Here's a snippet of what my last Creative Writing class got up to based on a theme of people and place.

 

I run these classes in my local town of Ellon, in Aberdeenshire. These are fun and cater for beginners as well as those with a bit more experience.

 The Harrying of Buchan

     By Gemma Fearnley

 

Crimson.

It blooms against

The vigilant dark

Like a blood

Drop.

 

Fire.

Bloodied tongues

Rush the homes;

A ravenous inferno.

Crack!

The town weeps beneath

A fiery scarlet blaze.

 

Vengeance.

Encircled,

Ringed by roaring fire,

Justice maimed; Honour pillaged.

The whim of Bruce:

Hero.

 

Years.

Seven hundred past;

Ellon, like phoenix,

Reborn:

A child of the flames.

 

   *********

 

Hero in cold grey stone

By R. Gibson-Forbes

                                      

When I was a small child my father said that the granite soldier wore a simple shirt because he represented a number of Scottish regiments.  However, my mother thought it was wrong to pick out one section of the armed forces for Ellon’s memorial. True, she had been in the A.T.S. herself and her uncle had died wearing his kilt in The Great War and was said to be the most decorated soldier in the Gordon regiment, but she didn’t like to dwell on this. Particularly as one of his men described the way Sergeant Robert Stewart (Robin) had lost his life. He died taking out two machine guns on his own. He told his officer that he would not pick out boys or married men to be slaughtered. He was in his forties and had no children so he did the job himself. His men recognised what was left of him hanging on the barbed wire when, with bayonets fixed, they charged the enemy lines.

            Why are there no statues in this part of the country to men of the Royal Navy, The Merchant Navy, The Air Corps, The Gunners, The Scots Guards; or the Scots Greys, who, like one of my mother’s uncles wore riding breeches? My mother would have liked to ask this question, if only she’d known who to ask; but my feelings are entirely different. 

            The hero in cold grey stone reminds me of my mother’s father, who also wore a kilt in the First World War. His photograph in kilt and kaki hangs on my wall, proudly wearing his newly acquired first aid badge, which is just visible on his sleeve, as he holds out his bagpipes. He hated guns and would not allow anyone to bring one into his home, but my happiest memories are of his story-telling, of his warmth, humour and twinkling eyes as he asked at the end of each tale if I believed him and, of course, I always did.  Only now do I realise just how much he stretched my imagination and painted pictures for me of times long gone.

            There was always a roaring coal fire in the croft house where my grandfather ended his days. He was in his eighties and felt the cold towards the end of each day, all year round. I sat with him beside the fire; cheeks shining red, and hot, with that faint smell of coal dust in the air, knowing I would be soaked in sweat by the time I had to go home.

            Sometimes he would tell me one of his father’s stories; a short mystery, ghostly happenings, how he got the better of someone or perhaps just a thriller which would have me holding my breath in anticipation towards the end. However, on one of these visits he told me how he came to be in the militia. He had already worked as a woodman, starting as a sneddor at about the age of nine. Because of his age he finished before the men and went on to an hours schooling after work, but he was keen to earn a man’s wage. To do this he had to be accepted into the militia. After his initial training he was given a small certificate to show employers, which prevented them giving any militiaman a youth’s wage. The entrance requirements were simple; you had to be able to grow facial hair.  Side-whiskers were the fashion at the time, but once accepted you had to be fit enough to work on the Laird’s estate for a few months every year. Unlike his father, uncles and brothers, who were all about six foot five inches tall, Granda took his height from his mother; he was the runt of the family. He was proud to be accepted into the militia before two of his elder brothers; they towered above his five foot eight or thereabouts; but just couldn’t grow the necessary facial fuzz.

            The militia didn’t just march, train and learn to shoot, they were used like army engineers to build roads and dykes. Granda, along with a group of mainly relatives, were good pipers. They probably spent more time playing the bagpipes than building bridges and roads, and as their reputation grew they were loaned to other regiments; so there are a few photographs about of their band wearing a variety of regimental badges.

            In 1914 Granda had a thriving carter’s business, which provided employment for several friends and relatives making regular runs to the station and harbour. He had rented disused stables from the old Gordon’s barracks - used in present-day as a garage by The First Bus Group - then war came and it all went shell-hole shaped. They took the stables back and confiscated all but two of his horses, which were only fit for the knackers’ yard. Being in the militia they took Granda too, despite him being in his mid-thirties, but first they had him marching all over Scotland, England and Wales as part of a recruiting band. Then he was on his way to the front only to be sent home on compassionate leave as his mother was dying.

