

STUDENT

DAZED AND CONFUSED

Wendy Maddocks

©2011 by Wendy Maddocks

Smashwords edition

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### Other works by Wendy Maddocks

### Stand alone novels

Twisted evil

Into the darkness

### Short story collections

The thrill of the Chase

A Shade too young

### The Shades of Northwood series

Running shoes

Circle of arms

Unfinished business

Kiss at midnight

### Circle of the Fallen series

Angels of America

### Poetry collections

When I was young

Before the dawn

###  Screenplays

RISK

###  Non-fiction

Student: dazed and confused
INTRODUCTION

I'm not going to lie – enough people are doing that to you already. My student days weren't the best days of my life, and anyone who tells you they were the best of theirs are lying. And if they try to convince you they will be the best of yours, well they're... you know the drill.

I spent seven years at the University of Birmingham and five of those were on a Creative Writing degree, which i graduated from in 2009 with a 2:1 with honours. The most powerful feeling that came over me on that ceremonial day – relief. I had worked so hard for so long and I could never see the end but suddenly, here I was – 25 years old with a diploma in my hand that I couldn't believe was real. Sometimes, I still can't quite believe the years of toil and graft are over but my photographs prove that they are. I can't believe that I did as well as I did because some of the other students seemed to work so much harder than me but the success I've had proves I deserved it.

University is expensive, long, depressing at times, slave-driving and full of stress and change when you're totally not ready for it. Not lying. There are always parties and you can skip lectures without getting detention; life outside the lecture theatre is buzzing. Also not a lie. But students rarely have time to take in much of that in – not if you're determined to get the best degree you can.

Which I did.

About half of my course was dedicated to proper creative writing, stories, poems and such. The other half was more theory based, studying writers and techniques. I didn't like the theory parts because that didn't seem important – still don't actually – but they had to be done. You can't pick and choose which assignments to do. Imagine how easy uni would be if that was true... I could have coasted five years just making stories up! But you can't just cruise it. Twenty seven grands worth of fees and you just drink them all away or something. No. For that kind of money, you want to work. Make it worth something.

And that's kind of the reason I wanted to put this book together. It is to help any student who wants to read my ramblings on any given subject or maybe who just want to reassure themselves that their grades could be worse! I will include the assignments, both creative and critical, that I have. Where possible, I will also include tutor comments and the mark I received. Not all of those comments were deserved – some were downright bitchy and kind of stupid really – yeah, I'm still bitter and twisted about the whole deal but there it is. Over now. Oh, and in case you start wondering, I skipped the first year. That's why there ain't one!

YEAR TWO

YEAR OF THE COCK

If you were there, you know who I mean.

The tale of three

Boy

The first time I spoke to the dead, I was gifted – touched. I felt special. The first time I told someone I spoke to the dead, I was branded a crazy and became a social outcast. Soon enough, I started to believe what everyone was saying about me and shut myself away in my room. The power of words strikes again.

I'm alone in this - even though there are other people like me, I feel them. Not hacks like 85% of so-called psychics and mediums, but people who were born with this curse or blessing. People who think I'm just acting out ask why I don't try to make money out of it, but I'm not in it for glory. It's wrong, and I wasn't given this strange ability to abuse it.

Sometimes, I hear so many voices talking to me at the same time that my head feels like it's about to explode. It's a big burden to carry on your own. When you hear so many voices all trying to be louder than the last...it's driving me crazy!

The first time I realised what I could do was the day of my sister's funeral. I was leaning over her coffin, stroking her hair and telling her how sorry I was that it hadn't been me instead of her – we were hit by a truck where the driver had fallen asleep at the wheel – when she said that she forgave me and she was okay now.

Girl

Look, there I am. Hello me.

I'm down there, but I'm here too. How is this possible? I get the felling that I'm on my way to somewhere, that I have something to do, but there's no-one here that can tell me. I'm sure I'll find out.

He won't.

I'm okay now. You don't have to worry anymore. I'm safe; nothing can hurt me now. I won't even go away when they bury me – I'll still be here... somewhere.

Boy

Her lips hadn't moved and her eyes hadn't opened. I knew I was the only one who'd heard it. It was only meant for me.

I cried at the funeral. It was saying goodbye for the final time for everyone else but I think I felt it more because she'd just spoken to me. After that more and more people who'd died came to talk to me. A lot of them just wanted the company – by all accounts, the afterlife isn't the most sociable of times – but some came with messages from the higher powers, telling me that all my questions would be answered soon. Until then, I had no questions, but now I've got loads. Perhaps they'll be answered in time, but perhaps it'll be sooner.

Girl

I don't know how I knew that I'd be able to speak to him, or how I knew he'd be able to hear me, but I knew anyway. Maybe I was told by some higher power, or maybe I was just trying my luck. I'm kinda inclined towards the subconscious voice theory. I think that everyone has thoughts and power in their sleeping brain which only surface when that individual is least aware of it and, as such, unable to put their waking constraints on to their thoughts. God, don't I sound like the introductory psychology textbook?

The point is that maybe he was able to hear me because he was too upset to try and rationalise it. I'm just speculating here, but what if? Makes you think, doesn't it? I mean, what if we actually knew that things everyone doubts are true, but we don't give them the time of day because it sounds so ridiculous? Could happen.

I got hit by a truck – a frikkin' truck of all things! I got banged up really bad; I reckon I must've because, you know, I died. And I wasn't angry. It was like I was flying and it was painless, fearless. I had one regret about going before I was ready, though. I think I had the same power as him. I don't know why I had it or where it came from, but it was mine. I guess it's not so special that I still have it now. Maybe it was a sibling bond that told me he'd hear me, or maybe people like us have some hidden part of our brains that recognise each other. But I never told anyone about it.

My power was a secret, something to hide, but I always wondered how I got it. Was I born with it, was it luck, was it something I caught like a cold? Was I meant to have it? Even if I do get answers, it's too late to help him.

Man

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Boy

I think I'm dreaming, but I know I'm not. I've come to redefine the word weird over the years but this is still up there with goblins and toasters that work properly. At first I thought it was weird that I talk to the dead but that's almost in the normal category now. What's weird now is that I'm seeing the people I talk to. Not ghosts - not those translucent, chain and sheet creatures fame-seekers invented - but solid, tangible people. They just happen to be dead.

Perhaps this was the natural next step for me. I don't understand what is happening to me, and I'm trying to just let it go, but I can't stop wanting to know. Scientists do that. They have to analyse and experiment things to breaking point, and prove them and understand them before they can allow themselves to believe in anything. Until you can touch it, and see and hear and understand it, it isn't real. Three out of four. I wish I could be one of those people who can just put their faith in something because they want to, but that's just not me.

But I believe in my ability to reach the other side, and that's enough for me. It's not my problem if other people won't listen.

What if all this is a dream, or some elaborate drug-induced fantasy – I mean they called me a crazy and tried to put me in a psychiatric hospital. I could be there now, just in this trance I can't get out of because I won't let go of my power. If I am in a trance, I'd like to stay there because it makes me special. But I can't be imagining voices and ghosts, can I?

Girl

It's against the rules for us to return to the mortal plane and allow the living to see us. That's why most people who claim to see ghosts only see that see-through version of the person. We're not malicious, usually. We don't tell people they can't live in a house or scare them for the fun of it. No, the ones who follow the rules only get their own back on the people who wronged them. But, the ones who don't do anything get a reward.

I didn't try to cross over at all and now I get the reward I wanted. Part of me, deep in my brain, knows that whoever did me wrong in life will get theirs in the end. So I didn't need to do bad things to anyone, but I did want some people to see me – to get closure. I held back though, because I always knew I'd get something good.

And I did. I could feel the dirt under my feet and the rock cliffs behind me. I was real... corporeal. I wasn't a phantom, or a spirit, I didn't drift around. There was this sound behind me, so I turned round and suddenly I was in a cave. I was miles away from where I had been a second ago but it didn't matter. There was a man crouched in the corner of the cave scratching symbols on the wall with another rock. He was dirty and I couldn't tell how old he was, only that he should have died hundreds of thousands of years ago.

Man

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Boy

"Sarah." I reached out my hand; she held it for a few seconds and then moved away a few steps. That's why I thought I was dreaming. I was seeing my sister and holding her hand. But her skin was warm and smooth, the way it had always been when she was alive. She even felt alive. "How did you get here? How did I get here?"

"Adam." She smiled at me like she was really glad to see me. "I don't know quite what's going on either, but everything's gonna be okay." Her voice was the same; it was comforting and familiar and I wanted to believe her.

"I heard you when you spoke to me. At your funeral."

"I know. You can talk to the dead; you've always had that power. I just opened that door to you. I used to do it too."

Maybe it was in the blood or the genes or something like that. Could be it was just luck. But she can't have told anyone because nothing had ever happened to her. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She laughed. "I thought you'd think I was loopy. I think I always knew I could do it. They didn't speak to me until I was 16, on my birthday."

She trailed off and turned away from me. Out of the corner of my eye I could see this man sitting down and drawing with a rock. He looked at me through these milky eyes and stood up. Sarah looked at the symbols he'd been scratching, then looked at us both. "I am the first."

I didn't know who I was speaking to so I looked at Sarah. "Where am I?"

"At the beginning. The place where our power began. It started with me, and I carried it alone. You are not alone."

"Why doesn't anyone believe me?"

"You are beyond their understanding." The man was looking straight at me, as though he knew exactly where I was standing, but I knew he couldn't see me. I sat down with my back to the wall and blinked a few times. I even pinched myself to see if I was asleep but it hurt and I knew I was awake. When I lifted my head again, there was a small fire in the centre of the cave and the man was hunched up in a corner, looking scared and nervous. Time had passed but I couldn't tell how much. It didn't matter.

"Speak to me. Tell me your name," I commanded, trying to sound authoritative. I just sounded needy.

Sarah turned her head and stared at me. "I have no voice of my own. I was born before the dawn of the spoken word. I have no name but that which I am. Alone."

"Why do I have this 'gift'?" I made little air quotes with my fingers but I don't know why I did that. He couldn't see it. "Why do I have it, and what I meant to do with it? Why did Sarah have it?"

"Your name is Adam," said Sarah/ The Man With No Name. "You are the descendent of the first. You were born for our cause. To help, to listen, to try. Your sister was merely deemed worthy."

But he let her die. "Where did it come from?" I asked.

Sarah looked at the man in the corner instead of me and she suddenly wasn't talking for him any more. Somehow, he'd found the words to say. "Born... here. Ancient... primal power."

"It came from him," Sarah repeated but I'd already realised that. "You were driven crazy by them, weren't you?"

"They'll never be quiet. The dead always come."

"No end... more always."

Sarah

That was my reward. To be real again – even if it was only for a while. To be able to see my brother and help him. It was special, but it wasn't long enough. I've still got things to say to Adam, and now I'll never get the chance to.

They let me have a quick look at him to make sure he had made the journey back safely. I think he might understand what's going on in his head now, even if no-one else does.

An alarm clock rings out by his bed – I can't hear it but I can see it shaking. He always looked like a kid when he woke up, and that hasn't changed. I want to touch him but I can't. "Everything's gonna be OK," I tell him, but he doesn't hear me. An older woman in a white uniform with blue trim lets herself in, opens the curtains and helps him up.

Adam

More time must have passed than I thought because, when I look outside, first light is breaking. I think talking to Sarah and that man has answered my questions. It feels like I know everything I should know but everything's still jumbled up. And I still don't know where the others are – people who understand.

I know I'll have to go soon; people will start to wonder about me. I start to fade out, like they do in the movies, and as I go, I see the man turn back to the wall and start scratching his signs again. I don't know the language, I doubt he really knows, but I know it's important.

Man

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Appendix

Translation of sections entitled Man.

Head hurts people all inside not hunt too many too many to think too many to move lie still wait be quiet be still and quiet and no people

No voice much to say

No sight see everything see more

Blood and bodies and tears see them in my head people lie still cold in ground all busy and loud in my head this is gift this is curse noise and smell life and death violent

Hurting now too many too much can't help them what I do I help I listen I try

I am first alone no help for me no friends no family no love just noise dead not calm want justice revenge rest some sleep I shall sleep forever

Was born empty will die dirty dirty with death alone always alone angry peaceful I in between feel tired so tired

Know everything teach others to see help them all

I feel nothing just helpless

***

Girl in cave not in head

She speak can't answer her she sent here to help like me I help I help them all

Man come too silence I not see but hear I feel quiet in head no-one there still waiting

No noise peaceful I first he last she middle

Calm now soon hurt again I know

***

Man go

Girl fall down she dead now speak to me say day not cold say thank you means nothing everything girl in good place

Say me crazy just resting

Tears screaming over now I resting we resting

Writer's notebook

How do people cope when they find out they're different from other people? When no-one will believe them 'cos it sounds crazy? Are the alone?

Three narrators – beginning, middle, end. Triangle.

Stages of power. Stages of life, death, whatever.

HCW lines, TY, HM, spin any that fit.

One char. A guy who told people and was called crazy. Where is he?

Two is a girl – young, killed in crash, had power and wants to help one to understand.

Three – ancient man, first person to have it, what happened? Did it kill him?

In the triangle bit, talk in riddles, it's fun and makes people think.

Scratch that, people just read it, not gonna spend half hour figuring it out.

Speak from each POV.

Can the char. Speak? Try to make the voices real and normal, not all fancy. Keep speech in character.

Watch tenses. Past, present? Has it already happened or is it happening now? I think it should be happening now.

Brother read first draft, said it needs to be heavily rewritten as it makes no sense. Had a go, redid bits but kept a lot of it the same. I think its pretty much ok as it is but maybe not.

After Saturday workshop

Make sure I keep the raw emotion but don't go overboard with it. Shorts need to be quite pacy – I think it is but must check.

Keep it interesting rather than sentimental – I don't do sentimental.

Inject a voice into first section, at the funeral. Girl. Got whole speech planned. Can't be very long or I'll go too much over word count. Where is a good place to put it in? After he's heard her, or before?

Keep the feeling of loneliness and the inability to connect through out. I want people to think about how lonely it is when there are other people around but you can't talk to them.

Don't swamp the reader with emotion, but not cold either. Don't tell them to feel things, let them decide.

Don't spend long explaining things. Just mention them and move on.

I want my characters to all find peace or resolution at the end. I want them to still be confused and hurting but with an ending to this 'chapter'.

Unanswered questions.

TUTOR NOTES

DEMONSTRATION OF WRITING AS PROCESS – The notebook focuses in on the characters' voices – as you should in this exercise. I think you do raise the questions that you ask but, as you indicate in the notebook, perhaps don't answer them. The triangular relationship is a classic model but not sure if the third is developed enough. Perhaps more of a love story between brother and sister.

MASTERY OF TECHNIQUES AND CONVENTIONS – You have joined in the spirit of experimentation and for the main characters this is revealing. I was less clear about why you presented the Greek translation at the end and not alongside the text – particularly given that the reader has to shuffle papers three times to get to the translation. Maybe you wanted disruption – you don't mention this in the notebook.

There are a couple of technical presentation issues, which may seem small but are significant in the writing trade. You need to double space, spell-check thoroughly and not include scripts with words crossed out. Also – how long is this piece – it feels longer that 2000?

ACHIEVEMENT OF A SHAPED AND CRAFTED PIECE OF WRITING - I think your opening and closing statements in the writer's notebook tell all here. You are intent, it seems on, on wanting to make the reader feel something. This is fine and best done through story. There are stories in your piece but not an overriding story with a satisfying end for the reader. There is interest in the talking dead and in the primitive man but no clear path through it all. The voices are differentiated and well written.

EVIDENCE OF INDIVIDUALITY, INVENTION AND EMPATHY – this is a good use of multiple narrative. It gives voice to something that normally doesn't have a voice – and puts it in a conversation.

OVERALL COMMENTS – A well written experimental multiple narrative piece that fulfils its ambitions short of a definite storyline.

MARK-55

LESSONS

Radio 4 – Drama documentary

Jack – 6th form student, 17

Mrs Atkins – worried mother, 40s

Mr Atkins – late 40s

DS Short – male, indifferent

1.Ext. Shop doorway. Usual sounds of street. Shop bell rings.

JACK:Bet they ain't even missed me, bastard parents. Father who don't give a shit, and a mother who may well be a whore, the amount of men she screws. Nah, I bet they're brother and sister and I'm their illegitimate bastard child. Or, he's just her pimp. Thought, run away, that'll show 'em. Probably aint even noticed I'm gone. Don't even care that I'm out here, freezing me balls off, next to some geezer who used to be this hotshot city bloke but stinks of piss now.

POLICE:Come on now, lads, eh. Move it along.

Grunts and the smash of a glass on the floor.

JACK:I'm goin', I'm goin'. Jesus Christ. Never give you a minutes peace round 'ere, they don't.

God, it's cold. I'm freezing, but I ain't going back to that house. Seems warm now but it's been cold there for ages. Trust me, you don't wanna go there if you don't gotta.

Rush of footsteps, voices, and the brush of layers of clothing.

PASSERBY:Watch it!

JACK:Sorry, I didn't see ya.

PASSERBY:Yeah, I bet you didn't

JACK:Look, I said I'm sorry, mate.

Jesus, was that guy looking for a fight, or what. Just cruising for it, guy. Not that I'd fight him, I mean I'm sort of a rebel but I'm a coward too. Weird how that works. Hunh.

Now we hear the loudest sound, silence. He kicks a shard of glass, we hear it tinkle. His feet scuff the path.

JACK:Can't believe I ever reckoned this'd be a good idea. I mean, I'm cold, lonely, hungry, pathetic really. I just wanna curl up in my nice warm bed with my mp3 on and go to sleep. Not that anyone ever cared what I wanted. Or what I did, for that matter.

Mom got like really angry at me, yeah I told you how she's some kinda slut. Anyways, I reckon she was just pissed 'cos she thought I'd stole her stash or summat. And Pimp Daddy couldn't give a shit. He's a right ol' tosspot, he is. Nah, probably ain't even noticed I'm gone.

2.Int. Average council house. Kitten miaows quietly and pads softly over floor. Doorbells rings and there is a knock. Kitten mews again and door is unlatched.

MRS ATKINS:Be quiet Kit.

Door creaks open and a man clears throat.

DS SHORT:Good afternoon Mrs... Atkins. I'm DS Short. You placed a call with us about the disappearance of your son.

MRS ATKINS:Oh, yes. Good morning. Please, come in.

Door closes hard. It's windy out. He takes off his coat with a zip and poppers. Radio buzzes and fuzzes with white noise between transmissions.

RADIO:This is two ni-

Click as he turns it off. The squeak of plasticky leather as he sits down.

DS SHORT:Mr Atkins, I presume.

MRS ATKINS:Oh, I'm sorry, I should have introduced you. John, dear, this is DS Short. He's here about Jack.

MR ATKINS:What's he done this time? When's the court date?

DS SHORT:Uhh... umm...

MRS ATKINS:No, dear, he's going to help us find him. He can't have done anything wrong if no-one knows where he is, can he? He's just so used to having the police here when something goes wrong...

DS SHORT:It's fine, really. I imagine you keep expecting him to walk through the door like nothing's happened.

MR ATKINS:Something like that.

MRS ATKINS:Anyway. I'll go and make us all a nice cup of tea shall I? Help us get our heads straight.

We can hear the faint sounds of the kettle boiling, milk being poured, tea sounds. Kit purrs and starts licking it's paw.

DS SHORT:Can you think of any reason your son may have run away?

MR ATKINS:No. You think he's just run away?

DS SHORT:It's certainly the most likely possibility. Around 90% of all teenage disappearances are runaways rather than abductions. (Beat) Hardly civilised animals are they?

MR ATKINS:What? Oh, no they're not.

Tray rattles – cups and spoons and tea things. Spoons clink in cups as it is stirred.

MRS ATKINS:Here we go. Nice cup of tea for us all. Now, where are we?

DS SHORT:When exactly did you realise he had gone missing?

MRS ATKNS:About three days ago, I think. We thought he was just staying over with a friend when he didn't come home the first night. Then, when he didn't get in touch the next day...

DS SHORT:What happened just before that? Often, it's a trivial event that sets them off. Teenagers tend to blow things out of proportion.

Tissue is pulled out of box and MRS A blows nose. She slurps from cup.

MRS ATKINS:Umm... We had a stupid row. But I really don't think that would've made Jack run away.

DS SHORT:I know this must be very upsetting, but can you remember what the argument was about?

3.Is there a flashback noise? If so, I want one. Maybe some whooshy thing?

Int. Music, angry rap stuff (Eminem, Cleaning Out My Closet) Quiet, muffled. Kit still curled up and purring happily.

MRS ATKINS:Jack! Get down here!

Music gets a bit louder.

MRS ATKINS:I mean it Jack! Get down here!

Music gets louder and his doors whistles open.

JACK:Why? So you can call me a liar again?

Rap is turned off and he thunders down stairs.

JACK:I ain't done nothin' wrong. You can stop accusing me.

MR ATKINS:No-one's calling you a liar, but we know you're in trouble.

JACK:Don't go pretending you care, Dad. As long as you aint gotta pay damages, we both know you don't give a shit.

Glass breaks as he lobs it at wall, or cracks as it slams on table. Hear him get up, angry, stamps foot in rage.

MR ATKINS:That was 25 year old malt whisky. Have a bit of respect.

JACK:Respect? I'm telling the truth and you gots no respect for that.

MRS ATKINS:Jack, don't lie. Just tell us what the hell you're playing at with that junk?

JACK:What's the prob, ma? Worried that you might not be the only junkie in the house?

JACK storms out, running. Front door opens and slams angrily behind him. Kit makes that warning hiss that cats do.

4.Ext. Back on open, windy street with Jack in park. A dog barks on a lead.

PASSERBY:REX, don't do another crap yet. I've got no more poo bags. I swear this mutt's got diarrhoea or something.

JACK:Dog diarrhoea? Maybe he just thinks it's funny.

PASSERBY:Rex! Can't you hold it in till we get home?

Flodge.

Jack:Think that's a no, mate. (Beat)

So, I tried drugs once – everyone has. I had one spliff when I was just a kid last year. Mom smelled it in my room, maybe her own pot was getting low or whatever, but I didn't like the way it made me feel so I didn't do it again.

Ever since then, they've both been on this whole trip, thinking I'm some kinda junkie. Like one isn't enough. They've been going on about it for ages but we had this row about it. That's what got me. I'd just had enough of 'em trying to make out I was some hopeless addict. So, I done a runner. Thought they'd sit up and take a bit of notice. Y'know, sorta realise what they lost and how they should never have doubted me. I'm not that lucky though. No faces on milk cartons like in America, no reports on the telly, begging me to come home. Hell they ain't even bothered to put up missing posters on trees like they do for lost cats and dogs. That's a weird one don'tcha think? I mean, do they reckon some poor mutt's gonna be pissing up a tree then look up – as you do – see the poster and think oh dear, my owners looking for me, I better go home.

Rustle of canvassy plastic as he tightens coat. Rain starts to fall, lightly at first, then heavy.

JACK:Jesus, it's cold. And my clothes are getting soaked. And now there's no-one even in the park. Told ya they don't care. I only wanted to teach 'em a lesson, show them what they're missing but I just wanna go home now. Think I'll find somewhere to keep dry. Maybe I'll catch flu and die of pneumonia and then they'll see. If they even notice.

5.Int. Back with MR and MRS A. Paper turns and crackles when it folds.

MR ATKINS:I see the Smiths shares have fallen again. Down to 4.33 now. Don't think I'll be getting much money back off them when I get rid.

MRS A sighs softly.

MR ATKINS:What's your problem? I'm only reading the paper.

She sighs again, and lights up a cigarette. Takes a deep drag.

MRS ATKINS:John, I just want my son back. And you're not doing a single thing to help.

MR ATKINS:What should I be doing then? Driving around day and night, calling his name? Be holding press conferences and spending my days crying over him?

MRS ATKINS:You don't have to go that far, but you could try showing a bit of emotion.

MR A gives up on the paper and we hear him close it and toss it to the floor. We hear him open his liquor cabinet and pour himself a drink.

MRS ATKINS:What did you do to drive Jack away? (Beat) What could we have done? What if he ran away to hurt us? He just wanted attention probably.

MR ATKINS:So why isn't he here so we can give it to him?

Bang and clink as ice cubes fall into glass. MRS A takes final drag off fag, lets it out and stubs it out with a hiss of dying ashes.

MR ATKINS:You're gonna give yourself lung cancer with all them fags.

MRS ATKINS:With the amount you drink, I'm surprised you haven't got liver disease already. Diluting it with ice doesn't make a difference, you know.

MR ATKINS:Well, how else am I supposed to dull your wailing over your precious son.

MRS ATKINS:At least I care.

(Lights up another cigarette)

At least I think it matters what happens to him.

MR ATKINS:I care what happens to him. I just can't be sorry for him yet. He ran away on his own, so it's his own fault what happens.

MRS ATKINS:(She sounds stunned)

So, if he freezes to death out there or gets beaten to death, you're not going to take any responsibility? (Beat) It's you that didn't find him, you that –

Starts to get upset and begins to cry.

MR ATKINS:Come on, now. No tears. He'll be back when he gets fed up. He'll get bored of it eventually, the novelty'll wear off. He'll come back.

MRS ATKINS:You heard what the police said. The best thing to do is sit at home and wait in case he comes home. How am I supposed to just sit here and do nothing, John? Do they expect me just to sit here and wait and not go crazy?

MR ATKINS:This is just another case to them. None of us are people to them, we're just numbers on their reports.

MRS ATKINS:How can you be so cold and unfeeling? Aren't you even the least bit worried about whether Jack comes home safe or not?

MR ATKINS:Yes, I'm worried but I'm not hysterical. He got himself into this mess, and he can get himself out of it. He's not pulling my strings any more. I'm not even –

MRS ATKINS:I just want my son back home. Is that so much to ask?

MR ATKINS:Was it the row that made him go, do you think? Maybe we were wrong to accuse him of taking drugs?

MRS A lights another cigarette.

MRS ATKINS:I've called all his friends but no-one's seen him since Tuesday. He hasn't been to school, or even to the gym. I checked there too. I don't think he wants us to find him. What if I was a terrible mother to Jack? I mean, what if he suddenly decided he didn't want anything more to do with me – us – and ran off to make a new life for himself, far away from me?

MR ATKINS:You're not a bad mother. He probably thought it would teach us a lesson, or he might just be feeling sorry for himself.

MRS ATKINS:God, if I could just get my hands on the little sod. I'd ring the blighters' neck for doing this.

MR ATKINS:No, you won't. when- when Jack comes homes, all you'll do is give him a big cuddle and ground him for a week. I know you won't hurt him.

MRS ATKINS:I could. I could swing for that lad. All the danger he's gone and put himself in.

MR ATKINS:Be quiet, watch the telly, have adrink of something. I'm going to read my paper again.

MRS ATKINS:And pretend this isn't happening? Carry on not caring?

MR ATKINS:It's better than getting all hysterical.

Doorbell rings. Moment of silence.

MRS ATKINS:Do you think –

MR ATKINS:Go and answer it and find out.

Stupid bloody woman.

MRS ATKINS:John, dear, DS Short's come to update us on the investigation.

Poppers, zip, radio fuzz.

DS SHORT:We're in the process of assigning you an officer to stay with you all day until the case is closed. We usually have a policy of shutting these cases after a month.

MRS ATKINS:Even if my son still hasn't come home?

DS SHORT:I realise it must seem very harsh to you but as I said before –

MRS ATKINS:Seem harsh? The streets are harsh and my Jack's still out there.

DS SHORT:I said last time that runaways just want some attention. I imagine he felt ignored, under-appreciated... probably a little rebellious, but they hardly ever take it to this extreme for very long. But his disappearance is still an open case.

MR ATKINS:What have you been doing to find him? I reckon he'll come home soon as he's got bored, but what if he doesn't? what are you going to do?

DS SHORT:We've called or visited every one of his contacts that you gave us. Our team have followed up every lead we could dig up, and we ruled out the possibility of abduction.

MRS ATKINS:Oh my goodness.

MR ATKINS:Calm down, love. He said it's not a possibility.

DS SHORT:You told us he had a mobile phone. We checked the number but we can't trace it.

MR ATKINS:His battery would've run out by now anyway.

DS SHORT:Are you sure there's nothing else you can tell me that might help us find him?

MRS ATKINS:I don't thin – oh wait, he always said that he hated being on his own when he was lonely. That means he's gone somewhere busy, doesn't it?

DS SHORT:It's certainly another possibility. I'll get the team on it and we'll let you know what's happening.

MRS ATKINS:And what are we supposed to do until then? Just sit here and wait for him to come walking through that door?

MR ATKINS:Please find him soon, officer. I can't sit here and watch her cry over Jack once more.

MRS ATKINS:Aren't you worried about our child? As long you don't have to see me upset.

MR ATKINS:Not this again. Yes, I'm worried. But when did he become our child again? He stopped being anything to do with me seventeen years ago when you told me he's nothing to do with me.

DS SHORT:I know this is a tense and emotional for any parent going through this but you can't afford to lose your heads right now. If Jack comes - when Jack comes home, he needs a stable family unit to be ready for him.

MRS ATKINS:Anything could be happening to him out there. He could be starving, or freezing, or hunting for his next score of drugs someone's got him hooked on. He could be lying dead in some lay-by for all you know, and all we're allowed to do is sit tight and find a star to wish on that he's safe? Nearly a week, he's been gone. I need my son here with us so I can look after him.

DS SHORT:Mrs Atkins, trust me when I tell you that we're doing everything we can.

6.Ext. Back on the street. Midnight.

JACK:Some hooker's just tried to come on to me, guy. She goes Hey, stud. Looking for some action. I can go all night. I don't give a damn if she can go 'til Christmas. You could tell she had a kid on the way an' all – she weren't showing or nuffin' but she kept touching her stomach. A mother on the game, wonder what that's like?

Saw this kid round the corner, just sellin' herself for a few quid so she could afford her next fix. That's sad, man. When you're so lonely and desperate that you fill up with that shit. Then again, I'm not doing much better. This geezer comes up and asks me if I want a free sample of anything. Gotta admit, I thought about it, just to keep me going, but he looked kinda dodgy so I told him to piss off. Perv, he was. All doing that, ain't they? Offerin' freebies 'cos they know they're gonna get their money back when the kids get hooked.

Suppose it would've buzzed me for a bit, dulled the cold.

Wonder what the parents are up to? Bet they're all warm and cosy in the house, in front of the fire. Kit'll be wandering round trying to wrap herself round someone's legs. She must be part dog to have that leg fixation. Wish I 'ad a dog – even if it shat all the time like Rex. Maybe they got the police round and I've turned into one of them high profile cases, like on all them programmes. That's wicked, guy.

JACK enters a phone box and picks up. Breathing becomes shallow and he taps nails on case.

JACK: Jeez, it stinks in here. And there're dirty needles up the corner. And graffiti. My bedroom isn't even this bad, and that's saying summat.

Mom'll be chain-smoking and Dad'll be drinking and reading the paper. That's what they do every night – it's like a routine.

He punches eleven beeps and listens to ring-ring at the other end. Eminem starts out quiet and chorus drowns sound to finish "I'm sorry mama, I never meant to hurt you, I never meant to make you cry, but tonight, I'm cleaning out my closet"

TUTOR NOTES

ANALYSIS – You have provided a work of competence that has been considered for radio. You have clearly understood how to write for the medium and created an imaginative script by generating a contrasting use and range of acoustic settings. In shifting between the world of the street to the interior of the flat you manage a construct a layered narrative.

SUGGESTIONS – The dialogue seems to work reasonably well although it would have benfited from further editing as there are times when it doesn't move the action forward quickly enough. In honing the material you would stand a better chance of keeping the listeners full attention – notes on the script where dialogue seems to ramble. Although the piece was slightly over fifteen minutes the closure felt rather abrupt. Perhaps by giving Jack a greater sense of emotional journey his decision to then return would have been better earned.

MARK-60

Siren Song

With every word that you read

You grow weaker

I own another part of you

Before I ever saw you, felt you

The moon gave me your image

And I knew I wanted you

To have you close

To breathe you in

Don't be afraid

You don't want to hide from me

Or resist me

You can't

Come to me

A thousand seas have heard my thousand songs

Until you ended my search and my song

Cover your sandy prints

Huddle away in shadow

And I will still find you

I've waited too long

The night will bring you to me

Drifting here

Like a wave on the water

You flow and ebb with your rolling desire

The need that you do not know

You look at this page in temptation

With hunger in your eyes

I can see you

I need you too

Your touch, your thoughts

To breathe life into me

I am nothing alone

And I want you near me

Stave off the cold around me

Dull the silence filling the air

I know you want me

See how you read on

You are addicted to the hope I give you

The salvation every night

I can save you from the dark

From the emptiness

Don't you hear me tell you

I can make it okay?

Siren Story

I know you're out there.

You read the words, didn't you? The words I sent through the air. The words I sent across a thousand seas, to all the corners of the world, before they found you. You heard my message and now you're here.

The music is so loud that my bones are vibrating to the regular beat – but I dance to my own rhythm. And I dance for you. The lights are low and every corner is hidden in shadow. Dozens of slavering, overly-confident men shout and try to grab my attention, but they are shadowed by you. Holding back from the light and the noise and the bustle of burly men trying to push themselves to the front and shove five pound notes inside my g-string; just sitting there and watching in your tiny bubble of peace. You shine out like a beacon of tarnished purity. No-one sees you shine but me. No-one knows you the way I do.

Not even you.

Because you don't even know why you're here. You don't remember reading my message, or coming here, but you did what I knew you would. It could be mildly amusing if you had any control over your actions, but you have no control. You are effectively powerless tonight. I know you have questions that you dare not ask aloud.

Why this club? Why tonight? Why me?

Because I will it so.

You've taken a vow of abstinence; made a promise of fidelity. But we both know you will break that vow tonight. You know it's wrong – you shouldn't, you mustn't. And yet... you will. It cannot be helped – I have destined you to do this. That one moment of weakness for you will be an eternity of glory for me. It's not your fault you obey me so unquestioningly, you couldn't stop it if you tried. Just give yourself to me and-

-it will all be so easy.

You can't hide from me. The spotlight picks you out and there is no hiding. I can see you watching me and you try to mask the hunger you feel at the sight of my unblemished, gossamer-white skin and flowing blonde hair. I am everything you ever wanted, and you crave my touch. You tell yourself you shouldn't want me, that it is a sin to yearn for pleasures of the flesh, but you cannot deny your heart the thing it beats for. I put on this show for you.

I did not tell you to follow me, I did not command it. I just told you you would... and you did. I hear your soul cry to be saved. I am your saviour. I can give you everything your heart desires if you tell me you want it. Every night of your life can be filled with joy and ecstasy, if you listen to what your heart is screaming at you. You can stop fighting, stop crying. You know you will give yourself to me. You no longer own yourself.

I do.

My lips are no longer moving but you can hear me still singing to you, and that is how I know you are mine. You know it too. You know you want to give yourself to me, but your brain, your taught religion dictates that it must be wrong to be happy. But there is no sin in giving yourself what you want. And I guarantee that after tonight, religion won't matter and you will never need or want for another woman again. One second of pure bliss will stretch into forever, and you won't even care about that black mark on your soul. You're starving for me; I can see it, though you still hold back... or try to.

The midnight black is enough to cover the sight of the bins outside the club, but it is not enough to cover you and your tainted beauty. A summer breeze is spinning through the air, but you warm the air around you. Your touch burns into my skin and makes you shiver. That was electric. You can stop holding back now; you can let go of it all. No-one but us will know about this, no-one can see. Stop worrying and just give in. It will all be so easy – no more denying yourself these guilty pleasures, no more following other people's rules. You can live for yourself... you can live for me. For I am only what your heart yearns for; release, beauty. Without you, without your need for me, I would be nothing. You can give me what I need too. I long for someone to hold me, to make me whole again. And that someone will be you.

Stop looking over my shoulder – no-one can see us. With me, you can stop fighting yourself, stop holding yourself back. You can be with me and you can be at peace. Just take one step towards me and reach for my hand. I promise you, everything will be okay.

I know you are afraid – telling yourself you have to leave before you get in too deep. So why don't you leave? Because you don't really want to; because a big part of you likes being frightened of the situation. You're trembling in fear and restrained lust. And you love feeling this way. You love being torn between what you want and what you think you should want. Between your heart and your head.

You flinch as you touch my ice cold skin; are surprised when your warmth brings colour to my flesh. Isn't this what you wanted? You always wished for one person to make you feel special on your candles every year. I heard you pray for me each birthday, and now I am here, you seem scared of me. The silence in the night is only filled with the muffled sounds of club music, but we can both fill the void with words that we will never speak. The space you put between us fills the air too. Distance was no object when you called for me and I called for you, but you hesitate to cross the inches between us.

Have you had enough now? This game has worn rather thin – you know I will win, your heart will win. You reach for me but hesitate before you make contact. This will go on your sin pile at the heavenly gates. It could send you to... the bad place. But you touch me regardless – one night won't make too much difference – and you fall to the ground with me. Your muscles no longer have the strength to hold you up. Your body can no longer resist the pull of mine.

And finally, you realise that everything I told you is true.

"There'll be Hell to pay someday."

Rationale

I have decided to present the first section of my assignment as the visual element of this assignment. I think the poem, with rhythm and a beat, sums up the haunting, melodic qualities of the song of a siren.

I spent a few weeks having decided that this was the section I would present thinking how I could show it. Then it all clicked one night, and I knew that I was going to use a message in a bottle. A message in a bottle has long been the picturesque and iconic method of sending a message over seas, often asking for help. I thought this ways most appropriate as the siren is said to sing her song over a thousand seas, and to be looking for this one person.

The contemporary relevance of this piece is to show that a man will always follow his heart rather than his head. Emotions are raw, powerful things and people often listen to their raging feelings rather than the rules and morals that they have been taught. It is natural and quite common for people to follow their hearts and not what they have learnt is right. The song of the siren was perfect for me to show the amount of power one person can have over another. It also shows that both individuals know that he is falling from grace but that neither is exactly rushing to stop it.

The last line is the only stated speech in the story which I found to be quite hard to do. In my first draft, the whole story was littered with snatches of dialogue, and some rewrites later I came to realise that the story would be more mythical and real if I had mo speech other than the final words. Again, it symbolises her quiet power in the fact that she does not speak aloud throughout, and that he only speaks to inform readers that he has fallen into the arms of the siren and to let us know that he knows there will be consequences to his actions.

I chose this bottle specifically because it is an alco-pop bottle and has writing in the glass. The type of bottle indicates that it is happening in these times and, hopefully, will at least hint at the fact that I have set this is a bar. I wanted to show that my piece was mythical and classic, but real and modern at the same time. This idea of a siren, like so many other stories, is still relevant today and I felt like this was the story I had to tell.

I am thinking of following this story up, in the same speechless style, for my own satisfaction, simply to see how far I can take the story before it reaches a natural end.

TUTOR NOTES -

PROCESS – You achieve what you set out to achieve. The story – as monologue – does create some tension and there is a twist in the last line.

TECHNIQUE – Best sticking to conventional fonts – TNR, Ariel or similar. Double spacing required. Otherwise laid out correctly.

SHAPED + CRAFTED – Siren Song – I feel that this essentially sentimental poem – though making a relatively straight forward point in a lot of lines does work in that it draws the reader into a mythical world that is then upset in the prose piece by the protagonist wearing a g-string in a contemporary setting.

INDIVIDUALITY – Interestingly, you don't mention in your rationale that Siren is a Greek myth - and her cry is more of an eternal grieving. The message in a bottle does work on this level of course but I felt the writing needed an added layer of complexity in order to, say, balance the desires of the seductress and the seduced. The seductress is handled very well – but there's no real story unless we have some view of the other side – male?

OVERALL – A poem + prose 'scene' which meets your own objectives, and those of the assignment, establishes mythical archetype – with a twist at the end.

Overall mark-54

YEAR THREE

YEAR OF THE GRUDGE

Certain people got on my bad side. There they remain.

