We were told by George to upload the various fiction tasks we did in class. So here they are, in no particular order. I'm holding off uploading assessed ones for now since they're supposed to be anonymous.
‘Bad/Soap opera’ Dialogue
A: “Please! You’re breaking my heart!”
B: “I didn’t know you had one, bitch!”
A: “How can you do this to me?!”
B: “How can you do this to me?”
A: “Do what?”
A: “Wha… How did you know?”
B: “I didn’t; but you just confirmed it!”
201 Word sayings/stories thing
Chris, you disappoint me. Have a good sniff of this and make sure it’s chlorine. I’m getting seriously worried about this group. Always trying to distract me from the lesson, asking whether I’ve managed to kill any moles in my garden recently whenever moles are mentioned. I bait them out and hit them with a spade. Do you appreciate that?
And every year I get asked about that damn cat. I only tell that one once to each group, and only when asked, because it distresses me. But each group tells the year below to ask about it. The cat was asleep on a high shelf in the shed and I didn’t know this. I turned on a hedge trimmer, startling the cat and causing it to jump down and decapitate itself, poor thing.
Contrary to popular belief, my middle name is not ‘Wan’ or ‘Foo’, and my wife is not ‘Sue’.
“Are you a scouse Sir?”
“Have you ever been nutted?” (I am from Liverpool, though my accent’s mostly gone.) Ba-ba-ba-ba don’t do that! Remember, if you’re going to fix cracks in you path, do it when it’s cold because the concrete will expand with heat. Chris, you’re a disgrace!
Uninteresting happening in variety of styles and story/non-story in 50 words:
Carrying fifteen cans of cider back really hurts your arms. Fifteen cans for ten pounds. What makes it worse is that I live in Cryfield, which is like the furthest away from Tesco’s that it’s possible to be. I got other stuff too, but it wasn’t alcohol.
Customer feedback form:
Transporting by hand 15 cans of Srongbow Cider from place of purchase (Tesco’s) to Cryfield; the University of Warwick residence farthest away from aforementioned Tesco’s.
The cider was 15 for £10.
Carrying it hurt my arms.
Any other comments?
Brought some other items as well, but they weren’t alcohol.
Once upon a time, in the Kingdom of Warwicke, there lived a Scholar who sought the Elixir of Inebriation. To acquire this Elixir the Scholar had to travel far, to the Cave of the ‘Great’ Tesco; a giant, faceless entity that valued gold above all other things. Though his path was long, the Clerk was unburdened and with company so his journey was fair.
But alas! This Tescos’ Cave (for he had many) did not contain the Elixir of the Woodpecker, which the Scholar most desired, so he must fain settle for the Elixir of the Bow. But Yea! The Elixir of the Bow was three-quarter-score phials for ten gold pieces, so the Scholar was happy.
But fie! This happiness did not last! For the phials were heavy and this self-same Clerk resided in the village of Cry-Fielde, which lies in the corner of Warwicke furthest from The Cave of Tesco. And he was now alone, his fellowship having sought other and fewer things in the Cave, and he having consented to separate from them. And thus, the Scholar’s journey home was arduous, and caused him great pain in his arms.
That Scholar did purchase other things that Tesco’s cave, but none were other forms of the Elixir of Inebriation.
Story/Non-story in 50 words:
The thing about having your brain taken to another dimension is that it requires one to pay close attention. I failed to do this and am now unfortunately trapped in the body of a squirrel. I’d love to stay and chat longer, but someone is about to pinch my nuts.
'Write a Picture' task - Extended version (More than the one I read in class):
Black and white. White on black. It’s a contrast so frequent that there isn’t a single simile or metaphor regarding it that hasn’t been worked to death and then sent to the Knacker’s yard and made into cliché.
The white pamphlets cover the ground, not densely enough for comparison to snow, more like dandruff. Bad dandruff. The dandruff is thicker towards the formation, like some scabby giant has shaken his head over the line of be-shielded black-clads that stand there, showering them in his albino skin.
The batoned men are rowed, likely guarding a route as those jungle ants do on Attenborough narrated primetime, and are armoured (like the ants) with an exoskeleton, theirs artificial. Some stare forward into the distance, others point and turn their heads to converse with their comrades. However, the route they guard does not teem and bustle with life like with the ants, only with white leaflets. Who will clean them up?
What has happened here? A wake? Who’s awake? Certainly not that dead fella… Oh, I see now. Of course. How stupid of me.
What do they talk of, the shield wielders, as they stand there? Is it purely business: “That one looks like trouble.” Or do they find time to talk of other things?
Perhaps some talk of the woman who now walks before them? Dark haired and dark clad too she is quite alone in the abandoned road, a leather bag of who knows what at her side, going only she knows where. Donne wrote that no one is an island but she sure looks one at the moment; a lone woman adrift in a sea of asphalt crested with paper breakers and, far off, washing a reef of faceless men.
She alone moves here; all else is static. ‘El Presidente’ may be dead, but her life carries on.