Evaluation. . . 

Creative writing was not my first choice for an elective.

Before this the last writing I did was my Contextual Theoretical Studies Essay, which was 1500 words about advertising, I found that easy and fine once I had reached. But I have not written creatively since my GSCE exams, which is now almost three years ago. I like to read, but only just realized recently and to be honest I do forget as the work load rises and when I have finished socializing there is usually no time to read while at university. Reading is defiantly my holiday hobby. I love to read on the beach in the sun. But I have never written stories myself, I never tired and I never had the confidence. I find writing hard and frustrating sometimes because it takes me a lot of drafts to get a piece with correct grammar and spelling. Ideas take a while to be worded correctly and make sense.

The first day was awful. We immediately had to free write until the time was up.  Like I said my grammar is an issue and spelling is bad. I feel before this elective It used to stop me expressing myself as, people always judge these things as the building blocks or writing. So I thought I would create terrible writing. I hate standing in front of a lot of people, during this course I have had to read my writing out aloud. It is a mix of feelings between embarrassment as I find writing so personal and nervous, as I know my topics are always depressive and people could preserve them as my own thoughts. I also feel that a lot of people in the group write to a better standard imminently and I am amazed by how quickly they can have a decent story.

I think the most valuable lesson that I have learnt is that anyone can write. Everyone writes differently and that is ok. I now feel I understand how stories work, how narratives are made and what you need to include to make them good.

During university I am constantly learning so it’s hard to keep on track with every aspect of life. Now I am always busy and even if I have a ‘night off’ I will be out socializing doing something, so I have started a sort of journal, which helps me stay sane. I can now add to this by writing short stories or poems when I’m out and about, keeping this writing on going.

In the end I enjoyed learning more about the process of writing, I just feel at the begging it was very full on and since I am not confident in my writing abilities I did not enjoy it at all.

I really did not like the exercises where we had to do role-play. I hate drama for the same reason as I hate standing up in font of people. I will do it if I have to, but I feel like an idiot. The sensory writing that I wrote about how the steps ‘felt’ were defiantly not for me. I hate writing about feelings in that way, I found it tedious, and am not what I enjoy to do.

So I do feel this elective has helped me understand writing a lot more, and I probably will carry on, but it takes me a lot of time to get from an idea to a ledge able piece. So I do not expect to be a writer when I’m older! I love journals and any form of documentation and writing to me is documenting.

I’m still learning what I like to do and how I like to spend my time. I’m excited to see where this new knowledge will take me.

Final Story

The Stranger

You saw me before I saw you, a stranger, your eyes burned through my back, and I could feel your presence even the in busy bustle of a Saturday market. You’d been following me, I knew it. Yet something about you lured me into a place where I felt secure and untouchable, even if you could flatten me with one quick blow. Somehow, for reasons still unknown to me, your face entreged me, your awquard body language made your 6ft 2 structure inviting. It was your eyes that literally stopped me in my steps. So big, so beautiful, I could feel myself slipping into them, slowly loosing my thoughts in their light blue haze. They always say never judge a book by its cover, and I suppose they’re right.

…..

The cover well built, muscular god. Chiseled features covered with just the right amount of stubble. As I gaze at your face you truly are beautiful, but in a rugged way. Littered with little crevices stemming from your eyes, circling your brow. When you smile two dimples’ appear. Your laugh makes my heart flutter, it was a soft soothing noise like warm caramel to my ears. Sporting the new season fashion, fresh from the hanger; literally dressed head to toe like the perfect mannequins, a life size representation of any girls dream.

On appearance you had all the attributes of a good guy. The blue-eyed boys never play the villain…

…..