Synopsis

This extract will, I hope, eventually extend itself into a novella or novel. As you can see, it is told in two parts – then and now – though both are told by the same woman. This extract is relatively short and the point of the whole piece is only touched upon here.

There are two stories here which both connect in quite an obvious way. Jess's absentee father is suddenly back and her intense hostile feelings towards him unleashes a power within her that leads us into older Jess' world. There is an underlying message to this tale, which is to communicate your emotions, no matter how painful, but I believe every piece of writing has a message if you look for it.

Young Jess is nine years old and lives in a world where everything she knows is simple and carefree. But when her father returns to her life, things start getting complicated. She feels as though she cannot talk openly about how she feels and bottles her feelings up. As a child, she does not fully understand the importance of talking about her thoughts and why she feels the way she does, and remains fairly quiet about the things that really matter. Because she has kept everything inside, young Jess develop the ability to cry tears that burn and to call fire from the skies in times of severe emotional need. She does not understand how destructive she is becoming, and cannot understand why tears are not a sign of weakness.

I have not yet decided whether the child will decide for herself that she needs to get helped or whether somebody will make the decision for her. Whichever way comes naturally, Jess is next seen as an adult and in some kind of safe house. She is telling us how the outside world is wrong and how they have not learned from her mistakes. Older Jess is physically removed from reality, but she sees the problems with it being repeated over again. We are also hearing her tell young Jess' story as she remembers it. Young Jess is always referred to as a different person from older Jess, signalling that she believes they are different people.

Young Jess made mistakes that older Jess thinks she has been rightfully paying for, and having her act as the writer of this is her way of admitting to herself what she did and why she did it. Although I have not yet made a firm decision on exactly what will happen in the rest of this book, I have a rough idea of the plot and my characters, but I know that my characters will develop themselves and they will dictate where the story goes from here.

TEARS OF FIRE

PROLOGUE

The girl was angry.

Then the anger subsided a little and pain pushed its way in. How could he hurt her this way? Just be absent from her life for so many years, then suddenly turn up and act as if he had never be away. Didn't he understand that things didn't work like that, were never that easy. If something was ever going to mean something, ever going to be worthwhile, you had to work at it. Even at such a young age, the girl understood that. Maybe she was more grown up than a lot of people because she had her own view of the world.

Why did people just expect things to work themselves out when they hit a problem? That was an age-old problem, but she knew the answer. The old adage – ignorance is bliss. If they pretended that a problem didn't exist for long enough, then maybe, one day, it just wouldn't be there. That must have been his problem. He had convinced himself that he could just make up for all those lost years by just turning up one day, and she would welcome him into her arms. He had made himself believe that those years would be forgotten, suddenly, when he turned up on that doorstep. He didn't understand how there were still problems, and how it might take him forever to rectify all his mistakes.

The girl walked away from her spot in the meadow and went to sit by the gushing river. No problems there. On and on it went, forever flowing, calmly, peacefully, harmoniously. "I wish I were a river," she said, mournfully. "No problems. Unity." They didn't object to the fish and pebbles invading their space, or get hacked off when the river separated and rejoined.

She sat and watched the river rushing past her, feeling as though this were a metaphor for the life that was also speeding by her. She lazily picked a buttercup that was growing by her hand and twizzled it between her fingers. Thoughts of picking all the petals off raced through her mind. There would be more flowers like this one. She delicately picked off each petal and watched them settle on the ground by her knees, thoughtfully leaving one petal attached to the flower. Where would be the sense in stripping it of everything that made it so beautiful? She picked it up by the stalk and gently laid it on the cold surface of the river, flowing fast enough to carry it along, but slow enough so as not to tear it. The water was icy cold, fresh really, and carried a certain air of purity – not like people. The girl supposed that it was because it was so clear and see-through, not clouded and soiled like people. Gently, she let go of the buttercup with one petal, and watched it float down the river to make a new life for itself. Until it was out of sight. Maybe it eould be a beautiful thing again, one day. Maybe it would float on forever and ever, kept alive by the purity of the river. Maybe it would come to a stand-still under some bridge or other and get crushed underfoot by careless walkers.

Taking her hand out of the water and shaking it dry, she wondered how roles could be so easily reversed. Why did she seem to understand problems better than most? One day, she might know the answer to that, but not yet. Why didn't he realise that she had forged a full and active life without him? She didn't need him in her life, but he thought she did. She used to think that her life would never really be normal without him, until she had discovered that she didn't really care any more. She supposed that it must be quite a blow to the ego to find out that no-one needed, nor particularly wanted, you any more. She could imagine how he had felt when she had told him that he would never be part of her life, not quite sure whether it made her want to laugh or cry.

Her pain and anger temporarily melted away, and she was filled with an inescapable, over-awing sadness. She didn't cry though, just kept watching the river racing past. "How do you do it?" she whispered, forlornly, knowing that there would never be a reply. "Stay so calm?" Why did she have to have this happen now? It was impossible to just forget all those years she had cried in her sleep because he wasn't there. He just didn't see that the girl would never be able to forgive him for leaving her. He could never make up for not being around during those lonely years; he couldn't ever make that right.

Feeling the rage and hurt fill her up again, she gave way to all those angry thoughts and questions she had been avoiding. Why had he left her in the first place, left her alone? He must have known that she would eventually come to accept his absence, move on, learn to live without him. He couldn't just expect to worm his way into her life, act like he had been there all along, now that he had decided that he wanted to show himself. Surely he wasn't that naive? There just wasn't room for him. Gleefully, knowing that it was wrong, she wished that he would one day know how much pain she was feeling. Why should she try to deal with the fact that he was here when he hadn't wanted to deal with her? Why should she have to be the grown up here and try to accommodate him?

One hot, salty tear bubbled from the corner of one eye and began to slide down her cheek. It landed, with a loud plop, in the river and was carried, indiscriminately, down-river, creeping ever closer to the ocean. Shocked, the girl rose to her feet and squinted into the distance, against the bright spring sun.

********

Let me guess what you're thinking. Pretty little blonde girl, maybe in her early twenties. Lovesick because her man left her for another woman years ago, and has now suddenly turned up on her doorstep saying he wants her back. But the girl has moved on, maybe got herself a new boyfriend, built herself a new life which doesn't include him. Sounds a likely story, but it's not the real story, not the story I want to tell. Matter of fact, that would be a cinch to tell and resolve in comparison – that's the kind of thing you only get on television.

No, this story is so far from that. The story starts with a young girl – nine years old. That girl used to be me, and the man was my father. He was unknown to me until that one fateful day when he decided to wander into my life. That day I discovered that giving into your grief and weeping wasn't the weakness I'd always thought it was. If I harnessed it, then unleashed it all in one go, it could do great things. The girl realised this and thought of it as a brilliant secret. She was too young to control her emotions properly.

But, she was mature. Much more so than I am at my advanced age. I am an old woman now and you will notice that I will always refer to my younger self in the third person. This is because I feel so detached from that time that it could well have happened to another person – I've learnt to distance myself from her. She saw the world in ways typical of a child, but so much more objectively than any adult. I am probably more analytical of young Jess's thoughts and actions than she would have been, but I want you to understand her.

NOW

You will probably be wondering when the story is going to start properly. First, you must understand why I am writing this account. Possibly for your entertainment, I've got nothing against that – this story may intrigue you. For me, it is so that I can finally put the past behind me and die without unresolved issues holding me back. I also want you to know how badly you can really hurt people if you keep your emotions bottled up. I don't want anyone to ever make the same mistakes that that girl did. I don't want anyone to have to live in the world that I do.

It's hard to bring all the past back and relive such painful moments, but you only really know if something is worth it if it hurts. Because everything good takes time and work and, sometimes, tears. It used to make me cry to recall everything that she went through, but I can't cry anymore. It all happened to someone else, someone I watched many years ago. She is me but somehow not me. I'm different from that girl.

I have two tales to tell – hers and my own. Both are frighteningly real, too true to be made up. It's when you think that you're in total control of something that you realise that nothing could be farther from the truth; it has control of you. I understand that now; the girl didn't. She thought she could control her emotions but she was too young to really know what control was. Control can be relinquished so easily and dramatically that you might not even realise that it has changed until it's too late. I still don't know why this happened to her, maybe I'll never really know. But, the main thing is that it did happen. And now I am telling you this so it never happens again. You can read this as an elaborate novel with a well thought-out plot, or as it is meant, a true story. That's your choice; you are in control of how you read it. Maybe these are just the ramblings of a crazy woman, desperate for attention so she makes up the most incredible story imaginable. But maybe, just maybe, this is all real and I remember all these things.

You decide...

Sometimes, reality is scary, even through all the lies people tell to make it more bearable. There's no getting away from it. For a time, I thought I had completely cut myself off from reality, I was convinced of it. I made my own little world and lived there. But I hadn't gotten away from reality, I was deeper into it than I could have imagined, at the very core of it all. I was simply seeing everything in a new light, from a different perspective.

I don't know why some people are scared tp face up to the actuality of life. Your life isn't worth living unless you're prepared to try to make it work. Yes, it's scary, but you can't just hide from it.

The girl didn't run away from her problems when they showed. Don't forget, she was only nine at the time. She didn't try to ignore them, pretend they weren't there. Grown ups did that, adults tried to gloss over everything, invented stories to make things go away and smooth them over. She dealt with them head-on, wasn't frightened off by things that others would have shied away from. Some said she was fearless, others said headstrong, even old beyond her years. She was all of these things and neither of these things. She was a child.

THEN

She wasn't going to let him see her shed even one tear over him, not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he had hurt her.

"Jess!" yelled Micky Foster. "Coming to play Tag in the yard?"

She didn't turn her head to answer him. Micky was one of the boys who went to her school; they always played together at the weekend. She didn't feel like playing today, didn't feel like playing ever again. She looked up into the high branches of the tree she was sitting under. There was so much to think about now, so many problems that had decided that now was the time to attack, so many questions to ask that she needed to find out the answers to. Nothing was as simple as it had been a week ago.

"Jess! We need you to make the team," shouted Micky. "Hurry up."

This was part of her life now. There was no room for him in it, not even thinking about him. But, somehow, he had squeezed his way into her life, hadn't he? She got to her feet and pushed herself off the tree trunk. "Coming," she sighed and started over towards her friends.

Why couldn't he see that he wasn't a part of her life, that it wouldn't just change now that he had decided to turn up. She didn't need him, he would only complicate things. Who was to say that he had actually grown up enough to accept his responsibility, and not just thought that it might be fun to have a daughter for a while. Why did everything have to change now? He had never wanted to know her before – why did everything have to accommodate him now? The world didn't revolve around him; he wasn't the centre of attention, or Mr Wonderful. How could anyone be so self-centred as to expect to be welcomed into a perfect family with open arms after nearly ten years of ignorance?

A gang of children from Jess's class at school were gathered at the end of the yard, picking teams for their game. The yard was really no more than a large square of grass between the houses that people walked their dogs on, parked their cars on and crossed to get to the road. It had always been called the yard, and calling it something else would be blasphemy. She ran over to join them and hoped that she wasn't left with the dud team that always lost.

"But, I want to be on May's team," whined Micky's little brother, Jordan. She wasn't exactly sure how old he was, maybe about five, she didn't want to ask. He was like Micky's shadow self, following him everywhere, doing everything he did, demanding his own way all the time. "Let me go on May's side."

Micky rolled his eyes, "Go on then," he groaned.

Jess grinned at the blessed familiarity of the game. She was picked to be on the same team as May and Jordan with a few of her other friends as she often was and, this time, didn't even mind when little Jordan fixed his sticky little hand in hers. It felt good to be thought of as a grown up by somebody when everyone else put her down as Just A Kid. "Come on, Jord," she encouraged. "Let's see how many we can get out. We'll go after your brother first, okay."

Another member of their gang blew the whistle and the yard became a blur of children rushing around, trying to tag members of the opposite team. Between them, Jess and Jordan managed to tag Micky as well as two other girls, whose faces she didn't quite see. Some of them were still wearing their red and black school uniforms, the rest were dressed in brightly coloured outfits they had changed into after school. "Well done, Jordan," she panted, frantically trying to dodge the outstretched hands of her friends. "See if you can get the rest of them." A set of fingers tapped her hurriedly on the shoulder and she shook her hand free from Jordan, walking to the edge of the yard to watch the rest of the game. Of her team, only he and May were left in, they couldn't evade the other team for much longer.

It wouldn't be too long before her mother would call her in for tea. Jess wondered if he would be there, all smiles and laughter, acting like everything was just fine; she hoped not. Then she thought about what she would do if he was at the table; should she be perfectly civil to him, but cold? Should she be really nasty and insult him? Or, should she give him exactly what he deserved and completely ignore him? Either way, it would sting.

"Jess. Game's over," Micky told her, casting a shadow over the grass she was picking at. "What are you thinking about?"

She hadn't even noticed that the screams and whoops in the yard had quieted. It didn't seem to matter who had won the game, there were more important things to be worried about. In the middle of the yards, lines were forming for races. "Nothing important," she replied, truthfully. He wasn't important, was he? Life was important. She was important. Her friends were important. People who hadn't cared about her for nearly a decade were just insignificant details. She felt behind her for broken glass, then lay down, staring at the blue, cloudy sky. "Don't you think the sky is wonderful?"

"Huh?" Micky was puzzled, but lay on the grass opposite his friend, gazing up at the sky. If he stared hard enough, he could just about see the stars, ready to shine in the dark.

They were both silent for a minute as they looked for clouds that looked like something else. Micky saw one that he thought looked like a funny shaped balloon. "They all look like funny shaped balloons, though," Jess pointed out. Micky shrugged and kept looking. Jess saw a butterfly in one cloud. That had to be some sort of magic; seeing such a beautiful creature in something else that was natural and wonderful. "It's amazing, isn't it?"

"Why is it?"

"Because it's just so big – and you'll never find the end of it, no matter how far you go. And, it's always there. Sure, it changes a lot, like sometimes it'll be blue, or grey, or black – multi-coloured when there's a rainbow – but it doesn't matter 'cos it's always there." She smiled and bit her lower lip, unsure of what to say next. "It's just... amazing."

"Yeah, I guess it is."

It was another of Nature's own miracles. Like a huge blue blanket which kept everyone together. Nature was all around – animals, flowers, even in the air – and Jess was filled with awe about it; everything was part of Nature; how things were meant to be. She could smelll it in the air, just dog muck from over by the tree, but it was magnificent, natural. She wrinkled her nose, glad when the stink was whipped away by a sudden breeze. Lying on grass staring at the sky wasn;t really something you could get away with as an adult, but maybe they could learn a few things if they did. Like how they could change as many times as they wanted, as long as they were always there. "I think it's the most beautiful thing in the world," she sighed, happily.

"It makes me feel like I'm really tiny."

"It makes me feel big." She was the only one that mattered now. Again, they silently watched the clouds move through the sky, trying to see pictures in them.

"What are you two doing," The slight form of May Young blocked their view and Jess and Micky sat up.

"Looking at the sky. It's magical," Micky informed her as Jess looked up at the sky again.

"What you want to do that for?" she wanted to know, hands on hips.

"Answers," Jess told her, offering no further explanation. "Just answers." Answers that didn't exist, to questions that never went away.

NOW

You might now be asking how I can remember everything so well. How do you know that I'm not making all this up, and laughing at you when you believe it? You don't know, not for sure. But for the girl, it was so real that she couldn't erase any of it from her memory. It was all so vivid to her that she couldn't forget it if she tried.. Me? I've spent so long with those memories imprinted on my brain that I can recall every detail. I remember every single person that was hurt, everything that was damaged, that her story just seems to flow from my pen.

The world in which I live may seem like a horrible future to anyone reading this, but if the world carries on the way that it is, I'm afraid ot is an inevitable one. The area surrounding this building is countryside, but away from that it is a torched wasteland, certain populated areas crammed with stark, metal buildings, roads jammed with cars. Inhospitable is the word I'm looking for. People hardly talk to each other, conversation is almost an unknown word, a forbidden concept.

In here, though, in my sanctuary, I can dream about how things might have been. I don't know if things might have been different if we had shared our pain, or if things are so cruel because people shared their pain. This may have all been part of the Big Plan – I'm not sure. I always knew that Nature would get even with us for all the times we abused it, for all the times we took it for granted.

This is reality – harsh, cruel, daunting. But we only have ourselves to blame for that – it's what we make it; nothing else. We can't blame anything else for the fact that people are afraid to speak freely, nor reject responsibility for the barren environment. But this girl of my story didn't know what she was doing. She believed that she could find solace in Nature, even though her problems weren't borne of Nature. The world has changed so much I'm not sure I really recognise it when I look out of the window. Though of course, I do. These worldly problems are man-made, though I like to think Nature has played a part in the suffering. Maybe that makes me a bad person to think like that, words of evil. Is it wrong to feel a tiny bit satisfied at the planet taking out some of its pain on its inhabitants the way that they took their pain out on it?

The girl didn't know what she was doing, couldn't understand how something so special could be so wrong. Youth was both a blessing and a curse for her. But, her age wouldn't excuse her from what she did. I'm truly sorry for what she did all those years ago, but I can't change that. I can tell you about it in the hope that you take heed of it and prevent yourself from following in her footsteps; I'll never be able to make what she did right, though. I can try to explain why she did what she did, how she never meant for anyone to get hurt. I can hope that you pay attention to this and do not find yourself stuck in the world that I am.

I wasted so many years trying to understand, thought I could justify what happened if I could put some kind of reasoning behind it. I desperately wanted to sympathise with the girl, and tell her that what she had done wasn't wrong. I couldn't do that. I couldn't lie about it. Even writing this, I can't make up lies and tell you that she had an excuse for what she did – she had a reason; but no excuse. There's a difference between them – one that most people don't see – a reason tells you why something happened, an excuse makes it all right. I don't have an excuse for spending most of my life trying to figure her out; I have a reason, though. I needed to understand why she did what she did, why she let it end the way she did.

THEN

Jess sat at the dinner table as her mother cleared the plates away, making a point of ignoring the man sitting on her right. She drained her glass of milk and put her glass down. Her mother returned to the table and put the glass in the metal sink.

"Good girl," she smiled and looked over at the man. Something was being said in that look, Jess wasn't sure what it was, probably something along the lines of "See what an obedient little girl I've raised." That would tell him. "Wipe your mouth, sweetie. You're full of crumbs."

Wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her thin t-shirt, she slid off her chair and trotted into the front room to watch TV without a word to either of them. Why should she have to speak to them? There was nothing good on any channel, most of the children's channels had shut down for the night, so she sat down and watched a cartoon station. She heard the furniture creak behind her, but didn't turn around, defiantly jabbing the buttons of the remote control, watching a few seconds of one cartoon before turning to another channel, then maybe a music station. The bright blocks of colour and flashing lights held her attention for a while, after which she was just doing it to annoy the people behind her.

"Jess," began her mother, not having the energy to get angry at her daughter. "Please stop doing that. Find something to watch and leave it on."

"But, I'm watching all of these things," she said. If she stopped flicking between them, she'd lose track of what was happening. She carried on stabbing a stiff, angry finger at the buttons before her mother worked up the energy to speak again.

"Jessica!" she scolded. Jess knew she was in trouble now – she was hardly ever called by her full name. "Pack that in right now. We have a guest... and I'm sure he doesn't want to watch this."

"A guest?" Jess raised her eyebrows and looked mildly interested. She turned and looked around, making sure she didn't even acknowledge his presence, his existence. "Where?" Her plan to ignore him for the entire evening had been working like a charm so far, and if there was one thing she was good at it was ignoring people.

"No, leave her, Karen. It's okay." He tried tp smile. "Really."

Jess stared at her mother accusingly. She didn't know what she was accusing her of, or why, but it beat looking at the other person in the room.

"Jessica!" her mother repeated, irritated at her daughter.

Jess carried on flicking, getting faster and faster until the screen was no more than a flashing display, guiltily hoping that the man was epileptic. He had ruined her life; why shouldn't she disrupt his a bit?

"No, honestly, Karen. It's fine."

Suddenly, it wasn't so much fun – and she wasn't going to upset her mother. Sulkily, she turned the TV off and dropped the remote control onto the small, round coffee table. "I'm done." She stomped up the stairs and shut her bedroom door behind her with a loud bang.

The room was painted light blue and green, with an apple-green carpet. The only pictures on the walls were photographs of her, her family and her friends. She lay down on the floor and took a box of crayons and some paper from her desk. As an after-thought, she got up and opened her stereo cabinet, turned the radio on and turned it up loud enough that she couldn't hear herself think. She could feel vibrations through the floor from the music, and was confidant that they could hear it in the room below. Good. She wanted them to know how angry she was – or, maybe she just didn't want them to forget there was a hurt little girl up here. Not that there was anything either of them could do about it. They couldn't just erase the past few days.

She had turned the volume up to Not Quite Deafening, but it didn't bother her. She went back to her drawing and sang along with the song on the radio. If it would stop her from thinking...

There was a sharp, business-like rap on the door. "Jessie! Can we talk?"

She glanced up from her drawing, and stood up. Her arm extended, but instead of opening the door she reached over and turned her stereo up even further. But, the voice outside called even louder. She couldn't bear to turn the radio up any more in case her ears exploded, so she just went back to her drawing and tried to ignore the voice.

"Jessie, please," the voice begged. "It... it's Daddy. Let me in."

She shrugged, even though there was no-one to see it, and looked up expectantly. Sure enough, the door handle rattled as it turned and the hinges began to creak. Grown-ups didn't think that children needed privacy, never had any respect for it – there wasn't much point in telling adults to keep out. She looked back down at her drawing and ignored the man sitting on the edge of her bed.

"I think we need to talk," he said, over the top of the thumping music.

That was funny. Jess thought he needed to talk and she needed to listen. That was okay because she wasn't talking to him. She kicked her legs behind her as she idly picked at the carpet with her free hand.

The man looked at her, waiting for some kind of response that didn't come. "You need to listen to what I have to say. Will you listen to me?"

Jess didn't turn the music down, glad that it was annoying him so much. She wasn't in the mood to talk or listen or in any way communicate, especially not with him.

He looked around the room at her furniture and things. "Nice room you've got here. Interesting choice." The room was covered with bright cushions and stuffed animals. "Very..." he searched frantically for a word that wouldn't cause offence "... colourful." He stood up and turned the stereo down to a much more acceptable level and sat back down. Jess stared at him, daggers in her eyes – oh, if only looks could kill..

"Now, maybe we can talk properly." He looked down at her, wondering if she was ever going to look back at him. "I really want us to be friends, Jessie. Even if we can't be like family, can't we just get along? If you want to keep on ignoring me, then that's fine. But I don't want us to be estranged. Do you know what estranged means? I don't think either of us want to carry on not knowing each other."

Speak for yourself, thought Jess, but said nothing. She had got this far without him, what made him think she needed him now.

"I don't blame you for being upset but can't you even bring yourself to treat me like a human being?"

Now he was trying to make out that she was the one in the wrong, like she was the one that had run away. He just got more and more unbelievable. She wasn't the one who had walked out on them before her birth, she hadn't shirked her responsibilities.

"Jessie?"

"Don't call me that," she said at length, no warmth in her voice. "You can call me Jessica." Only people she liked were allowed to call her Jess. Only people she liked were allowed into her life. "And you can get out." She stared at him, cold and unwavering, until he finally became unnerved by her and got to his feet. Jessica followed him to the door, not giving him the opportunity to turn around and sit back down.

He stopped just before he reached the door and scanned the jumble of photographs pinned to the large corkboard. The man noticed, with a pain in his stomach, that there were no pictures of him – even old photos of her mother during pregnancy had been torn so that he wasn't in them. Sadly, he opened the door and started off towards the stairs. Jess swung the door shut and flopped down on her bed. He was nothing to her, she couldn't bring herself to even call him her father.

He turned around at the sound of the closing door and ran his hand through his floppy brownish hair, confused.

Jess gazed up at the white ceiling. People started out so pure and innocent, clean souls; how could they possibly end up so screwed up? The music rattled out of the speakers, and she felt calmer, safer, in the midst of her bedroom clutter. She stared down at the drawing she had just finished – a robot.

NOW

That was her haven, the place where she could go to find peace, maybe to think about things. Everybody has a place like that; a bedroom, a garden, even the park. Sometimes the most peaceful place to be is the busiest one there is. The place I like to go is busy at times, but I don't even notice it. My retreat is called the White Room – it's a refuge for people trying to escape something.

They can be trying to escape anything, anybody – often the past, and people from the past. But you can't run away from the past, you can't bury it because it always comes back to get you. The White Room isn't always busy with people, though it is sometimes, it's busy with memories. People are always thinking here, that's what makes it busy, noisy.

This safe place isn't called the White Room because everything is white, we're allowed to decorate it how we want – there's a different theme in each corner of the room at the moment; gothic, Victorian, eco-friendly, hi-tech. No, it's called that because this is where certain people come to just... be, without any repercussions. And, like me, they come here to deal with their pasts and wipe the slate clean, start again with a clean sheet. It will become clear why I am here, why any of us are here. Sometimes I think it should have been my father in here instead of me.

All around me today is conversation. Except, it isn't really conversation, just people talking. It doesn't make that much sense to me because it seems meaningless. "Still writing?" I was asked. "Does your hand hurt? I bet you're all cramped up. Does it hurt?" asked Tom, a young man in his thirties.

Do you see what I mean about it appearing meaningless. "Yes, it hurts." I told him. "It's no good unless it hurts." I flexed my fingers and showed him my stiff hand. If you think about it, he could have been asking if it hurt to bring it all back; I really believe that he can think like that, carry double meanings. Tom may have just been asking if my hand was aching after writing for so long, I suppose I'll never know for sure. He took my hand and began massaging my palm with his fingers – he's very good at that – and my muscles immediately began to loosen up.

"Does it feel better now?"

I didn't know if he meant my stiff hand or my still foggy mind, but both were beginning to feel better. "Yes." He wandered off on another trip to nowhere in particular, leaving me, once more to my writing.

I know I can't hide from it, I can't pretend that this didn't happen.

It would be wrong to try to wipe it from my mind. I can't deny that I sometimes wonder what life might have been like if I had chosen a different path, if I had stopped the girl from doing what she did. Things might be exactly the same as they are now, or they might be completely the opposite. I know I shouldn't be thinking about what might have been, what could still be for people reading this, but I can't stop wondering. The eternal question: What if..?

So, I'm sitting at a table writing my stories... alone. Alone and in the middle of all this activity. Sometimes, that's the loneliest place to be – you feel the isolation hit you even harder. There is the old television set rattling away by the window, showing The Wizard Of Oz, if only it was that easy to go home, and I can just about hear it as I am writing. We're all lonely in here. We have each other to talk to, but we're alone. We don't communicate with each other; we don't know how to interact.

Everyone in this place has got their own problems, has a difficult past to deal with, have done awful things, but I don't think I'll ever really identify with them. They treat everything as it happened to them. My past happened to someone else. Maybe that makes me sound crazy, deluded; maybe it makes sense that I'm paying for things someone else did. Could be that I am just kidding myself that none of this happened to me, that I'm still in deep denial. Alternatively, this could just be my way of dealing with it.

I never wanted to hide from the world but, because of what Jess did, the world needs to be hidden from me. They said it was to protect everyone else but they don't listen when I tell them that everyone has the potential to do exactly the same thing that we did.

Writer's notes

Welcome to writer's notes version 94! I spent ages and ages just writing about a hundred different things and none of them are really working for me. All the stuff people have read, all that's on the back burner for now.

I realised that nothing I was working on is going to suddenly transform itself into something I'm even remotely happy with before the deadline so its all been put to sleep for now.

One day, I'll probably go back to it and do some work on that stuff but I don't write if I have to force myself to do it. That's a sign that it isn't working for me, and I'm not writing a piece that I don't care about.

So, what I decided to do was to add to and rewrite a story I had begun a few years ago. I know that probably wasn't the best idea I've had but it was easy to write, and I know what I meant to do with it.

I had this idea that I was going to write a fantasy story, which is what I normally do anyway, but also that I wanted to write two stories. I remember I had read some books written from one person in two times way back in college, and I thought it was a really interesting style of telling a story.

I started out with two images that made me curious. The first was a young girl wearing a thin summer dress and standing on the top of a grassy hill. The sky is dark and storm-laden and it raining but I could see she was crying. She was watching the city below her burn away.

The second image was this woman in sort of hospital whites, writing at a table and half looking put pf a window.

Then I let my mind go and I sort of came up with this other combination picture. This was the one where the woman was watching the little girl through the glass as she watched the city burn.

Then it clicked that these two characters were actually the same person. I had the name of her and the basic story outline and what the point of it would be, but I tend to kinda let things write themselves.

The way it works for me is a have some ideas for characters or places or even storylines just so as I know where im trying to get in the end. Then everything tends to just appear on the page before I even realise ive written it. Now, I don't know if that's universally the best way to write but it has served me well in the past. A lot of people say that before you write, you should know your characters inside out and I agree that probably is a good way to write. For some. But not for me. If you know just the basics of your character (name, age and so forth) then I find it a more natural process.

I'm having a real problem with my tenses and the POV shift between then and now, but those sort of things have always been a problem. Its not a major downfall but its just these niggly little things that piss me off. Now, because ive finished uni for the year, I'm gonna get my brother to read it thru to see where I can pick up my mistakes.

I've written way more than 5000 words so im just gone take the first 6500 and work on them. There are some bits I want to write again and I can see I need to do some editing. I try not to write the things that I don't need and certainly not this early on but sometimes I can't help it. So I've taught myself to be brutal with the edit. I mean, that's what its for right – to get rid of all the crap?

I've got some things in there by young Jess, things that a 9 year old might think but definitely wouldn't say. I know 9 year olds and I know how they speak and act, but I guess I can excuse it as older Jess is a little more analytical in retrospect, and that she doesn't remember the esact words. Except that doesn't really wash with me either so I'll see if I can do anything with it.

Read a couple of books recently, like how to write manuals, they were, for wont of a better word, shite. Already read Steven King's On Writing as I totally respect him and everything he writes, but not Buick 8, so that was quite good. But if you need someone to teach you how to write, it's pretty much a lost battle. I read what I want to read and that tells me everything I need to know.

God, why do we have to do these stupid bloody writers notes to pass. I can't work like this and the things don't even help! I use my journal to ramble and sort my head out – this just pisses me off and deducts from valuable writing and gaming time.

Right, it's 30 degrees and I can't think straight. Vodka time!

Funny how my head seems clearer after... a drink. Still can't be arsed with anything but I've gotta finish it. Writing's supposed to be all about discipline and making sure you reach the targets you set for yourself. Okay, I agree with that, writing does require a degree of self-discipline – but you should never ever force yourself to write. If youhave to sit down and literally make yourself write something, then it's not for you. me, I write if I want to write and what I want to write.

I worked on this, and all the pieces leading up to it, in a number of different ways. Drafting and redrafting; writing and rewriting particular part, working on every sentence until it was perfect. All that stuff, I tried the lot. I think for this I just wrote it 'cos like I said, I had the bones of it, and then I just edited and rewrote the parts that didn't fit.

Baz said that my old Jess seems to be talking more about reflecting on young Jess. I mean, that's kinda the point, but he still thinks she should have a story. Gotta say though, really not sure about that. I don't think she needs more of a story than what I'm giving her in the rest of the story.

He picked me up on the fact that the then bits are often at least twice the ;ength of the now parts, said it was wrong to give more space to that story but it is the main bit. And it kinda is fair because it's that story that old Jess os telling.

We both read these Phil Rickman books where the main story is overshadowed by a side story and is often treated as a sideline until we are well into the book, and I adore that. But I can't write like that but it's something to aspire to, and it's good to have ambition!

So, I think he was anticipating something written like that... but I'm not that subtle.

He can't see any other problems apart from where I've messed my tenses up. I'm usually my worst critic and I can safely say that this isn't even in the same league as what I'm capable of. But it's too hot to think of something new and original. Well, as always, I've got 3 dozen ideas bouncing round my head so I'm not stuck there. It's just a question of tearing myself away from reality long enoughto write them.

Vodka time.

TUTOR NOTES-

ASSIGNMENT ONE – Creative piece

MASTERY OF CONVENTIONS AND TECHNIQUES – Page numbers required. Opening paragraphs should not be indented. Otherwise conventions used well.

ACHIEVEMENT OF A SHAPED AND CRAFTED PIECE OF WRITING – the first three pages seem overdone. You establish the hook, the romantic nature of the narrator well but the slow pace risks losing the reader. Pages 3 – 6 are basically a justification of the narrative to follow– an explanation of the narrators. You do though manage to hold some tension here. Pages 7 – 10 – mood established – and an innocence that many readers will relate to: schoolyard scenes, grass, sky and emotional distractions at home. The writing is consistent with this and the mood builds up gradually – as does the reader's expectation. Some good humour when Jess discusses her power to annoy with the remote control.

EVIDENCE OF INDIVIDUALITY, INVENTION AND EMPATHY – This novel extract surprised me. From the opening few pages I was expecting more sentimentality – and to some extent the story is sentimentally told – whether it is too sentimental will depend on the genre which you haven't defined but there is something else at work – a simply told dark story of childhood. I'm so glad you didn't resolve too much at the end of the extract. The mysteries are what drive this piece forward. If you resolve one mystery then you have to create another . In my opinion, sentiment works best when it sets up an expectation in the reader - and then shatters that expectation with some revelation of humanity that they didn't see coming. This is the strength of your piece. I think we do, therefore, empathise with Jess.

SYNOPSIS – you've focussed on narration – as you do in the piece – and shy away from developing both story and plot. A synopsis would typically sketch characters and the situation. Your job in writing the synopsis is to attract readership.

ASSIGNMENT TWO – writers notes –

DEMONSTRATION OF WRITING AS PROCESS – this does give some insight into your process – and some anger it seems with the business of reflection – which is interesting. No-one is going to argue with the motive of writing for yourself. However, in the business of writing to a genre and within certain academic guidelines, I would argue that some process of reflection is essential. All of the successful fiction writers I have come across are capable of this sort of reflection. My guess is that it will improve your writing if you reflect more on what works and what doesn't and develop a generally more critical approach to your work – and the work of others. You notably say nothing about the process of receiving and giving feedback. Your editing does, however, demonstrate analytical ability.

OVERALL MARK-56

Synopsis

It is Halloween 2005. A man is trick or treating along a street with his son when he is shot. Six bullets are fired, but only five find a home in his body. Surprisingly, the man does not die from his gunshot injuries but lies critically ill in hospital.

Bethany is a teenager with a slightly unusual career choice. Whilst holding down a busy and successful life at college, she is trying to lead a second life – her 'real' life. She has a best friend, who quickly finds out her secret, and a mentor, a father figure named Richie. After years of training from Richie, Bethany opts to space on a party with best friend Jo in favour of 'work.' It so happens that the work she has decided to do is to shoot a man.

The man survives being shot but Bethany knows that she will be caught and found guilty of his attempted murder. Determined not to let this happen, she sets out to finish the job she was hired to do – to the cost of all who bar her way – and then run away with the payment from the murder.

She knows what she has done, and what she plans to do, is wrong. Neither Jo nor Richie are told her plans in case they try to stop her. Killing is what she does. There is nothing wrong with doing a job, and she can make this all right as long as no-one knows. But all does not go to plan when the police are chasing her.

SWEET SIXTEEN

1.INT - MORNING – COLLEGE COMMON ROOM.

GENERAL HUSTLE AND BUSTLE OF STUDENTS. BETHANY SLAMS LOCKERS SHUT AND LOCKS IT.

Bethany:God, I hate Mondays!

Jo:Bethany... start of the week? Hello? Never popular.

Bethany:And infinitely worse when you're looking forward to double Bio.

Jo:(She giggles) You know you like it here. Anyway, you could always skive off with me. I'll get my mark, then I'm buggering off.

Bethany:Jo! You're gonna get caught one day.

Jo:I'll jump off that bridge when I come to it. Hey, can I copy your Psych homework? I kinda didn't get round to mine.

RUSTLE OF PAPERS AS BETHANY SORTS OUT HOMEWORK.

Bethany:I'm not doing this for you again.

Jo:Thanks Beth. You're a lifesaver. I'm gonna get kicked out if I miss another essay.

Bethany:Maybe bunking off isn't such a good idea then. How about – I don't know – studying?

Jo:College is not for studying, you know. Partying yes, studying no.

Bethany:It's a good job one of us is dedicated. Come on, we should get –

BELL RINGS THREE TIMES AND THERE IS A STAMPEDE TOWARDS THE DOOR.

Jo:Have you got your Halloween outfit ready for the party? I've got an ace costume – Queen of the Dead.

Bethany:I'm not going. I have other stuff to do tonight.

Jo:Ooh. Doing anything exciting?

Bethany:I'm working. We need to-

JO SIGHS AND THEY OPEN AND CLOSE THE DOOR.

Jo:You know, I don't get you. You're all about the work all the time. You're a straight A student – a rarity, granted. But, damn, you're sixteen years old – you should really get a life outside this place.

2.EXT - STREET – EVENING.

IT IS RAINING LIGHTLY. CHILDREN ARE TRICK OR TREATING ALONG THE STREET, BUT IN THE MIDDLE DISTANCE.

Child:Dad! Dad! Come on, we still got loads of houses.

Father:(Laughs) Okay, okay. Just a bit longer though.

Child:Hurry up then! Come on!

Father:I don't want to be out here after dark. Besides, it's nearly your bedtime.

Child:But it's only-

SUDDENLY, 6 GUNSHOTS RING OUT AND

Father:What was-

ALL FALLS SILENT FOR THREE SECONDS OF SHOCK AND DISBELIEF. THEN THE KIDS START SCREAMING AND CRYING. FATHER CRUMPLES TO THE FLOOR.

Adult:Some-one call 999, quick! Oh, sweet Jesus, no. Dear God, no.

Child:Dad!

SIRENS BEING TO WAIL IN THE DISTANCE BUT GET LOUDER AS THEY GET CLOSER. FOOTSTEPS THUD ON GROUND AS SOME-ONE RUNS AWAY.

3.INT - WAREHOUSE – NIGHT.

IT IS QUITE BIG AND SLIGHTLY ECHOEY.

RICHIE IS BANDAGING HIS OWN WOUNDS. HE RIPS TAPE FROM ROLL AND TEARS IT WITH HIS TEETH.

Richie:Shit. That hurt.

BETHANY APPROACHES – THE QUIET PADDING OF TRAINERS ON A CONCRETE FLOOR.

Richie:Job done?

Bethany:Job done. Are you sure that's a good idea?

Richie:No-one else was around to patch me up, and I didn't feel like bleeding to death. Have a go for me?

BETHANY STARTS TO RIP TAPE FROM HIS SKIN AND STRAIGHTENING IT.

Bethany:Good job I took first aid. Richie, what happened? These cuts are really deep. I'll need some antiseptic to clean it out.

Richie:Beth, you know better than to ask questions.

Bethany:There, all done.

Richie:Give me the gun.

BETHANY HANDS IT OVER. RICHIE OPENS THE BULLET CHAMBERS AND SHAKES IT.

Richie:Where are all the bullets? There was a full barrel in here earlier. Where are they?

Bethany:Probably in the guy I shot. (She giggles) You should've seen it! Running around like headless chickens, they were.

Richie:You only had one mark to hit. It took one fuckin' bullet... but you used six?

Bethany:(She sits down) Uh... yeah? Sorry.

Richie:The more bullets you leave behind, the easier it is for the police to trace you. You know this, girl. You were young enough when you were taught.

Bethany:I just wanted to make sure the bastard was dead. That's all.

4.INT - COLLEGE – COMMON ROOM.

BETHANY AND JO ARE WRITING IN BOOKS. ROCK MUSIC IS PLAYING IN THE BACKGROUND.

Jo:The party was well wicked last night. You should have come with.

Bethany:I had my own fun.

Jo:I meant to say – did you here about what happened last night? Some poor blo- hang on, it's on the news.

