What a wonderful world

Photo 5

“He’s a useless thug”, some might say. “He’s trouble, He’s a nuisance, and He’ll just let us down”. What do they know? Quickly judging me for my adolescent façade and branding me a “thug” in my own right, without proper consideration for feelings or thoughts that lay cocooned within my shell. Is this humanity? Is this the extent to which my kind has sunk in order to keep a logical lid on the Jar of all that’s true? Though I probably shouldn’t be surprised, as this tyrannical world I live in cares not for the creativity or imagination of it’s “loyal” disciples, rather it fusses over keeping each and every person’s hair line at a particular angle, or trying rather desperately to hush up the wrong doings of the higher superiority. MP’s, Bankers, Scientists-All Hypocrites! All preaching over what they consider to be the morally right, and lecturing us over what is a “citizens duty”. I can tell you dear people that they drive me Mad! Sorely keeping a tight-piercing eye over on the citizens of this world, whilst we all obliviously pay for their luxurious playboy lifestyles and are still constantly threatened with the risk of being hapless, scavenging street beggars. The pastoral world where freedom was compulsory and pain was a mere scratch obtained from blissful, joy-filled hours is now gone, and now all that is left is a toxic chemical waste land brimmed with damaging technology that leaves us scraping in the pennies from street to street. Though, what would I know, I am a mere statistic in the numbers of the world and would probably be a disturbance in the heavy-authoritarian world that is Planet Earth, yet worst than that is… I’m a teenager.

Hypocritical happiness- Photo 3

I look at myself in the mirror. I am completely dressed in white, couldn’t have looked any prettier. Yet, I would give up all my beauty just to skip this day, this day which would lead me to my doom. The incident when my step father locked me in my room for a whole week and practically starved me in order to make me fit into my wedding dress constantly plays in my head. Why did my mother turn a blind eye to all these events? Am not her own flesh and blood? “ You do as I say or stay in there forever! You might as well remain a spinster for the rest of your life, you don’t deserve a man! Refusing to follow the orders of the man who provided for you!!”, those were his last words as he slammed the door right at my face. Provided for me? All that he’s done was to give me food and enrol me to a public school with the worst discipline ever.
I don’t crave to marry some one whom I love, all I want is a respectable man who would care for me and raise our children properly. But who do I get? A man who has a past criminal record, is very much older than me and a chain smoker! How could a parent, step parent or not wish such a thing for his or her child. This man whom I’m being forced to marry is one of my father’s best friends, his wife died just recently and he is extremely wealthy. He promise my father a large sum in return for my hand. “ Are you sure that it just her hand that you want Jonathon?”, I over heard my step dad joke after agreeing to Jonathon’s request.
“ Catherine its time , come out now love”, I hear granny call out to me from behind the closed door. I was completely wrapped up in my thoughts that I had forgotten why I came back into the dressing room. I am also completely unable to remember it. Giving up all hopes of life I make my way to the beginning of the aisle. A thick veil is dropped over my face which completely conceals it.
I begin to walk down the aisle as I hear the opening notes of the wedding march. My mind is in complete tatters. Tears make there way across my cheek smudging my make up, as I think of the happy married life that I’ll never have. I finally reach the alter, my tear stained face is revealed to my husband-to-be. Huh! That look he gave me as he saw my face lit a little flame of triumph in my heart.
The priest began his speech , and we said our vows, my mind left my body and west in search of the most irrelevant things to keep itself occupied. When it returned to my body all that I was able to grasp was a dead silence from the crowd and priest. I turn behind to see what’s happening. My father was fuming at me. What have I done wrong? I look back at him with a questioning look, “ I do”, he mouthed . “
“Oooh, I do”, I say after realising the cause for the pin-drop silence. I hear a series of stifled giggles coming from the girls. Suddenly, my eyes turn into fountains of tears, they gush out uncontrollably, the horror of my situations dawns to me all over again. All I can do is the impossible - to enjoy my doomsday and not think of the future. It will carve itself without my assistance. But the thought of the carvings being fiendish never slips my mind.

