Task 2 Exemplar

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.

Kings

The sound of hoofbeats clattered on the cobbled path. The nights silence was shattered as the horse drew closer and closer, untill it stopped in front of the looming tower. "Sorcerer Tharnon" the man cried, "a message from King Stratholme". Tharnon looked out of his tower and sighed. This was the third messenger the King had sent him, requesting his services for the recapture of Hemlock , the most deadly assassin in the Kingdom. With a wave of his hand, the door opened. The startled messenger jumped back in shock. "What is it this time? I have told the King countless of times, I will not use my powers for the sake of the kingdom, I am strictly neutral" said Tharnon. The messenger recovered some of his composure, and then took out a folded envelope from his saddlebag. Tharnon's hand shot out and the messenger fell to the floor, his body doubled in pain. "Ambush" he muttered. Tharnon's face screwed up in concentration and the two knights concealed in the forest disappeared into the ground. The two heavily armored men behind the cliff promptly turned into ravens and they flew off, squawking in confusion. Tharnon sat down heavily and sunk his head into his hands. He was shocked that it had come down to this... His whole life had been free from violence but now, he had taken the lives of four men. His eyes then tightened as he recalled the promise the King had made ensuring his protection. His fingers flexed as he thought of all the different ways he could bring his enemy down to justice. With that in mind, he set to work.

Flight

I’m moving through a jungle. I’m moving quicker and quicker through this urban jungle. I’m running from the horde of modern “vampire-hunters” following me in this heartless, concrete jungle. Well, rather my place to exist, and not my home. My home I lost a long time ago.

It was a hot day. Hot enough for the bricks to seem to start sweating, hot enough that as I looked down the road, I saw the air shimmering above the bumpy road, and form a mirage. The day was too hot for this town, and everything was moving sluggishly, with only a few exceptions. Clouds of midges formed near the burn, and we prepared to defend ourselves, and this home we had made ours so long ago.

I wince as I remember that painfully hot afternoon. So long ago, yet the memory still hit me so hard. She had been in town that day, and one of them must have followed her. Now these same people were following me, her mate.

The people were coming for her, but I would defend her. I knew they would come as a horde, but even then, I was not prepared for the sheer number of people who came. That the townsfolk were a superstitious lot I knew, but so many? I looked at her, memorising every line and curve of her face, so that when I died, the last thing I would see would be the face of my mate.

She was the one that they took then, and today they would come for me. And, as it was last time, a sunny day this time. They knew that the light hurt me, otherwise why would they do this to themselves? And why hunt me? I only took the weak, the sick, those who couldn’t return.

If they somehow got by me, I didn’t know what I’d do. I knew that I might just let them kill me so that they wouldn’t hurt her, my wonderful being. I wanted to run with her, but I knew that if we did, we could never return.

These memories wouldn’t help me now, I need my wits around me. I look around, hearing a sharp whistle, and feel something pierce my skin. I look down, at the short, barbed bolt, blinking red at its back. And a feeling of dread and also a strange calm surrounds me. The light changes, and the arrow explodes, blowing me backwards in a trail of long-dead entrails, fresh blood and hot shrapnel. Now the crowd is bearing upon me. I hear them, and begin to stand up again, knowing that I need to rest a night for my stomach to piece itself back together. But now my assailant steps out, and I gasp as I recognise her face.

Freedom

One day I found myself awake in the deep and dark night to the sound of gunfires and the sound of panic and fear. As I walk out I see my people scattered and afraid. I see bright red explosions contrasting to the night’s sky. I run through the violent streets so shocked of my surroundings until I find a block of wood to shelter and hide me. In my place I stop and watch. I see a soldier, a soldier knocking down a door to a house. The soldier enters. As I keep watching I see him come out with a woman in his grip, dragging her outside with a gun pointed at her head. The woman screams as tears stroll down her face. Her right arm reaching back as if she wants to get a hold of something. As she leaves I see a child at the doorstep, a child crying and scared reaching for his mothers hand. Carelessly the soldier keeps dragging her away as the young child cries in fear and pain. What should I do? What is happening? They took away so many parents from so many innocent children and for what? For war? Does this violence make them feel superior? Where is their heart? When will we finally be free from this nightmare?
I keep looking around myself in this scary place and see all these views of death, killings, cries, pain, blood, destruction, guns, tanks, and dust in the air from all the explosions covering everything like fog.
All of the sudden, I see a soldier above me with a gun pointed at me. I look at him curiously. Why is he doing this? What have I done to him? If he thinks he’s in the right, then lets appraise. I stand up infront of him as he moves his gun along the way I move until he stops and points it at my chest. I close my eyes and lift my head up fearlessly as the gunfires, screams and pain surrounding me is all that is going on. He keeps the gun pointed at my chest for a while as he stares at me, until I sense as he lets go of the trigger, puts his gun down and takes a couple of steps back. Just as I open my eyes I see him walking away with his gun on his back and head facing down finding his way back to his vehicle and leaving the territory.

Guiding Sound

It was terribly damp, he felt as if breathing hot steam. Steadily he was fighting his way through the thicket.

Everything was so colourful, reds mixed with green, some purple here and there, and in between, an exquisite yellow flower poking its head through a sea of leaves. His exhausted breath was drowned out by cries of birds. Today he could not only hear normal birds but something special; peacocks. They were everywhere, in, on and below trees.

He didn't really know where he was heading, but the cries of these majestic animals encouraged him. The result would be worth his strains and by the end of his hike he would find something life-changing, even though this walk was already mind-blowing.
How long he has been in the jungle, he does not remember, neither does he remember ever being somewhere else.

