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Welcome

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_Italicised description of prompt and some general thoughts_
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Story title
Story
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Writing course April 2026

I found a local writing group / course that I decided to join to see how my writing was. Find below a list of all my writings from the course all of which are open for all to see.

Fachidiot

Fachidiot is a derogatory German term for an expert who is highly skilled in their specific field but completely ignorant, oblivious, or lacking in common sense outside their narrow specialty. It describes someone with a “blinkered” view of multi-faceted problems who cannot see the bigger picture.

Empty Rifle Blues

Bang! That was the sound that Sergeant Dave Shaw was used to, not the loud crack noise that had just spelled out the end of his career. Tripping over his own sniper rifle and smashing his knee on a rock had marked his final mission and medical dismissal. This life was all he had known and he had no idea how to make it outside the army. The thought consumed him, spiralling downwards into negativity on his flight home.

After his recovery, he started applying for jobs everywhere he could, trying to find a new career to bring new meaning to his life, taking every role that would have him. Customer Service on the phones, he kept shouting commands into the phone line. Stacking shelves, didn’t know his own strength and pushed the shelves over by accident. He couldn’t even make it in the gun range as his skills with a pistol were too sub-par to be deemed good enough to teach on the range. The list of failed jobs seemed endless.

And so Dave sat on a bench, highly uncertain of what he was going to do with his life. His rifle was all he’d known, and it was over. Across the street he witnessed a couple of youths handing over bags and taking cash, a drug deal plain as day. It took him a second before he shook away the idea, he wouldn’t lower himself to that level. Would he?

After a good minute of thinking he had an idea: he knew how to take a life; he knew how to do it stealthily; he knew rifles. He could be a hitman. He waited and followed the youths through the city to an alleyway door. After they had left, he let himself in and was greeted by two bodyguards and a well suited man sat in a plush leather chair.

The man leaned forward, “What brings you here?”

“I need a job.” Dave said. “I’m ex-military, I know how to shoot. I’m assuming there is someone you need gone, I can do that”.

The shadowed man leaned back and considered. It wasn’t long until a contract was signed (quite formal for an underground drug lord) and Dave was on his way to his first job, and also his last.

At 15:00 the next day, he was in place looking down his scope again. It felt natural, it felt right and he was ready to take the shot. His target was a local senator about to announce a heavy crackdown on the drug wars in the state. When he stood to talk, Dave would take the shot and leave. Easy job, easy money. He lined the shot up with the man sitting in the wings of the stage and prepared to take the shot. The senator began to walk on stage and Dave followed with slow breaths to steady his hands.

BANG.

Dave hadn’t pulled the trigger, the loud noise wasn’t his rifle. It had come from behind him and he turned adopting his old combat stance, preparing for the worst. It could not have prepared him for what he saw.

“Freeze! Put your hands on your head and kneel on the ground. We have this building surrounded, you’re under arrest.” Three police officers with guns all pointed at him. He knew he wasn’t going to make it and surrendered there and then.

Later in the interview room, he asked the officer if he could ask a question. The officer said he got one. “I did everything to ensure you couldn’t find me: I bought everything from different shops, I gave different addresses in each one, I paid for a double room so you’d think it was a couple. How did you find me?”

The officer looked at him and simply replied. “You told all three shops that tomorrow was going to be a firework display”, he said with a grin on his face. “And you paid for all the components on your personal credit card; AND paid for the room on the same credit card. It didn’t take long to realise what you were planning.”

Dismayed, Dave placed his head on the table in front of him. He had tried to be normal, he had tried to live a normal life, and failed. He was however happy he was going to get three square meals a day. At least he didn’t have to worry about that any more.

One character Making it up to another

The prompt for this week was simple. A story about one character making it up to another. As simple as that.

The Spell of Forgiveness

As Xaldor felt the energy fall from his body to the ground, his eyelids closing. He’d hoped that maybe this meant that she’d forgive him. Maybe he’d finally done enough to make it back up to her. His eyelids closed and his cruel mind replayed the moment again.

It was two weeks prior when he finally mastered his latest potion, when he heard his wife, Eless, wander through the door. He took his eye off the cauldron for a moment when it bubbled and fizzed, throwing one of his glass vials like a bullet towards her familiar that was sitting beside her. The cat went limp and he instantly knew that saying ‘sorry’ was not an option. She picked up her - now dead - lifelong companion and slammed the door as she left.

Weeks passed without so much as a word between the couple, he’d tried everything he could think of to apologise. Flowers that had been bewitched to change through her favorite colours; multiple cats that looked similar, he even offered his own faithful puppy as a replacement companion and she’d simply scowled despite how much he knew she loved the pup.