What Love Costs (Photo 7)

What Love Costs

Jay sat gazing into the mirror as the clock tick... tick... ticked. Four hours had managed to escape him while he thought over his situation. He was holding his mother, Natalia, though she couldn’t pass for a three year old. She’d been through hell for him but she wouldn’t have it any other way. Love had put t them into this predicament; however Jay’s faith in love bringing them out was wearing thin.
The day before Jay and Natalia sat in their home. It only consisted of one room but it was theirs. Jay had always longed for the day he would be able to look after his mother because she had got pregnant with him when she was 15. From then Natalia’s life had been a downhill struggle: she dropped out of school, suffered and eating disorder and her father died. Living with her mother, Kathryn, and son had started as a constant battle. Everyday would bring something new for Natalia and her mother to argue over, but as Jay grew the arguments stopped and their family was knitted tighter and tighter.
Unfortunately when Jay turned twelve Kathryn had a stroke and died leaving behind her only child and grandchild. Natalia couldn’t keep up with paying for the home on their own so she and Jay were evicted. Live as a single mother was far from easy but Natalia wouldn’t change her life, the life she shared with Jay for anything.
Knowing all his mum had been through Jay vowed to look after her, so whenever he saw an opportunity to gain money he took it. Hence when he saw an advert in the local newspaper to be used as a guinea pig for a new drug he took it. He forged the parental permission slip and went, unaware that the substance being tested was unsafe. The drug called Laxrotive had been tested on mice and causes a fully grown mouse to look as young as a newborn. Jay didn’t care about the small print of the advert which contained this information; he was more concerned about the £5,000 he could gain in return.
While clearing Jay’s mess Natalia found the advertisement but it was too late, he was already on his way. So she went to the stated address and caught Jay just in time. She tried to explain herself but the scientists wouldn’t allow her so to save time she looked at Jay handed him the newspaper clipping and said ‘There’s no other way...I love you’.
Nothing had happened, Natalia felt perfectly normal and Jay looked at her like she was a mad woman, unaware that Laxrotive took about three hours to kick in. That is how Jay ended up in this predicament; holding his mother in his arms.

Ignorance (Photo 3)

She will be standing there, on that hot summer day, thinking it will be the best day of her life. She had planned this day ever since she was nine and she had wanted it to be perfect. The venue was the same church her parents had got married in. She would wear the same dress her mum had worn so many years ago. She would grip onto the same type of flowers that accompanied her mum as she walked down the aisle. She planned this day and expected it to be perfect, like any other young girl would. She would act out the scene with little barbie dolls. In fact, the only thing she hadn't planned was the vows. She had even thought of the caterers and all the various types of canapes they would offer. She wanted all the bridesmaids to wear beautiful lilac dresses with big, puffy skirts. The image of her dream wedding never changed from when she was 12 until now.

Soon, this day that she has waited for will come and all her plans will come into action. Little does she know of what her future holds. That the man she thought she knew and loved, would turn out to be something completely different, something she will be terrified of. Almost immediately, she will acknowledge the fact that her life is in ruins.And in next to no time, she will realise that the mistakes she made are irreversible. "If only," she'll wish "I could travel back in time." But unfortunately for her, she can't.

At the moment, she is completely unaware of what will take place and she thinks she is living the perfect life. She has a stunning spacious apartment in the middle of the hustle and bustle of New York City. She has the job she's always dreamed of and is planning to have a baby. In her eyes, life couldn't be any better. But as time will go on, inopportune events will take place in her life and she will be put in a situation where she will have to brutally murder a loved one to save another. But as she doesn't know of this yet, she is happy and doesn't have a care in the world.


As she imagines her future, her wedding day, an image of happiness and tranquility comes to mind. However she is yet to be surprised by the strange twist of events after her wedding day.

Blackout (photo 5)

Saturday Morning on Helcrome Street it's 10.45 am, yet strangely enough the sky was filled in enduring blackness I could then feel a sudden quiver underneath my feet this could only mean one thing...

It's been 6 years since the Lone Pine Earthquake hit California, after a few moments of desperation I soon found out that nothing of my family was left except for me, i should have just died along side with my parents it would have been better that way, I wouldn't have to face this world alone knowing no matter how hard I wished they just wouldn't come back, but fate has brought me here It's like starting a new life right from the starting point. I remember I was only ten years old my tender skin turned Ice cold, my tears were beginning to swell up, I remember how they touched to the ground as soon as they were announced dead, I knew from then on it wasn't going to be easy.

Almost immediately I was going to be shipped off to a care home, the only thing that I would take was the poem my parents had written for me :

If you fall we will be there to catch you,
If you are feeling down you'll always have a shoulder to cry on,
But just remember we love you and we always will no matter what.