            Most of the band never made it home. I have many other stories of Granda, of the time that he was wounded, or how he cared for other injured soldiers; I could fill a book with them. It seems odd that a hard, chiselled statue always invokes warm, priceless memories of a dear grandfather who, as far as I know, never tried to kill anyone. 

 

*********

 

 

  Spaced Out

                              By Rita Price  

 

Space

In my head

Where facts once were stored.

Chaos and confusion

Where once reason and passion lead.

 

Fear of what was known,

Obsession with triviality.

Reversal of time, past becomes present

A future alone, though

Mentally entombed in bygone times, pain is lessened

Who am I? Who was I?

Must be time to die.

 

*********  

 

No Place at the Inn

By Helen Watson

Tom had walked a long way; his journeys took so much longer these days. It had been a few months since he’d left the farm where he’d worked doing odd jobs in the summer; the money he’d put by was running low.  

            A dull pain at the back of his calves told him his muscles were beginning to knot; he was sure his feet would be complaining too had he not lost all feeling in them over the last few hours, maybe poor circulation had a bright side after all? He’d been hungry for some while, he’d been rationing himself and what little he had left was wrapped in the bundle he carried. He promised himself he’d have it when he stopped, but for now he had to keep going as the weather was taking a turn for the worse. It began to snow as he reached the outskirts of town. Fairy lights and tinsel glinted in the cold night sky; it looked so welcoming. But Tom had leaned to avoid going into towns. People were so unfriendly and distant; they glared at him, eyed him from head to toe and back again. He knew his clothes were old and shabby; he didn’t need their cold stares to remind him.

A familiar stabbing pain shot through his chest again, damned angina. He had to rest if he was to meet up with his friends at the special place where they’d see out the winter months before taking to the road again.

            The old stone bridge came into view, it gave Tom the lift he needed and he shook off the irritating pins and needles that had settled in his arm. He edged sideways down the frosted embankment, stronger foot first, until he reached the path that ran alongside the river. The underside of the bridge looked dark, but at least it’d be dry. A little shrug of his shoulders dislodged the worst of the snow, it made his coat damp but like him it had seen better days, was thinning and no-longer afforded much warmth. He pulled it tight anyway, out of habit.

            Beneath the bridge he found a series of raised ledges cut into the brickwork, he pushed up his bag then clambered onto the cold stone himself. It was good to have stopped. He gathered in his pitiful bag of belongings; all he had in the world and considered whether to eat the last of his rations first or tug off his boots and rub some life back into his deadened feet. His eyes were heavy with the want of sleep and the pins and needles returned to his arm, so instead Tom curled his legs to his chest, made himself small and allowed his body to feed off its own warmth. As sleep tugged at him voices carried on the water and the ice-cold air reached his ears. His tired mind fumbled until it made the connection and was released into sleep. Someone was singing Away in a Manger.

            Christmas morning; shouts of Merry Christmas rang out in the streets. Across the town people in warm houses opened presents and shared special meals with friends and family. Tom stayed where he was, wrapped tight as a ball against a chill that would never bother him again.

            And the Church bells peeled – Peace on Earth to All Men.

 

 

*********

 

 

An old photograph

By R. Gibson-Forbes

 

A babe in arms

looks past the carriage four,

reins firmly held in check

by coachman.

 

Past the young woman’s straw hat,

and the workman with polished shoes,

buttoned waistcoat and watch chain.

Past the curious onlookers.

 

I stare at you, the crowd drawer:

Head in box, under the black sheet.

Then standing still, counting out,

timing sullen statues.

 

My eyes would see inside you.

Etch out the glass.

Stare you down.

Enter your eye.

 

Your eye, evermore thinks me a girl.

While I, a boy, destined for

gunfire, rifle barrels, and a name carved in granite.

Unknown by you, unrecognised.

 

Captured by you, stared at,

coo-ed over.

for all time. 

 

*********

Heaven on Earth

By Rita Price

Her breath formed clouds of steam in the icy air as she walked quickly down the hill towards the bridge. She peered into the dim, street-lit night, looking for her beloved son. There was dampness in the wintry atmosphere, which clung to her skin, chilling her physically and emotionally.

         Her mouth felt dry. She licked her lips, tasted fear. Had she missed him? The town was quiet; no passing traffic, only the sound of her hurried footsteps clicking on the frosted pavement. Halos of light encircled the street lamps making the scene unreal to her stressed mind.