You’d been following me since New York Street, well that’s when I first noticed you. As I said, I felt you watching me, stalking me, a deer foraging, ambushed by a ravage beast. The predator stalking its prey with calculation and stealth. His pure mass and muscle overcoming the feeble intelligence of his prey.  To anyone looking at you, you must have been fitted as the shady character, a man following a girl, how original. Yet to me it was flattering, a plain schoolgirl, lacking in the breast department, owning the chest of a boy. Dressed in an ugly short grey skirt, my awful legs on show. None the less I’d still roll it up at the waste band making it even shorter, so when I walk up stairs you could see my bargain bin knickers picked out from last years Ann Summers sale marathon, they were lace. My mousey brown hair always smothered my face, hiding my hideous features. I still slap on the make up every morning though. My dinosaur strut usually causes a stare, passer bys presume I’m just a stroppy teen angry at the world, when actual fact its another shit defect I got from my parents, cheers guys.

So, you see my train of thought, why would someone as high flying and as glamorous as you follow me?

I felt someone brush past my thigh, it was you.

The hairs on my back stood to attention, my eyes locked onto your face taking in your appearance slowly, scanning through every detail. I didn’t want to miss even the tiniest information. You accidentally on purpose bumped into me, dropping your copy of my favourite magazines of all time, featuring the best guitarist on front. If there was ever a moment to strike up a convocation, that was the opportune right there. Some people like to wave at them as they pass by. Me, I bit the bullet.

As I droned on about something insignificant, your eyes were too intense to stare into for long, like the world would stop if I carried on for a second longer. You asked me questions, I don’t remember answering. I was in a haze, suddenly everything seemed a little brighter, the tramp on the street asking for money, didn’t seem to be a drug addict anymore, he was just a mass victim of a savage house fire. The street lamps sparkled, instead of the bulb being faulty and irritating, they fluttered in and out of sight mystery surrounded them. The sky turned to a majestic blue and purple swirl, pinpointed with tiny fairy lights scattered like a small child’s toys. Just five minutes earlier I wanted to be home, away from this horrible place, in fear of being attacked. Now, it was the only place I wanted to be.

…..

His flat was clean clinical, reflecting the precise actions of a murderer cleaning up his evidence; a strong smell of bleach hit me in a wave followed by various cleaning products. Convosation lead us into the kitchen where he offered me brew. I accepted, deep in topic, I was drawn to him. He had a lot to say, I suppose most of the time I was zoned out in another land daydreaming. You didn’t seem to notice.

All of a sudden out of the blue you pounced. You had me pushed against the wall, supporting my suspended weight. Your kiss was hard, rough, but I liked it. My hands were spread apart with your hand clenching my wrists. It was at this point I really notice how small I was in comparison to you.

My legs wrapped around your waist, my hands caressing your face, you back, you entire body. Your hands were warm, clammy and tough, grating over my skin with force, grasping onto my body, scratching, forcefully. You enjoyed my wincing in pain. We went further, you began to undress me. I could feel you wanted it. I knew what happened next.

You tasted sweet.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a plastic sheet covering a large area on the floor, no furniture, no knickknacks, no clutter, nothing. A single plastic sheet.

…..

I reached my hand down toward my stomach wincing at the thought of what was about to happen, all the things I would never be able to do. Everything I ever wanted from life, gone. In that moment I wondered what life was all about. I’d like to say I found out. I’d like to say I achieved something. I’d like to say I wasn’t raped. I’d like to say I wasn’t murdered, right there in that flat, on that plastic sheet.

…..

Right in that moment the door burst open. They found me. 

Having Leprosy is great because ....

Having leprosy is great because it’s one guarantee way of making money for doing absolutely nothing. I would love it. I wish I had it, I try, I spot out Lepers and follow them around all day, desperately picking up germs, eating their left over stale bread and butter sandwiches, and feeling the edges where their soggy saliva has dribbled from their salivating mouths. The truth is I’m lazy.

I’ve tried pretending I had it but everyone cottoned on when my fake nose fell off. And my condition never got any worse. A leper sits there and gets given food, money, drink, attention, everybody gives a dying person a lot.

Simon, I remember him, I was certain he would infect me, by the time I started stalking him he only had on demented ear, five fingers, a thumb, 6 toes and part of his nose. I used to stare a him from a distance and study his fleshy pours. I imagined how itchy it would be, how this sensation would cover my entire body, it would control me. The feeling o shedding skin, a serpent snake born ‘a new’ slivering out of my old tired skin, into something un recognizable.