Suddenly my bad day just turned worse...

Waking up to screams of my name "Josh, Josh! Get down here" was rather a routine now I kept telling myself just a few more years and I would be going my own way, freedom was in my path.
Its a Wednesday just like any other ordinary day for me, instead of heading for school I go seek adventure- though roaming around the neighbourhood isn't exactly and adventure is it?

Skate park. That's what immediately interrupted my mind, I wanted to go to the nearest skate park, so I started walking in a straight direction. This was not as I expected it to be, standing right in the middle with the cool skater dudes mocking me, I couldn't bear it anymore I had to run, runaway from here.

After escaping the borough in which the skate park lied I wished and wished for something that should have happened years ago but didn't, I wished so hard that I thought it was real- but who am I kidding, I would have to fight the desperation of wanting my parents, adulthood is in my reach and I shall not give it away no matter how hurtful it was, this was one my parents wishes.

But the most horrid thing that they would think to be was that I wished for death, death up there with them.

Don't Tell Anyone (Photo 7)

She shoots death stares at me all the way to the police station. She's trying to frighten me, I know, but so far, her attempts have been futile. After a couple of times, the whole 'daunting factor' of getting arrested sort of wore off.

"Sit" she snaps, pointing with one shockingly long fingernail at an unoccupied chair at the far end of the room.

I decide to obey, and sit.

"I'll be back in a minute. Don't move." After shooting me another hostile glance, she scurries off, her obviously-expensive platinum blonde hair bobbing underneath her policewoman helmet.

I slouch in my seat and examine the waiting room. I stare at the silver-haired woman crying, the snivelling little kid, the skeevy-looking girl in the corner whose boots seem to cover more skin than her actual clothes. I gaze at the assortment of papers tacked up on the walls-anti-drug leaflets, nicotine patch advertisements, missing posters.

Missing posters.

His poster is there.

Of course his poster is there.

His poster is everywhere-pinned onto trees, sellotaped onto fences. It's like a sharp thorn in my side that I can't get away from.

Not a day goes by when I don't see that picture. It eyes me when I walk down the road, it watches me from the side of milk cartons.

His face. Her face.

The faces of Cameron ans Riana Springer.

Cameron and Riana.

My best friend. And his daughter.

Everytime I see that picture, my mind drifts back to the day I last saw him.

I see Cameron, dragging along a heavy-looking rucksack with one arm; the other is taken up by Riana. She's asleep, oblivious of the racket around her. She looks so peaceful. She doesn't deserve to be here. She doesn't deserve any of this. She needs to be in the care of a loving family that have no eyes for anyone other than her. Not with a runaway druggie with less than a year to live. She won't last. She'll be gone within two months.

Cam's voice cuts through my thoughts. It's low and urgent. I strain my ears to hear what he's saying.

"Remember, Dave. Don't tell anyone. Please."

The sharp sound of heels on laminate flooring snap me out of my daydream.

It's a woman-a different one this time.

She wears spike-heeled stilettos and a powdery grey suit. He nose is wrinkled and her lips are pursed. She looks as if she'd just been force-fed a lemon. She gives me a steely glance and hands me my wallet and my mobile. No dope, though. Hardly surprising.

"Come" she says in a bitter tone, at the exact same time as my mobile went off. The ring tone seemed sickeningly cheerful against the dry, drab atmosphere of the station.

I look at the lady. She raises her eyebrows.

I look down at the caller ID.

Cameron.

I look at her again. She says nothing; just blinks.

I take this as permission to answer.

"Cam, this really isn't-" I start.

"Dave? Dave?" His voice is anxious, troubled. "Dave, listen. I need your help."

And that's when all hell breaks loose.

Hoping for Lisa (Photo 7)

Hope rests on you in a filthy white rag. With her name stained onto the chewing gum infested wall behind you, you’ve etched her name above a slab of pavement that she will have to grow up calling home. This is how to be a good father. This is the only way you can repay her, for she is the heater that warms up the coldest nights in your heart. You touch her face and feel the tears that have dried up on her skin. It is this pale trail of hunger drawn into her cheek that reminds you to frequently apologise to her.

If only she could understand how sorry you will always be.

You remember her mother crazily clutching your right hand, squeezing until the dark of your skin became white. It wasn’t soon after the birth that your hand regained its complete complexion. Her mother’s hand was no longer squeezing your hand in pain, but she was not squeezing it in joy either.

