WRITING
CREATIVE WRITING
Convenor Simon Durrant email sncd@outlook.com
This small and very friendly group meets for two hours on the first Monday morning of each month between 10am and noon. A topic is chosen and then members will read out their effort for a little kindly criticism, and much praise, in order for us to all improve. After coffee we undertake a short exercise and set the topic for the next month. Below is a short story that was written by a member of our group, and it shows that the topics we set each month do not need to be big to be beautiful! I hope it will encourage others to see that the group can be fun and not too arduous, and the biggest fun is in the difference of everybody's contributions. Visitors who want to have a "taster" are always very welcome. If you would like to join us for a taster please contact Simon Durrant on e-mail sncd@outlook.com
A recent story written by a member of the group
Hector Murray Hamilton and Shane Gobb were odd accomplices in crime. The one a tall, athletic, blue-blooded younger son and the other a pimply, underfed, school drop-out from a broken home in Torry, the most run-down part of Aberdeen. In a way, each boy was a stereotype Scot: Hector intelligent and inventive; red-haired Shane pale and dour. The fact that they met at all was surprising, but their comradeship – if the mutual trail of destruction they embarked upon could be characterized as a manifestation of friendship – was remarkable.
It had started at a drunken party in a squat occupied by a disparate group that included a drugged-up Hamilton cousin and Shane’s ridiculously young alcoholic mother. Hector, home from Ampleforth, bored and with nothing to do until the season started and the grouse moor came alive, found an ally in Shane who, tired of being the butt of his out-of-work father’s frustrated sarcasm, was in search of sympathy from a mother he hardly knew.
Police mug shots of the two published in the Evening Express after their trial showed a defiant Hector, while Shane appearedcowed and bewildered. Inarticulate, he had been unable to explain or defend himself, and was punished accordingly by a term in a juvenile offenders’ institution. The Murray Hamilton family lawyer left the jury in no doubt that well-presented Hector, demonstratively supported by his university Chancellor father and magistrate mother, had been led astray by a yobbish thug and was now truly contrite. His punishment was a fine and not unwelcome expulsion from school.
But what had happened to cause these two youths to feel the full force of the law and vilification in the local press?
Vandalism. Mindless destructive vandalism that led indirectly to the deaths of two innocent people. A lark turned sour.
Crossing the Victoria Bridge, they had walked the length of the North Esplanade looking for mischief and found an ideal target in a life belt stand on the railings beside the river Dee. They liberated the bright red ring and after a brief quarrel over what to do with it, Hector flung it into the river. For some minutes, laughing and slapping each other on the back, they ran along the embankment watching it bob up and down on the black waters.
It was a coincidence that they came to a breathless stop beside another stand. With enthusiasm, they attacked that too. Shane cut the ropes with a rusty old pen-knife and Hector sent another life belt on its journey towards the sea. Overcome with preternatural excitement they destroyed sixteen of the thirty-two life belt stands along the river bank that evening.
Early the following morning, Julie Ryder walked her six-year-old son Matthew to school. The Embankment was crowded with people and Matthew, spotting a friend, darted ahead. Only yards from his mother, he bumped into a street-cleaning trolley, lost balance and rolled into the river. Julie screamed and jumped in after him. The incident was witnessed by dozens of people, who rushed to help in their various ways. As mother and son were swept downstream, frantic effort were made to rescue them, but the life-saving belts so assiduously provided by the Council, were either missing or their ropes cut. Both mother and son drowned.
In the following months the futures of Hector and Shane crystallized. Hector’s misdemeanour was regarded as an aberration by his parents and airbrushed from family history. He was despatched to a crammer in Edinburgh to prepare for entry into Sandhurst and a future in the army. Shane became something of a hero in juvenile prison, where causing a death automatically raised him a notch or two in gang hierarchy. Upon release, he was absorbed with willing complicity into the petty crime and violence of back street Torry warfare. Not for him, the life-line extended to Hector. He was stabbed months later and died from loss of blood on the pavement while trying to reach his father’s front door.
Click on the links below to read some previous stories.
Bowl of Keys by Marianne Wright
Vicky's Bowl of Keys by Vicky Bagley
A Telephone Conversation with an Old Friend by Anna Antebi
Hello, how are you ? Nothing new here. The sun is shining in a clear blue sky. The garden is lush and there is a softness in the summer air. Nothing new.
Nothing new here. Some people moved in next door. They seem charming and friendly so nice after the house had stood empty for so long. They expressed a hope that we would be long term neighbours. They have a lovely dog who is also very friendly, and they say I can take him out for walks if I want to. Nothing new though !
Nothing new here. Had a bit of a health scare but all is well. Miss you tho’ Had some visitors and we all enjoyed tripping into the past. They were well although ageing - What’s new ?
Really, nothing new here. One day follows another. I can remember when all this “nothing” was full of promise. The future beckoned and all was possible. Really nothing has changed only the perspective.
No, nothing new here.
Isn’t it wonderful ? !!!!
