones from days of walking without food, his vision blurred with every step. Carelessly, he snapped a branch with his paws, and the humans turned to face him.

Face to face, the dark, muscular form of the Lion paused. He could only stare, and the primates could only stare perplexed. Their legendary predator, the fearless one, standing perfectly still in open, not even running or fighting. The Lagunta gave their atrocious yells and whoops. Crackled and snarling embers twisted in the distance, as the two apex predators only looked at eachother.

There was no way he could win.

He could tear them limb from limb, snap their bones and eat them, maybe in his youth. But here and now, his only weapon was his stare.

He knew the way of the world, all animals have their time, they roam and take apart any challenger, earn their place, and keep earning their territory by taking out any rival. He had done this for years, drunk on his power, until his territory burned to the ground, and he adopted the grassland as his home. He was old, his years of experience told him one thing, his time was done.

Like every rival he’d faced, as the tribe gathered their spears and prepared their attack. The Lion just waited, the Lagunta whooped, and yelled, ready to join the battle. But the Lion waited.

In that moment, he was truly without fear.

The deed had been done, laying on the cold ground, the last Marsupial Lion gave his laboured breaths to sky above, as his glowing eyes flickered like the cold embers of the bonfire. The father sat down, cautiously, he judged the animal that lay before him, it splayed onto the sand limply, its jaws clacking with that same ferocious power. But its eyes simply gazed into the distance, the brawn of the Mihirungs massive predator was only a memory. The Father sat with the east as it died, one animal to the next, the light went from its eyes. Until the only light left was the glow of the bonfire. They took out their knives to carve their kill, as the skin of the greatest predator was passed to his successor.

No one can rule forever, but memories can live unchecked, the tribe would paint the last Marsupial Lion and he remains in the rocks to this day.

One day, this land would once again be taken, and it will be renamed and shaped as it had been done before. When the bones of Coleo lie in museums and halls, this land will be called Australia, and as the years pass. The name will change, and people will pass away to the land where the Lion still roams, but the bones of the Coleo will be dug up again, and the legend will be told by another. 

Year One - The Island of the Dolls by Emma Pullen

I am incredibly sorry for people with a phobia of dolls.. other than that I hope you all enjoy!
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You are a paranormal investigator.

You have been saving up money to explore an island for many years after doing endless amounts of research on the island, and today is the day you make your dream come true.

You go through the day catching planes, trains and boats to this deserted island and finally you are here. You are introduced to the island by dolls, lots and lots of dolls. The more you explore these dolls the more you start to notice how unique each one really is, some of them aged and faded in colour, others looking brand new but each individual doll looking just as creepy as the last.

When the night approaches a cold, cloudy mist spreads across the island and you are left on your own with dolls that are getting stronger as the sky reaches complete darkness. Stumbling around, you hear a sinister laughter. The hairs on your arms standing like pins on your arms, you gasp for air. The eyes of a doll hanging lifelessly opposite you starts to open her eyes, but all you see in her sockets is the colour of the night sky, pitch black. You can’t look away from her piercing stare and you back away slowly, fear flooding through your body.

A tree rescues you from the frozen sea you were backing into. Suddenly, someone is staring at you, someone incredibly sinister. Rumours say that the most haunted doll is hanging off a tree somewhere on this island and you have just found him. The spirits that lay within him have been awoken and they are not happy about it. You meet the dolls beautiful brown eyes and blood starts to trickle out of his pupils. It’s too late.

You feel cold and sad. The feeling of control of your body is slowly being taken away from you and you start to give yourself to the doll.

‘Die.’

A whisper runs straight through your bloodstream and you feel yourself walking slowly back towards the end of the island. Then darkness.

Water fills your lungs and your body turns to ice. Your clothes feel heavy as a sinking motion overwhelms you. Gasps for oxygen don’t work anymore, you are drowning.

‘Die.’

Hours go by, or so you think.

But you wake up. As your eyes open, outlines of trees fill your vision and you realise you cannot move or feel the ground beneath you.

You are a doll.

