Creative Writing

Another example of the great work produced here at WMC in the Creative Writing courses. (click here for course info)

 

Remember the beauty of simplicity. Great power resides in all those one-syllable Anglo-Saxon words.

Sebastian’s story uses only one-syllable words:

 

The Lone Shoe

by Sebastian Kola-Bankole

On the night of the full moon, I see the man in front of me get hit by a big red bus. I lean on the bus stop sign and hold my breath. My heart pounds in my chest and I know I should try to help him. I try to move but I freeze. I try to run from the scene but my legs say nay.

I watch as a pool of blood, the hue of good red wine, seeps out from the back of the bus. I heave and retch as the ooze spreads, slow and thick. I think I can see a shoe, his left one. It is brown and its heel torn. It lies on the side of the road, this sad lone shoe, right next to a bare foot, ripped from its leg. I can’t tear my eyes from this dire sight. I want to leave but I stand there, fixed to the spot, dead still.

 

 

…..and an

Acrostic Poem

by Sebastian Kola-Bankole

 

Stayed alive to tell the tale

Even when near death he lay

Beneath a truck, his bones were crushed

All feeling below did turn to mush

Still he fought to stay alive

Through it all, he did survive

In the time that’s passed since then

As he falls, he stands again

Never shall he ever doubt, from all that pain, his strength did sprout

 

 

Creative Writing

Here are some more fantastic examples of the Flash Fiction task from the Creative Writing classes here at WMC (click here for course info)

 

Waiting. I’m waiting. Always waiting.

The automated, robot voice on the end of the phone explains its dizzying array of options.

I’m waiting for my details to pop up on the monitor of a remote, invisible, call worker who just wants to go home.

I’m waiting to hear my personal details read back to confirm who I am.

Yes, I am me.

Twenty minutes later, the monotone, script-reading voice, finally asks for my payment details.

I’m going for a coffee I tell him.

He can wait for me.

 

Mark Bloom

 

It was that time in the festivities when bad dancing was rife on the dance floor. Perched on a spindly chair, I sipped at my cocktail. He loomed over me, red faced, swaying wet lipped:

“Wan’ dance?” he said extending a plump, pink hand.

“Rubbish dancer,” I said through gritted teeth. His hand descended, grasping my arm, forcefully lifting me, simultaneously spilling my drink and overturning the table.

“Oops!” he said. Now level with his chins and about to let fly with some righteous indignation, I suddenly registered his identity and saw over his shoulder, huddled in a corner in a froth of white netting and sobbing, the Bride. 

 

Sue Higgs

 

**

 

He smiled at me from platform 3, then the 10.30 Express passed and he was gone.

 

**

 

White dress and veil. Black suit. Ring. ‘I don’t,’ he said.

 

Kate Emmett

 

**

 

After the first day of the Creative Writing course she saw a light in her future. She was changing into a beautiful butterfly and flying into the sky.

 

Vincy Kam Wai Lau

Ollie and His friends

Last year we were contacted by a local author Joe Morris looking for illustration for his new children’s book. This opportunity was given to the Foundation Diploma learners and Veronique Shamhong produced some lovely illustrations for the book. The book is now published and we were thrilled to receive a copy!

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The Big Draw – London life

The Big Draw: Exploring London Life though Art

On Saturday 16th February 2019 local Camden residents and college learners were invited to come and join Foundation Diploma and Childcare learners in the production of a huge collaborative drawing depicting London life in all its diversity. This event was part of the International Big Draw festival ((click here for more Big Draw info)

The piece starts at the top with prominent and well known London landmarks, what everyone would think of when thinking of London, but then moves down in to local landmarks and portraits of individual’s living spaces: Our local London. The image finishes with self-portraits of the participants showing the range of individuals who make up London Life at the college.

Contact annas@wmcollege.ac.uk for any queries

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the final piece close up:

IMG_20190218_151225937IMG_20190218_151219654IMG_20190218_151215263IMG_20190218_151209461_BURST000_COVER_TOPIMG_20190218_151205513IMG_20190218_151158276

and some pictures from the day:

Creative Writing: Musings on a Train

Musings on a Train by Sylvia Keogh

 

The train lurched giddily from side to side…gatchy-gatch-gah- gatchy-gatchy-gah, disallowing the usual hypnotic lure towards sleep which I have always associated with train journeys. This ear splitting racket thundered through the barred, glassless windows, prohibiting any conversation unless one had the habit of bellowing. The lurching allowed me to read only a few pages in short bursts before travel sickness demanded I stop. And so I sat there as the familiar movie that is India slipped by my window.

 

My travelling companion slept the sleep of the innocents. He could sleep anywhere, anytime and he did. I alternately admired, envied, or was resentful of the fact that Morpheus always came to his rescue but never to mine.

 

I drifted again into musing on the circumstances which had brought us here together. He was now resenting every minute of the trip and that resentment was seeping towards me.