The only thing he could do was turn back time and make it so he’d never taken his eyes off the cauldron. Not an option, the ministry forbade that - apparently it took too much effort to stop timelines collapsing. While gathering ingredients down by the river, a girl on the opposite embankment was overjoyed with her pet, and yet there was something so familiar about the animal that gave him pause. After gathering his ingredients he headed for home dreading the atmosphere that clung in the house.

There, hanging on a tree, he saw a sign. “Missing cat. Reward: £100”. He recognised it as the cat from before, he began to sprint home with renewed vigour. Arriving at the door with his basket now only half full of ingredients, he burst through and raked through his bookshelf desperately trying to find it. “Allomancy, no. Elemental, no. Zodiac, that’s too far” he muttered under his breath. Eless sat in the room just staring with hatred and a small amount of joy thinking that Xaldor was finally going mad. As she turned away he found the book he was after and pelted to his study.

Hours later, a concoction brewed, he made his way outside to the grave of his wife’s late companion. He unstoppered the bottle he carried, the green liquid inside practically jumping out as he began to pour. A minute passed, nothing happened; it had been so long since he’d ventured into this area of magic that he was uncertain if what had been brewed was fully correct. Then the grass started to go brown. He knew at that moment it had started.

With each second more and more of the ground went brown, the ground began to crack to reveal the corpse of the feline as green pulses fed into it. He was so overjoyed he did not feel the drain on his own body until it was too late; until he couldn’t hold his own weight. More and more strength drained from him but he continued feeling happy. Just as he was about to pass out, he heard a noise; “Meow” it cried. He’d done it! “Go to Eless boy, she’ll be happy to see you.”, his final vision was the cat running away towards its home.

Eless sat at home sipping her tea when she heard a scratching on the door. Irritated by the noise she stood to investigate, opening the door and staring in disbelief. “CHESTER! YOU’RE ALIVE!” bending down to stroke the feline but her joy was short lived. She saw the look of shock on her familiar’s face and realised what it meant; as he pointed his paw in the direction of his grave. Xaldor wasn’t here, she thought to herself and started off into a run. She passed through the browned grass and saw Xaldor lying there, unconscious and barely breathing.

“You fool!” she shouted at him in a voice that was more sorrow and caring than anger, “You know that necromancy is dangerous.” In her purse she pulled out a small vial, elixirs were her specialty and this is one she used after a long, loooong day. She poured it into his mouth and prayed. His breathing began to get stronger, he wouldn’t fully recover today but he had a chance. Tears streamed down her face as she held him and began to carry him home. “I think we can call this even now” she said jokingly, uncertain of if Xaldor could hear or not. He heard and inside, he smiled.

Half mad things people do in love

This prompt was to make ‘A story about the half-mad things people do when they’re in the early days of being in love. All that silly giddiness that gets pushed into your brain. Let’s have something on that.’ I took it in a slightly more darker direction just to keep things interesting.

Suspicion in Bloom

It started just like every other relationship you may think of: a few dinner dates here, a coffee meetup there. Eventually, he built up the courage to ask her to come to his home on the weekend. The weekend came quickly, giddy with excitement, he’d decided to try something a bit creative for their meals. He stood preparing peppers that would look like roses, happily working his way through this elaborate meal.

Blink.

He looked upon what he’d been doing, how many pans he’d used and the failed attempts he had. This was madness, a first home cooked meal was not the place to get so creative; stick to what you know, so it goes well. He was about to step forth and scrape the whole thing into the bin.

Blink.

“But she’d love it, she’d said she loves roses and this was his way to show he’d been listening and cared.”

He went on, back and forth, contemplating between stability and extravagance. He prepared the meal and had it almost finished when the door knocked.

“Dinner is almost ready,” he said joyfully, “feel free to take a look around while it finishes up.” She wandered around, looking around his kitchen. She moved slenderly and calmly, her gaze landing upon the block of knives. “Fancy knives, I’ve the same brand at home. Which ones do you use most?” she questioned. “Erm, I’m uncertain.” he replied, “I just use them all, whichever is best for the task. What about you?”

Blink.

“Why the hell is she so interested?” he thought. “She’s gotta be some sort of serial killer right?” “Probably the carving knife,” she responded; a sweet smile on her face. “I mean, talk about suspicious much.”

Blink.

“I couldn’t even tell you which one that is!” he chuckled. Her smile made him feel a million bucks.

The dinner went without a hitch, the time passed until the clock struck 9pm, and an alarm went off on her phone. “I’m really sorry,” she said, “I’ve got an event on tonight. I need to leave now. Would you like to come with me?” He couldn’t believe his ears. She was inviting him to her event! “Of course I’d love to come!” he responded with glee in his eyes.

Blink.

“But why hasn’t she mentioned it until now?” his thoughts questioned, “Do you even know what you’ve just agreed to?”

