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

Daylight and Darkness

Daylight

I sit upon the sand and think about
The sun and happiness that daylight brings.
And how it carries daydreams throught the clouds
So here, you'll find I am again, i sing.
The birds and men amongst me overhear
All of my thoughts and hopes that Earth will store
For me, the light is everything that's near
I need help to discover something more.
Like loving such another as myself
To stop becoming enemies with me,
And earning that love, respect to help my health
This is what makes me realise and see.
Transform the way i crave the magic of light,
To make my heart feel day instead of night.

Darkness

Like darkness, danger lurks at these very feet
And turns into a fear inside my heart.
I have to find a method out, to flee
But also, peril is comforting to start
A friendship and a sense of meaning of dusk
and helps to know your fears and demons too.
I like the way that shadows light up rugs
And love the way it shines a glow on you.
How, wonders i, why you force me into this,
A grip and prison i am trapped within.
How could you make me feel like this, so quick?
I can be strong and won't let you succeed.
It's me, not you, and i am here, so leave
Please take your evilness, but please return.

Faith and Atheism

Faith
I love that there is a God that never
Fails. To know the maker of everything.
Who loves and is love and will forever.
To give much in return for you to sing.
In complete surrender and with all I
Have to give. Yes it was the over flow
Of your grace that kept me in relation
With you. But the day when your glory shows
Those who knew will be in celebration.
Everlasting God forever more, will
You be a rock once more. For me: shelter
From such a stormy world. For me a still
Peace, through the worst of times. For Me: leader
When my path was hard to find. I love you.


Atheism
I hate when people try to make me one
Of their religious beliefs. Always
On my case. If I was in search of some
Kind of God a church would be in my days
Routine. Yet I do not wish to be seen
In one. When my time comes I highly
Doubt this view will change. Atheism means
I am keen to show theists the lively
way of existence. Carefree a life full
and lead only by me. However they
wish not to hear. So what can I do for
those who do not want to know. Always say
‘God loves you’ but God does not know anymore.
When I was young I was naive not now.