STUDENT
DAZED AND CONFUSED
Wendy Maddocks
©2011 by Wendy Maddocks
Smashwords edition
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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
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
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
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.
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