Your own mother showed little concern for neither your daughter's nor your own safety. Disowning someone does not require a legal document. Only silence. She ignored you from adolescence to adulthood. Although you did not give her the overwhelming feeling of pride that other mothers received from their sons, surely a grand daughter is enough to repay that debt in full? You never got the chance to hear her answer.

The slab on which you are sat upon is getting cold now, and after last night’s showers, the ceiling made of cardboard that you'd rented out from a recycling bin is no longer card-like in structure. You can not help but smile at your baby girl. You pick her up and walk alongside her name, admiring the sincerity of each letter alongside the scruffiness of your handwriting. You promise to one day plate her name in gold, so that she can feel proud when she returns to the slab that she had to call home.

Lisa never stirs in reply. She is a beautiful baby, no trouble at all. Lisa Hope Charles hasn't replied for weeks now, but you do not care. All she ever does is sleep without breathing, and that's good enough for you.

Pain - Photo 9

He will stand on this very cliff. Crying, silently. He will watch the solitary, self-absorbed sun get snatched away by the bleak, darkness of the night. He will have no place to go; no one to run to. He will hear the excruciating screams that‘ll terrorise him forever. He will continue to get nightmares of his existence. His mind will scream out in agony; not a physical pain, but a much deeper, more grievous injury. He will have nothing to tie him to this world, and the promise and hope he had seen in the bright world of his childhood, will go dark, like the night sky. The whole planet will turn against him, piece by piece; his life will fall apart, and become an endless maze. There will only be one way out of this horror - by feeling pain for a second, minute, or even an hour. Suicide.

He will think of the possible ways to stop the heinous damage.

He will reflect the possibility of cutting his wrists, then realise how impossible it will be without a sharp object. Suffocation he will think a possible solution but not the easiest, so that’ll be a no. He will think the easiest way by reliving himself will be by shooting himself, if only he’ll say, due to the fact he will not be carrying a firearm. His family have already intoxicated him with venom; he’d be tormented - not dead!

He will come to a decision. It will be lingering under his nose. It’ll be right in front of him; terribly obvious. A shiver will tingle down his back, as a chill will sprint the length of his spine. He will stand on this cliff edge and work up the courage to finish what he will plan. He will be kaput, a flawed creation, and he will find nothing worth stopping this decision. He will jump off this cliff. His life will flash before his bold brown eyes. His legs and arms will feebly flap in the mid air. Gravity will be in control, making his fall radically rapid. He will feel the wind thwack his body. He will hit the ground, and it will hurt intensely. He will lay there, sprawled on the icy ground, blood blanketing his cold corpse. That is how he will die, in pain.

Red, White and Blue (Photo 1)

Red. White. Blue. The hall drowning in these three colours. Insignificant in our past; now invading our future plans. Inescapable. It has forced its way into every aspect of our lives; none of us have any idea of what life is now and hardly any of us will. We just try our very best to survive. And we’re denied the right to do so.
They’re all clapping and cheering. Though we are outside we can hear everything as clearly as the shrill screams of our tortured mothers in their hands.
I think they’re fund raising. Again. Bulldozers, tanks, gases and guns. Definitely at the top of the list. The use of these ‘necessities’ that are bought with your money terrorise my every living day. Yet we’re the terrorists in your eyes, right?
I may have had my education ripped away from me in a matter of seconds but I fully understand what those blasted journalists feed you.
Did they tell you what was done to us? Our mothers. Our fathers. My baby brother. I still remember holding him in my shaking arms; my endless tears soaking his beautiful face; I had let him down; all I did was leave the house for exactly 45 seconds in order to get some food for him from our neighbour.
I live with her now. Help her around the house and with her children. She can’t cope. Her husband has been imprisoned for over 2 years and she is 7 months pregnant.
You may be blinded by the stuff that is forced into your minds but it doesn’t take it out of someone to figure out what is really going on. Our brief yet very memorable encounters with red, white and blue. The secrets that need to be spilled. For both your sake and ours.

The Great Patriotic Synthesizer.

You've accomplished what you set out for. You decide to congratulate yourself, nobody else seems willing. You stand there perplexed at the ignorance displayed by your peers you wonder if it was worth it. Perhaps the carelessly fluttering strips of patriotic paper would sustain a better purpose pressed against your seemingly inspirational face, yet they would only hide the tears that have passed through such a scarcely abundant landscape previously. They cheer, you stand motionless. Perhaps you're camera shy, or perhaps you're simply not cut out to be so self aware any more.