Plot and Story - by Josh Ferguson, Claire Fraser, and Harry Draper

Plot and story are commonly believed to be interchangeable with one another, but this is actually not the case. Story is an entire sequence of events, whereas plot describes a set of events as they relate to each other. E.M. Forster writes something similar to this definition in his book 'Aspects of the Novel' (1927), defining plot as 'the casual and logical structure which connects events' and story as 'the chronological sequence of events'.

No matter how these definitions are worded, it is understood that plot and story are, indeed, two separate aspects of fiction. This simple difference between plot and story can be highlighted in the following example texts: The story of Bob’s Monday and the plot of Bob’s Monday.

The story of Bob’s Monday is as follows:
‘Bob’s Monday begins when he wakes up in the morning. He brushes his teeth, gets dressed, gets in his car, drives to work, parks, sits at his desk, goes to lunch, flirts with his co-workers, goes back to his desk, does more work, drives home, eats dinner and then goes to sleep at night.’

Now compare to this to the plot of Bob’s Monday:
‘Bob’s Monday begins when he wakes up in the morning. The most interesting part of the day is at lunch, when he flirts with his coworkers. His Monday ends when he goes to sleep at night.’

Notice the difference?

An analysis of Aristotle's Poetics, by Sara Connelly (2014)

It is important to note that whatever media a work of fiction resides in can considerably affect how plot and story are defined. For instance, in the Greek philosopher Aristotle’s seminal book ‘The Poetics’, plot should consist of a beginning, middle and end. It should have a climax that ties up all loose ends, have no ongoing subplots, and have no cliffhangers. He also said how plot is the most important feature of a tragedy, with character coming second. But one must keep in mind that Aristotle’s Poetics is meant to be a commentary on theatre tragedy; what Aristotle discusses cannot fully be applied to all forms of fiction, unfortunately.

How novelists define and value plot and story will be very likely different to how filmmakers or video game developers define and value plot and story. Novels are, for the most part, dependent on plot and story. Without them, a novel could not stand on its own, or at least would find it difficult to achieve. Whereas films such as Marketa Lasarova (1967), a Czech Avant garde epic, do not primarily focus on plot and story as much in favour of lavish cinematography and accurately portraying a 13th century medieval society. Yet despite this choice, the film has still been praised among many. The same dilemma goes for video games; action fighting games like Street Fighter (1987) are very weak on plot and story yet are hailed as classics for their gameplay and action-packed fun. With all this in mind, plot and story of a work of fiction can be significantly affected by the form of media that they inhabit.

On top of plot and story, there is Todorov’s 'Narrative Theory'. In this theory, Todorov states that most story and plot lines follow the same pattern or path, or what he calls the ‘Five Stages of Narrative’. The five stages are:

1. Equilibrium: The story will begin happily, where the majority or all characters are content and everything is perfectly fine.
2. Disruption: Later on in the story, a problem will arise that will disrupt the character’s lives. This is also known as the ‘Inciting Incident’.
3. Realisation: This is where the characters start to feel the consequences of this disruption.
4. Restored Order: After enduring all the bad things that have happened to them in light of this disruption, the characters now attempt to rectify the damage done and restore the problem.
5. Equilibrium Again: Finally, the problem is resolved once and for all and all characters involved can resume the normal lives they once had.

Of course, Todorov’s theory does not apply to all stories. Some stories opt for an unhappy ending (tragedies), which goes against the fifth stage of narrative, and other stories begin with unhappy characters who later pull themselves out of their misfortune such as the story of 'Cinderella'. But this is merely a theory, not a rulebook for all stories to follow.

To conclude, how plot and story are defined will vary between all forms of media (books, films, video games, etc.) but it is quite apparent that a fictional work cannot survive without them.

The Falling House of Cards By Lucy Waddington (workshop)

-The Falling House of Cards-

Dear Dad,

Rising sparks,Falling Stars,

Can you please change your mind?

Clouding Skies,Broken Clouds

Please Don’t leave her behind

Remember the first time you saw her

Be a man,stop ignoring her

Accept the flaws

Take the cards and sort the pack

Sort out your feelings

She is worth more than that.

You fell in love with her for a reason

Don’t fall off like the leaves each season

I know the years have aged you

But Remember on that day she said I Do.