       Mentally she castigated her absent husband. Why was he late? Had he forgotten it was Gareth’s B.B. night? It was only with extreme reluctance that she had left her daughter sleeping in the locked house while she set off on foot to meet her teenage son. He had instructions to start for home if no-one was waiting at the church hall. She fervently uttered a prayer that she would soon catch sight of him and all would be well. Mind you, it was still uphill back to the house and the cosy warmth of their semi-detached.

         Once again she strained her myopic eyes, hoping that, from a distance, his uniform and his familiar outline would bring her early recognition. Her spectacles misted as her breath condensed on the cold lenses. Wait! What was that? 

        A small figure strode towards her on the same side of the bridge, which spanned the River Ythan; it had to be Gareth. But there was something odd. Sprouting from either side of the approaching figure were two huge white wings. Her heart leapt, then froze. An angel?  What did this mean? Crazy thoughts tumbled through her near paranoid mind. Her overwrought imagination went into overdrive. Had something happened to Gareth that he now appeared to her in changed form before leaving for a celestial destination?

       An encounter with a car while crossing the road? A fatal trip or fall? Her mind raced and all manner of dreadful possibilities presented themselves to her as Gareth, for it was indeed him, stepped towards her with more urgency. As he did so the wings appeared to detach and she now realised a different danger. Behind her oblivious son, walked a large swan with wings outspread.

         She knew that swans, if they attacked, could inflict damage with their strong beaks, break an arm with their powerful wings. She cried a warning to Gareth. “Careful! There’s a swan right behind you.”

       Gareth turned and faced the beast; its appearance now almost mythological to her in the haze. Gareth, though, apparently unconcerned at its menacing closeness, stretched out his arms in calm reassurance and spoke soothingly to the bird.

        “It’s okay. Do you need help?”

        As if by way of an answer, the swan turned away, staggered onto the middle of the road and sat down. Traffic, absent earlier, now built up and cars were forced to slow and edge around the obstruction. The evening filled with noise and bustle.

        Staff in the nearby Buchan Hotel were informed of the swan’s predicament before she and Gareth headed for home at a smart pace.

            “I left your sister alone. If your dad’s home he will be wondering where we are. We have quite a story to tell. Why do you think the swan was doing on the bridge at this time of night? Could it be ill?”

        In years to come they often speculated about that incident without reaching a satisfactory conclusion. Perhaps you know the answer, dear reader?

 

*********

   

 

Bread and Potatoes

By Gemma Fearnley

 

“Damn weather.”

            Lottie felt a momentary pang of shame with the utterance of the curse but shook off its emerging presence as soon as it pricked her conscience. The Lord had better things to do, surely, than to smite her for her blasphemous words. Yet she mumbled a plea for retribution nonetheless. The Minister’s sermon that Sunday had reached its mark for once. She may have been participating in an energetic kicking battle with her younger brother, Hamish, whilst the Minister made his vehement condemnation of the Hell that awaited all child sinners, but the general ideas had still managed to inject themselves into her feverish imagination. She had subsequently resolved, after much consideration and conference with Hamish, that it was better to stay on His good side. Yet the weather did deserve to experience a smidgen of damnation, if just for today, so Lottie didn’t feel as full of regret as she perhaps should.

             The trudge across the sodden fields was punishing. Ahead, the castle, distorted by the thick bands of harr rolling off the river, loomed over the landscape like one of Hell’s demons, risen to bring her to justice. Or so it seemed to her, after her recent encounter with enlightenment. She shivered and pulled her basket more tightly to her.

            Thick, grey mud surrounded her. It crept up to her mid-calves as she waded through it, saturating her woollen skirt until it weighed down her every step. Despite the urgency of the delivery with which she’d been charged, she could move at no more pace than an ungainly shuffle. The mud sucked at her foot as she struggled to take another step. The effort unbalanced and pitched her face-first towards the cloying muck. The basket slipped from her grasp and her arms wheeled wildly in a vain attempt to prevent her fall. She could see nothing but grey, taste nothing but rank, festering vegetation. Lottie floundered in the rut, disorientated. She pushed with her feet and raked with her hands, but to no avail; she was stuck. Yet with much sliding and huffing and yelps of indignation she managed to gain, somewhere in the slime, a foothold. She spat mud from her mouth then scrubbed the sodden shawl across her face. Her eyes searched for the basket until she spotted it, upturned, a few feet away. A despairing cry ripped through Lottie’s chest as she lumbered towards it, leaden-limbed. Falling to her knees, she gathered to her chest as many of the spilled items as she could before wrapping them back inside the now mud-soaked blanket.

