Creative writing excerpts from The Writers' College students | The ...

The following snippets of creative writing come from students on our Short Story Writing Courses, Novel Courses, Scriptwriting?and the Basics of Creative Writing Courses.

There were?hundreds of great pieces to choose from, so we closed our eyes and randomly selected?excerpts from our list of favorites. Enjoy!

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Extract from The Tenth Wave?by Corlette Grobler (Write a Novel Course)

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He was not ready to return to the dungeons and he was certainly done with ?the rack? which seldom stood idle in the cages below.

It was usually placed near their entrance, where the light was most and men could see the suffering. Dirty hands would stretch out toward the victim to bid him God?s peace while long, mournful wails witnessed his strapping ? supine ? to the frame. Then, as soon as the wretched man?s wrists and ankles were fastened, the notary would proceed with the questions to which the answers were desired.

Edward was put to the rack in this way but his frame proved too tall for the carnivorous beast of the Vatican dungeons. A day later, an older, sturdier rack was rolled in. It was soiled with blood and excrement when they strapped him to it and the notary bared a callous smile while he cleared a rotting limb from the ropes. He tossed it, jaded, down the dark corridor behind him.

?You will like this one,? he taunted, ?this one comes from the tower.?

It was an older, sturdier model indeed. But it was different too. On this rack was no bed. Consequently, Edward was strapped to ropes on the floor amid the rotting smells of decay, excrement, blood and vomit that had been washed from their dungeon the day before. They hoisted him by pulling at his ankles and wrists, winding the rope around the crossbars at his head and feet. The pain was agony. He gasped for breath and swore he heard loud popping noises of snapping cartilage. They were sounds the men in the dungeon knew well ? sounds they had often heard when the first victims were stretched.

A sudden jerk of the wooden handle yanked the ropes around his arms and ankles even tauter: ? ? you heard the king say that he wanted riddance of his meddlesome priest??

Silence deafened him while the ropes pulled dastardly on his arms. Pain shot through his breast, belly, arms and hands and he was almost certain that all the blood in his body had burst out at his fingers? ends. Then the ropes relaxed and his blood rushed back. A distant voice urged him to answer. He nodded ?yes? while his senses returned. He could hear again.

?- speak up Edward.?

?Yes!? he yelled, ?yes!?

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Excerpt from Janette Stratton?s final assignment (Basics of Creative Writing Course)

Professor Lambton followed Teri as closely as he dared. He could see her wonderful hair moving in time with his breath and smell her shampoo. Murmuring ?Behold, thou art fair,? to himself, he leaned even closer. Too close. He knocked her backpack and she staggered. He tried to catch her by the elbows, but she was already out of reach, flowing down the stairs in a fluid, loose-limbed rush that he couldn?t hope to emulate. He fancied himself in good shape but he had never been an athletic man, preferring intellectual pursuits to sporting ones. He persevered though, drawn on by her hair and the glimpses he caught of her hips swinging down the stairs.

By the time they reached the ground floor he was blowing hard and could feel runnels of sweat on his cheeks and neck. He was wearing one of his good shirts, the one with the snaking blue paisley pattern, and he hoped the colours would conceal any clammy patches. Teri hurried on outside, forcing him to rush after her. ?Teri, wait. I just want to talk to you about your last essay. You make some fascinating points about Shakespeare?s sexuality and I thought we might discuss them over coffee at my place. It?ll be warmer there.?

?Thanks for the offer Professor, but I have to go. I?m meeting friends.? Teri peered around her.

He wondered what she could find so interesting about the courtyard. All he saw was the concrete barbarism of the Arts building, the grey paving stones that some philistine of an architect had thought would enliven the courtyard, and a few benches that no one ever used because of the winds funnelling around the Arts building. Even the water feature was predominantly concrete.

Teri bumped up against the stone of the fountain?s edge and paused. Lambton stepped towards her and patted her arm. ?Teri,? he said in the orotund voice he usually saved for reading poetry aloud, ?I want to talk to you.? It wasn?t the place he would have chosen to make his declaration. It was too ugly, too exposed, too liable to interruption from some student or other. But he knew that he might not get a better opportunity.

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By Kerryn Campion (Scriptwriting Course)

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Beginning

Title fades to black

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There is no visual yet, but the audio is that of a distant, jeering, and tauntingly eager crowd.

The black fades into the visual. The camera hovers over a massive symbol that is glowing through a marble floor. Two pairs of sandaled feet stand on either side of the symbol.

A throat is cleared high above one of the pairs of sandals:

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And whosoever bears this symbol shall end all suffering, shall end all strife and be the saviour to us all.

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The visual fades to black again, the crowd continues with its jeers and taunts.

The foreground audio is that of a number of authoritative, echoing footsteps, a key is placed into a gate.

The black fades into the visual.

The camera is extremely low to the ground; a pair of boots enters through a heavy gate into a filthy cell. The camera zooms past the boots to three pairs of naked, dirty feet all connected to each other by heavy chains. The feet stand unsteadily and are led out the cell by the boots.

Switch to the feet of a running child, the camera pans slowly up his body, but only to his hands. There is a soiled envelope in his right hand.

Switch back the shuffling chained feet being led over muddy cobblestones by the menacing boots. The jeering is becoming increasingly louder.

Switch to the running child. His breathing is becoming ragged and is full of emotion. He pushes on through the long sharp grass.

The boots are now standing to attention along the front of the wooden platform as the six grubby feet shakily ascend the creaky wooden steps. Large stained boots move towards the first pair of feet, and then to the next, and then to the next, performing tasks above the view of the camera shot.

The child is running up a hill, his breathing full of fatigue and desperation, he pushes to the top of the hill. All the while the sounds of the mob increase as he nears the apex.

The stained boots come into view; a grunt of effort comes from their owner as they take the stance of exertion.

The dirty, naked feet fall through the platform. They twitch at first, but then just swing lifelessly.

A cry escapes the child as he drops to his knees.

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Ending

Title fades to black

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By Shelley Kirton?(Short Story Writing Assignment)

The air in the hair salon is heavy with a perfumed, chemical smell. Sophia takes a seat, puts her handbag down then flips through the magazines. She has a choice; an out-of-date Woman?s Weekly or Hairstyles for Today, dated six months prior; also somewhat tardy she thinks. She opts for the Woman?s Weekly.

?Would you like a cup of tea? Coffee?? Angela, on reception, asks. She is wearing an odd assembly of short black garments one on top of the other and her hair is deeply black and silver-tipped.?? Her slim legs are bare and her feet are sheathed in spike-heeled boots; Sophia wonders how she manages to trit-trot around all day in them. She is youthfully beautiful.

?No, thanks, I?m fine,? she answers, hoping that whoever did Angela?s hair is not going to do hers.

