Over time I have attended various courses on writing.
These have not had any lasting effect on my ability to actually write anything.
As an after-effect of these different efforts I have various short pieces of work with no home to go to.
I can’t see that any of these will be the foundation of some best seller.
I am gambling that displaying your old work has no deleterious effects on future writing.
On that assumption I will put them out there warts and all.
On the basis that it is possible someone might get some small pleasure from reading them.
From some old writing exercise I have this short piece of writing that did not make the grade.
The idea was to describe a character. But the feedback was that the character was one-dimensional.
In fact the reflection was that he was a little shit and that this made the end satisfying to read.
I was very sympathetic to Mike and I quite liked him. In some aspects I felt an affinity with him. So it is sad that he did not make the grade as a character.
Mike gripped the Momo steering wheel, his knuckles pale. Petite hands, not like a man’s at all, slender wrists and puny forearms, which are currently in tension. So that the slim muscles are clear.
His acne scarred face reddened with aggression.
Mike barks out “Move you bastard!”
He weaves his lowered Vauxhall Nova towards the right-hand side.
The darkened purple interior vibrates in time to a huge subwoofer behind his left ear – “50 Cent”. Mike adjusts the baseball cap forwards a little and leans forwards. His nose inches from the screen; he revs his engine with a whoosh of the dump valve.
The ash from his fag is forming a scree slope down the front of his T-shirt. His clothes are market-stall “designer”; all sportswear accented with gold jewellery from Argos. Today Mike wants to look cool.
Finally, he has passed his test at the ripe old age of 18, old for a license. He would have to tell them he passed months ago. They couldn’t know he was a new car virgin.
He’d had to be nice to his god-awful parents for a whole week now. He’d finally persuaded his dad to give him the money for this real bitching car. He could tell them it was all his own work – they’d think he was cool then.
His face ape-like in concentration screwed up. With ears stuck out at right angles beneath his close-shaven hair.
He looks for even a minute gap in the traffic “Fuckin’ Wankin’ Granddad, why not fuck off and die”
He edges his lurid green front spoiler close to the boot in front and flashes the four-way headlights. His laceless trainers describe a dance on the “custom” pedals until the unbalanced car slews sideways.
He leers, “Hope that scared the old bastard!”
He wanted to arrive like a star in “2 Fast 2 Furious” in a rush, lights blazing. He wanted to impress (particularly Roz – she looked great in that pink mini skirt last week). But this idiot was holding him up. He felt his heart beat faster – he wanted to kill him in a serious way. He could imagine ripping out his still beating heart. Kicking the gagging corpse around until this feeling ran cold.
He hit the horn hard and then zigzagged out until he was parallel, nothing would stop him now.
What was this? The old guy was accelerating, fucker, he would have him. Mike plants the accelerator hard into the purple carpet. He feels the blood pumping past his calf muscle as he exerts great pressure to keep it there.
Sweat springs from his forehead as he looks ahead at the oncoming bend.
He won’t give way; this git will never take him. Every muscle in his 5’ 7” frame taut he grits his teeth. He will win this or die, the evil fucker.
The Speedo needle crawls upwards, the corner, not past yet, he won’t brake, never. He turns to give the guy the finger as the Volvo truck rounds the bend.