Blink…

Not long after, she announced their arrival happily. The building was large and had bouncers on the door. “This must be a fancy club.” he thought, paying no heed to the fact they’d just driven there.

Blink.

Looking at the building, it looked rather run down, and the people he thought were bouncers were wearing what appeared to be cloaks. “What kind of place would have its bouncers wear cloaks?! It made no sense.”

Blink.

He was just happy she’d invited him; he followed her through, politely saying hello to the bouncers as he passed by. Inside was a small room for the size of the building, ornately decorated with drapes and a gothic theme that reminded him of the Addams family a little bit.

Blink.

Where on earth was he? It seemed like a TV show set piece; large red drapes, tables full of glasses of red wine and candelabras lit as the sole source of light. It was maddening. Why, again, had he come here? He noticed something off to one side when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned and…

Blink.

She was so happy to be here; her smile made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside. This may not have been his usual scene, but he could certainly try his best to fit in. “Would you mind taking a seat over there, my love?” she said, pointing to a chair near the middle of the room. He walked over to the chair, feeling everyone look at him as he walked. He took his seat and waited. It wasn’t long until she was back at his side. She smiled at him, ran her hands down his arms, and gave him a smile.

Blink.

Now he saw everything clear as day, her smile was now almost cruel, she wore the same black garments as everyone else. The ground below was carpeted with archaic symbols woven into it. He went to stand only to realise his hands had been cuffed to the chair he was sitting on. He saw a glint out of the corner of his eye from her hand. The panic began to set in. “Welcome everyone!” she cried out. Raising her hands to the roof, her sleeve fell down, revealing an ornate knife with red marks down its handle.

Blink.

She’d said she loved knives. She could have told him she was part of a theatre group, but then maybe his reaction wouldn’t have been so genuine.

Blink.

Shit, shit, shit.

Diary entries

This week was to writing something in they style of diary entries. I thought rather than going to the past like most people may think, lets try a future one. I may have watched James Cameron’s Avatar recently before writing this which reading it back shows a little far too heavily

The Pointlessness of Progress

25/10/4065

It’s been 10 years since I started this journey; it really doesn’t feel like it. I’ve been waiting for this damn ship to land since I started and there’s been absolutely no problems at all. I really should’ve picked a different job but, too late now eh! “A new frontier” they said, “A new stance for humanity!” So far it’s all just been in and out of cryo just to eat and honestly even the food is crap. At least cryo keeps you lean and mean ready to splat whatever bugs decide to come our way. Anyway, it’ll be a little while before I’m able to write again, gotta get back into cryo but this at least keeps my mind alive. Just glad the damn nerds haven’t made us do travel logs on their systems for them to ‘analyze’; I’d give them bugger all, science ain’t gonna do much where we’re going.

12/01/4066

It’s been a while; everything’s sore and stiff. Just glad to be out and about again. They did their usual observation checks, and of course, everything is fine; this technology was checked and tested, and checked and tested so many damn times that they know it’s safe. Kept Bezos alive and that’s why we’re stuck here now. Why couldn’t the damn prick just accept he was gonna die without being in space and live like the rest of us.

Anyway, I’ve asked them to let me out for a bit longer, “see the sights” for what little there is, it’s all just a white blur. Next time I’m awake we should be there and hopefully we’ll see some action before or at then but I’m honestly starting to lose hope.

15/02/4066

Finally we’ve slowed down and on the screens we can see where we’re landing. “Bezebos 56” they call it; self arrogant prick. Didn’t even bother to come with us, just sent us here to colonize so he can come and make another Amazon but probably with higher margins, not like he’s left any resources back on earth to use. Anyway I joined here to shoot something and we’ve made it all the way here without so much as a bump in the road. Talk about boring. But at least now we are starting to land. Might finally be able to get some action but those brainiacs are saying they’ve seen “No signs of intelligent life on the surface”. Sounds like bloody Buzz Lightyear, at least his excuse was that he was made to be lifeless; what’s theirs?

16/02/4066

I mean, at this point why even bother bringing us along. 10 years in a metal box flying through space at a speed that is absolutely unheard of on earth. They’ve fed us, clothed us, kept us alive and trained us to stop our muscles from atrophying and for what? Day 1 here and we’ve been standing guard over a rock they think is interesting. A damned rock! I’ve half a mind to take some dynamite out there tomorrow and just blow the damn thing up! Hey if we’re lucky it might rouse the locals here also, let them know humanity is here and coming kicking. Of course command is saying we do as we’re told or else and frankly this far from home I don’t really see what else I’m supposed to do; maybe play some cards with the other grunts here I guess. Nah, they probably wouldn’t be interested, they’ve been too distracted at the glowing plants; won’t do them any good when the enemy attacks.

