Ideas...what do you guys think?

Ok so have been having a think about how I can make my assignment piece a little more 'experimental' than just creative writing but just wanted to know your thoughts etc.

I don't know if you guys saw the Jeremy Kyle poem that I wrote but for gluttony I was thinking about doing something similar. I'm planning to go and sit in Mcdonald's in Westquay for an hour at some point next week and literally write down what people are saying at the till. I.e. their orders, questions asked etc using this 'transcript', create some sort of poem. Do you think this is experimental or just a bit stalkerish??

Also thank you for your sentences on pride. I've sent an email round to friends, colleagues etc asking them to complete the sentence too but I think that when I have enough, I'm going to try that exercise where you cut sentences in half and reconstruct them...do you see what I mean?? So I'll take the first half of one sentence and add it to the second half of another??

I'm quite a fan of absurdist poetry and so for greed i think I'm going to try a poem in the style of Jacques Prevert...he's a french poet who doesn't use any punctuation in his work.

I'm not going to list lots and lots for you to comment on but what do you guys think of this so far??

xx

Hey,
Sorry that this has taken me so long to get to you but as I was saying the other day, I'm looking to focus my assignment on the 7 deadly sins.
For pride I would like you guys to complete the following sentence:
Pride is...

I am considering asking a load of randoms at Uni to do the same thing so we'll see how it goes.
Thanks and see you all on Friday
xx

Flash Fiction, 100 words:

When I woke up the knife was still there. The scarlet blood now a congealed clot at the end of the blade. I could see the reflection of my eyes, so dark and so deep that it was unclear where my pupils started and where my irises ended. The whites of my eyes were speckled red with his blood, or perhaps from the lack of sleep. I averted my gaze to the heap at the foot of the bed. I almost convinced myself that the masculine browns and blues were no more than a pile of dirty laundry. Should I feel remorse I wondered? But then I smelt the familiar stench of beer, saw the bunch of denim around his ankles and I knew that remorse would never come.

50 words:

When I woke up the knife was still there. In it I could see my reflection- the whites of my eyes were speckled red with his blood. I averted my gaze to the heap at the foot of the bed. Should I feel remorse? The familiar stench of stale beer and the bunch of denim at his ankles told me no.

I actually think that it works better in its shortened form. Found the exercise very useful as I tend to be a bit precious with my words and so when it comes to editing, I find it hard to take things out (however unnecessary they may be!!!)

Mslexia

The short story (Wiggy) that I brought in the other week was actually the winner of an annual writing competition by Mslexia. Have pasted some info below but they have a site with some really good work tbh so worth having a look at.

Greetings!

Welcome to the website for Mslexia, the magazine for women who write. Mslexia is an independent publishing company that provides information and (we hope) inspiration for published and unpublished women in the UK and beyond. In addition to our quarterly magazine and Writer’s Diary, Mslexia runs workshops and events, and a series of high-profile competitions for poets, novelists and short-story writers.

We welcome submissions for every part of the magazine (apart from the Editor’s letter). Explore the website to submit to the magazine, enter our competitions, sample past and current issues – and generally join in with the Mslexia conversation. We look forward to hearing from you.

Valentine

As disorganised as this is, I have realised that I didn't post my 'free writing' take on Carol Ann Duffy's valentine but as I only managed to chug out around 100 words, I'm going to call it flash fiction and put it out there :-)

Will you be my valentine? Will you promise to love and cherish me forever more? Hold me close so that nothing and no-one could ever hurt me. Will your love for me last longer than the red rose that you bought for me one cold night in Paris. The petals fell silently one by one whilst we slept until there was nothing left but a bare stem. The stem that I refused to throw away because you had given it to me. The stem that I kept in a green, glass bottle, full of water on my fridge. 

Observation

Sorry that this has taken me so long to do. I actually did two observations and so I have had a look through both notes to try and decide what to do. I've turned this first one into poetry but I think that I've lost the voice a little bit. Because the effect that I was trying to achieve was someone talking about somebody else rather than them self? Anyway, have a read and let me know. I think that I am going to attempt a bit of prose with the other but not sure yet.

Excuse me kind sir, do you have a minute?

No I didn’t expect that you would, you do seem to be in a bit of a rush.

The hours don’t pass half as quickly as you’d like them to.

You’re pacing through the streets waiting for the world to catch up,

Either that or move out of the way.

Like this woman in front of you for example.

Blocking the way whilst she fumbles for her oyster card in that ridiculous Mary Poppins bag.

As if she didn’t know that she would need her oyster card.

It’s not like she had planned on getting the tube or anything.

The tube.

You hear it pull into the platform.

Your ears prick up like a rabbit caught in headlines.

The incessant tapping of your Armani shoes gets faster.

You push past. The hare overtaking the tortoise.

Though this hare doesn’t take naps.

No time for that.

But you’ve missed it.

By seconds.

By the skin of your nose.

F*?! that ridiculous woman.

Or forget her, what about that spotty faced teenager who got your drink wrong in Starbucks.

The same drink that you have ordered at 7:15 every morning since he started working there.

Stupid idiot. Scratching is dandruff flaked hair whilst asking if you want any cakes or pastries with your coffee.

If you’d have wanted a cake you would have bloody well said so.

Before you have time to check the gold plated face of your watch, the train has arrived.

You spot her immediately.

The woman with the pushchair edging closer and closer to the doors.

But you’re not having any of that.

She can wait her turn.

There’s no room for Mr. Nice Guy when Hong Kong is waiting for a conference call on line one.

Goddamn it! If this train was going any slower it would be going backwards.

“Come On” you urge silently.

The Blackberry comes out of the pocket in one swift move.

No signal.

Emergency calls only.

Bloody underground signal.

Bloody phone.

Bloody useless piece of shit.

Won’t be like this next year- the Chinese are paying for the underground networks to be revamped.

Definitely something wrong with that.

Don’t trust them at all.

“This train is being held here in order to regulate the service”

What the hell?!

You don’t have time for this.

Don’t these people have places to go, people to see.

You’ll walk.

But there’s a sea of tourists cluttering up the station.

Rows and rows of families, all of them waving around their train tickets.

An array of digital cameras and brightly coloured bumbags.

Fanny packs, that’s what they call them over the pond.

Why would anyone come up with such a name?

Why would anyone wear a bumbag?

The only person that you’ve seen wearing a bumbag is your Polish cleaning lady who says Dzien Dobry when she sees you leave for work in the morning.

You left 17minutes ago.

The train doors shut.

It’s pulling away.

Oh for fuck’s sake.

The next one isn’t for another two minutes.

It’s ironic really, you didn’t have a minute to spare earlier.

Any now you've got two.

Valentine- Poem by Carol Ann Duffy

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.

Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.

Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,
if you like.

Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.