Friends In Unlikely Places

…as he walked towards the town centre, he was overwhelmed with the feeling of relief and freedom that came with not having a tight leash around his neck, yet people still looked at him suspiciously. In fact, after a brief glance in his direction they seemed to move out of the way; making his confidence grow and his tail begin to rise and wag. There was no doubt that he was enjoying his power to split the crowd instead of having crowds of bratty children fighting to stroke, poke, jab and ruffle his fur.

I cowered in the shadow of an alleyway nearby, as I watched them scurry away, unaware of the delight I felt at their carelessness. I silently hoped for a hot chocolate and maybe a sandwich crust or two. Disapproving tuts fluttered around me as I dashed to, what I saw as, the gold mine. Yes! There was a lukewarm polystyrene ‘Starbuck’s’ cup right at the top! Eagerly, I picked it up and rattled it to hear the pleasant swash of leftover dregs – I love the fact that disposable cups come with lids nowadays so the last few inches of liquid remain in the container! With a surge of excitement, I yanked off the lid and sure enough there were at least two mouthfuls of warm, chocolate-y goodness lying at the bottom. My freezing cold bones couldn’t wait any longer and I downed the drink remains as quickly as I could. Spluttering at the shock of the harsh taste of caffeine, I grinned to myself, ‘mocha, eh? I got more than I paid for!’ With a final glance around, I took a last rummage in the bin, desperately hoping for a stroke of luck. But there was nothing else, just soggy tissues, empty wrappers and other unrecognisable goods.

The dog continued to trundle along, enjoying his new-found effect on passers-by. He was a stray, a danger, ‘stay out of his way!’ but as the crowd separated around him, they didn’t re-assemble a couple of meters after passing – they left a gap for another figure to walk through, towards the mongrel.

As I walked back to where my possessions were, the general murmur of the public around me was interrupted by the impatient rumble of my stomach. Ignoring this, I gifted people with a smile, perhaps a nod and sometimes a ‘hello’ but got nothing back, so I gave up and transfixed my eyes on the floor, promising myself that they just hadn’t seen me.

With great confidence, the dog tried to stay at the heel of his target, swerving in and out of the constant stream of other people to not lose sight of the man.

The soft sound of panting plodding behind me matched the rhythm to my footsteps. I was being followed! Every now and then I slowed down until the quiet pitter-patter of the perky dog amplified, meaning he had caught up. I turned around to get a proper look, but something caught my eye instead. A mother, walking along with a small child; she couldn’t have been older than about 3. Munching away at a sandwich, she suddenly tripped over and dropped it. Her mother sighed and tossed it into a nearby bin. My stomach outweighed the gentle plea of my dignity; one minute I was stood across the pavement, the next minute I was licking my lips in anticipation of the ‘gourmet’ sandwich in my unsteady hands.

I felt eyes on me. A stranger, an attacker – you could never be too careful! I must NOT hold his gaze; that would be the deadliest of moves. But he continued to sniff around my feet and as soon as my foot left the floor to give the sneaky beggar a warning kick, I caught sight of the mutt’s face. I never could resist a pretty face … Within a flash he had eaten the crusty edge without a morsel of crumbs left behind and I once again fell victim to the deadly temptation of his ravenous eyes.

The man carried on walking, smugly watching confused onlookers. “Why him?” they arrogantly wondered, “what refuge can that tramp give?” as they saw him waiting for the dog to catch up, chanting ‘here doggy! Come here!’ to the space behind him. 

Bystanders continued to watch the pair as they trampled along the cobbles and then met, with great dread, a group of ignorant teens jeering at him, adopting stances that made the man cower back in fear. “Don’t get involved, that dog looks dangerous,” strangers thought, trying to justify their passiveness as they hurried away from the dog, barking in protection; he was the danger, not  the youths, making death threats and humiliating remarks. The deep bellow of the protective dog quickly made the group dissemble without a final threatening word – a first for a man who had battle wounds from too many other encounters.