You built a house of cards with her

I know you are two different people

But look back when you walked to the steeple

The white dress,your best suit and a bouquet to boot.

I know I wasn’t around all I know is stories

Stories frozen in the past,that I thought were built to last

When I was a little girl before I knew the truth

How you tried to hold on but cut her loose

How you waited till I went away to find the courage

You knew I wouldn’t let you talk to her that way

A loveless marriage

No glass slipper

No silver carriage

…

Dancing in the lounge

Spinning me around and around

Till I had to stop,my naive self

Used to think you loved Mum each and every bit.

As I lay here,the fan in my room chilling my cheek

I remember the way you would love mum and remind her each week.

Where was the love?

Was it ever there?

Why can’t you fight for her?

Dad…

Why not every day?

Why were you all work and no play?

Where were you?

You were my dad…

But you never made the time for the one you loved

When she’s gone,and your holding back the tears

I hope you remember the good years.

The times when I wouldn’t find mum crying into the sink

Taking off her ring,and swearing it was because she didn’t want to lose it.

But you did lose it didn’t you dad…

I love you dad,I hope you see the light.

My Aristotelian Heroine: Anonymous Angel by Shelley Abbey

The buzzing of the fan was all that could be heard in the humid, heat filled room. The courageous crusaders heart was beating immensely. The sweat had begun to flow down the determined woman’s face profusely. Her ears were alert to the sounds of the ageing mans wheeze filled breaths.  A putrid, rancid smell filled the air which, due to the ailing man, could only be coming from him.The woman walked to the bed with intent, as she acknowledged what she had to accomplish. When her cane hit the edge, she climbed onto the feeble figure. The  elderly man stirred, then awoke in fear. 

“HEL-”

The man’s cry were muffled by the cane pressing onto his neck. 

“LOOK AT MY EYES! LOOK AT WHAT YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR!” the woman cried in anguish.

The senior man writhed in fear, as his eyes were met with grey, glassed ones. 

The sounds of rushing footsteps alerted the woman that she had to act immediately.

“I represent the countless numbers of child labourers, who were killed in the factory explosion 12 years ago. I lost brothers, sisters, my sight! It has taken me too long for this moment to arise. But now that it has come, I want my face to be the last you witness, until you burn at the gates of hell”

With these final words, the woman took out the detonator from her pocket, smiled at the fearful figure beneath her, and pressed the button that completed her mission.

Melissa Robertson - Untitled

Darkness.

That's all I see.

This black, hollow, unending existence is the only thing in sight, until from one point within this dark void, I see light beginning to emerge. Then I see my mother. She has always been so beautiful, ever since I can remember. Her long, blonde hair that falls effortlessly yet perfectly past her soft shoulders. Her eyes, as blue as mine, yet slightly grayed over time. Her lips, the most unique shade of pink. My mother has always been quite thin, still tall though, and people can see she is a strong lady by her posture and the way she holds herself.

My father has told me ever since I can remember, that he feels he is the luckiest man alive to have had a life with mum. My dad looks quite similar to my mother actually, and I see him clearly now. His short, tousled, blonde hair, paired with his strong figure, though he is certainly bigger than mum, and he weighs much more. He is so, very tall and has dark, green eyes. Both of my parents look like they belong on a beach, except for the fact they are equally rather white. Each with their soft features which goes well with their soft hearts. I do love my folks, I've done my best to become the daughter I am today. I want them to be proud of me. I hear a whisper within the darkness, it's my mother, "We love you very much, Skye." I want to say "I love you" back, but I can't do anything.