Convenor Simon Durrant email sncd@outlook.com
This small and very friendly group meets for two hours on the first Monday morning of each month between 10am and noon. A topic is chosen and then members will read out their effort for a little kindly criticism, and much praise, in order for us to all improve. After coffee we undertake a short exercise and set the topic for the next month. Below is a short story that was written by a member of our group, and it shows that the topics we set each month do not need to be big to be beautiful! I hope it will encourage others to see that the group can be fun and not too arduous, and the biggest fun is in the difference of everybody's contributions. Visitors who want to have a "taster" are always very welcome. If you would like to join us for a taster please contact Simon Durrant on e-mail sncd@outlook.com
A recent story written by a member of the group
Hector Murray Hamilton and Shane Gobb were odd accomplices in crime. The one a tall, athletic, blue-blooded younger son and the other a pimply, underfed, school drop-out from a broken home in Torry, the most run-down part of Aberdeen. In a way, each boy was a stereotype Scot: Hector intelligent and inventive; red-haired Shane pale and dour. The fact that they met at all was surprising, but their comradeship – if the mutual trail of destruction they embarked upon could be characterized as a manifestation of friendship – was remarkable.
It had started at a drunken party in a squat occupied by a disparate group that included a drugged-up Hamilton cousin and Shane’s ridiculously young alcoholic mother. Hector, home from Ampleforth, bored and with nothing to do until the season started and the grouse moor came alive, found an ally in Shane who, tired of being the butt of his out-of-work father’s frustrated sarcasm, was in search of sympathy from a mother he hardly knew.
Police mug shots of the two published in the Evening Express after their trial showed a defiant Hector, while Shane appearedcowed and bewildered. Inarticulate, he had been unable to explain or defend himself, and was punished accordingly by a term in a juvenile offenders’ institution. The Murray Hamilton family lawyer left the jury in no doubt that well-presented Hector, demonstratively supported by his university Chancellor father and magistrate mother, had been led astray by a yobbish thug and was now truly contrite. His punishment was a fine and not unwelcome expulsion from school.
But what had happened to cause these two youths to feel the full force of the law and vilification in the local press?
Vandalism. Mindless destructive vandalism that led indirectly to the deaths of two innocent people. A lark turned sour.
Crossing the Victoria Bridge, they had walked the length of the North Esplanade looking for mischief and found an ideal target in a life belt stand on the railings beside the river Dee. They liberated the bright red ring and after a brief quarrel over what to do with it, Hector flung it into the river. For some minutes, laughing and slapping each other on the back, they ran along the embankment watching it bob up and down on the black waters.
It was a coincidence that they came to a breathless stop beside another stand. With enthusiasm, they attacked that too. Shane cut the ropes with a rusty old pen-knife and Hector sent another life belt on its journey towards the sea. Overcome with preternatural excitement they destroyed sixteen of the thirty-two life belt stands along the river bank that evening.
Early the following morning, Julie Ryder walked her six-year-old son Matthew to school. The Embankment was crowded with people and Matthew, spotting a friend, darted ahead. Only yards from his mother, he bumped into a street-cleaning trolley, lost balance and rolled into the river. Julie screamed and jumped in after him. The incident was witnessed by dozens of people, who rushed to help in their various ways. As mother and son were swept downstream, frantic effort were made to rescue them, but the life-saving belts so assiduously provided by the Council, were either missing or their ropes cut. Both mother and son drowned.
In the following months the futures of Hector and Shane crystallized. Hector’s misdemeanour was regarded as an aberration by his parents and airbrushed from family history. He was despatched to a crammer in Edinburgh to prepare for entry into Sandhurst and a future in the army. Shane became something of a hero in juvenile prison, where causing a death automatically raised him a notch or two in gang hierarchy. Upon release, he was absorbed with willing complicity into the petty crime and violence of back street Torry warfare. Not for him, the life-line extended to Hector. He was stabbed months later and died from loss of blood on the pavement while trying to reach his father’s front door.
Click on the links below to read some previous stories.
Bowl of Keys by Marianne Wright
Vicky's Bowl of Keys by Vicky Bagley
A Telephone Conversation with an Old Friend by Anna Antebi
Hello, how are you ? Nothing new here. The sun is shining in a clear blue sky. The garden is lush and there is a softness in the summer air. Nothing new.
Nothing new here. Some people moved in next door. They seem charming and friendly so nice after the house had stood empty for so long. They expressed a hope that we would be long term neighbours. They have a lovely dog who is also very friendly, and they say I can take him out for walks if I want to. Nothing new though !
Nothing new here. Had a bit of a health scare but all is well. Miss you tho’ Had some visitors and we all enjoyed tripping into the past. They were well although ageing - What’s new ?
Really, nothing new here. One day follows another. I can remember when all this “nothing” was full of promise. The future beckoned and all was possible. Really nothing has changed only the perspective.
No, nothing new here.
Isn’t it wonderful ? !!!!
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