JO TURNS THE VOLUME UP ON THE RADIO. THE NEWS BEEPS SOUND AND –

Radio voice:A middle-aged man today lies critically ill after being shot five times. Paramedics were on their way to another incident in the Norton Chase area when they were flagged down to attend to the victim. After a lengthy operation to remove the bullets, he is now in intensive care and said to be critical but stable. The shooting is thought to have been a Halloween stunt gone horribly wrong.

Bethany:Five shots? What about the sixth?

Jo:What are you babbling about? Are you okay, Bethany? You've gone white as a sheet.

Bethany.Yeah, fine. It'd just make sense for who-ever to use the full barrel, and that's six...

DOOR OPENS AND A TEACHER WALKS IN. MR ADAY PADS AROUND THE COMMON ROOM.

Bethany:Mr Aday's coming. Look busy.

Jo:This is the one place in college where we don't have to work. You really think I'd sacrifice that? Hey, Sir.

Mr Aday:Morning girls. I take it you've both heard about the shooting last night. Neither of you were near Crescent Street, were you?

Jo:I was at Craig's party. He lives on-

Mr Aday:Well, I'm just glad that neither of you were involved.

Bethany:I... I need to go.

BETHANY SLAMS HER FOLDER SHUT AND RACES FOR THE DOOR.

5.INT – RICHIE'S WAREHOUSE.

BETHANY IS STILL RUNNING WHEN SHE ENTERS, THEN STOPS, OUT OF BREATH.

Bethany:One of them missed!

Richie:Not my problem.

Bethany:(She starts pacing) The... the man. He was taken to hospital and they only took five bullets out. That means one of them is out there still, just waiting for the police to find it. And when they do, they're gonna trace it back to me. And then I'll be up on an attempted murder charge. Oh, God!

Richie:This is why most of us only use one shot.

Bethany:Shut the hell up. I'm trying to think.

SHE SITS DOWN.

Bethany:Richie, you were supposed to take care of me.

Richie:Kid, you're trying to be a contract killer, a hired assassin. It'll always be dangerous. I can't take the blame.

Bethany:Oh, Jesus. (Gets up again) I was born for this, you know. You taught me to fire a gun, you taught me to shoot to kill. I blew a puppy's brains out when I was eight.

RICHIE SLIDES A CAN OVER THE METAL TABLE. IT HISSES AS BETHANY OPENS IT AND TAKES A DRINK. SHE IS STILL PACING BUT HER STEPS HAVE SLOWED.

Richie:Afraid puppies ain't people, Beth. If they were that easy to kill, they wouldn't hire us, would they?

Bethany:I guess not.

Richie:Guessed right then. Listen, you said you were born for this. You wouldn't be doing anything else?

Bethany:What else would I do?

Richie:You're smart enough to do anything, but anyway...

Bethany:I'm sixteen, got everything going for me, I know. I told you, I was meant to do this. This is what my whole life has been about.

Richie:I should never have taught you to shoot. You're just a kid.

Bethany:I'm not a kid!

Richie:No? You think you're gonna say that when you're up in court facing jail? You'll be whimpering at the judge that you're only a kid – too young to go to prison.

Bethany:No, I won't. Stop saying I will.

Richie:But-

Bethany:I shot some-one... a man... and I should pay for it. They'll catch me up and they'll make me pay. Throw away the key.

Richie:Hitting home now, is it?

Bethany:I knew what I was doing.

BETHANY SCREWS UP HER CAN, THROWS IT, AND IT CLATTERS INTO THE BIN.

Bethany:He might not be dead but I knew what I was doing. I knew the risks.

I know what I have to do.

6.EXT – STREET – AFTERNOON.

BETHANY AND JO ARE WALKING ALONG AFTER COLLEGE.

Jo:So, what was all that about today – running out of college in the middle of the day? Mr Aday was going spare.

Bethany:First class I've missed since... ever.

Jo:Why the disappearing act though? Was it that guy on the news? You went all funny when you heard that.

Bethany:I went for a walk, just needed some space. It's like, you hear about these things but – bus is coming. Run.

7.INT – BUS – AFTERNOON.

THEY RACE TOWARDS THE BUS STOP AND JUMP ON AS ITS' BRAKES SQUEAL. THEY FUMBLE AROUND FOR THEIR BUS PASSES AND THEN RUN TO THE BACK SEAT.

Jo:Thank God the kids don't use this bus, or we'd never get this seat.

Bethany:Oh yeah, 'cos the backseat is of such vital importance.

Jo: Maybe I'll stay home tonight. Do some studying and try to not get chucked out.

Bethany:Now? After so many weeks hard work at doing bugger all?

Jo:(Nestles into her seat) Think it's probably about time. Anyway, you were saying about pulling your Houdini.

Bethany:Was I? Doesn't matter though, I just needed to think – bit close to home is all.

Jo:Yeah, know what you mean. It could've been one of us if we hadn't – hey, what's he looking at?

Bethany:Our stunning beauty?

Jo:Oi! You got some kinda problem here, guy?

Adult:No, not at all. I just wanted to say...

Jo:Say what?

Adult:I found this folder by the doors, I think it might belong to one of you girls.

BETHANY TAKES THE FOLDER FROM THE MAN AND FLICKS THROUGH IT.

Bethany:Thanks a lot.

SOME OF THE LOOSE PAGES FALL OUT ONTO THE FLOOR AND THE THREE OF THEM SCRABBLE AROUND, TRYING TO COLLECT THEM.

Jo:What's this folder for? I don't remember you taking this to any lessons.

Bethany:It's for work. Don't look at it though. It's so boring, it'll short circuit your brain. Though in your case... maybe not such a bad thing.

Jo:(Gives her a playful shove) Hey!

Adult:There, I think that's the last of them. You look familiar.

Bethany:We get this bus most days.

Adult:Maybe I'll see you tomorrow then.

BRAKES SQUEAL AND HE WALKS DOWN TO THE FRONT OF THE BUS. DOORS HISS OPEN AND CLOSED AND PULLS AWAY AGAIN.

Jo:Reckon you're in there, girl.

Bethany:Eww! That's... eww! You're so full of shit.

Jo:Oh, as if he would've said no. As if you would.

Bethany:Yes, I totally would have. I've got standards. Low standards, I grant you, but still... So... they still think that shooting was a Halloween thing? Just a joke?

Jo:That's the official word but everyone's theorising. Turf war, random attack, grudge match, hate-

Bethany:Grudge? Who'd have a grudge against him? I mean, he's just some random guy off the street.

Jo:Yeah, and..? Doesn't take a lot to send people to those extremes.

Bethany:You wouldn't think so, would you? But what if he'd done something unforgivable to them, abandoned some-one or hurt them really badly?

Jo:The world gets mean sometimes. It doesn't give anyone the right to kill.

Bethany:Kill?

THE BUS SQUEALS TO A HALT AND THE DOORS HISS TO LET PEOPLE ON. DOORS CLOSE AND BUS STARTS UP AGAIN. THE PAIR SPEAK A LITTLE LOUDER TO BE HEARD OVER THE NOISE.

Bethany:They said he was still alive.

Jo:Some-one tried to kill him. I don't think this was some-one taking pop shots.

Bethany:No, they meant it alright.

8.INT – BETHANY'S BEDROOM – EVENING.

SHE IS TYPING AT A COMPUTER AND LISTENING TO ROCK MUSIC AS SHE WORKS. JO IS SITTING ON HER BED AND FLIPPING THROUGH A MAGAZINE.

Bethany:I guess the plan to work at home didn't work out, huh?

Jo:I started my essay for English Lit. My brain hurts now.

Bethany:How can you just start things and leave them like that? I hate leaving things unfinished.

Jo:I'm not you. Don't have your focus. And thank God for that.

Bethany:We've just got different things to think about. You just concentrate on not getting chucked out; I'll worry about not getting locked up.

JO CLOSES HER MAG AND SITS UP. THE MAG FALLS TO THE FLOOR.

Jo:What the fuck?!

BETHANY IS FURIOUSLY CLICKING AWAY, TRYING TO CHANGE THE SCREEN. SHE ENDS UP TURNING THE MONITOR OFF.

Bethany:It's nothing important. Really. It's just a silly little thing.

Jo:You can't just tell me you're a juvenile delinquent and leave me hanging. We're best mates. You have to tell me – it's the rules.

SHE TURNS MONITOR BACK ON AND JO STEPS CLOSER TO SCREEN.

Jo:Woah! Where did you get this?

9.EXT – MIDNIGHT – GARDEN.

RICHIE AND BETHANY ARE SITTING ON SOME STEPS OUTSIDE A HOUSE.

Bethany:Look at all the stars, Richie. Makes you feel small, really.

Richie:You didn't ask me to meet you to discuss the night sky; and it's too cold to sit spouting philosophy crap at me. So what've you screwed up this time?

Bethany:In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't really matter if I pulled the trigger.

Richie:Are you going to tell me what you've done, or are we playing 20 questions?

Bethany:I always wanted to live in a big house like this. Don't suppose I ever will now... unless my prison has its own property market.

Richie:You're turning us both in tomorrow morning?

Bethany:I wanted it all – a dog, a car, the two point four kids – though it's down to one point six now – the works.

Richie:You're clinically insane, and you didn't shoot him. It was your evil twin, Ethel.

A DOG BARKS IN THE DISTANCE.

Bethany:Dogs don't like me. I don't really care for them either.

Richie:How about, you're starting feel guilty about it?

Bethany:What do I have to feel guilty about? Not getting a good nights sleep before my hockey match aside, I'm pretty guilt-free. By the way, are you coming to watch? Nah, I might not go either – I've got things to do.

Richie:Kid, you nearly killed a man. You don't feel anything?

Bethany:No, of course not. It's not in the job description to feel things.

Richie:It's not in the job brief to get me up at midnight... but that doesn't seem to be bothering you.

Bethany:Never really been brilliant with rules.

Richie:Enough with the small talk Bethany. It's too cold for messing around. What're we doing here?

Bethany:In this spot? Emotional ties, I guess. You mean together?

Richie:No, I mean – emotional – what?

Bethany:Long story. I realised something earlier.

Richie:I got time.

Bethany:I'm not going down for attempted murder.

Richie:Tell me the story in the warm. Get back to your house.

Bethany:If I'm going down for the rest of my natural -

Richie:It's too cold out here.

Bethany:I'm gonna make it worth it.

Writers notes

10 mins of a radio play. Sounds easier than it will be. I mean, to say it, 10 mins is nothing; finished, it's nothing; writing it takes a while.

Told to plot it today – nothing doing. Got as far as finding out what my story will be, finding rough characters, the usual, then I started writing. I knew vaguely what was happening when and where and stuff but I just can't keep to any real plan as I change my mind as often as my socks. Could be absolutely fantastic, could be less than good. We'll soon see...

Got this idea from Boomtown Rats song 'I don't like Mondays.' Didn't know the story well so I researched it. Set my mind awandering – as most things tend to do.

Initial idea was to borrow heavily from it but my hands didn't want to write that story. Right now, I'm using a few subtle points from it but they may go eventually too.

Wrote about 4 or 5 scenes straight off, then put it away, deleted some of it and rewrote the rest. Think I may be pacing this a bit too fast – I think I'm gonna have a problem there. I am trying to cram a lot into my extract that I need to leave behind. I'm emotionally attached to a half-baked play – I find this disturbing.

I'll do up to a scene a day, I think. That way, I'm not racing myself, I can do other stuff and I won't be able to write too much.

I read this thing about doing storyboard type things, like getting this big sheet of card and some post it notes, then scribbling each important bit down, then moving them around. Tried it for something else and it did my head in, so that's not gonna help.

I have been in a weird sleep pattern for years and I now do my best writing at about 3 in the morning. It helps a hell of a lot in this actually cos of the night and the dark – which makes perfect sense to me.

Trying to wean myself off song lyrics – bit of a bitch cos there are loads to fit this idea. Surprisingly good with subtle – and I twist the words so you'll never know they're there heh heh!

Heard some of the other starts to the plays. One or two are seriously over-written in my opinion, something I'll check mine for now. Already, I can see some parts which don't work but probably won't change much till it been read.

Currently at the six or seven minute stage and I'm raring to go. Haven't got as far as I wanted because I'm just too lazy but when I do start writing, watch me go. Like I'll probably do 3 pages before I move on to another assignment.

It's hard to know which parts of this people will pick up on. I'm hoping they get the hints and make the connections – it's not exactly difficult!

I'm supposed to decide which drama slot this would best fit into – not entirely sure but I reckon it'll be an evening one as it has a little language in it and dark, kind of violent bits. There is the collegey bits and stuff but it gets darker than this extract – or it does in my head.

It's getting harder to say with certainty that I could tell this in 45 mins – be better if I could serialise it over a week. I'll have to find out for the future, I'm creating ideas as I speak – go me!

Have got further uses for the characters introduced but maybe it is best to write one of them out to make it less confusing? Don't want to as I have roles in my head but maybe I won't need one of them in the end. I'll keep them all till I decide.

Read a friends' play and it is good, can compare them both. I now know what else works and doesn't. Got me some re-writing to do – not too much though.

Tired and emotional so I can't trust myself to write. I'll write anyway because this is what I do but will end up deleting it tomorrow. I will only write crap but I sometimes come up with something amazing and it's best just to have a go.

My best ideas often come to me when I'm half asleep anyway. I was dozing when I thought of this and I'm here thinking that if anything is strong enough to wake me up, then it's worth having a go at. And this idea didn't wake me, it made me want to start writing immediately.

My characters are based loosely on myself and the people I knew in college. The story kind of mimics the 'anywhere but here' thoughts and stuff like that.

Nothing I wrote was planned in detail. It was a case of 'this sounds interesting.' So I wrote the interesting scenes and if they work I re-write them, and if they don't work I delete it and try something else.

If I don't care about a story almost instantly, I don't even bother with it. So that's why this may seem a bit screwed up. It's important for me to shock people – make them sit up and take notice.

I know my play isn't going to be perfect or, maybe not even that good, but at least I'm trying and enjoying telling stories in different ways. It might not be great, but I like it.

Had a few scenes read out today – didn't sound too bad actually. Got some feedback and took it on board. Made a couple of little changes because a lot of them didn't get the subtler parts but some points I chucked straight out of the pram, like deleting a character. That was mostly because they don't know my plan but there's no way I'm changing my play to satisfy a few people.

TUTOR NOTES-

DEMONSTRATION OF WRITING AS PROCESS – You write a lengthy analysis of your imagining process. However, you don't mention any of the detail of the specific to do with Radio / TV drama that we discussed in our sessions. Nor how you applied them to the development of your radio script. It is this detail the assignment brief asks for.

MASTERY OF TECHNIQUES AND CONVENTIONS – You have a good use of the main conventions – your script is clearly laid out.

ACHIEVEMENT OF A SHAPED AND CRAFTED PIECE OF WRITING – I like the rhythm of your scenes, but I feel you don't always give close enough attention to what goes on in them. For instance, why would the teacher think the girls were involved in a major shooting? The radio device you use in the 'common room' is too obvious – and unlikely. I remember there was a long discussion in our session about your use of 5 + 1 bullets. The police would be able to tell all they need to know from one bullet, let alone the five fired into your victim. Yet you didn't change your plotting to overcome this weakness – I find this disappointing.

EVIDENCE OF INDIVIDUALITY, INVENTION AND EMPATHY – You show an empathy with the young person you're writing about. However, you don't sufficiently let us into her mind– the character you base this one has very dark elements to her background. I don't feel this depth in your creation.

OVERALL COMMENTS – You need to research more carefully before you write and put yourself right inside scenes as you create them. Perhaps you may need to take more time or write more slowly in order to achieve this. The worlds you create must feel real – at the moment they just don't ring true.

MARK – 45

From 'Supertoys Last all Summer Long' to A.I.: 'padding' exercise that adds little to the source story, or creative adaptation to suit the target medium.

This essay will attempt to address the debate raised in this question, and to

prove or disprove these statements. For the many who see a film without reading the story it grew from, any deviations will be creativity. However, for the equal numbers that read the story before watching the screen adaptation, digressions from the original piece are often seen as nothing less than sacrilegious. Here, we will discuss the short story, and the film that grew from it, and whether the process has given the story cinematic value or detracted from its' meaning. The short story in question is 'Supertoys Last all Summer Long', and the film is 'A.I.: Artificial Intelligence.'

The story may lose some of its elements as it is adapted for film, but significantly more is added to the story to fit the movie criteria. But this then leads to the question of how we differentiate between padding and adaptation. Of course, in the title of this essay, it has been established that padding adds little to the original story, whereas adaptation expands upon the issues raised. However, it is fair to say that in this case, they are the same thing – to a degree. Everything that has been added for the film can be termed padding because it is extra, and extends the story but does not add to it; though all padding is also adaptation because it is all about adding more ideas to the story to make a film which people will want to watch.

The most obvious difference between the two pieces is the addition of around two hours worth of material in the film. The dialogue and story told in the short story are quite covered in the opening half hour of the film, and the rest is merely an extended exploration of the theme of the story – which is about reality, artificiality, and where we draw the line. This can be described as padding, because the ideas discussed are hinted at and raised in the beginning. However, there are many ideas in the film which were not touched upon in the story – and this would be described as adaptation to fit the medium. Film-goers now tend to call for stories that are visually pleasing – bright and vivid – and also to have something in the story that they can relate to – an emotional attachment.

In the story, the parents of David are simply using him as a substitute for the child they were not allowed to have until the end of the book. It is mentioned in the film that pregnancies are strictly controlled and permission must be granted beforehand, but we see no physical evidence of this. Indeed, the family already have a son, Martin, who is terminally ill and has been frozen until a cure is found. Here, David is still used as a substitute for the son they, in this case, no longer have. When Martin is awakened and brought home, the mother, Monica, has a choice to make. Should she send David away because he is not really theirs, or should she keep him and let the two boys mature as brothers. Although we have lost the idea of controlled pregnancy, we have gained an awful lot from that – a new character, a parents' pain at having to choose between her children, and the moral anguish when she must send David away. This short exchange from A.I. shows David's desire to become real so Monica will love him, and Monica's anguish at having to turn 'her' child, unprepared, into the big bad world:

"Monica – Stories are not real! You're not real!... Stay away from...

where there are lots of people. Only others like you... are safe.

Now, get going!

David – Why do you want to leave me? Why do you want to

leave me? I'm sorry I'm not real, if you let me I'll be so real for you.

Monica – Let go!... I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the world."

A second fresh element to the film was the Flesh Fair. It is a bright and noisy event, reminiscent of carnivals and the like. We did not have this in the original story but it is easy to make the leap of logic. The androids, or Mecha, are gathered from the woods as they search for new parts to make them serviceable. They are then taken to the Flesh Fair where they will be mutilated and killed for the amusement of the human, or Orga, general public. This raises thoughts of genocide and racial hatred, such dangerous thoughts are not easy to obtain from Supertoys. To include these ideas, the film has been padded from the story but to give it a stunning cinematic quality that could not have been obtained if the story had been transferred exactly.

There is the addition of Rouge city – a place not mentioned in Supertoys – where David makes the acquaintance of Gigolo Joe and makes his trek to the Blue Fairy. Rouge City is practically the red light district of this world – a place where Orga go to find Mecha for pleasure. This is where David goes to visit Dr Know, to get directions to Blue Fairy – a being he heard about in the fairy story Pinocchio and believes can make him real. In the original story David thinks he is real but is beginning to question it because he cannot communicate with Monica. However, in the film, he appears to know he is not real. The source story has no hint of any known fairy story, and the fairy story idea was written for the film, though myth and fairy tale traces are not hard to conjure up.

One thing identical in both stories – and carried through almost to the end of the film – is Teddy. He is a supertoy, programmed with artificial intelligence so that he can respond to the speeches of his owner. Every child has a Teddy, or some such creation, that they talk to and believe can talk back. This, from Supertoys' David, illustrates his confusion at differentiating real from artificial:

"Teddy, you know what I was thinking? How do you tell what

are real things from what aren't real things?"

To this end Teddy is real to the viewer in his or her mind, and the story only took it a step further by actually allowing the audience to see it and making it real.

The story begins with David the robot boy already established within the family, where the film introduces him later, telling us the background to the family's loss and to the company that made him. The story ends with David watching his parents rejoice at their news, and to this effect, the corresponding scene is where Martin comes home for the first time. This story proceeds past this point in the film. Although Supertoys was the basis for this film, many more stories could have been written for this film. Supertoys, however, sets up the characters and the story, thereby giving the Warner Brothers company enough freedom to allow the producers to take it where they want. Everything after the first half an hour – which directly addresses the text - is technically padding as it maintains only two of the characters until the end. The rest of A.I. is almost a whole different film as it explores issues related to the text.

For example, both Davids are feeling rejected because of his inability to communicate with his mother, but only in the film does he find some-one he can communicate with – Gigolo Joe. Both Davids appear to be unaware that he is a robot, but only in the film does he learn what he is. Monica and Henry are trying to be parents to this mechanical child, but only in the film do we sense that she has developed a mothers' love for him as he is taken away. Of course, both have similarities beyond the story – broader themes such as globalisation, consumerism, realism and artificiality, the achievement of perfection and the advances of science and technology. These issues, although raised in Supertoys, are made more real and almost urgent in A.I. as it has been written in such a way as to play upon the fears and realities of the audience. For example, in a Flesh Fair scene Lord Johnson-Johnson declares that he is "only demolishing artificiality." He then proceeds to try burning David and Joe to the outrage of his crowd because David is "just a boy." This kind of rebellion and return to morals is not seen in the text. This element of realism for the future has been added for the film, as many of the above elements have been.

A.I. has been heavily padded, but it was all to give it cinematic quality – a film which could not have been made if the whole two hours had been just an extended script of Supertoys. I could argue that everything added to the film was at the expense of something taken away from the story; a problem explored deeply by the writing team. The team decided on a series of events to show us the things they felt were important, and then decided which events were going to be most visually powerful. As the film effectively deals with the entire short story in the beginning of the film, I do not feel that the story has been creatively adapted for the big screen as there was none of the final 90 minutes there to adapt. Although I know academically that A.I. is padded to go further into certain storylines, I do not think this is anything to be critical of. The audience at large need to see things actually addressed rather than just touched upon.

TUTOR NOTES-

I don't think you have fully understood the question. Your interpretation of 'padding' is not particularly clear and you spend too much time saying the film is padding and then making points which contradict that. You don't show evidence of wider reading or appreciation of theories of adaptation. However, your understanding of the requirements of a visual medium is good.

MARK-52

Not gone

FADE IN

INT - THE BULL PUB - EVENING

The Bull is a pleasant family pub. A YOUNG FAMILY are sharing a meal at a table. They are LAUGHING and CHATTING together. A BARTENDER is rushing around and collecting glasses. TWO YOUNG GIRLS, barely legal to drink, are GIGGLING over their alco-pops. AN OLD MAN is sitting alone at the bar, staring at the glass of whisky before him. A COUPLE in their late 20s are sitting in stony SILENCE at a table, with half empty glasses in front of them. It is obvious that they have just had a row. Music is PLAYING softly from the stereo system.

ASHLEE You know, I don't like all this arguing any more than you.

JAMIE Then why do we keep doing it?

ASHLEE (shrugs) Don't know. (beat) Maybe it's just how we're meant to be.

A CHILD from the family runs past them both. The kid stops and stares at JAMIE for a moment, then runs on. His MOTHER runs after him, not even acknowledging them.

MOTHER Billy, come back here! I'm not running after you.

But she does chase him. The child LAUGHS. ASHLEE and Jamie return to staring their drinks out. Jamie is the guy a nun would take her wimple off for. Everything about him screams ex-military; even his hair is shaved to within an inch of it's life. Ashlee is laid-back and looks as if she prefers the world of her dreams. She wears a cheap cubic zirconium engagement ring and fiddles with it endlessly.

ASHLEE (CONT'D) You could try telling me the truth for once.

Jamie COUGHS and rubs his hand over his eyes as though he has been through this a million times.

JAMIE Ash- (sighs - what can he say?) You're right. I'm sorry we fight so much.

ASHLEE Liar.

The SONG CHANGES, the volume is turned UP. Suddenly, everything is a mix of CHATTER from the others in the pub, and Ashlee and Jamie start staring at their drinks again. Any hopes they had for conversation are gone. Neither really want to talk. Eventually, they look at each other, but they are looking daggers and, afraid of what they see in each others' eyes, they return to their drinks. Ashlee reaches out for hers, her ring glinting in the half-light.

CUT TO:

EXT - OUTSIDE THE BULL - NIGHT People are piling out of the pub and heading out into the night. One or two head for their cars, others mill around waiting on cabs, yet more head out for the bus stop. Jamie is standing a few feet from Ashlee. He squints out to the road and Ashlee follows his gaze. She is a little unsteady on her feet. Jamie dips a hand in his pocket.

ASHLEE No, Jamie. You're gonna-

JAMIE Don't you trust me, or something?

He pulls out his keys, presses the auto-unlock button and lights FLASH and BEEP on a new SILVER MAZDA MX3.

CUT TO:

INT - HALLWAY OF BLOCK OF FLATS - NIGHT

Jamie is holding Ashlee tightly by the arm. She is slightly the worse for wear. It is dark in the corridor as the light has blown again. Some-one has graffitied a hangman motif in red spray paint. A 'CAUTION: WET' sign has been put up and a mop and bucket is leaning against the wall as if to prove the point. There is no-one else out. Not even the cleaner works at this time of night. Jamie puts a finger to Ashlee's lips to SHUSH her from making noise that might disturb the neighbours. She LAUGHS, brushes his hand away and FUMBLES her key into the lock.

CUT TO:

INT - THEIR FRONT ROOM - CONTINUOUSAshlee puts her keys away in her bag. She drops her bag on the floor inside the door and leans on the wall to steady herself. Jamie follows her in and pushes the door closed until it CLICKS shut. They look at each other, waiting for each other to speak. Ashlee gets there first.

ASHLEE You shouldn't have driven back. We could've gone back for the car in the morning.

JAMIE If I hadn't, we'd still be waiting for a taxi now

ASHLEE After one pint, it was kinda dodgy but I would've trusted you to drive. But it was the four that came after it that scared me.

Jamie crouches down by the wall unit in the corner and begins to FLICK through his CD collection. He finds nothing interesting to put on, SIGHS and pushes himself back up.

JAMIE Why haven't we got any decent music in this place?

Ashlee sits down at the end of an old, black leather couch. She brushes off some imaginary dust on the arm. Then reaches out to grab a half empty bottle of water from the broken mahogany coffee table. The leg WOBBLES as she takes the weight off but it does not fall. The water sloshes around in the bottle as her hands are still shaking. She takes the lid off and drinks, wishing it was something stronger.

JAMIE (CONT'D) What is your problem?

Ashlee just looks at him. He stares back then walks to the other side of the sofa. He's too worked up to sit down; doesn't know what he's done wrong.

JAMIE So I drove back while over the limit. It's not like I broke the law or anything.

ASHLEE You really want me to respond to that?

JAMIE Okay, so it wasn't the perfect night out but-

She can't help but LAUGH at that. Covers her mouth with her free hand and takes a gulp of water to calm herself.

ASHLEE Perfect night out!? A perfect night out wouldn't even have ended by now. A pretty good night out wouldn't have finished with us rowing in the middle of the pub - where, I might add, most of our friends spend their Friday nights. Even an average night out wouldn't have seen both my credit cards turned down.

JAMIE We forgot to ask why.

ASHLEE (confused) Why? Why what?

JAMIE Why they were turned down.

ASHLEE Like that even matters now.

Jamie moves to touch her hair, then pulls away, unsure. Reaches out again, stops. He stares at the front door and to the recent movie posters taped to it and the walls around it. Some of them have ragged tears at the edges, others are curling up at the corners. The display is a mish mash of bright colours but red and gold seem to dominate. It contrasts starkly to the rest of the wall, pale grey - he hasn't got round to decorating - dotted here and there by another pop-culture poster. All the furniture in the front room is quite old and beaten up; mostly what they could salvage and scrounge from relatives. Still, it's comfortable enough.

ASHLEE (CONT'D) We should sort this place out.

JAMIE We can't afford it.

ASHLEE If you hadn't spent our savings on a sports car...

JAMIE (obviously changing the subject) I told you we should have gone to the cinema - dark, quiet. But no-o-o, Ashlee wants to go get slaughtered. Hands up who saw that coming?

He puts his hand up in the air and looks around the room as if expecting more hands to be raised.

ASHLEE Aah, and Jamie only wanted to go somewhere he could hide.

JAMIE You're just being childish now.

ASHLEE I'm being-

She holds up her hand to ward off comment.

ASHLEE (CONT'D) No, I'm not even going there.

She screws lid onto her empty bottle and throws it at the bin by the CD unit. The shot MISSES and the plastic bottle BOUNCES off the rim and comes to rest a few inches away.

ASHLEE (CONT'D) Damn! I can never make that shot.

JAMIE You used to.

ASHLEE There are lots of things i used to do.

JAMIE I used to play guitar. Never got one of my own though. Had to borrow a mates' if I wanted to practise. He had a Fender, a red one, and it made noises you'd never even heard before...

ASHLEE Were you playing it right?

She kicks off her strappy sandals, curls herself up on the sofa. She appears to be remembering too.

ASHLEE (CONT'D) I never had musical talent or anything like that. Mom wanted me to take ballet classes.

JAMIE You, a ballerina?

ASHLEE What's wrong with that?

Jamie tries, unsuccessfully, to hold back a LAUGH. Ashlee looks at him angrily.

ASHLEE (CONT'D) You keep making fun of me! Why do you- She is cut off in mid sentence by a DULL THUD from downstairs, like a door being banged back on its' hinges. Her hand searches blindly for his. The noise does not scare either of them, they hear lots of strange noises in these flats. Jamie shrugs his jacket off and hangs it over the sofa. He is slightly annoyed that a noise has made her jump, thinks she is being childish, and pulls his hand away. He frowns, wondering what could be sounding at this time in the morning (the digital clock on the wall shows 2.00.)

JAMIE Probably just a cat.

He dismisses it right away with a flick of a hand. He does not want to listen to her, and goes back to his CD collection. He has his own stuff in the rack - Metallica, AC/DC, Guns n Roses. There are few dodgier albums in here - Atomic Kitten, Girls Aloud - childish musical offerings like that. Above him are a row of toppled American horror paperbacks. He selects a GnR CD and gets up. He passes an old faded photo of the couple on the edge of the bookshelf, but doesn't notice. Ashlee is not convinced by his excuse of a cat and pads to the window to look out.

JAMIE (CONT'D) Fancy some music

No reply.

JAMIE (CONT'D) Ash! Music?

Still no response.

JAMIE (CONT'D) Whatever. It's going on whether you like it or not.

He turns the stereo ON and slots CD in. It closes and he takes a quick look at the sleeve to see what track he wants. Takes remote control, presses play, turns the VOLUME UP, and leans back on the unit. His weight on the unit, and the speaker vibrations, cause the old photo to JUDDER off the shelf and it FALLS to the floor. ANGLE ON: The glass front cracks along the centre.

CUT TO:

EXT - STREET - NIGHT/ EARLY MORNING The old man from the pub is walking down the street, hands in pockets and eyes on floor. The street is sign-posted at the corner as CALL STREET - CUL DE SAC. The man is a cross between a detective from a 50s whodunnit movie, and Inspector Gadget. An ambulance races by him, BLUES AND TWOS going great guns, and he turns to watch it pass with sad fascination. As the SIRENS DIE OUT, he stops in the middle of the street and stares up at the building at his side with the steely blue gaze of some-one who knows exactly what he will see. A few seconds later, it all kicks off, right on cue. He checks his watch just before, it TICKS for 15 seconds until it is just after 2AM. The light on a third floor window suddenly goes dark, but the moon and starlight are reflected off the glass. There is a SCREAM, high, loud and long. Something HITS the window, a shadow without form, at incredible velocity, making the old man jump a step backwards. The glass shatters into a spiderweb on impact and tiny shards TINKLE to the street. Then everything goes quiet. The light is not turned back on. The street falls into DARK SILENCE.

OLD MAN (shakes head) Not again...

FADE TO BLACK.

INT - ASHLEE AND JAMIE'S LOUNGE - MORNING Bright wintery sunshine is streaming through the large front window. The cracked photo frame is still lying beside Jamie on the floor. Jamie is sitting as far from her as he possibly can - legs straight in front of him and back against the wall. He is looking between Ashlee and the floor under his knees, unable to focus on either for more than a few seconds. Jamie is WINCING slightly as he breathes, and he is wearing his jacket again. Ashlee is on her hands and knees and her long brown hair is covering her entire face and head. Both are BREATHING HEAVILY.

JAMIE I'm sorry

ASHLEE You're always sorry.

She throws her head back up and rocks back on her haunches. The left side of her forehead is covered in a nasty-looking deepening bruise, and her mouth and chin are covered in blood.

ASHLEE (CONT'D) But it doesn't make it any better.

JAMIE If I could take it back... (beat) If I could make it so this had never happened...

ASHLEE You would?

JAMIE Believe me, baby, I didn't mean it. It was an accident. I never meant to hurt you.

Jamie reaches out a hand to touch her but she pulls away. He ends up running that hand through his own short hair. Then he picks up the photo and TRACES the crack.

JAMIE (CONT'D) It's broken.

Ashlee wipes blood away from her mouth with the back of her hand. The red of it contrasts starkly to her pale skin. There is a smear of blood still on the carpet but this is more brown, old and dried, and she stares at it for a moment. Then wipes more away from her face.

ASHLEE This isn't right.

JAMIE I didn't mean to hurt you. Something just changes and I can't help myself.

ASHLEE I know. It's not your fault.

JAMIE Do you forgive me? I mean for the rows and everything? We just seem to be fighting about the same things all the time. It's like we're stuck in some kind of loop or something and we can't stop fighting. (beat) Will you forgive me for hurting you?

Jamie looks at her but she gives no answer. Her gaze is still fixed on the cracked photograph in his hand. It seems somehow important.

CUT TO:

EXT - STREET - MORNING The street is totally deserted of people, but one or two cars are parked or are crawling along the tarmac road. A plastic bag RUSTLES as it BLOWS past Ashlee and Jamie as they exit their building.

JAMIE Quiet.

ASHLEE Too quiet. Maybe something's happened.

JAMIE Nothing happens round here. It's like saying maybe Elton John got married.

ASHLEE But he did... kinda.

They push their way through an OVERGROWN HEDGE edging the square where they parked the car, their feet CRUNCHING the gravel underfoot, and stand back a few steps to survey the damage. There is a dent in the front passenger door and the nose has been crushed in on itself.

ASHLEE (CONT'D) Okay to drive last night? Uh-huh.

JAMIE It's only a scratch.

ASHLEE The post didn't seem to think that.

JAMIE Stop being so paranoid. Too drunk to drive last night... too hungover to drive this morning. Jesus Ash, is there any time you think I can drive?

She is about to reply to this but closes her mouth when her attention is drawn away by a movement back by the building. She taps Jamie on his side to get his attention.

JAMIE Be patient! I'm gonna take you to the hospital in a minute. Get you patched up.

He finally gives to her pestering and follows her line of sight. The old man is approaching. He makes NO SOUND on the car park.

OLD MAN It won't do any good.

JAMIE And who the hell are you?

OLD MAN The hospital won't see you. It's not their job to deal with people like you.

JAMIE I give my girlfriend one little slap and suddenly I'm a wife-beater. Is that it? Like it's any of your business anyway. (to Ashlee) Is this guy twisty or what?

OLD MAN They can't help you now, you know.

JAMIE I can't stand here watching you go senile all day - much as I'd like to. (to Ashlee) Is this guy freaking you out?

OLD MAN You've gone beyond that now. Medics can't fix you now, nobody can.

JAMIE (mocking him) Is the end nigh?

Ashlee's eyes have regained that misty dream-like glaze. Tears are starting to roll down her face with increasing speed, she doesn't notice.

ASHLEE Come on, J. Let's just go now.

Jamie dips a hand in his pocket. The thinnest trickle of blood is creeping out from beneath his shirt sleeve but he does not seem to notice. He pulls out his keys, presses the auto-unlock button and lights FLASH and BEEP on.

CUT TO:

Writer's notes

The hardest part of this is coming up with a good idea. I've got loads of ideas but the hard bit is working out which one will make good cinema.

We've seen loads of different film beginnings in class, in all different genres and stuff. Some of them I liked and some I didn't, though it gives me a bit more foundation to work on.

It needs to be very visual and pacy, and dialogue is secondary to what can be seen. That's hard to get my head round as my regular prose writing, novels and such, and the radio unit before this feature dialogue more heavily. There's a lot more speed involved than in the other stuff; like, things are always happening here.

I got some bad criticism over my first idea, because it would have been a rip off of a famous idea. Then I remembered a story I wrote a few years ago and thought that it might make a good screenplay if I adapted it right. I'm doing adaptations in another module so I used my studies from that to help.

I added more to the story than was in the original and it gave it a bit more life. There was a sense of place and atmosphere about it now, where it was very character-centric before.

Although the idea and the character's are the same, the dialogue has been utterly changed. In the story, the speeches feature quite a bit of exposition and reaction. But I've learnt that this is not the way to write for screen. People need to act and make things happen, not watch things happen around them.

Scripts usually work on the basis that 1 page = 1 min. It's not too hard to keep to that rule roughly because I found I had enough stuff to write in the time, but I think I've fallen a bit short at the end. I did go over quite a bit at first. I wanted to put in another storyline which tied to the main story. On my third read through, I decided that it just didn't fit the story and took it out – a copy of that scene will be attached at the end. A shame, because I really liked that scene when it was written but it just doesn't fit the story. I've seen far too many films where stories have been put in just because they are nice stand-alone stories to know that I don't want to do that.

I printed out a second draft of my script; it was formatted because I got final draft; then I got my higlighters and went through it and flagged up the places where I needed to make changes and stuff. It was a lot easier that way than just reading it. I had to rewrite some bits a few tomes but it was better in the long run.

We were all given a checklist of about 6 things we had to include in the extract. I think I have included them all though I am not too sure whether I have set the tone very well. It sounds a bit confused but maybe I just think that because I know what's coming after it.

It's hard to know which bits are going to work on the big screen because everything is exactly right in your head and you have to transfer that to the page. It's hard to get down all the detail, so I wrote down as much of it as I could and the bits that seemed important.

We've watched so many movie openings in class and I find that I am subconsciously watching the openings when I go to the cinema with friends. There are certain tricks and conventions that all scripts adhere to, some more successfully than others. This enabled me to write to style and try to get the timing a bit more right than I had. My timing is still off, but it's better than it was at first.

The deleted scene:

6. INT - SUBURBAN KITCHEN - MORNING

A tall, but plumpish woman is at the sink washing some cups. Bright sunshine is pouring through the window at her side. A card reading WITH DEEPEST SYMPATHY stands alone on the window sill. The woman refuses to look at it and keeps her eyes fixed on the glass in her hands. Behind her, a young boy of six, Billy, is sitting at the table playing with his cereal and swinging his legs.

A slim, short girl of 13 skips into the room, in her school uniforms. She is dragging a brush through her hair and carrying a pile of letters in the other hand. The name stitched into the gym t-shirt she is wearing reads KATE. She also looks quickly away as her gaze falls on the card. A car horn BEEPS twice outside and she hands the letters to her mother.

KATE Mom, post! Gotta go!

She grabs her blazer and bag and dashes for the front door. There is a dog-eared, but vivid RED POPPY pinned to it.

MOM What about your break-

But the door has SLAMMED behind her and she is gone. The woman drops her washing up and goes to the table to coax her son into eating. The letters go with her but she dumps them on a corner of the table.

MOM Really can't be doing with bills today. I think compassion's an alien word when there's money and unpaid bills involved.

BILLY What's umpasson?

MOM Compassion, honey. It's when people are nice to other people who are upset.

BILLY Like when you kiss my knees better when I fall over?

