wordvoodoo

Justice

2011-04-11T22:04:00.000+01:00

Judge Wilson looked down at the huge stack of papers on his desk and sighed. Paper, paper, that’s all my life seems to be revolving around. His latest case was that of a mass murder. He shook his head when he thought about it. The defence had everything, proof against the crime, eye-witnesses disagreeing with what the prosecutor’s client saw, and above all, a staggering amount of money.

Something was bothering him though, he just couldn’t place his finger on it. He reviewed the file countless times, again and again, looking for something against the man who reputedly killed those 5 innocent people. Maybe they’re right, perhaps this is just a misunderstanding. People get confused, hell, I do more times than I can count. The case had lasted for weeks, Judge Wilson had done everything he could to extend the case, looking for clues that would tell him if the man actually did it… Action would have to be taken this morning, if not, the case would have to shut down.

Judge Wilson recalled the time when he was still a boy, his teacher questioning him on why he wanted to become a judge.

‘M-m-mister Scott, you wanted to see me?’

Mr Scott’s office was a large, menacing room, surrounded by dark, thick walls. Heavy wooden chairs sat next to the looming front desk. Mr Scott’ office was not a place most kids wanted to be.

‘ Ah yes, Jeffrey, please sit down. Now, don’t worry you’re not in trouble. I just wanted to ask you something. An interesting remark came on your report this morning. It was the career selection. Now, most kids your age chose rockstar, basketball player, racer, but you chose, judge. Why is that?’

‘ I-I want to put evil people behind bars, where they belong, sir’

‘ Hmmm… Well Jeffrey, answer me this one question, if all the evidence pointed towards a man saying that he was guilty, but deep down inside, you knew he was not, what would you do? Would you let him go free, or sentence him to prison?’

‘I-I would let him go free sir.’

Judge Wilson never knew if he had answered what his teacher wanted him to. Shaking his head once more, he headed up to the courthouse.

‘Order, order!’ Judge Wilson shouted. ‘The court is ready to continue the case of Dr. Mathew Parkman, the prosecutor, against Mr. Alan Flint.’ Time blurred past. Judge Wilson sighed. It looked as if the man was going to go free after all. Just as he was about to declare the case closed, he looked at the accuse murderer. The tantalizing smell of freedom dulled his senses, and for a moment, his mask slipped. At that moment, Judge Wilson saw the evil, the hatred, the deceit in that man. He thought he would just walk away, freely.

Judge Wilson knew the consequences of what he was about to do. He could lose his job, his life, his friends. Nothing, however, shook that sense of justice from his mind. He took a deep breath and stood up with a fierce determination in his eye. His hammer ringed down thrice, each strike resonating powerfully throughout the courtroom. ‘Mr. Flint declared guilty. Case over.’

Knots and Crosses by Ian Rankin

2011-04-11T21:38:00.001+01:00

I believe this extract is the best, considering it has an oddly compelling and mysterious ring to it... It starts off in a sense of confusion, with no one knowing what's going on and what's happening, slowly being filled in, then the abrupt but resonating end... Fantastic piece of writing..

1983 by David Peace

2011-04-10T23:57:00.004+01:00

This extract is definitely an attention grabbing one, mainly because it immediately starts off with suspense where the reader wants to know what is going on. Also the idea of the repetition going on through the plot at the end is reversed giving it a unique, although graphic idea. Knots and Crosses was also favorable due to the simplicity of it which adds just enough curiosity to keep you reading and the atmosphere of it, giving a rather classic crime fiction vibe.

Not Just a Dream...

2011-04-10T23:56:00.001+01:00

There I was breathing heavily, as he held the trigger just centimetres away from my face. I was so scared I couldn’t move, thinking that if I had even moved a muscle that trigger would probably have been pulled. The heat was unbearable, the room felt so stuffed that if an old man had been there he probably would have suffocated. Still holding the gun in his hand, with an evil threatening voice, the man said to me,

“No worries, you’ll be joining your ancestors in just a matter …of …sec-” As he said the last word, he had pulled the trigger and the final word he said was blown out by the sound of an explosion. I woke up. My face was full of sweat and my heart was beating as fast as the drums of a rock and roll band. It was just the dream again, this reccurring nightmare coming to haunt me.

Morning came as I drove on my way to work, I work as a crime investigator. In the past 2 weeks there have been 4 murders predictably by the same murderer. First murder, April 12^th, Brooke Thatcher. April 15^th Margaret Shields, April 21^st Bobby Smith and April 23^rd Katie Baker. All murders took place in the middle of the night at their house, all were killed the same way, they were shot twice in the neck. The latest murder, Katie Baker, happened to be a close friend of mine, she told me before died that she got an unknown message saying that shes ‘next’.

Jack, my partner, barged into my office.

"Miss Current, there has been a report of another murder of a young boy by the name of Sam Maurice. Two bullets found in his neck."

“Sam Maurice, Sam Maurice…hm” I said, as his name sounded vaguely familiar. “Sam Maurice! Hes in the same class as my son! Poor boy, we must find out who this murderer is and stop him!”

The day went by as I got into bed. I breathed heavily and calmly closed both my eyes. Right before me, I see his face. He reloads the trigger, turns around and tells me;

“My, my, my… these days have been just far too busy for me, first Thatcher, then Shields, then Smith and the list goes on… but don’t worry my dear, I’ve still got time for you…” He points his gun to my direction, pulls the trigger, the bullet exits the gun and I wake up. Its morning.
I get out of bed and check the mail. I get a message with no postage stamp or name, all it says is that it is addressed to me. I open it up and in letters cut out from magazines and newspapers the letter seems to read out:
“Your next… From, the man of your dreams”

A Familiar Face

2011-04-10T21:01:00.003+01:00

He sat up from his bed. It was 2AM and his phone was ringing. He rubbed his eyes, got dressed quickly and threw on his trench coat with a groan. He arrived at the alley with police cars blocking the scene.

“Inspector, there was another one” Said the Lieutenant rushing towards him. The inspector took out a cigar and lit it, puffing casually.

“mhm”

“Should I fill you in? At around one there was a call from Janace Walters- She’s right over there, sir- announcing that she heard a shooting-”

“Yaddy ya ya, Markus. Just take me to the scene” the inspector puffed. They splashed their way through the rain puddles towards a figure lying on the ground, blood covering her white blouse and her hands clasped together, almost as if she was sleeping.

“Emily Adams, 29, worked at the diner just up the road. She was on her way home from her last shift.” Markus read off his notepad. “The thing is, inspector, is that this is the fifth shooting in the past two weeks. They were all with the same bullet. We can’t go on like this. The press wants answers. The captain doesn’t know what to do.”

“and we’ll give ’em answers, when we’ve got ’em” The inspector snapped.

He looked at her face. It was a beautiful, calm face. He wrinkled his eyebrows. He knew that face.

“What didja say her name was?” He growled.

“Emily Adams”

He didn’t know the name. But where had he seen the face before? It was a familiar face. He knew that face. He knew her, but from where? Where had he seen her?

After they had spent hours inspecting everything at the scene, they covered her and carried her away.

“We’ll talk about this tomorrow. Get some rest, inspector” They said.

But the inspector couldn’t go to bed the next night. He knew that face but he didn’t know where. At 2 in the morning the next night, there was a knock on the door.

Grudgingly, he lifted himself out of his bed and opened it.

In front of him stood three police men.

“Sir, you’re going to have to come with us”

“What?”

“Sir, we have another problem. And take your gun.”

Confused, the inspector took his gun and they drove him to the department. They took his gun but returned moments later.

“What’s all this about?” He asked.

“Sir, after we found your DNA on Emily Adam we found that your unregistered gun traces to the bullets used to kill the five people we have been investigating. You have to come with us.”

The inspector stared at them. Kill five people? Impossible. He couldn’t have. He didn’t. He would never. His hands shaking, he allowed them to guide the way

Extract 3- End in Tears by Ruth Rendell

2011-04-10T19:58:00.003+01:00

This extract caught my attention the most. Unlike the other extracts, this one had dialogue and descriptions making it more interesting. In this extract, we get the descriptions of what is happening, but we do not know why or where it is happening and we begin to wonder what comes next, and who the character is. Sometimes with stories, there are too many descriptions that make the story boring (for example in extract 4) and with continuous descriptions, it begins to feel like it is going on and on and on. With the simple language used in this extract and the short sentences, we can feel tension being created especially in the line "the third minute passed. the fourth." instead of having "The third minute passed and then the fourth minute passed." I also liked how we discovered some of the characteristics of the character without them being obvious. The line "He hated anticlimaxes. The silver honda could have taken another route." shows the reader that the character is quite impatient. This extract was simple, but had very detailed components that made the story tense.

Galbally

2011-04-10T15:40:00.001+01:00

Greg sat up straight in his bed. Eyes wide open, and drenched in sweat, he could still feel the knife in his stomach.

He moved his trembling hand towards the spot where he'd been stabbed. Nothing. Slowly he sank back into his bed. It was just another dream. This had been going on for almost a week now.

He checked the time, not surprised any more at what it said; 04.52. Not only did his dreams get more violent and detailed per night, he also wakes up 2 minutes later per night. Guessing that that was not the only pattern that seemed to repeat, he assumed that his dream would not continue and he could sleep for the remaining 2 hours.

That assumption was wrong. This night his dream continued...