My dreams were tinted dark. A figure; a hand; a gentle pull on his scruffy tail; these nightmares blurred into one – the vision of waking up lonely.

Ignorant passers-by did not realise how much the man needed to be depended upon, as well as have something to depend on. As they hurriedly walked past him, literally and figuratively looking down on him; they wondered at his story. Cold, dirty and soggy from the splash of absentminded shoppers who traipsed through puddles all-too-enthusiastically, how did it happen? 

As the rainy night blurred into a crisp winter’s day, I wallowed closer into his soft fur. I heard the loud footsteps of a couple trample past, fresh pretzels in hand, making both me and my dog stir in response to the pleasing smell. I moved my arm to give him a gentle pat in reassurance to the promise of food and, at my release, he sprang into action.

With great confidence, the dog tried to stay at the heel of his targets, swerving in and out of the constant stream of other people to not lose sight of the couple.

His focus was clear – food, and nothing more.

Pressure.

I stared at the keypad, trying to remember the correct code that had been drummed into me over and over again. “Twist the dial, type ‘2-0’, flick the sw— no wait,” what was it?

I felt the pressure. The pressure from my peers and everybody around me, dependent on my next move. But more importantly, the pressure from myself. I had to do it. I had a lot of energy at my care, but how was I going to control it? What was that code? I knew that one wrong step would deplete my chances, and a careless action would make the whole contents in that small box, which held no prisoners, explode and burn to a crisp. What a waste that would be.

C’mon! Think! I could drive a tank, operate a gun, navigate across the harsh Afghanistan desert, yet when my comrades needed me most; my mind had hit a wall. “Twist the dial, type ‘2-0’, flick the sw—“

‘YOU JUST TRIED THAT!’ one of my companions yelled, the stress and panic leaking out of his voice like water from a tap. ‘We haven’t got much time left’. In immense dread, I touched one of the buttons and, unbeknown to me, it bleeped and the whole box sprang into action, leaping and whirring as it eventually lit up. My last sense to realise what had happened was my touch. But I soon felt the immense heat radiating through my bones, like a wave of water drenching a sandy beach, seeping into every nook and cranny available and making me aware of it, as if it was just tapping me on the shoulder. Everybody around my flinched in anticipation as a harsh countdown started and I knew this was it.

10, 9, 8—“EVERYBODY GET READY”, 7, 6, 5, 4, —“IT’S GONNA EXPLODE!”, 3, 2, 1

*ping*

The popcorn was ready

The introduction to my autobiography...

I hate to say it but that fringe has only recently gone. I should've ditched it sooner

Now that I think about it, it’s actually really difficult to introduce my autobiography. I mean, how am I supposed to start - “Thanks for wanting to read about my life, but bear in mind it’s not very interesting”? I thought about starting it like one of those soppy videos, ‘a message to my 16 year old self’ and proceed from there, but bearing in mind I am only just 17, my advice would be less along the lines of ‘follow your heart’ and more along the lines of ‘don’t forget to take your toothbrush on holiday when you go to Turkey’. So here goes – I was born on a battlefield on the South of the Serbian border, whilst the enemy was shooting from both sides and my father was recovering from a nasty blow to the head; my birth was truly a miracle. Nah, just kidding. To be honest, my birth was pretty normal I think. When my mum went into labour with my older sister, Eleanor, my dad was late to the hospital because he had just scored 100 runs in an important cricket game. I don’t have an interesting story like that. I think that was the closest that Eleanor and I had ever been to succeeding in sport, much to our father’s dismay. The rise and fall of my football career came when, in year 5, I tried to impress a boy on the playground by kicking a runaway ball back to him, but it ended up plummeting straight for a wall and bouncing right back to me. Anyway, all my mum has really ever told me about when I was born was that the midwife on call was ‘fat, sweaty and grumpy’ and my timing meant that mum missed ‘Coronation Street’. It doesn’t get much more interesting; the majority of my childhood was spent sitting, alone, in our spare bedroom, waiting for somebody to come and buy a stamp from my makeshift post office. Nobody ever did. In fact, the biggest profit I made from it was when we sold it for £2 at a car boot sale last year. 