She nods and starts to feed him, spoonful by spoonful. He is finally eating and her eyes cloud over for a moment as though she is remembering something. One SINGLE TEAR rolls from her eye and drips onto the checkered table cloth. Billy leans over to her and opens his arms wide, enveloping her in a massive BEAR HUG.

BILLY (CONT'D) Mommy feel better.

In retrospect

My screen play extract is now written and I have drafted it many more times than I have done before. When I write prose normally, I write my first draft then rewrite it until I work all the kinks out, then do my final write because I am bound to want to change things by then. I found I couldn't get away with that on this. Even now, I can see where I would make tiny changes. It's hard for me to be totally happy with any of my work, so I'm not allowing myself to mess around with it any more because I could be tinkering until the cows go home.

I don't think that this extract is the most cinematic idea I could have arrived at but I don't think I have done too badly seeing as how I didn't know this stuff before the new year. It was enjoyable writing the extract and I would probably write a script again if I had an idea that called for it.

Having said that, I'm the first to admit that I am not cut out for this style of writing – at least, not yet. I just don't know enough about to say that I'd like to take it up seriously. There are so many tricks of the trade and industry rules that I just haven't had chance to learn yet. Screenwriting interests me and I'd like to know more about it.

Part of the reason I enjoyed it so much was probably because it was new and exciting. Now, it's written and I'm quite relieved. Mostly because I was worried how I would manage at writing in a style I'd never studied before.

Looking back, it was a long, hard process, especially trying to get my mind out of novel mode and into a script mindset. My piece of script isn't good enough to make but as a first attempt, it's good enough. I even surprised myself. I didn't thin k I knew as much as I did.

TUTOR NOTES-

DEMONSTRATION OF WRITING AS PROCESS – Good self-assessment in terms of the creative process, differences from prose and strengths + weaknesses of the piece. I'd have liked analysis to be related to screenwriting theory, codes and conventions in more depth, to check how the author adhered to them and what impact that made on the creative process.

MASTERY OF TECHNIQUES AND CONVENTIONS – generally good format of layout with only minor errors. Description good in the main, but too much knowledge is assumed without being shown on screen – see notes for details. Genre codes are evident, with sleight-of-hand wrinkles working quite well, but a single genre should predominate.

ACHIEVEMENT OF A SHAPED AND CRAFTED PIECE OF WRITING – Good opening sequence structure setting up an inciting incident that keeps the reader interested. Narratively the piece seems to contain elements of The Sixth Sense, Groundhog Day & Final Destination, but the pacing is too slow and the tone is uncertain, falling between genres.

EVIDENCE OF INDIVIDUALITY, INVENTION AND EMPATHY – There is originality as well as cliche, and the piece is entertaining. Characterisation is uncertain – dual protagonists with no clear needs and wants, and an inciting incident that should be evident by the close of the sequence but is still ambiguous.

OVERALL COMMENTS- More incident needed– more scenes and backstory about the characters. Good diversion to keep the reader thinking he has assaulted her, but the true impact should be clear to them – ie, that they're dead – by the end of the sequence. Generally well-written and some nice observations but characters need to be brought to life – no pun intended - for the reader.

MARK-59

SEEING IS BELIEVING

OR

THE ART OF VISUAL COMMUNICATION

One of the things I love about adapting fiction for film is that much of the hard work is done for you. The story, plot, characters, dialogue and imagery have all been sussed. Right?

Wrong.

However, the source text has provided you with the bare 'skeleton' for your writing; a jumping off point if you will. It is now your job as a creative adaptor to add the 'flesh' and bring your skeleton to life.

*

This chapter will focus on the imagery aspect of adaptation; the visual part; how we get things across without sound. But here, we start hitting some problems, because we know that a film wouldn't be a film without sound. But even the name would be inaccurate if it was a blank screen. If you adapt a book into film properly no-one will notice or question or difficulties you may have had – and it can be done. We see such films frequently at the cinema.

Take silent films as an example. So successful are they at getting the story across without words, they may as well have been directly translated from books. The only speech in them are small phrases written in as captions, though other sound is used to the full. We see social conventions and clichés (bad guys always wear black, damsels in distress) used fairly boldly. It works though, because we are shown the story. Writers of silent film are masters of the art of visual communication.

Or, as many writers like to say – showing, not telling.

*

Visual communication is a vital part of any medium of fiction, and you will instantly know whether it has been successfully achieved by whether it has created a strong picture in your head. The picture created in your mind may be different to that of the writer, it doesn't matter. A situation or event has been created in living colour – it has been communicated.

*

You will have doubtlessly read hundreds of pieces of prose that instantly created a picture in your mind. When the image in your mind is as instant and crisp as a frame of film, it has been well written. The author of that piece has used visual communication to the max without once resorting to such devices as pictures in the book – though some writers do choose to do so.

This is a piece of my own writing:

In the corner of a darkened room, an old TV in a wooden case flickers away with no sound. The owner of the set has muted it for he enjoys the comforting light and familiar images it gives out, but he is less than keen on the noise that comes along with it. It sounds harsh and too synthetic to his ears. So, the set is often switched to mute, or the volume dial is turned right down until it is barely audible. The curtains in the room are drawn over the windows to add to the darkness, but a few rays of familiar sunshine have managed to sneak in through the chinks in the dark red fabric. Comic books are strewn around the large room in, and the coffee table is covered with yet more comics, magazines and a copy of Stephen Hawking's A brief history of time. The waste paper basket and the surrounding floor spaceis littered with fast food wrappers and soda cans that have missed their three-point target.

It creates an image of the room and you could easily show this on film by showing exactly what is in your mind. Maybe you could describe it just as effectively in a poem, or an exchange of dialogue.

Exercise: Decide how you could best show the above scene, and write it until you can recreate the very same image.

*

To be able to effectively communicate an image, whether it be through words or music or screen etc, you must first understand the devices that will be employed. For instance, colour, sound, movement and symbolism will all be needed. Maybe the piece you are adapting it may say 'there is a car crash.' That is too vague to be of any use to you. Whatever medium you are adapting for, detail is essential in creating a picture. Add things like flame, explosion, maybe the colours the crash leaves hanging in the air. These things mean an adaptor is doing their job well.

It has often been said, most notably by Stephen King but also by countless others, that writing is like telepathy – in the sense that you are trying to make the reader see and feel what the writer is seeing and feeling. That goes double for adaptations. Not only are you trying to make your audience see the things you envisage, you are trying to make the image more immediate than before.

A while ago, in a script outline, I wrote this:

She has revenge on her mind and will take it upon herself to exact it. She commands a flash of lightning, a clap of thunder. The windows are blown out and shards of glass pierce anyone in the way. The blood gushes through the school.

From this, I daresay you can create a pretty good picture in your mid of what was going on. But you have a luxury I did not. You have free will. You can see this in your own way and provide your own details.

Exercise: Take the above passage and create a poem, then dialogue, then prose, then a piece of script direction. Your pieces must tell your audience what is going on but must also create the image you see. This will help you to adapt more concisely by staying true to the source text and still adding your own ideas.

*

You may have read books such as Emma, Oliver Twist, Carrie and The Hitchhikers' Guide to the Galaxy, written by Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Stephen King and Douglas Adams respectively. It is fair to assume that these books wee not written with the notion of having them turned into so many films. But they were. And the books were adapted very successfully because they showed exactly what was happening in the story but made us (the audience) see things in a different way. Maybe we saw a different layout to a room, or a different design to the city. The writers have considered all of these factors and paid close attention to the book.

What we see on screen will immediately, almost always, seem to be exactly what is in the book. And to some extent it is. But, as in the previous exercise, the original text can be very vague. As I have already said, it is your job to flesh the vagueness out and bring it to life.

Exercise: make a list of all the books and novella you can think of that have been turned to another form. Then rewrite a section of the least visual and make it more so.

*

Your adaptation will not always be from book to film (though it is very likely). It could be from radio to poem, script to song, life history to TV screen.

It is obviously more difficult to make a picture if people cannot physically see it – if it is not on a screen or stage – but this is the test of a good adaptor from a great one. If you can create the same picture on a mind of somebody listening to the radio as you would of somebody watching a film, you've made it.

Soon, Rebecca took her fingers out of the water and went away. Bubbles rose rapidly to the surface as Brian started breathing again and swam back out into the open. The strange girl either didn't feed him or fed him too much, depending on what kind of mood she was in, but he was still getting fatter because his scales didn't fit any more.

If the fish hadn't had the time to go and hide in the castle, Rebecca would catch him and take him out of the bowl. Fish can't breathe properly in the open air but Rebecca thought that it was so much fun to watch her beloved Sparky struggle for air.

The moment the goldfish swam out, Rebecca popped up from somewhere and whipped him out of the water with one hand, quicker than you can say Brian is a fish. Why a person would want to say that, no-one knows.

"There you are you little worm."

"I'm a fish!" he protested. "A fish, I tell you!"

But because Brian only had a tiny marine voice, and because the human girl didn't speak Fishese, she didn't hear him. She held him up to the light by his tail between her thumb and forefinger and watched with a gleeful grin as he couldn't breathe and began to thrash about.

His life flashed before his beady little eyes.

Swimmy swimmy swim.

Swim swim swim.

Swimmy swimmy swim.

Swim swim swim.

Exercise: your final exercise is to read the above extract closely. Decide how the story could best be SHOWN not told and retell it in that form. Please pay close attention to the original piece but do not use words to describe the images – use your images to describe the words.

CONGRATULATIONS! You have finished the chapter.

*

Recommended reading

On Writing – Stephen King

How To Adapt Anything Into A Screenplay – Richard Krevolin

How To Write A Biography – Longman Publishing

You can find numerous help books on such sites as Amazon.co.uk.

TUTOR NOTES-

Overall, the opening is the strongest part of this assignment. But a tendency towards repetition in your choice of examples. Try to take the reader through a carefully staged process.

It is inappropriate to use only your own work as examples . The fact that this is an option in keeping with the conventions operating in writers' manuals doesn't mean that it should be in exclusion to broader referencing. You need to find the examples that are potentially most revealing and helpful to work on – perhaps something that has less detail and therefore needs much more expanding in a script. Overall, you seem to be expecting the reader to do most the work as you are not providing models. This is where your own work could of come in, e.g. as examples of adaptations rather than source texts. Develop your references to Austen novels.

However, good basic ideas for exercises, and appropriate tone.

MARK-53

YEAR FOUR

YEAR OF THE BRICK WALL

When you get shot down for having some actual creativity

Editor's report

ed•it P Pronunciation Key ( d t)

tr.v. ed•it•ed, ed•it•ing, ed•its

1.

a.To prepare (written material) for publication or presentation, as by correcting, revising, or adapting.

b.To prepare an edition of for publication: edit a collection of short stories.

c.To modify or adapt so as to make suitable or acceptable: edited her remarks for presentation to a younger audience.

2.To supervise the publication of (a newspaper or magazine, for example).

3.To assemble the components of (a film or soundtrack, for example), as by cutting and splicing.

4.To eliminate; delete: edited the best scene out.

Our task for this module was to produce an anthology of poetry and prose sent in by students on the course. It got off to quite a rocky start and I do not believe it has been well organised as there has been much confusion on all fronts since beginning.

We were all sent a batch of poetry written by the other group and either those of the year above or below us. We had to shortlist our favourite ten from the bunch. I found this quite difficult as none of them really struck me as being better than the rest (a number struck me as worse) or as having more merit than the others. Some of us had agreed that we would try to grade them on how technically accurate they were. This has been said to be a good short-listing technique but I thought it was a bit stupid sometimes. We all had our own ideas about the criteria pieces had to meet to be in selection but I didn't think any of them met every single one. Everyone else seemed to have found some though, and I guess majority rules. Then, when each small selection group had decided their list, the whole cohort re-gathered to decide on a joint selection. The whole process was much lengthier and drawn out than it should have been and I still have no idea why it had to be so complicated. If this is what professional editors and adjudicators have to go through to get their wage slip then I feel terribly sorry for them. It can't be a pleasant job.

One or two of the pieces I liked made it onto the first selection list, but I was finding it necessary to fall back on personal preference where people seemed to have found something of note, but one or two eventually made it onto the final list. Choosing the included pieces was not easy but it was a drop in the ocean compared to the editing. Even when we finalised the list, it was not definite as we kept changing our minds about which piece we wanted from any given author. At the end, when time was starting to become an issue, pieces were not being picked for their potential but for how much work they needed.

The editing wasn't too bad but I thought it would be. We were all split into editing groups of two or three and given some pieces to edit. The first couple of weeks were spent self-editing. It was one of the hardest parts for me because I have a wandering mind and I kept getting distracted by the content. My editing pair had the following pieces to edit:-

•Lemonade – a poem

•Christmas lights: Haughton – a poem

•Garden of tranquillity – a poem

•The beauty of betrayal – a short story

It was actually easier than I thought to edit these. The most part of the process was taken by simply fixing punctuation and the odd word or tense. Some of the pieces needed to have the odd phrase taken out or added. I say it was easier than the selection and it was really, though it was weird trying to figure out which bits actually needed work. You have to be quite specific in which spellings and mixed metaphors can be allowed to slide as creative license, and about which bits really should be looked at in case readers think you haven't done your job properly.

So, I went through the pieces on my own and flagged up the errors I saw while my editing partner did the same with those works to mark the ones she found. Luckily, I didn't get allocated any of the pieces that had been deemed as requiring a lot of editing. I was grateful for that. But I did change one poem called 'Appointment with death' to another by the same author – the aforementioned 'Garden of tranquillity.' We thought the former piece was bland, technically poor, met none of the standard conventions and the idea behind it had been done to death... and then some. To get it to a standard that seemed acceptable to me seemed like a lot of time and effort. As time was really of the essence now, we decided on the latter work which needed far less time spent on it. The idea and the writing were far superior too – it is a mystery why it wasn't in the original list.

I was quite nervous about meeting the writers of the works we had edited in case they thought their prize pieces had been mercilessly butchered. It's strange to know that previous years have been through exactly the same thing, but quite heartening to know that this endless road has an end point. However, I think most of the other group (who were editing our work) were feeling the same way. No-one ever wants to feel like they are destroying the self-confidence of fellow write-hards, but that's the way it is. Everything has to be edited and there's no getting away from it – shame that it is. It'd be nice to look at every piece of writing that comes our way and say that it is perfect as it is. It can't be like that because we can't learn to be better writers if no-one tells us what we did wrong.

I digress. When I met with my editing partner, we shared our thoughts about the work to be done and, luckily, most of them meshed. I picked up on some things she missed and vice versa. It was good to work together because you may have conflicting ideas on what does and doesn't work. When we had agreed on the proposed changes, we called in the authors of each piece one by one. On the whole, they were quite agreeable to most of the minor changes. There was no problem with these tiny errors which we dismissed mostly as their brains working faster than their computers. Some of the writers had noticed small errors and pointed them out.

We did run across a problem with them when we found that they had been written in a certain format for reasons we had no way of knowing during editing.

Lemonade

This writer wanted to keep two or three stanzas where we thought they should just be scrapped as they were saying the same thing in different ways. It had been agreed by majority vote a while before that the group would respect the author, and let their decision be final. Nothing was said about persuasion. Feeling so strongly that these stanzas seemed somewhat redundant (and I still stand by that) we decided to show the writer how it would look so much better, and sound punchier, without it. She dug her heels in and insisted that she wanted them in because it was very personal and important. That changed things a little and we eventually came to a compromise where those sections were left in but shoved together to create one slightly longer verse. It made the writer happier to know that it was not going to be cut, and we as editors felt that it had been a success in negotiating.

Christmas lights: Haughton

Our first question for this writer was whether Haughton was a real place. I don't think it would have affected the editing – we just wanted to make sure the poem had come from something real and not just a flash of inspiration. It is a real place incidentally. We then asked about the wording, in particular 'kerbcrawlers.' My partner thought it sent out the wrong connotations of men trawling the streets for a moment's fun. I can see where she was coming from because it makes it sleazy, but I thought the writer meant to send that message out as it seems a carefully though out word. The writer had wanted it so I was quite pleased that I'd understood. The punctuation was more or less right, and a couple of words were pluralized where it sounded better if it were singular. We had noticed a bit of a problem at the end where the idea of Christmas returns to simplicity and being Biblical. The writer had slowed things down by playing around with the spacing of the final few lines. We thought it worked better if the lines were cut into four short lines and the fourth stood alone. The author saw that it still slowed it down further and agreed that we should change it.

Garden of tranquillity

This poem had quite a nice ebb and flow to it and at first glance, we didn't think we would find that much we needed to do to it. There was nothing major like deleting big chunks of it but there were quite a few things in need of improvement when we looked closely. The flow was disrupted in one line where there were too few syllables to maintain the rhythm. We offered three of four alternatives that fitted well but didn't change the meaning. The tenses were also a bit confused and we had to write a big note for the writer to take another look at it. Were and was jumped to are and is. Things like that which you wouldn't necessarily pick up on unless you were looking for it. Then again, there are probably mistakes we missed that others would notice instantly. We changed a few words from plurals to singulars and vice versa. It wasn't always technically wrong the way the writer had said it, but it just read better and made more sense if they were changed. After that it was just a matter of going through the punctuation which is so tiring because it means that you as an editor have to try and remember whether each mark should be a hyphen or a comma or a colon. We marked up the correction on the original copy in red and had it emailed to the writer who is on another level. She agreed with all of our corrections.

The beauty of betrayal (formerly Kate's shoes)

I had to get my butcher knife out for this one because a lot of text needed to go. My editing partner and I found an awful lot of writing that just didn't seem to fit well with the main body of the story. There was a section relating to an issue of Cosmo mag that was irrelevant; one that indicated that women couldn't reverse park. There were quite a few other chunks like that and the writer told us that she was very glad we chopped them as she had only written them to fill up the word count. She agreed that we could take them out. I was glad that it was so easy to get the go-ahead to rip it to shreds, to have the person pleased was a happy bonus, but I bet it's not normally this easy. We needed to change the title as, even though Kate's Shoes was straight to the point, we thought it sounded too obvious and boring. It was quite a while before we could find something we all agreed on. It ended as just being a sentence from the story which had been twisted to make a title. We also had to write the ending again as we learnt that much of the final section was increasingly not working. We got the okay to cut the lines that were worst. What was meant to be a simple line rewrite turned into a list of possible solutions to get something punchy and final which rounds it off well. But we found something in the end although I am still not entirely happy with it.

The weighting game (my work)

It was easy to have my work edited but I was slightly surprised that they had chosen this piece. I had sent in two others that I had spent much longer on though I presume they chose this as it is quite personal and is about a very current issue. But I only spent about ten minutes on it – and it needed so few things doing to it. When I am writing, I tend to go through a very basic form of mental self-editing by telling myself if something works or mot. My editors were having a problem with the tenses but, except for one mistake I let them change. I wanted the tenses as they were to show that the mental state of the letter-writer hadn't changed. I think it was quite a difficult concept to grasp because it is a bit different. They wanted to change stuff mostly in grammar, punctuation and spacing. I was okay with that because I knew I was bound to have made errors seens as I did it so quickly. Can't wait to see what it looks like in print!

Weeks wise, the anthology didn't take as long to produce as any other part of the process. However, if you are talking stress levels, effort and hours spent then yes, it was the most arduous part. I barely slept during the final week. I was the IT person which was supposed to mean I was receiving the final edited copies from everyone, putting them in the correct order and sending them to the editor in chief. Didn't quite go to plan...

Some people left it quite late to send me stuff and it was constantly coming at me from all angles. Then some people hadn't done their jobs by the penultimate session, some of them even saying they didn't possess the skills for it. More jobs for me. I don't trust anyone as a rule and I had absolutely no faith fir the group to get it together for the deadline. I think we made the deadline and I'm planning to strop if we lose marks because they missed it. I worked hard with no thanks at all, and spent far longer than is healthy tied to various computers.

Whilst my editing partner and I spent the final session chained to the computer lab getting stuff done, the rest of the group huddled in the ordinary lecture room and proof-read all the pieces. There were bound to be spelling and punctuation mistakes so they were proofed by three different editing groups, then returned to the original editors in case a mistake had been corrected which was a deliberate mistake. When the pieces had been scribbled on and crossed out, they brought them into the computer room so the texts could be corrected on the disk. Truthfully, it wasn't too bad as there were not too many errors anyway. As my partner and I went through them, we automatically proof-read the things we were working on, and found a couple of minor alterations that had managed to slip through the net. Sometimes, your brain does not register a mistake but some-one else will. I don't know if I proof-read on the screen because I knew there would be more errors or just because you simply can't help looking at what is on the screen in front of you. I'm glad I did because it's reduced the amount of mistakes by a tiny amount.

As before stated, certain people were unable to complete their tasks on time. There were communication problems too, but for both personal and technical reasons. For one thing, everyone had to rely on email and attachments to get their edited copies to me and I know how that can break down when it is most needed. In fact, I think email positively enjoys breaking down. I wonder if real editors have to rely on such inventions, I think it must actually make things harder. Also some people had no contact information for others so they had no way of saying if there had been a problem. Some people did not possess the appropriate skills to fulfil their task/s. Until challenged, they did not say and if eel this was a factor in this being a rush job at the end. There weren't any real problems that we could not solve by ourselves which made me proud because we are all mature enough to take on this responsibility. I just wish we had had a better communication system and had therefore not had to wait to the last minute to find out people had been unable to do their parts.

I don't think I would like to edit other peoples' work again because it's far too nerve-wracking to have to keep wondering how these people are going to react to what you're doing. It also rips constantly at your self esteem. Firstly, you end up feeling really, really crap about having to tell a writer that their work is full of mistakes and that it needs a total rewrite before it's acceptable. I guess tact must be a pre-requisite for that kind of job. The second way it hurts your self-esteem is when you have to tell some-one about the corrections and the start digging their heels in and refusing to have any changes, so then you wonder what all the bother of editing was for if they didn't want to know. And then you have to reject the work and hate yourself for destroying a fellow writer's dream. Real editors must hearts and nerves of steel. Editing my own work is heart-rending enough thank you. See, in my work and stuff I have read from other people, there are some brilliant bits that might not fit in the story but are so fabulously well written that it's a crying shame to get rid of them. However, editing is a brutal job and you have to sacrifice some really outstanding writing to make way for the most important bit – the story.

All in all, for a first go, I think my group have done quite well in trying to bring this project to life. I'm sure we have not been the most organised team ever, but everyone did some work towards the end product and it all got finished on time.

Editing

n : putting something (as a literary work or a legislative bill) into acceptable form

Reference list

Lemonade – Tamara Young

Christmas lights: Haughton – Susan Smith

Garden of tranquillity – Ann Cullen

The beauty of betrayal - Jan Summerfield

The weighting game – Wendy Maddocks

TUTOR NOTES-

This was rather an unbalanced piece of work. You spent a lot of time on editing decisions but there was really very little on selection in your report. You didn't include criteria for selection or discuss individual pieces in detail. When you got onto the editing you went into greater detail but didn't quote from the poems or story to support your editing decisions. It's absolutely vital when discussing detailed specifics to make clear exactly what you are referring to and show what it is you wish to replace and why.

The other thing missing in this report was any wider contextualisation from outside commentators on editing or selection. You didn't even mention John Alcock's decisions in his competition ruling. There was no mention of manuals on editing and no references to theories of writerly and readerly approaches.

Your tone was not really appropriate for an editor's report. Slang phrases like 'crap' and 'and then some' don't really have a place in a more formal piece of work like this. Vivid phraseology is fine; but it needs to be placed in a more seriously written context.

MARK-52

Just another girl

While I was working as an agent, I lived with a guy for a while. It was Jack Sneed; stage name Jake Smile. I ended up managing him more than his career in the end. Sometimes, it seemed as though Jake was on some kind of self destruct mission. Anyway, I saw some things while I was there. Stuff he might not want me to talk about.

See, Jake has always given the impression that he's a very private person but he's not. If you ask him a question, he'll answer it as honest as he can. But he's a rocker so, you know, bullshitting comes second nature to him. There are just some things he doesn't want getting out because... well, because they might hurt other people he said but I've never seen him do anything to help anyone else. He won't even spring a few hundred grand to get his sister off the council estate. Not wanting this getting out, he's just covering his own back.

Ever heard the phrase 'effortlessly beautiful?' It was created for Jake. He gets wasted every night, though his stopped the drugs mostly, and eats either too much or too little. And he still looks good. He's carrying a few extra pounds, the wrong side of forty, sometimes rides a motorbike. But he's got shoulder-length brown hair (going silver now), his muscles are still there and the most winning smile in Britain. He could have his pick of the ladies to share his bed and he sometimes does. It's not just the fact that he looks great, he's got a brilliant mind too. He had a few big hits in the early nineties and just went into retreat when he stopped topping the charts. When he puts his mind to it, he can come out with the most lovely words and lyrics you've ever heard. But he rarely does that, nor get back behind a piano. When he does though, it's like watching a teenager who's just found a new love. I think he loves playing as much as I love listening to him.

For years and years, Jake has done nothing but sit on his fattening backside and live off royalties and repeat fees (he did a bit of acting back when he was the big thing.) Occasionally, there were bright days when he might pick up a pen or sit behind the piano and start churning out the riffs and melodies like he had never stopped, but I don't recall a single song that ever got finished while I was there. The fact that he hadn't produced any new material in over a decade didn't stop people from idolising him though. Whether he wanted it or not, Jake Smile was still famous and people still listened to his music. They always wanted one more go, to hear him one last time, find out if he's as good as he used to be. That's probably why he did it.

Somehow, he got himself roped into performing at this charity gig – AIDS or something like that. He probably heard there was free food.

So... there we were. At this big concert hall, backstage eating the fastfood they brought us. There was a keyboard in the corner where Jake could rehearse his pieces before he went out. At that moment, it was more of a rack for his clothes than anything. I had a mouthful of burger when he turned to me.

"Bring me a groupie."

"Okay. But you need to decide what to play tonight."

"What do you reckon I should play?" He looked at the keyboard.

"Why did you pick the piano? I mean, most boys would pick the guitar or drums, anything loud. Why not you?"

"I like the piano. It's different innit? I mean, this... you can play anything you want and you'll never forget it." To prove the point, he brushed his clothes aside and switched the keyboard on. If those clothes got dirty or ripped, he'd have to go on stage in his jeans and denim jacket. Not the Smile stage outfits of old but it probably would work. Everything worked for him. "I'm playing one of my new ones."

"I thought you hadn't finished anything yet."

"I haven't," he shrugged. The most beautiful music started to come from the keyboard. How he could come up with something that... wow! is anyone's guess. Especially when he barely touches his own piano. "This is a beautiful instrument. You can bang the keys until they're all to cock or you can brush the keys so lightly it barely feels you. But, and this is the important bit," he waggled a finger at me. "It'll always love you, always produce for you."

There was a knock at the door. I jumped and spilled my pint in the process; Jake hardly reacted at all. It was as if he'd been expecting it. When the door opened, I sort of thought he had. There was a girl, a young lady really, probably in her twenties. She was carrying a spiral notebook which said AUTOGRAPHS on the front and a digital camera around her neck.

"Well well, well. Hi there."

"Mr Smile? Jake? I'm sorry to interrupt but when I heard you were here..."

A fan. A young, female fan who must have been all of about seven when he was big. Jake was leaning over the keyboard, practically foaming at the mouth to 'put her at ease.'

"You had your first number one on the day I was born." Nineteen, then. I clocked a jewelled ring (engagement, looked like) when she came in. Nineteen seemed awful young to get married. I don't think Jake had too much of a moral dilemma at potentially wrecking it for her. "I'm Fay, by the way."

"Fay by the way? Do you write poetry?"

She laughed and put her book and camera down next to me. The fake Smile smile has faded away and he has replaced it with the wide smile that tells me he's got her just where he wants her. "I've loved your music since then. My mother raised me right." She grinned back at him.

My watch said half-past eight and he was due on stage around nine. Damned if I was gonna leave him now. Jake grinned at the kid, one of those smile that make most women go weak at the knees. Maybe they all get presented with the million pound grin when they make number one? "You've got half an hour Jake," I warned him. But charity gigs always run late so he had a bit longer really. He stood up and reached out to Fay. She flinched away – sensible girl considering.

"I'd get ready to go on stage if I were you." Sure enough, a mechanical voice crackled over the PA straight after, to give Jake his ten minute warning. He goes back to his keyboard to practice with no hesitation. Fay is sitting opposite me, has been making small talk with Jake, mostly about his music and how nothing's been the same since he quit.

"My mom would go nuts if she knew I was here. She thinks you'll lead me astray, into your world of fast careers, faster cars and speed of night love. Said it's all in the genetics but she has other ideas."

"Well, it was nice to meet you Fay." Maybe that'll get rid of her so he can concentrate on his set but I was too optimistic. All she does is settle back in the seat and watch as he starts practising again. But it's not the awe I feel, not the feeling of being in the presence of an awesome musician. She watches with the quiet half-interest of some-one whose hopes have been dashed.

"It's a Casio," Jake explains. Well, he thinks he's explaining. "I learnt my first scales on one of these planks."

"Mom said he was like this. She told me to stay away."

One hand still fingering a tune out of this revered Casio, Jake is hopping around and trying to get into the purple PVC jacket he needs for stage. He barely even registers me or Fay, so... entranced by his new melody. To him, Fay being here means almost nothing, but not quite that much. He's had girls lining up before, wanting a bit of action. I mean, everyone wants to sleep with a rockstar. It's the ultimate. Why should Fay be any different from any of the others?

"Jake Smile to stage please. Final call."

He opens the door and disappears around the corner. We wave and wish him luck.

It's over half on hour before he comes back, claiming that his performance went down so well they called for two encores. I reckon he went to the backstage bar. Fay thought about going to watch when he went on but she didn't think she could get back here again. Tells me she'll wait. Which is good – I mean Jake is getting back on the horse again, why wouldn't I want him distracted by a pretty young girl?

"So, where were we?" he says, draping one sticky arm over her shoulder.

She ducks out from him, the squelch of the sweaty rubber peeling from flesh audible and revolting, and sits down again. "We didn't get anywhere. You were too busy with that dumb keyboard."

"And now I'm all yours again, sweetheart." Only his gaze keeps drifting back to that keyboard, like he's trying to keep away from it. Okay, I want him to get back to music, it's gonna be less destructive than getting to know Fay.

She twists her engagement ring around on her finger with the tip of her tongue out like a kid concentrating hard on her school work. It's a red stone – ruby, I think.

"I'm getting married next spring. Really nice guy. Aaron, his name is."

"I won't tell if you don't."

She looks at him with really hazel eyes, deep enough you could swim in them. So like... "You have to be there."

"I don't sing at weddings."

"No, I'm not asking you to sing. God, that's de embarrassing. I'm a traditionalist, you know, big and flouncy church do. But there's another tradition."

"And I don't play church organ." Never figured out the difference between church organ and a normal one. So, maybe he could play? Anyway.

"I need my father to give me away. That's why I need you there."

Jake moves away from her pretty damn sharp. "You what?"

"You're my father. You left my mother just after she found out she was expecting. She said you were about to get a recording contract. You put your career before your family." Jake put his career before everything, well, up until a few years ago when getting wasted emerged the front runner. She'd come to learn that – assuming she stuck around that long. "You usually try to sleep with anything in a skirt."

"Ah, good old tabloids. Gotta love 'em!"

Fay shook her head and looked at me, eyes begging for help. Hell, no! I was staying out of this if it killed me. Jake picked out a sweet little tune on the high end of the keyboard, probably just trying to keep his hands busy.

"So... put the awesome Jake Smile in a room with the daughter he never knew he had and some piano thing and..?"

He sighs and dry washes his face. "What do you want, honey? I'm just a music man, not some goddam father figure." He stared at her and shuffled his feet. It's the closest I ever saw him to nervous. Everything went quiet for a minute – felt like the air was tingling with all these unsaid words. Fay bent down and picked up all her crap, then she touched my arm, "Nice to meet you," and swung out of the door.

I think Jake was a bit shocked 'cos he had this weird look at first but he soon masked it with his usual complacent and cocky glare.

"How did... is she... when did... if you...?" I was completely incapable of forming any whole questions but I think he knew what I wanted to know. Contrary to common belief, rockers are slightly more perceptive than breeze blocks.

"It's not the first time I've had kids make out they're long lost relatives. They all want a taste of this life." He shrugs and drops down into one of the beanbags in the corner. "Now... Me and her'll both get our names dragged through the press. Probably get shunned by her mom, whether it's true or not. Publicity, see. Me, I get a number one next month and a few million out of it."

"What about this wedding business?"

He just shrugged but I got the impression he was thinking about going along.

Writer's notes

I chose to do a version of Agafya because I liked the idea in the story and knew instantly what it could be rewritten as. Also, it was one of the first ones we studied on the first day school and it kind of stuck in my head.

I was very confused about how to go about this assignment – many of the group have also expressed concern over writing this. I simplified it to an update which kept to the same ideas and themes but in a different context.

When I saw the story, the idea of a fading rocker and his girls just hit me like a sucker punch. I enjoyed writing it and creating the world. It was also pretty easy as it is quite a current topic with all these kiss and tell and celebrity exclusives.

The tenses in this piece are constantly jumping from past to present and that was hard to do. By nature, I find a tense and stick with it but I figured I should keep it raw to give it that feel of 'this story isn't being told by an English student. He's just a music agent.'

Agafya could probably been adapted in several other ways but I wanted to stay close to this idea of truth and consequence, lies and distractions. Interesting.

Could have included stream of consciousness stuff. That's a big writing tool now, but it isn't gonna fit the story. Dialogue could have been better, I think good writing gives characters their own style. Think I did but I'm kinda biased.

It's hard enough to be impartial about original work but when you're having a bash a somebody else's, then you're always hyper-conscious about doing it justice. Least, that's how it is for me – I tend too stray too far from the idea or I make it too similar. It can be really tricky to get the balance right.

TUTOR NOTES-

The characters and situation you have chosen for your updated version work well. In particular as regards the Savka character and the narrator, but it is hard to see the link to the Chekhov story in terms of plot and theme. Are implying that Fay's mother was once a kind of Agafya? You are not able to show directly i.e. through action, the effect of Jake Smile on the women who find him irresistible, the nature of their obsession, or the personal price they have to pay. Ref. The title of Chekhov's story and the fate of the title character.

You mention the viewpoint issues and verb tense, in particular, in your writer's notes. You need a strategy and a clear rationale. What are you gaining? If you are to explore experimental narrative techniques such as frequent verb tense shifts. It is unclear what you are aiming for – psychological realism? Inconsistent variations won't achieve this; they merely distract the reader and 'break the illusion'.

The tone is the real strength of the piece, and I would strongly recommend that you develop a similar narrator in future prose pieces.

MARK-57

THE BIG 'C'

ONE

Are you really ready for a relationship? What kind of coffee are you? Test your powers of attraction. Listen to your rhythm. Do you want to find your true colour? Fuck, I'm so glad I'm not a bird. Or gay. Yeah, I bet all the gays have to read this shit. Like a girly test or something. I did one of these things one time, some compatibility test Laura got from Cosmopolitan or Manhattan or something. If I was naming a magazine after a cocktail, it'd be a good one like Screwdriver.

Name – Jay Carter. Age – 27. Fair enough, yeah? But then it was asking all this stuff about her, like her favourite song and what desserts she liked. How am I gonna know any of that? I mean do I look like a conversational bloke? I could have told them whether she likes to be on top in bed but no! It has to be about talking and sharing and being open with all this feelings bollocks. Oh and the best one, yeah: Is your partner truly happy in the relationship? Well, she's still here, innit? Well... we get 32 on the test and she says we failed. I thought it was pretty good since she was just a quick shag at first. It was just a one-off in the beginning, and she just... I dunno. It's like the ironing board. You know it's there but it never moves so you just sort of accept it.

Where was I? Oh yeah, this test, she makes me take it again 'cos she reckons I was just messing around first go. Fail. Then she goes mental, like she's on the rag again.

"I AM NOT ON THE PISSING RAG!"

But she always gets emotional when she's on one. Anyway, she reckoned we had to have 'a little chat.' A Nazi interrogation would've fitted better. Between women and gay blokes, why do we need the army? The gays could bitch at 'em and the birds'd make 'em cry. So, we have this third degree talk and I'm trying so fucking hard to look interested. So hard I turn the footie off – and United are playing tonight. But she doesn't notice this gesture of my love or as my mate might say,

"She's got you pussy whipped dog." Why Mikey calls me dog, I dunno. I mean, he ain't black or a Yank or nothing. Whatever.

Listening to her was easy enough but actually being interested and caring? I got enough of my own problems to worry about ta very much. So she's had a hard day and she feels taken for granted and the relationship has lost the fire and she wants counselling and – Woah, woah, woah, hang about.

Counselling?

"Baby, baby, babe. Sweetheart. Chill a sec." She's flipped out. No idea why. I mean counselling is not a word you use lightly in front of a bloke. "What's wrong with us? I thought we were good together." Honestly, I didn't but that's not the thing you say to the car park shag who never left. Not if you're attached to your testicles anyway.

"We never seem to talk anymore." She starts stroking these red velvet curtains she insisted on like they do in all the books – like she's trying to copy all these women in anguish. How the hell do you know if you're in anguish anyway? D'you wake up and say, 'oh, forgive me father for I am in anguish'? "Jay! Listen to me. Our relationship practically revolves around sex and what time we get to bed. It's not healthy."

Well, I can't see nothing wrong with that. Sex is an important part of any relationship. Apparently.

"I want to be able to share your thoughts and dreams. Don't you wanna share mine?"

Not really. "Your thoughts should be private. I'd be intruding on your life if I knew them." Thank God for American TV. "Anything else?"

I only asked what else was wrong but the way she went off... you'd think I smudged her nail varnish or something! Or not noticed she's had her hair dyed a whole shade darker. And yeah, I actually did notice that.

"Seriously Jay..." I couldn't hear the rest of what she said partly 'cos she went out the room and partly 'cos the UEFA match in my head was more interesting. "What do you think?"

I was meant to be listening to her? I've got a good 'I'm paying attention really' face – damn it! "Erm... okay, I guess." Got no idea what I just said okay to but she seems happy enough.

"You think we need help too. I'll phone Dr Thorn tomorrow." Shit, bugger, fuck. I just agreed to relationship counselling! "We need to get this relationship back on track." I'm still not sure how or when me and her became a relationship.

"I don't think we need it though, honey. It's not like we're in trouble or anything. There's no problems we can't sort out ourselves."

"There are a million problems with us! Small, okay, but they ain't goin' nowhere!"

"You drop the ends of words when you're angry. It used to be cute!"

"Don't try and change the fuckin' subject! You said okay to therapy and now you're going back on your word!"

"Fuck yes I'm going back on my word! I don't want counselling, we don't need counselling, and I'm not goin' to fucking counselling." There is no way on this Earth that I'm paying a ton an hour for some quack to tell us our relationship is suffering from a communication breakdown – whatever the hell that is.

I can't be around her when were both angry so I end up grabbing my coat and wallet and going to the pub with a shoe chucked at me head. I've made my position clear though. All them assertiveness techniques my mom used to test on me must've rubbed off on me. God, there's a thought you never want! I'm downing pints with Mikey calling me a pussy-whipped dog, knowing I can get back at chucking out time to the most phenomenal apology sex ever as she makes up for her stupid-arse therapy idea.

So, explain to me exactly how I came to be researching directions to Dr Thorns office.

Trust me, yeah, Googling for directions with a bangin' headache is not the best way to spend the morning after United get to the quarter finals. It ain't the way I planned the day anyway. I figured sleep, shag and shower. She reckons powernap, aspirin and computer. Sadistic bitch.

Anyway, I obliged and got to work – okay, not by choice. Me? Go to The C Word voluntarily? 'Cos that'd happen.

"Laura, babe. Why are we doing this?"

"Because we need help if we're going to save this... this thing we have. And I'm not even sure it's a relationship anymore. The only thing we share is a bed. You even hog the covers."

God, it's too early in the afternoon for this. "No, I meant this. Why am I finding a route to this Thorny freak while you sit there wrecking my CD collection?"