            “No, no, no, no, no” she moaned, feeding potato-by-potato back into the basket. She dropped her head onto her chest for a moment, hunching herself against the imagined onslaught she was now bound to receive. Brushing away the strands of hair spilling out from under her too-big bonnet, she heaved a sigh.

            “O’ merciful Lord, dinna let ma father be angry wi’ me.”

            She pulled herself slowly to her feet and heaved the basket into both arms. The deer dykes appeared out of the think fog before her, the cry of men’s chatter ringing across the lonely fields. The laughter wouldn’t last long, of that she had now made sure.    

~ 

            Lottie trudged towards the crowd of men leaning against the half-finished dykes. A scattering of whistles and jeers greeted her, but she averted her eyes and refused to acknowledge them. She clutched the basket tighter to her chest.

            Those last yards felt the longest she had ever endured. Each step, each breath made her want to turn tail and run. To hide; preferably under the bed she shared with Beth, where even now she played pretend-games imagining that they were princesses hiding from an evil wizard. But she was an adult. Sixteen years old. It was her mess and she would face the resulting punishment.

            She stopped in front of her father, her confidence finally failing her. She bowed her head, fixed her eyes on her mud-covered boots.

            “I-um-I got yer tatties for ye, sir.”

            “Are ye goin tae gie me ’em then, or am ah supposed to guess fit they taste like?”

            She heard the raised eyebrow in her father’s gruff voice, even as she deliberately averted her eyes from his scarf-covered face. She gulped and thrust the basket towards him.

            A man to her side chuckled. “If yer supposed tae be eatin those then yer missis is one harsh bawd, Joe!”

            Lottie looked up, her face flushed, the words rushing from her mouth like a torrent. “I fell, sir, I’m sorry. I didna mean to but I couldnae go back or else mam would’a no been happy wi’ me!”

            Her father studied her, his eyes calm behind his balaclava. “Yer a silly wee thing ain’t ye Lottie? Fancy be’en upset oe’er a few mucky tatties!”

            Lottie allowed the warm glow of the oil lamp to seep through her layers of clothes, a small smile crossing her face as her blue skin began to thaw in its wake. She gazed at the men who had returned to work at the dykes, watched with awe the methodical lifting and placing of rock upon rock - the soft ‘thump’ of the stones as they fell into place, creating a dividing wall in what had, just a couple of days ago, been an expanse of barren fields. Her father had deigned to stay behind rather than return to work; his excuse - “I cannae let a pretty wee lassie stay oot a’ alone can ah?” - was poor in the extreme, but Lottie found herself unable to berate him his laziness. And so it was that they found themselves, father and daughter, hunched side by side over a small oil lamp, jostling for the meagre warmth it emitted as their backs rested against the metal rungs of a cart wheel.

            “So how does it look then, Lottie? Are ye impressed yet?”

            He was fishing for compliments. Lottie scrunched up her nose, watched her breath spiral upwards in smoky tendrils to become lost in the mist and harr above. “It’s just a wall, da. Ye’ve still nae really explained fit it’s been built fer.”

            Her father chuckled. “It’s work, lass. Work fer folks like me, who dinna hae much money. We’ll be rollin’ in it soon, fit wi’ that new road n a’-”

            Lottie snorted, a sharp twinge of anger poking at her viciously. “I don’t want the new road. Naebody wants the new road! It’s gonna turn the town into a… a criminal’s bedsit! Into a hovel!”

            Her father shifted beside her, not in agitation, she felt, but in curiosity. Lottie bit the inside of her cheek, realising too late that she’d done it again, put her foot in it, spoken without thinking of the consequences. Her father released a breath, his joining hers, weaving around each other as they danced upwards into the twilight. He readied himself and she, in turn, prepared herself mentally for the beginning of what she had no doubt would be one of his self-indulgent philosophical discussions, wishing that she had, just for once, remembered to restrain her wayward tongue.

            “An’ why d’ye say that?”

            She shrugged away from the voice, scowling at her boots. She mumbled something unintelligible at them. Her father sighed in return, weary.

            “Ye need a reason, lass. Ye can’t jest say things wi’oot havin’ guid reason.”

            Her head shot up, her eyes sparkling in anger at the implication of his statement. “I do have reason! Plenty o’ reason! I listen to what people say. I’ve heard what’s gonna happen!”