?OK then, Jenine won?t be too long now.? Angela resumes her position behind the reception desk.

Sophia reads, glances up at the stylists, sees snips of clients? hair falling in wispy swathes on the floor. Angela comes and sweeps an efficient broom-full of this debris behind a door that reveals glimpses of a table strewn with cups and the remnants of a birthday cake; several candles remain poised on a small slice that oozes cream.

Sophia continues reading: a grandmother announces her love for her grandson and they are having a baby. Really? She feels ill. Reaches for the Hairstyles magazine instead. ?Sophia?s hair is difficult and she has despaired of it, always. She?s never had the sort of hair that swishes, and envies those who do. She wonders if Jenine will today bring about the miracle that will see her with swishable locks. Knows that she won?t. Can?t.

?Ready for you now?. Angela flicks a midnight-blue and silver cape around Sophia?s shoulders and secures it with a zippy Velcro flourish. ?Jenine will be with you in a moment. Sure you don?t want a cuppa? Water??

?No, thank you?. Sophia takes off her glasses and earrings, puts them on the shelf in front of her and next to the jars of shampoo and conditioner that are stacked neatly to her left and intended for her purchase. She remembers when she went to the hairdresser just for a haircut but now she is importuned to buy ?product? and additional ?services? and sundry ?treatments?.?? Too many choices she thinks. She is tired of making choices, decisions. She is perhaps just tired. It?s all been very difficult lately.

Jenine arrives in a twirl of black tulle and sequins. She looks as though she is going to the theatre rather than to do my hair, thinks Sophia. Why do hairdressers wear such extraordinary black clothing? All the same, she envies them their apparent carefree insouciance.

?How?re you today?? enquires Jenine. ?Colour and a trim, right??

?Fine, yes, thank you?. Sophia wears her hair in a tidy but undistinguished way. She is not a flamboyant woman.

Jenine looks at Sophia and again at her hair and wonders aloud if she couldn?t just style it a little more this time, just to strengthen the line a little? And the colour, wouldn?t Sophia like it just a little more daring? Just a little.

Sophia looks at herself in the mirror, sees that she looks tired, all over, not just her hair that has become too long for her face. She feels, well, a bit reckless, a bit giddy in the moment. Why not? Yes, she?ll be daring. For a change.

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Tina Kitching unveils the thoughts of a pole dancer (Short Story Writing Assignment)

I see them at my feet. Howling ? a pack of hungry wolves through the smoky mist, that is my stage. Every night. As I step into the spotlight. I lose sight as my eyeballs adjust to the brightness. I feel them drooling for my naked flesh. I meet their eyes, just as they?re about to tear my costume to shreds: flashes of pink. Their claws paw into me as they make their deposits. But it is here that I become their master. It is here that I tame them, that I whip them with my leathery lingerie. It is here where I am in control, and my centre of gravity ? a pole. The alpha she-wolf. If you look hard enough, you can see my reflection in the bloody Marys, sloshing around in their hungry open mouths. It?s dirty. I drip from their teeth in the black of the back. Bleeding on the glass tables, drenched in their spit and fibres from their Armani-suits. Drop by drop, down their hairy chins. Every night is the same. I dance for the wolves. I strip for the wolves. I drag one to my cave in this forsaken oasis of my being.

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Christie Williams reflects ?On Love and Loss? (Short Story Writing Assignment)

The bus rounds the corner of Glouston Street far too quickly. I brace myself with one arm against the seat in front of me. My stomach rumbles. I haven?t eaten since yesterday, not since? I try not to think about last night as the images come flickering through in broken pieces. Each memory cuts me with its serrated edges and I wince in pain as I feel my heart begin to break all over again. Her voice begins to replay itself again for what feels like the hundredth time this morning.

I just don?t love you anymore.

I take a deep breath in.

It?s time to move on.

I try to distract myself with what?s outside the window.

Francois is my future now.

It doesn?t work.

Goodbye, Tom.

They met through me. Francois was the visiting French teacher at the private school up the hill. The kind of school so posh they could afford to fly in their language teachers for a more ?authentic experience?. Anna and I took him out to dinner one night. It was a favour to the said school?s principal who was an old mate of mine. We ended up becoming close friends and Anna and I would catch up with him at the local pub a couple of days a week. Francois and I would share work stories and Anna would have us in stitches with some hilarious tale?

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. I look half awake and the heavy bags under my eyes aren?t doing me any favours. We were supposed to be getting married this summer. She even had the dress already picked out. First thing she did was buy that damn dress. I should?ve known then that she was more interested in the wedding than the actual marriage. I feel like a pimply sixteen year old getting his heart broken for the first time all over again.

The bus has come to a stop. It?s raining and there?s been an accident up ahead. The road is blocked. We wait for what seems like ages. I should have called in sick today. It?s not too late to change my mind, I tell myself. Just get off and take another bus home. But I can?t do that to my students. Final exams are approaching and they?re already stressing over them. Up ahead the ambulance has arrived. A siren in the background is still screeching but I hardly notice. The driver gives up and we veer off into a detour. The more I think about the whole thing the more I begin to hate Anna. I sit there finding new things to despise about her: The way she flicks little bits of food onto the mirror when she?s flossing; the way she laughs at nothing when she?s had too much to drink; the way she flirts with everyone. I try to convince myself she wasn?t that great after all.

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An excerpt from a piece by Kay Wilson (Short Story Writing Assignment)

He looked up from his book. Jean?s hair glowed. The late afternoon sun had struck the back of her head turning the thick auburn curls into a vibrant halo. Her dark eyes smiled at Dave. At first, that was all he could see, against the deepening orange brightness of the sun in his eyes. Dave stared at her. Something was different. Yes, the small face was very familiar, the pointy nose he knew well, the quirky painted-on eyebrows in their place, but, something was different. He looked more closely, then turned away so quickly that his body jerked and his book fell to the ground. ?How dare she.? he thought. ?How dare she just come here without warning me. That?s not fair.? As he bent down to pick up the book he felt a quick burst of shame at his reaction.

Dave stood and looked down at Jean. She smiled at him again. ?It?s a bit of a shock the first time,? she said. Her wide smile twisted the misshapen side of her cheek. The taught and ragged new skin, that surrounded the edges of a scar, stood out raw and white. ?I never was much of a looker anyway.? Jean shrugged. ?They?re going to fix it you know. They?re doing plastic surgery when this has healed a bit more.?

Dave felt ill. He wanted to run. He wanted to be back in a place where there were no scars on brave faces.

?I didn?t visit you,? said Dave. ?I tried but they wouldn?t let me in.? He hesitated, and then said bitterly. ?They thought it was me. The police I mean. They came in to the library and took me in for questioning.?