At 7am, Greg was so exhausted that he did not hear his alarm clock go off, and he slept 2 more hours. As he realized what had happened, he reached to his phone to call his boss, that he would not come in today, he is sick. Next he dialled his sister's number, and told her that he would come over in a hour and he needed someone to talk with.

-It is the same dream every night and started last week, Friday.

-Tell me about the dream

-I try to escape, but my killer is faster. 2 nights ago was the first time I got stabbed. Every night, the dream lasts a bit longer and more happens. Tonight, I was laying on the cold floor, gasping for air. My attacker simply stood above me watching in silence. That's when it ended. But then I fell asleep again, and it continued. He took off his mask and I could see his face.

-Do you recognize him, know him from somewhere?

- No, I don't, but he seems so familiar! Sue, I know every detail of that dream, I even know the name of street; its Westmoore street. And for some reason I also know that I am in Galbally, you know, the town some miles south from here.

- Greg, I am worried about you, you look completely pale! Go sit in front of the TV I'll make you some tea and breakfast.

Greg didn't argue and went to the sofa and turned on the TV. He flipped through some channels and stopped at the local news channel as he couldn't believe what he sees.

The reporter in the screen said: 'And today’s breaking news: there has been a murder in Galbally. A young man has been stabbed at night in an empty street. So far there are no suspects but Policemen are still investigating around the area.'

The Misunderstanding

2011-04-09T22:41:00.000+01:00

He was sitting in his apartment; lighting a cigarette while waiting. The phone suddenly rang.

‘Yes?’ he picked up the phone and answered.

‘Is everything going as planned?’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘You leave in 15 minutes. 27^th Oak Street is the location. Remember; stick to the plan. I don’t want you screwing up this time.’

‘I won’t, sir, I promise.’

There were a few seconds of silence, and then his boss hung up. He collected his weapon and left the house. He was there within the next 10 minutes; waiting around the corner for Mr. John Jones to come home from work. Three minutes past by and he heard the sound of a car approaching the house. He hid himself. You could hear footsteps coming towards the door. He was still waiting for the right moment, for the moment where he would do as he was told and get the job done. The night was dark; darker than it usually would be. It was only a matter of seconds. Only a few short seconds it took him to do this. Nobody knows how he managed to do it so quickly. Suddenly the sound of a gunshot filled the empty space…

He woke up the next morning relieved that he had finished the job. He had done his duty. He turned on the TV to watch the news. The reporter was talking about a crime that had taken place the night before.

‘… It happened at this very house, in 27^th Oak Street. The police suspect that it was a case of murder that happened here last night. John Jones came home last night to find Ralf Jones, his brother dead. The police had already arrived before he got home …’ the reporter continued.

He sat in front of the TV with his mouth wide open. ‘This can’t be…’ he thought to himself. He jumped when his phone rang. It was his boss.

‘Hello?’

‘You see what you have done??? You have ruined EVERYTHING. You can’t even follow simple instructions, can you?’ His boss shouted with an angry voice.

‘But sir, I thought it was the right person…. I SWEAR IT!!!’ He replied while shaking.

‘YOU CAN’T DO ANYTHING RIGHT. You’re ABSOLUTELY USELESS!!!’ His boss shouted in an even louder tone.

‘PLEASE, SIR…. Let me explain!!!’ He said in fear.

‘THAT’S ENOUGH! I have just about had it! I don’t want you working for me anymore. YOU’RE FIRED!’ His boss shouted.

His boss then hung up on him...

A Lunch To Die For

2011-04-09T21:03:00.003+01:00

Sergeant Rory Maccallum was annoyed. Annoyed at these stupid little things which had stopped him getting the promotion he rightly deserved for years. Annoyed at how his wife was always eyeing his colleagues , especially the ones in uniform. Annoyed at his Detective inspector, who never gave him any decent cases, none of the ones which would maybe get him his promotion, up to Detective Sergeant.
Another beer or ten, and he might forget. So he got up, and went from his happy place, in a land where DI Donald aka DI Duck didn’t exist, along with his wife, and many other deeply annoying things such as taxes, his colleagues in uniform and paperwork didn’t exist, to his almost spartan living room, and started moving, towards his kitchen, where he kept the beer in a separate fridge, another 2 degrees colder than their proper one. Others may say he didn’t know much about his job, but no one could ever have said he didn’t know his beer.
One beer later, he was moving back to his favourite armchair when he dropped his unopened can. Bending to pick it up, he noticed his wife approaching, quickly, holding his uncooked and still frozen dinner. He even saw her arm descending, and even felt the first blow hit his head, but no more.

Finished, she dropped the lamb coil, now slick with her husband’s blood. No doubt people would find out, her worry wasn’t how to hide it, but how to pass the blame.
Maybe plead insanity? No, then it’d be off to the loony bin with her.
Dump his body in a ditch somewhere? Tempting, but no. The fat bastard must have weighed a tonne.
Maybe make it seem like a burglary gone wrong? Sure, she could do that. Only one problem. How to get rid of the murder weapon?

***

“Okay, people! Mrs Maccallum here has made us a wee bit o’ lunch, so ye can qui' scrapin' the puir bastard’s brains aff the walls,” started Inspector Whyte, only stopping after Vincent tapped him on the shoulder, and nodded in the direction of the late Sergeant’s wife. “Erm, wha' A meant is, erm...”
“What inspector Whyte meant is lets take a break, seeing as Doreen here has made us some lunch.” Vincent sprang in, and turned to Doreen. “so… What have you made, and where is it?”
“There’s a wee bit of lamb fer everyone, an’ some veggies tae,” she replied in broad Glaswegian, smiling in an odd way, “an’ I’ll be happy fer everone o’ yous tae eat their fair share.”
The officers filed past, chorusing their thanks with a few “ta”s and “thank ye”s.
None of them heard her muttering. None of them would have made sense of it any way.
“Almost cannibalistic, this is. Aye, almost cannibals. An’ none o’ them’ll e’er find it.”

Extract 3, End in Tears by Ruth Rendell

2011-04-09T20:37:00.000+01:00

I found that this piece was the best one out of all the other pieces of crime fiction that I read. It was very well written. What I liked a lot about this piece was that the style of writing was simple, yet was written in a way which was appealing to the reader. When I started reading this piece, I didn’t get tired of the story line and found myself wanting to continue reading in order to find out how it ends. For instance, at some part of the story which was towards the end, the writer was writing about what was happening in every minute that passed by before the murder was going to take place; and that made the reader anxious to find out what would happen at the final minute in which the person was going to be killed. The story was short, but also very effective.

Crime Fiction

2011-03-30T10:51:00.002+01:00

I think we can probably leave our iambs behind for a little while now. I think some of you simply need to practise the technique independently; you are all still finding it difficult, but really it will be down to how much energy and time you are willing and able to put into it independently now; further tasks will not necessarily help at this stage, and might just start to irritate you!

So now we shall move on to some more prose fiction. For the following tasks, we shall follow the same format: a) a commentary on an excerpt of prose; and b) your own piece of original writing.

This week, we shall focus on writing some CRIME fiction.

You will all, no doubt, be familiar with 'crime' as a TV or movie genre: I, for one, am totally gripped by each year's new series of the UK series Waking the Dead, Silent Witness or Wire in the Blood. But I don't know how many of you have read much crime fiction.

As with many popular genres, the shelves of your bookshop are full of two different types of crime fiction: popular, generic, shallow, derivative stuff aimed predominantly at a mass market and pretty devoid of anything especially 'creative, inventive and original'; and, also, more 'literary' fare, writing that grabs hold of and wrestles with the conventions of the genre, and reworks them in a highly original and imaginative fashion. Unsurprisingly, it is the latter for which I would like you to aim.

Part One

You have all been emailed 5 extracts from different pieces of contemporary crime fiction. I would like you to choose which of them you feel is the most effective, and explain precisely why you have made that choice. Using examples to back up your points, try to get to the bottom of what, in your opinion, makes for effective crime fiction, identifying techniques which you might, yourself, try to explore in your own writing for Part Two.

Part Two

Now it is your turn: write your own excerpt of crime fiction, in which you demonstrate your own ability to interpret this popular genre in an original and compelling way. It is up to you whether your piece represents the opening of a longer novel, the end of an individual chapter, or just an 'abstract' - provided that it still works in isolation (i.e. on its own). As well as focusing on the genre-specific features of language and style, think also about the structure of your piece: few genres are more reliant on a build up to a strong (and sometimes surprising) climax. Aim for between 300-450 words (and try not to go too much below or above this).

Good luck!

This task is due by midnight on Saturday 9th March 2011.

As always, here is my attempt:

His First Case

You wake, surprised by the dark. You can smell him, although you do not realise that yet. You sit up, briefly, and hear nothing. Dreams, punctured, claw at you, vying to drag you under. You sag and fall into the mattress he bought. You can hear him, although you do not realise that yet either. Sleep comes.

You wake again; the dark is predictable now. You cannot smell him or hear him, but you think you can. Your dream has spilt over, torpid but bulging. He is in your dream; quickly, reluctantly, you rejoin him.

You do not wake. Still, listless, the darkness drinks you. He can smell you now; he can hear you too, the crackle of your congested breath half stifled by your pillow. He watches, waiting, your stale perfume tickling his senses like a red rag. The blade is the only beam, conducting light from nowhere. He shines it on your face. Your mouth. Your neck.

The cut is languorous. The metal strokes your throat, teasing the blood in one, perpetual exhalation. The white sheets purple in the bladelight. Your scent changes; he is relieved.

