Week two- Creative Writing classes

My second week of class was not quite so terrifying. I did not read my work this week as there is only time for half of us to do so.

The exercise this week was to write the same piece in 1st and 3rd person. I found 1st person difficult and limiting and the teacher mentioned it is quite hard to do well, and quite a challenge for the novice writer. Anyway, see what you think.........

1st person
A suitable finish to a less than satisfying day. Not only is my frontal lobe trying to force its way out my eye sockets but my phone is playing “You’re so vain”, the designated ring tone for my boss. I attempt to retrieve it from the depths of the tote bag I had to have which I see now is merely an expensive portable black hole. The call goes to voicemail as my hand closes over the vibrating i-phone.
The rain starts as I make my way over the concourse. Typical.
I retrieve the monogrammed umbrella, a gift from my mother, as the rain notches up a gear. I fear my straightened hair will be ruined. This was not in the morning forecast! I make a mental note to switch news broadcaster.
My next task is to find a taxi rank, and get to the mechanic before they close to collect my Alfa. Then I can say goodbye to public transport and the uncomfortable closeness of complete and unwashed strangers.
I see the telltale glow of yellow down the stairs and across the car park and make my way gingerly down the metal grill plate stairs on three inch suede heels. Just as I make headway and feel I am not going to plummet three women race past me in their polyester suits and leatherette heels. My rhythm is unsettled and I reach for the handrail as the last banshee passes, flicking small drops of water from her partially collapsed umbrella.
Shaken I reach the final step, to discover a small moat blocking my way. How does a council allow this sort of medieval engineering? For a moment I weigh up my options. A small step and my beautiful heels plunge deep into the mix of dirt, floating met tickets, oil and leaves. A large step would clear the moat but I risk tearing a split in my wool blend Armani pencil skirt. Glancing around to check if there will be any additional descending wild women of the night, I hitch up my skirt to allow for a most unladylike leap and with delight realise I have made it and still upright.
Bolstered by my success I pace across the asphalt and fling myself into the back seat of the closest cab.

3rd person
She stood out from the regular commuters mainly because she lacked purpose. She moved a lot slower, in part because of towering heels and was looking about her unsure of where to go. She rubbed her temple troubled perhaps by a headache.
Jumping slightly she launched into her gigantic bright orange bag which resembled a buoy you see bobbing in the bay as she struggled to locate the object of her desire. She threw her head back in exasperation as if appealing to the gods to help her in this foreign world. Commuters moved past her bustling about as if bent on some unified mission. But really they were all just trying to get home.
Then it began to rain, small drops at first, progressing to heavy splashing doses. She moved more swiftly towards the stairs, popping a large umbrella before taking the first step gingerly.

As the heel connected with each step it sounded a beat, high pitched and measured contrasting against the plopping of a thousand ripe raindrops. She worked into a rhythm as if settling into her job. To add to the symphony three other women began their descent. They too wore heels but moved rapidly each creating a higher more frantic note. For a moment she was part of the mission, a commuter like the rest, together with the rain creating music to mark their passage.
Then they were gone, past her and heading to their cars, leaving the only note the steady beat of suede shoes.
Reaching the bottom, she stopped briefly to survey the last barrier, a small puddle encircling the base of the stairs. For a moment there is only drought breaking, and the low hum of car engines starting.
Then with a cautious look over each shoulder she added the final crescendo to the evening music. Drawing her skirt to the top of her thighs she took a small forward jump landing heavily and trotting quickly across the car park where she located a cab and disappeared inside with her orange buoy, taking the final note with her.

Product of the first night- Creative writing Week 1

It has been five months since I embarked on this cerebral adventure. It was always my intention to seek some professional guidance, and I had my first group based lesson last week. It was both thrilling and petrifying. I never imagined how nervous I would be reading something I had written to strangers.

I was laid bare for a few minutes. It is one thing to post your work (I use the term very loosely) on the internet- a decision I mulled over for many weeks- and quite another to read your work to people, look them in the eye and get their immediate reaction.

But in the spirit in which I set out.....here is my first short tale penned while sitting between 'Matt' and 'Helen' sweating slightly and feeling incredibly dull witted.

I wondered what she was doing there, walking the street alone.

I had stirred from my sleep and looked out the window, unsure at first what the white shiny object was moving in my grey morning. Lazy eyes and lazy brain unsure of the world.

I had pulled the blanket up to my face, cloaking my presence. Why had I done that?

Black hair glistened as if mist had fallen ever so lightly, but no darkening of the road to suggest any moisture. The white dress hung loosely over her frame.

It was like a slow reckoning.

She moved with purpose taking small steps on barefeet, walking away from my home, where I hid.

A coolness fell on my skin, so strange under blankets to feel this sensation. Similar to when you find a spider- that second you suck in your breath quick and hard. Skin taut, ready to run but horribly cold with shock.

I hoped my neighbours remained in their homes. The morning seemed menacing somehow.

She turned the corner and out of my sight. The blood began to return through to the smallest of veins, finding their way through a path that had been frozen and locked. As if everything for a moment while I watched her walk was dead.