?I know.? Jean shook her head. ?I told them it wasn?t you. He was taller and heavier. I couldn?t see much to start with because he jumped me from behind. I fell down and rolled over and there he was, like a mad gorilla standing over me.? She bent her head. ?I can?t forget his eyes? Dark eyes, glaring at me, like black holes in his face except he didn?t have a face, just a scarf and a hoody and eyes.? Jean spoke quietly. ?The police are still looking for him you know. He?s still out there, waiting for things to die down before he attacks someone else.?

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Chelsea Haith, Short Story Course, Assignment 1

Later I sit down at my desk, seeing not the empty table top but a desk ruled by the laws of organized chaos and covered in manuscripts and notes from a life I recall was once mine. The rain has broken and a steady pattering taps across the roof. I look around me. I do not want to leave this place. This study is my sanctuary, this house my home. I love the quirky clock, the smell of aged wood and the corrugated iron roof that allows the rain to lull me to sleep. Should I give this up for a job I enjoyed and a city life I knew? I shake my head. No, it?s not that. Could I give up the life that was over and weave my own anew; effectively start over?

The rain becomes a downpour and drums heavily upon the roof. I watch it wash down through the leaves of the tree outside and remember the invitations, the dinners, lunches, parties and meetings that I?d declined. I remember too the long nights in the weeks after the funeral when I?d cried in grief and then out of relief and shame. I remember the year past and realize that while I?ve spent a year dealing with my loss and finishing up what was left of my husband?s life, I?ve avoided this last step, remembering him. The memories come.

Harold had loved the rain. It had rained that night, angrily pounding on the roof. I was angry too, as I so often was then. Late in the evening he called quietly for me. His voice was as weak as his body and I?d had to bend close to him to hear the words. ?The last? of? the,? an unsteady breath, ?morphine.? I remember my heart sinking and rising as I nodded, knowing what he was asking me.

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Yael Barham- Smith, Short Story Course Assignment 5

?What?s going on, Rob? You expecting someone??

?What?? asked Rob.

The heavy footsteps came back into the room. ?There are two plates set out in the kitchen, Rob,? Anna heard the rough voice say. ?Who are they for??

?Umm? er, no one, I just thought maybe you guys were hungry.? Rob sounded strained.

?And what?s with the heart made of strawberries?? the rough voice asked. Anna gasped remembering how she had decorated the plates for Rob.

?I bet you?ve got someone coming over,? the rough voice accused. ?I?ve told you before about keeping this secret. If someone finds out about this, I?ll?? the voice stopped and Anna strained to hear.

?What?s this?? the rough voice came again, but this time it was quieter. Anna could hear the deadly anger in it.

?Oh, that?? Rob?s voice shook. There was a pause. ?That?s just my girlfriend?s bag. She left it here when she came over last time.?

?Really? Only I don?t remember seeing it earlier?

?Maybe you missed it and ??

?You know what I think? I think you?ve got your little whore stashed here, haven?t you??

?No. No! I don?t! There?s no one here.?

?I don?t believe you.?

?Bill, please, I swear, there?s no one else here.?

?So you won?t mind if I look in there.?

?Bill!?

Anna sprang back from the door. She looked around desperately for somewhere to hide. The room was too small. The door crashed open and a huge man loomed in the doorway. Anna backed away but her legs bumped against the bed and she fell heavily on the mattress. The man strode across to her and grabbed her hair, dragging her to her feet.

?Well, what do we have here?? he sneered.

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Tina Kitching reveals the dark side of the MacDonalds meat supply. (Short Story Writing Course)

Later that evening, Dave waited in front of McDonalds. He checked his watch ten times when he didn?t see her.

?Pssst? Dave, come in through the back door by the kitchen.?

He walked around the building and shoved down the handlebar of the back door. It was a bit tight.

?Maureen?? It was too dark to see anything.

?I?m here. Follow my voice.?

He fell over something heavy on the floor and bumped his head on pans that were hanging from the ceiling. She led him into the back of the kitchen. There was a passage.

?Come down the stairs.?

?I can?t see anything. What stairs??

?Wait a while until your eyes adjust then.? The place had a rotten smell. It definitely wasn?t old food. Maybe something raw.

?I .. eh .. I don?t like this. It?s weird.?

?Fine, I?ll come get you, you big mole. Wait there.?

?Fine.? His head was throbbing from the pans.

?Hey Dave, sorry about that.? She threw herself into his arms and hugged him. She also smelled rotten.

?Let?s just lock up and leave. It?s creepy and I want to go home.?

Her hands stroked up and down his back.

?I?m afraid I can?t let you do that, Dave.? He could feel her nails steadily scratching his back.

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Patti Smith deals with a stolen wallet. (Short Story Writing Course)

It?s when I?m third back from the counter that I spot it and now I know why today is so special: it?s a wallet on the floor hard up against the kickplate. I?m mesmerised by it and can?t understand why nobody else has noticed it. It?s bright red, for goodness sake, how hard can it be? I casually look around, taking in the surroundings. I might look dopey but guess what? When it comes to money, I?m no slouch.

The people at the front have moved away with their burgers and I edge further forwards. Still no-one has spotted it, so when I move up to the front I drop my shoulder suddenly so Ichabod is thrown off balance. He?s used to this trick so he screams and leaps onto the table behind me. While the people in the queue behind me try to catch him, I lean down and scoop up the wallet in one easy movement. I?m so good at this that even if you had been watching you still wouldn?t have seen it.

By the time I place my order Icky is back on my shoulder and we find a seat outside in the sun to share our burger. A quick check to make sure no-one is looking and I open up the wallet to see what I?ve scored. Hmm, not much. Credit cards, absolutely no use at all, unless I?m ordering on line, and as I don?t have a computer or even a cell phone, they?re no use to me.

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Kirti Ranchod? a young boy deals with the death his brother. (Short Story Writing Course)

?I know that Sean?s death has been hard for you. We?ve just been so caught up in our misery that we forget to comfort you. I?m sorry for that.?

?It?s okay, Dad, I understand. I can see what it?s done to you and Mum.?

?If you need help, you need to let us know. I guess, though, today has shown us that you do.? His Dad ruffled his hair, like he used to when he was five.

?Your Mum told me a little about your conversation earlier. None of us will ever understand why this happened. I know that telling you not to feel guilty won?t help. I think all of us feel it ? all the things we should have and could have done, all the ?What ifs?. We can?t change any of it, though.?

?But Dad, I was his big brother. I should have been nicer! I remember telling him that he was too ugly to date Nicole, and that he was just so stupid, he should give up trying to play chess!? He replayed these scenes every nightas he tried to go to sleep, hoping that he could somehow change what had been said.

?Did you do nothing nice for Sean, at all, Robert??

?No, Dad. I can?t think of a single thing. I?ve been trying for months to figure out if I did anything to make him happy. I?ve got nothing! Nothing!?