Freshly shaven, a pale elastoplast barely covering one clumsy nick, I cannot see when I first cross the threshold: they have left the curtains closed, left everything. I carry a small torch. I shine it on your face. Your mouth. Your neck.

I can smell him. I think I can hear him, but I can't. The blue light speaks, silently, outside the window. I buckle, bend over, vomit - ruddy specks raining through my torchlight.

Your eyes are staring at me. I cannot escape your gaze. I take out my notebook and begin

Where is the love?

2011-03-17T19:44:00.000Z

This strange feeling, it takes you by surprise,

Its unknown, is it cloudy or clear?

Will we know what it is when it starts to rise?

Is love what you see or what you hear?

Is it soul mates designed from first sight?

Or are we in love several times?

We search for it and sometimes we have to fight,

And when it’s lost? Where do we find the signs?

Is love a puzzle, is love a maze?

When all is done and gone, love will remain,

Will we feel it around through every phase?

It’s there through the grief, despair and pain,

What do we look for when it’s not known?

Do we have to search for it alone?

Love

2011-03-16T23:20:00.001Z

I’m bound by a feeling so deep and wide,
So huge, so delicate, so strong, so loud,
That I cannot, and will, not push aside,
Of which I’m infinitely proud,
A feeling without which, I’m lost, I’m spent,
Bound to one so short, bound to one so good,
She is one who as if by Venus sent,
She fuels the fire of passion like dry wood.
She grab’d control of mine mortal man’s heart,
With her, for all the gold of this large world,
I would not voluntarily part.
Even were my mind to become unfurl’d,
I’d still recognise and wildly love,
Someone I will never bore or tire of.

I will love him forever...

2011-03-16T21:25:00.000Z

What a wonderful feeling love can be…

As wonderful as a beautiful rose…

A person by my side who is so dear to me

And day by day…our love grows and grows

Every day I see his wonderful face

And remember how lucky I am to have him

Then I feel that my heart begins to race

And I know it must be love I feel for him

I have never felt this way before

Ever since I met him the hole in my heart was untied

There is no one else I would ask for

Because he is the only one I want by my side

The future is very hard to tell; however

But all I know is that I will love him forever…

LOVE

2011-03-14T19:46:00.000Z

The sun shines quite strongly in the summer,

The birds sing while spreading their mighty wings,

The scent of divine flowers and lovers,

The feeling between two people can bring.

An unexplainable definition,

In which words cannot seem to interpret,

Adrenaline, working on a mission

With the heart and mind hoping to be worth it.

People fall in love, so keep up ahead,

The goal of life, to have a longtime friend.

Love is in the air, as always is said,

Cliché it may seem but true in the end.

The comfort when you look into their eyes,

The feeling no one can ever despise.

Love comes around again

2011-03-14T19:04:00.001Z

Wonderful times, the feeling must not end,

And yet it does, regret, pain and sorrow,

Some hope remains that he will be my friend.

Love stays, no matter what strength you borrow.

Life goes on, still memory does remain.

A wish to repeat what has once ocurred

A wish that is so deep you go insane.

A wish not just insane but quite absurd.

Some day new love is found and suddenly,

The joy, delight and pride can start once more.

A new life begun, without a hint of misery,

And never again will that heart be sore.

Love's uncontrollable, tough and endless,

Enjoy it and simply say out loud: YES!

Love

2011-03-14T18:53:00.002Z

How can love be interpreted simply?

Love is a fickle beast, arduous to tame

Love cannot be measured, seldom clearly

Love is mysterious, having no name

Love comes in various different forms

None of them clear enough to comprehend

Love is like a fire, blazing, bright and warm,

Love is like iron, and can never bend

Love is both a blessing and a burden

It leaves us yearning and begging for more

The heart is fragile, treated by surgeons

Love is a curious thing, opening doors

A man cannot be stopped, if struck by love

Love is love, from depths below to above

A Sonnet

2011-03-06T16:49:00.006Z

I have been very impressed by how you have wrestled and fought with iambic pentameter over the past couple of tasks. I think it is proving a little harder than some of you anticipated, but you are making real headway nonetheless. Iambic pentameter is the crucial building block, obviously - but so many of you have either cracked this now, or, if you haven't then you have ALMOST done so.

However, I am not convinced you are reading each other's attempts fully - and, even more importantly, each other's COMMENTS. It is from the moderators' comments and suggestions that you will learn the most - and they are making lots of extremely useful points every time. Have you tried out all their suggested ideas and strategies? Are you confident you are doing your best to learn from what they say? Please make the most of this valuable resource.

Best of all, however, some of you are managing to do so without sacrificing the power of your poetry itself. This is the real challenge: a synthesis of CONTENT (choice of language and what it is about) and FORM (rhyme, rhythm etc.). In fact, you can look at it mathematically:

powerful CONTENT + disciplined FORM = effective POETRY

Now for this week's task - and it's a DIFFICULT one. Your first, complete SONNET.

These are the rules of the English (or Shakespearean) SONNET:

It must be written in IAMBIC PENTAMETER (i.e. x5 dee-DUMs)
It will be 14 lines long, and consist of x3 quatrains (4 lines) and x1 final couplet (2 lines)
It will have a strict rhyme scheme (abab cdcd efef gg) - please see me if you are not completely clear what this means.

The challenge is putting all these things TOGETHER!

And what should your sonnet be about? Well, I know I'm a couple of weeks late, but what better topic than to do as Shakespeare did, and write about LOVE?

So, good luck! And please make sure your attempts are online by midnight next Sunday 13th March.

Here's my attempt at a 'Valentine's Day' sonnet. See if you can find the one iambic error:

I'm ten years old when first I fall in love
And Jennifer is my beloved's name.
An angel who has tumbled from above,
She kindles in my heart a burning flame.
And when she asks to be my Valentine,
I can't believe what I am being told.
She offers me her heart; I give her mine,
Together with a chain of fakest gold.
But later, when she gives my love the sack,
Repudiating every vain embrace,
I make it clear I want the trinket back
And, tearful, Jenny throws it in my face.
Misunderstood and unrequited too,
My love found none deserving until you.

Happiness

2011-02-21T11:33:00.002Z

This feeling so foreign, so unknown,
It rushes through me, strong and exciting,
Does this mean I will never be alone?
My fears are no longer frightening,
My heart has not always been true,
Everything strange, everything amiss,
After everything I have been through,
I deserve this, It's time for my bliss.

Pride

2011-02-20T22:53:00.000Z

A mortal sin, a dreadful thing, this feel,
Yet so good, so unbelievably good,
It matters to some of us a good deal,
Will make us happy, incredibly rude,
And simply unbearable to others,
Yet something we all want to be quickly,
It makes some to enemies, or brothers,
A feeling so wonderful, heavenly.

Love

2011-02-20T12:11:00.000Z

You came and healed the hole I had inside
You told me I would be alright
I can not count the times I'd cried
Before you saved me with your shining light
You gave me hope and made me strong
You helped me fly so high above
You made me sing a whole new song
And all because of all your love

Trust

2011-02-20T11:55:00.001Z

A great feeling everybody should know,

and still, sometimes it fades just like old ink,

sometimes it leaves us, not here to follow,

'It is not here, it's gone!' we often think.

I think we are wrong its only hiding,

somewhere we cannot find it, far away.

And then simply everything is aching,

I know it will come back for sure some day.

Happiness

2011-02-15T19:59:00.000Z

The feeling is the best feeling there is

No matter where you are or how you feel

The feeling shall come to you with strong bliss

The feeling makes everything seem to heal.

The feeling is the strongest in the world

The feeling will lead you to pure success

And will make you shine as strong as a pearl

The feeling is absolute happiness.

Regret

2011-02-13T23:20:00.001Z

Why did I leave behind my only home?

I left without thinking about those few,

Those few who made my hidden feelings roam,

Unique, unforgettable friends, so true

I left everything in the background,

Never looking at the bigger picture,

Innumerable tears were shed and bound,

Slowly falling, trickling, permanent fixtures.

Task 7

2011-02-06T16:05:00.006Z

Only Sydney appears to have got close to mastering these tricky iambs, so I am going to wait before setting you your first sonnet, and use Task 7 as another exercise in iambic verse instead.

I would like you all to do the following things:

Read carefully EACH student's Task 6 attempt;
Read carefully BOTH comments on each student's Task 6 attempt;
Practise reworking EACH student's Task 6 attempt into something which is perfectly iambic.

ONLY when you have done all these things should you proceed to the main task, which is as follows...

Write a short poem, consisting of 8 lines, each in iambic pentameter, with a rhyming scheme of ababcdcd. Your topic should be emotion (it is up to you to choose which one). And PLEASE make sure you check and recheck it before posting, so that you make it is accurate as possible.

Some people find it easier to practise their iambic verse on MICROSOFT EXCEL. It might seem bizarre, but if you shade columns alternately (i.e. white/grey/white/grey etc.) and then make sure you only put one syllable in each column, you can manipulate your poetry so that only the stressed syllables fall in the grey boxes. Worth a try, perhaps?

Your Task 7 poem should be posted and live by midnight on Sunday 13th February. Good Luck!

In the meantime, here is my, somewhat rushed attempt...