I don't know if you've noticed it but birds have evolved and developed Looks. Looks that'd make Charles Darwin proud. Right now, Laura's picking out discs at random – or in some God-forsaken chick-sequence – opening it then driving her long nails down the important side... just like she used to drag 'em down my back. And the Look... it's one of them you're-so-fucking-dumb-how-did-you-get-out-of-primary-school ones. "Laur, it was a quiz, just a piece o' crap. Why're you takin' it so serious?"

Previous look with hints of you're-a-typical-bloke-never-cares-about-me and she is deff on the rag. Any minute now there's gonna be waterworks.

"Things haven't been right between us for a while and..." blah blah blah. Chick talk about feelings again. I'm not the emotional type – that's gays and girls territory, yeah – but FUCK! She's got hold of the Singapore import of Kill 'Em All. You just don't nail Metallica to death. Hell of a way to go though" "You bitch!"

"This is how I feel Jay. Something important to me might never work again.. it's scratched and broken and ripped apart on the inside."

Told you there'd be tears. Didn't I warn ya? "Do you know what that CD cost or how long it took me to get it? Nah, course not. To you, it's just another thing not worth your time."

"I want it to be worth my time, Jay, I really do."

She's not talking about the CD anymore, is she? Wish she wouldn't do complicated things like that when I got half a bottle of JD in me. So, I did the grown-up thing and ignored her for the next hour by playing nothing but Solitaire as she had her little cry. I don't do tears, okay?

She's just about to start on my Meat Loaf collection when I print her the directions to this psycho-quack. I don't need some bloke telling me what's right and wrong and giving us weirdo couple therapy which involves either sharing fantasies about Miss Piggy from the Muppets, or walking a mile in each others shoes, but it's a small price to pay for my signed copy of Bad Attitude. I call it Damage Limitation.

"It's about time you put in some work on this."

Now she wants me to alphabetise my music collection when she's massacred most of it. Don't get woman logic and thank shit for it. It sounds kinda scary... "Why?"

"You need a system. A proper one. You'll never find what you want without a system."

"Babe, I have a system. It's called looking through until you find it."

"I'm going to book us an appointment with Dr Thorn right now." Fine. It's fine. Absolutely fine.

TWO

So we're driving down to the psycho-quacks office in the pink Beetle she insisted we buy 'cos it's 'soooooo cute.' And she's bitchin' about my music in the stereo but I reckon she's just pissed that she didn't get to this lot. Or it's PMT, or PMS, or whatever the hell they call it.

"Look, if I've gotta sit in this bloody Barbie-mobile, I think I'm entitled to some decent tunes." I'm trying to be all calm and rational like the bloke on the telly said. But she gives me one of them looks only women can do – you know, the ones that contain an entire conversation in a glance. This is the don't-you-dare-start-a-row-with-me-or-I'll-stab-you-in-both-eyes-with-a-blunt-pair-of-scissors. Fair enough.

"We'll be late."

What is it with birds and time? I mean, if Laura ain't twenty minutes early for everything, she's late.

"Are we lost? We're lost aren't we? You had the directions. I saw you get the directions."

"Chill, babe. We'll get there." I put a hand on her shoulder and she just freezes. She gives me the don't-fucking-touch-me-if-you-value-your testicles. I take my hand off her 'cos I'm quite attached to me bollocks. She used to like 'em too but we've barely touched each other since the CD Incident. What I don't get, apart from women in general and I never figured out why you never see adverts for spoons, is how this all blew up from some magazine quiz. A magazine named after a cocktail! And not even a good one like Slow Passionate Screw.

"We need to get petrol on the way back," I tell her. Stick to facts, it's safest. "Shove the other CD in, will ya?" Shit, I knew it was a mistake asking that. Bye bye Def Leppard – never knew you could fly. A huge bit of me wants to get revenge on her Enya or Ace of Base or Fido. But what's the point, yeah? I'm going to counselling anyway.

It starts raining then and I just know the folding roof won't come up quick enough. Even the gods hate me. Fair dos, never really liked them either. See, Laura did the logical chick thing and brought a jacket because she listened to the weather forecast. Why the fuck do they do that? I mean, looking out the window is good enough for the rest of us and it was sunny then so I wore a t-shirt. But, even if i brought a jacket... how gay would it look to be driving a pink VW in a leather? Village People gay. Naturally, she waits until I'm soaked to the skin before she puts the roof up – selfish bitch – and I can tell she's laughing at me 'cos she turned her face away but her tits are still jiggling like two fat blokes on a seesaw. I want the underground parking but she wants us to get the first space we see. "My shirt's stuck to me. No way am I walking round like this."

"Parking in the middle of Birmingham is bad enough as it is – there won't be a space left if we go round again." She wins a-bloody-gain and I pull into the space down by Markses. Picture the scene okay, me looking like I just stepped out of a wet t-shirt contest, getting out of a Barbie pink car, getting high heels (her walking shoes) out the boot. Picture of straightness today!

"It's this way. Come on."

Yes dear. Lock Blossom up and – why do they have to give everythin' a name anyway? I just follow her down the road. I could go off but where could I go without using the Barbie-mobile?

Dunno where we go but I think it's near the big library. There's this door in the wall with no sign. I'm all gentlemanly and open the door for her but I don't even get a ta. How mad at me is she? She goes to sign us in and my phone starts blastin' the Match Of The Day tune. The dirty looks I got – you'd think I killed their dogs! It was Mikey. "Alright mate?"

"Pub now. Hair of the dog."

"Can't. I'm at that therapy place."

"Like shit you are!"

"I am. Had to go, she got her hands on my CDs."

"Signed ones? She's fuckin' nuts!"

"I know. I'm not thrilled about being here but whatever."

"You don't need it. As long as she crawls back into your bed at night, it's all good."

"Mikey, you're married. You don't understand relationships."

"God, my heads bangin'!"

"Stop being a pussy. Meet you in the pub tonight."

See that's all a phone needs to be used for. Quick, economical conversations. Not the five hours of crap birds have about Bree's choice of carpet reflected Desperate Housewives season 3 mentality. Fuck it! I'm starting to sound like one of 'em now – it's this place.

Laura comes and sits down but won't even look at me. Got this idea she's judging where I hide the rest of the CDs. Knows how to hold a grudge, don't she? "What are we doing?"

"Waiting for the counsellor?"

"Be serious, Jay." I thought I was. "Why is this thing we have so incredibly destructive?"

"Dunno. Maybe 'cos we ain't meant to live together. Screw around, yeah, but not bed-share." Deep and meaningful, yeah. Come to daddy! She'll be putty in my hands tonight – like she is most nights.

"We are supposed to be together. We were meant to buy a house and have kids and –"

Thank shit for a receptionist calling our names. Granted, i never thought i'd be grateful to see a Saddam lookalike, post-death, but I am. He tells us to go through and she grabs hold of my arm as we go. I try and shrug her off but the chick's got a grip like a Venus flytrap. How the hell should I know why she's holding on to me but it's the most physical contact we've had since the night of the Failed Test. I mean, i failed some exams at school – summat to do with not turning up – and not even Mom reacted this bad! "Scared?"

"Piss off, Jay!"

Huh? Perfectly innocent question, right. And now she's giving me the you're-so-dumb-even-George-Bush-would-look-down-at-you. ""S'cold, Laur. No need for that." I dunno about you but i take a fence (get it?) at being likened to Bush... who's a damn sight less intelligent than the hamster I buried when i was seven. "Let go of me. You wanted to come here now face up to it."

"I wanted to be here? How on Earth can you say that? Of course i never wanted to come here. It's down to you Jay." When did this become my fault? Well, it's always the guy's fault, innit? "You left me with no other choice – you know that. Now, let's just get it over with, okay?"

Yeah, 'cos I'm gonna argue. I'm startin' to wonder if this corridor ever ends 'cos her grip on me's cuttin' off the circulation to me arm. And it's my right arm – i do all my favourite things with that arm. We eventually get to door 4B and walk through the door. No doctor waiting. I look around at these posh diplomas and degrees – BSc in Psychological Theories and Practices, MSc in Therapeutic Studies. Like hell the quack-man did all this shit. Bet counselling ain't even a real subject.

"Clever."

"Bet half o' these were knocked up in Publisher."

"Stop being silly." Laura sits down on one of them stupid-arse beanbags they all have on the telly and looks up at me with big, blue eyes. She looks like akid and i don't want her to grow up into this beautiful and vindictive bitch she is. Blonde hair and high heels. "Did you know, we met a year and a half ago today."

Nah, course I didn't know it was 18 months but trust a bird to remember every date ever. I remembered her birthday. What more does she want? "Psychological torment is a good gift on your planet? You mental woman!" And I know there's a row coming – another one for me to lose – but the door slams open before she can start anythin'.

Writer's notes

I had the bloke-lit genre more chosen for me than decided upon myself. I just turned out to have made a pretty good first attempt at it, but up until that point, I was adamant I was going to do childrens writing. I had the story and characters ready to be written.

I read a book once called Goodnight Steve McQueen, and I decided I was going to use that as my main point of call when writing. It was quite easy for me to write as a man at times because I'm more blokified (can that word go in the dictionary?) and I have a lot of male friends. So it was quite easy to slip into my masculine side for a while.

After reading around it a little, I've noticed the big thing is these new-age, metrosexual blokes having minor crises, or blokes going on some big emotional journey to become better me. As far as I'm concerned, that's chick-lit with a man's name. Myself, i think it's high time we had a return to men as Neanderthals and doing anything for a quiet life. Not to portray the average man as pond life but to get back to some good, old honesty in writing.

That's the biggest 'rule' I wanted to bend backwards. I like challenging everything but writing bloke-lit, there really aren't that many rules. If you do it really well... sod the rules 'cos anything goes.

The story is basically about a young guy who's being pressured into relationship counselling by the girlfriend he never really wanted. He's torn between wanting to keep her happy and not destroying his CD collection, his best friend who thinks a few pints and footie on Sky is the universal solution and himself.

I wanted to get a picture of how blokes felt about counselling if their relationship went bad so i asked a few people. The consensus was they'd do it if it kept her happy. I think I'm also going to have to find out what goes on in couple therapy!

About halfway through the story comes a crisis point and something terrible has to happen to one of the characters. I want to challenge the issue of disability really badly and ponder the lack of decent cripple porn on the net. I guess that's one avenue I could explore.

In fact, i made one of them disabled from the start but I quickly realised it was a huge mistake to drop a bomb like that so early so I had to rewrite nearly two pages. It's important that these problems are identified fast.

My characters are quite stereotypical in how they are presented. I was sort of frightened of making them too different because I didn't know if I could get away with it.

The final outcome isn't definite in my own mind yet but I am wary about making it cliché and new-man. There are too many of them already. This has to stay classic-man.

I set it in Birmingham as almost all novels in this genre are set in London and, you know, people in the rest of the country have novel-worthy lives. I also know how the Birmingham road system for disabled people works which is going to play a role too.

The story is littered with swearing and bad English and people dropping the ends of words. I know I can get away with it to an extent but this is meant to be a guy telling this story and he doesn't strike as being too highly educated.

Goodnight Steve McQueen is a good book and shows that women can write decent bloke-lit though I usually favour male writers across the board. Nick Hornby is a good starting point for the genre but the best-observed novels seem to be by less prolific writers and I tried to shy away from reading more than the odd few pages here and there.

TUTOR NOTES-

CHAPTERS – Great voice for your protagonist. Misogynist or what? I think your decision to go along with the unregenerate bloke is interesting, though there is a danger it will all stay on the same note. You have strong shades of Clarkson and Top Gear built in her and I think you've done it very well. But now you need to find somewhere to go with it.

We need to see him develop as a character. He must either move away from his girlfriend's stereotypical behaviour and find some-one more individual and interesting, or deepen and change the relationship he already has. Your idea of a terrible accident sounds very promising – it could change them both in fascinating ways. But you need to either move the relationship forward right now or bring the accident forward to Chapter 3.

WRITER'S NOTES – Some good insights into your process, but I would have welcomed more analysis of the models you used so as to show how the original stories and styles worked.

MARK-66

The ghost in the attic

"Golly Jane!" exclaimed George. "I haven't seen you in an awfully long time. We shall have some fun, shan't we?"

Jane watched Hector, the odd-job man, lift her trunk high above him and into the old house. She nodded. "I just know I'll miss Mummy and Daddy while they're away but it was lovely of your parents to have me here."

"Soon, we'll be having so much fun that you won't even have time to think about them."

It was a hot, summers day and Jane had decided to wear shorts. It was a shame because she had wanted to walk down to that old wood at the end of the garden, but she was afraid of scratching herself and having sore legs for the rest of the holiday. "These are beautiful gardens, Cousin George. You're so lucky to be living here!"

"I know. But, at least I have you to share it with now," he said and raced her up the side steps. He had to le Jane win because she was a girl and slower than him anyway. "How did you find the journey down here?"

"Oh, it was very hot, as you might imagine. But Hector and I saw such lovely countryside and plenty of farm animals in the fields." She looked around at the boxes and crates around. "Are you not helping to unpack?

George smiled and called for his own parents. "Of course not. Hector and the maid help with the housework."

A minute or two later, a pair of shoes clicked down the stairs and down the hall. A woman of maybe fifty rushed up to Jane and swept her up. "My darling Jane! My, how you've grown!"

"Aunty Gwen. How lovely to see you. Before i forget, i must thank you for letting me stay here."

"We wouldn't dream of it any other way. We couldn't let strangers take you in while your parents are in Africa." And Africa was no place for a little girl. Aunty Gwen pushed her greying hair back beneath her headscarf and twisted the dust rag in her hands. "We're just glad you wanted to come."

George spoke up. "Mother, Jane said she will miss her parents."

"Well, that is true George. She will miss them."

"But soon we shall be having so much fun, she shan't have time to feel very sad."

After a moment, Jane nodded. She knew her cousin was right but this house was so big she probably would not be able to help but feel lonely and homesick.

"Well, there are lots of rooms we have not cleaned yet – I'm sure you two will find some adventure to have in one of them. I must get back to my work now." Aunty Gwen turned round and clicked off down the hallway, kicking up enough dust behind her to make both children cough.

George led her up the back stairs to what would be her own room for another month. He saw that Hector has wetted his finger and drawn a big J in the dust on the door. "You must meet my new friend Henry. He gets scared of things sometimes but he is jolly good fun!"

Jane was looking forward to it. It would be so nice to have more than one person to play with. But suddenly she remembered something she had learned on the way down. "Hector told me on the coach that this house is haunted. Oh, do tell me it's true. Do!"

It would be mighty difficult for a house this old not to have a ghost or two, wouldn't it? "I don't know if it's true or not," he admitted. "But it will be ripping good fun finding out!"

(In the style of Enid Blyton)

Shot after dark

It was after midnight when I met Macey in downtown New York. I knew we would meet in a bar with the door falling off the hinges, a selection of beaten up furniture and bullet holes in every wall. Those places called to him like a whore to her pimp. I guess it helped that many of those holes had been put there by Macey himself – it was probably like coming home for him.

I was grumpy at being called out so late but I knew the pay-off would fill my wallet the way a seventeen-year-old mugger fills his boots; quickly, easily, profusely. Vaguely, I wondered what kind of case he was going to set me up with but I wasn't really bothered. In the car lot, I saw his Plymouth Belvedere parked between a Honda Civic and a bollard and a gang of teens were spraying POSH FAGIT on his bonnet. I should do something about. I did. I corrected the spelling then crossed the road to find the bar.

There were a couple of call girls there fawning over dealers like there was no tomorrow. There were a number of petty criminals I'd passed in the street and a woman behind the bar yelling at Jim, the owner. I saw Macey at the far end of the bar nursing a large whiskey and what looked like a headache as big as an eighteen-wheeler. There was a mirror behind him, smashed into splinters though the neon sign of the pole dancer was glowing happily away.

"What you got for me?" Small talk was for women and kids.

He looked at me a bit too innocently – a sure sign of guilt in my game. "I ain't got nothing'. Why would I have anything?" It was going to be a hell of a night. I had to tread careful if I was going to get anything out of him – I'd forgotten that he probably had a dozen stolen Amex cards in his pocket. "Nothing," he said again.

"Nice car you got over there." Guess small talk was for thieves too. "New?"

He shrugged and swirled the drink around his glass. We spoke for a few minutes about regular stuff like the Yankees game last night. Things seemed a bit calmer and i thought about asking him why I was here. Then it went off like a pinball machine. One of the dealers decided the girls had said something he didn't like and crashed his chair to the floor. He produced a baseball bat and smashed most of the furniture beyond recognition. The mirror I'd been using to look up the blonde girls skirt shook so hard that the bigger pieces fell from the wall. One man headed for the door while the others waded into the fight, magically coming up with weapons from everywhere. The bar was filled with screaming and shouting and grown men fighting over God knew what. It sure as hell wasn't the hookers honour.

I turned back to resume my conversation but Macey had whippeted out of there like he had a bee on his ass. Smart move.

(In the style of Raymond Chandler)

Pastiche notes

Hasn't worked, has it?

First off, I felt really guilty about doing pastiches at all as it felt a bit too close to ripping off a style someone has worked hard to cultivate. So I don't think I'll be doing it again – at least not by choice.

Although it was fairly easy to choose who to choose (Enid Blyton because I have been reading her books since I was tiny, but both have clear styles) it was hard to get in the mindset of writing like it isn't me. I suppose it's how a ghost-writer feels.

I dint think either piece can be believed to be by the respective author, particularly not to the trained eye, but it's so hard for me to remove myself entirely from the piece. I think my own voice flavoured the pieces somewhat, though I did go through each one with a fine toothed comb to try and get rid of me.

I wouldn't have chosen pastiches if I had thought it would be so difficult but I'm glad I chose this option. I might not have learned much about the act of writing if I hadn't.

I was asked to do a similar task many years ago and I could not even get my head round it then. Even now, I have my old trouble of knowing exactly where to draw the line between pastiche and parody. There's copying something and identifying it, then there's exaggerating it which is where I tend to end up.

I know really skilled people can tell the difference between pastiche and original but I don't think you necessarily need to be a genius all the time. I've done my best to satisfy the assignment and it was a giggle pretending to be someone else for a bit, to tell someone else's stories. But, in future, I'd like to write as me though.

TUTOR NOTES-

It's pretty hard not to do a parody of Enid Blyton, and I think you've probably strayed over into that territory. But you have nevertheless done a good job here and the style was instantly recognisable.

The Chandler also strayed into parody, and I think your sense of humour can't quite allow you to do a serious pastiche. But your writing was crisp and clear and moved the story along in a pacy way.

I like your determination to follow your own trail, but I do think that your ability to write in these two very different styles was impressive and effective.

Your writing has really come on. Your next step is probably to do some serious work on plot. Your style is accomplished, your characterisation good, now you need to pay attention to planning story development and making changes of tone and pace – the long game.

MARK-67

Analyse the extent to which two of the contemporary stories

introduced on the course treats the idea that the traditional short

story should be plausible, have exposition, development, drama,

be romantic and be individualistic. Choose two of the above to explore.

In his book, The Lonely Voice, Frank O'Connor describes the traditional short story as having the above qualities as well as be intransigent and often concerning outlawed figures living on the fringes of society. To this, we can probably add that short stories are not as short as many people believe. It is true that the stories referred to here are relatively short, though O'Connor observes quite accurately that short stories are not always that short – a fact we see evidenced in short fiction of recent times which seem to be just short of a novel. The general idea of the short story is to give the readers an insight to a world largely idealised and romanticised – an idea we will come back to later – and based upon supposition.

Although quite far apart in terms of when they were written, both Kew Gardens by Virginia Woolf and The Girl I Left Behind Me by Muriel Spark are rather similar in the respect that they are romanticising certain events, but incredibly different in that the stories are at entirely opposite ends of the plausibility spectrum.

Kew Gardens was written in 1917 following a visit with Katherine Mansfield who foreshadowed the story by days when she asked:-

'who is going to write about the flower garden... There

would be people walking in the garden - several pairs

of people — their conversation their slow pacing — '

She also offers a short critique of the first draft. The story concerns itself with glimpses of the characters and snatches of their conversation as they cross a particular section of the park. QA convention of writing at the time was to describe everything in deeply physical detail and to paint a picture by colouring everything. In fact, the very first line begins 'FROM THE OVAL-SHAPED flower-bed there rose perhaps a hundred stalks spreading into heart-shaped or tongue-shaped leaves' and launches us straight into a world of gently curved shapes and, later on, bright and vivid colours.

The Girl I Left Behind Me was written 50 years later by an author well documented for writing ghost stories. As a post-war story, there was some controversy over the idea of death and of the afterlife. It is a heavily plotted story and their are clues throughout; clues that are easy to miss on the first read. Post-war fiction was also concerned with making people feel happier about the prospect of a sudden death – something many writers now try to build into fiction and has previously been approached in stories such as The Signalman by Charles Dickens.

Short stories should be plausible. It depends on what one means by plausible. For some, it means a story must be rooted in reality and true to life. Kew Gardens satisfies that definition to the letter. However, Behind Me meets an entirely different definition of plausibility – the one that is not firmly rooted in our reality and lets the reader believe what they want. On reading either story, they are both believable in their own way.

Upon reading Kew Gardens, one can almost visualise Woolf, or the character she is writing through, sitting on a park bench with a note book and pencil. The observations about the behaviours and mannerisms of her characters are so sharp that they could be real people – and to n extent they are. The conversations the characters are having

'"Because I've been thinking of the past. I've been

thinking of Lily, the woman I might have married....

Well, why are you silent? Do you mind my thinking

of the past?"'

and are just snatches of longer exchanges, extending both before and after what we read. One man is reminiscing about the past and the girl he could have married; whilst a second discusses spirits and their presence in Heaven; and a third couple speak together on the luck not to pitch their parasol on a Friday. it is true to say that these candid sentences are sometimes as uncomfortable to read as they must have been to write, see or hear, but that is what happens in our reality – people are brutally honest. Perhaps, though, the language used by the characters offers the notion that it is more contrived than it seems. But it is entirely plausible that anyone can pick up the most candid words and strangest behaviours about a person if one drops into that life at just the right moment, as Woolf has done. We have seen the technique of dropping randomly in and out of people's lives increasingly in the modern media. Indeed, had the technology been around 90 years ago, a hidden camera would have been planted and left to record in the hope of capturing such naked footage. A life we see revisited a few times is that of the snail. Woolf's eye for detail is amazing as not many writers would have considered the trials of a lowly snail 'the snail... now appeared to be moving very slightly in its shell', to be legitimate, literary material. It is wholly possible that a snail would be in the park, would remain in frame for a good length of time and would be noticed by the woman who is watching so many lives being lived around her.

Okay, we have established that the story is plausible from the readers' point of view. We know that short stories should have some plausibility but Kew Gardens is a piece of fiction and should be treated as such. However closely it seems to echo real life of the era, the reader will only believe as much or little as they want to... as with the next story.

The second line of Behind Me is a line of dialogue repeated 6 ½ times, launching us directly into the rhythm if not the world of the story. Repeating the phrase 'Teedle-um-tum-tum' may seem quirky at first but, upon realising the young woman is a ghost, it becomes plausible. There is a common belief in some circles that the deceased indefinitely repeat the dying moments. There are a also a number of mentions of the boss, Mark Letter. Ordinarily, the reader would pick up that he is an important character but, as we learn more of his eccentric personality, it becomes believable that the girl would keep referring to him. We also come to believe that the main character is just a faceless individual in the crowd and this, also is plausible as we have all felt anonymous at some point. She makes comments such as 'No-one at the bus stop took any notice of me. Well, of course, why should they? and 'I thought how nearly no-one at all I was, since even the conductor had, in his rush, passed me by'. Making a clue to her ghostly status, cleverly veiled in the narrative technique of justifying or explaining the clue straight after. Spark does very well in drawing us into the believable story of a girl who has found a job after what she calls her long illness. But she is strangled to death, seemingly by her erratic and possibly mentally ill boss. The story then requires a second read as we try to find the clues. The plausibility element in Behind Me is rocked as this turns into a ghost story mostly because it asks us what we are willing to pass off in suspension of belief. But the story as a whole adheres fully to this idea of plausibility because, like Kew Gardens, everything is true to life and could happen.

Both stories concern themselves with women on the edges of active lives, just peeking into a world they no longer belong to. That in itself adds plausibility that these are real people and in real situations.

Both short stories romanticise and idealise their respective worlds in much the same way as they treat the notion of being plausible. When we think of a story being romantic, we immediately think of a love story between two or more of the characters. Both pieces of fiction have incorporated this traditional idea of romance but also the idea that the world is a romantic place. In Araby and A Painful Case burgeoning relationships take centre stage, putting forward the notion that the traditional short story should be romantic – as we have seen many a time in modern media. Any form of love story attaches itself to our emotions and demands our attention. Woolf and Spark have proved this idea to be correct, though they have subtly and beautifully subverted the widely accepted idea of romance to meet their own ends.

Forming and breaking relationships are picked up and put down through-out Kew Gardens, also, perhaps unintentionally, romanticising the idea that relationships are that easy to fall in and out of. It tries to tell us throughout that love is still alive and can be seen in all these guises in these grounds. Kew Gardens, however, does deal with the idea of the world as a romantic place though perhaps less so than in Behind Me. For example, the description and time given over to the setting and scenery of the place romanticises it as being full of rich colour and gently curving shapes, and who wouldn't want to live in such an idealised and stylised place. Also, by the end of the piece, the inlaid story of the snail has captured our emotions and we are almost hopeful that it completes tit's own purpose though, of course, it crawls out of frame before the end of the story.

The man, Mark Letter, is mentioned often in Behind Me and there is mention of his physical attributes, moods and habits. This creates the impression of some minor obsession, though we soon learn that romance was never on the cards. Indeed, she even asks herself, 'Why should I do this for Mark Letter?' rapidly covering the remark by telling us it was for her own peace of mind. This is how the story ends:-

'I opened the door and my sadness left me at once.

With a great joy I recognized what it was I had left

behind me, my body lying strangled on the floor. I

ran towards my body and embraced it like a lover'

And we discover that the only relationship in question was that between the body and spirit.

Our perceptions of ghosts and people are challenged as the young woman travels between home and work. We are brought comfort by the idea that there is some form of existence after death. Even the way she has accepted her life as part of the background has been idealised to the extent that we accept it unquestioningly and even wonder what it might be like to not be noticed. Spark has used the technique of a romantic element as a tool to create the world of the story and as a mechanism to move it towards the end result, much as Woolf has done. In itself, Kew Gardens is not a romantic or rose-tinted story in the traditional sense but in the way that readers are gently encouraged to connect with the events on the same basic human level as Behind Me. In fact, even the setting of the park is romanticised as pretty and, perhaps more importantly, safe. These two short fictions are both romantic because extraordinary events and important moments are taking place and there is something very special about being privileged to see that happen. Kew Gardens ends with the romantic and lush setting of the park suddenly being taken from its' comfort zone and clashing noisily with the budding technology of the time.

But there was no silence; all the time the motor omnibuses

were turning their wheels and changing their gear; like a

vast nest of Chinese boxes all of wrought steel turning

ceaselessly one within another the city murmured; on the

top of which the voices cried aloud and the petals of myriads

of flowers flashed their colours into the air.

To varying degrees, all short stories contain the elements defined as comprising the traditional short story. Though as James Coates says 'all stories are the same. They just use different words.' It means that all writing uses the same tools and techniques but in different ways.

As authors of short fiction are becoming more and more experimental with their writing, they are more heavily subverting the claim that short fiction should be plausible and romantic, rather than moving away from it. Indeed, it may well be impossible to ever move away from the claim completely as these are the very foundations upon which all modern fiction is based.

TUTOR NOTES-

You consider the topic carefully, and you draw upon two very appropriate stories. The essay would have been more successful, however, if you had defined and used more clearly the key terms that appear; for example 'plausibility' and 'romance'. You make your use of the latter more clear towards the end (the uncertainty kept you reading though)) but your earlier use of both terms can be misleading. MUCH of interest here but please note my comments and take consistent care with phrasing and referencing.

MARK-55

TORN TO SHREDS

There's no name for it

No cure for it

No healing

The feeling inside

Only it's getting out now

And tracking you down

So you run and it always catches you

Always tears you into shreds

And then howling dogs, hungry dogs, mad dogs

Dogs with too many teeth

Rip you up, rip you down and

Have their way with you.

IN PAIN AND PEACE

GUITARS ARE SCREAMING THEIR POWER CHORDS

HOWLING, WAILING, SCREECHING

SHRIEKING

IN UNADULTERATED PLEASURE

AND PAIN

AND PEACE

GETTING LOUDER AND LOUDER AND

FASTER AND FASTER

AND BLEEDING REDDER AND REDDER AND

SWEETER AND SWEETER AND

HARDER AND HARDER

AND THEN IT STOPS

BROKEN, SPLINTERED

POWER CHORDS ARE LEFT HANGING

DYING IN THE AIR

BEAUTIFUL THINGS

Beautiful ghosts of butterflies

Are dancing 'side my grave

Shimmering phantoms of angels

Are singing for my soul

Glittering trails of dying stars

Are lighting my way home

Elegant spirits of fairies

Are hovering by my tomb

Glorious shadows of heroes

Are fighting for my release

Translucent images of the dead

Are standing guard my body

Ice and flame and summerbreeze

Are taking me to my fate

PASSIVE

Lost looks of confusion,

wondering where you are.

Blank stares of amnesia,

never remembering far.

You lost all your memories

when you got hit by that car.

Your wounds will all heal but

you'll be forever scarred.

The place seems so hostile;

it's unfriendly and mean.

But you accept it and sigh.

Your eyes have lost their sheen:

the bright lights hurt you more.

You're more tired than you've been.

Saviours in white uniforms,

hoping it's angels you've seen.

You feel lonely and scared,

silently asking why.

Unknown people and reasons,

give them a truth to deny.

The feelings are coming back

and they're making you cry.

Remembering and healing and

silently saying goodbye.

BLOSSOM

Snow blossom falls from the sky

A drop of blood shows so bright

Like a red rag to a bull

Like a red spot to a god

Red and white so stark

Angry and hungry and calm

Blood red drops on snow blossom

I WILL DO THESE THINGS

Meet me after dark my friend

Meet me and I'll hold your hand

I'll never mean to hurt you

I'll protect you

When you get scared

I will be brave

Why should you fall

When I get saved?

If you should break

I'll watch your grave

When you try to run

I'll make you crawl

If you should lose me

I'll answer your call

When you start to crumble

I'll help you stand tall

When you hold tight

I'll make you stand alone

If you turn away

I will be grown

Why should you fear

Whilst I am of stone?

If you feel the rain

I'll take the storm

When you find a rose

I will blunt all the thorns

If you trust me tonight

We'll be home before dawn

Writer's notebook

The hardest part, initially, was to choose a handful of poems out of the many I thought were good enough to be submitted. I wanted to choose pieces that were not instantly great, but could become so with work. However, as certain things happened and time became a factor, I decided to go with a few that seemed, to me, to be strong pieces already and did not need too much work done to them. Well, that was the plan...

I admire the comic poetry of people like Roald Dahl and Lewis Carroll. I always have done. But I found – soon after I began writing poetry - that I could never write things like that. I found myself drawing my own style from issues such as death, destruction, dama- there are a lot of D words. I have attempted to include a range of different things in this selection, from happy subjects to those less so.

As quite a fan of free verse, I was uncomfortable with the task of trying to find something that was good and rhymed. Similar problems with form and such. As I write, I let my intuition take over and dictate where I should have line breaks, start new stanzas and whether there should be a rhyme scheme. So it was a struggle to have to consciously think about these things. I learnt though that my writing would suffer if I tried to make it fit a form for the sake of it. Over the course, tasks have been attempted of writing a sonnet or a villanelle. I'm glad I had a go but I can't write to form – not consciously anyway. None of the pieces here would have been improved for being forced into a form. 'Torn to shreds' would not sound so vicious if it had been twisted into rhyming couplets. 'Passive' had to rhyme to reflect the mindset of the person writing it, latching on to some constant.

I enjoyed a simile exercise we were given but my attempts were too long to include. And so I chose 'Blossom' to feature one or two basic similes. Along these lines, metaphor is used throughout most of my work. There are dogs, guitars, snow blossom. The metaphors that convince you of themselves interest me more than the obvious ones.

I first took in two pieces called 'My mum' and 'The clock' to share with my group and get feedback on. They gave me some useful ideas but I eventually decided to go with the handful shown here as i became more harried in my need to produce something worth reading. I ended up showing these pieces to friends and family as well, to get some advice on the final pieces, after classes were finished.

I have a deep-seated wariness of using lower case letters to begin a line. I only managed to do this to one of the pieces – 'Passive.' I just couldn't bring myself to do it to the others as I feel each line warrants its own capital letter. The pieces I have read by my peers have lower case lettering and run on lines, but they also advised me that it is not necessary as capitalising the first letter should really just emphasize the importance of the line or, in my case, word. Yes, another hang up of mine... long lines. I have tried to write poetry with long line lines – some have even succeeded – but I prefer to write short lines or words that have a bit of weight behind them. As you can probably tell by now, punctuation grates with me. In all honesty, I couldn't punctuate a poem if my life depended on it. For some reason, it seems so much harder than punctuating prose. And so I use the bare minimum I can get away with so it makes sense. 'In pain and peace' as an example, would not work at all if it was punctuated – guitars don't have colons and commas, they just run on until the amp explodes.

I was quite surprised that my peer group did not pick up on my grammatical quirks as it seemed like a fault in comparison. They were more concerned with the words and content of the poems. That was a blessing for me as I, you now know, do not care much for the technicalities... not when time is so scarce. They all offered helpful ideas such as how the dog poem should maybe lose and or a but. On rereading it, I discovered a few more extraneous little words that got the chop too. I offered the poem with a second I had written shortly after but 'Torn to shreds' won out, despite needing slightly more work, as it had such strong visual qualities. The line that originally read 'And then hungry dogs, mad dogs, rabid dogs' was changed to reading 'And then howling dogs, hungry dogs, mad dogs' and i think it sounds better. I was advised to maybe leave the line at two types of dogs but I couldn't quite bring myself to do that as I like the set of three, so I substituted a word and shifted around a little. Now, I like the H sound in that bit.

There was very little work I needed to do, and was willing to do, on 'In pain and peace.' The poem had already been edited quite a bit and was received very well at a previous reading. My only concern with this was the phrase 'bleed redder and redder' which has now replaced 'bleed deeper and deeper'. I realised shortly before the performance that it sounded weird to have two ee sounds so close together. I also intend to read this at the end of term performance – a challenge as it is a high energy piece.

'Beautiful things' was my attempt at writing something a bit more cheerful than my usual work, but considering it is about a soul being guided through life and death, it probably isn't that different. I decided to write this one in a number of two lined verses because it just seemed to fall out of my pen like that – a series of moments where a person may just vaguely notice or sense the titular beautiful things. I chose this as an example of my experimenting with form a bit more. It was intended to be a metric poem with the same number of beats in a line, but some of the words were a syllable too long or short. So with me unable to think of any suitable alternative, I shortened one or two words (beside for 'side) and I cut one entire verse out:

Ghostly essences of my guardians

Are watching my each and every step

I like the verse and wish I had left it in, but 'each and every' jarred with me and sounded a bit rubbish when I read it out.

Now, ' Passive', I must confess that I was thoroughly unhappy with including it because it was one of my most over-written pieces to date. But, my peers seemed to like it. I punctuated it and used lower cases to begin some lines. I realised myself that I should at least have a go at it, though most people barely mentioned it. I was told that there were some lines that didn't quite flow due to the words I used, so I found substitutes like forever where it previously said permanently. It sounds much better for having made even these minor changes, though I drew the line when one person suggested finding something else for silently as I used it twice in the final verse. The repetition of certain words and ideas have become part of my style.

I was going to put a short poem of similar length called 'stolen night' in place of 'Blossom'. I am not sure why I chose this one as the other was technically better, littered with alliteration, onomatopoeia and very vivid imagery. I did get rather experimental with changing meanings so perhaps 'Blossom' won for its simplicity. I rejected the idea of swapping the bull line with the god line because I wanted the earthly object to come first. One member of the group recommended that I play with how it looked on the page, and I ended up putting it in the middle of a pure white sheet. This then became a poem meant to be seen as a petal on the page.

'I will do these things' was written as another exploration of voice and form. Originally, this was another 'straight down the page' poem. After a lecture on form, i went back and separated the 2nd, 3rd and 4th stanzas into indented and non-indented lines to represent a more conversational tone of voice/verse. I was asked to have a think about the line that now reads

'When you start to crumble

I'll help you stand tall'

They gave me a possible alternative of

'I'll hold you up

When you start to fall'

Which is a very nice line itself and probably would have fitted well, only I thought it was a little too obvious and I wanted to avoid that.

Poetry, like all writing, has widely accepted rules, though these are by no means hard and fast. Whatever the case, I can say that none of these pieces conform to these rules. A writer creates one's own rules as they find their own style. I write many poems that were always leaning towards performance even though I have found I tend to make an idiot of myself when I perform – probably because I am not as confident in my work as perhaps I should be. But, that's my style of doing things and, like an artisan honing his craft, I have discovered my own way of doing things.

Performing a poem is not the same as reading one. I performed 'Torn to shreds' and 'In pain and peace'. I wasn't too happy with the way either of them came out on the night as I had not banked on so many nerves in the air; they sounded so different performing for a room of people instead of my trolls at home. The guitar piece worked well and people seemed to like it. I was happier with that than the other because I had spent much more time getting to know it. 'Torn to shreds' however... I wasn't unhappy with it and it was a blessedly long way from being a disaster – I just think I would have chosen another one to perform if I had known. I've seen people like Benjamin Zephaniah and Dreadlockalien perform and they blew me away. But not all of their spoken work looks that great on paper. Can't have it all ways though.

It made me more aware of a few mistakes in my pieces but as it is now so close to the deadline, I haven't got time to rework them all. By no means are these pieces perfect but I have done my best and learnt that no matter how good it looks, it will never sound that way.

TUTOR NOTES-

Couldn't read his writing but I don't think he was overly impressed.

MARK-45

YEAR FIVE

THE YEAR OF THE STORM

I knew the hardest part was still to come. But i survived it. Like a cockroach.

"Goe, little book" (Ben Johnson); "Go, dumb-born book" (Ezra Pound).

Who has ultimate ownership of a literary work, the writer or the reader?

When we look at the question of whether the write ultimately owns a piece of work, we must wonder how many other people influence (and therefore 'own', at least in some small way) the creation of a work. It is largely accepted that the author of a piece of written work owns it because the words have 'issued forth from his head, heart and pen' (T James, p24, 1995). As the audience, we also like to think that we own it too because no-one can have experienced it or interpreted it in exactly the same way. A lot of people lend their support during the process of literary creation – and now after the work has been written. With so many variables, one could ask if the question is really as simple as writer or reader, or even if we can answer it. Maybe we cannot find an answer to what is quite a complex issue but we can explore such matters as whether more than one person can own a piece of literature and how this may be possible. But, let us look for the moment at the moral issue of who owns it. The argument that the writer owns it will be formed alongside 'A Little Cloud' from Dubliners by James Joyce, and the case that ownership lies with the reader will be with 'Je Ne Parle Pas Francais' by Katherine Mansfield.

We will briefly turn our attentions to what constitutes a writer or reader. The writer is the person whose name is on the cover of the book; the person who has worked away on that piece of writing. The reader is the consumer of that work; the one for whom the writer has produced his story. Now that we understand these words, let us begin the study.

James Joyce was born in Dublin in 1882, and wrote this account in 1914.

'I am writing a series of epicleti – ten – for paper. I have written one.

I call the series Dubliners to betray the soul of that hemiplegia or

paralysis which many consider a city.'