?I know that you always let him have the front seat if he wanted it. You always knew which flavour of ice cream to get for him, and you let him wear your favourite T-Shirts.?

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Final assignment by Bianca Wright (Basics of Creative Writing Course)

Dimitria giggled as Koos kissed her nose. His lips moved up to her eyes and then back down to her mouth. He tasted like Doritos and Coke. Lately, all of their arguments had evolved into passionate make-out sessions ? and tonight had been no different. She had shooed her mother and father out of the door as soon as closing time had announced itself on her father?s old clock, and promised to do all the cashing-up herself. Koos had arrived as soon as Maria and Stavros crunched out of the parking lot out back ? parking down the street so that nobody saw him arrive.

?Mmm ? all this arguing has its benefits.? Dimitria smiled between kisses.

?You need to tell them, Demi ? we need to start making plans.? Koos relaxed his grip around her waist and opened his eyes to look at her. Her pale yellow sundress glimmered in the moonlight that shone through the slats on the windows like a detective?s torch. He loosened one hand to untie her curly pony-tail and gently twisted a few strands around his index finger. Her hair was soft and smelt like conditioner.

?I will, Koos.? Dimitria pulled him closer. ?Soon.?

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Final assignment by Yvonne Erasmus (Basics of Creative Writing Course)

Where is Pat, Dale wondered. Could it take so long to get a drink? Dale felt alone and anxious without her at his side. He threw a quick glance at the door to see if he could spot her, but could only see strangers standing around in the corridor. He smelled the stale cigarette smoke sticking to their jackets as they came back into the courtroom. Dale was afraid to look around, but he could hear the whispering behind him.

What did these people care, he thought, feeling anger pushing up from the pit of his stomach. These vultures would go back home, and he might lose everything.

As the sun shone down on his face he had forgotten for a moment where they were heading and why. But now, the warmth and welcome of the summer sun did not reach the inside of the courtroom. A fluorescent light in the middle of the room was twitching, throwing intermittent shadows in the corners.

Dale looked at his watch. It was one o?clock exactly. He knew he was supposed to be hungry, but how could he be when all he felt was numb.

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Juanne de Abreu, Short Story Course Assignment 1

He stands there moving the jasmine bushes, beating them slightly with a stick. The smell bursts through the cracked open window. A familiar smell and the comfort of memories rush through the soul, in the blink of an eye. Frosty tipped shivers dance up and down my skin thinking back to times when he was not just a dark figure in the garden. It?s fairly dark outside yet his eyes are clearly staring up towards me. Who is the hunter and who the hunted? I cannot let him inside!

I cannot let him inside. I have to get rid of him quickly. He is not welcome here?he has this burly chest covered in soft hair? And strong arms? He is a total Adonis! Maybe I?ll just go outside and hear what he wants.

It?s been six years since the first time we met. The first flirtatious bump into each other on the dance floor and the first ?Can I buy you a drink?? Few words were uttered that night. The music vibrated my veins and he swayed his hips into mine. Staring into the colours of a fire, with its blend of red and orange, white and blue, is staring into his eyes, the colours flicker and blend so effortlessly. Nothing else exists except the amazing blue colour pallet.

But he knows not to come here. He knows never to contact me. With a cigarette in his mouth he lights it and the bright flash of fire confirms it?s him.

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Jane Scobie, Short Story Course

?Can I take Dad?s new car?? his face brightening, imagining a detour to his girlfriend?s house on the way.

?No,? replied Alison, holding out the keys to her aging hatchback.

?Aww c?mon Mum, Dad?s new car is awesome. The sound system is sick.? Towering over his mother, Robert put his arm around her shoulder and bestowed his most endearing smile. ?Aren?t I your favourite son and aren?t you the best mother in the whole world??

Alison smiled despite herself. Placing some cash, her keys and empty pastry case packaging in his hand she said ?You are my ONLY son, you can take my car or walk. You choose, but you had better be back in 20 minutes and make sure you get the same brand.?

?You don?t have a car,? said Robert with a wry smile, ?It?s a motorised shopping trolley, my skateboard has more grunt. What are you trying to do to my rep??

?19 minutes. Goodbye Robert?, said Alison dismissively.

Robert expelled an exaggerated huff and shuffled off, resigned to his mission. ??.

Alison busily set to finishing her food preparations and was pleasantly surprised when Robert duly returned with the correct pastry cases. She was just commending him on his good timing when Lucy stormed into the room.

?Robert! How dare you,? she punched her brother in the arm. ?You hacked into my Facebook page.?

Robert couldn?t resist a jibe at his sister?s recent gothic makeover. ?Hey MORTICIA,? he chuckled as he rubbed his arm, ?I didn?t HACK into it, maybe you left it open? You?ve no proof it was me, you need to be more security conscious. Anyone could have done it.? he smirked.

?You changed my status to single and wrote on my wall that Steve dumped me because I have halitosis!? She lunged again at her brother.

?Whoa! Back off sis,? Robert flapped his hand in front of his face, ?you seriously have bad breath.?

?You shit for brains arsewipe -?

?Cut it out you two,? called Alison from the kitchen. ?Your Dad will be here with his boss any minute. Lucy, watch your language.?

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Tessa Ainsbury, Short Story Course Assignment 6

I only ever read about this place in the news. I normally drive past it. Today I drive into it, navigating my way past a myriad of pedestrians, buses and taxis. As I trudge up the hill towards the entrance, I contemplate the building. It is a sprawling medical metropolis; a mismatched marriage of old and new architecture situated at the foot of a magnificent mountain. The effect is discordant. I equate it to a slum in the middle of a picturesque painting.

Outpatients, the sign above a grubby swing-door proclaims. I smile wryly. I am a patient alright, and I am ?out?, in a manner of speaking. Too poor to afford a battery of expensive tests, and too rich to access State assistance. I am a taxpayer on medical aid, and, in this instance, totally screwed. So I?m here to try to my luck. I look like a frightened blowfish, swollen and prickly. I have cut out every conceivable allergen, and am living on air and over-the-counter medication. My employer has stopped sending prospective clients to me. Colleagues avoid me. I have no significant other, and won?t get one at this rate. I am Quasimodo, and desperate to fix it.

Through the swing-doors, and into a dark and doleful corridor. It looks funereal; meagre shafts of sunlight penetrate smudged windows creating dark shadows on mustardy yellow walls. The bright and sunny day is banished from this place. I have stepped into a different world of muted gloom.
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David Hamilton, Short Story Course Assignment 1

Rose had started keeping a knife close to her bed. She reached out and gripped the handle tightly, drawing comfort from its weight.