Sadness

Forgive me if I cry; I do not mean
To make you sad; I tried to cauterise
The pain, to dry the tears, but you have seen
With how much force this brine assails my eyes.
Or how about I whimper, soundless, keep
It hidden? Undisturbed, you can pretend
I do not feel this pain and do not weep.
Such hurt I fear you cannot comprehend.

Keep smiling! :)

englishguru

Iran

2011-01-25T16:12:00.000Z

A country which one would not know much about
A country which has housed poets and politicians
A country which has been misunderstood
A country not often spoken of
A place one would try to escape
But wouldn't be able to let go of
A home full of memories
Both sad and happy
My country
My home

Parrot

2011-01-25T15:56:00.000Z

You speak a word and then wonder
Why the echo comes back to you
You look around and think the sound is from yonder
When you realise it's from a feathered creature red, yellow and blue

Falcon

2011-01-24T21:20:00.002Z

The falcon seeks and finds its prey, dead sure,
With eyes of liquid gold, nature's smart bomb,
Hunts, finds and kills its target with hunger pure,
But is hunted itself, and faces its tomb.

Glasgow - Poem 1

2011-01-24T21:07:00.003Z

Renowned for its crime and grime, violence,
But ever a home to those who know it,
Would look the same after a nuke,
Grey stone, grey sky, blue lights, great folk,
Wonderful patter there,
Wee folk, big folk, all sorts,
Aye, fair times there,
Not all great fun,
But good
For me

Elephant

2011-01-24T20:53:00.002Z

It is Large with greatly nerving might,
Trails along and is usually silent,
Strange but gracefully beautiful sight,
Strength and power, but never violent.

Home is where the Heart is

2011-01-24T19:59:00.011Z

This city is home but shabby and old,

Paradise, though winters are strangely cold,

Sand of the beaches warms feet,

The water is cold and I feel incomplete,

I never stay too long,

I miss it's flaws when I'm gone,

The sky will remain,

Through every rain,

Diverse,

Dispersed.

Eagle

2011-01-24T19:00:00.002Z

Majestic, surveying its wide domain,

Soaring upwards, ever upwards - shrieking,

From the plains of the States, to untamed Spain,

Screaming to all, an undying greeting.

Ireland

2011-01-24T18:58:00.001Z

A powerful country, known for history,

From shamrocks to druids, full of mystery,

Gold-hungry and sly leprechauns,

The derbies at the crack of dawn,

Fiddles constantly strung,

Legends constantly sung,

Dear old Ireland,

Full of highlands,

Mystique,

Unique.

Giraffe

2011-01-24T15:04:00.000Z

Brown and yellow polka dotted creature,

As tall as the trees or maybe taller.

Long legs and long neck as its main feature,

Compared we humans are so much smaller.

A Special Place

2011-01-24T15:01:00.002Z

The powerful blue waves struck the sea shore,

The sun shines as it always did before.

Sand is as golden as the sun,

A land of nothing but great fun.

In all this poverty,

Smiles are lit gracefully.

The night life starts,

All looks like art.

So fine,

Its divine.

The Wolf

2011-01-23T16:30:00.001Z

Once loved and hated and admired and feared,

So calm it sneaks along the silent wood,

In oh so many colours it appeared,

To see it wild and free, I wish I could.

Kingston

2011-01-23T16:23:00.002Z

A town I can’t forget, I won’t, not now,

Just greens, not fields but still no farmers plough,

It stands along the river Thames,

The boats, the ducks, they are immense.

A royal place it was,

And still it has some flaws;

The lights at night,

First night with fright,

So green,

Between.

Task 6: Iambic Meter

2011-01-16T16:24:00.003Z

You all know what RHYME is - and it will be one of the first things you encountered when reading poetry as a young child. "Twinkle twinkle little BAT, How I wonder where you're AT" etc. However, as you are going to find, it is very difficult to use rhyme effectively when writing poems of your own. Too often, the quest to find a word that rhymes ends up changing the meaning of the poem altogether - like points on a railtrack switching the train to a totally different course. However, it is a challenge that is well worth pursuing - i.e. how to find a rhyme whilst not diverting the tracks of your meaning at the same time. And it is a challenge I am setting you this week too.

But, not one to keep things TOO simple, I am also setting you another challenge - and that is to do with METER. Meter is the term to describe the rhythm of a poem - and how that rhythm is created through the number and order of all the syllables in any one line. Those of you who listen to music will know how all music has a BEAT of some sort; some music has a strong and regular beat, other music has a less clear rhythm (and so would be very hard to dance to too!) This week, you are going to be writing poetry with a very regular beat. Here is how...

The simplest type of beat (or, as it is called in poetry, FOOT) is one that goes 'dee-dum' - i.e. made up of TWO syllables, where the SECOND syllable is stressed. This type of foot is called an IAMB; and this type of meter is called IAMBIC. Here is an example of iambic verse:

I cannot write iambic verse.
My poem goes from bad to worse.

See how each line is written in TWO-SYLLABLE beats, with the stress (or emphasis) on the second in each pair. Try reading it with a hand clap on each stressed syllable:

i CANnot WRITE iAMbic VERSE
my POem GOES from BAD to WORSE.

This is simple, iambic meter.

Notice also how many feet (or beats) there are in each line. Four. We call these lines tetrameters:

5 feet = pentameter
4 feet = tetrameter
3 feet = trimeter etc.

Now look (or rather LISTEN) to how easily the regular rhythm can be broken. What if I had written 'can't' instead of 'cannot'; or 'poetry' instead of 'poem'? This would have totally changed and disrupted the rhythm of each line:

I can't write iambic verse
My poetry goes from bad to worse.

In the first line, there is one syllable MISSING:

I can't [***] write iambic verse.

Whereas, in the second line, there is one syllable too MANY.

My poeTRY goes from bad to worse.

Right. Now for your challenge. NEXT week we are going to try to produce some SONNETS. But, in preparation, this week we are just going to play with rhyme and meter.

You have TWO poems to write.

Poem One

I would like you to write a poem which:

uses ONLY iambic meter;
is 10 lines long;
begins with two 5-feet lines (i.e. pentameters)
then has two 4-feet lines, two 3-feet lines, two 2-feet lines and, finally, two 1-foot lines.
rhymes each pair of lines.

Your poem should be about a place (city/country) that you know particularly well.

To help you, here is a quick example:

United Kingdom

Inept, disorganised and bad at sport,
Unable to forget the wars it fought,
Too often marred by skies of grey,
And trapped by debts it cannot pay,
My motherland is tired
And rather uninspired;
Acutely sick
With Dave and Nick
At large,
In charge.

See what you can do, and remember:

Lines 1-2 = rhyming, iambic pentameters
Lines 3-4 = rhyming, iambic tetrameters
Lines 5-6 = rhyming, iambic trimeters
Lines 7-8 = rhyming, iambic dimeters
Lines 9-10 = rhyming, iambic monometers.

All on a powerful place of your choice.

Poem Two

Once you have completed your first poem, I would like from you all:

a four-line poem (otherwise known as a quatrain)
with an a-b-a-b rhyme scheme (i.e. Lines 1 and 3 rhyme, as do lines 2 and 4);
written in iambic (i.e. dee-DUM) pentameters (i.e. 5 feet/beats/stressed);
about an ANIMAL of your choice.

Here is my attempt...

Orang Utan

A flash of rusty fur flies through the air;
A branch breaks off and crashes to the ground;
I squint to catch a glimpse of orange hair:
This fiery beast refuses to be found.

See what you can come up with, and remember:

quatrain
a-b-a-b
5 beats
dee-DUM

Have fun, and good luck!

BOTH TASKS BY MIDNIGHT ON MONDAY 24TH JANUARY PLEASE.

Her Sister's Mark

2010-12-10T22:26:00.005Z

I could start off and say I woke up with the light shining through my windows and the snow glistened outside. That would be lying, though. The snow does not glisten outside, it is more like layers of brown slush and the sun is barely visible behind all of the gray clouds. Plus, winter break was over so how could I possibly start the day off with such a positive comment.
My mother called from downstairs "Hurry up! You'll be late!"
Blah, blah, blah. who cares? I'm always late. Instead, I pulled the covers over my head and slammed my fist down on my alarm clock that was beeping annoyingly.
"Erika, get down, now! You have school! I will not start this semester with a phone call asking why you aren't there!"
I'm sorry, what? When has she ever been called by called by school? Okay, there have been occasions, but they were never because I was late to school. Actually, there were quite a few occasions, but I don't care. You know what my mother does? She worries too much. Sure, I've been in a couple of fights and yeah, okay, I've been suspended but it's not like... I failed the year or something...well, I almost did last year but it wasn't that bad...I just... Well, anyways. It's not like my mother is Mrs. Perfect herself. You know, maybe if she'd listen to me once in a while she'd know what was going on but no. She doesn't listen. And I don't listen to her, so we are even. Everyone thinks me and my mom are buddies and that we should stick together, considering that my sister died last year but it's the opposite. She is just more protective of me than ever and it's so irritating! I can take care of myself, thanks. We just fight so much more. She says I've become "rebellious" and "irresponsible" and that I "Don't care about anything"

But that's just because I realized we all die eventually and no one makes it out alive so honestly...what's the point in caring about anything?