My parents fade back into the darkness. In their place I see no image, but acknowledge a pain coming from where I can only estimate is the very depths of my brain. When it comes to my head hurting in the morning, I can tell it's because I had a little too much to drink the night before (which is a very rare occasion, if I'm honest). In this situation, the appropriate action to a hangover is as follows: "Urghhh..." I groan out loud for a totality of seven seconds. I'm coming back into the land of the living once more, slowly yet surely. I try to open my eyes, but they are met with a gigantic, bright light above me, and they shut again instantly. My pupils, though as tiny as can be due to the shock, burn from inside my eyelids. While the pain is fading the tighter I told my eyes closed, I realise how weird my body feels. It feels heavy, which is relatively normal, but the numbness is new to me. My head is still aching quite a bit, so I raise my left hand to hold my forehead in comfort, however my hand moves but an inch or two upwards before stopping, my wrist hitting something hard and cold. Even though I can still see the rays of the light above me shining through the tissue of my eyelids, I open them once again. They sting for a second, but I look away to my left hand. Upon inspection, I see a metal cuff of sorts holding my hand hostage. That isn't all that confuses me, for the next thing I notice is I'm not in my bed. I'm on a metal table. "What the hell ... " I trail off quietly. I lift my head to gain a better perspective and move my other hand in vain. I look around and take in my surroundings. I'm strapped to a metal table in a strange, white, tiled room.

Aside from slightly freaking out in my head, with my weakness from slumber wearing off more quickly (perhaps from my panic), I continue to look around in this unfamiliar room, trying to understand what is happening and where I am. There are white tiles across the walls, a door and a darkened window to my left and some complex computers to my right with a lot on the screens but nothing I can make out from where I am. What really catches my eye though, is what I spot towards the bottom of the table I'm on to my right: a slightly smaller table that has laid upon it, not only a scary - looking selection of medical equipment that looks like it was created for cutting into or torturing living things, but also a number of large syringes with needles as long as my middle finger. They are filled with a variety of coloured liquids. None of them pretty.

My head falls back onto the table. Worry is rising within my throat. I repeat in my head, I don't know where I am, I don't know why I'm here, and I don't know what happened for me to end up here. I mean, is this a hospital? It is all decorated in white, there is medical equipment, and there are computers possibly keeping track of my heart rate and blood pressure. As much as I would love to believe this theory of being in safe hands, the fact that I'm literally strapped down to what I've seen as operating tables in horror movies, makes me wonder if I'm actually in the basement of a mad scientist's house. That would explain me not being able to move, the scary cutting equipment, and the odd - looking information on the computer screens. Maybe that's it, maybe I'm being held captive by a madman. My head still aches. I don't know why I do it, I guess I'm just scared, but I say loudly, "Mum?" A few moments pass, so I lift my head again and aim my voice for the door, "Mum!" I shout. Nothing.

Wait.

I hear something on the other side of the door. I listen hard. It's a man. No, two. It sounds like a pair of men in a conversation. I'm still listening for anything that will give me clarity on my situation when the door suddenly swings open and in comes a tall man with fair hair, a strong physique, and what looks like a modern adaptation of the classic laboratory coats I've seen on detective shows many times before, with a lanyard around his neck, and a card that says Johnathan Bigsby on it. Johnathan immediately spots me with my head lifted from the table and stops in his tracks. We both stay silent as he seems to examine me for a long moment, he then turns around and goes straight back through the door. I hear the voices again, this time a little more distressed. I still haven't a clue what to think. A short minute or two passes and I see the door open and Johnathan enters once more, however this time he is accompanied by who I can assume was the other voice behind the door. This new man strolls in like he owns the place, or he is certainly the guy who runs it. He is taller than Johnathan, his hair is bleach blonde and his eyes are menacing, which goes perfectly with his smile. He isn't wearing a lab coat, he wears a suit. Overall, just looking at him makes my skin crawl. He looks like the kind of guy who knows where the bodies are buried, if you know what I mean.
He stares at me for a very long moment, and I stare right back, almost as if I'm trying to convince him that I'm not intimidated by him, as much as I'm trying to convince myself of that, too. Johnathan finally breaks the silence of our stare - off, "She is not meant to have woken up this early." The second man continues to stare at me, and without looking away, he asks, "Can we not sedate her again?" Johnathan answers, "No, Sir, a second dosage of the sedation compound could cause her brain or heart to shut down like the subjects before her." I feel my arms and my core tense a little at the thought of something shutting down my heart and brain, just like that. The unknown man's forehead wrinkles in thought as he looks over me, now curious in the rest of my body, creepily enough. Eventually, when he has moved around the table to be closer to the left side of my head, his lips curl into a smile that makes my spin tingle, he shrugs and says in a much less serious tone, "We will just have to administer to serums with the test subject awake." I start to panic a little bit in my head, 'Test subject'? What does he mean? This mysterious man leans down slowly until I feel his breath on my left ear, "Unluckily for you." I feel my face go hot. He leans upwards again. What the hell is this? I don't know what to do, I feel helpless, but I also know I'm not the scared little girl I used to be. I'm stronger than this and I know I have the right to know what's going on. On the other hand, I am scared. These men are talking about me as if I'm not even here, like maybe I don't understand them. Almost like I'm an animal or an alien. They say I'm a test subject? For the love of god, a test subject for what? Hell, I am scared. Screw this. I blurt out, "Where am I?"