?Who?s there?? she called. She tried to make her voice sound commanding but it quavered just a little. She drew back the curtain and looked out into the black. For long moments there was nothing. Then a large shape sprang into view, filling up the window. Rose screamed and dropped the knife. The shape paced back and forth on the windowsill, then sat and regarded her with two huge yellow eyes.

Her heart beat a fast rhythm in her chest and she sucked in a big breath as the fright faded away. She opened the window and the big cat jumped in onto her bed. It padded around, clawed the covers and sat down. It was jet black, its fur seemed to drink the light in. Its eyes were bright and reflective. It watched her for a few seconds, then slowly closed them. Rose put out a hand and ran it down the cats back. It was soft, cold on the outside from the night but warm from body heat closer to the skin. It began to purr. She felt its ribs as she stroked it, it was lean despite its size.

?You must be hungry, poor thing,? she said.

?I think I?ve got some tuna around here somewhere,? she said, searching the pantry, ?Dan doesn?t like it so we never eat it. Aha.?

She pulled out a blue can with a faded label.

?Expired six months years ago but that won?t bother you will it?? The cat rubbed its head against her legs, purring loudly.

An excerpt from the novel ?Conspiracy? by Hazel Carlstein, from the Advanced Novel-Writing Course. Chapter 29.

Deidre lies next to Simon, sniffing. She can smell the strong camphor odour of the Vicks Vapour Rub, a thick daub on her chest and throat. She swallows to pop her ears and her throat is so sore and tender that it feels as if she has scraped her skin across an unplastered brick wall. She reaches towards the tissue box and pulls out a wad of tissues and blows her nose, raw and red.

She hears the agitated rise and fall of a siren and the rolling sound of tyres on tar and a soft scraping sound. She lies, unmoving. A swirling sound of an aeroplane circling in the distance blocks out the sounds outside on the steps or at the window. Her eyes dart from side to side. The shadow on the ceiling is like a gigantic tarantula. The body next to her in the bed snores. A car door is closed. She lifts her head from her pillow. ?Simon.?

A soft crackling sound drifts towards her. Something falls down; a thump outside. ?Simon! Wake up!? and she digs him in his side, below his ribs.

He rolls over. ?What? What the hell is going on, Deidre? I?m trying to sleep.?

?There?s a noise; someone?s around outside.?

?There?re always noises outside, Deidre,? but Simon gets up and walks around the flat, checking the doors and windows. He returns to the bed and he tosses and turns trying to get comfortable again and erase from his mind the scribbles of concern. Now he listens and he watches Deidre, the mole on the side of her neck rising and falling with her laboured breaths. He hears nothing unusual and his head falls backwards and he sleeps.

As Deidre opens the door of the flat the next morning, the wind cuts through her scarf and thick black coat and she screams, ?Oh my god! Oh my god! What is this on the mat, Simon?? And she bobs up and down, shaking her gloved hands, as she steps back into the lounge. ?Take it away! Take it away, Simon.?

Simon looks down at the tiny staring, unseeing eyes. They are as unmoving as black pearls, set in the fox-like face. He sees the small clawed feet and the wings, like stiff, thick plastic, that encase the frozen body. There is a hook on the end of each wing. The nose is pointed and the blood from the mouth is congealed. The chest with brown fur and the shoulders with white tufts of hair are broad; the body of the bat surprisingly large.

Simon fetches a Checkers packet and picks up the dead bat. The note is under the body, DON?T CARRY ON! Dried blood has stained the mat. He pulls a tissue from his pocket and picks up the note and places it on the table inside his flat, determined to bag it and send it for analysis. Then he walks down the stairs to the outside bins and throws the bat away.

He looks over his shoulder and he walks around the block of flats and behind the concrete pillars of the parking bays. The morning air is freezing. He thinks about the note but he can only feel his father?s thick hand swiping his ear and he can only remember his father?s voice from so long ago, ?Hau, you must be the most stubborn child God ever made.? And Simon knows that he won?t stop, at least not yet.

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Final Assignment by Daniel Andrews, Basics of Creative Writing Course

John pushed the car door shut and leaned back on the bonnet, taking deep breaths as the latest wave of pain faded from his chest.

?Damn feeble body,? he grumbled to himself. Checking his gold Rolex, he saw it was only two o?clock and cursed under his breath the hours of lost work this afternoon?s sick leave would cost him. Stress, he thought, that was what was afflicting him, and keeping his fling with Angela, the new secretary, secret was stressing him more than usual. ?Damn it!? he cursed, ruing the day that his business partner, Marty, had gone against his advice and hired that tart. John was sure that Marty had been lured by her copious cleavage of silicon which her push up bra thrust out the top of her shirt and her scandalous thigh length skirts, but ironically it had been him that had ended up in her clutches. Now she was threatening to tell his wife unless he paid her off. That one night was the single most regretful incident of his life,

?God, don?t let Sarah find out,? he prayed, thinking again how devastated he would be if Sarah had cheated on him.

Putting past mistakes out of his mind, he turned up the collar of his business shirt against the cold and wiped the mist from his glasses before sizing up the path to his house. Firstly, a dash over the curb and footpath, both covered in a carpet of red and gold leaves still wet from last night?s rain. Second, through the old iron gate and up the drive lined with oaks on either side, and finally, through the front door of his splendid two storey white house, where a warm fire would be waiting and his wife would be able take him to the doctor.

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Final Assignment by Kara Netzler, Basics of Creative Writing Course

Marcus couldn?t work out what was going on. Josh had instructed him to meet with him behind the school gymnasium at 3.35pm on the dot. It was now 3.40pm, Marcus was there, Josh was there, and also there? their entire class. No one said a word. Perhaps they didn?t want to compete with the howling of the wind swirling around them. Marcus shivered as it snaked its way down the back of his neck and beneath his shirt.

C/mon Marcus shake it off. It?s just a bit of wind, no biggie? What?s Josh waiting for? Everyone?s here. He?s such a drama queen. Maybe he wants us to pass out from the stench of that cheap ?deodorant? he insists on wearing. Yeah that?ll be it. Marcus would never have the guts to say any of this aloud ? he wasn?t scared of Josh, he knew he could take him down if he had to. He was scared of the repercussions that such action would have on his image. There was nothing more important to him than that. What else is there?

The location seemed odd to Marcus. What was the significance of meeting behind the school gym? Marcus looked around, taking in the imposing barriers around him ? the concrete block wall of the gymnasium, the line of tall trees so dense that you couldn?t see through them to know what was on the other side, and the high barbed wired fence; not to mention the bodies of the children who had formed a tight semi-circle around him. Ordinarily Marcus would have counted each and every one of them as his friend or at least someone he could have a laugh with; looking at their faces today though Marcus could see only their obvious indifference towards him. Today they were uncompromising and a force to be reckoned with. It dawned on Marcus that if he had to make a quick getaway for whatever reason, he would be hard pressed to do so.