Opening 6

2010-12-10T20:07:00.005Z

I chose this piece because of how concentrated the story is on the character. I thought that with the other openings they did not catch my attention because of the descriptions, and I think having descriptions in the beginning does not give it it's powerful start to the story. I also liked how strong the character was, for example when he said "If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth" because it gives the reader an introduction to the main character and how he acts which also makes it entertaining. I already have some awareness of what the main character is like, he seems moody and not very grateful, which can show the reader some foreshadowing that perhaps later on in the story something will happen because of the way the character acts which makes the reader more involved with the story. I think when a character has a strong personality in the beginning of the story it makes the beginning more unique.

The Change

2010-12-09T20:59:00.001Z

I still recall the night, as if were yesterday. The night that changed my life.

I was asleep, exhausted from the previous day, as I had taken part in a football tournament. My body ached from the various tackles but remembering the pain I went through some days later it was nothing compared to the discomfort that particular night.

In my dream somebody shoots the ball towards me, I try to block it, it hits my chest and then: a horrible noise as if the ball exploded a moment before it touched my chest. I feel it bounce onto my body.

Something made me tear my eyes open. I was back in my room in bed, drops of sweat rolling down my face. I still felt the ball on my chest so I touched it- and froze. Not only was there something sharp on my chest, but there was a tall figure standing in my door. Only after a minute was I able to blink, but the figure did not move. Slowly I turned on the light, which was situated on the left of my bed. The familiar click, and the light was on…..but the silhouette remained where it was and strangely the light did not reach his face. Then he moved. “Don’t be afraid now, you’ll have to get used to much worse soon.” The figure turned and walked away. In my hand I held a yellow rose with a letter.

Open Waters

2010-12-09T20:55:00.001Z

What a beautiful summer night it is, on this luxurious cruise ship. The oceans breeze, the stars in the sky and the most important people I have to spend it with, my loving family and friends.
The cruise boat stopped for a short break.
‘How ‘bout we go for a swim?’ said Sam.
‘Let’s do it!’ I replied.
All four of us agreed to jump into the calm dark blue ocean. A huge splash jumped up from the water as all of us jumped in. All four of us were fooling around in the water just having a great time. Sam dared us to do a swimming race and I accepted. I love competition!
“On your mark. Set. GO!” Yelled Markus. In that instant I immediately dipped my head into the water and got my legs kicking! How quiet it was under water, such serenity and calmness… Enough about the water though, I gotta win this race! I made it to the finish line and as I got out of the water I noticed I won! Yes! After me came Jeremy, Liam then Markus. As they all arrived Markus tried convincing us that the only reason he lost was because he was the one who had to start us off. Suddenly we hear the siren of the boat beeping its chimney out. Oh no! It’s leaving! We all swim as fast as possible to the boat but its moving away too fast! We stop and scream on the top of our lungs
‘WAIT! WAIT! WAIT!’ but it makes no difference. The boat disappears into the darkness and everything turns silent. We’re alone in the middle of nowhere and there’s nothing but silence.

Opening 7

2010-12-09T20:53:00.001Z

I liked opening number 7 as the bizarreness that is happening seems quite interesting showing a mysterious point to why he is in the aeroplane in the first place and with the use of first person narrative it shows how he tries to figure out whats going on even though he doesn’t seem to know. It creates a grabbing attention for an introduction as it is subtle but has suspense since it makes you want to know what’s going to happen next. I also liked opening 2 and 5 as they both seem so casually written, explaining the characters and how they feel. It shows a rather sarcastic/ humorous tone yet still casual and simple.

A Rifleman

2010-12-09T20:27:00.003Z

A song is playing. A song about a policeman who does drugs. I smile, and look around me, knowing that my colleagues have no idea why I’m acting like this. Oh, how awfully fitting!

We’re packed into our uniforms, ready to deal with “the folk upstairs” as our Chief Officer has christened them. I’ve got my bag ready next to me, and the extra pocket in my uniform is prepared.

“Steady. We go in 5,” is whispered around. I look at my firearm, my lovely little MP5. A 9mm, fully automatic, hand-sized portion of hell for those on the business end of her, but a real darling for those handling her.

“This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine,” the words come unbidden, but ever welcome, comforting me, and reminding me of days where life was simper, and I was handing out bigger portions of hell to more people.

“My rifle is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life,” They continue, leading me on, killing the time, before the time for killing.

“My rifle, without me is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless,” these words however echo around, and I look up. My fellow ex-marines are mumbling along, our words almost in prayer, and the rest are watching warily. We jarheads continue our prayer.

Now the song switches. Hail and kill. I smile again. Ironic really. At the moment, we jarheads, who are now police, are hailing our weapons. We are preparing. Soon, we will kill.

Opening 7

2010-12-09T20:22:00.001Z

The opening I preferred was number 7. “My front four teeth are gone, I have a hole in my cheek, my nose is broken and my eyes are swollen nearly shut…..I look at my clothes and my clothes are covered with a colourful mixture of spit, snot, urine, vomit and blood.” These two sentences were the trigger for choosing this opening as my favourite. It makes me want to know what happened to the person. The author has such a simple way of writing which makes the reader very curious about how the story will continue and I believe, especially that makes an opening good. Something long and descriptive won’t be as gripping as the above is. I like deep descriptions a lot but not for beginnings of a novel. Even though it is unknown what had happened, the reader feels sympathy for the man in the story, at least in my case. I just want to mention that opening 8 had a similar impact on me as opening 7 did.

Opening 8

2010-12-09T20:03:00.002Z

The opening that I found best was the number 8, as it gives neither too much, nor too little away, but rather keeps the reader thinking “What are they talking about? Is it a murder?” for the entire start, and in this way keeps the reader interested. This is done here by allowing a partial view into the narrator’s psyche, which enables one to see that the narrator isn’t quite normal. As well as this, the narrator is implying that they do not particularly care about certain things, such as in this case, the fact that the narrator has fallen unconscious before, and has broken a tile with their head.

The Jump

2010-12-09T18:46:00.000Z

He sighed and opened his eyes. The time for praying was over…. The time for action had come. He walked slowly, treating every step as his last. Each step he took was one step closer to his destiny. He felt no longer fear, but disappointment. Disappointment that he could not complete what was required of him.

I leave a legacy of danger and destruction to those who follow me, he thought. As he looked behind at the endless masses of black behind him, he smiled grimly. His death would not be without cause. Choice is free for all living beings, and I am no exception.

He almost hesitated, but after that, he had no qualms of what he was about to do. He made sure he was being followed, then continued. He had often heard, that when men are about to die, their whole life flashes before their eyes. This was not the case with him. Instead, he saw every single failure, every single person who died due to his mistakes. Faces flashed in his mind, growing larger and larger, until everything else was blocked out.

He peered over the edge, his eyes unable to pierce the bottomless depths. He then took one last look behind him, and jumped…

Opening 1

2010-12-09T18:45:00.001Z

I think the first opening far surpasses the other ones. As I opened them, I realized that they got weaker and weaker, so I eventually decided to stick with my first choice. I feel that it beautifully captures the birth of the man, and the celebrations around him. His country has just been freed and he was born on the day this happened. He talks as if he has perfect memory of the event, which he does, and the way he portrays this gives a faintly rustic and ancient feel, while the other openings are simply modern and do not show the same characteristics as this one does, so this is simply the best opening of the ten…

The shocking news...

2010-12-08T21:09:00.000Z

It was October 19^th of last year when this happened. When we found out what was going to happen. Our parents called us from the other side of the house to the living room. Sara and I sat down. They looked like they had something to say. You could see the worry in their eyes. They probably weren’t sure how we were going to take this. How we would react.

‘We’ve been thinking. Judging by the political views of the country and all that has been going on recently, this country is just not a safe place to live anymore. So we’ve been considering moving to another country.’

A few seconds I was just lost in what my mother had just said. I had lost my words. As if I couldn’t speak. Was this a joke? What on earth were they talking about? Had they lost their minds?

Finally when my words started coming back to me I started speaking. ‘What? You’re kidding, right? Please don’t tell me you’re serious…’

They didn’t have to tell me that they weren’t serious. I could tell by their facial expression that they weren’t joking. This was impossible. How could they have come up with a solution like this?! Yes… the family was going through a really tough time during summer with all the political issues that the country had. But I never thought anything in the world would make them decide to finally move from a country they’d been living in for so many years. My birth place… The place where all my family and friends were… They always told us that we would never move to another country. That’s what they had planted into our heads. A theory we thought would never change no matter what. And now they were saying the exact opposite! It was like we had to rearrange the information we had in our heads already. To plant the opposite theory.

That day was when we found out about what was going to happen in the following year… The day we got the shocking news…

Opening 9

2010-12-08T20:42:00.000Z

This opening was the one I found most interesting compared to all the others. I liked the subject which was being referred to in this opening; And in my opinion the way it was written and the detail given, makes the reader want to continue reading the story and I found it very interesting. The writer was using simple words to describe the situation which I admire about this piece. I liked how they were all trying to talk to her at the same time and to teach her different things and how she started laughing because of that matter. Generally I found the topic and the choice of language of this story appealing compared to the other ones I read.

Task 5: Opening Lines

2010-12-02T19:35:00.003Z

From Task 6 onwards, we will work through a number of different genres, with each task challenging you to embrace another genre but to do so with panache, flair and originality. Every submission should be between 200-300 words (any shorter and you will not be able to develop your skills to the full; any longer and not only will it become harder to moderate, but you will also be in danger of waffling).

But first for Task 5...