Character Development by Alexandra Clifford, Sophie Holmes and Victoria Vinet

Have you ever wondered how authors create characters that keep you reading? Characters you fall in love with or wish you could punch in the face? It's all in the development! 

Creating your character(s)

When creating your character(s) it is imperative to develop them in such a way that will connect with the reader. That is, whether the readers love or hate them, your character(s) need to get under their skin. So long as you steer clear of clichés and stereotypes, and keep the people in your story relatable and imperfect, you’ve got a chance at creating an interesting character, and a worthwhile read.

"Interesting flaws humanize a character who is challenged to overcome inner doubts, errors in thinking, guilt or trauma from the past, or fear of and hopes for the future. Weaknesses, imperfections, quirks, and vices make a character more real and appealing. The audience can identify with the character." - Elizabeth English

Tips for developing character(s):

1.        Know your character.
   There is a relationship between the characters you create, and the readers whom they’re for; and theirs is a co-dependent one. The key to building rapport here is to know your character(s) in as much detail as possible. How old is your character? What do they desire? What are their habits – their routines? Who are their friends – what are their relationships like? Essentially, get to know them, like you know yourself.Understand your character(s) behaviors, tendencies, even if their tendency is to be inconsistent. Pay close attention to the way they react to situations, do they crack their knuckles when nervous? Do they bite their lips when frustrated? Be consistent in their speech and body language – familiarise your readers with them, it’ll make for better story telling if you decide to turn their world upside down.
   
   You don’t have to know everything about your character straight off the bat; some things will unfold in the process. The more knowledgeable you are of your character(s), the more you are able to exercise them in your writing, and so they become worthy of your reader’s attention, empathy and curiosity.
2.      Your character(s) purpose.What is the function of your character within your story? Why are they in the novel? What is their motivation? What is their goal for the end of the novel? Your audience will continue to read a novel if the character want’s something so bad they decide to step out of their comfort zone to begin their quest to success.
3.  .  Vulnerability.
   Showing a venerable side to your character(s) creates a personal connection to the reader. Allowing the reader to see your character(s) expose themselves with emotion hooks the reader. If you create a cantankerous character - for example ‘Carl Fredricksen’ (the old man from the Disney Pixar movie ‘UP’) - and do not expose his vulnerability to the audience, the audience will fail to connect to Carl. However, because the creators of ‘UP’ exposed the character of Carl in previous scenes of the movie, weeping over the loss of his wife, the audience are able to connect with Carl. Not only do they connect to Carl, they defend him and understand why he is so grumpy, and that he has the right to be.  

Character Development in Relation to Plot

Your main character must be challenged by the events of the plot. The best piece of advice I’ve been given regarding character development is to keep in mind that the characters we create are not like real people – they’re a great deal more complicated! Developing a character is, though, a lot like developing one’s own character in real life. These developments are chiselled into the grand sculpture that is your story, they’re determined by their decisions of your character(s); their subtleties and/or habits – whether physical or in speech – their wants, needs and motivations. Most importantly is what, when and how you choose to share these aspects of your character(s) with your reader.

Character development is entwined with a story’s plot – each is dependent on the other. If, for the purpose of a short story, I wrote about my journey to University in the literal way that I experience it, I would probably lose the reader’s interest. Why should they care? If, however, I wrote about the same journey more personable, I’m more likely to hold the reader’s attention. This is because in the latter approach I’m offering well-rounded information, not just an itinerary; whether this information is emotional, thoughtful, funny, it becomes substantial – something for the reader to unveil as a part of the bigger picture and on a smaller scale, to relate to.

