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

Surrealism, OULIPO and Writing Practice: Creative Residency at UCA

Yesterday, Creative Writing students at UCA spent the day with researcher and writer Sonia Friel, who is the creative resident this week at Farnham. She is running a variety of workshops throughout the week yesterday students were exposed to the work of the surrealists and how they use a variety of games to stimulate creativity and thought about process. A strong emphasis here is on the free play of association between disparate materials and ideas. This is such a useful idea because there is no expectation on the part of the writer that what they produce is ‘finished’ or polished; it is something that is made with little expectation and lots of curiosity. 

              

In the afternoon, Sonia gave a presentation about the OULIPO movement and their ideas about the connections between mathematics, literature and the idea of form. We were exposed to some works that place a high level of constraint on the writer, often with the use of generative patterns, such as in Queneau’s famous ‘One Hundred Thousand Billion Sonnets’. The emphasis here is on creating ‘potential literature’; which can be born out rules, regulations and rhythms. The group then worked on a series of exercises that challenged them to be creative with boundaries by having boundaries to their creativity. We looked at the Haiku form and created ‘larded’ Haikus by combining different students’ work. 

                

Overall, I can’t emphasise enough what a great start to term this was. This week students were flung headlong into a variety of ways of thinking about, analysing and producing texts and I hope they’ve found it enjoyable, challenging and an example of how the course mixes the theoretical and the practical.

If you wish to find out more about what Sonia is doing around UCA, she has very usefully written a blog about it: http://ucaarchives.wordpress.com/

-          

     

 Dr Craig Jordan-Baker