I shall email you all a .zip file which contains 10 OPENINGS to different novels. Unzip the file (let me know if you need guidance on how to do this) and read the openings carefully several times. Then your Task 5 consists of two parts:

Decide which opening you like the most and regard to be the most effective. Once you have done so, in one paragraph (approx 100 words) explain/justify precisely why you have made that choice. This part of the task is VERY important, as it sets the perameters for the second part.
Now you must write your own OPENING to a novel. This should consist of 200-300 words which could begin your own piece of fiction. Your moderators, as well as discussing with you your choice for Part (1), will assess your own opening according to a) how well it meets your own criteria identified in Part (1); and b) how effective an opening it is according to their own opinion. As usual, they will comment on the main strengths and areas for development in your piece of writing.

The deadline for your submissions (which must be LABELLED, and must also have a TITLE of your own choosing) is midnight on Thursday 9th December.

Good luck! I am really looking forward to reading your submissions, as I know the moderators will be too.

________________________________________

N.B. ADDITIONAL, 'OPTIONAL' TASK:

If you want an extra challenge, you may also email me the following list (do NOT post it on the blog):

Identify each of the novels from which each of the 10 openings is taken, together with their respective authors, in order of how effective you think the opening is (from the best down to the worst).

Athazagoraphobia

2010-11-23T18:48:00.005Z

In a crowded room, but feeling alone. Dreaming of a world, but not knowing where it is. The sound of laughter, the feeling of smiling, they seemed so far away. I scream and I gasp and I choke and I tug and I tear, but no one notices. Am I being forgotten? Can't anyone hear me?

I wake up every morning, hoping that something will help me get through the day and every evening I sit and I watch television or I look at the children playing and I can't feel my skin. I can't feel anything.

"Everything's fine," I would say to my boss. "No, really, I'm fine,"
Slacker, I would hear the other workers say.
My chest was heavy but I worked and worked but just failed to finish anything reasonable.
I knew it was coming but it was like a bullet to my chest when my boss came to my desk one day.
"I'm letting you go, sorry,"

I stayed with my family and cleaned the litter at parks and I would do chores, like I was a child. But I am a child, aren't I? Hopeless and weak. I'm the same person I was when I was younger. Nothing's changed. Is this life? What about all of those stories I heard as a child? Cinderella? The girl with nothing, suddenly having everything? Is this it? The trees still loose leaves in Autumn and it still snows in Winter.

I can see fireflies outside my window. They are dancing in the sky. I want to dance in the sky too. I sit below a tree and I listen to the sound of the night and I listen to the wind and the children playing, but I don't hear anything. I can't feel my skin, I can't feel my heart, I can't feel my past, or dreams. I feel isolated and I'm scared, I'm as scared as a child who gets lost when shopping with their mother in the supermarket. I'm a lost child.

And every time I'm in a crowded room, I feel alone. I dream of a world, but I don't knowing where it is. The sound of laughter, the feeling of smiling, they seem so far away. I scream and I gasp and I choke and I tug and I tear, but no one notices. Am I being forgotten? Why Can't anyone hear me?

The Dream

2010-11-23T17:02:00.002Z

The clouds hovered like evil angels, something malevolent in the red from the rising sun. I'm no sailor, but the adage holds firm: red sky at morning, sailors take warning. Red sky at night, sailor's delight. Admittedly I'm no sailor, nor will I be, nor have I ever been. I still use this phrase though, because to me, a red sky means that blood will be spilled on this day.

Slowly, I stand up. The world around me is broken, almost as if a bomb had fallen, which it probably has, judging by the sounds I hear. I close my eyes, the better to concentrate on the sounds. My mouth starts moving, rattling off calibres of the shots that can be heard.

A relatively deep sound, the first shot I identify, and it is followed by man more of the same sound "7.62 mil, possibly NATO, possibly Warsaw pact."

A sharper crack, relatively high "9 by 19 Parabellum, probably in use with a pistol or PDW."

I suddenly feel someone looking at me, and open my eyes to look around me. No need. In front of me stood a ragtag group of men, all dressed in ragged orange camouflage, with weapons made of wood. My comrades, my workmates.

Instinctively, I know I am to lead them through the dangers outside of this crater we're in. I look down, and suddenly my clothes, my comfortable jeans and t-shirt have been replaced with orange camouflage, and I notice I'm holding a wooden rifle.

"Right then, ladies, let’s go! Move it, move it, move IIIIT!!!" shouts a voice I vaguely recognise. I look around and notice my mouth is still moving. It’s me shouting.

We start moving up over the side, and suddenly a massive wave of rabbits attack us. They literally are a wave, falling over each other, tumbling forwards, unstoppable. We stand firm, like rocks in the path of a wave, but lose our youngest member, whom the rabbits proceed to devour on the spot. I look closer, and realise he has begun to go completely orange, apart from his hair, which turns an odd hue of green. I also notice that the rabbits all have human faces, rather like the one my boss has.

I turn around, and am suddenly standing at a cliff edge. Far, far below me, I hear music. Loud, angry music, full of guttural sounds, as if someone had decided to start singing after a century of chain-smoking and screaming. I decide I like it, and turn around to the stairs behind me, which the men I was leading must have dug. They, in the meantime, have disappeared down the stairs already.

I’m just about to go down, when the singer of this band, looking like some sort of mixture of a revived Viking and a punk, with his long, flowing beard, Doc Martens and Long, blonde hair, down at the bottom of the cliff, stops singing, looks up and talks to me.

“Hey, darling” He says, in my girlfriend’s voice, and his voice starts off an earthquake. A massive man, who just seconds ago, was singing something about entering Valhalla in a voice that sounded about as nice as being castrated with a rusty spoon, was now calling me “darling”?

“You’re going to be late! Come on! GET UP!”

And suddenly I’m in a bed in the middle of Vienna. The singer has become my girlfriend, and the earthquake has become her shaking my shoulder. I plunge back into the real world, where I work in a store named “Penny Market,” orange camouflage is part of the employee uniform there.

And I’m meant to be there in 15 minutes. Alone getting there takes 30, never mind hunting down my socks and uniform, nor showering, nor breakfast.

I groan, and drop back into the bed, wishing this were a dream. Sadly, its not, as her slap on my shoulder proves.

“Come on! I’m going to be late too! And NO, I won’t give you my keys!” Oh. My keys are still AWOL.

I try to get up, yet the punch I receive from my hangover isn’t doing me any favours whatsoever.

“No more vodka. From today on, no more vodka.” I mumble, trying to think why I got hammered yesterday. Letting my train of thought derail, and trying to simultaneously imagine what imaginative ways my boss could say I were a waste of time and effort, and also gauge my chances of being able to sneak in, I looked out the window.

The clouds hovered like evil angels, something malevolent in the red from the rising sun. I'm no sailor, but the adage holds firm: red sky at morning…

All's fair in Love and War

2010-11-22T22:34:00.002Z

Her face was the last thing I saw, the last thing I remembered... I knew that wherever I went, if I had her in my mind, I was invincible. Nothing in the world could stop me from being reunited with her love.

The stench of fear hung in the air. Men eyed each other edgily, eager for something to happen. Their uniforms hung limply on their bodies, encased in steel, clinking at every movement of their bodies. Around me several men were praying to their respective gods, pleading for survival, while the more experienced veterans looked to their weapons, honing and keening their blades until they were fit for battle. Those were the men that would survive.

Me, I just had love. I believed that love would protect me and see me through the game kings call war. Horns blew and around me soldiers paced nervously. My mind kept on going back to the happier moments of my life, intertwined in the arms of my beloved, enjoying the beauty of life. Thinking back, I smiled.

"Weapons to the ready" roared our platoon commander. Men shuffled around, the hiss of swords being removed from scabbards filling the air. "For the King!" we cried. We charged forward and into the fray.

My sword sliced and hacked, as if it had a life of it's own, protecting me from our enemies hands. Time seemed to slow; my sword slowly transforming into a deadly pattern of steel, the cries of the fallen, the shouts of men engaged in battle.

A jar of steel on my shield brought me back to my senses. I turned, dodging the enemy soldier's blow and driving my sword into his chest. He emitted a shout of agony and fell to the ground. Tears welled up in my eyes as I realised that that soldier and I were no different from each other. Each of us were puppets of our kingdom, fighting for those we loved. I dried my tears and resumed the slaughter.

Far ahead, I saw an enemy archer slowly drawing his bow, taking aim at one of my comrades. I shoved people aside and jumped in front of him, just as the archer let the arrow fly. It buzzed like an angry hornet, before burying itself in my neck.
The soldier whose life I had saved looked astonished, slowly glancing back between the archer and the arrow meant for him. I died with a smile on my face, knowing that I had done one good deed in my life, and that the woman I love would be proud of me.

Her face was the last thing I saw, the last thing I remembered... I knew that wherever I went, if I had her in my mind, I was invincible. Nothing in the world could stop me from being reunited with her love.

Diary Entry: the Fireball and the Lantern

2010-11-22T20:40:00.003Z

The clouds hovered like evil angels, something malevolent in the red from the rising sun. I'm no sailor, but the adage holds firm: red sky at morning.

The grand rising sun reflected its splendor to the serene oceanic waters giving the water a movement of still, evil redness. The red shimmer of the tranquil blue ocean is what commences daily.

Here I am, sitting in a small brown boat, writing out my thoughts and observations to the morning view before me.