16/03/4066

It’s quiet. Too quiet. Hell not even a scary looking alien like Shrek in sight since we got here. Rumour has it that soon the military arm of this unit will be stood down. They’ll have us lugging boxes and all sorts for the nerds who sit at machines, looking at “data” all day. Honestly, this really has been the least valuable trip in my life. Going to Tenerife was more of an adventure than this; at least there I almost had the damn hotel fall down on me. Sod it, time for a pint methinks.

16/03/4076

Great news everybody! Our lord and saviour is on his way! Darth Bezos himself is due to land tomorrow so he can begin ordering the strip mining of this planet too; honestly like he didn’t do enough damage on earth. Well we all know what Forrest Gump used to say; “Life is like a box of chocolates” - you get worse quality each year.

Greek Mythology

This time it was to make a story that matched the feeling of some of the old greek myths. Tadgedies are tales that might not have had a happy ending but had a moral to them. My take was similar to the story of Icarus

The Messenger’s Price

Pericles had spent months vying for Pythia’s heart; gifts, dates, and even using his own friend, Themistocles, to help him gather information to aid his wooing efforts. At that exact moment however it seemed that all had been for naught. He stood in the grand courtroom of Corinth, tried for the crime of stealing from Pythia’s father. He had not committed such a crime but the wealthy and powerful determine what is just; his sentence was banishment from Corinth on an island nearby. The look on Pythia’s face as he was dragged away as guilty only made him more determined to return and prove his innocence.

Before he was dragged aboard the ship that would take him to his island prison, he asked Themistocles to keep Pythia safe for his return. Themisocles agreed and wandered off and with that, Pericles was forced aboard to row to his own cell. For his whole journey there, he promised himself he would tell Pythia how he felt if it was the last thing he did.

Mere weeks had passed and Pericles had fashioned himself a basic raft and oar from wood and vines, preparing to paddle his way back to Corinth. With no time to waste, he pushed out into the open sea and began to paddle; each stroke taking him further and further away from his lone prison. Poseidon had other ideas as a wave suddenly rose from the ocean, flipping his raft and throwing Pericles from his craft. He swam, struggling against the water and clambered onto his raft. “She needs to know I love her, she needs to know I am innocent.” With that thought, he passed out.

At first he thought he was hallucinating when he heard the voice; then he heard it again.

“Hello my son. It seems you have a message to deliver.” He pried his eyes open and could not believe that before him hovered Hermes, God of Messages. “Be true to your message and you may fly too” he spoke with a smile on his face. Pericles started to gain strength, his limbs now able to lift themselves and he felt more alert. Warmth flowed though his body in stark contrast to the freezing waters he had just been in. His body felt lighter as he found wings had formed on his heels. Overjoyed, he took off swiftly flying towards Corinth.

As he flew, his mind started to wander about his sentencing. He played through the days prior in his mind, and settled on a single memory. He thought it to be a smile on Themistocles face, but looking back it was more of a grin. Themisocles had turned him in to have a chance at winning Pythia’s heart. He should’ve seen it when he’d asked him to look after her but there was so little time he didn’t have time to think about it; now however, there was plenty of time. He started to rage and seethe, knowing his newfound strength as a demigod could help him defeat Themistocles in combat and hold himself as the sole challenger to Pythia’s heart.

Suddenly his feet felt wet. He hadn’t noticed in his thought but he had lost altitude and was now skimming the water below and falling further down, the waves threatening to take him under. They did not have to however, as the wings on his heels were flapping down; at this point paddling him down into the depths. He cried for help expecting his father to come and save him at the last moment. Hermes did appear and Pericles smiled with joy. He was saved!

“What message did you wish to take with you?” Hermes questioned Pericles. “I want to tell Pythia I love her. She needs to know I am innocent!” “And is that what kept with you as you flew?” The grim look on Hermes’ face told Pericles he was not here to save him; his final words proved it. “I hope not to see you in Tartarus Pericles, but I will see you in the Underworld.” Pericles watched as Hermes took off and flew away, mere moments before a wave hit him, taking the air from his lungs as his own wings continued to pull him deeper into the depths. He could never make good on his word, he would never return and lies and deceit had won. He felt the water enter his lungs and his vision go black, then red, as the flames began to soar.

Nostalgia

Make something that you feel nostalgic about or that makes people feel nostalgic. This was a 50/50 split in the group for who agreed with some of the points but was still good fun to write and reminisce

Life through another’s eyes

I remember each adventure. I can play them through in my head like I was still stood there witnessing them all over again. Each morsel of detail that felt like the world had been crafted for me and me alone in those moments.