Flashing lights constrict your pupils, the sound of an overtly proportioned man tingles the drums that beat within your head and a fine trickle of Eau de Homme glazes your skin. Hand cocked just like you were told in training; you salute your future death warrant. All prettily coloured with stars and stripes, so blanks loaded by their father's canon can say they went fighting for a plausible cause. I sit amongst the saluted sea of ciphers, my eyes are trained on you with cross-hair precision. I sit nonplussed by that you hold dearest. It looks like I've lost you.

He's stopped responding of recent. Probably just another 'quiet spell' he gets now and again. He sees me catch his eye and he straightens instinctively, my power's assertive not abusive. I see him secretly fear his surroundings, a sign of weakness I am not familiar with. Perhaps he's one of the types who like to challenge fate; those who prefer the IRA to the USA. He won't be tolerated if this is the case. He'll be stubbed out like a sepia tinged cigarette filter and then thrown overboard far from salvation. It looks like I've lost him.

I've accomplished what I set out for. I congratulate myself, nobody really seems to care. I stand here perplexed at the ignorance displayed by my peers and deep inside I wonder, was it all worth it? Perhaps the fluttering strips of patriotic paper would be better pressed against my tearful face, however they'd only hide the real pain. I stand motionless. Perhaps I'm camera-shy. Or perhaps I'm just another victim of the great patriotic Synthesizer.

Photo 10 - A Buried Whisper

A Buried Whisper

Shayla shivered and smiled, fully appreciating the warmth her mackintosh secured within her under zip and hood. Pellets of hungry rain tore at the bare flesh on her legs, mass murdering the sparse amount of body heat she had circulating inside her. Legs that had only yesterday soaked in Moroccan sunshine were now being bathed in lashings of heavy “British” downpour. She breathed a heavy sigh and watched the flock of daily commuters struggling through ticket barriers; migrating back home to a dish of caviar and cava.

It’s almost like a religion. These people are all pilgrims, struggling to and from work every day. If once they cannot complete the pilgrimage, they know they have lost out on the sacred prize - that extra money bonus their work colleagues will brag about to them over lunch. So it isn’t just the economic meltdown that tips businessmen and women off the edge, it’s the lack of mental stimulation.

Shayla watched every detail, her mind consumed in something everyone else was either too busy or too tired to pay attention to: the anonymity of suits and ties; the din of leather shoes and high heels on white tiles. Each and every city slicker insatiable with their champagne larders and £40,000 end – of – year salaries. You could just see it in their faces, in their eyes that they were all cursing the credit crunch, but had too much self – respect to admit it.

A continental waft of French patisseries and Italian coffeehouses diffused through the air from Euston Tube Station, reminding Shayla of her surmounting hunger. Oh, how she desperately longed to savour a few helpings of Mama’s own Zucre Coco – a real childhood nostalgia. Instead, as if to find them magically appear, she looked up inside her umbrella, where only blue waterproof material skies shone, not the fairy godmother she had given up on many years ago. It canopied her mascara smudged eyes, the closed curtain to a window no one would ever want to step into.

All juggling the credit crunch with their expensive tastes, crowds were being drawn into the nearest café by the romance of comfy red leather sofas and frothing cappuccino cups. Only then did Daniel recognise the awkward silence that hung between them.
“Don’t think about it, please. We did it, and my conscience is still clear. I don’t regret anything. Look, I’m not trying to say we are angels, because we are far from that. But we did what had to be done, Jo. Why can’t you just understand that?”
“Don’t call me that! I’m not Jo anymore, alright. What I want to understand is why you can’t accept it. She’s gone from my life – Shayla is the new me. Shayla Sommer. There’s no turning back. It doesn’t change who I am in here,” she pointed to her chest, where somewhere a heart beat a rhythm she hadn’t yet become familiar with. She continued: “But just out here, the person I’m pretending to be. I want the world to stop asking questions I’ve forgotten answers to. Because those questions will cause me trouble and I don’t need trouble anymore. I’ve had enough of it! I -”
“Just calm down, come on. We both need to look at the logic of all this. You can't get dragged down by the tricks your mind wants to play on you. It'll drive you crazy. For one, we’re in the clear. And two, the police aren’t watching our every move. Meaning that we are free. We can live our lives like ordinary people.” Daniel tightened his grip around her shoulders and planted a kiss on her nose. Shayla laughed at that sudden gesture of affection. Affection she had almost forgotten all about.
“I love you, do you know that?” she replied as she stepped into his open arms.