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By Shelley Blignaut (Short Story Writing Course: Module Three Assignment)

?Robert Anderson, what were you thinking?? Anne said as she ran her trembling fingers over the dent in the car.
?Is it that noticeable, Mom? Maybe he won?t even see it; it?s on the passenger?s side door and he?s either hung-over or trashed when he walks out of the house, he can?t even see straight.?
Anne?s eyes widened in fear as she looked around in panic. ?Ssshh, Rob, the neighbours are already suspicious, the last thing we need are more social workers poking their heads around here, remember how your father reacted the last time?
Robert jerked his head away as if some imaginary hand had slapped him. A moment later he turned his face back to her, now etched in determination.
?Yeah, and that?s never gonna happen again, Mom. If he ever lays a finger on you, I swear I?ll??
?Okay Rob. Let?s just calm down.?
Rob put his fists down and breathed out heavily. The thickness of the night hung around them and he suddenly realised what he had done: he had given the monster inside his father a reason to rear its head. He had made his mother vulnerable again as he knew she would take the fall for him. How could he have been so stupid?

Anne must have seen the despair in his eyes,
?We are going to handle this without your father?s temper flaring up.?
She walk toward him and gripped his defeated shoulders, she lowered her voice and said steadily,
?We both need to have the same story, with the exact same facts to make it sound believable?
Robert could see she was petrified; even though she was trying to keep it together, he could feel her hands shaking as she held him.
?Mom, I am so sorry. I?m such a dumbass for getting us into this; it?s just with starting this new school and all, I was just trying to cut it with the other guys. They all drive their dad?s wheels and I couldn?t pitch up on my bike, all of them would have been like ?Who?s that loser who can?t drive yet??

Anne dropped his gaze and let herself smile a little. For one brief moment she felt like this was normal, this is how it should be, her teenage son apologising for something stupid he did, explaining the need to fit in, succumbing to peer pressure. And she allowed herself to think about what should happen. She should ground him of course, a month would be fair, and then he would work shifts at the video store down the road to pay for the panel beating of the car. He would moan and curse and hate her for a week, but he would learn valuable character-shaping lessons. But this was not a normal family and she hated her husband for that. She could take the beatings and verbal abuse, but to rob her of these opportunities to be a mother was inexcusable?.

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The Character ? by Venisa Chinnasamy (Short Story Writing Course: Module Eight Assignment)

My name is Mpho-Sanna but Madam calls me Sanna. She says it?s easier on her tongue. I hope someday to build up enough courage to insist she calls me by my full name. As I hear the cars zooming past our chugging bus. I realize I?ll be late for work again.

Eish, this life is not easy. I cringe at the cold creeping through the crack in the windowpane and penetrating my arthritic joints. Although the corrugated iron sheeting of my shack is also not weatherproof, I?ve not yet adapted to the Johannesburg winter. I hear the rest of the passengers on the bus, all domestic workers like me, boisterously making jokes at the expense of their employers. Usually I join in. I?m a pro at mimicking Madame Naidoo?s shrills.

This morning I need the time to sulk. I am at my wits end with my fifteen-year-old son, Vusi. He has stolen the entire contents of my coffee tin. I have been saving to buy a brick house for the last five years. It is my dream to own a house like the one father built. Tears prick my eyes. I refuse to cry. Crying won?t help me. To come up with a plan to get the money to pay Thuli?s school fees is what I must reserve my energy for. Except for bus fare for the rest of the week, I don?t have a cent. I still find it difficult to believe that boy spent two thousand, five hundred and fifty rand on shoes, and clothes.

I pull at the threads straying from of seams of my only set of work clothes, curl them around my forefinger, and snap them out. This outfit has deteriorated way beyond my skills as a seamstress.

I admit I?m an angry woman but I have grounds to be. After one and a half decades, I still feel the rejection of my father. He died without forgiving me for running away from home at sixteen. Both Vusi and Thuli?s fathers have abandoned me. No wonder Vusi behaves so badly. His father is a worthless drunkard. Now, Thuli?s father leaves me in the lurch again by reneging on his promise to pay her school fees. The final straw is Vusi demolishing my hard-earned savings.

I try to stop moping and think about something pleasant. Thinking about Thuli always makes me smile. My nine-year-old is an easy child to please, always pleasant, taking pleasure in the simple things in life. She seldom complains.

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Busiswe Chaane (Short Story Writing Course: Module Five Assignment)

?Let?s go, we?re getting late,? Amanda called out as she opened the door to the garage. ?Bertha, Molly, where are you? It?s way past half-past.?
?Whose lunch is that on the table?? Amanda was back from the garage to try and herd the girls into the car before the traffic gridlocked. ?Bertha? Where?s your lunch??
?No, I?ve got mine in my bag, Mum. Bagsy sitting in front,? said Bertha quickly.
Amanda shot her twin a look but said nothing. The girls threw their bags into the boot. Amanda reversed out of the gate and out of the complex.
?Mum, did you see Aunt Priscilla driving in just now? ? Molly asked from the small seats at the back of the four-wheel drive MPV as they edged into the busy intersection. ?She waved at you.?
?No, I didn?t,? replied Amanda, ?but I?ll be seeing her and Aunt Moira at coffee later. How I hate this morning scramble. I?m going to take the back road today.?

?Thanks, Mum!? Molly smiled as her mother stopped outside the school. She blew her mother a kiss and ran to catch up with Bertha, who was already talking to a group of boys at the school gate. Amanda smiled back and swung out of the school car park.

Minutes later, she was passing the rotund lollipop lady at the busy intersection with the new mall, and she smirked to herself as she nipped in front of a slow-moving hatchback and a taxi as she made for the slip road to the motorway. She reached across and selected her favourite CD of the moment and sighed slightly as she thought of where she was going.

As she settled back into her seat and looked at the road ahead, she could see a figure up ahead, a woman, it looked like, standing under a small thorn tree. Her right arm was stretched out, the thumb up as she peered anxiously into each passing car. Amanda had enough time to think about her response before she drew level with her. On a normal day she wouldn?t even have noticed a hitchhiker. But today seemed a little different. Amanda didn?t know why, but she felt strangely dislocated from her surroundings, from her everyday chores and school runs, her usual suburban preoccupations.

Amanda started as she realised that she was reducing rather than increasing speed to join the motorway. She realised she had automatically checked her rear-view mirror, signalled to the left and was stopping, yards from the lone figure who was indeed a woman, in well-used army fatigues.

?Where are you headed?? Amanda asked, opening the passenger-side window. The woman, with short, brown hair wore no makeup or earrings, her sunburnt face and neck were liberally lined, evidence of well-travelled skin.