I remember the euphoria as we passed through the jungle together, seeing strange plants and wondering what new thing was around each corner. Driving wildly through the lands, only stopping for the occasional bit of food and drink. The sweet sugary nectar that poured its way down my throat felt so refreshing and revitalising on the long nights. The food had such a flavour that it stuck with me, despite how quickly the food disappeared as I ate. The smell of both of them still spark me back to those days whenever I smell them, even now.

Then there was that time that I was firing a shotgun and hoping the shot had made it on target; it was only a second or two to find out but it could feel like a lifetime. You could get into a rhythm and be prepared and ready for when you needed to take the next shot. And not just a shotgun, a rifle, a pistol, all manner of weapons that I could feel the impact of each one through my hands, and how mastery of any of them could take a lifetime.

Another time was releasing the brake and slamming on the accelerator to try and eke out every last bit of time on my lap. My friends all doing the same as we raced our karts round and round the track, learning more and more tricks and lines as we went. We spent hours on the same damn tracks - a different person winning each time - all the while blaming it on the fact that some karts were tuned better than others.

How about those conversations with friends for so many hours with little care in the world; hearing their joys and problems. sometimes being able to help solve their issues. Not always successfully the first time - or the second - but I always got there in the end. Listening to them grow as time passed by and learning more about who they were and what drove them. Sometimes it helped me to know what drove myself also. They would become the kind of friends who stuck by you no matter how tough things got, and no matter how far into hell you felt you were.

It’s strange to think that while I have witnessed all these great events, none were my own story. Each and every one of them, witnessed through a screen as I merely commanded where to go and with little control over the outcome.

Each adventure or story being solidified into my memory each time I put the gamepad down or picked it back up for a second playthrough.

Sometimes it’s too easy to remember the worlds at our fingertips and forget the one in front of our eyes.

Idiot Plot

An idiot plot is one where the plot wouldn’t happen is the characters in the story were not idiots. To steal a better explanation from Wikipedia: ‘In literary criticism, an idiot plot is a fictional storyline which is “kept in motion solely by virtue of the fact that everybody involved is an idiot”,: and where the story would quickly end, or possibly not even happen, if this were not the case.’.

The Day the Line Went Dead

Beep. He’d hung up. Emily couldn’t believe what had just transpired before her very ears. “We’re breaking up.” That’s what she had heard. The line had been a bit patchy but that’s what he’d said. She’d heard it. Stunned in the moment, she merely stood still; phone still up to her ear. 6 years of her life she’d given to him; they’d moved in together just last year, engaged just a few months ago; all thrown away like it meant nothing. He didn’t even sound sorrowful in his voice as he’d said it.

It may have only been a couple of minutes but it felt like an eternity as Emily stood there wracking her brain as to what on earth could have happened; there was only a singular obvious answer of course. He’d found some stupid, dumb, bimbo bitch and he’d decided she wasn’t worth it anymore. What else could it have been? His first business trip away and this shit happens. His promotion had clearly meant he now saw himself as a big wig - top dog - bonafide asshole who could just be a playboy.

Anger took over her. She screamed a primal scream and her mobile flew from her fingers and across the room; smashing against the sideboard and the light from the screen went out. Atop the sideboard, pictures shook and tumbled before a singular one tumbled off and worked its way to the floor shattering next to the phone. She was awakened by the sound of a small whining nearby which snapped her out of her fury. “It’s ok, it’s ok” she said, bending down to pet the small beagle that looked scared next to her. “Let’s get your sorted and clean this mess up shall we?” It only took a couple of biscuits and nobody would be any the wiser to what the beagle had just witnessed and she fetched the dustpan and brush to sweep up.

The picture that had fallen was one from their engagement day, she was so happy and the look on his face was one of affection and care. However seeing that only brought back her rage, not so intense this time as nothing went flying except her as she ran around the place throwing everything she could find into suitcases and boxes and loading them into her car. A plan had formulated in her mind as she packed; she was going to get on a plane, go to the hotel where that asshole was staying and make a scene in from of his colleagues; let’s see how he handles having the ring thrown back in his face while he needs to keep his composure. She picked up the landline, dialled Isobella - her best friend - and asked her to help store some things.

A short drive later and there Emily was, unpacking suitcases and boxes into Isolbella’s garage. “I need you to look after Digby for a bit,” Emily said, “he knows you so won’t be spooked. I should only be gone a few days.” “Take as long as you need.” Isobella said. “You sure you don’t wanna talk about this first? Maybe grab a few drinks and…” “Izzy, for the love of god, don’t even try and talk me out of this, I do NOT want a lecture right now” Isobella threw her hands up and started helping unload the car. “Izzy, I promise drinks when I get back, I can tell you I’m gonna need more than a few and the ability to pass out on your sofa for the night”. A smile and a nod from Isobella told Emily all she needed to know. And now it was time to be off to catch her flight. Her USB stick in the car piled high with all the angst-iest breakup music she could find to pump herself up and keep her drive going to tell that worthload toad of a man what’s what and what he’d given up.