 

After all it was I who had planted the seed with photographs and stories of a previous trip I had taken alone a few years before. We were acquaintances then, but had become firm friends very quickly despite our age difference, and so we had carefully planned this trip.

 

Now he was so discontented that he saw those photographs and the books I had shown him containing information on customs, religions and landscapes as some mendacious plot used to entice him to India to fulfil the role of my sidekick and rucksack wallah.

 

The poverty, filth and inhumanity towards animals got to all of us at times, but he became so jaundiced that he was blind to the beauty. That sense of slipping in and out of centuries, and the brilliant technicolored world which would not have seemed out of place in a Cecil B de Mille film, can be found everywhere in India.

 

I loved watching from the windows the story of India, the dawn ablutions by rivers and lakes of people and their buffaloes. The brightly-dressed women filling their various containers at the wells, to be carried home on their heads, their backs straighter than any catwalk model. Later, when the big orange sun was sinking, smoke from the cow dung patties drifted skywards and the aroma of curry was mouth-watering.

 

My lone travels seemed so easy now. Besides a few inevitable hassles, I had lost myself in the magic of the diversity I found in and between the Holy places, the Mughal palaces, beaches and the foothills of Everest. I determined then that I would not allow his resentment to tarnish my romantic memories or this trip.

We were on our way to an elephant festival. It would be a joyful, riotous affair of grandly caparisoned elephants and the mahouts would be almost as impressive. There would be the inevitable tinny music played on long trumpet style instruments. I was going to have a good time, I would not allow this parade to be rained on by his black mood. We would go our separate ways.

 

 

Creative Writing – The Past

Here is another great example of writing from the creative writing courses here at WMC. This is a piece by Sebastian Kola Bankole titled “The Past”

The Past

I shuffle out of the building, my pace at odds with my thoughts. It’s already dark but unseasonably warm for mid-November and as I head up towards Charing Cross Road, not even the pedestrians, armed with the most dangerous of weapons – a mobile phone – can dampen my exhilaration. I pause under the alcove of a restaurant and fumble in my coat pocket for my phone. I fire off a tweet – “The past is the foundation to our psyche.” Ne’er have truer words been said. #switzerland #patriciahighsmith #longlivethomasripley

 

I pocket my phone with a smirk and amble towards Tottenham Court Road station. I had known little about the play so had devoured the programme before it started. It was a one-hander about Patricia Highsmith, a writer of whose body of work I knew almost nothing, except that one novel was adapted into a movie starring Matt Damon. I was surprised to learn people had described her, almost universally, as unlikeable. She had endured an abusive childhood but boasted that it was what made her a good writer. The trade-off, one she gladly and unashamedly accepted, was that it also made her a bitch – her words. That certainly came through in the incredible performance of the lead actress, the one from Downton Abbey… Mrs Crawley? 

 

And then there was that line, the one that hit me like a freight train. Why did it stir me so; it was not even a novel idea! It’s precisely why I lie on my back five times a week, whining about my childhood to Misha. But there was something about how she phrased those words that really ignited something within me. I hadn’t felt like this for a while and couldn’t wait to explore this with Misha tomorrow. It’s funny how the strangest things can rekindle your desire to live.

 

I now realise I have walked past the station and am sweating under this heavy coat. I stop to take it off and a woman pushing a toddler in his pram, on her phone, almost knocks into me. She continues past but the boy drops his ball and it rolls onto the side of the road.

 

“Excuse me, you dropped something!”

 

She carries on, oblivious to my (and his) cries so I limp to the kerb and seeing no headlights, I step off to pick it up. The last things my eyes see is a bicycle wheel which, in a slow arc, transforms into a beautiful view of the night sky. And as I lie on my back, I also see myself. I am eight or nine, in the backseat of the old Toyota, leaning between the front seats and listening, for the millionth time, to Mum’s story about how I’d always loved to read. And once, as she drove past a billboard for Maggi cubes, five-year-old me had asked, “Mum, what is maggie cob-ez?” We both bellow in laughter. It’s funny how the past stays with you right until the very end.

 

Calthorpe Art in the Garden

Art in the Garden

Sat 19 May @ 12:00 pm – 7:00 pm

 

The Calthorpe Project inner city community garden and centre exists to improve the physical and emotional well-being of those who live, work or study in Camden and surrounding areas. As part of the Chelsea Fringe, they  hosted Art in the Garden and the Working Mens College was involved. Ceramics students donated work which was sold to raise funds for the project by ceramics learners Peter Buck, Helen McCormack and Sophia Staves. Jo Aylmer, Ceramics Tutor, ran a air drying clay workshop. Visitors made hanging decorations, small pots and even a clay burrito!

The Calthorpe Project:  258-274 Gray’s Inn Road. London,WC1X 8LH

tel: 020 7837 8019  www.calthorpeproject.org.uk

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