The view is comparatively resembled as Monet’s exquisite painting; Impression: Sunrise. The focal red sun spreading its beam across the sky and reflecting its ray to the surface of the ocean. The morning sky blended in with the white angelic clouds and sharp rising redness. Though the image implies calmness, the real thing is mixed with a touch of turpitude coming from the distinct colour scheme equivalent to fire.

The view of the striking sun mixed with the original blue sky seems to represent the state of mankind. The evil gradient to the virtuous, the good colliding with the bad and the love clashing with hate of the daily world. The balance of earth can be contemplated through this striking view.

As time passes by the red surrounding fades to become a singular fireball lighting and wakening the earth. The sun lies there, still and calm but shining and radiant.
Thereafter a stretch of time, the fading of the fireball melts into the dark blue ceiling and is taken over by the sky’s lantern, bringing the earth to its state of slumber.

The view of the grand white moon opposes to the morning view, not only dark but as if the universe changed. There’s the glorious moon and little sparkles here and there, some shining more than others, some bigger than others and some so small you could hardly see them.
The view was similar to Van Gogh’s semi- abstract piece; ‘The Starry Night’. The dark blue sky with yellow circles and swirls representing the lights rays, the stars and focal moon give off.

As the hour arrives at the time of day once again, the procedure repeats; and so the clouds hovered like evil angels, something malevolent in the red from the rising sun. The adage holds firm: red sky at morning.

Final Dream

2010-11-22T18:26:00.001Z

The clouds hovered like evil angels, something malevolent in the red from the rising sun. I'm no sailor, but the adage holds firm: red sky at morning, red sky at dusk.

Now, Fog crept over the valley which let the air seem more unpleasant than before. It was the coldest this country had ever seen, and I had ever experienced. Not a single creature will poke its head around the corner, they all are fast asleep.

Through the forest I wandered. My hair was a fierce lion's mane, not washed for long and sticking out in every possible direction. I was stumbling on the edge of life, trying not to slip into the void of nothingness. I hadn't eaten, nor slept, nor spoken for days. The fog has lasted for a long time but now it was much worse than before. I could barely see and food was a hopeless need. The atmosphere changed again and in the blink of an eye the dubious, white smoke disappeared and the red sky with its evil clouds could be seen again.

Knowing that even if I were lucky enough to find meat, I did not have the strength to make the kill. All berries and fruits are frozen. Yes....I could set a snare, but that means waiting, so I'd have to settle down in order not to face the same verdict as the berries. Knowing that it was my only hope, I collected some wood and made a fire. I decided to set a snare and after accomplishing this I built myself a tiny shelter for the night. After I warmed up, I got some snow and melted it on the fire in my deer skin pouch. At least some drink! It gave me just enough energy to fall asleep.

Two days passed and the hole in my stomach was unbearable, as was the emptiness of the snare. By now, I did not mind hearing my own teeth chatter anymore, the noise grew my only companion. The third night it snowed. My toes had died by now, the frost was feeding itself on them. Then, at some point, I drifted into the world of dreams with no restrictions, somewhere between conscious and unconsciousness.

I dreamed that right in front of me was a beautiful stag with bigger antlers than my mind could have ever imagined. He could neither smell, nor hear me. Feeling the pain in my stomach, I did not marvel at this godlike creature any longer, but seized my bow, aimed and released. I watched the arrow flow with great speed-and hit the deer. He roared only for a moment and fell. With respect I approached the animal and whispered “sorry” as I started taking it apart with my knife. I had a bite, and another, and another! But my hunger just got worse. I kept eating until nothing was left. Still, the hole in my stomach did not shrink an inch. Desperately, I started crying as my energy left me.

For a second I woke from my strange dream and opened my eyes. The sun was glowing red as never before. Then my eyes closed themselves again. But I did not go back to my previous dream. No, I drifted in silence, until slowly I saw myself.

I was a child, slowly growing up. Everything that ever passed through my eyes repeated itself in front of me. I still drifted in the darkness. Now the image changed to something less blurry. The clouds hovered like evil angels, something malevolent in the red from the rising sun. I'm no sailor, but the adage holds firm: red sky at morning, red sky at dusk.

The wish

2010-11-21T18:47:00.000Z

The sound of applause arose. I suddenly became aware of the moment. My mind returned back to the stage after disappearing into the world of music for a few minutes. I stood up and stared into the crowd that was clapping for me... And I saw her... She'd been there all this time, listening to me. I stared at her for a few seconds and smiled... Nothing could have made me happier at that moment...
All I ever wanted was for her to hear me play one more time; I wanted to see that image of her watching me play once more. I wanted to see her face in the clapping crowd again like I did when I was a kid. Years past after I had to say goodbye to her, but I still continued playing. I was continuing playing piano because of her; Because I knew she would want me to. She was the one who always incouraged me to play; The one who always sat there and listened to me while I played. I spent most of my time with her. She would tuck me into bed every night and tell me stories. She was always by my side...
The next performance took place. It had been a long time since my last performance. But so many things felt the same that night. I don't know why, but it felt as if history was somehow repeating itself. Apparently it was...
The sound of applause arose. I suddenly became aware of the moment. My mind returned back to the stage after disappearing into the world of music for a few minutes. I stood up and stared into the crowd that was clapping for me... And I saw her... She'd been there all this time, listening to me. I stared at her for a few seconds and smiled... Nothing could have made me happier at that moment...

Task 4

2010-11-16T19:12:00.003Z

Firstly - and most importantly - welcome to the blog to our new WORDVOODOO MODERATORS. All of our Danube bloggers should now have TWO moderators, dedicated to commenting specifically on your attempts each fortnight, and giving you suggestions for improvement.

Please feel free to respond to their comments, and enter into a dialogue about your work too if you can: this will be a fantastic way to improve your writing even further.

Now for Task 4. This is the last PROSE task for the time being. Next time we begin the difficult journey towards writing effective, skilled poetry. But, for now, one more exercise in PROSE FICTION.

For this week's task, I would like you to experiment with a cyclical narrative structure (i.e. one which starts precisely the same as it ends.)

Below is a (very) short story I wrote for a G10 class a couple of years ago. As you can see, one of the rules I set myself was that I was going to begin and end with the same few sentences; as for how I tried to achieve this (effectively and originally), well that was the challenge.

Your task is to write a short narrative which does exactly that. It must begin and end in the same (or ALMOST the same) way. And to make it easier, I am going to give you your opening (and therefore your conclusion too). The rest is up to you...

The clouds hovered like evil angels, something malevolent in the red from the rising sun. I'm no sailor, but the adage holds firm: red sky at morning...

And to help you some more, here is the piece I wrote myself:

I’m not waving goodbye to anybody. There isn’t any point. They aren’t interested in me really anyway; they are here for themselves.

Why did she have to go? How could she leave us behind? What did she think I was going to do without her? That’s all that is going through their heads; not a thought for me.

They never really liked me, to tell the truth. Nothing violent, just a cold, simmering antipathy which trickled between us whenever I was around. They never said as much. Oh, no, that would have been too honest. Why tell someone what you feel when you can insinuate as much through a look, a sigh, a casual avoidance? Their bodies said, “Please steer clear of us. There’s something about you that’s not normal. ‘Not normal’ scares us. So leave us alone.”

Of course, when I told anyone about this, they thought I was mad. Paranoia; that’s what my teachers said. “That girl, she thinks the whole world is against her, when no one’s done anything!” “I’m tired of telling her this.” “Why can’t she just get on top of life, rather than almost asking life to get on top of her?” They grew tired of the girl who they heard crying wolf, even though, all the time, the wolf’s teeth were gnawing away at her soul.

Look: there are the girls themselves. One of them is even crying. Real tears chasing down her icy cheeks. I don’t feel sorry for her. I know you’ll think me just as cold, but I don’t. You didn’t see her with her heel on my forehead, or my torn hair in her claws. It wasn’t her crying then, I can assure you.

The pipes were stronger than I thought. I’d studied them for weeks, but still a part of me wasn’t sure. They will snap. The changing rooms will flood. The teachers will come running. And paranoia will be scooped up again. What on earth do you think you were playing at? What were you thinking? You could have killed yourself!

There was no flood, though. Metal proved more reliable than flesh and bone; and stronger too. It was my neck that snapped. A clean break. Quick too. I swear I could hear it, but maybe I’m wrong.

So I’m not waving goodbye to anybody. There isn’t any point. They aren’t interested in me really anyway; they are here for themselves.

Any questions, or if you are unsure in ANY way about how to excel in this task, just email me and I will explain.

In the meantime, I shall EXPECT you all to be demonstrating that you are learning from all the comments being posted on your work. After all, if you continue doing exactly the same things, despite the feedback you are being given, the process becomes pointless. Above all, please take some risks - with language, grammar, syntax (sentence structure) and narrative. Do things differently! Try out new techniques! Write in different ways to how you are used to doing! (And have some fun!)

Good luck!

Your deadline, as promised, is midnight on Tuesday 23rd November.

englishguru

The Journey

2010-11-09T19:50:00.003Z

Matt sighed. He rose, slowly, his heart still aching from the pain of parting with what he had called home his entire life. He took a deep breath, then set out to the forest. The calm immediately embraced him, as if the forest was another world. Sunlight drifted among the trees and the wind blew lazily, teasing the edges of Matt’s coat… Matt journeyed on, entranced by the mystic beauty of the forest, his soul full with the harmony of nature. The sounds coalesced perfectly with each other, forming a symphony of nature. Matt's grief turned to dust as his heart clasped onto the beauty of the forest untill he became intoxicated by its charm. It seemed to possess some hidden enchantment, slowly drawing his mind away from reality. Matt’s vision turned to a kaleidoscope of colours as he slowly fell. The ground rushed up to meet him and then, there was silence.