You might expect airport security to have given her time to think and take a reprieve from her anger; instead it only made it worse with thoughts such as “having to wait all this time to let you know you’re worthless. Couldn’t have just made it easy for me and just told me in person could you?! Noooooo, that would’ve been too easy and human for you”.

Finally after making it through security and boarding the plane, she found her seat. Now sitting alone on the plane, fear started to overcome Emily. Rage had carried her this far, completing action after action. However, now it was a long, 3 hour flight of nothing but her thoughts and the realisation of what she was about to do.

Something uncanny

This one may make not that much sense reading as I wrote it to feel uncanny to the people in the writing class. It worked on the day and people enjoyed it so please bear that in mind when reading

The Bookstore That Knows Too Much

It was the first week of something new. I remember walking into a bookstore with a sign on the door saying “Closed” that felt surreal, like I shouldn’t have been there. It was week one of my newfound writing course and I had no idea what was going on or what I was walking into; luckily I walked into a friendly cast of characters who welcomed me with smiles on their faces. Down the stairs we went into what looked like the dungeon of this charity bookshop and into a room with enough chairs for us. We sat and discussed the first prompt for the course - ‘Words we don’t have in English’. The discussion was promising and cheery and time flew before we were tasked to go home and write our stories.

The following week came by, we read out stories and I remember feeling happy listening to a story about a Scarecrow who failed to hit it off with a woman who had talking coconuts following her. It was comedic and joyful, making time fly, and before long we were making our way back up into the shop to leave. On the way out I passed a section that made me chuckle; a section of foreign dictionaries. “What a nice coincidence given this week’s topic.” I thought to myself before going home to write the next prompt about one character making it up to the other.

Sitting in the room the next week, I felt good telling my story about a wizard performing necromancy to make up for killing his dear wife’s cat. I had confidence in my writing that week (despite it only being week two) and the story was well received; as was everyone else’s story as well. I wandered up the stairs, curious about if I’d find another link to the week’s topic, I found a DVD box set of The Good Place. A slightly more tenuous link but it’s all about someone trying to make up for being shitty in their life in the afterlife so close enough. Two weeks in a row now, probably still just a coincidence.

The week after was about the half mad things people do in love, this time we had a lovely ‘build-your own adventure’ type of story where people could shuffle snippets and have a unique take on the story. It was different and exciting and yet still in the back of my mind, I was curious about what I was going to find in the bookstore above that was linked. It was more direct this time. A copy of Romeo and Juliet, the quintessential story of doing mad things because of love. This was the third week and at this point, it was starting to feel less like a coincidence and more like it had been planned. Next week is diary entries, There’s no way this could continue, I mean what could be there be that was diary entries.

And yet the following week after hearing about Killer Kelly and the Tales of the Eternal Barmaid, I found a book front and centre of the shop. ‘The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime’, A book written in diary entry form. At this point I was starting to feel chills down my spine but nobody else had seemed to notice anything was wrong. Could this just be an elaborate prank played on newcomers. Guess I’ll have to find out next week with Greek Mythology. I’d even scanned around to ensure there’s nothing on the matter in sight before I leave.

With any suspicion and worry about the strange ongoings in the shop above tempered by the laughter from a story of A God Named Richard (don’t ask), I went upstairs and found Mythos by Stpehen Fry. All about retelling of Greek Myths. This is getting too on the nose and yet still nobody else has noticed. I’m starting to feel as though I’m going mad and just hallucinating at this point. The following weeks were the same, on the nostalgia topic after hearing about travelling to Timbuktu (a place I thought to be fake), I came across a CD copy of Bryan Adams’ Summer of ‘69 single - a song all about nostalgia. The next week was all about Idiot Plots and a story tech nerd getting the wrong end of the stick. A DVD of the Hangover was at the front of the store.

At this point, I am feeling very very paranoid. I keep finding these connections in the shop as I go through the course and there’s still some weeks to go. I’m fearful about this week, the whole point of these stories is about uncanny things happening so I suppose this is the perfect time to tell of these strange going on’s. But today’s is definitely the strangest I’ve seen in a while. Upon entering the store I see a book named ‘Dragon Clouds’ and its author is currently sitting in the same room as me; in fact, he’s actually running this whole shindig.

Historical person brought into our time

This was a fun one to do. As the title implies, it’s regarding a historical person brought into the modern age. I chose to not go full modern as I wanted to display the kinship between two female rulers and so set it back when Great Brittain had a Queen instead of a king.

