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.

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

Disjointed, foreign and mournful

Coffee, dark and black, sun on my back

A male voice, bearded, dark brown eyes

He sings, empowered by his masculinity

This is his world, he is the king of the souk

Closing his eyes he is lost in a world of music and rhythm

The smells, the noise, the heat, the cold

All vanish as he loses himself in the song

Behind him dances a young girl, long dark hair, silken skirts

She spins and turns, eyes closed, shutting out the world

Incense drifts in dark blue plumes – smoky, fragrant, choking

The beat of a drum, strange rhythms, not for western feet

Rice rattles in the sacks in the bizarre

But she isn’t there, she is far, far away

A princess in a fantasy world, not a young bride, bartered and bought

There’s a marriage of arrangement

A joining of families, not of hearts

But when the music plays, when they sing and dance

Then there is union

Then there is harmony, rhapsody

Peace

And across the globe, a party explodes

Men dance, feet drumming on the wooden floor

Vodka spills as glasses are raised in toast

A donkey brays, the air is crisp and cold, the sky is blue

Celebrate, celebrate

The bride sits alone, to be admired

Gifts are strewn at her feet

But the day is about the groom, about his strength and vitality

Crude jokes are told of the wedding night

She blushes, innocent yet not so much

And all around the world, weddings are consummated, wine is drunk, gifts are given

The human need to be pair bonded and to celebrate that bonding

Family, families, unite together

Celebrate, celebrate

Coffee, dark and black, sun on my back

A male voice, bearded, dark brown eyes

Behind him dances a young girl, long dark hair, silken skirts

She spins and turns, eyes closed, shutting out the world

Incense drifts in dark blue plumes – smoky, fragrant, choking

The beat of a drum, strange rhythms, not for western feet

Rice rattles in the sacks in the bizarre

(The music changed abruptly, this track is much more upbeat)

And suddenly we are in Russia – cossacks dancing, threads of red and gold

A woman sings, her voice high and strident, the words harsh

Yet there is joy, a wedding party arrives, vodka spills as glasses are raised in toast

A donkey brays, the air is crisp and cold, the sky is blue

Celebrate, celebrate

And all around the world, weddings are consummated, wine is drunk, gifts are given

The human need to be pair bonded and to celebrate that bonding

Family, families, unite together

Celebrate, celebrate

(written while listening to music on Afghan Radio on iTunes)

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.

The tears of a clown. I paint them on, black pencil in hand, tear shape. I am so practised at this, just as I am practised at crying the real thing. Homeless, oh my God, where will i go tonight. Bags are sitting behind. Perhaps I can sleep here. Tears threaten, But not now. I must not cry now, it will ruin the paint on tears. No one wants to see my face streaked with black. No, time to paint on the false smile. Big red lips. Gruesome some might think. Like the joker in batman. Not really a smile but an injury. Slashed by life, blood red wound. My teeth look yellow – too much nicotine, breathing in smoke, breathing in death, and painting on a smile and false tears. Dying inside, have been for years. Dying, dying, dead. Take the knife end it. Who would care. Wouldn’t need a bed then, just a coffin and the cold damp earth. Welcome it, embrace it. Blessed darkness, as black as the paint in my hand. No, it is time to go. The show must go on.

Want to be a writer? This is what you have to do. You sit in front of a computer screen and stare at the white rectangle that is a new document in Word. And then you write. Try not to think about what you are writing. You need to let the words flow. No, stop that. No editing. You don’t care about spelling and grammar right now. All you care about is filling that pristine snow with black shapes, small or long, it matters not. Your fingers must tap an unbroken rhythm on the keys. Your shoulders may begin to ache, but you mustn’t stop. You want to be a writer, then you must write. Word after word after word.

He was just trying to bring people in from the cold November air. It had seemed a good idea at the time. Just open the door and let them stand in reception. He hadn’t expected the theatre manager to get irate about it. Maybe she had a point. But on the other hand people were standing outside in sub-zero temperatures, their noses turning blue as they peered through the glass at the toasty warm space inside.
She hadn’t actually said he was an idiot, but he could see it in her eyes. The crowd had also witnessed the clash of wills. Look at the way they cowered against the wall when he tried to move them through to another area. OK, maybe that hadn’t been the smartest move either. The room was empty though. He hadn’t thought it a problem.
‘Why can’t they wait in here?’ he’d protested as she tried to back the crowd away from the doors into the theatre. ‘It is an empty room.’
‘Because then they can get into the offices and through other doors into the theatre that don’t have ticket staff on them.’ Her voice had been sharp with annoyance. ‘And besides, then you’ll have people coming from two directions into one space’.
She was definitely pissed off with him. Yet still he stood his ground. Now, though, the crowd had decided not to get embroiled in the argument.
‘We are fine right here,’ a woman at the front of the mass said.
‘Thank you!’ the theatre manager said, shooting him a scathing look.
He shook his head and turned tail. He’d just been trying to help.

‘Ola!’ the tour rep calls from the front of the coach.

‘Ola’ the passengers shout back. It’s five in the morning. The sun is throwing pale golden light over the horizon. Soon they will be at their holiday villas. Already they are licking their lips at the thought of paella and sangria, calamari and chips, and more ice cream than anyone should sensibly eat in a week.

‘Now everyone, say Ola to Jorge, our driver.’ The holiday rep is blonde, tanned and slim, and clearly used to everyone doing exactly as she says.

‘Ola Jorge,’ they shout, laughing at their sudden fluency in a foreign language.

Deborah sits at the back of the bus, silent. She breathes in the sanitised air and frowns at the landscape through the dusty bus windows.

‘You didn’t say it.’ He husband nudges her.

She doesn’t turn from the window. ‘I doubt Jorge cares.’

The bus races along sterile tarmac, four lanes of road so straight the Romans would’ve been proud. Hills parched to a burnt ochre speed by. At last, they reach the town. The bus twists and turns, then judders to halt. The holiday rep shouts the name of the apartment block, and people are vomited onto the pavement. Deborah closes her eyes, shutting out the sight of pasty white women in sundresses of neon orange and green, and men in white shorts and T-shirts with unfunny slogans.

Her own clothes were khaki and beige. No cheap and cheerful last minute purchases from Asda for her. She was dressed head to toe in Rohan gear, quick drying, hard wearing, designed for the rough and tumble of the jungle. She glanced at her husband. He was in the family uniform – football shirt, jeans, trainers. Across from him sat his father and younger brother, both similarly attired. Joan was dressed the way Joan always dressed – prim and proper in floral dress with a white cardigan.

As the bus lurched forward, Deborah bit back tears. She had dreamed of Peru. They’d talked of Peru. She’d had it all sorted: the itinerary, the cost, the clothes. And then he’d dropped the bombshell. His mum and dad were celebrating their Ruby wedding and taking everyone to Spain as a special treat. Wasn’t that great? And so generous of them?

So here she was, in the back of a tour bus on the Costa del Sol instead of a Jeep in the wilds of Peru.

Ola Spain, bloody Ola.

• 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.