School homework - 'Write an introduction to a novel'

“It’s gonna be okay”. But it’s not going to be okay is it? People always say that, but how do they even know?

My friend Tara always says it, and then chuckles as I snarl, “you don’t know it will be okay”.  “God Georgia, you’re so pessimistic for a 15 year old! Lighten up a little,” she says it with a grin, but I know that when she uses my full name instead of ‘Gee’, she’s being serious. I understand where she’s coming from but it’s so difficult to lighten up when everything in my life is so dark. Nothing’s going to be okay for me; even Tara, my best friend, doesn’t understand this.

I don’t try to be miserable, misery just has a way of finding its way to me and making sure that I know nothing is ever alright. It snakes its way through even my happiest memories, tinting them with the doubt that relentlessly whispers to me ‘why should you have this happy memory?’ So when Tara naively tries to cheer me up, it is thrown back in her face as I remember why nothing will ever be okay again.

My thoughts are constantly flickering, like the sound on an old CD which jumps and stalls, but unlike track 6 on Take That’s first album, or the last track on ‘Now That’s What I Call Music! 24’, my thoughts always go back to the same place. I used to be a bright and happy child. Normal, I guess, but everything changed when I was 7…


Where do you think this story is going? Write the next part in the comments for me!

A piece of creative writing which includes certain given phrases

NOTE: The phrases which I had to include are in bold

As my pace quickened, my surroundings slowed. Every step, fuelled by the relentless rhythm of my heartbeat, seemed like an eternity. The silence was overpowering yet I could tell someone was there. The shadow of the trees? From the corner of my eyes they were creepy figures. The flap of a bird’s wings? These quickly became the pounce of the enemy. The darkness of the sky? I knew this was the spotlight in which my murder would occur.

Lost, scared and alone, I became two people. A shell and a consciousness. The frightened shell of a girl began to cry but I ignored her tears. Tears smell of vulnerability and vulnerability smells of danger.

Stay confident.

Stay brave.

Stay alive.

People say we only have 5 senses, but at that moment I had 6. He was there, I knew it and I guess, deep down, I knew my fate. I smelt the faint stench of his coffee-tainted breath, and his staccato pant was not even drowned out by the unforgiving harsh Autumn winds. The snap of a branch behind me could not be passed off as an innocent four legged animal, it could only be the aggressive stomp of his heavy boots.

My consciousness knew what to do; it took the fear and twisted it. Reshaped it. Used it. Fear became adrenaline which spurred on my legs to run faster. I whispered for my legs to help me, to speed on, to sense the danger. They had to rise to the challenge; it was their time to be heroes. I needed my legs to get me out of the forest, which would be quickly transformed into a taped-off murder scene by the morning. But they wouldn’t believe me, they didn’t sense the urgency. My adrenaline wasn’t enough for me to rapidly carry myself out of the forest. I tripped at every opportunity, each tumble bringing me closer to the inevitable.

I fought, begged and pleaded. Not only on that night, but on the lead up to it. “Don’t”, “Stop it”, “Go away”, “Leave me alone”. How many times can you say the same thing? I cried … again. Not from the pain, the pain came later on, but from the fact that he had, once more, succeeded. The most painful part was the sound of his laughter; it was the first time I had heard him laugh and this was when both me and him realized, as I lay tripped on the ground, that he had won. I wonder if he laughs at all of his victims.

I’m not sure where I was but I saw it all. I was now separated from my shell, who lay, waiting to be found. My memory appears in flashes.

The dog walker, not knowing that this would change her life forever. How can you forget the image of what lay in front of her in a muddy ditch?