“There are plenty of ways we can have people around us and not feel connected to them. Imagine you’re squashed up against commuters in a rush-hour train, or crowding into a lift, or standing in a queue. They’re bodies, not people - unless something breaks the ice. The same happens with characters in novels. Until the writer reveals a character’s humanity, they are just a name on a page, or a job description.”- Roz Morris

Our character(s) must function to relate to the events of the plot, and vice versa. One way to do this is to keep your attention on how each event makes your characters feel, and to express it in one or another. If you placed Oliver Twist and Beowulf in the event of a post-nuclear war-torn America, you will get two identifiable individual outcomes, this is because these are well-developed characters – the key to keeping a reader reading is the sustainability of the character(s) through changes within the plot.

Character development in relation to the reader

One of the most important things to consider when creating and developing a character is their rapport with the reader. The main thing to consider is how you want the character to be perceived by the reader, if for example you want the reader to feel empathetic towards a character, you could put your character in a situation that will reveal a weakness of theirs – making them a more accessible personality. Think carefully about their traits, their actions and the reasons behind their actions. Even the smallest detail can change a reader's mind, so it’s important to be precise. Another thing to think about the reader’s relationship with your character(s) is how they interact with the other characters.

There are various archetypes to choose or to stem from when creating your character(s). Your 'round' character, commonly referred to as the protagonist, is the most important. There are also 'static', ‘dynamic’ and/or 'flat' characters (see image description below). All three types can be pivotal to the story. An author should know their main characters the way they know a real person, the reader should be able to recognise or relate to such a character. Focus on dialogue and description, give the reader as much information as possible about your main character.

You would also have to consider what would makes said character a 'round' character, and what response you want readers to have. As previously mentioned, when it comes to round characters, they are your focus; they are the story’s focus. Most if not all of the events of the story should relate to or affect them in some way. Who your character is as a person will be what allows the readers to make their judgments – will they like or dislike them? How does this affect the plot, and why does it matter?

Character development is important when it comes to creating a story. To know and understand your character(s) and what type of character(s) they are, as well as how they relate to the story and the readers, is crucial to dynamic and creative writing.

Alex Pritchard Year 2- Cold

Pale daylight rests on a frozen world,

Cloudy mirrors,

Frosted flowers,

Enduring snowmen I built last year.

Night settles on silent snow,

Wet paths,

Lost snowflakes,

My hands refuse to leave their warm pockets.

Flickering ghosts shower from empty buildings,

Exchanging mute words,

Lonely crowds,

I force out the ice in my lungs.

A mist that obscures everything,

White safety,

Opaque hearts,

I remain unchanging.

My Aristotelian tragic hero: Lucinda Fountain, Year 1

Cast –                                                 

Protagonist; Alexander the Great

Antagonist; Darius III 

Protagonist’s advisor; Antipater

Protagonist’s love interest; Roxana

Protagonist’s right-hand guy; Alexander's general, Parmenion

 Scene 5

[Set in 332 BC, in the Kingdom of Macedon ruled by Alexander the Great. His father Phillip II was assassinated by the King of Persia, Darius III in the Battle of Chaeronea (338 BC). Seeking vengeance he’s plotted to poison Darius and claim the region of Thrace.]

[The theatre in Aigai, Greece]

Alexander enters stage left. Striding out purposefully, to stand on the skene. Antipater simultaneously enters stage right.

Antipater: I entreat thee, to heed mine reservations, of Megas Basileus disposition.

Nay, abandon these pernicious schemes!

Alexander: Loyalty cloven; twofold deception interwoven.

Antipater: Alack, Sir, no –trusting thee deceiver, to deceive –thyself

Wronged in judgement. For, he’s to be trusted!

Alexander: you dare, to defy me!

Make haste in acquiring poison –fie! Flee

Erroneous errors; blunders.

         Exeunt Antipater. Scene fades to black. [Enter Parmenion –flustered and agitated]

Parmenion: I feel duty-bound to impart; grave news,

Doth deny, an appeased rapt heart.