(J Joyce, letter to C P Curran, 1904)

So it is fair to assume that the book of stories was influenced by the people and places he found within Dublin. Many characters within Dubliners are well-observed and acutely written, but in the case of A Little Cloud, the main characters of Little Chandler and Ignatius Gallaher are almost brought to life with their slightly drunken conversation. Indeed, Dubliners as a whole is viewed as quite a stressful and suffocating place, with its people stressed and put-upon.

The story of A Little Cloud goes like this; one man – Little Chandler – meets an old friend – Gallaher – for drinks when he returns to Dublin for a quick visit on his travels. Whilst drinking perhaps a little too much, they talk about family, old friends and the places they have been – the things they have experienced. When Little Chandler returns home his baby son cries and we are left with tears brimming within him as his wife removes the child. This is a literary take on a struggle we see day by day – children being taken from unfit parents. He has succeeded in making the speech, emotions and actions of the story so intense yet minimal that we can almost see the scenes playing out before us. Gallaher is a 'brilliant figure on the London Press' and Little Chandler gives the impression of a small man who 'could have been a writer if only he had put his mind to it' (Wikipedia). These are things people often think of themselves and others but Joyce has put it into words. Throughout the story, whilst seeming to give the characters fairly standard things to discuss for friends who seldom now meet, Joyce offers us little snippets of information concerning people, rumours, ambitions and places. We cannot say for certain that these thoughts were flavoured with his own or that they were invented to fit a character. However, we can volunteer the opinion that Joyce must have some personal experience of the things he discusses.

'Yet this too contributes to the book's overall sense of leaving

Things unsaid and unexpressed, the words of others being

A useful replacement for those of oneself.'

(P Harness, p258, 2005)

By this statement, can we truly deny that he did not use the story to express his own feelings and thoughts of insignificance and stagnation? The words he writes in A Little Cloud, in the entire collection, are personal to Joyce and we accept them as his work. He refers to Chandler as little and we assume this is a nickname one would only attached to another with personal knowledge. Gallaher appears as a travelled and successful man on the surface. Could even say that the child not being given a name represented his own feelings of being replaced as the centre of attention – or that he could never be good enough to be the centre of attention. We know now that these fears were utterly unfounded as his works have endured and are still being read.

But Dubliners is not direct autobiography. Yet it is still used to hint at his own character and in no story does it show more than A Little Cloud. Work, class, love are all dealt with in the other short stories but family and friends make a man. These are the people he relies on and trusts to support his ventures in life. Little Chandler has his epiphany towards the end – that the ones he once depended on are not constant in their affections. The story also touches upon his insecurity over writing, his ambition – and it is even harder to say that this is pure fiction. The story may not use I and Joyce may have created a new character to play his part, but he definitely owns the work. They are his words and it is, after all, his name on the front cover.

It is difficult to argue that any work belongs in any fixed place but particularly so in the case of 'Je Ne Parle Pas Francais' by Katherine Mansfield. Another short story, it follows a writer as he meets another man, Dick, and his lady friend, Mouse. Dick persuades Raoul, the narrator, to send a letter to his mother as Mouse admits that things are not good. He later reads out a letter in which Dick is leaving Mouse. Raoul remarks that he never saw her again. This appears to be a straight-forward story of unfulfilled ambition and of one person being hauled into the real world when he would much prefer to observe it. Raoul begins by talking about his favoured cafe and its atmosphere.; 'I do not know why I have such a fancy for this cafe. It's dirty and sad, sad' (K Mansfield, p60, 1920). This makes it relevant to any spin a reader may put on it as we know that many of our favourite writers composed works in a cafe, or featured them prevalently within the pages. Can we assume that Mansfield owns her work as Joyce does because she discusses her surroundings and a writer who could represent herself? Perhaps so and perhaps not. She presents the work in a much lighter and slightly vaguer fashion, making it less personal and more open to interpretation by the reader.

'Mansfield... was always acting a part, or going off on

the tops of buses to Poplar to see what 'the people'

looked like, presumably putting her real self down on

paper somewhere.'

(A Alpers, p146, 1980)

The story belongs to the common reader because, as we see from the quote, they provided the inspiration for it. By putting her thoughts, words, experiences to paper, is it not possible that she was indeed writing for us as readers? Immediately, the reader can relate to the title Je Ne Parle Pas Francais, a common concern about not speaking the language. Perhaps, even all those years ago, Mansfield was attempting to give voice to her audience and put what she thought to be their lives. Like Joyce though, her own self flavoured the work. We know that she did not live in France until she visited a health spa in 1918 to overcome pleurisy, and was delving into a deep depression before that. As such, it impossible to remove her own influence over the stories she writes, as they often tell of an observer of life experiencing the simple pleasures whilst always being tinged with harder reality. This, like Joyce recharacterises himself in the Dubliners collection, could either be her way of discussing her own life or giving a voice to the people. Not yet an old woman when she died, Mansfield travelled a lot and had a somewhat turbulent life but do we, as readers, own the story she wrote to escape from it? A crude answer would be to say that she published it for a reason – and why hand it over to the public if it is not ours?

We have seen that it is nigh on impossible to completely remove ownership from either the writer or reader and, similarly, we can pin ownership to neither. In the above cases at any rate. Just as the reader must 'trust' and 'submit to the experiment' (J Winterson, 2006) it is possible for writers, readers and other influences to do just that and go along for the ride. For does not the enjoyment of producing and consuming a work comprise the ownership? That personal touch – that word or thought – stamps the mark of ownership over it. But whilst everyone can morally own part of a piece of literature, legally speaking

'Copyright ownership of a literary work consists of a

bundle of rights which an author, at least theoretically,

may assign to the publisher in any manner they choose.

Thus, an author may assign all or only a part of his/her

rights to one or more publishers while retaining particular

rights for himself/herself. '

(publaw.com)

It is easy to read or write something we enjoyed or are proud of and say 'it's mine'. But credit has not been given to the people who may have played a part in the creation. Neither has an official copyright been established between author and publisher, meaning that for a time, the work is open to the public for anyone to claim as their own. As with anything, memorably witnessed by the recent split in rights of a music franchise, the claim to rights often ultimately lies with the highest bidder – film rights, e-books, audio books. Which brings us nicely back to the argument that everyone can stake their claim on a work. Ownership of certain rights does not mean own ownership of the entire work, it is simply of that strand of the franchise; other rights lie with any number of companies to put their spin on.

After having considered all of the evidence both in and around this essay, I have formed an opinion as to whether the writer or reader truly owns a piece of literary work. The ultimate answer to this will doubtlessly be debated long into the future and, I am equally certain, no definitive answer will ever be found. Surely, some might argue, no single person can own a work once it is in general circulation because the piece can be laid claim to by any one of us and for any length of time. Of course, anybody can have their own copy or version of a written work. Readers can own a neatly printed and bound copy of a work which is their property to read and imagine over and over again. But I do not believe that the reader can take sole ownership of that work. No, the original idea belongs to the writer as does the final draft and the creative process he went through to get there. And yet it is only truly their work until it is put forward to publishers who, along with editors, may have temporary custody of a work in order to make it of a publishable quality. It is my view that many more people than simply the writer and the reader own some part of a work and influence it in some way. I will therefore suggest that, although the writer's name goes on the cover, we pay more attention to the acknowledgements page to recognise everyone who helped it into print.

TUTOR NOTES-

There are some interesting ideas presented here in relation to both readerly and writerly perspectives on authorship. In both cases I felt you were opening up exciting perspectives – e.g. the notion that the 'real people' who inspire a work of fiction, have in some way got part ownership of it – but you were not fully developing these idea. Your use of secondary sources to support your points was not adequate for a level 3 essay. You could have referred to Reader Response theory for example. Likewise, your approach invited a stronger focus on issues of process – e.g. writers on writing – as well as on the texts themselves – although you were doing this in some measure.

Overall an ambitious essay, but still lacking in breadth and depth of analysis.

MARK-60

Analyse your own creative products (or singular product) and processes in relation to models/theories of creativity and writing. Your analysis should include references to at least two other writers who have influenced you.

'The three men I admire most are Curly, Larry, Mo!'

(Steinman, 1993)

Influences and inspirations can come from many different directions when we are writing. They are most commonly found in our favourite writers but can come from many other sources including music, film, TV, the written media and our own worldly observations. The quote used above does not mean that featured influences are Curly, Larry and Moe but that the writer of that line is. The author is Jim Steinman, a songwriter who writes his rock music so passionately that it should be poetry. Music has a greater influence than many realise so this will be explored in a little more depth. This is not to discount the importance of other literary figures in shaping our creations. There is possibly no greater model for the aspiring horror writer than Stephen King. His success has come from hard work at perfecting his craft. Both of these men served as influences when writing 'Rock-a-bye' amongst other works.

Many accepted theories and conventions of creative writing were accounted for during the creation of 'Rock-a-bye' but the writing was flavoured by the two aforementioned men who I was reading and listening to at the time. What makes a person write what they write and how they write? We hope to offer some answers to these questions by touching upon issues of duplicity, motivation, crossing barriers and reasoning.

No writer sets out to show the world that they are or are not who their work purports them to be. We have slippery doubles,

'... so it would follow as the day the night that

I must have a slippery double – or at least a mildly

dysfunctional one – stashed away somewhere.'

(Atwood, p31, 2003)

These doubles are the versions of ourselves that slip and slide onto the page and say the things our physical forms never would. A slippery double is not the real person who eats and sleeps. Is the person who wrote Rock-a-bye a slightly sadistic young woman with a penchant for fast cars? Is she a neurotic pianist with a pen obsession? Any of these things? Perhaps writers only show the world the face they want. In opposition to this, Hunt and Sampson (2006) seem to suggest that we may be more likely to discover something of our true identities than we are to accurately present ourselves. King and Steinman are undoubtedly not the murderous, speed-hungry men on the cliff edge of sanity that their writings are famous for. The duplicitous nature of creativity may mean that the writer the world sees is the one he really wants to be. Equally, it could be merely a mask to hide behind. This argument is fuelled by what we want.

No matter what face we choose our readers to see, we have reasons for it and for committing the act of writing. There are an innumerable number of reason any individual can profess. These range from escapism to fame to a simple desire to create. Not everyone is aware of what drives them to write but even the most intangible of motivations is powerful. What is the man who wrote

And I ain't in it for the power,

and I ain't in it for my health

I ain't in it for the glory of anything at all,

and I sure ain't in it for the wealth.'

(Steinman, 1993)

motivated by? As these are song lyrics, maybe they were created to fit the larger work. Perhaps the song was a vehicle for his thoughts. The argument for why we write has and will continue to rage fiercely. So, what was Maddocks trying to achieve when she wrote Rock-a-bye – a tale of crazed clown, fast cars and sinister trees? Certainly there was a need to create something in the worlds of her favourite writers but also in a reality true to her. Was fame and riches truly at the core of that story even though there may be little or no money to be made in short story writing?

'For me, reading and writing horror is about

eating my own shadow so it won't eat me.'

(Shannon, p15, 2007)

Perhaps the true motivation is to turn ones fears into fiction before they have chance to materialise. Motivations, and the desire to prove such cynics wrong, are often perceived as profound and vital, as voiced by the students asking Stephen King repeatedly about why he writes and where he get his ideas (StephenKing.com). It is assumed that a writer of horror must have deeply personal reasons for writing this and no gentler type of fiction. This is not always the case as the reasons can be as seemingly superficial, but just as important as, keeping the car running or to buy a new pair of boots. People are always going to pay for good music or a good story, but no reader needs to know or suspect that their books and CDs are more money-makers than works of love.

The aim of many a writer, and especially in the horror genre, is to push the limits a little further each time. Yet no-one has ever specified what these limits are – maybe that is to their credit. Writing something totally new and original can no longer be used as we come to understand that every story has been told in some way, though new twists and spins always come out. This truth never stops people dreaming though, it often only encourages them to 'write the greatest car crash song ever written' jimsteinman.com).the work that sprang from this pushed boundaries, not only in what was acceptable for the music industry, but also in writing circles. Sex, violence and a seedy underworld of forbidden passions were almost drilled into peoples' brains in 1977 and has since become more socially acceptable. The contents of any work are barriers as we debate whether it will escape censorship and seep into public consciousness. These kinds of barriers are there for the breaking and will, no doubt, be broken over and over again. But it is not only the words that end up on the page that form the boundaries to be pushed – any writer will have his is her own personal obstacles to overcome. Indeed it can be argued that a writer is not a true writer if they have not experienced some difficulty in their creative process. Stephen King was surviving a serious drug addiction at shat was debatably the peak of his career. Jim Steinman recently suffered a number of severe health problems and is now working on new projects. But both wrote extensively during these times which shows a great dedication to their art. It also shows us that the best writers do not go through a major life event to make something worthwhile but those who write regardless.

Risks are common-place, as are the rewards a writer can gain, but one of the biggest risks a person can take is in the very act of putting pen to paper. That is the moment at which decisions are made and chances are taken. We will discuss these chances further shortly but the decision we make is to commit. Writers who are writing frantically to meet deadlines and publishing dates may commit more to actually finishing their work than anyone without that kind of restriction. These people commit to research, lending part of their lives to it and to producing the very best end piece they can.

'The Architect strategy is the Plan, Compose,

Revise method traditionally taught in schools.

Architects make detailed plans and set down

headings to guide the composing.'

(Sharples, p115, 1998)

These types of writer are no more committed than any other type but they do have characteristics such as extensive planning that demand more discipline than, say, a non-stop writer who plan and revise much less but lend just as much time and effort to the end product.

In much the same way, we trust that whichever style we have adopted to write is going to be good enough for the reader. Communication is a keyword here. How does a person feel sure enough that their audience is going to understand his story the way it was intended? Should we be trying to tell people what a story is or, having done our job of making it, should we let the public do their job of deciding what they want it to mean? Like in all questions in this area there are more problems than answers. It all circles around to confidence, self-belief, some may even say arrogance. It is impossible to even scratch one decent sentence out if one does not believe in their own ability to do so. We be would live in a world without some of our favourite authors ; no Charles Dickens, Isaac Asimov or JRR Tolkien – not if they had not had enough of a ego to make themselves the centre of attention. Not just novelists and short story writers but songwriters, screenwriters and poets. And this belief that you are good enough to write as a professional bring us to the natural next step – what if one really is not good enough? We are taught from the very first days of school that we cannot always do exactly what we want so a good knowledge of other areas is needed. Writers of all descriptions have suffered lapses in confidence. This is particularly prevalent when one fails to find a record company for their album or when an author is asked to edit and rewrite a good book simply because it is not what that publisher is looking for.

Authors who fulfil their technical writings quota were published in an instant. Such authors include Jane Austen and Virginia Woolf. Austen particularly has spawned a wealth of big and small screen adaptations, spin-off novels and updated retellings of her books. They are not great novels by today's standards. There is no big climax as such, no relatable incidents or characters and few examples of wild imagination. None of this is present in Woolf either but they both enjoy a lasting fame and an eternal audience. For their respective times, each was offering a few moments escapism, a definite sense of place and time, one-dimensional characters. Simple and tender story-telling is what people may have wanted then, or maybe as much reading was read into their stories as is now.

A further point on communication as effective communication rises above everything in writing. Writing would be a redundant profession if readers were unable to imagine the story one was painting in some form.

'Over many centuries writers have devised ways

to communicate the vibrancy of meaning to an

audience through inert media.'

(Sharples, p59, 1998)

A writer with a great idea is nothing without the means to express it and vice versa. And so we must use all available tools in writing but remain watchful of using them in such a way as to not force a reader to see the same image on the page as we did when we wrote it. Jim Steinman writes so that an image will carry a new piece of meaning every time. Music writing, like any other type, will last forever but, also like other forms, is no longer restricted to its original media. Poetry had been adapted to cinemas Beowulf of 2007, graphic novels are developed for film and novelisations are created for successful TV shows. The audience is sometimes then shocked into thinking 'that's not what I had in mind at all' or 'oh, so that's what it was all about'. Steinman's Bat Out Of Hell trilogy (1977, 1993, 2006) has some cinematic stories told through lyrics. It is unsurprising that the idea of committing the album to film has recently arisen. It is as shocking as hearing that another King novel is in production.

'His prolific body of work and commercial success

has led to anything he has penned turning up in

some form on cinema and television screens.'

(Le Blanc and Odell, p39, 2001)

Finally, some final thoughts must be wrought from this discussion. We can see how it is important to be attentive and aware of the staples of creative writing. Voice, place and time are important basics in the writing process but in the cases of my influences and, to a degree, myself, these are almost inherent – things we do without really thinking of them. The important things in writing any story are plot, character and events. I worry about sharp dialogue and whether I should explain more or less. I wonder if my work will make the lasting impression it earns in my head. Concerns over whether I am revealing anything about myself never enter my head and certainly never why I am writing. I write because I enjoy it, I want other people to enjoy – I discovered that a long time ago and that is enough to keep me writing.

'...there was nothing else I was made to do. I was

made to write stories and I love to write stories.

That's why I do it. I really can't imagine doing anything

else and I can't imagine not doing what I do.'

(StephenKing.com)

A passable knowledge of our language negates the need for too much debate over sentence structure but also allows the necessary freedom to disregard all punctuation in the dream sequences in Rock-a-bye. Perhaps not knowing it or being ignorant of certain writing theories and practices is more ultimately powerful than knowing everything. For how can we let out imaginations run and play if we are tethered to rules and regulations?

TUTOR NOTES-

There's an important ingredient missing here, Wendy. You refer to Rock-a-bye which I assume is a horror story, but don't include a copy of it as an appendix. You also fail to dicuss your process in writing it to analyse the content of the writing.

You do however, use two interesting role models to refer to and you take many useful observations about the problems and challenges that present themselves to any writer.

However, if you are going to take issue with canonical writers like Woolf and Austen, you need to present a coherent argument to support your points.

What's needed here is some more organisation and grouping of the points you want to make. You make a number of different statements but don't really link them into a coherent argument. I wasn't clear on what sort of writer you see yourself as being? Are you an architect? You don't say you are or give evidence to show it, but neither do you present yourself as any of the other categories. Even if you feel that Sharples' divisions are irrelevant, you need to pursue the point fully in a discussion of the different types of writer and how these might or might not apply to your own practice or those of others.

When writing critical essays, it's a good idea to work out what argument you want to make, then plan how you will present it and what evidence you will use to support it. Think of it as a lawyer presenting a case to a jury. She will gradually unfurl her argument attesting to the guilt or innocence of the accused. She will support the arguments with witness testimony. Finally, she will sum up her case for judge and jury.

Finally, please don't use we in an essay. The occasional use of I is fine.

MARK-58

Account: autobiography

Autobiography should be about making your life interesting enough that other people want to read about it. I knew I was going to have trouble with this one as soon as I found out what it was as I think no-one ever thinks of their own life as particularly intriguing when they are in the middle of it. I wanted to think of something from my life to write about which was unique and different. But whatever I decided to write, it would be my own thoughts and experiences so it would be unique to me anyway.

After reading things like the Extravagant Strangers collection, every thought and possibility in my head went on holiday because I knew I had no way of writing something so socially or politically aware. I also wanted to read something a bit less involved – something I didn't have to think quite so hard about. And so I was given A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man to read. I really liked the beginning of the book where it incorporated snippets of verse into the main body of text so I decided I wanted to try something a bit like it in my own piece. I also wanted to write the whole assignment as a more displaced figure. Not displaced as in crazy bbut given myself a new name and write in the third person. I've use the technique many times before, mostly in my own work, and I feel a lot more comfortable talking about myself in that way.

I toyed with the idea of doing a selection of autobiographical poems but, when written, they sounded a little bit silly and 5 poems all together about me seemed to be too much – so I scrapped that idea. Sometimes, autobiographical poetry is very good and it can give the reader a flash insight to the writer. I do not have the necessary skills for that or the techniques some people use like time shifts and dream sequences.

My first attempt at writing my piece got no further than an outline. I had the idea that I could write the text and then put in little pieces of verse at a later date. Then I decided that instead of writing new pieces of rhyme or scouring the internet I would look back through the poetry I wrote as a teenager and use bits and pieces from those. It also really helped focus me on what I wanted to say as it brought back all the memories of how I felt and what I went through. Books always tell you how it felt for the lead but there is an afterthought as to how it affected the world or other people. I was to write this about me or the character who would represent me. There are no hidden studies of politics, society or the class system – everything is as I remember things. The lines of poetry tended to focus on I all the time, but that was a conscious decision to leave them like that and not rewrite them as Cassie. I was told I should stick to one way of writing but it reads better to me for the poetry to be I.

The word count of the piece is quite short at 2000 words so I had to write an outline to decide what I really needed to get in and what I could leave out. As with all my work, I did a couple of drafts then left it for a while before going back to it. I pared it down to just below the word count from an initial 3500 or so. The parts about how I was pressured at college or the rough estate I grew up on were not necessary, played no real part in my work other than making me feel better by saying it – so I just cut them.

Speaking about my disability should have been therapeutic and cleansing – many people say that writing an autobiography is – but it only succeeded in making me sad with echoes of anger. Maybe the piece has been a touch clouded by that – perhaps that is a good thing though. I decided to write about how it affects me as that's really all I can say without lying or making it up.

It did not take very long to write the autobiographical piece once the words had started coming out, but I had to, like I said, edit it quite a bit. Even though it looks complete and finished I know I could come back to it in a month if I wanted and still find more to do to it. There will always be a sentence that could have been better or a piece of dialogue that sounds wrong, though a person finds that in everything he or she reads – the Curse of the Writer. If there was more time maybe the piece would be better but equally I could destroy it by way of self-doubt and breaking what isn't broken. I cannot pretend that what I have written is fabulous or a literary breakthrough for me – more as a way to have a go at something new. So I doubt that my autobiography will be hitting the shelves anytime soon.

FREEWHEELIN'

"What in the name of Hell is that?"

"What d'you think?"

Faced with the sinister-looking contraption on her doorstep, Cassie had no words to give voice to the hatred and horror she felt at that moment. For a girl who had lived and breathed hockey for the last 4 years it was a bit of a downer. "Words could not describe the overwhelming emotions within me right now." Cassie closed her eyes for a minute, hoping that if she refused to look at it, maybe it would all go away. It was still there when she opened her eyes. "Bugger!"

"Cassie! Watch your mouth."

"Mom, besides that being physically impossible, I'll be in this wheelchair for the rest of my life. I think I'm entitled to swear."

So what if other people were in wheelchairs? So what if they didn't moan? They weren't teenage girls who once lived for sport, only to be told that they would never heal – never get better. But why did she have to just get on with it – smile and say OK? The worst thing about it was that the chair was a depressing bottle green – the uniform colour of the School for Slags up the road. At least it wasn't pink. (Cassie didn't do pink.) It looked primitive and kind of torturous. This was the object meant to give Cassie back her independence?

"I'm not using it." Might as well let her mother know before this thing went any further.

"So how are you going to get around? You want to go off to uni, right. You can't do that if you can't get around campus."

"I'll manage." Turning her back on the scene in the hallway, Cassie struggled off to her tiny bedroom. It was half torn up because the builders were in but the walls were still covered in posters. The carpet, once purple and now plaster dust coloured, crunched beneath her feet and threw up lots of dust as she threw herself onto her bed. In the room directly beneath her, Mom was on the phone to a friend. As always, Cassie was certain they were talking about her, making fun of her. Just like at the hospital when the doctor took Mom out to 'talk'. And what did they tell Cassie, apart from more lies about how 'everything was going to be alright' and 'these things take time'? Absolutely Jack Shit's what. Not the truth.

She's speaking in whispers

Saying words I can't hear

My limbs all have blisters

Because this is my fear

Okay, yeah. Cassie feared the D-word. Disability freaked her out a bit. Her toned muscles would turn to flab because she couldn't exercise, she'd have to get people to do everything for her, she would start getting fat and lazy. Stumbling around in an apparently half-drunken state had to be better than giving up her entire life for something that didn't even have a name. Going away to uni had been an impossible dream from the day she was given the form. The D-word had been creeping up on her since she was little. It hadn't made her life any easier – looking at other people running and dancing and knowing her days of joining in were numbered.

Her past, and whatever future she had left, would be filled with physiotherapy and drugs and doctors – and she hated doctors.

"Cass?" Mom knocked on the door that opened out although she needn't have bothered. It wasn't like Cassie could get up and shut it. "Have you calmed down a bit? I thought we might go for a push around the park. Test it out. Get you used to it."

Cassie looked at her in disbelief. The stupidity of what her mother had just said rushed at her and a high giggle crept out. "You want to push me around a park full of brats like a baby in a pram and in half an hour I'm going to be cured of all my issues about being a cripple and I'll be embracing the beautiful – nay, wondrous – knowledge that I'm not normal." Mom tapped her fingernails on the black door. Everything about Cassie was black or dark purple. It was clear she was getting tired of the arguments. "Excuse me if I say no."

"You knew this was coming, Cass. You could have spent a bit more time getting used to the idea and a little less time playing rough."

"You're blaming me?" Was Mom actually saying those words? "I work hard, I play hard. Don't make me angry or I'll start using big words again."

"Hon, I'm not blaming anyone for it. It's just one of those things and you can't do anything about it." She turned to go back down stairs and partly closed the door. "There's nothing you can do about the wheelchair. You need it so you better get used to it."

Nice! That was sugar-coating it.

There was no old college friend she could talk to, best mate to turn to for sympathy and chocolate, no-one. They had all dumped her after college – they couldn't handle the disability thing and just ran away. Why shouldn't she do the same?

Your legs work

You use them to run away

My legs don't

I never had the chance to

Why was this happening to her? Maybe it was a punishment for a crime in a past life – karma and all that junk. Like that football twat said on telly. He said that disabled people had all done something terrible in a past life and this was the payment for it. Cassie had a favourite dream about smashing his kneecaps with a 5 iron for the crimes he'd committed in this one. In spite of the chaos around her, she found a satisfied grin creeping onto her face. The stirred up plaster dust caused a coughing fit and prevented the laugh that was coming.

"Cass!" a male voiced bellowed up to her. "Come down here a sec." It was her brother, Paul. Paul had the same condition as Cassie and their sister, Lauren. He'd started using his wheelchair around 10 years ago, the same age as Cassie. At first, he had been able to do pretty much everything she did but now he was having problems swallowing and getting in and out of his chair. That was the scariest thing of all – knowing how things were going to turn out and that things still had a lot more worse to get. It was just too much.

"Yeah?"

"You'll find the chair a lot easier, you know. No more praying for a rail to cling to or something soft to fall on."

"Just the stunning lack of ramps, the rarity of disabled provisions and being thoroughly dependant on some-one to push me around. No stress!"

"I know it sounds stupid but a wheelchair will give you back your independence." Did he seriously think any of these sound-bites would wash with her? "You're a smart kid – I never said that – look at Stephen Hawking or Professor X or... Anyway, point is that your brain still works so use it."

Like she hadn't been through these arguments in her own head already and she wasn't convinced. So, Hawking and the Prof were cripples with brains. But even one of them was made up!

Why does it all have to be so real?

And why do we all have to feel?

Life is this falsely bright thing

And when we look, our eyes sting

"How exactly is this helping?" Cassie sat in the garden staring at the hated wheelchair.

"Just get in." Paul glanced at his watch and sighed. They had been locked in this stand-off for nearly half an hour. He wanted to give her a wheelchair race down the length of a garden you could fit a football pitch in. With drills and cement bags and breeze blocks all over it looked like more of an assault course but a geeky brother had picked out a course weaving its way around everything. "Have a go, you might enjoy it."

Unconvinced, Cassie got up and sat in the chair with the grey cushion. Anything to shut him up! It wasn't especially comfortable or elegant looking but it could have been worse – one of those chairs with the nails like in the torture chamber. Not that it felt much different. Deprivation's what it was. Getting measured up for the chair had been a pain but it hadn't seemed real a few months ago. The assessor had measured her hips, waist, legs, total height and her weight. Then there were question about self propelling or being pushed, how the chair will be used, where she would be going. Much of it had meant nothing to Cassie. It had all seemed so far away, but now it was here and she knew she needed it. More and more often her muscles rebelled. Her limbs didn't do what she told them all the time. Confined to a wheeled metal cage, never to escape.

"Stop pretending this is a good thing."

"Get on your start line. It might not be a good thing and you won't be able to do the things you used to but think of the energy you'll save by not doing that pesky walking."

The only way it didn't screw up her future is that she wanted to write which was more about her brain than anything. And that seemed to be okay. "Do I get to laugh and point at the Normies? 'Cos they ain't allowed to hit a cripple."

"And you can get them to do everything for you. They don't expect you to be able to do anything."

They both lined up their chairs and Paul shouted "GO!" Down the ramp, over the fresh turf, skirt the edge of the hole dug for foundations, tag the sandbags, circle the shed twice then speed up the line of bricks, stopping just before the bench where they had started. Cassie had to stop twice on the way – moving it was hard work. In spite of herself though, she was panting and laughing at the end. Having fun had never been the plan but c'est la vie. The plan had been to sit in the thing, join in his little game, reaffirm her loathing and never touch it again. Redundant much. It was one of the reasons she never made plans any more.

The sun pounded down on them. Paul was developing sunburn on his bald patch. Cassie had worn suncream. "Cassie, look at me. You're going to be like me in a decade."

"A boy with a red 'ed?" Well, that settled everything, didn't it?

"Ha bloody ha. I've got a decent job and a degree."

Those were the two things she wanted above all else – only, it wasn't enough. "Are you happy in that thing? Doctors tell us there's no cure for whatever we've got, they ain't even got a name, and you're okay with it? I'm not. I'm going to uni. I might have to stay home and go here but I'm getting that degree."

"Even though you'll have to sit in your chair every time?"

She thought. Was she prepared to sit in the metal thing each day – work in it, eat in it? And all so one piece of her life could stay on its old track. "Yeah." She leaned against the backrest and lifted her feet onto the bench seat. There was no reason to respect her own property – just crappy NHS stuff. "It gets worse, it gets worse. I'll still have letters after my name."

They say I'm not normal

That my condition is strange

And maybe they're right but

I do make a nice change

TUTOR NOTES-

This is a piece of writing with many moments of understandable human emotion. Your narrators' voice comes through clearly. In your autobiographical piece, you convey a great sense of immediacy, especially in the confrontation. The shape of the piece the piece of writing is appropriate for the sequence of thoughts and events that you present. These are evident in the autobiographical piece but the commentary could have been more substantial and sharply focussed. In particular, it would have helped to go into more detail about what literary models did – or did not – influence you. There is good writing here, Wendy, but check my comments.

MARK-57

CHAOS

Chaos glares at God then at the figures of Eve, Adam and Snake. Twizzles flower between fingers, almost drops it then tucks it behind ear.

CHAOS -who d'you think you are? God or something? I mean, come on – superiority complex. You're a strange lot – think the world revolves round you.

Chaos stands in the centre, slowly spinning to look at all.

CHAOS -So you two do the dirty and the snake watches 'cos he's a perv and God chucks you out of Eden. Smacks of revenge 'cos you're getting some and he ain't if you ask me.

Order enters the circle and watches as Chaos rants on. In her hand she holds a long sheet of paper.

CHAOS -And don't you start with your 'it's the way things are meant to be.' People are gonna do what people do and I'm not stopping that. I could tear that list into shreds...

So she does and drops the scraps on the floor.

CHAOS –See? If I can cause pain and tears and bloodshed I will. And you know why? It's fun. No excuses like (God) It's my duty (Snake) I never thought they'd do it (Eve) He made me (Adam) I'm just a bloke – I'm physically incapable of resisting. Free will, guys and girls.

Order is staring sadly at her torn list. Chaos puts a hand on Order's arm.

Chaos -And I'm never what people expect me to be. I can hurt any one of you lot a thousand different ways and you haven't got one to stop me. I could've saved Hitler's life and really put you through the shit but you're already fucked.

Order walks (or rolls) around behind Chaos, who takes out a mirror and checks reflection. Yep, still there. Raises the mirror above her head as if to smash it. The others gasp slightly and step forward as if to stop her. Then retreat when she looks up.

CHAOS -Isn't anyone gonna stop me? Seven years suffering. We don't want that. Do we?

Hands the mirror to Order and moves away.

CHAOS -your move Order.

DEANO

1.I used to get into a bit of trouble. Not exactly the kind of lad you want your mom to meet I guess. I was shoved onto the estate when I left home and – well that place was crawlin'. You've got two choices – join a gang or get made dead. So I'm suddenly one of the B14 Massive. I thought it'd make me cool but staring down the barrel of the B13 Posse ain't cool. But, before I get that bullet, I see this chick and wham. She's on their turf so I know I can't speak to her. So she's like Juliet or whoever and she's got no home to go to and some bloke at her side. And I watch every day even though the B13s might get me – they don't like us soiling their goods – and hear them rowing and trying to find somewhere to live. Getting bigger all the time like. Still pretty though and, I don't know vulnerable. I want to help her 'cos that fella doesn't look like he'll stick around when she's bitchin'. I turned my life round, I did. Got out of all that gang shit 'fore it got nasty; stopped looking over my shoulder to see if they were chasing me and now I've got the Massive gunning for me. See, I knew the girl and her boyfriend were desperate to have the kid in four walls and a roof and no-one looked like giving help. Offered them a room in my flat for a night but...

2.There was some turf war thing going on when I moved onto the estate. Me and my kid brother and Dad, we wanted to keep well out of it. We like our blood on the inside but the B13 Posse liked it on the outside. Staring down their barrel was terrifying. I thought that was it, I was on their patch but I can't help where my college is, and then was a gurgle but I could only see the black insides of that barrel. Then it fell away. Then... then I was one of the B14 Massive. I liked having my own territory and having weapons and knowing that the rest of the Massive would always have my back. We had rules and that. You weren't meant to talk to the other gang. That's where the trouble started.

There was me being all hard and cool, thinking I was it. And this really fit chick goes by looking like she's ready to drop one. She's crying and everything in me yelled at me to go over and try to help her. But I just watched her. No bloke with her so I'm hardly gonna get shot down. But no girl that pretty should have a backstreet baby with no dad and no mom if something happens. I was gonna help her until I realised she was on B13 turf. Was she one of them? Should I cross the line and help her, risking us all? A screech ripped through the night – an ambulance and I hoped it was for her. Then I left.

TELLING

SCENE 1

Kirstie has her hands pressed to her face and is looking at Cath who is walking around her and nursing a mug of coffee.

Kirstie -It's funny really. Ironic, maybe. Pregnant at Christmas. Homeless.

Cath -There's nothing funny about this.

Kirstie -I'm just like that Mary chick from the Bible. You know – giving birth on an estate of animals. Oh, not you. I meant the gangs in the flats.

Cath -No holy orders for you my girl.

Kirstie -I haven't even told Shane yet. An angel tells him he knocked me up'd be a Kodak moment if there ever was one. How did you find out so fast, Cath?

Cath pours another cup of coffee for them both, puts them on table and sits down beside her. Shane bursts into the scene.

Cath - Shane. I think you need to listen to this.

Shane -Dennis told me down the park. How did this happen?

Kirstie -I'm not drawing you a bloody diagram. I'm having a kid in six months. We need somewhere to live, baby stuff and money.

Shane – Kirstie, babies ain't my thing.

Cath -Well, you better get interested in them fast, bab. I'm making you an appointment with the housing officer for next week. Should be enough time for it to sink in. If there's ever gonna be enough time.

Shane – How'm I gonna pay rent and stuff with me dole? Why can't we just live here for a bit.

Kirstie -Your mom's right. It's our responsibility now and we need to just-

Shane – And what if its not mine? Dennis said that bloke from the college had his hand down your jeans.

Kirstie rises and takes the mugs to the sideboard and Shane slips into her seat adopting the same expression she began the scene with. Cath looks through a phonebook and punches some numbers into a phone. She twists the cord around her fingers.

Cath – Could I make an appointment with... (fade)

SCENE 2

Lynne-Diane's monologue

SCENE 3

Dennis is standing opposite Shane as he tries to light a cigarette.

Dennis – Your hands are shaking. Wuss.

Shane – My girlfriend's expecting. Course I'm shaking.

Dennis – Makes you one of us now. You know that kids are easy street. Bumped up the housing register, benefits, all that.

Shane -Uh-huh. Housin' feller says we got no chance, not even a bedsit.

Dennis – All them foreigners on our patch. We have to protect what's ours yeah.

Cath is lingering behind the boys. She is pacing back and forth

Cath – Oh, what am I meant to do? I'm sorry and everything but I can't let them stay with me. I was a teen mum myself so I know it's hard but they did this. And yes, i want to keep my son out of this mess but what can I do? He's not a kid any more.

She faces out of the scene again and we return to see Shane sitting on a wall and swinging his legs. Dennis grins.

Shane -What's funny?

Dennis – Just thinking. What if she's not even pregnant. It could be just a ploy to get herself sorted out.

Shane -Kirst wouldn't do that to me. She's too posh, doesn't know how to lie probably

Dennis – Never know. They say you gotta watch the quiet ones.

SCENE 4

Kirstie is wandering around a high street with Cath and both have a couple of bags in their hands. Kirstie is looking around her and above her.

Kirstie – Guess the council didn't bother with lights this year. Seeing all that false cheer makes me more depressed anyway. I mean, I feel as big as house and I'd be happy to crawl under the duvet and never come out.

Cath -everyone feels like that the first time. No-one tells you this but it only gets worse.

Kirstie – I don't get it, though. How is nine months long enough to get everything out? Especially when you've got nothing to start with.

Cath – You've got me and Shane. Shane... okay, it'll take him a while to get used to it but we'll both help all we can.

Kirstie – I keep rowing with him. Hormones, I guess. It's just everywhere we turn is another problem. No flat, no money, he's starting to think the baby isn't his even though I've never been with anyone else.

Cath – It'll all sort itself out. You'll see. Do you believe in goodness. Total strangers look out for you, help you. Like a guardian angel. Ooh, that's a nice coat, let's have a look.

Cath disappears and Kirstie is left wandering the street and thinking. A guy in a dark hoodie is loitering some way behind her. He is finishing tagging Deano onto a wall and watches her.

Deano – Get off the B13 patch, kid. Their crew'll get you. It's not safe over there but i can protect you if you come back. You don't mess with the B13 Posse, not even if you're one of 'em.

Hearing a voice, Kirstie turns round. Deano crouches and ducks behind the grafittid wall. Cath re-emerges from the shop and taps Kirstie on the shoulder. She jumps and yelps.

Cath -It's just me. What're you staring at?

Kirstie – I heard some-one but it was probably the wind. Come on, Blob's cold.

They walk off with Kirstie constantly glancing over her shoulder.

What problems did you encounter during this collaborative process and how were these dealt with?

There is no 'how-to' manual or guidebook which tells you everything to espect and do whilst committed to a collaborative writing project. But there are books that provide some ideas on writing a play and the traps one might fall prey to. The individual; experience is different each time, though. For my group of six – the process was hard, long and very stressful.

With such little guidance, we found ourselves deep on two new things – playwriting, which had only previously been touched on, and working as a group. We will take the group work very briefly as our first point, then talk about the writing.

Working with the other members of the group was not new to any of us. But we had never attempted to write anything together before. There was a clash of ideas, styles and plans. We found it quite hard all the way through to find anything we all agreed on. Everyone had problems with at least one thing during this time but we knew we had a deadline to meet so we had to raise our points, make a quick decision and move on. The collaboration was a shared learning experience and I wonder if perhaps we learnt more about the process, by making mistakes? Following on from that point can come a discussion about the actual writing of the piece and these points will focus on establishing the theme, world and conflicts used in the play.

Theme is central to any piece of writing – novel, play or poem. In this case the play needed a theme to focus it down. It is not enough to simply recount events, though it is true that themes can be read into this descriptive writing. Our theme was originally going to be SIN and give our own interpretation of an original sin to give the story. But problems arose from that and after much debate the theme evolved into LOVE. I think it is more about the trappings of human nature. There were always reasons characters were unable to help even when they wanted to so I believe the play ended up as being about an expectant couple on a housing estate but, though it did not outrightly say so, it presented the thought that human kindness just has too many rules to shine. As I said before, themes are open to interpretation and are probably different for every member of my group as we all put our individual spins on things.