The Unworthy Metropolis: A Cleopatra Chronicle

The year was 2012, the whole country was out celebrating Queen Elizabeth the 2nd’s 60th year. Cleopatra had found herself looking at gleaming glistening walls with pictures of the queen’s face throughout this place in which she found herself. She was happy that a woman was still in power and able to put these pawns in their place; but she found a large number of the pawns appeared to be sitting around not doing anything.

Trying to get her bearings, she looked up at the sky to find the sun shining high but barely feeling even warm compared to what she had been used to; and looked around trying to make sense of where she was. Rather than being surrounded by stone and sand, she was instead surrounded by materials she couldn’t quite fathom or understand. Standing by a statue - trying to make out who it was - she noticed it was not of herself or of the queen she could see celebrated everywhere, but of a man. Why would a man still be celebrated when a woman had been in power for 60 years; had it been her in power she would have had it torn down and replaced to ensure people knew who to worship.

Once again properly looking at her surroundings, she noticed many of the men were walking around shirtless. Normally this would have pleased her; the men she had when she ruled were chiselled, perfect walking hunks of meat who would have died to protect her. Instead what she saw was men who looked closer to multiple catapult stones stacked atop one another and they barely managed to walk in a straight line. She found it egregious that so many resources had been allowed to be allocated to fattening up these men, who clearly were unable to assist properly within this empire.

Little did Cleopatra know that she had found herself smack bang in the middle of Newcastle. Each man she had seen was likely pissed out of his mind and probably had just finished a kebab or a large 4 pack of Gregg’s finest sausage rolls (not that she would have had any idea who Greg was). It was probably a good thing that she hadn’t decided to try and speak to any of them as the likely response would’ve been something like “why aye pet, ya doing canny like?” and would have really made her start to question her sanity.

As continued to survey her surroundings, she noticed that almost every single person was reading from a little stone tablet permanently. Every so often it would make a noise and they would rub their fingers against the stone which she imagined was painful. It never even occurred to her in the moment that stone couldn’t make a noise except crack.

In her stupor at the world around her, she has not noticed she had been staring in the same direction for a while, and being dressed in her finest robe and garb, many of the people passing by had started to mistake her for a living statue and started to throw small discs of metal of various sizes down at her feet. She had no understanding why or care really.

So there she stood, only wondering where her guards had gone and why she stood in the middle of an unknown place and wanting to go back and reclaim her place on the throne of Egypt. She was still at least happy a woman ruled as queen, wherever she was.

Meanwhile back in 40 BC, Cleopatra’s guards stood just as dumbfounded at the fact their queen had just vanished in front of their eyes. However it didn’t take long for them to decide it was fine to take the wine that sat next to the throne, and to drink until they were far beyond merry. In many ways, the men of Newcastle and her guards had more in common than she would ever realise.

Writing course September 2026

I continued with a local writing group / course that I decided to join to see how my writing was. Find below a list of all my writings from the course all of which are open for all to see.

Unsung Heroes

This week we were given a list of 6 different unsung heroes and asked to write a story surrounding one. The list was

  • Stanislav Petrov (1980's)
  • Mochizuki Chiyome (1500's)
  • Claudette Colvin (1950s)
  • Irena Sendler (1940s)
  • Andreas Vasalius (1500s)
  • ‘Mad Jack’ Churchill (1940s)
  • Nellie Bly (1880s)

Feel free to look these people up yourself if you are curious. I decided to do Stanislav Petrov and took the angle away from him and his situation and make a (I believe fictional) court case to see how others could perceive the impacts of his actions. Enjoy!

The Consensus Chamber

“Now, you have heard all of the evidence that will be listed in this trial. It is now your job to discuss and come to the conclusion about whether Stanislav Petrov is innocent or guilty. You have three days from now to reach a verdict and you will need to all agree one way or another. The decision now lies with you.” Until that moment, every juror had not fully grasped the way in which their choices on this matter could have an impact. Slowly they were taken by a member of the court to a room not far away. Each step felt heavy and the sound of the bolt on the door locking them in, ricocheted around the room knowing now they had someone’s career and life in their hands.

They all shuffled awkwardly around the table and took their seats with no one willing to be the initiator in the conversations that needed to be had. The sound of the clock ticked in the background, it was the loudest sound in the room.

“Shall we start by seeing where we all stand?” a voice sounded out, making a few of the jurors visibly jump, followed by murmurs of agreement. Around the room they went, twelve people, twelve votes, six each way. “Those who think guilty, make your case. Let’s discuss.”

“He’s guilty, he admitted to the fault that he did, I don’t even see the point of going any further on this matter. He had orders, he ignored them. It’s as simple as that.” You could feel people in the room getting combative at the bluntness of the individual and so the responses began. “Have you ever been in a situation like that? Where you think there’s a mistake and you need to make a call? His choice to not report it meant we are all able to sit here today and even bother to discuss this matter. I am certain that had we retaliated to those erroneous missiles it would have been the end of our country as we know it.” You can imagine these conversations in quite a similar manner to the ones you may see in the British Houses of Parliament but a little bit more civil.