It must be true what they say. Love is priceless. Yet love and unfaithfulness don’t always go hand in hand. Lies are said to break relationships, but I feel they can make a bond between two lovers stronger. No one needs to know about Tari. Except Theo.

I have Morocco to thank for the valuable lesson it taught me. I call it my mantra because it helps me to concentrate; it clears my mind to know I have a goal in life that I can work towards and achieve someday. It's the one living thing I took home with me to a safer place. I’ve never doubted Kareena, and I’ll never doubt what she told me. "If a man once fall, all will tread on him."

It’s what he deserves – and it’s what he is going to get.

Photo 2- Beyond The Boundaries of Ecstasy

As I step out onto the burning sand, the smell of stuffy summer air overwhelms me. However, walking a little further past the airport gates eases my ambiguity. The midday air sways to the rhythm of bird song, and the land is covered in blooming buds and glowing green shrubs. I see before me a scrawny, somewhat undernourished young boy; his bare feet crackled by the sizzling sun of Goa.
He is unlike anything I have seen before. I wonder why he has no shoes on, and how his baggy shirt had become so torn and soiled. Why is he without a mother or father, since you would think that a busy airport is no place for a lone child? I agonize that such a tall stature like me may just alarm the vulnerable youngster into eternal hiding. Nonetheless, it is not long before I realise how unfazed this child is by my presence- and our disparity, for that matter.
He takes my bags from underneath my palms, and begins to make his way down to the conveyor belt, where I hope to be greeted by my battered suitcase. I am reluctant to follow; not sure whether or not to relieve this weak being of the heavy load he has burdened himself with. I am now feeling slightly uncomfortable; watching as he continues to struggle on with my bags (that must weigh at least half of what he does).
At last, the youngster comes to a halt, and throws himself down next to a case that looked remarkably like my own. I am suddenly worried for his safety; surely, such a fall would have condemned this infant to great pain? I am wrong. He starts to giggle- a sound which makes me shiver. How can such a feeble and poorly child be so content?
The answer was lying in the domineering heat of South Asia: he had been granted life, and that was something that I’m sure not all of his siblings had been lucky enough to possess. I take his hand and place a small pile of Rupees I had gathered over my many years of travelling. The little one shrieks in delight, and skips off across the gleaming floors.
As she headed towards the archway of coconut trees, and out beyond the boundaries of ecstasy, the elderly photographer only hoped this adventure would be better than her last.

The Last Dance (Photo 8)

It is carefully choreographed, out of years of practice.

He buys the papers en route, every day: one for him; one for her. He tucks his, rolled tight, a triggerless rifle under his arm. She folds hers carefully, and slips it into her bag, next to the baby wipes. (She has never had a baby – but has always found the world in need of wiping.) The change makes maracas out of his trouser pockets, and he whistles along too – but the tune is always the same, and wants a cadence.

She likes to pretend the table is theirs, each seat engraved with an invisible plaque. It is true that they have never sat anywhere else; but, in truth, the café is always empty when they arrive; and when they leave. There is a different face at the counter today, but she does not notice: she doesn’t do faces. She orders. One pot of breakfast leaf; two cups, warmed; two slices of Victoria sandwich. She leaves the money, stacked neatly, on the counter, before taking her seat.

The sun is bleach-bright today. It strikes her as garish, hostile even. At home, she would draw the curtains shut – and she leans back slightly to catch the shade of the brown drapes in the window. The news smells bad, and she reads it from a distance. She has learnt never to get too close.

He stopped reading the newspaper years ago, but, held high enough, she doesn't notice. He does not drink the tea either, and barely touches the cake. In twenty minutes, they will leave – but a part of him will remain; each day, a part of him remains – in fact, he frequently has the sensation that, in time, there will be little of him left. At which point, he will lay the newspaper gently over his creased, glassy face and crumble among the cake crumbs.

Across the road, a cold almost-corpse is wheeled on to an ambulance.