Alexander: For shame –my faith in confidents, this day wanes.

Parmenion: [glances at his feet, lachrymose]

Alas, I lament that woe, which I grievously bestow!

Alexander: [countenance softens] 

A penitent pardon –pray, speak

Parmenion: It concerneth beloved Roxana.

                 [A chilling pause]

Darius defiled, a puritas plant!

     A blazoned banding, as Darius, seeketh supremacy

                 Taints—beauty’s burgeoning bud.   

         Thence as mildness, riled

[His voice breaks. Speech ceases]

Alexander: speak –I beseech thee!

Parmenion: She’s a fragmented, foliated flower

[Scene fades out. Alexander and Darius at the Deli River –stand facing one another. Darius holds Parmenion’s severed head aloft].

Darius: I contest, to this hypocrisy.

                   I deceived thee; secondary deceiver –shalt be reprieved

As a choice is laid before, thee  

Presently acquitted; in exile.  

Or, your people will die,

          As I, maketh Roxana thy bride!

Alexander: Nay, darkness shalt resteth –blessed

Darius: Taketh belladonna leaf

A draught which intended for me;

            Shalt leadeth–serendipity, odyssey

Whilst I delight, in such pernicious plight!

              An eternal rest, in your death.

Alexander: By my faith, verily

Enmity, animosity –this day divides; hides

           Kuningas’ lies –it shalt be your demise, as I die!

[Scene fades to black. Alexander the great’s death is remembered in song and folklore].

WAIT- By Tanaka Sasha sorry for the wait guys lol

The clock strikes 10:30

no more waiting 

Sorry to interrupt but I could’t wait

I know he said you should lose weight 

I know that you’re happy in the skin you’re in

So don’t let him tell you your food is sin 

Before you change anything think about it

wait..

My word is true you shouldn’t doubt it

Don’t chase someone’s idea of perfection

when you won’t even recognise your reflection 

Don’t walk away just hear me out

let’s keep this a secret i don’t want to shout 

You’ve probably never seen me but I notice you 

My words touched a nerve so you know it’s true

You could watch the days go by

Spread your wings you need to fly

I had to say something, finally relived of all

weight…

He won’t let you rise only fall

The clock strikes 10:30

still waiting...

My Aristotelian Hero: Delilah - Ellora Sutton

Delilah was three things. Thirdly, she was a princess, a second born child; she had an older brother whom she had never known. Secondly, by virtue of being the second child and first daughter, she was a nun; it was a tradition in the royal family from which she was born that the first daughter born would be sent to the Convent of the Sisterhood. Firstly, she was in love. He was a young man, a few years older than herself, and he climbed in through her bedroom window at the Convent every night just to see her, to hold her face in his hands like it was the moon, and in those moments she worshipped a god other than the one in her Bible. He told her his name - by some wicked sense of humour - was Samson. And she believed him. He promised her, with his wide tangerine eyes and voice like smoke, that they would one day elope. And she believed him.

The only member of her family that Delilah was allowed contact with was her mother, a river of a woman always dressed in sin red. One day she came to Delilah, telling her in a flutter that her father, the king, was near to death and was thus to be transferred to the Convent for palliative nursing. Along with him would come the prince, the brother that Delilah had never met. The queen told her that he was an awful man that had yet to grow out of being a boy; a man who took on alcohol like a sinking ship takes on water, a man who gambled money like it was dust, a man who snuck out at night, every night to various houses of sin. He would ruin the nation, she said, if were allowed to come into power. And Delilah believed her. The queen gave Delilah strict instructions of what she should do; she was to sneak into the prince’s room that very evening and kill him. This would leave Delilah the only heir to the throne, placing the nation in much safer hands; it was Delilah’s holy duty, the queen had said. And Delilah believed her.

