We made a list of ten nouns, ten verbs and ten more nouns. Then we constructed an interesting sentence using a noun, verb and a noun from the list and wrote a short piece of fiction or poetry using that sentence as a title or first line.
Here is a sample of five exercises we produced:
1917
By Lilian Koster
A gap between bricks
In this town’s road
revealed what I thought to be
an old envelope
Perfectly sheltered
From the spring showers
Untouched, even if it had been raining
For multiple hours
Folded in crisp white paper
Addressed to a certain Ms. Lee
A handwritten letter!
Curiosity took over me
Why would it be placed
In a road of bricks?
Surely impossible to find,
And very easy to miss
So I opened it with care
In a place no one would see
I was opening someone else’s
Letter, illegally
And I read, dear Ms. Lee
I know too long I have been away
I cannot bare to imagine
How many weeks here I will stay
The boys are tired, Ms.
We have been working very hard
For the country that we love
We bear many scars
Winning is not easy,
Sleeping has never been so tough
But I promise we are trying our very best
To do our country just
I often daydream
About the day I arrive home
I miss the smell of fresh bread
And the sweetness of honeycomb
I think my left ear broke,
I cannot hear very well
But I can of course still hear
You singing farewell
I know you miss me too
And I, always, you
I hope to see you soon,
Forever yours, L. J. Hughes.
And so I read this letter,
Hoping that he managed to return to Ms. Lee
But the letter, at the bottom
Was dated July 1917.
The star strangled sky
By James Robinson
The star strangled sky hung over their heads; the desert was quiet, and the fire had died. Coldness began to creep up their fingers, it eased onto their noses and their breath began to show. They had lain down on top of a ridge to be closer to the heavens; the place was chosen as the right place to die.
The man looked at his watch, only fifty minutes left until the end. The woman had told him, as the fire burnt down, that she would prefer to have silence before the end – they had said everything that had to be said, everything they had wanted to say. They had chosen this red rocky ground, found a flat area, laid their best blanket down and made love while the sun set. As the last fiery slither of light dropped under the far hills, she suggested they build the fire small, and let it burn out; she thought the last moments should be cold, alert and feeling, not snug, drowsy and satiated.
He wanted to give her this last wish, even though he privately wanted them to get wicked drunk, eat the best food, fuck all night…go out with a bang. But her way was civilised, she was always the civilised one, he shuddered at the thought of what he might have become without her- probably dead already. No, this way was best because he was with her and she was happy, and that had always made him happy.
She broke the silence, apologising for doing so but she had been mulling something over which she just had to ask him. Will it hurt? He said he didn’t think so and that he expected it to be quick. How quick? She said that the process of their bodies breaking down, hearts stopping, brains dying – that all takes time – How quick? He thought there would be a moment of excruciating agony, maybe a split second, maybe a full second, maybe two; but he told her it would be instantaneous.
The death that was coming was hurtling towards them at 30 miles a second from somewhere out there in the dark amongst the stars. The scientists had placed the point of impact to be this continent, it was huge, too huge to run from, it was a planet killer, this was the end.
They breathed plumes of air up into the stars while they held hands and she began to sing a song he had never heard before. Unfortunately, neither of us heard the end.
Minutes dance around the clock
By Reka Furton
Minutes dance around the clock,
Life comes so quick and tries not to stop.
But can we do anything to try,
To get a slice of the pie.
Minutes dance around the clock,
I am attached to my book,
Reading how to live my life,
Again, the goal is not to die.
Minutes dance around the clock,
My anxiety hitting its peak spot.
Calling me to dark places and hits,
Crawling away from those dark pits.
Minutes dance around the clock,
Can you hear me?-the mike dropped.
Can you hear me? I’m fighting!
Life is not easy or inviting.
Minutes dance around the clock,
Still fighting? It’s a shock.
My wretched body says: enough!
My weak mind ready to give up.
Minutes dance around the clock,
Stay strong! – says an angelic voice.
Far away from future, fading hope,
Foggy picture drawn through the telescope.
Minutes dance around the clock,
The voice is stronger and the picture is prompt.
Hidden believe in the second,
Found me to fall through the record.
Minutes dance around the clock,
I am awake, my way out is still blocked.
Prince charming won’t come to rescue,
I have to fight alone with pressure.
Minutes dance around the clock,
I am ready to break through.
I feel strong I feel I’ll win,
Then circle of life shows its skin.
Minutes dance around the clock,
It’s always reaches around the throat,
The fight starts over and a new life starts,
From full to null that’s a never-ending war.
Ready or not here it comes,
Fighting warrior in all parts.
A rising, shining holy ghost,
Minutes still, just dance around the clock.
Untitled
By Eimantas Skackauskas
XV
Scents can weave memories long forgotten.
Memories pushed deep down where the sun does not shine.
Tapestries owned by those undeserving and mocked by those who are free in their mind.
They scoff. My vision is dyed in red.
XVIII
I’ve learnt that prayers don’t hold all the answers. The voicemail seems to be full.
Indefinitely.
Silence may be golden but it makes it hard to breath.
– this amount of gold should have me set for life.
XV
They ask if I’m human as I never cry.
I flinch. That river ran dry.
“Don’t cry, you’ll wake up your sister”. I repeat my mantra.
It’s etched in my mind. It tastes bitter but I don’t resist.
XI
A calloused hand touches my cheek. I instinctively turn the other one.
I will never tell but I hope it’d make my mother proud.
Tomorrow’s Sunday. Maybe He’ll notice me now.
The blanket found at a party
By Mia Burnette-Wade
I found my blanket at a party,
On a dreary Friday night.
You were sitting amongst discarded cans
And wearing black knee-high tights.
Dressed in lilac and decorated in silk
You sat smoking a cigarette next to someone else’s quilt
I gazed, gawked and gasped at your pattern
But knew deep down
That blankets like you were hard to flatter.
So, I kept myself stuffed into a corner
And allowed my body to crumple to the floor
That’s when you said you noticed me
And asked if I was cold too
I nodded, almost with delight
And that’s when you sat down
And ended up nestling into me all night
You told me stories about each of your stitches
And every one of your deepest wishes
You told me of all the men
And how you told yourself never again
Because of the ways you had been flipped, tossed and thrown back and forth
By men who never even tried to get to know your warmth
Eventually as the night went on
There was a slow in your speech
Then you were half-asleep
And I was draped over your shoulder
Suddenly feeling a lot less colder
That night I became your blanket
And six years later
You’re still mine.
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