Suddenly he could sense the atmosphere change. In front of him stretched a huge lagoon, paradise got even better. The sun was reflected by the blue water. After standing there for minutes in amazement, he slowly walked into the pool. It was very cool, but glorious after not having a bath for what seemed like days. He dived and dived.
When he got out of the water, he heard something; whispering noises. Some meters away from him stood a woman with a child, around the age of 10. They wore something like animal skin around their waist. She smiled at him.

“Come!”, she said.

Something within her voice made the man follow her without hesitation. Swiftly, she started jogging. The child did not have any problems keeping up.
They reached a place one could call a village. The huts were out of wood and leaves. But the amazing thing was that most of them were built high up between trees. And in this clearing there was a whole population, a small village life going on. It seemed like everyone had a task, even the young children listened to a story an old man was telling them.

“Welcome! I imagine you have been traveling through the jungle, like so many of us before. You may stay here as long as you like”, a young man with a brown beard invited him to look around.

In the tree closest to him sat a beautiful peacock. The newcomers' heart beat faster. He felt at home. Finally, his long journey has come to an end and he has found a place to stay.

My Only Hope

I'd been practicing for months... I'd been playing the same instrument for the past 10 years... I'd performed before and I wasn't nervous about it. But I didn't know what was wrong with me at that moment when they told me that my next concert would be an audition for one of the best music schools in the world... I had never been more stressed about anything in my life before... Until today I don't have the words to describe my fear for that concert...
The only way I thought would relax me about the whole situation was if I talked to my best friend about it... She didn't only try to calm me down, but she came up with a solution to help me... I played the cello and she played the trumpet. She suggested for us to play a kind of remix for the concert. So that's what we decided to do...
Only a few days before the concert, I can't say that I wasn't nervous at all... I was... But I knew that I wasn't alone... I felt relieved because of that matter...
The song began... The cello went first... That's the only sound you could hear at the beginning of the song... The cello felt lonely in the first couple of seconds... But everything fell into place when the sound of the trumpet joined in...
My best friend made my hardest and scariest moment easier for me... I swore from that day on that I would be there for her just as she was there for me...
From that day I learnt that friends make life bearable... And at many times in life they are known as our only hope!...

On and On

I knew this; I could repeat this routine backwards. I jumped and my wings spread out like a parachute as soon as my claws were no longer clinging to the rocks. I felt the air ruffle my feathers. This was home; everywhere and no where. Through the sky, never knowing where to go but always hoping for the best. The other ones were leading the flock while I was following behind unnoticed and uncaring. I watched as people below me fought with guns and bombs and I cried a little. Why were these humans so upset? Why did they have to cause these explosions that blasted in the air and burnt my feathers? I just wanted to fly. I just wanted to be free. I started to descend and I hovered over the sea where I ducked my beak in side the water and caught a fish almost straight away. I flew back up into the air regrettably as I watched the men fighting. It never ends, does it? Always, always, always fighting. I don’t want to see it anymore or feel it. I turned, away from the flock, away from everything, and flew. I stopped on the rocks and felt the breeze ruffle my wings. I watched the trees and the clouds and the bugs but I never looked down to the men. Maybe it will get better if I ignore it. Doesn’t that usually help? Tirelessly I realized I was going to need to join a flock so I closed my eyes and went. I followed them, like always, while I watched the men below me hoping for change, hoping for my life, so that I could fly and just fly.

Music to Words

Congratulations again on your great attempts at Task 1. A totally different approach to prose fiction this week.

Sometimes, when it is difficult to find the MUSE, a writer needs to seek a specific source of inspiration in order to unblock the creative process and get the ideas flowing again. That inspiration might come from something visual - a photo, a painting, a piece of architecture, for example; it might come from a memory - accidentally triggered or deliberately recalled; it might even come from some other sort of sensual trigger - a smell, perhaps, or even a particular taste.

But, this week, I would like us to explore how we can use music to provide the inspiration for a piece of creative writing. I would like you to follow these instructions very carefully indeed:

1. Find somewhere quiet and, if possible, dark (or, at the very least, close or cover your eyes)
2. Listen to each of the pieces I have emailed you all today in turn ONCE
3. Now listen to each of them a second time, but with your eyes open and pen and paper in your hands
4. While you listen, you should try to describe, in rough notes, what you 'see' in your mind when you hear it. Do you picture a particular place? Is something happening? Who exactly is involved?
5. Now choose which of the pieces of music provided you with the most vivid and interesting pictures. Which one gave you material which would be easiest to turn into the beginning of a short story?
6. Once you have selected your piece of music, listen to it several times more, making notes all the time until you have lots of material with which to work.
7. Now use those notes to write the first few paragraphs of a short story, inspired by the music you have chosen.

As with any creative writing task, I am looking for:

• how ORIGINAL it is (so avoid cliche, melodrama or, indeed, anything derivative)
• how ENGAGING it is (from the outset and throughout, using tension and hooks to keep us enthralled)
• how ADEPT it is (i.e. how cleverly and deliberately and diversely does it use the tools of language and punctuation of which you need to become master - from unusual syntax to fresh metaphor)
• how CREATIVE it is (e.g. you do not have to take the piece of music LITERALLY, just let it set fire to your imagination, or act as a catalyst to the chemicals of the right side of your brain)
  

You should write between 250-400 words.

Good luck!

The deadline is midnight on Sunday 24th October.