That night, having fortified herself with prayer and lamb’s-blood tears, she went to the royal chambers of the Convent. The door was unlocked and it whisper-screamed as she creaked it open. The room was as black as the pupil’s of a dead man’s eyes, but Delilah knew the way to the bed, guided by the soft lulling snores of the sleeping prince, her sleeping brother. She stood at the foot of his bed, dagger in hand, and paused. She didn’t want to do it, she wasn’t sure she could, but her mother had told her to and the Bible said it was a sin to disrespect or disobey one’s parents. And Delilah believed it. So she plunged the dagger into the coffin of her brother’s chest. There was no sound. She pulled open the curtain to look upon the face of her sin, and her heart ruptured. For there he was, her Samson, her lover, her brother, her prince, all one in the same. When she hit the ground, her cheeks matched the death-grey of her brother’s, her lover’s.

The king died that night, smothered by his queen who found it all too easy to place the blame on her daughter, saying she had gone mad with jealousy at the life her family got to lead whilst she herself was trapped in a convent. The queen was crowned sole ruler the next day, with a ruby in her crown the same colour as her children’s blood.

My Aristotelian tragic Hero. Arabella - by Alexandra Clifford.

Arabella slouched her posture as she stood before the older man. The braids in her hair were a little too neat, and her wide eyes darted at the chaos around her. Quivering in the coldness, puffs of white air left her defined lips. The man watched as her whole body jumped at the sound of a horse and carriage trotting past, splashing icy water onto the cobbled pavement. “You’re not from around here are you, Miss?” Arabella’s chin chattered as she clenched her dark cape at her chest. She looked at the man’s warm eyes. Although he was bald, the stubble on his face was beginning to turn grey. She felt as though she could trust him. But that was in Arabella’s nature. She wanted to see the good in everyone. “No.” Arabella spoke softly. “I’m from…” She glanced at the moon in the sky, casting light upon the castle in the hilltop. Home. “Just outside of town. I’m looking for a friend.”

A fresh layer of snow began to set upon the last. The man nodded and took off his coat, placing it around her small frame. “Let’s get you a nice glass of Ale. Warm those bones up of yours.” Arabella attempted a smile and nodded, following the man in his tracks. “What’s your name anyway, Miss?” Arabella fluttered her eyelashes pondering over a name. There was only one Arabella in this town, the Princess. “Liz.” The man looked over his shoulder, watching the girl muttering to herself. He smiled. The man knew Liz wasn’t her real name, but decided not to question her on it, “I’m Eddie.” 

My Aristotelian Tragic Hero - Josh Ferguson

This is my attempt at creating a tragic hero using what is discussed in Aristotle's Poetics. Hope you enjoy!

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My Aristotelian Tragic Hero - Harry Draper

The Dancing Dame 

Ah, Miss Ruby Rose. I remember her, pretty little thing on the west side of town. Used to do shows for the burlesque house once a week as their main act. A blonde babe for all the dirty rich man who thought they had a chance to throw money at. She had it, and it worked like a charm.  

One fella had a shot with her though: Duncan Jones. See, this man was some kinda big cheese in the film industry, a director if I'm not mistaken. Miss Rose loved the lights and the stardom that came with dancing, but she must've thought she was better than that. Now... what would a beautiful, young gal like her do when a "proposition" was made to get on that fancy, red carpet? Exactly what you think. 

Only problem was, some rag-a-muffin press decided to follow them and record their "business transition." This guy had been stuck on Ruby for some few months now, even got into her apartment one time to be welcomed to some bruises and a very, very sore head. But now he had something she wanted. He had her innocence printed on a polaroid. Her only chance of being the next Marion Davies all depended on thoughts on some no-good sleezeball. 

"Hey you. 

Look, I know we got off on the wrong foot. 

And, I did some things that I wish I didn't. 

But I was just angry. Scared. 

Plus, you know how close I am to this movie deal now. 

You see, everyone knows about my dancing, but...those pictures? 

They just won't do. 

So, I was thinking, 

Maybe we can just meet up and talk. 

And then, maybe we can forget about those pictures, ok baby?" 

That was the most recent message sent to the press' telephone in his home. We found this along with the photos, some papers, and the scumbag himself laying face-down on the bed. Half-naked, dick wet with his own blood and scissors straight through his throat. Pretty sure Miss Rose is outta town by now, cause either this fella was fresh outta cash or our dancing dame made a withdrawal. God knows where she is now...