'You may ... think you're writing a play about South Africa, but

in fact it's your sense of injustice towards your boss which is

really motivating you.'

(S Gooch, 1988, p6)

Motivation and theme are eternally intertwined because we start writing and discover the real reason that we are doing so. The play may then become driven by ones own feelings but understanding our own motivations help with knowing what we are writing about. My motivation was that I had grown up on both the estates mentioned and knew the total lack of hope there.

We assumed that pinning down the theme of the project and understanding what was driving us to write a specific story would give us the dramatic question needed. It didn't. We toyed with the ideas of our own interpretations of sin to begin with. There were notions of ethereal personifications encouraging and justifying the sin. We even followed this lead to the point where it burnt out. Each member of the group had slightly different idea of the nature of the sin they were writing about and it was brought to our attention that the script had become a series of people talking about themselves and their views. That one rejected several other possible questions were thrown around. In trying to keep as close to the original characterisations as possible, the task – which was probably quite late in the day – was quite difficult. I suggested turning our holy characters into people at a hospital bedside debate the fate of a patient and his soul. There were so many dramatic questions that no-one could agree unanimously on that we sent all our ideas to our tutor, Deb, and allowed her to mix one or two of them up to end up with asking if the young couple would have their baby safely. The story was now decided, the characters modified and the writing now to begin.

The world of the play was set up as the B13 and B14 housing estates and a group of the people that lived there. It was quite simple to create this world – I live in it – but I think it could have been a touch more difficult for some of the others who only had stories and TV to go on. Having said that, it was quite a good thing that people were writing for people who just happened to live on an estate rather than residents who were resigned to that life. The play needed that sense of hope. With the story concerning itself with six members of these estates and trying to work through the problems they face there, it was important for me to see the world made as difficult and fraught with red tape as I know it to be. There was an air of hopelessness in each scene we wrote, a sense of knowing how hard each thing was.

'After all, different kinds of characterisation suggest different

worlds, and nothing is more irritating for an audience than

not knowing which world it's supposed to be in.'

(S Gooch, 1988, p63)

It was clear that the play was set on an estate through the dialogue but, reading the script back, I cannot be certain that the audience would have immediately picked that up without any markers in the dialogue. The six of us, as the dramatists, knew the world we were creating and performing in though how it would appear to everyone else seem to be a slight afterthought. However, we were writing the play and part of any production writing is to consider the visual experience. Drama writing is difficult in this way because you do not have a film-makers hours to dress any set convincingly – you have seconds to find the key signals that tell people what world they have stumbled into. A street sign on the estate, a few fallen leaves in the park. Given more time, we would have no doubt identified these items and incorporated them into the play.

The world we showed gave rise to some very natural conflicts between characters. The tension between Cath and Dennis who had once had an affair, Kirstie trying to convince Shane that he is the father of her child and Shane and Deano losing their friendship because they live on rival estates to name just a few. We wanted to end the piece with some kind of resolution to these problems but we all agreed that we needed to leave a satisfying solution that left a bit of a question hanging over these storylines. Conflict is also raised by giving each character obstacles or difficulties to overcome. The tricky part was always going to be slotting these obstacles in without them seeming too contrived or awkward. Luckily we have all been writing for long enough that we knew how to make this seem true to the characters we had made and also to the world. A housing officer would feel threatened and powerless in a rough neighbourhood where gangs rule and good people are ignored. A young girl would feel alone and ready to take drastic action when intentions are all she sees. It was important, to me at least, that we wrote the play well enough that nothing seemed like padding or like it was just there to meet some requirement.

Each character had to have things they wanted and their own reasons for doing things. This is essential to any form of creative writing for why are they getting a story if they have no desires or difficulties? It was clear that Kirstie wanted her child to be born safely, she wanted somewhere to live, she wanted Shane to accept his paternal responsibilities. I also wrote the monologue for Deano when he first speaks. He lost part of the apathy when his other lines were written by some-one else but that was out of my hands. I had not intended him to simply defect from gang life but the addition of a history with Shane was quite clever. The monologue I wrote for him was meant to show him as wanting the protection and power being in a gang gave him. No doubt the actor here, and indeed all over, flesh out characters to want and need things different to how the writer imagined it.

The final point I have to make concerns the theatricality of the piece. How did we ensure that our script formed a piece of theatre rather than a piece of prose being read aloud? To make sure this was clearly theatre, we all went to see a play and looked at the works of other writers. I was assigned Tennessee Williams. I think this was a good thing to do because, by examining the techniques and works of another, I had a better idea of what to include and leave out to make it successful. For example, I could not set up scenes and situations as well as in screenplays and the scenes could not really be as short as they have to be for film. By paring down props and set dressing. By describing the settings through dialogue and, because it was short, making sure the audience got clues as to the ending as quickly as possible. Through a writing process of creating the pictures we could not physically produce. That is how a script is made more suitable for theatre.

'it is what happens within the performing space that actors,

directors and ultimately the audience engage with, not just

the words... meaningless to many people on the page, and

only having life when it's performed.'

(S Gooch, 1988, p17-18)

Having no direct guidance as such it was hard to really know if the piece we had written was truly a piece of theatre until it was received. Working blind in this way was a huge problem because we had no way of really knowing if we were writing for theatre or writing for another medium and internally adapting it. We wrote stage directions and instructions for the performers which really meant nothing until someone carried them out. I wanted to add a number of tiny movements in to the script but due to the pace of the script, those things just would have got lost. Any writer will tell you that their words need to make something real for the audience and theatre is no difference. But you need to use physical signs to make them believe and not just ask them to imagine.

As a group, we found the collaborative process hard, long and stressful but it was ultimately rewarding in spite of the numerous dead ends we followed. We learnt a lot about give and take along the way. I discovered that I dislike working in a group of this number because it's just too hard to get unanimous agreement on things. Having to make decisions on cuts and additions was a task nobody was happy to take on as we were all too concerned about hurting another's feelings.

'Many of the heated arguments that can occur there are not

as often as they might appear, solely about defending the

dramatic integrity of a particular script detail.

(V Taylor, 2002, p27)

Luckily, none of us were precious enough about our work to demand it was left in the final script. I fully admit that there were disagreements about some of things e wrote but, as mentioned, time settled the debates for us.

We had to perform the play, though we were able to use the scripts if we wished. Some people did but a lot of dialogue was ad-libbed, jumbled around or missed out completely. I noticed this particularly in the scenes I was in but it happened elsewhere too. However we had drafted each scene, gotten to know each character and relived those moments enough times that we knew what would sound right and could meet these new lines with an appropriate response. Even if these new moments were only scripted inside our minds, at least it was another piece of collaboration – we did not all write the characters we portrayed. The writer writes and the actor acts.

Telling

The housing officer, Harriet is sitting in her office. Shane and Kirsty are sitting separately on a park bench.

Harriet I had two kids in here the other day. They were so young and they looked so innocent! He was a real nice looking kid, looked like a movie star, fresh-faced with cute dimples. He said he was eighteen but I knew he was still wet behind the ears. And that girl with him! She looked like an angel, the prettiest little thing I ever saw! She looked so virginal but she was nearly four months pregnant! And they were homeless!

I was so sarcastic to them because I was out of my scull! But there was something about them! Something really genuine! But I couldn't help them! Because we've got NO STOCK!

Kirsty and Shane stand and face each other

ShaneIs it mine?

KirstyYes, the baby's yours. Whose else would it be?

ShaneWho've you been messing around with? PAUSE Is it Deano's?

KirstyNo it's yours. I told you it's yours!

ShaneIt can't be mine. I'm not ready to be a dad.

KirstyThis thing'll be here in five months. You'd better get ready, Shane.

ShaneTell Deano that. Go on.

KirstyPregnant at Christmas. What a bloody joke. I don't think I'm going to have such an easy ride as you, Mary.

Shane gets up and walks off to one side.

KirstyVery lucky you were, to have Joseph. He supported you and the baby even though he knew he wasn't the father. Bloody 'ell... I can just see Shane's face if an angel had come to him in a dream and told him I was pregnant. He even thinks the scan photo is a fake – says it looks nothing like him!

Shane walks downstage and addresses audience.

Just one time. Just one time, say it was me. Say it was me who did this, me who made all this happen. Me who put it in her. Me, who will carry it around like the darling bud of May. Who's going to hold her hand.

Shane begins to pace around, facing the audience, addressing them.

ShaneSay it now, go on. Say I did it. Say I did something. Whatever I did [he begins to back away].

[beat]

Please. Say it.

Dennis and Kath enter arguing.

DennisKeep calm, Kath, for god sake! They'll be OK.

KathThey'll never get a house. They haven't got enough points!

DennisPoints! What sort of thing d'you get points for, Kath?

KathYou know about points, you bastard! You've spent all your life scoring points

DennisYeh, and what do points make? Points make prizes! You were a prize Kath, weren't you? A real beauty you were, twenty years ago. Not bad now.....just a few wrinkles and saggy tits.

KathUp yours, Dennis.

DennisAs I remember Kath, it was up yours. And you were glad to have it when your old man left.

KathHe didn't leave. I chucked him out. He was playing away.

DennisNever found out who she was, did you Kath?

Dennis leaves. Kath confronts Kirsty and Shane.

KathChrist! What a mess! And you two. Just look at you. Doing nothing to sort it out.

KirstyYour son doesn't believe it's his. So looks like I'll be on my own. That's the bit I hate the thought of most. Being on my own when the baby's born. You need your bloke at a time like that don't you? I mean, even you had Dennis.

Kath sits beside Kirsty and comforts her.

KathYou won't be on your own love.

KirstyI just feel like running away.... without the blob. Or going to sleep and never waking up. I remember when I was a kid . I still am really. Mum used to say if I went to sleep, everything would be better in the morning. But it won't will it?

KathCome on, love. Things might not be so bad. The main problem is where you're going to live. (takes a paper from her pocket and gives it to Shane) You! Shane! You can see a housing officer at this address. Go on. Do it. Kirsty can't stay at my place. If the landlord found out, he'd throw me out too for breaking the terms of the tenancy. But I'm prepared to risk it for a few nights. At least we owe her that. I'm taking her now. You try to sort yourself out.

Kath leads Kirsty offstage. Shane turns back to the audience and takes out a cigarette and a lighter.

ShaneThis is a new pastime of mine.

[beat]

I'm taking up a form of relief that will slowly kill me.

He flicks the lighter a few times.

ShaneWhich is to combat everything else that is slowly killing me. Got children?

[beat]

[chuckles] Not me. I haven't. Not a one. Never have. I probably never will.

[beat]

Yeah she's my bird. And so what? And so what nowadays?

He places the cigarette in his mouth.

ShaneThey say you shouldn't talk with your mouth full...

[beat]

Fuck 'em. I've been playing this game a while now. Ducking and diving. Dodging and weaving. Whatever you want to call it, it ain't got me nowhere except under someone's thumb [gives a thumbs up]. You're up [turns his thumb down]... and then you're down.

[beat]

I should really expect more.

[beat]

Or less. More or less.

Shane goes to light the cigarette but is distracted by the fluid inside the lighter. He turns it up and down and watches it flow.

ShaneThat stuff.

[beat]

That stuff stays rooted to gravity. Follows its every word. Trusts it like it's a dog with a wagging tail. All it needs is a spark.

[beat]

A spark. And then bollocks to gravity. Fucker goes up. Should happen more often, but then they put the stuff in little containers like this, let a bit of it out at a time.

[beat]

Til one day it's all gone. Then when you put it to ground it don't do nothing. Just smashes up, empty.

Shane leaves and Harriet continues.

"I'm out of my scull!" I'm on my third warning! I'll get the sack if they catch me drunk again! You would be too, if you had to deal with this filthy rabble! They all say they're homeless! They all look like tramps! They come here because it's sub-zero. They stay all day stinking the place out with their filthy gear. They've got tents and sleeping bags, so they can piss off to the park and camp there. My orders are to vet them all carefully. You should hear the fuckin stories they tell me about their hardships! They're all fuckin liars! They just want a roof over their heads because it's so fucking cold. What happened to innocence? Well. We've got NO STOCK!

Deano enters.

DeanoThere was some turf war thing going on when I moved onto the estate. Me and my kid brother and Dad, we wanted to keep well out of it. We like our blood on the inside but the B13 Posse liked it on the outside. Staring down their barrel was terrifying. I thought that was it, I was on their patch but I can't help where my college is, and then was a gurgle but I could only see the black insides of that barrel. Then it fell away. Then... then I was one of the B14 Massive. I liked having my own territory and having weapons and knowing that the rest of the Massive would always have my back. We had rules and that. You weren't meant to talk to the other gang. That's where the trouble started.

There was me being all hard and cool, thinking I was it. And this really fit chick goes by looking like she's ready to drop one. She's crying and everything in me yelled at me to go over and try to help her. But I just watched her. No bloke with her so I'm hardly gonna get shot down. But no girl that pretty should have a backstreet baby with no dad and no mom if something happens. I was gonna help her until I realised she was on B13 turf. Was she one of them? Should I cross the line and help her, risking us all?

Exit Deano

Kath and Kirsty enter together upstage. Kath is supporting Kirsty who is in obvious distress. She leads her to the bench.

KathI've been looking for you for ages. Where on earth have you been. Just look at the state of you.

KirstyI've been to find another solution.

KathA solution? Oh my god! You silly girl.

KirstyDon't tell me you never thought of it when you were in my position.

KathNo, never for one moment. I love Shane. I love my son. I thought you loved him too.

KirstyI do love him. The terrible thought is that he might not love his child.

KathHe will. Trust me. He will. He's just confused. My god! You look terrible. A solution. You didn't?

KirstyNo. I tried.

KathGet yourself home and I'll call a doctor when I get back.

Kirsty exits

Kath and Dennis meet up in the street

KathWell, if it isn't Dennis, the original gobshite.

DennisStill fancy me then, Kath?

Kath Thanks to you, the whole bloody estate knows our business.

DennisSo it is your business then?

KathIt's bloody-well none of yours.

DennisThe girl's up the duff and your little Shane's the daddy.

KathHe's been denying it. But isn't that what all men do? Anyway I'm sorry for the kid. Baby's due before long and she has nowhere to go.

DennisShe could always come to my place. That's if I can't persuade you, Kath.

KathIf she was the devil's daughter, I wouldn't wish that on her.

DennisMaybe he's the father. The devil I mean. Ever see 'Rosemary's Baby'?

KathLike I said, the original gobshite, Dennis!

DennisThere is another kid might take her on. Mate o' mine called Deano fancies her something rotten.

KathShe'll stick with Shane.

DennisBut will he stick with her?

KathOh, he'll come round.

DennisWhat makes you sure of that?

KathBecause the baby's his.

DennisI thought you said....

KathIt's what she says convinces me. She says that Shane's the father. And I can tell she isn't lying.

DennisAnd how can you tell that?

KathOh, I know liars Dennis. Lived amongst 'em all my life.

Kath and Dennis leave. Harriet continues.

I really want to help the genuinely needy but you can't tell the sheep from the wolves anymore! They look Ok, at first sight, with their designer clobber and fancy hairdos', but these kids are toting weapons under their slick jackets. I've had a gun held to my head on more than one occasion in this office, threatening to kill me and my family, if I didn't give them somewhere to live. They are all so screwed up; on drugs and booze!

"What happened to innocence?"

I'm not naturally hard! I just have to be that way, it's part of the job!

"What happened to innocence?" We've got NO STOCK

Deano and Shane run into each other on the street.

DeanoWell well.

ShaneWhat d'you say?

DeanoIf it isn't Shane, who lived down my lane.

ShaneYeah, not any more. I'm B13 now, mate. Want me to show you?

DeanoYeah, that's it. That's it all the time. Shane, looking out for number one.

ShaneWhat are you going on about you muppet?

DeanoCouldn't help noticing Kirsty around here a few days ago... yeah, I'd say I got a good look at how she's doing.

ShaneNone of your business. Fuck off.

DeanoOh, that is your solution all the time, isn't it?

[beat]

Is she alone already? You gonna leave her with the baby? The same way you left me to the cops when we did one over on old Mr. Wilcox round the corner? How much of his stuff did you nab?

Shane is taken aback.

DeanoOh, yeah, you didn't think I'd remember. Because you were far away by the time the police came. Left me to rot and all.

[beat]

She hasn't got a clue, has she? What has she let herself in for?

ShaneGrow up, mate. That was years ago. We were kids. It was peanuts.

[beat]

It's time you got some backbone and started taking stock for your own actions... instead of blaming everyone else around you.

DeanoYeah, whatever. I still haven't seen the takings...

ShaneThat's all they are to you, isn't it? Things you could take. Stuff you could nab off somebody else. Try nabbing some of the blame for yourself.

DeanoThat is all I have ever done for you, and you know it.

ShaneYeah, don't I know it. Every single time I see you, it's the only thing you can say.

[beat]

Why don't you just bury it for once?

DeanoI'll bury you.

ShaneYeah. And how're you gonna do that?

Deano steps closer.

DeanoI'm gonna make sure you get what you deserve, Shane-o.

[beat]

Sleepless nights and nappy changes. You ain't running away from this one...

Deano begins to back away...

DeanoYeah, that's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna make sure you can't go nowhere this time Shaney.

[beat]

'Cause this time, it ain't just peanuts.

Deano leaves, and Shane is left standing in thought.

Shane leaves and Dennis enters with Deano

DennisStill mooning over that little girl Deano. Fancy her myself.

DeanoYou fancy everything in a skirt, you lustful bastard. I just feel sorry for her.

DennisSorry's not what I'm feeling. Don't know what he's got - I aint. I hate every look she gives him with those gypsy eyes of hers. Got a picture of a gypsy on our wall. My dad says it looks like mom before she fucked off.

DeanoYou know she's pregnant.

DennisThat makes it more attractive. When I say I want his girl, I don't mean for keeps. He keeps what's his, if you know what I mean? Leastways he pays for it.

DeanoYou know he's one of the B13 Posse?

DennisThat makes it even sweeter. Dangerous liaisons yeah?

DeanoHer folks have kicked her out. She's staying temporary at his mum's. But she's not supposed to. Landlord's agreement.

DennisHis mum...oh yes, his mum. Now if she had to leave in a hurry, there's spare at my place and she might not be as picky if push came to shove.

DeanoWhy would she leave in a hurry?

DennisWell, the landlord could find out. Know what I mean?

DeanoThat's worse than grassing your own.

DennisI don't give a stuff about Shane. He wears cheap shit trainers, and supermarket cheap shit jeans - shag his mother given half the chance - give her one. Yeah, just one phone call should do it. You coming?

DeanoI'm going home. Don't feel so good.

They leave in opposite directions. There is the sound of an ambulance siren in the background.

Shane enters with a mobile phone clamped to his ear. He flicks his lighter with his other hand, trying to light the cigarette in his mouth.

ShaneAnswer, damn it. Answer. Shit! (finally he gives up and throws both cigarette and lighter away.) I'm phoning about Kirsty Morris. She was admitted this afternoon. I need to know how she is. Morris, yes. Kirsty Morris. This afternoon. At two o'clock...........Comfortable? But is she.....is the baby all right? Yes baby, damn it, baby. She's having my baby. Well, tell her it's Shane. Tell her. Tell her I love her....and the baby. Tell her I love our baby.

Shane ends the call. He sits on the bench and begins to weep. Eventually he recovers and leaves slowly.

Harriet continues

You got to be real hard, to cope with all this trouble! Everyone's' shit scared! We can't keep the staff anymore! Some of these kids, we get in here, would kill you as soon as look at you. They've got bloody guns now! What happened to civilisation? What happened to innocence? Why don't these kids play Hoop-n-Stick or Marbles in the street, like we did, when I was a kid on the Estate? No! They all think they're bleedin' Rambo! What happened to innocence? We've got no stock.

Dennis enters housing officer's office.

DennisHey Harriet. Lush old bag.

HarrietDo you have an appointment?

DennisBollocks to the appointment. You looking after that Kirsty Morris case?

HarrietThat is highly confidential.

DennisLook here, shit face, I remember when you were nothing. And you've still got most of it left, aint yer? It's time I pulled in a few favours....Remember Kath's husband, do you? You and him? Think you're posh, you do, don't yer? Stuck up! Well, where I come from, at least we get out of the bath for a piss.

HarrietI'll have you escorted off the premises. (Pushes panic button) SECURITY!

DennisYou'd better not go out of your way to help that Kirsty. I have my own plans. Unless you want me to spill the beans. You bitch!

Dennis leaves and Deano enters the housing office.

HarrietI doubt whether I can help you. You're one of those kids from the estate.

DeanoCouple-a friends of mine, Kirsty and Shane came to see you. Wanted you to find them a place.

HarrietAnd?

DeanoSaid you couldn't help them. No places you said.

HarrietThere are no places.

DeanoThere's always some place. Goddamnit, even Mary and Joseph were offered a stable.

HarrietWe don't do stables.

DeanoThe chic's about to drop it. One of my lot, Dennis - who I always knew was a nasty piece of goods - dropped the mother in it, because she'd taken her in. Now the kids have nowhere to go.Nearly got an abortion because of the mess. Then she tried to kill herself. Wouldn't want that on my conscience.

HarrietNot my problem.

DeanoBut you do have a problem, don't you Harriet? Like a little drop they tell me. Thought there was a rule about that sort of thing?

HarrietThat's a preposterous suggestion. Are you trying to blackmail...?

DeanoI'm not trying anything, but it wouldn't do you any good if your boss was to find out about your drinking would it? So if you could just check your stock – just one more time.

HarrietI'll see what I can do.

Deano leaves and Harriet continues.

You have to be real hard in this job! Like the territorial gangs on the Estate, who fight for their own! I admire them for that! But the violence is so deadly now even the police can't handle it. But we do get to repossess the Stock when whole families are bumped off in these tribal wars. Whatever happened to innocence? Ah! I see we've got some stock!

Kirsty and Shane enter from upstage with a suitcase. Kath follows behind.

KathI know you're going to be O.K. Now you have a place of your own to go to.

ShaneWhat a stroke of luck they changed their minds.

KirstyThe landlord would have really kicked you out?

KathWho knows? But now we won't have to find out will we?

Deano enters

ShaneYou're somewhat off your territory, aren't you.

DeanoI'm done with all that stuff.

ShaneMe too.

DeanoI came to wish you luck. But then, with a chic like that, you sure are lucky.

Shane walks over and offers Deano his hand.

ShaneYou look out for my mum Deano. We could have been mates. If only you'd lived on my side of the street.

DeanoOr if you'd lived on mine.

Shane (turning to audience) Please Kirst. Say it was me.

KirstyNo say it was both of us.

TELLING was a collective effort by Maureen Hinckley, Lynne Diane Holland, Steve Jones, Wendy Maddocks, Ambrus Veres and Keith Yates.

TUTOR NOTES-

JOINT WRITING – This was a well told short play. It was moving to watch – and to read – particularly in the characterization of Shane and Kirsty; it used humour effectively in the interplay of characters – Kath and Dennis – and in the commentary of Harriet, the Housing Officer, it displayed a range of different theatrical styles to good effect and had a genuine story arc which was properly resolved in the time available.

The language is often quick and vivid – as I remember Kath, it was up yours – and the housing officers stylized refrain 'whatever happened to innocence' and we've got no stock' were very effective. The world of the play was well established and the resolution of Deano's story against the background of the gangs was convincing. Shane's phone call to the hospital, his very profound real-but-metaphorical piece with the cigarette lighter and Kirsty's final pay off for the 'say it's mine' speech made for a wonderful ending.

There was a slight issue with the housing issue plot, which came across as a bit rushed. Otherwise, this was a successful piece of dramatic showing evidence of talented writing and excellent collaborative, despite some early difficulties. You managed to take on board the help proffered and to allow a real play to emerge.

This became after some struggle a really excellent script. The use of different voices for the housing officer and the people of the area were well crafted as were the differences in the generations portrayed. The use of the housing officer as a semi choric semi narrative voice was very successful. The growth of Shane and the tensions of his environment read well. All the characters had the opportunity to respond to the central tension charting their own change. The text was both real and poetic imbuing the whole and enabling the audience to enter the world of the characters. I found both the text and the characters compelling, the piece had holistic feel which had clearly been worked on by the group. Some really exceptional writing throughout.

INDIVIDUAL WRITING – There was good variety in the extracts you presented. The Chaos piece was a lively monologue which used physical interaction with the other characters to good effect. I wasn't sure why Chaos was going to smash the mirror however. There was wit and elegance in the writing.

I thought the second Deano monologue was better than the first – it got straight into the action, not trying to go into too much backstory. I also liked 'we like our blood on the inside but the B13 Posse liked it on the outside'. However, there was some vivid use of language in the first one as well.

Your scenes with multiple characters were full of vivid, believable dialogue. However, you tended to use short, filmic scenes and to use them for storytelling rather than combining story telling with dramatic tension within the scenes themselves. This is a classic mistake often made by film writers moving to stage writing.

ANALYTIC DISCUSSION – you make many good points both about the nature of collaboration and about theatrical performance. You showed that you had understood the importance of conflict and obstacles, objectives, theatricality and the world of the play.

You do refer to Taylor and to Gooch when discussing some of the points you make about the writing, but if you had used the full 2500 words I think you could have examined some of these challenges in greater depth and detail.

MARK-66

YEAR SIX

YEAR OF THE BEAST

Dissertation year. Oh, the fun I had...

STORMED

FADE IN.

TERRACED HOUSES \- EXT - AFTERNOON

Pale sun shines off the roofs of 80s cars. There are piles

of litter beside public bins and there is graffiti sprayed

on the side walls of the row, the words THEY WALK among the

spray art. A gaggle of schoolkids chase each other around

the street and a man is failing to start his engine.

GARDEN - EXT - CONTINUOUS

Two young children of 4 or 5 are running around the tiny

back garden. They are bothering a man hanging washing. An

over-turned white bike spins on the grass.

MAN (O.S.)

Stupid bloody thing. Work, damn

you.

There is a faint metallic clang off screen.

MAN (O.S.) (CONT'D)

Aah, shittin' hell.

They children glance at each other and giggle. His face is

pale and shoulders are hunched. His children - one boy

(Craig), one girl (Lee), almost identical - buzz around his

feet, yelling excited babble.

An elderly lady walks past the fence, pulling a tartan

shopping carrier. She peers in at the small family and

stops for a moment. Her eyes drift over them, she grips

her things and shuffles beyond the house.

FATHER

Can you watch the kids for a sec,

May? I need more pegs.

A white haired woman bobs up over the fence, walks over to

the dividing wires with a trowel in her hand.

MAY

No problem.

He disappears into the house and closes the door.

MAY (CONT'D)

Isn't your Dad good at doing

housework, Lee?

LEE

Mom's at work. Crash, don't

push.

The little boy in a thick grey jumper and jeans grabs a

pebble and runs down to the chalk hopscotch grid with the

backwards 9. Lee scampers after him, fat knees pumping

below a green duffel coat. They start playing.

GARDEN - CONTINUOUS - EXT

P.O.V. - MAY

Watches as children inch towards a wolf-like dog and man

coming along the back path. It all happens in muted sounds

as she zips up her anorak.

MAY

Don't get too close!

Crash glances back but May is focussed on something else.

The contents of the basket - scrunched up wet clothes, an

old teddy bear and an open tupperware box. The box is

still half-filled with wooden clothes pegs.

Lee reaches out to the wolf-dog. It strains at the lead,

snarling and snapping at her hand. Lee jerks her hand

away.

LEE

I don't like it, it's mean. It

tried to eat me.

CRASH

Don't be stupid. Dogs don't eat

people. Look, I'll show you.

He reaches out to the wolf-dog hesitantly - holding Lee's

coat sleeve with the other hand.

CLOSE ON - The door behind them creaks open.

The huge dog trots off, master in tow. Their father

emerges empty-handed.

FATHER

You been looking after Lee,

Craigy?

LEE

The dog tried to eat me.

May sees thin diagonal scars on his wrists when he reaches

up.

COMMUNITY HALL \- NIGHT - EXT

CAPTION - TWENTY YEARS LATER

People are drifting into a community hall on a street lined

with cars trying to park. Red lights flash and horns beep.

The noticeboard reads MILLFORD SOCIETY CENTRE in chipped

lettering while a white sheet hung over the board

advertises THE MILL ART SCHOOL SHOWCASE. A man on the door

check tickets as he lets people through.

Rain is beginning to fall and umbrellas are going up. A

stray cat sits on the street and watches the people passing

by.

DOORMAN

Go on, get out of here.

The cat yawns at him and then lets out a high screech.

DOORMAN (CONT'D)

(TO WOMAN)

Thank you ma'am. Go on in.

COMMUNITY HALL \- CONTINUOUS - INT

The room is well lit by overhead strips. Pieces of art,

mostly paintings and a couple of sculptures, are dotted

around the room. People are milling around and drinking

wine, pretending to discuss the art and looking interested.

A young boy is drinking from a bottle of cola and sitting

on a low stage, swinging his legs.

MAXIE

What are we doing here, Daddy?

I'm bored.

Before him sits a man in a wheelchair. He spins around and

stares out at the people.

MAXIE (CONT'D)

Do you like this stuff or is it

stupid? I want to watch

cartoons.

FELIX

I know you do, Maxie. But we're

doing this for-

MAXIE

Kitty!

The stray white cat creeps through the partly open fire

door and strolls around. Maxie jumps off the stages and

goes running after the kitten.

FELIX

Your mom.

Felix weaves his way slowly around the room. He loiters

around a specific bank of paintings. People are glancing

at the work but largely passing by. His son is still

playing with the white cat in the corner beneath the

serving hatch. The name above the row of paintings is L.

SHAW.

WOMAN

Excuse me sir. Do you know

anything about these paintings?

FELIX

A little. You see, we... I mean

I

WOMAN

Don't work here. I see. Maybe

the artist then. Is she here?

FELIX

No. She's not around any-

The fire door flies open and a young man strides through.

Mid-twenties and stressed-looking. His faded check shirt

and ripped jeans are in contrast to the suits and dresses

most are wearing.

He looks around the room. Maxie is still playing with the

kitten in one corner, taunting it with some imaginary

thread. A flash image of a white wolf appears in place of

the cat. The newcomer turns away from the wolf when it

notices him and makes over towards Felix.

FELIX (CONT'D)

Crash. I didn't expect to see

you.

CRASH

Surprise.

People are turning to watch them. Crash looks from Felix

to the woman and back.

CRASH (CONT'D)

So, who wants to know how I

killed my sister?

CLEARING - NIGHT - EXT

CAPTION - A MONTH AGO.

Felix is standing with his back pressed against a tree

trunk. A young blonde woman, pretty, is sitting on the

ground facing him. It is dark and the sky is lit by a

crescent of moon and a handful of stars. The ground below

is green and thick. Night birds squawk and the surrounding

woods buzz with the sounds of small animals scurrying home.

The blonde woman - her necklace says Lee - ignores the

sounds and watches Felix, lifting his head to search for

the noise.

LEE

Just animals.

FELIX

I know.

He gets up and helps her to her feet. Lee has some fallen

leaves in her hair. Felix picks them out and stands with

his hands on her shoulders. Their jackets lie in a heap on

the ground.

FELIX (CONT'D)

I just don't want you to get

hurt. He can look after himself.

LEE

He's my baby brother. It's my

job to take care of him and keep

him safe. Besides, he'd do the

same for me.

The sounds of a party - laughter, chatter, music - is

drifting through the woods.

CABIN - CONTINUOUS - EXT

Dozens of partiers are wandering around, smoking, drinking,

talking. A thumping dance beat is slamming out of large

speakers on the porch to a wooden cabin. A boy, barely out

of his teens, drains a can of lager and crushes it

underfoot. A girl sits on a porch chair comforting her

crying friend. A group of mates are playing drinking games

and play-fighting. Watching all of this are Crash and

another man, Paul. Both are drinking from cans of Bud and

laughing. There is a smouldering barbecue beside Paul.

PAUL

Yes, I am the king of barbecue.

CRASH

Okay, your highness. How about

cleaning up?

PAUL

Get a minion to do it.

CRASH

Seem to be running surprisingly

short on them.

Crash wanders away from the barbecue and stares up at the

house. It is one floor but with two rooms built on the

top.

PAUL

Shannon's family must be minted.

I mean, look at it.

A young woman called Shannon with sparkles in her hair is

leaning over the side of the porch, sees them, starts

dancing over.

CRASH

21. A home like this and a body

like that.

SHANNON

Hey guys. How you doing?

PAUL

Lucky man. Lucky, lucky man.

SHANNON

Is he pissed? Are you pissed?

PAUL

Yes. But I realise that and love

myself despite my faults.

SHANNON

Very forgiving of you. Now take

your forgiveness elsewhere and

let us talk.

Paul wanders off, picks up another can of beer on the way,

replacing it with his own.

Shannon pulls her hair loose and shakes a few tiny pills

from her sparkle stick. She licks her finger, picks one

up, puts it in her mouth and offers her hand.

CLEARING - NIGHT - EXT

The sounds of the party are louder now but the night is

darker. Lee is nowhere to be seen though Felix is standing

around and holding her thin grey fleece.

FELIX

You nearly done back there?

(BEAT)

No-one expects perfection when

you've got a 5 year old.

LEE

Felix, I am not walking round

smelling of baby sick like some

tramp.

There is a small rucksack lying by a tree. It is covered

in tiny teddy bears and a selection of toddler things have

been stuffed inside. Lee emerges from the trees in a baggy

rock t-shirt with a lacy blue top hanging from her fingers.

FELIX

This is why I keep the bag in the

car.

LEE

How do I look?

FELIX

Fine. Smile.

He takes a thin camera out of the bag, switches it on ad

points it at her. It flashes brightly and beeps too

loudly for the woodland hush. Something flies overhead,

beating it's wings.

FELIX (CONT'D)

Done.

(LOOKS AT WATCH)

Now let's get out of here. Back

to the party maybe. Or home.

LEE

I hate it when you do that.

FELIX

Do what?

LEE

Make me feel as though we need to

be at home all the time.

FELIX

Lee, we have a home, a son

together. It's time to act like

it.

LEE

I got a sitter. I need to just

forget what day it is today.

FELIX

So does your mom.

He puts a hand on her arm and pulls her towards him. Lee

lets him then steps away, her eyes hardening.

LEE

Don't you dare try the guilt

trip. So I used to party hard.

FELIX

Understatement.

LEE

Who can blame me? But I've got a

family and I'm back in college

and I need to be the old Lee for

one more night.

She storms off into the trees, leaving him holding the baby

bag. He looks at the digital display a moment longer where

she is smiling and happy but half in shadow then starts

after her.

CABIN - CONTINUOUS - EXT

Paul has got another beer and plate of cold burgers from

the barbecue and is offering them to Crash and Shay.

PAUL

No sense of adventure. That's

what's wrong with you lot.

CRASH

Salmonella's an adventure I can

do without.

PAUL

Yeah, but it's clever see.

Tomorrow morning, you can blame

the hangover on food poisoning.

SHANNON

There is a sort of logic to it.

Crash shakes his head again and, now disinterested in them,

Paul wanders away and over to the porch steps - which he

trips over. In the window of the upper front room, a face

hovers behind a net curtain. It first looks at Paul and

then outwards, surveying the party.

SHANNON (CONT'D)

That's Grandad. He's a bit nuts

but quite sweet.

CRASH

Why's he staring at me? And how

nuts is nuts?

SHANNON

He worries about me.

Lee appears behind him and grabs his shoulders, making

Crash jump. He turns to her, the old man in the window

forgotten. She grabs a paper cup from the nearest reveller

and downs it's contents in one.

LEE

That's better. Crash, can I have

a word?

He offers the goofiest of grins to Shay and allows himself

to be pulled away to the slightly quieter porch area.

There is a muffled crash behind them and the can crushing

boy staggers out of the door, muttering apologies.

LEE (CONT'D)

So what's the deal with Slagbag?

(BEAT)

Look, do what you want with her,

do her monkey style if you want.

Just don't do it here. No-one

wants to see you sharing skin

tonight.

CRASH

Relax, Lee. We mess around is

all. No strings.

He offers his left hand. It contains three tiny white

pills. He takes one himself and Lee swallows the other two

with a smile.

LEE

Why not?

CLOSE ON - the featureless face shape lingers by the window

for a second before turning away and disappearing.

CABIN - NIGHT - EXT

The party scene is deserted but for one or two stragglers

who are leaning against trees and Shannon and Paul who are

beginning to clean up. They are stuffing cans and paper

plates into bin liners and giggling insanely.

SHANNON

Thanks for helping clean. I like

a domesticated man.

PAUL

Good to know. How did we get

through so much tonight? If my

brains fall out of my ears and I

start licking my colleagues

tomorrow I'm blaming you.

Shannon grins, continues filling her bin liner then puts it

down. She kicks broken grass to one side and sits on the

ground. Paul glances over and holds the bag open for the

roaches she is picking up. She grabs his wrist and pulls

him down to the ground and digs in her pockets for two tiny

blue pills.

PAUL (CONT'D)

Shay? What the-?

SHANNON

Relax, Paul. We're just having

an adventure. Go with it.

PAUL

I should get going or I'll miss

my train. You're a great girl

and Crash is lucky to have you.

SHANNON

Crash doesn't have me.

Wind is starting to blow around them and the trees are

waving lightly. Thunder growls in the distance.

SHANNON (CONT'D)

I don't belong to anyone and noone

belongs to me. People, they

just borrow other people for a

night.

She swallows one and sticks the other to her fingertip.

She advances and he stumbles to the ground. She presses it

into his mouth and skips off. Thunder rumbles again. She

gets up and runs back to the cabin as raindrops begin to

fall on Paul's stunned face.

STREET - NIGHT \- EXT

A red Astra slides into a space on a tree lined street.

There are railings around the trees and litter has been

pushed through the gaps. Crash and Lee throw open their

doors and stumble out. Felix, sober, get out and central

locks the car. He grabs her arm and the three of them make

their way up the steep driveway to a door with a pewter

wolf knocker. Felix reaches for his keys and opens up.

HOUSE - CONTINUOUS - INT

The three of them stagger through their front door and into

a front room decorated with burst paintball splats in lots

of bright colours. there is a tatty leather armchair which

Lee instantly curls upon. Felix heads to the kitchen and

the tap starts running. An over-spilling toybox shows a

sprung jack in the box painted on the side and a picture

book sits atop an open newspaper - LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD.

CRASH

Think that third burger was a

mistake.

LEE

That's what you get for trusting

Paul's cooking.

CRASH

Maybe it was the salad that did

it. I've never trusted rabbit

food.

LEE

Or the hash brownies? No, that

was me.

Felix returns and hands her a glass of water.

FELIX

Here, drink this. I hope you've

got the partying bug out of your

system.

LEE

Oh, Jesus. I smell a lecture.

CRASH

Leave it, mate. It's not like

she gets wasted often. Not with

a kid around.

Crash glances back at the kitchen, disappears then returns

with some shot glasses and a bottle of Bacardi. He shows

it to Lee who rises and grins.

FELIX

You'll pay in the morning.

CRASH

Yeah, yeah. Bend over and let's

pull that stick out your

backside.

CRASH'S BEDROOM \- EARLY MORNING - INT/EXT

Wind is screeching outside the house. Rain is hitting the

window with enough force to rattle it. Small items on the

bedside table are shaking. The room is dimly lit by a thin

strip of light under the door. Thunder rumbles louder and

louder until it sounds overhead. Crash drags his eyes half

open and listens. The green digital clock display reads

88:88.

CRASH

Power.

The house light blinks out, as does the clock. Crash rolls

out of bed to land on his stomach on the floor. Hauling

himself to his feet, he staggers over to the window. It is

black. He yanks on the dark curtain, several hooks tear

from the curtain pole. In the garden, leaves are dancing

around, the fence and gate are flapping and the trees

around the house are rocking dangerously.

Silver lightning cracks and forks across the sky. A car

alarm starts up. A branch breaks from a tree and is

carried up to smash the street light. It shatters and

sparks. Crash stares out and then glances at the door.

