track 7

As Ben entered the room, a sea of eyes fell upon him. Nevres fluttered and blood rushed to his cheeks turning them a scarlet red. The familiar strong stench reassuringly rushed throughout his lungs whilst still reminding him why he was thier. It was decision time: Stay and finaly conquer the mountain that had blocked his path for so long or settle at the bottom as he had done for the past 10 years. hands shaking he approach the unfamiliar crowd who were now all fixated on his every move; staring hard as if he was a ghost. The only ghosts present in the room were the suken pale faces of his fellow addicts.

The meeting proceded despite his late arrival with the typical introductions and cheap refreshments (no alcohol).Joe, the leader was aware dealing with recovering alchoholics was lacking any sort of thrill or excitement that the majority of them were accustom to, so he tried a new tactic: retrospection.
Joe: "close you eyes, dont block nothing out. ask yourself why are you here?why?"

* * * *

A teenage boy is walking alone in the streets with a large rucksack, lonely, scared and frightend he squats on a doorway,the cold stone step a chilling reminder he is still alive. He removes his jumper; carefully placing it underneath his head as he settles down for another restless night, his only comfort the bottle of whisky that lies in his pocket.

* * * *

Ben's head rose sharply, like he was viciously awoken from a nightmare to see everyone else was in deep coversation with thier neighbour,except him. Realising this was one reason he didnt want to share he slowly crept out of the building, into the rain lookin for another doorstep to call home.

Inspired by "Track 4"

He's running, his muscles aching, beads of sweat running down his face until they meet and form with the liquid running from his eyes, molding a perfect tear. He keeps on running, through the woods, through the main roads, through the park- He cannot risk stopping. His breathing is now heavy and so are his feet. It's getting hard to keep up the pace, the wind pushing against his face, mocking him, trying to slow him down. Maybe fate is against him.

And she's at home. Waiting for his key in the lock, looking out her window, hoping to see his face. After all, there are so many things left unsaid, so many things that she could have said better. Her bags are packed, her passport in her hand. There are so many things she should take back... She didn't mean the things she said when she lost her temper... Why isn't he calling? She's shivering all over, thinking of his touch... Why doesn't he care? He would be here with her if he did... Glancing at the huge clock on her bedroom wall, she puts on her shoes, slowly, reluctantly. One more hurtful glance at the now half empty flat and she bangs the front door shut.

His heaving chest is about to explode, his legs give in and while his mind is still focused, his body refuses to play along and he stops. The rain is pissing down, as if everything is against him, everything is against him getting to her on time. He decides to screw his plan of catching her at home and starts towards the airport. His phone is soaked but the battery died anyway. The frustration and anger almost lifts him off his feet and again, he's off.

She's getting out of the cab and runs for the airport before the rain soaks through her dress. He's running too, but his throbbing heart is ripping at his chest, begging him to stop, to slow down, but he won't. He knows he's running out of time, he knows he has to speed up in order to get to her, not vice versa. He knows he could be too late. She's walking towards the desk now, reluctantly dragging her feet, looking at her watch, She accepts that he isn't going to come and as if a child giving up her favorite toy, she hands over her passport and boarding pass as a tear forms at the corner of her eye. He's at the entrance now, pushing open the door, he looks all around, about to call out her name when he spots her. He would of ran towards her, would have screamed her name, he would have tried to get through the ticket inspectors to get to her, but his heart sank and he knew his was too late. Maybe fate was against him.

Task 26: MORE Music to Words

Read this VERY carefully. This task is SIMILAR to Task 25 but it is NOT the SAME.

With Task 25, you had to use a piece of music to inspire a narrative - a self-contained extract from a story. Atmosphere, plot, tension etc. were all important, and all had to be extracted from the music itself.

Task 26 is purely DESCRIPTION. Whilst what you write could appear in a much longer piece of fiction, it will work on its own as a single description - of a place, a (fictional) person or an object.

As with the best writing recently, I am looking for description which:

• makes creative but careful use of sonic devices such as rhyme and alliteration
• embraces the potential of figurative language (similes and metaphors) and personification to bring an image to life
• avoids cliche and pursues originality - of lexis (vocabulary) and syntax (sentence structure)
• is structured carefully and consistently, with a clear opening and a deliberate finish

I will post an exemplar shortly.

As before, please listen carefully (and several times) to ALL 10 extracts - before you select the one which most powerfully makes you imagine the person/place/thing you will describe.