Task 41: A Holiday Task

On the back of such dazzling sonnets, you really are all at the top of your game. Six weeks away from writing, however, and you will just go rusty - so the purpose of this task is twofold: to keep your creativity alive over the summer break; and to give you a platform to show off to your moderators everything you can already do with prose fiction (as well as things you have never tried before!).

I really don't want to give you too many constraints with this task. After the rigidity of sonneteering, I want Task 41 to be much more of a blank canvas on which for you to let your creativity blossom. All I will do is a) give you a stimulus for your writing; and b) give you some suggestions about some creative decisions you might choose to make.

And the task?

To write a piece of prose fiction (between 300-400 words) inspired by one of the following photos.

By 'inspired by', I simply mean that you use the photo as a springboard (or starting point); where it takes you creatively is totally down to you and your muse...

All the photos have been taken from a brief and random surf on the 'Social Documentary' pool on flickr.com. DOCUMENTARY PHOTOGRAPHY is basically a genre of photo which provides a (usually anonymous) snippet of the everyday life of an ordinary person. I don't think any of these photos are copyright-protected, which is why I am embedding them here; if I am wrong, then I apologise to the photographers concerned - but I am sure they will not mind their work inspiring the work of a bunch of teenage writers from East London anyway...

Photo 1


Photo 2


Photo 3


Photo 4


Photo 5


Photo 6


Photo 7


Photo 8


Photo 9


Photo 10

Once you have decided which photo you found most interesting or potentially profound, you will need to make a few decisions about how to write your piece. Here are some things to think about:

1. Form: Will it be the beginning of a short story (or novel)? Or a dramatic monologue?
2. Narrator: Will you go for 1st person (i.e. I/Me)? 3rd person (i.e. he/them etc.)? Or maybe even dare to dabble in the 2nd person (i.e. you)? Or even a mixture?
3. Tense: Will you write in the past tense? The present tense? The future tense even?
4. Narrative: Will you have multiple narratives running parallel to each other? Will the narrative move forward (or backwards) in a linear way?
5. Dialogue: Will you include some dialogue? If so, how will it be represented?
6. Description: How much detail will you give your reader regarding setting and scene? How much is essential and how much is superfluous?
   
7. Tension: Your reader will need a reason to keep reading - and to get to the end - but how will you achieve this?
8. Syntax: How will you experiment with your syntax (sentence structure)? Will you use long, compound/complex sentences? Short, simple sentences? Fragments, even? Or a mixture?
9. Vocabulary: What about the words you choose? Will they be long, complex and polysyllabic? Or short, simple and snappy? Words you have never used before, or common words used in a new way?
   
10. Imagery: How will you give your writing figurative richness (i.e. simile, metaphor and personification) without resorting to cliché?
11. Poetry: Lots of the best poetic techniques should not only be reserved for poetry. Think about the SOUND of your prose too: e.g. alliteration, rhythm, rhyme etc.
12. SHOW not TELL: How much will you be able to leave to your reader's imagination? And how much work do you need to do on their behalf? Suggestion usually works better than just 'telling'; but if you are too oblique and mysterious, you might just lose them.
    
13. Reader: What effect are you trying to have on your audience? How will you achieve this?
14. Start and Finish: Even if your piece is a smaller part of something much longer, you still need to think very carefully about how you BEGIN and END your piece (as these bits are, in many ways, the most important of all).
15. Photo: And how will you use the photo you chose? Perhaps it just gives you an idea or emotion that you then develop in a totally different and abstract direction? Perhaps it offers you a character you will then bring to life? Best of all, try out a number of things, and then take further the idea that seems to work the best...
    

I could go on forever. The point I am trying to make is that there are always choices to be made. And EVERY single word you write, every sentence, every paragraph - EVERYTHING should be the result of a creative DECISION. That is not to say that great writing can't flow, subconscious and instinct-driven; simply that, before submitting your final draft to the blog, you need to be confident that every single part of your piece is exactly how you want it to be.

The timescale for this task is longer than usual - but you MUST all meet the deadline, even if you need are going away on holiday and therefore need to be very strict with yourself whilst you are still at home. The deadline is midnight on Saturday 15th August.

Your moderators will then have the following fortnight in which to comment, in time for Task 42 at the very beginning of next term.

Finally, just in case any of you are a little stuck or confused about how to go about this DIFFICULT task, I will post my own exemplar over the next day or two. But please remember: it is only an exemplar, and, therefore, only one of the many different possible ways to attempt this task.

Good luck!

englishguru