?I?m trying to get to the bus station, madam, on the other side of the motorway. Just looking for a ride? y?know.? The woman talked with a drawl; Amanda couldn?t place her accent.
?I?m going that way,? she heard herself say, ? I?ll drop you.??.

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Laurel Watt (Short Story Writing Course: Module One Assignment)

There it was again. The scratching, rustling sound in the darkness, just outside the window. And it definitely wasn?t a branch this time. Dan had cut that back last week.
It?s probably that darned cat again, thought Maggie.
Just that morning she had seen its muddy paw-prints on her kitchen window sill and across the counter. The few dinner scraps that Maggie had left out had disappeared.
Not that she disliked cats. But this was his cat. Ever since Jim O?Connor had taken up residence in the garden cottage, he had been a thorn in Maggie?s side. She had been against having a tenant from the start. That had been Dan?s idea.
?Mom,? he had called from his office, ?my boss is looking for a place for his elderly father. I suggested the cottage. What do you think??
?Perhaps I should keep it as a guest cottage. For when Pete and Nicky come to visit,? she had suggested. Pete and Nicky had lived in the cottage after their marriage. Maggie had enjoyed having Nicky around. That was before Pete?s promotion, which meant relocating to Australia.
?Mom, Pete and Nicky only moved to Melbourne six months ago. It?s going to be a long time before they can afford to fly back to visit.?
?Besides,? he continued, ?It would be good to have someone to keep an eye on things around there.?
?And just what good do you think that geriatric can be?? She had asked once she met the man.
?Don?t be so nasty, Mom. He?s 74 but he?s very fit and alert for his age.?
Alert enough, for sure! Maggie thought later. Doesn?t he have anything better to do with himself other than check on my every move?
Shortly after he moved in he had popped over one evening. To borrow some sugar was his excuse. She was busy in the kitchen when he knocked on the kitchen door.
?You really ought to keep this security door locked,? he had said. ?We wouldn?t want a pretty, young lady like you coming to any harm.?
Pretty young lady, indeed! How dare he be so patronizing. He may be old enough to be my father but I am no spring chicken. Maggie was indignant.
?Thank you for your concern, Mister O?Connor, but I?ve managed to survive quite well in the five years since my husband died,? she?d snapped.

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The Aquarium ? by Riaan Fourie (Short Story Writing Course: Starter to Module Two Assignment)

?BLIND-DATES are dangerous and desperate,? said the voice on the phone to Marissa. ?That?s what you lecture me whenever I go on them. You?re turning into a bit of a hypocrite in your old age, aren?t you??
And that she was, Marissa conceded to Julia. She had met Harry through a dating site she began to use two years after the divorce. Up until now she had thought the idea of meeting any of the men frequenting the site, to be sufficiently silly to prevent her from ever feeling the urge to do so.
?So, you?re meeting him at the Aquarium?? asked Julia.
?I just found parking, yeah. I?m walking to the entrance now.?
?I can lend some experienced lady-wisdom here, can?t I? This is important: if you don?t like him after the first five minutes, it is perfectly acceptable to say: ?Thanks, but no thanks,? and simply walk away. In which case you call me and we do coffee.?

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Ian Fraser Short Story Course: First Assignment

She silently slid out from the duvet and put a wrap around her shoulders. She went slowly to the window and listened intently. It was very still, not even a breeze. But she felt the presence of a person outside. Slowly she twitched the curtain to peer out.

Suddenly it opened. A hand pulled the curtain and a face ? a man?s face ? was in front of her. She could see that he hadn?t shaved; she could smell that he hadn?t washed. Stale breath and body odour assaulted her nostrils. She couldn?t immediately see what colour he was. Black? White? Something in between. Did it matter?

He had on a cap and she was aware that he was in uniform. Khaki. Couldn?t be police.

He spoke. ?Don?t speak or scream. Please. I am not going to hurt you.? An educated voice.
How could a burglar say ?Please??

He had a gun in his hand. ?What?s that for, then?? She asked, amazed at her own calmness.
He gave a half-smile. He was clearly relieved that she hadn?t reacted badly. ?There?s nothing in it.? he said. ?Here you are. You take it.? And he turned the barrel toward himself and handed her the handle. She took it mindlessly, looked at it briefly and looked back at him, a little comforted by the gun in her hand. ?Who are you? What do you want here??

?I?m not here to cause trouble or pain.? he said. ?But before I talk to you I must be sure that you won?t raise an alarm. Can I talk you on that basis??

Extraordinary, she thought. Here I am, accosted outside my bedroom window at one o?clock in the morning by an armed intruder and yet I?m being calmed by his words and presence. I must be dreaming. But she knew that this was real and she must keep her cool.

Deborah Dingemans Short Story Course: Sixth Assignment

She was elegant and quite beautiful in an unusual sort of way, yet she could not look more out of place in the Olde Worlde Bookstore that Ben passed on his way to work every day. He had noticed the stranger there, thinking that she could be a new sales assistant, but word on the street was that the owner, Marcel, was planning to retire and had handed over the reins to his niece who had arrived from France.

This piece of news was from Rob, who owned the coffee stand on the corner. As people picked up their caffeine rush for the morning, news and views were added as a side-order, free to anyone who listened. Anything that happened in the neighourhood, old or new, never went past Rob unnoticed, who peppered it with his own brand of cynicism.

While pretending to look at the interesting book display, Ben studied her, thinking that she looked like one of those exotic books where one wondered whether the cover was sometimes more enticing than the story it held inside, although something about the way she moved, made him doubt that theory.

Maybe she was more like one of the treasures that was brought into his antique store to be appraised by a proud owner, who was filled with wonder when Ben discovered a significant marking on the piece, turning it from beautiful to rare.

Louise Nell Short Story Course: First Assignment

Anthony had insisted that the tree be felled completely: chopped down, uprooted and burnt, and Carol had complied at first. Yet, on the day that the workmen came she?d unexpectedly stood her ground, very apologetically explaining that there had been some mistake about the size of the job. They had left taking only the centre branch with them, their large truck looking somehow sad with the single trunk bouncing oddly as they drove away. Later, she?d tried to explain to Anthony that it wasn?t the fault of the tree. It should not be punished for someone else?s mistake, for Dan?s mistake.

They?d found him together, wedged into the tree, half-hidden in the early morning light. It was summer and they had gone for their morning walk around the reservoir, picking up the day?s newspaper from the tiny greengrocer on the way home. Dan strapped to the tree with his leather belt, his blue misshapen face staring down at them.

?Why Dan, why??

Much later, after the ambulance and the police had gone she?d sat outside on the veranda with Anthony. Earl Grey tea in tiny fine bone china cups, her pale hands folded carefully on her lap. That afternoon seemed to last forever, rolling into days, weeks and months of quiet contemplation. Her clothes seemed to grow threadbare and baggier, losing their shape. Anthony postponed going to university and decided to take a gap year at home, tending their vegetable patch and olive grove. They talked less, and yet understood each other so much better than before, both relishing the quiet comfort.