You can LISTEN to all this week's tracks here. Alternatively, once you have chosen one, I can email it to you directly so you can listen to it wherever and whenever you like - so just ask! :)

The deadline for this task - and this is NOT negotiable - is midnight on Saturday 7th June.

Good luck!

Track 2

She's still. Cocooned in a porcelain paradise. Peaceful; at least she seems. Wires invade her angelic body, tubes tear through her throat. Life support machines are the only thing you hear; robots pumping her blood, pumps inflating her lungs. The room so sterile and white yet she feels infected and suppressed by fear.

She's hurt. Morphine cannot erase her pain. They're footsteps outside her room, nurses, doctors, family and friends. All going places but neglect her room. Still holding onto life but already forgotten.

She's stuck. Limbo never seemed so sad. In a trance of apocalyptic thoughts, she's screaming inside by no-one can hear her. She's stuck in a place far worse than hell. A place where feelings have no meaning, no love, no happiness, not even pain. She's reaching out for help,hope, happiness. Reaching recklessly for a helping hand. There's nothing.

Inspiration By Track 2

Her face looking as fragile as glass. Her hair glimmered as it reflected the sunshine from the window as she lay there asleep, and all I could do was sit there. Watching her. Waiting for the moment she would wake up and call for me. Call for her mummy.

My heart would rip more and more with every minute she was asleep. Every minute seemed to be like hours. Hours like days. It seemed like it had been a lifetime ago since I last heard her voice. A lifetime ago since I had looked into her bright blue eyes. A lifetime ago since I had cuddled my baby girl.

Instead of hearing my baby's voice, all I could hear were the machines. The machines that were keeping my daughter breathing. The sound would echo around the room. Then another noise joined in. A tap of footsteps. I knew who was coming. I knew why they were coming. Yet I could not take my eyes of her, in case she did wake. I couldn't turn around and look at the doctor who was coming to ask the same question as he had been doing every hour, all day. He wanted to switch them off. He wanted to switch the machines off. He wanted to let her go.

Every time he came I knew I should let her go. She was never going to wake up. She was never going to speak to me again. But each time, I said no. Each time, I let my heart take over instead of my brain. I desired with all my heart for her to wake again. This part of me kept those machines switched on, but this time when he approached me and put his hand on my shoulder. I knew what I ha to do, to keep my baby happy, I agreed. I said yes. I knew in my mind I had to let my baby go. She was never going to come back to me . She was always going to stay on the machines. And there was nothing I could do about it.

Then the room went quiet. I knew it. My baby was gone.

Inspired by Track 2

As I surveyed the blade, I did feel a detachment from what I had done. You would call it a cruel detachment.

If you ignored the panicked helplessness in his eyes, if you couldn’t hear his screams or watch his frantic efforts to release himself from my prison; you too would have found it funny. Maybe. Like an animal caught in barbed wire funny or throwing a cat out a window funny. Do you know what I mean?

You say I am incapable of emotion.

But when I killed your husband I felt emotion. A whole lot of emotion. Too much emotion. And really, it was my emotion that killed him, and so I guess now I’ve proved myself?

I wonder what you will say when you see him…will you scream? Don’t scream, it’s too noisy and…unnecessary. Maybe you’ll laugh too? I laughed a lot. (Remember when we laughed together?)

I hope you find him soon, bodies are not pleasant when rigor mortis sets in. It’s a bit of a shock really, seeing something so alive so…dead. Less of a shock if you watch it happening though… in any case, I’ll be here when you come.

I wouldn’t miss your face for anything in the world.

track 2 - Not so void

Both sides of the road are lined with row after row of sickeningly perfect houses with identical hedges flawlessly trimmed out-front. It's at that hour in time when it is neither day nor night and she asks herself, “is the sun setting or is the moon rising?”
The slight chill of autumn permeates her little red anorak, and she pulls it tightly against her small frame hoping that it will shield her from the harsh reality of life.

She stares at her black patent leather shoes as a lone teardrop bounces off their shiny surface, and in that single moment she is reminded of how alone she is.
This realisation reverberates through her like the echo of crashing cymbals; numbing all emotion, slowly anaesthetising all feeling.
Her mind is at war with her heart and she struggles to decide who is right. Logic tells her to face the truth and move on; instinct tells her to run and hide.

As she approaches the cemetery, red autumn leaves begin to mournfully float down around her, as if to console and prepare her for the burial.
Dejected familiar figures clothed in black give way, allowing her to pay her final respects. And as they lower her mother’s casket eight feet into the earth, a cool soothing breeze drifts by, assuring her that although things weren’t going to be easy, they would somehow be ok.