The police, breezing over their emotions as they, naively, tried to piece together what had happened as if they had a chance. He’s done it before and he’ll do it again, don’t get involved. I should know. I got involved.

My father, having to make that transition from the anger over my overstepped curfew to the … well he doesn’t know what he feels. Perhaps he is still angry. Maybe he is just sad. I hope he stays strong.

My mother, crumpled in a heap as she receives the news, and later, (much later) arrives at the harsh reality that I’m never coming home.

…and Him. With no thought other than “so who’s next?”

In around 500 words, write either the beginning, 'magic moment' or endto a romance style novel. Include a variety of euphemisms and cliches

As the rain pattered against the rattling taxi window, she realised what she was losing. She didn’t know his second name, his favourite colour, how many siblings he had. She had not met his parents or been on holiday with him. She did not know him in a way that she knew her best friend or her parents, but in that second as he closed the car door and walked up to the train station, she knew one thing. She wanted to be with him. She loved him.

It did not take her long to realise what she had to. After forcing the driver to grind to a halt, she had never moved quicker, dodging past anonymous figures on the platform and fighting, begging and pleading with destiny to stop him getting onto the train. Raindrops splattered down, merely adding to the tears which tricked down her delicate cheeks whilst her panic built up.

“John! John! Stop!” she cried with sheer determination as onlookers jumped in confusion. He was an oblivious target in the distance, but somehow the only image that was focused in her eyes; he mattered and suddenly the argument didn’t.

Heart in mouth, she stumbled through the mob of people. It didn’t matter that she bumped into an elderly gentlemen, or barged through a couple, deep in conversation. They all loved people, they would understand her desperation if only they knew.

The train pulled in and people moved to get on. She was now desperate; her length of opportunity was being harshly monitored by the speed at which passengers boarded the train, which was impatiently waiting to depart. As hoards of people moved towards the train, she lost sight of John. The train left. And the crowd of people who had got off the train and spectators who had been saying goodbye to people began to disband. She never even got to say goodbye.

Heart in mouth, she stumbled to a wall and leant against it, suddenly letting the tears flow. She couldn’t support herself and collapsed onto the ground, not even caring that she was drenched from the puddle underneath her. The minute she had realised how much he was worth was the minute that she lost him. She sat there, head in hands and shivering from both the cold and the loneliness she felt. What was she to do now?

Suddenly she felt a warmth on her shoulder, with all of her hope based on this one sense, she looked up but her disappointment was reimbursed merely with a uniformed platform attendant telling her to move on.

As she stood up, wondering what to do next, she looked ahead of her, and that’s when she saw him. John. Sat on a bench watching her.

“I couldn’t do it,” he exclaimed, “I couldn’t leave you”.

Use a line from a Shakespeare play as the title for your own piece of writing

"All that glitters is not gold"

As I stood on the platform, I reminisced about what I was leaving behind. I envisioned the look on my husband’s face as he woke up in the morning and realised that I was absent. I could almost feel his touch, every morning since we married he would, without fail, give me a peck on the cheek and play with my hair to gently wake me up. Standing amongst the city crowds, a tear trickled down my cheeks. It suddenly occurred to me that I was leaving everything. This was the first time I had a chance to consider my feelings, and for just a glimpse of a second, I wondered whether I was making a mistake. But I wasn’t, I didn’t deserve a family, not after what I had done.

I was brought up in the vast city of London. From a baby, I was surrounded by bright city lights and the madness of industry everywhere I went. My parents had brought me up as a city girl, they were a working couple. When I met my husband, I realised a busy life wasn’t for me. We settled for a peaceful life that focused on family values. I loved that about my husband; we wanted the same.

The happiest moment of my life was the birth of my son. Holding him in my hands, I saw him as a jewel- beautiful and precious. I couldn’t believe the intensity of the love I suddenly felt for something so small. Since that day, I have maintained a strong relationship with him. Family is important and I wanted to give him the gift of love and stability, which meant a lot to me.