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Andrea Fedder Basics of Creative Writing Course: Final Scene Excerpt

I?m curled up in the sunlight when Ryan?s girl comes tumbling into the room, collapsing onto the bed. I try in vain to block her out and focus on the heat of the sun on my fur. But the calm is already broken. Acknowledging this, I permit one eye to assess the scene beside me. Samantha appears to be completely empty. Her limbs just lie where the collision with bed left them, arms splayed out, knees bent up and toppled to one side, her head faces the other way. She lies contorted like abandoned prey.

She gives in to the bed beneath her, sinking into the layers of white linen. The sheets must still smell of their intimacy and I look on as she presses her nose into the creases, reliving the past. I sit up, discarding any hope of a nap and wrap my tail around, positioning my front paws for a long comfortable sit. She inhales deeply, the rhythm of her inhale, jagged and fragile. Righting her body, she bears up to the ceiling. Arms still spread like wings; Sam closes her eyes and awaits the hot tears to leak out. Permitting just a few she tolerates the lapse in control and then she sniffs them back harshly. I watch as teardrop runs its course and falls from her cheek to stain the sheets below.

I heard them arguing in the shower earlier, interrupting my fish paste dreams. Moments later the purring of Ryan?s bike alerted me that something more serious was afoot. This bundle of heartache that lies before me now must be the aftermath of all that sorrow.

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Anton Nahman Basics of Creative Writing Course: Final Scene Excerpt

?Good luck, Riaan!? ?Kick some ass out there tomorrow!? ?We love you, Riaan!?

Riaan and I are making our way towards science class for the last lesson of the day. As usual for a Friday afternoon before a big game, we?re greeted by the adoring cheers of fellow students, who call out to us and pat us on the back as we make our way through the corridors, wishing us well for the game. At least, wishing Riaan and the rest of the starting fifteen well for the game.

And, just beyond the throng, Wendy Jackson hurrying to class, oblivious to the commotion, but blushing slightly as she catches sight of Riaan. As I watch her walk past, her blonde hair pulled back in a pony-tail, except for a single loose strand over her face, I can?t help but wish I could trade places with the books she holds close to her chest, that it was me pressed up tight against her body.

?You?ll get your chance,? Riaan whispers as we make our way into the classroom, waking me from my reverie.

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Portion of a novel, by Ami van Zyl Write a Novel Course

It wasn?t weird that mom was on the phone, she was always on the phone ? the prayer groups called, the Parent?s Organisation at school, my teachers, sometimes dad from work, the strange voices that try to sell you money for when you?re dead, mom is always running to the phone, smelling of soap and coffee.

But she never gets angry on the phone, not even at wrong numbers or people selling things, she says ?sorry? or ?no thank you? or ?I?m afraid you?re mistaken?, but never ?that can?t be right?, ?are you serious??, ?what right do you think you have?? and ?please, please, never ? do not ever call again.?
That?s why I lifted myself from the carpet and followed her, so quietly she couldn?t even notice. I even tried not to breathe, to hold all the air I would need behind my salty-sea-bottom-bruise ribs. I stepped with the toes of my socks barely brushing the floor. I held my elbows to my sides with my arms dangling like heavy wings, like I was an owl tired from hunting all night, pulling in my feathers to hide me from the light.

?Theo, really. Don?t do this now.?

The smell of soap and coffee stepped further away, to the bookshelf, and I let the caged air out of my lungs. It tasted weird coming from so deep, and I got a bit lost in that, so I missed mom leave for her room.

She?d taken a few of the fullest books with her, all with green and cream and pink and cheerful yellow covers. The sticky notes in mom?s books always look so sad to me, even though they are the happy colours of a really bright circus. The way they hang at their tips, it?s like they could be the petals of a dry old flower.

I didn?t know what to do with myself, now that mom had gone to her room. I thought about phoning dad, but that wouldn?t be good. I thought so long about what to do that my feet started tingling and getting all hot and cold and my knees became hard to move.

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Portion of novel by Ashley Symes Write a Novel Course

Edgar?s relation to the corner landing remains his own affair. And he understands quite well that this ritual glance towards the corner and its window connects to some shuttered aspect of himself, to something unacknowledged, something he hasn?t as yet put his finger on. But will one day, when he has time to trawl his consciousness, his memories, his associations, all the unsorted clutter that by default accumulate as a person deals with the top layer of daily life and processes matters in a rational and productive fashion. One day he will certainly sit in the chair and mull over this particular question.

But: ?Don?t just sit there and ruminate!? Josie would bellow at him in the thick of an argument. ?For god?s sake give me a reaction, before another year passes.? On another occasion, she shrieked: ?I am not a subject for analysis. I am a human being. I want your response, just as one person to another.? And threw her hairbrush, leaving an irremediable dent in the plasterwork, and burst into furious tears, and hurtled into the bathroom and slammed the door. Of course, Edgar cannot sort through this jumble now. Right now he has climbed the stairs on a Monday morning and is about to enter upon the official business of his day.

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Final Scene ? by Ariella Caira (Basics of Creative Writing)

The wet road glistened under the streetlight as Tyler, Chris and Katie sped home from the club. Although the streets were quiet, Tyler?s Alfa Spider was not. The roar of its engine combined with the heavy house music Tyler was pumping through the subwoofers would warn anyone of their approach from kilometers off.

Chris, squashed in the back seat, dropped his head between his knees and told himself to ?breathe?. The speed, noise and heady smell of old leather, Katie?s perfume and the smoke from the club were starting to push his car sickness to a whole new level. Throwing up in Ty?s car and most of all, in Katie?s presence, would be the ultimate in ?uncool.?

Tyler, still hyped from the night of partying, sat forward in his seat and thumped the steering wheel in time to the music. ?Hey babes,? he shouted to Katie sitting in the passenger?s seat. She folded her arms tightly over her chest and turned away from him. Tyler pushed harder on the accelerator.

?C?mon lady,? he said squeezing her thigh. She pulled her leg away.
Again Tyler had embarrassed them by getting into a bar fight which in turn had seen them all getting kicked out of the club.
?C?mon babe, don?t ignore me. That dick deserved it, besides he punched me first!? Tyler tried again, rubbing the ruddy bruise on his cheek, slurring a little as he spoke. ?He was staring at your ass the whole night. Can you blame me for wanting to protect your assets??
Katie rolled her eyes and looked out of the window. Tyler grinned then, ?Excuse the pun.?

Chris raised his head in time to see Katie clenching her jaw, her fingers grippng her arms tighter. She had every right to be upset. Ty had embarrassed her too many times to count and she and Chris always had to

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