Deeper in the house is the sound of splintering wood. The

house trembles and grumbles. A high scream pierces the

air. Crash starts toward the door but before he can get

far a branch comes smashing through the window, covering

him and the floor with pieces of glass.

CRASH (CONT'D)

I'm not tripping, I'm not

tripping, I'm not-

Lightning splits the sky again. The house light flickers

back into life and white noise pours out of the clock

radio. Crash creeps over to the window, blood trickling

from his feet as he walks over glass.

Rain and wind are seeping in around the branch shaped hole.

Leaves, twigs and even pebbles are whirling through the

air. The thunder is receding. The car alarm screeches on.

The wind dies and everything falls to the ground. The

storm has passed.

Crash grabs the curtain, tries to pull it back in place and

almost falls into bed. He looks at his watch - 3.30 - and

falls asleep to the car siren and static crackle.

CRASH'S BEDROOM \- MORNING - INT/EXT

The alarm clock is blinking 88:88 again but now a daytime

DJ is babbling through the speaker. Crash rolls out of bed

and picks himself up. Splinters of glass on the floor

prick his feet. He frowns and looks at the window, pokes

at the glass that holds the branch. It sends cracks

running through it. The window shows fence panels ripped

off and uprooted plants scattered over the garden. Roof

tiles have fallen and broken on the path below.

The neighbouring garden shows no sign of storm damage.

The cracked window pane shatters and rains down, some out

into the window but some into his bedroom. Crash jumps

back and turns away, stepping on broken glass with his eyes

still half-shut.

DJ (V.O.)

And it's another hot and sunny

day in Millford. Is this the

strangest weather we've had in

October? Call in and tell us.

We'll also be talking about-

Crash leans over and thumps his fist down on the radio, not

only silencing the voice but sending the machine tumbling

to the floor.

CABIN - MORNING \- EXT

The still and silent wood envelops the cabin - or what is

left of it. The two upper rooms have been torn off the and

strips of wood have been ripped from the building. This

lies strewn around the ruins. Broken planks of wood stick

up into the sky like huge splinters. Porch furniture has

disappeared but a few belongings from the house have blown

outside.

Shannon is sitting on the ground just staring at the wreck.

She is wide- and shiny-eyed. Although the sun is high, the

cabin is half in shadows thrown by the surrounding trees.

SHANNON

Shut up.

The woods is silent and no movement can be seen or heard.

Shay reaches out for the nearest shard of wood and turns to

the trees, still sitting. Tears are beginning to fall very

slowly as she turns her back on the house.

SHANNON (CONT'D)

Shut up, shut up, shut up.

Her eyes dart about the trees as she tries to track the

movement only she is privy to. A thin wind is whistling

through the cabin wreck though there are few clouds in the

sky and the branches do not sway in the breeze.

HOSPITAL CORRIDOR - MORNING - INT

Everything is clinically pale, even Lee. Crutches and a

wheelchair lie abandoned. All is silent but for the tooloud

ticking of a wall clock. She walks down this

corridor. Ahead, a sign points to A + E, the morgue and

ICU.

She swallows, steps forward and stops. The clock ticks , a

battered coffee machine coughs and displays OUT OF ORDER.

A doctor flings open a door beside her and blurs past and

through another door. The sign above the door reads ICU

and three beds are occupied and visible in the internal

window. Presses a hand to the window, bites lip and Lee

glances up at the sign then runs after the doctor, leaving

a sweaty handprint on the glass. She bursts through a

swing door and -

STAIRS - CONTINUOUS - INT

A grey flight of stairs. A shadows turns a corner and

vanishes below. Lee begins to descend and steps over the

discs of gum pressed into the steps.

LEE

That is so gross.

At the foot of the steps is a large window, showing the

words THEY WALK in black spray paint. It begins to change

colour, lightening to red, oozing as if blood.

LEE (CONT'D)

No. This can't be happening

again.

She runs down the last two flights and pushes open the fire

door filling the dank staircases with sunlight.

FRONT ROOM - MORNING - INT

Crash in lying on the sofa. The phone rings on the table.

He groans and presses a cushion over his face. The ringing

carries on and he snakes a hand out from his pillow to feel

for it. It stops ringing as he grabs it and he grunts

again.

CRASH

The world hates me.

There is a third of a bottle of rum on the coffee table,

surrounded by four shot glasses, two on their side. He

reaches for it, hesitates, pulls back.

His phone starts to ring again. UNKNOWN NUMBER. Crash

answers as he staggers over to the mirror. A pale,

stubbly, unwashed face stares back. Its eyes widen and

dart around as the phone emits crackly silence then a high

scream. Phone falls to floor as reflection blinks out of

existence.

CABIN - MORNING \- EXT

Still gripping her scrubby weapon, Shay is standing on the

grass before the half-wrecked cabin. She is also inching

towards it.

SHANNON

I can't believe what they did.

It's just stupid. How could

they?

A dark cloud drifts across the mostly clear sky, leaving

the cabin half in shadow.

SHANNON (CONT'D)

How could...

She crosses the threshold into the house.

LOUNGE - CONTINUOUS - INT

A heat haze buzzes through the main room. One window is

smashed, shattered ornaments litter the floor and wooden

beams from the walls have been torn away.

Overturned furniture and paperwork carpet the floor between

the pieces still standing.

SHANNON

Grandad? Ky? Where are you

guys?

There is no answer to her calls. She wanders over to a

wall of framed photos. One or two have tiny cracks, some

have dropped to the floor and glass crunches beneath her

feet.

A shadow flits across the window, the front door flies

open, footsteps thunder over to her. Bare arms close

around her waist.

CRASH

Thank God. I thought you might

have been hurt. I dreamt up a

storm and then there was a scream

and Lee's not home so I

SHANNON

I'm okay. I haven't seen Lee but

maybe that's good.

CRASH

How can that be good? She might

be hurt, waiting for me to find

her and take care of her.

Shay takes his head in her hands and forces him to look

around the room. Tears start to brim but he blinks them

away and yanks his face away.

SHANNON

My cousin Ky and Granddad have

disappeared. This is all I have

left of my home. I win.

One photo on the wall is upside down. Crash goes to look

while Shay drops to the floor. She glances all around her

then puts her hands over her ears.

SHANNON (CONT'D)

Stop it. Shut up.

Crash crouches before her and coaxes her hands away. Shay

lowers her head to her knees and crosses her bare feet. A

shattered ornament lies in pieces around her and the jagged

head of a china figure stares up at her.

HOSPITAL CARPARK - MIDDDAY - EXT

A police car is prowling the carpark and a queue of cars

has formed to get out. A black motorcycle roars past the

cars and gets stuck behind the same barrier.

Lee is leaning on the roof of the Astra and fumbling to

light a cigarette with a wolf head Zippo. Her hands are

trembling but she finally manages to light up and put the

lighter in her pocket. She takes a long drag and glances

up at a third floor window. Shadows of people pass behind

it. A few seconds of steady beeping and then a flatlining

noise. The sky around the hospital darkens to a midnight

blue, lightning cracks and rain lashes down. She continues

to watch as four lines appear just outside the window, as

if a scratch, thin and red with blood.

Footsteps walk lightly behind her and a hand touches her

shoulder. Lee turns quickly to the hand. There is a

middle-aged woman with eyes rimmed lightly pink and she is

holding the hand of a young blonde boy. Everything has

returned to normal.

LEE

Hey, little dude. Had fun with

Nana?

MAXIE

Uh-huh.

LEE

We were thinking. It was stupid

of me to leave you with Maxie

last night.

Lee takes a final puff then crushes out the cigarette under

her foot.

MAXIE

Is Daddy going to die?

LEE

Of course not.

Everything has returned to it's clean and bright normality

but both women glance up at the same window. An ambulance

shrieks past the carpark.

NANA

I never got to say that. How's

Felix?

LEE

Spinal damage. They don't know

how bad.

NANA

What happened?

LEE

There was a storm. The mirror

exploded and I think it was meant

for me.

NANA

You can't think like that. It

could easily have been Craig or

little Paul or that girl.

MAXIE

Daddy's waiting. Come on.

He starts pulling at the woman's arm and dragging her

towards the automatic entrance doors. Lee puts a handful

of coins in the pay and display machine then slides into

the car, keys in hand.

LEE

Don't take the stairs.

HOSPITAL CORRIDOR - MOMENTS LATER - INT

Lift doors slide open and Nana and Maxie step out into the

too quiet white corridor. There is a cleaner coming down

the corridor with a squealy supply trolley. He passes with

barely a glance.

MAXIE

I don't like it here.

Nana bends down and scoops him into her arms. She takes a

deep breath and hurries down to the ICU. Through the large

internal window she sees only medics in scrubs. A nurse

sees her, name checks her and opens the door to let them

in.

HOSPITAL ICU - CONTINUOUS - INT

Patients lie hooked up to beeping machines and coloured

drips. Felix occupies the bed nearest the window. A white

coat is scribbling on a chart by the bed. Maxie scrambles

down, climbs on top of Felix and lies atop him in a hug.

No-one says a word though the humming of machinery, the

ventilated breathing in the room seems to fill the ICU with

noise.

NANA

Is he okay to be up there?

The white coat says nothing, finishes his writing and

breezes out of the room. Felix has needles and tubes

coming out of his arms and hands and sticky pads running

from his chest to monitors. She stands a foot from the

bed, watching as the medicines travel along clear tubes.

NANA (CONT'D)

You shouldn't have protected her,

Felix. Love makes us all

victims.

STREET - MIDDAY \- EXT

The red Astra grumbles to a halt in the middle of an almost

abandoned street. The engine fails to turn over when Lee

guns it twice more. Half of the houses are boarded up or

FOR SALE. A bike leans on a kickstand. A man is walking

a tiny, yappy dog. It yips a bark, echoing around. Lee

reaches for the rucksack and follows them to the edges of

the woods, not bothering to lock the car.

CABIN - MIDDAY \- INT

WITHOUT SOUND -

A cupboard door is open, sharing darkness with the front

room. Something clatters down inside, Shay jumps and Crash

holds her waist tightly. An instant later a pile of books

spill out.

WOODS - MOMENTS LATER - EXT

Teddy backpack on back, Lee is walking through the woods.

Takes jacket out of bag, ties it round waist and continues,

leaving bag on ground.

CABIN - EARLY AFTERNOON - INT

Shay is wandering around the room with a bottle of water in

her hand. Crash follows her, not letting go of her waist.

He follows her through a door into -

CABIN BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS - INT

It is darker in here. A bedside lamp is switched on

throwing a dim glow out. Piles of hi-tech electronics are

stacked on the battered desk and line the walls. She pulls

away from him and curls up on the bed. PC magazines and

CDs dot the carpet.

SHANNON

Why me? Why here? Why now?

CRASH

Why not?

There is a small window in one wall but it is dusted over

so thickly that it cannot be seen out of. A hairline crack

runs the length of the same wall.

A rasping breath, almost a wheeze, shudders through the

cabin. Shay clutches the magazines to her and Crash

glances towards the window.

SHANNON

What was that? You heard it too,

didn't you?

CRASH

It won't hurt you.

HOSPITAL ICU - CONTINUOUS - INT

A hand on a white sheet twitches. Widen to Felix as his

entire body goes into spasm.

WOODS - CONTINUOUS - EXT

Lee grabs a branch for support and twists, searching for

the breath. A flock of birds rise from a distant tree,

flapping and squawking, and fly away. There is no other

wildlife to be heard and no more wheezing. She picks a big

stick from the ground and presses on.

CABIN BEDROOM - AFTERNOON - INT/EXT

Crash drops to his knees, circles his finger over his lips

and crawls across the dark bedroom and into the lounge. He

peeks through a wind-torn hole in one of the boards. Shay

steps out behind him but stands way back.

SHANNON

I heard it before. The woods,

the forest. It was all alive and

coming for me.

CRASH

Shut up. Nothing is alive and

after you. Nothing.

The soles of feet, one trainer, one sock, through the

jagged hole. Widen and slow reveal Paul. He is sitting on

the porch floor and facing. His eyes are unfocused. Four

thin scratches are torn into his torso, ripping his white

shirt and staining it with blood. His right leg is bent

beneath him at an impossible angle.

Crash pulls back from the wall and glances behind him.

CRASH (CONT'D)

Go back in your room. You can't

see this.

SHANNON

There's something out there.

Outside my home. I need to see.

She doesn't move and Crash puts his eye back to the crack.

Paul takes a long shuddering breath and winces.

PAUL

Oh God. Help me.

More breathing can be heard, this time more growling,

waiting.

CRASH

It's Paul. Why didn't he go

home?

SHANNON

Would he have been safe there?

CRASH

No. But I wouldn't have to

watch.

PAUL

Please, I know what did this and

I know what they want and it's

not me.

(BEAT)

They walk. You don't see them.

Shay is crouched on the floors beside Crash.

SHANNON

I'm getting help.

Scrambles up and grabs the grey cordless on the table.

Trembling hands dial 99 before a large hand clamps over

hers and takes the phone away.

CRASH

Don't bother. Everything's dead,

phones, cars, doors lock behind

you. Can't get out, can't get

help.

PAUL

No pressure but I'm bleeding out

here!

Blood has run down his shirt and is slowly beginning to

pool around him. It is leaking through the fingers he has

pressed to the wounds.

SHANNON

We have to try.

She takes the phone back and presses a button.

CABIN PORCH - CONTINUOUS -EXT

Paul is staring at the crack and the eyes peering through

it.

SHANNON (O.S.)

We have to try.

The breathing behind him is getting closer and more

laboured.

E.C.U. - His eyes fly as far to the left as they can but he

cannot see what is there. Tries to move his head to see

but instead sees the image in a window of a silver wolf.

The creature turns and latches bright blue eyes onto him.

A total hush falls. Eye contact is broken when -

CRASH

We can't stop him dying.

Whatever we do.

WOODS - LATE AFTERNOON - EXT

The trees rustle and Lee pushes a branch away, dragging

through a thin ground cover of autumn leaves. Sweat

shimmers on her brow.

She digs the stick in the ground and leans on it, catching

her breath. Lee looks around the surrounding trees. They

are shedding leaves at an alarming rate. She drops her

stick and begins to jog through the woods, ducking dying

branches, losing visibility through the leaves.

She trips over and falls to the ground. The cause is the

stick she just dropped. It takes three attempts to regain

her balance without slipping on the slick undergrowth. Lee

holds her breath, hears a whisper of animal breath, turns

away from it, and heads back the way she came.

CABIN PORCH - LATE AFTERNOON - EXT

CLOSE ON Paul's shredded shirt. Hands tear at the ripped

cloth. He is trying to move and almost weeping with pain.

PAUL

Get it over. Go on. It hurts

too much.

He glances at the window but all he sees is Crash's pale

face, watching him. He stops clawing at his clothes.

PAUL (CONT'D)

Bet you wish you were having this

much fun.

CRASH

Yeah, licking batteries was

always too safe for you.

PAUL

Last time I go to one of your

parties. Going home holding my

guts in-

CRASH

-is better than any goodie bag.

Crash looks away and exits the scene. Paul takes his hand

away from his chest and looks down.

Footsteps echo over the wooden boards. A shadow falls over

him.

CABIN BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS - INT

Shay is sitting before a computer. The monitor reads PAGE

CANNOT BE DISPLAYED. She tries again, another dozen or so

keystrokes and the same screen pops up. Crash puts his

head round the door, sees her trying to get online and

hears her growl when she can't. He enters and sits on the

bed.

SHANNON

Half of PC World in here and

nothing.

CRASH

PC World - what did you expect?

SHANNON

Only got the Net last year.

Grandad thinks I should do things

the old way. Clean and natural

he says. But technology, it's

just life.

She swivels chair round to face him, dropping her head into

her hands.

CRASH

When it works.

SHANNON

He won't hold out any longer will

he?

CRASH

Come on. We need a way to get

you out. Safely.

SHANNON

Will he?

Crash crouches at her feet and squeezes one hand.

CRASH

It's gotta be 75 degrees. You're

freezing.

LEE (O.S.)

Shannon? You need to see this!

Crash heads to the door, grabbing her hand. Shay pulls

away and follows him.

CABIN PORCH - CONTINUOUS -EXT

Lee is leaning on the porch jamb, back to Crash and Shay.

Dead leaves are caught in her hair.

LEE

Look.

She points down. A thin trail of blood leads from where

Paul was and tracks along the grass into the trees.

The door cracks open and Shay pushes past him and out. Lee

notices her brother standing behind Shay.

LEE (CONT'D)

No strings? I haven't even had

time for a hangover and you're-

CRASH

What are you even doing here?

You hate Shannon.

(TO SHANNON)

Sorry, but she does. Thinks

you're no good.

SHANNON

I'm more concerned about that.

Gestures to the blood tracks. She moves to the edge of the

porch, jumps down and starts to follow the tracks.

CRASH

It's back, isn't it? Back for

us.

Lee watches the other girl picking through the fallen

branches and slivers of broken home.

LEE

Yes.

She sits on the little swing sofa, crosses her legs Buddhastyle.

Crash sits beside her.

CRASH

Dad died twenty years yesterday.

Mom told us why.

They are too busy to notice that Shay has disappeared from

sight.

HOSPITAL ICU - CONTINUOUS - INT

Maxie is sprawled on top of a comatose Felix, trying to hug

him through all the medical equipment. Nana is holding one

of Felix's pale hand to her face and sobbing faintly.

She strokes his hand and glances at his monitor, beeping

away.

NANA

You should have left her there.

It could have been over.

She watches clear liquid drip from a bag on a stand, travel

down a plastic tube, ending in the syringe in the back of

his hand.

Maxie climbs off him and looks at his father. His face is

waxy but slightly flushed. His eye lids tremor ever so

slightly.

MAXIE

Don't cry. He's getting better.

NANA

He's just dreaming.

MAXIE

Oh.

(TO FELIX)

Will cartoons make you feel

better?

HOSPITAL CORRIDOR - EVENING - INT

Young Crash and Lee are sitting on red plastic seats. Lee

is playing with a Rubiks Cube. A wall clock ticks loudly,

a nurse pushes her way though a door with a too-wide smile.

34.

Their mother, a thin woman with glazed eyes and stiff

movements, walks out of the same door and falls into the

opposite seat.

LEE

Mom. Are you okay? The nurse

gave me a lollipop but I didn't

want it. Do you want it?

She reaches into her tiny jeans and holds out a slightlyfurry

lollipop.

MOM

No.

CRASH

You look sad. And scared.

LEE

Was there something bad in there?

Is Daddy better?

Her face falls slightly and the toy falls from her hand and

clatters to the floor.

MOM

Lee, don't be angry. I promise

I'll make you both understand

soon. For you and your children.

CRASH

She's just sad.

HOSPITAL CORRIDOR - CONTINUOUS - INT

P.O.V. - MOM

Rain patters against the window at the end of the corridor.

The sky is dark and lightning splits the sky. The window

seems far away. Her children seem far away.

CRASH

Daddy loved us, didn't he?

Lee slides from her chair and crawls underneath, pulling

the hood of her coat over her face.

CRASH (CONT'D)

So why did he die?

MOM

The wolves. They were coming for

him.

LEE

They can't see me. I'm not here.

CRASH

And that's stupid Lee. We can

see you.

MOM

Let's go home. You two shouldn't

be here.

She reaches both arms out and waits. Lee doesn't move but

Crash slides down and joins her. Mom drops her arms.

CRASH

You can't hide. Look, I found

you.

LEE

We can practise.

She slides her hood down and throws her arms around her

brother. They both scramble out and watch as a white

coated figure dashes out of one door and through another.

CABIN PORCH - LATE AFTERNOON - EXT

The swing seat is rocking slightly beneath the twins.

Suddenly aware of the absolute silence, Crash snaps round

and scans for Shay. Lee uncurls and stretches.

CRASH

And now it's our turn.

LEE

Dark's coming. Why's it getting

hotter?

Crash is wandering the length of the porch.

CRASH

She's not here. Stupid girl

went after Paul.

LEE

Maybe she'll come back dead.

(BEAT)

You're falling in love Crash.

And yeah, maybe I should want

that for you but I don't.

He looks down, there is something at his feet. It is a

black digital watch. The display is smeared with blood.

Crashes rubs his thumb over the display and illuminates the

display - 88:88. Lee grabs it.

LEE (CONT'D)

I'll go find her.

She starts to walk past him. Crash pushes the ajar back

door further open and propels her through.

CRASH

Stay here. And keep the door

open, okay.

She disappears into the house and Crash melts into the

thick trees.

WOODS - CONTINUOUS -EXT

The trail of blood tapers out beneath Shay. She stares

right ahead, turns right and presses through trees and

dying plants. Her trainers crunch the leaves.

Horror works so well on screen because of the intense and immediate impact it delivers. Discuss, with reference to a small selection of films, how the desired effects are achieved.

Film, unlike many other text-based writing disciplines, does not rely chiefly on the imaginations of the audience. Instead it offers a multi-dimensional product which makes good uses of the visual and aural aspects of the medium. The intelligence of an audience must not be under-estimated by having everything laid out for them. People who demand this are asking for ever more skill from their screenwriters in order to produce the film that makes them sit up and pay attention.

The horror genre has long been thought of as unworthy of serious critical consideration. This may be due in part to the commercial nature of the genre. Screenwriting could also be said to be somehow less valid a creative writing discipline that some of its more literary cousins due to its commercial value. To put away such prejudices and presumptions we will examine the ways in which film is possibly even more demanding than any other writing process and product – 'that extra energy translates itself to the page, and from there to the reader.' (Goldman, 1983, p123). We will also see how horror film, relative to other genres, holds so much power over its audience. Constant developments in the technologies available to film-makers have changed the horror film over the years and a strong story, a well-written film can appear to have been sacrificed for this cause. This is evident in the majority of slasher films over the last 15 years.

The horror movie aims, chiefly, to horrify. The horror film aspires to scare an audience, to chill and spook them, to leave a memory or a seedling of terror long after the 90 minutes is over.

'Every film-development executive is looking for the same thing when

it comes to horror movies: an original idea with good characters and

cool kills.'

(Deneen, 2007, p213)

To produce a successful horror film characters and kills must not be the only two concerns. Of course they are important and offer an almost instant resonance with the audience, but story, dialogue and plot matter too. However, four things stood out to me whilst writing my own film. I wanted to concentrate on the visual, the aural, the people and the possibility. The economical way screen writers develop of creating a world and characters and events a viewer can completely believe in breaks down into these four categories. Four films – Psycho, The Exorcist, The Blair Witch Project and The Shining – will be used alongside my own effort Stormed to further illustrate these points. Horror is about showing people just enough to shock them, letting them hear enough to convince them, giving them characters they start caring about and events that any audience member believes could actually happen.

The sights on the silver screen have become increasingly gruesome over the years. Some more modern films (Hostel, Untraceable) leave little to the imagination and almost seek to assault our eyeballs with the creative limits of the writers' imaginations for murder and mutilation. There are a thousand theories surrounding this approach from a desensitised audience to a simple desire to be extreme. Perhaps this is what the film watcher of today wants. I realise, however, that the average horror viewer frequently rates Psycho (1960) as one of their favourite horrors of all time (C4). Blood and violence is not used at all gratuitously in this film. Rather, it is very economical.

Where some films try to put everything on show, Psycho appears to focus more on what we do not see. This film seems to be concentrating on creating a sinister atmosphere where people are expecting a shocking moment of horror to come at any time though those instants are few and far between. It begins with a woman stealing a large sum of money from her boss and this leads us to believe that the movie may develop into a fugitive or police feature. The money is a ruse to lead us to the empty motel and an increasingly creepy Norman Bates. From then on, the movie jumps a gear and shifts into the classic horror we love. This is partly due to what we see and do not see. Moments of horror, as we see them now, were used sparingly but the atmosphere is so dark that a viewer will always think that they have seen much more than they have.

'My guess is, when that movie is mentioned (Psycho), everyone first thinks

of the shower scene... from first stab to last, it runs seventeen seconds.'

(Goldman, 1987, p121)

During this scene, only the effects of the attack are ever shown and that is more convincing than having blood and guts thrust at you. The only blood shown is the swirls disappearing down the drain.

'Just as a door half-opening on to a sinister room can be more alarming

than one which reveals fully the terror lurking within, so the unseen is

often more terrifying than the seen.'

(Butler, 1970, p12)

Stormed (2009) was written with this economy of visual spectacle in mind. I originally wanted to create a horror movie that contained not one drop of blood, but considering how the horror movie has progressed to show ever more gory scenes a decision was made to show blood but not to make this the main focus or selling point of the film. The final draft shows the audience just enough that, like Psycho, they believe that they have seen much more than they actually have. There is no penetration of a weapon during the attack and contemporary technology proved unable to convince us that there truly was. The body of the victim shows no knife slashes when in shot and the knife shows no blood smears on the blade until the attack is over. How audiences overlooked this blip in realism is a magic long forgotten but one that obviously worked. Also, no-one ever gets to see the murderer. There is a silhouette visible through the bright white shower curtain and the occasional glimpse of a hand. This idea of the real villain of the piece being hidden in shadow appealed to me and I wanted Stormed to take that one step further by hiding the bad guys in the depths of the wood and by secreting one of them in plain sight. An interesting idea came to the fore when watching Psycho –Norman Bates did not need the bread knife to kill Mary, he was his own instrument. Humans could be deadly weapons in themselves. As the 'evil that people do' theme has been played out in many different ways and under many different guises I decided not to write a film about the dark recesses of humanity but about people who became otherworldly creatures to whom murder and mutilation were base instincts.

The soles of feet, one trainer, one sock, through the jagged hole.

Widen and slow reveal Paul. He is sitting on the porch floor

and facing. His eyes are unfocused. Four thin scratches are torn

into his torso, ripping his white shirt and staining it with blood. his

right leg is bent beneath him at an impossible angle.

(Maddocks, 2009, p27)

I didn't want to follow in the modern horror trend of showing extreme violence as it happens but take note from Psycho and just show enough to convince audiences that something terrible had happened.

With the exception of very early silent movies, nothing is ever truly convincing without the appropriate sounds. Indeed, many films now trade largely from soundtracks. But the score, while important, is not always necessary. It is the sound effects.

The Blair Witch Project (1999) is an excellent example of sound effects being used to their maximum potential.

'however, despite ... a subtle and implicitly nasty ending, Blair

Witch fails to be a good horror film because it's just not scary.'

(LeBlanc and Odell, 2001, p47)

The further question arises of what is scary? Scary is, perhaps, ripe for further discussion and definition at another time but for now, The Blair Witch Project is scary because of how it sounds. No-one can deny that screams are terrifying when you can see neither the screamer or the reason for the screaming? Is there not something spooky about hearing breaking twigs and rustling forestry when there should be nothing alive in the woods? Around halfway through the film scenes begin to appear where almost total screen darkness is teamed with shrieks and sobs. This technique was instantly a hit and the idea of pairing this raw and unproduced footage was copied many times. Nothing is scarier than hearing flesh rip and not see it. Blair Witch took that concept and pushed it as far as they could. This was partly for budgetary reasons but it transcended financial concerns in terms of giving the public an intelligent horror where the audio track was more important than flashy visuals (www.avclub.com).

Just as important as the screams, the crying, the moving amid the trees are the things the audience don't hear. There is no clever atmospheric scoring in the depths of the woods. There is no saleable rock or dance track pulsing through the branches. Such familiar tools do not feature here but the film is far from silent.

'We took that approach not only because of what made us

scared when we were kids, but also because we don't have

the budget to have, you know, Freddy Krueger coming out and

chopping people up.

(Dan Rymick, www.avclub.com)

Underscoring the body of the film is a constant and reedy buzz of crickets, crunching leaves and breath of the actors. Far from being comforting and reassuring that there is life out there it is creepy and adds a more sinister edge to proceedings. Insects and foliage are the only signs of life and viewers empathise with the characters; they are isolated and alone on the screen and we feel that too.

There has been no budget placed on Stormed. The film could do whatever it likes whilst it is still on paper from having a thousand CG Terminators to cars exploding one after the other. I decided, however, to pay careful attention to the sound track and give my viewers something to listen to. There are birds and small animals making noises 'too loudly for the woodland hush' (Maddocks, 2009, p9). It is autumn and the trees are dying. There are dead leaves, no animals and the silence of that is what I wanted. The absence of sound, or the inclusion of sound only the subconscious mind picks up is germinal. It is like planting a bacterium on a sideboard and letting the environment do the work of watching it grow into something enormous and infectious. But less is not always more. Blair Witch hears screams and even laughter. Stormed can currently afford more than vocals – medical machinery and the accustomed dance track in the opening. Attention is drawn to the ticking of a clock, the white noise of electrical items gone wrong and the madness of the storm.

Silver lightning cracks and forks across the sky. A car alarm

starts up. A branch breaks from a tree and is carried up to

smash the street light. It shatters and sparks. Crash stares

out and then glances at the door. Deeper in the house is

the sound of splintering wood. The house trembles and

grumbles. A high scream pierces the air.

(Maddocks, 2009, p16)

Sounds create images in a mind. I want my theoretical audience to be able to imagine what is going on and to piece the story together through what they hear as well as what they see. No true horror fan wants to sit through a movie about people having a good time and then indiscriminately killed as a final pay-off. People want to be made to care about characters as though they are real people for 90 minutes and be truly mortified when they hear their harrowing shrieks and agonised death rattles.

Human nature makes us susceptible to the plights of others. People form emotional attachments to other people and, whether cynically or smartly, the film industry has put this common trait to work. The basest tool producers have at their disposal is the emotional connection with characters.

'No matter how creative your set-up with feral pigs, cannibals,

and demon dust-bunnies from outer space, a situation is not

dire unless the audience is rooting for your protagonist.'

(Deneen, 2007, p215)

Nobody will exit a cinema remembering a horror film, no matter how gory or edgy, if there were no characters to identify with. Horror films are moving away from the 90s and 00s convention of a group of teenagers and towards the use of troubled families to show and tell their stories (Mirrors, the Haunting in Connecticut). Such a tool is not new. The Exorcist (1973) is possibly the most famous of the 70s 'devil-child' horrors. It features a young girl and mother. Children are often used to intensify the raping of innocence.

Social uncertainties in the 1970s meant that the family unit was always at the heart of films of this era. Young women were growing in independence so Chris MacNeil had her own job house and was a single parent to her daughter. Children were being encouraged to be children and this instantly provides a point of recognition. Dated as the film may be, the public will always care about well-rounded characters who they could easily meet down the street.

Reagan – the child – begins showing signs of mental illness and is taken to a hospital for tests. But the problems grow and develop into a full possession. She swears, masturbates with a cross and commits murder. Normal children have no business performing these acts but audiences everywhere were morbidly engrossed by them. Reagan, her mother, their staff and friends, even the titular character Father Karras are written with enough depth as to make audiences truly shocked when bad things happen. The characters in any horror film are invariably damaged in some way when we first meet them (Father Karras is struggling to keep his faith and Chris is working hard to protect the daughter she is raising alone) but this is not enough. Horror fans want to see how far these people can be pushed before they break. No-one can resist a blood and guts horror, of which The Exorcist has plenty, but equally, people seem to love the human stories of relatable characters being thrown into a dark underworld.

'Thus, your villain must be... unique. You want the 'Wow! Now

that's a villain!' response. Consider recent examples that

connected with the audience – and the studio accountants :the

skeleton-masked killer(s) from Scream. The spooky little girl from

The Ring. And that sadistic but oddly playful killer from the Saw

movies. Each villain brings something new and different to the

horror movie canon.'

(Deneen, 2007, p215)

The Exorcist was of a movement where the antagonists of the piece were manifestations of evil and nothing truly tangible. But a demon called Pazazu who masquerades as an imaginary friend (IMDB) led me to a thought. The villains in Stormed have only been seen in snatches so far. They breathe and leave their scratches everywhere. But, on close reading, at least one of the villains is closer than the lead characters think.

At the forefront of this story is the Shaw family. The two leads are the twins; one of them is falling in love and the other is struggling with her own young family. These are things mass audiences can see parts of themselves in. Family bonds are what I chose to play on in Stormed and probably would have whether the industry was taking that path or not. This connection of blood and name makes what happens to them that much more painful to watch. People understand love and lust, shared memory, sacrifice and protection, fear of the unknown, the odd relief that something terrible is happening to someone else. Familiarity is what will make my reader and viewer care – they know these characters, they share some of their personality traits. Investing 90 minutes in these characters and their story before having these new friends torn away agonisingly and unstoppably will leave a lasting memory.

The beginning of Stormed, at least, occurs in relative normality with the same problems and discussions we all have.

FELIX

You nearly done back there?

(BEAT)

No-one expects perfection when you've got a

5 year old.

LEE

Felix, I am not walking round smelling of baby

sick like some tramp.

(Maddocks, 2009, p9)

To leave the film rooted in this real world would have been a mistake as the trick to any horror of value is to launch everyone that is both bizarre and starkly genuine. The suspension of disbelief between the familiar and unpredictable worlds is key – audience need to believe that what is happening on screen could happen to them the moment they leave the cinema.

One of the most chilling horror films in a long time is The Shining (1980).

'Another trend that started tentatively in the Seventies and

continues to the present day is that of the Stephen King

adaptation. His prolific body of work and commercial success

has led to anything he has penned turning up in some form on

cinema and television screens.'

(Leblanc and Odell, 2001, p39)

Perhaps it is because the workings of Kings mind are so well mined that audiences accepted corridors awash with blood and creepy silent girls at every turn. But Danny although the one with the titular Shining, was not the true focus of the film. That honour goes to Jack Torrance.

He first claims to relish the eternal peace and tranquillity the Overlook Hotel brings. He is working on a book and wants no distractions. A form of insanity grows within him. He starts snapping at his family, typing the same sentence over and over on his typewriter and sabotages all communication with the outside world. Jacks behaviour is growing slightly more unhinged moment by moment and we can see his psyche unravelling. Attempting to brutally murder his own family is a touch extreme at first glance but having witnessed the above events leading up to it, the act is perfectly plausible and nobody dares question it. Rational minds struggle to find other reasons for his behaviour although an exquisite balance has been struck between driving madness and stark normality.

Nobody can truly deny that they would go mad if trapped in a snowbound hotel with nothing to do but write and listen. The core of reality lies in horror – in accepting that anything on the screen could happen to you. Obviously it would take a huge coincidence for it to happen but audiences need to emerge from the cinema imagining that a hook-handed zombie is lying in wait in the backseat of their car. The Shining, like all of Kings good work, is so firmly rooted in reality stretched to the limit that nothing really seems out of the ordinary.

'... while Jack is still manipulated by the hotel, there's a much

stronger sense that it could simply be happening because of

cabin fever – a very human, and thus more terrifying, affliction.'

(SFX magazine, 2009, p82)

Maybe The Shining is horror at its best because it does not ask viewers to move their mindset to a whole new dimension but plays within the boundaries of the world we all live in. The assumption that the derangement Jack experiences could never really happen is blown away by the fact that, at least in the imagination, it did. The world of the Overlook Hotel is a micro universe inside our macro one. In much the same way the cabin in the woods in Stormed is in a bubble inside the normal world. It was always going to be a leap of faith that people would go along with the notion that wolves were stalking the woods. If this was just a house on a random street, no-one would watch but because the cabin is so far from society we can accept that the normal bounds of reality no longer apply.

Perhaps the point of a horror film is not just to horrify people as I first suggested. Maybe it is to show us how horrible people can be to one another; to question whether the depths of our own imaginations are far worse than any film; to show that going into the woods is very bad idea because 'what the monster does when it catches you in the deep wood is eat you.' (King,1986, p1080). The horror film is under obligation to provide edge-of-the-seat viewing and by looking at the use of visual and sound effects along with solid characters and world I hope to have shown a little of the hard work that goes into a good horror. What I learned from watching Psycho, The Exorcist, The Blair Witch Project and The Shining I tried to incorporate into the writing of Stormed. It is important to watch and read films that have done so well in the genre and utilise that to write something imaginative and unique rather than a sequel, spin-off, imitator or generic gorefest.

A film is entertainment and if it happens to evoke thrills and chills then surely it has gone beyond its base requirement. Scream hit upon a horror-light format that works and has been used in various guises over the years – but they are basically the same and Stormed deserves to be different. For a start I did not write it to cater for the American audience (Hollows and Jancovich, 1995, p200). I hope I have included just enough moments of humour in Stormed so as to lighten the mood but not distract people from the horror of it. All films, horror or not, are obliged to meet one requirement at every stage – keep the audience wanting more.

WOODS - CONTINUOUS -EXT

The trail of blood tapers out beneath Shay. She stares right

ahead, turns right and presses through trees and dying plants.

Her trainers crunch the leaves.

(Maddocks, 2009, p38)

TUTPR NOTES-

STORMED – You have managed to create a world which is threatening and safe. The atmosphere is full of menace, making us believe that horror and disaster lurk in wait for your characters. The scene where Crash is surrounded by broken glass in the middle of the night is particularly powerful, and you manage to bring the effect into the ordinary world of the hospital very effectively, when Lee stumbles down the gum encrusted steps.

Your characterisation is generally good, with Lee and Crash both well drawn. I had more of a problem with Shay and Paul, who seemed to be more generic disturbed young people than three dimensional human beings. I think there is room in your script for some more depth of characterisation and the introduction of some back story which might help. I understand that you need to get on with the action, but there is time in the party scene for more development which would make us care more for the people we are watching. The same is true for the main protagonists – we need to get to know them and their family life in more detail before we can get properly involved.

The story within a story – and Crash's announcement about killing his sister in the scene with the art exhibition – make a good and tantalising opening and prepare us to watch and see what has led these people to this point in their lives.

The most important thing you still have to do however, is work on the way you let the reader know what is going on. In the first instance, a script is always a document to be read. You need to say clearly where each scene takes place and at what time and on what day. I realise you have done this up to a point, but only in the most rudimentary way. As a script reader I need to be able to read without any barriers between me and the story.

With your script I kept having to ask myself where I was, who I was watching and what the time frame was. You absolutely must make the world of your film as transparent and clear as it would be if we were seeing unfold in front of us.

There is a lot of promising material here. You need to keep working away on it until what is in your head has been fully realised on the page. And you should make sure that you use industry standard font and type size. It doesn't look right as you've presented it.

ESSAY – this was a clear, well written essay which explored the issue fully using a carefully thought out structure. You had the effective idea of discussing the four topics of visual, aural, people and possibility and showing how the four horror films you selected demonstrated the chosen points.

You did also discuss the way you had chosen to use these topics in your own film script and covered the visual and aural points well. However, I think you could have gone into more detail over the way you created your characters in Stormed and how you made the events in your world believable. Examining your own practice in detail is a useful way of exposing things to the light and allowing yourself to discover what more could be done to improve your work.

You've shown a real improvement in clear, analytical thinking which I hope you will be able to make use of in the next stage of your writing career.

MARK-65

OVER AND OUT

Well, I, for one, never could have imagined this lot would net me a 2:1 with honours. But it did and I worked hard for it

Just a few quick notes on the work in here:

It is raw and unedited, and the mistakes here are genuine – I thought it was important to show my work as it was

Any comments on format and style won't make any sense because I've had to change it all for publication

The dissertation was truthfully the most fun I've ever had on an academic project

My tutors deserve credit for their notes but I can't remember all their names

The work was tough, the pay virtually non-existent, but looking back it was worth it

You don't have to break your back to get a decent degree but hard work is the reason we go to university.

Thank you to all my tutors and class mates.

You've created a monster!
About the author

Wendy Maddocks lives in Birmingham, England, with her slightly crazy family. She blames them for her twisted imagination. Sanity is not her friend. She enjoys reading and studying, working out and eating cake, which makes her fat and in need of yet another gym session. (Yes, I'm a masochist!) She also has a fear thing about sheep. After graduating from university, Wendy began publishing her own work online and is always working on new writing projects. What will happen when she runs out of ideas?

No, let's not wonder that.

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