Everlasting glow

2010-11-09T13:12:00.003Z

Once upon a time, she rose. Once upon a time she sank. But when is once upon a time? How many times has she risen and fallen again? How long is her everlasting breath?

Just now a new journey begins. The same as her whole life, but still so different. Today she will endow the people with light. So red and beautiful. Each little ray of the miraculous glow, thousand different colours mixed to form one.

She creeps over the land, with each step that seems so tiny, travelling a million miles. And as she gazes over the mountain her colour changes. It's getting brighter and more powerful. Another time life awakes.

Slowly, something is stretching along the warm sand. The animal moves majestically, displaying its long, black, split tongue, a challenge 'till death for anything opposing it. The snake does this with perfect preciseness.

And now she sets again, ready to show herself to another part of this planet the moment the snake sees her no more. The footless creature moves over the still fiery stones waiting for tomorrow when another time the all seeing eye will spread its arms on the country.

The stars, a sea of light in the darkness, now is the only companion of the snake. And so she waits for another morning.

Stars

2010-11-08T21:44:00.003Z

It was a dark and starry night. She was looking out the window watching the beautiful night sky; the sky was so much clearer compared to the city, one could see everything. The stars were like a painting, a painting with sparkles. She stares at the sky each time she thinks of her father. Somehow she manages to find a solution when she looks at the dark glitter painting.
Tomorrow would be her first birthday without him. How she wished he’d be there to celebrate with her. She decides to close her eyes for a bit. As she opens them slowly she looks out the window and suddenly sees the stars move. The stars start to scatter and form a shape. She can’t make out the shape but all the stars that are moving get bigger and brighter. She looked next to her drawer desk and held the picture of her and her father closely in her hand. It was a picture of them playing on the swings together. She smiled heartedly as she remembers the memory. Once more, she looks out the window and sees the dazzling stars, she observes them closely trying to find a meaning or hint in the vivid atmosphere she perceives. Finally she sees it, the stars are formed creating the image of the picture with her father, the joyeous moment she can not help but miss. Inspite of being rather surprised and curious, she laughs as she looks out. The stars start changing form again but this time they write out words.
“Happy Birthday. Love Dad” is what the stars seem to read. She smiles gratefully to find herself opening her eyes waking up. She looks in her hands and sees the picture held securely. One last time she looks at the sky and sees one single star, brighter than the rest and smiles as she knows who that star belongs to.
Dreams are not always just pure imagination.

Better than Heaven...

2010-11-07T19:09:00.000Z

I thought I was going crazy because the same day... the same scenes... and the same heartbreak was approaching me all over again... This was it... This was when I had to say goodbye to my dearest one in the whole world... The one I had taken care of... My shining light in the dark... My angel!... This was where it was going to take place... This was the end, but I wouldn't let it be him... I wasn't going to let the nightmare come to life...
Holding him tightly by my side, I got into the cab. I couldn't let go of him... I tried holding back the tears... but before I knew it, they flooded my face... The pain I felt because I had to say goodbye was killing me... Burning inside... Tearing me apart..."I love you, dear... Be careful..." I whispered in his ear. I wrapped my arms around him... Holding him tightly and protecting him...
I felt as if a thousand knives went through my body...The crash took place... The drunk driver smashed the car... I heard a scream and that's all...
The next thing I knew was that I was in an emergency room... Doctors and nurses rushing towards me... The knives still piercing me... My eyes struggling to stay open... trying to find him...
I closed my eyes thinking they would be shut forever... Shut without seeing his beautiful face for the last time...
I didn't know how long my eyes had been closed. When I opened them, they were surrounded by white... Was this heaven?... Where was I?... I found out what was going on when a small, blurry figure ran towards me and cried out:"Mommy....."
He wrapped his tiny arms around me... I felt the tears of joy flood my eyes... That was when I realised this was better than heaven.....

The Home of a Boy

2010-11-07T10:48:00.002Z

He felt small, sitting on the moist rock, watching the ocean lash the rocks below him. The sky was dark and the clouds were haunting, and he wanted to escape. His bare feet were bleeding from the harsh texture of the rocks that dug into his skin. His clear blue eyes were red and he choked back the tears that were caused by everyone and everything around him. Fat rain droplets started to crash on his honey colored hair and his clothes began to be heavy and weighed him down. He laid down on the rock and pain was sent through his body like an electric shock because of the sharp edges stabbing into his back. He closed his eyes and he felt a rush of familiarization as the wind blew through his damp hair and the noise buzzed in his brain of the water splashing around, as if they were struggling to escape from something that was holding them back. This was home for him. This was always home for him, the music of nature in his ears, this is what he knew but he didn’t like it. His smile was fake, his laughter was forced, his hopes were fairy tales and his strength was weak. His tears rolled down his cheeks like small crystals glistening and dropping onto the rock, mixing with the rain. He stood up sloppily and looked below him into the ocean. He took a deep breath and jumped with all of his might down, to the ocean, and he hoped that there was going to be sunshine where ever he was going.

Task 3 Exemplar

2010-11-02T19:11:00.000Z

Stroke Victim

Still and unstirred, like a silent oak, the rings of time carved into the bark of her face, she watched nothing. A miniature seed of spittle swayed imperceptibly in the corner of her mouth, the ghost of a smile lingering from some joke not even she could remember; and, if you listened carefully, you could hear the sibilant scrape of her breath. Her eyes held a conviction of wonder, a cloudy cataract of joy at who knows what, when or where.

Her hands rested, statuesque, on her knees, the thumb of each hand tapping the seconds out with metronomic precision, a rhythm hypnotic in its persistency. I walked over, edging closer, terrified I would wake her from what seemed to be such a perfect state – alive and yet enraptured, totally detached from this ugly world. I touched her cheek, but she didn’t register. I held her hand, gently – and I was disturbed by the brief hiatus in her digital beats, as if I had stopped her music.

I stepped back; regarded her again. And then I saw it. A briny diamond creeping down her left cheek, like a distant cry from a child buried deep within this ageing casket. Sadness distilled, too potent to contemplate. I knelt down, dropped my head on her lap and my own tears dripped on to her fingers, which did not stop tapping.

Task 3: MORE Music to Words

2010-11-02T19:06:00.001Z

Read this VERY carefully. This task is SIMILAR to Task 2 but it is NOT the SAME.

With Task 2, you had to use a piece of music to inspire a narrative - a self-contained extract from a story. Atmosphere, plot, tension etc. were all important, and all had to be extracted from the music itself.

Task 3 is purely DESCRIPTION. Whilst what you write could appear in a much longer piece of fiction, it will work on its own as a single description - of a place, a (fictional) person or an object.

As with the best writing recently, I am looking for description which:

makes creative but careful use of sonic devices such as rhyme and alliteration
embraces the potential of figurative language (similes and metaphors) and personification to bring an image to life
avoids cliche and pursues originality - of lexis (vocabulary) and syntax (sentence structure)
is structured carefully and consistently, with a clear opening and a deliberate finish

I will post an exemplar shortly.

As before, please listen carefully (and several times) to ALL 20 extracts - before you select the one which most powerfully makes you imagine the person/place/thing you will describe. Please tell me if you would like me to email them to you again. And make sure you choose a DIFFERENT one from last time.

The deadline for this task midnight on Tuesday 9th November.

Good luck!

Task 2 Exemplar

2010-11-02T19:03:00.001Z

I know some of struggled with Task 2; so I thought I would share with you my own attempt.

I chose Track 2, and put it on my headphones really loud on a continuous loop with my eyes closed until I found myself imagining a scenario, a location, the germ of a story. The music took me somewhere, and I found the story unravelling in my imagination, and all I then had to do was write it down.

I had considered Track 9, whilst listening to which I could see a father and daughter in small sailing boat, gliding wordlessly across an azure sheet of water. Then I considered Track 8, and could picture a teenage girl, surrounded by rough, dangerous-looking boys, under a bridge on the canalside, as she takes a tablet foisted on her by one of them. But, in the end, it had to be Track 2 for me...

The ward was white – everything bleach bloodless: the air a pallid sheet, the tiny, plastic beds like cocoons, and the nurses floating around like so many ghosts. He hadn’t been able to go in at first: all he had heard outside were the screams Maggie had made before the blood fled her body, like rats from a sunken ship, screams which played a violent loop in his mind, almost accusatory in their anger, the panic and the pain demanding some relief. But he had been able to provide none. A better man might have managed to rescue her – or so he told himself – but the truth was far more final.

He could not recall the silence before the screams; and then he had suddenly remembered how Maggie had used to talk about hiccups or mouth ulcers or itching sunburn: she used to say that, when any of these things struck, it quickly became impossible to remember what life was like without them, even moments before. Briefly riding the wave of this trivial memory, he had pushed the doors and drifted into the ward.

And now, stood here statuesque in his stillness, he could no longer hear the screams. They had been wiped away like the blood which had caked the baby’s body. All he could hear was the gentle, fragile gasp of the respirator, as the baby’s chest shivered each exigent breath. But, stark amid this sea of white, a smudge of colour was appearing on her cheeks, and he knew, beyond contradiction or danger, that she was going to be all right. Together, in perfect harmony, they both exhaled.