Adventures in online learning

Future steps

They sit on a shelf, comfortable in pairs

A collection of beige and brown, red and gold

No longer loved, no longer worn

They are shoes that have not really lived yet

Their soles barely scratched and scraped

They dream of life, of adventure

And whisper to one another

The scant stories they have to share

Those that sparkle, glitter and sequins

Speak of a party, with dancing, just one night

And of a bride who cooed over them, but never wore them

 The plain beige, dull and boring

Tell of a house, hushed in tone, death in the air

Brought  for comfort that never came

They are shoes for rainy days and communty hall dinners

They dream not of glamour, but of everyday pleasures

A walk to the shop, visits with grandchildren

Second hand shoes, unloved, unwanted

They sit alone on the shelf, in their pairs

Waiting to be part of a story

Silently calling,

Buy me, wear me, love me.

Shoes in the Charity Shop

They sit on the shelf, a collection of beige and brown, red and gold

No longer loved, no longer worn

Shoes that have not really lived yet

Their soles barely scratched and scraped

Why were they purchased? On a whim

For a party, worn once, then discarded

For a wedding, not taken place, or a dance

And who buys the ugly beige, dull and boring, shoes for rainy days and communty hall dinners

Buys them, then gives them away

Hoping another in need might make use of them

Second hand shoes, unloved, unwanted

They sit alone on teh shelf, in their pairs

Telling stories, waiting to be part of a story

Buy me, wear me, love me

Writing for 10 minutes based on a photography of a young woman.

The smell rises up from the dye. It is inky, pungent – the smell of the sea, the smell of life, the smell of death. There in the darkness I see stars. Odd that, given that the squid lives deep beneath the ocean’s waves. Does it rise to the surface on moonlit nights? I realise I know so little of the creature that forms my livelihood. Soft white flesh, tentacles, eyes, beak and brain – of these things I know as I take my knife and cut and slice, dice and chop. But what do I know of life before death? Do squid love and mourn? Do they know joy and sorrow and pain? What is their existance truly like in the cold waters of the ocean?

I wish I could step into the waves and swim away. I yearn for freedom. I long to be clean. Yet here I stand, my skirts covered in ink, my hands red and raw from the salty brine. The wind is chill, whipping across the sands. The woollen scarf around my head is too thin, too inadequate to provide warmth. I feel thin, stretched, hollow like the rings of squid.

I long for freedom.

Invent a character who visits a place of historical interest, one with a strong atmosphere of grief or light-heartedness or positive endeavour, for example a site of war graves, a museum of childhood, the former home of a writer. Or choose your own place.

• Write a 250 word version in which your character feels unwell and is worried about what the symptoms may mean.
• Write a second version in which the same character has just purchased a ‘dream’ house. Again use up to 250 words.

The walls of the cottage were closing in on Abigail. Dizzy, she was feeling sick and dizzy now. Coming here had been a mistake. Don had suggested the trip as a way to take her mind off the looming meeting with her consultant. And it had seemed a good idea at the time. Stratford was a pretty town, and she’d long wanted to visit the birthplace of the Bard. Seeing where he was born, where he worked -she’d thought it would be uplifting. Now, though, she found herself thinking of death, not birth. The room was dark, precious little light stealing through the tiny window. She imagined it in winter, thick with smoke from the fire – choking and claustrophobic.

The heavy wooden chair by the door looked appealing though. She really wanted to sit down. God, she was so tired. Tired, that meant anaemic, right? It didn’t have to be that other thing – the dreaded C-word. Wasn’t it Shakespeare who said ‘Death is a fearful thing’. Damn right it is. She headed for the door, seeking fresh air and daylight. Seeking life.

Oh, look at that. The heavy wooden chair by the door would be perfect in the kitchen. Abigail dug a notebook out of her bag, and made a quick sketch. That was the style she had dreamed about for years. And now she had the perfect house to make the dream a reality. She wondered if the guide would mind her taking a photo of the chair. And the table. That was a pretty amazing piece of furniture too. Of course her budget wouldn’t stretch to original antiques, but surely someone somewhere produced affordable replicas.

She turned a slow circle, breathing in the atmosphere. She could feel the creativity oozing from the walls. That was what she wanted. A place where she could dream and write and live. She sketched another quick picture – the window this time. It was a tiny opening onto the outside world – a peek into the busy lives of those passing by. She debated: blinds or curtains. Definitely curtains – something in a soft rose pink. Did Shakespeare have a rose named after him? She’d put money on that being so. She scribbled herself a note. It was funny where inspiration for soft furnishing came from.