A train whizzed past me, making the tail of my coat float up into the air. My memory flickered back to the long summer days we spent as a family. The endless glasses of lemonade we would devour during a picnic by the lake. This was undoubtedly bliss. I remember a dog running up to us, escaping from its owner. As a reflex, my son grabbed the bottom of my skirt, I guess he thought I could always protect him. I knew that, had my son been with me on the platform, he would have clutched on to the bottom of my coat every time a train rushed past, or a crowd flooded out of the ticket booth.

Anybody would wonder what could be so dreadful that would make me be at the platform, heading miles away on my own. You see, all that glitters is not gold; despite outward appearances, my life was not perfect. Throughout my life with my husband, I have always had a cloud above my ray of happiness. It has always loomed over me. That day. What I did. I will never forget it. And that’s why I have to go.

I couldn’t leave my husband and son without an explanation, I owed them a letter at least. It took me several attempts, trying to find the right words, trying to jot down my feelings amongst the sea of tears that kept splattering onto my note. It was finally done. The breakdown of my life was there on a page, and nobody would ever forgive me.  I got up in the middle of the night, lightly pecked my sleeping husband on the cheek and whispered my love for him. I then went to see my son, who was also sound asleep. A salty tear ran down my cheek as I kissed his head. When I went downstairs, I took a last glance around my home, the place that shared my fondest memories. I balanced my letter against the fruit bowl on the kitchen table and went into the black darkness. 

I sighed as my train came in and people started to pick up their luggage, barging to the front to ensure they got a seat. I glanced at the wedding ring on my finger before taking it off and hiding it in my pocket; I prepared to board. A ticket man ushered me onto the train and as I took a step forward I heard someone calling me. A familiar voice. I look around and saw a figure running towards me. I watched his slender body push his way forward. His feet tripping as he weaved between the busy crowds.  His hands were poised in a determined fist clench and his eyes, shining with the moisture of his tears, narrowed as his gaze met mine. He finally reached where I was standing and looked up at me with that face I knew too well. There he was. My son.

A monologue from the point of view of one of the four seasons

I hate him. He just does it to spite me. I have my time and he has his. He just chose to do things differently. (shrug) I try my very best to brighten up the country, I don’t hide away the sun, I know how she hates that, (whisper) she’s sensitive. He, of course, loves to cause trouble and routinely hides her away, gets his colony of clouds to stand in front of her and spoil the elegant atmosphere she has helped me to create.

It was Mother Nature who elected me for the summer holidays, best time of the year because everybody can enjoy the goodness I spread. Well, he hated this! But, I mean, its not like he just got half term like Autumn, (sniggers) he was given the Christmas holidays. Though if you ask me he has ruined them- I could do a much better job! What’s the fun in sprinkling a hint of snow and making the public expect more? Getting their hopes up, only for them to receive a weeks worth of splattering raindrops replacing the delicate snowflakes they were expecting. He’s selfish. He saves it all for himself.

Look at him! (points) All high and mighty sitting on a chair of snow over there, who does he think he is? And then to steal the leaves off the trees…well that is pure evil, how would he feel if I went over there and stole his earmuffs?

When Mother Nature briefed us about our jobs, me, Spring and Autumn all understood. But as soon as she leaves us to control her children, those monstrous little tornados, all hell breaks loose and Winter decides to freeze the whole place. Now why would you do that?!

He’ll get what’s coming to him. Take Spring for example, she is always late, leaving Winter to conduct even more gloominess around the UK but, boy did she suffer from that! Mother Nature was furious when she realised how late Spring always was. She banished Spring to under the ground and now all she can do is push flowers up from under the soil. Not a good life if you ask me!

Now if you’ll excuse me, I am needed to go and persuade the sun to heat up the country. Ha! That will get on Winters nerves!