            “Ye’ve heard a’ the gossip, Lotts. That’s nae the same as makin’ yer own opinion.”

            She glared at her father, her face red, unwarranted tears welling in her fierce eyes.

            “I’m no stupid, Da. I ain’t some glaikit lass who canna even tie her own shoes let alone read… I know ma own thoughts.”

            Her father smiled indulgently. “Aye, but d’ye have the sense to question ’em?”

            She paused. “What d’ye mean?”

            Her father smiled again, shuffling closer to the lamp as he did so. “How d’ye think we get oil in this ere parts, Lottie?”

            The question confused her. The answer seemed obvious; was it a trick? “We… buy it?”

            Her father nodded, waved his hand at her to carry on. Lottie was at a loss. She stared at him, feeling more stupid with every passing second of lingering silence.

            “With money, lass,” her father finished.

            She reddened at the simplicity of it; he did think she was a fool. Before she could complain, however, a hand lifted, quietening her.

            “An’ fer money, people like us, poorer folks-”

            “We ain’t poor!”

            “In some ways we ain’t, Lottie. In others we are. Money, for instance. Fer money, we need work, like these ere dykes.”

            “So?”

            “So, Lottie, the building o’ these dykes winna last fer long. Sooner or later, wither ye like it or not, I’m gonna be struggling fer work again.”

            Lottie shook her head, uncomprehending.

            “The road gives us that work.”

            She stilled, rolling the words inside her head as she tried to glean the meaning her father was clearly expecting she would notice was there. She came up blank. “I don’t- but it’s-” She stopped, struggling. “But we don’t need it. We’re fine here. The track’s fine.”

            “It’s old, lass. Nae guid fer the new carts. Nae practical fer these days. If we dinnae put it in, the toon’s nae gonna grow, Lotts. What wi a’ the new technology, we need to keep up tae date. We cannae let ourselves fall behind.”

            “But I work. So does Hamish n’ Ma. We dinnae need it. We’re guid, Da. We’re fine.”

            Her father huffed in exasperation, rummaged in the basket for something. He pulled out a slice of bread and a small, slightly deformed potato. His face was lit up in satisfaction. “Food, Lottie. Potatoes, Bread. You don’t earn enough fer food. Ye hardly earn enough for the tatty clothes on yer wee back. Ye know the famine o’er in Ireland?”

            A shake of the head.

            “People are dyin’ there. Hundreds o’ people. Parents, kiddies, Gran’parents. I’m no sayin’ that it’s gonna be like ‘at ere but if…” He paused. “They can’t stop it, Lotts. They can’t buy the food. We can. Should. This road is…nothing in comparison to the problems others face but if you dinna mak sure ye know the whole story, it could be. Fer us.”

            Lottie nibbled her lip, a nervous habit. “But it’s no all guid, Da.”

            “No, its not. But sometimes ye’ve gotta take the lesser o two evils, lass, n be happy wi what ye’ve got. Life’s nae a’ rosy red apples, Lottie.”

            She frowned, catching the potato her father tossed in her direction. She held it between her hands, caressing it as she studied it, noting the colour, texture, even the smell of drying mud that lingered on it as she mulled her father’s words over in her head. The idea he had introduced seemed foreign, almost entirely nonsensical. How could you agree to something, knowing full well the problems that could arise from it? Knowing full well that the problems, if they did arise, would have a very real effect on you? She thought. The quiet between them stretched on; the light of the lamp dimmed as the oil gradually burnt away, the only sign of its presence a black, charred mark across the glass. Her father watched her, his face patient. A small smile touched her lips as she looked out towards the men at the dykes, their backs straining with the effort of the hammers, their grunts echoing across the field as they strove to build their wall. She snuggled closer to the lamp. Suddenly the world seemed just that little bit greyer. That little bit less comprehensible.

“Perhaps not.”

 

 

*********

 

 

              The Sleeping Heroes

                    By Helen Watson

 

There you go, marching down the road

          dressed in your bright new uniform, off

          to fight for King and Country, your

          mother’s tears still damp upon your face.

 

          But fate dealt you, lad, a deadly hand

          For now you lie in some far away

          foreign land.

          No longer part of the human race.

 

          The town erect a fine memorial, best

          grey granite, finely tooled and polished

          it stands in the square with blood-red

          poppies all around. Your name’s up there

          and that’s no disgrace.

                  

           Every year a big parade and a

           march to honour the dead.

           A two-minute silence that seems so mean.

  It’s no true reflection of our esteem.

  

*********