No thought excited me more.

I decided to plea with him after three weeks of stealing his germs in hope, his condition was clearly deteriorating where as I, fit as a firefighter.

“Erm, hello, so can you cough on me or something? Or give me a finger? See look, we both know it’s going to fall off soon, see it’s half gone.”

It was true, his middle finger was already down to it’s second joint, but a large gash wound at his knuckle meant the remaining part was dangling, clearly very near to it’s end. Oozing out a garbage bin liquid, it squelched every time his stiff hand moved.

Nonetheless he looked at me in horror.

I don’t understand, all I want is leprosy and I can’t even get that. 

Jeffrey walked into the bar and ...

Jeffrey walked into the bar and slumped down on the stool. He ordered his usual stiff whisky and waited for the barmaid to do her job. Even her arse was not enough to widen up his eyes, but then again she was getting on and the size a heavy weight champion. He couldn’t even purve on women anymore. They just had no effect on him anymore.

Drowning his sorrows he stared out on the place observing everyone eels, wondering what it would be like to be them. With a sigh he swirled the remainder of his drink around his rose tinted glass. The little steam of light that entered this damp depressing room caught the rim and began to dance around the room as he twirled the glass in hand. Reminding him of the crystal toy he used to play with. This instrument used to be the main ingredients to his physic kit, the month he wanted to read peoples minds as a profession, later followed by astronaut, policeman, a bin man, a hippy and a employer at a chocolate factory. But this was a lifetime ago. Back then throughout high school everyone thought he would be the high flier of the family, top grades in everything he put his hand to. Popular to boot and knew his own mind. If only they could see him now, flopped on a broken bar stool, welded together with gather tape, cradling his drink, like the child he never had. In his head he can see where it all went wrong. 

......

Free writing warm up 

Subverting Cliques. . . 

WHY?

Easy as pie

Easy a Toast

.....

Feeling under the weather

Feeling over the weather

Feeling over the blue moon

.....

Once in a blue moon

Once in a blue weather

.....

Not the sharpest knife in the box

Not the brightest spark....

Not the pointiest stick in the draw

Not the strongest branch on the tree.

.....

Go out with a blaze of glory

Go in with a blaze or glory

.....

Boys will be boys

Girls will be girls

.....

Many hands make for complicated work

.....

Drunk as a Skunk

Drunk as a Monk

Drunk as a Punk 

.....

Early bird catches all the worms

Early cat catches the bird

.....

In the Nick of time

In the Eddie of time

.....

Burst you balloon

.....

Any friend of yours I immediately don't like.

..... 

Love has a Lazy eye

.....

Wake up and smell the coffin

Cliques. . . 

• Anything goes
• Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies .... If you ask me that question, I will not be able to tell you the truth.
• Baked
• Boys will be boys ....  Sometimes boys or men do things that little boys do or Men can be immature.
• Bust your balls, To
• Even the sun shines on a dogs ass some days
• Know it like the back of my hand
• One bad apple spoils the (whole) barrel / bushel / lot / bunch ... A single person can be a bad influence on other people.
• Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me
• Way to a man's heart is through his stomach

Alternative Story 1st draft. . . 


I ieary dark day on the dawn of a new pitiful day in a tiny town known as.... Enough to keep anyone indoor, safe and secure in their minute cozy homes, it's true what they say home is where your heart is. Even in this suburban hell people managed to find happiness. What a crazy world we live in. 
A shilotte emerged from behind the billowing trees, in the distance it slowly approaches us. No longer threatened an old lady becomes visible. He stooped shoulders and sunken neck made most people want to grab her head and tug on it until it would return to its original height in top of a sturdy neck. Many children used to point and ask if she was a witch. To be fair with a long stooping nose with a growing wart even friends had begun to question if this woman was the clique of all witches. But this didn’t faise her, she always said looks weren’t everything. She was known thoughout this town as the kindest woman alive, she would always help out someone in need and always went the extra mile. Children are children, it was when parents or teenagers would respond with she’s just old, or she has problems.