“His actions put all of us at risk”, another guilty juror stated, “if those missiles were real, we would all be in trouble and would have never retaliated. It would have given the Americans complete victory without so much as a blink.” “But he was right. It was a false alarm. Why the military thought to put a new system in place that has this fault and retired the old one is maddening.” “Five missiles, he had five pretty big warnings and none of them were taken into account. How much more negligence do you have to have?”

Time ticked forward as the smell of stale smoke began to fill the air of the room. A knock was heard on the door startled them all; the end of the day had come and they all had to leave to go home for the evening. Many were steadfast in their belief and slept like a baby, others lay wide awake toiling over the facts uncertain on the choice they should make.

When the next day arrived, they once again went around the room. This time the initial vote sat at seven to five. A small shift but it showed movement in the case. The discussions started up again but this time you could feel the resolve of some people from both sides starting to falter.

“There was confirmation of the error from the military themselves!”, exclaimed a juror.

“But the system corrected itself later which makes it difficult to decide if we should blame the man or the machine” , said another.

For those with military experience in the room, they understood the embarrassment that would befall upon the superiors and the organisation if this man was found innocent, but they also knew embarrassment held no legal standing and could not be used either way.

So the deliberations continued to a table full of coffee mugs and cigarette butts; until the familiar knock came again. Another evening, another night of ruminating.

The following morning when the vote was counted it was now nine to three. One more vote in that direction and the vote would be swayed to majority. That evening when the knock came, a decision was required. They marched themselves back up to the stand to give their verdict. Silence. “We the jury have declared Stanislav Petrov…..”

And with that, the case was closed.

Changed personality after drinking

This week was about a person whose personality changes while drinking. I decided instead to focus on the idea of somebody who changes very drastically after drinking and in a more permanent manner.

The Aftershave Incident

Oakley Bambridge lived the life of the alpha male. A high rolling job, every one of his male colleagues wanted to be in his position. He didn’t stop when people called his name as he knew they would follow to tell him what he needed to know. However, he was also a massive misogynist. A prick through and through and the kind of man that only those in ‘the lads club’ would consider to actually be a role model.

After a particularly successful month at work, he decided that everyone should be rewarded for their work and a night out on the town was what he decided! Invites went out to everyone who helped him work on the work - sorry, all the men who helped him work, and it was set to be a night that nobody would forget. And so that evening, he went home to get ready, put on one of his array of tailored slim fit suits (they fit a little snugly these days but nobody dared to tell him), threw on his Tom Ford aftershave, stacked his wallet full of cash and left for the night out; telling his wife to not wait up as he would be home late.

“I need a IV drip fast”

“Jesus Christ he smells like a brewery”

“What do you mean nobody brought him in?”

He finally opened his eyes to an array of bright lights and wondered where the hell he was. “It’s finally good to see you awake Mr Bambridge”, said the man in the long white coat, “you’ve had a bad case of alcohol poisoning. But your levels have stabilised and we’ll be able to send you home soon”. Oakley thanked the man before sitting up and realising that it had been a night he’d remember, just for the alcohol poisoning and not for what had actually happened that night. It wasn’t long before he was in a taxi headed for home. On the counter at home laid a note from his wife. “Off to Paris, back in a few days, see you when I get back”.

The following day, he woke up, ready to head back to work. His morning ritual began; showered, shaved, and now for some aftershave. Today he put on something a little different; something he’d never realised he had from a small company called Chanel. He then caught himself in the mirror, he looked a bit rough but the spot on his cheek was awful, he couldn’t be having that. Fishing around for some cream to help reduce it, he found something that looked a similar packet to what his wife had given him and applied it. To his surprise, it seemed to conceal and hide the spot as well. No harm in putting a little bit more on to cover up the smaller spots right? With that complete, he opened his wardrobe. Maybe a suit wouldn’t be best today, he needed something with less fabric to help keep him cool as it was a warm day. He selected a new garment from the wardrobe, got dressed and headed out the door to work.

He found it rather odd when he started hearing the jeers and sneers from people as he walked by but he also knew he’d been gone a few days. Probably just jokes about how he couldn’t hold his liquor these days, he wasn’t as young as he once was. Every time he tried to catch someone to get an update on the next project, they would avoid him or ask him to ‘put it in the calendar’. This was very unlike usual, the aftershave he chose couldn’t be that bad now could it? Maybe he was demanding less respect now he wasn’t wearing his suits? What a joke that would have been. After a while of catching up on emails and busybodying himself, given no one wanted to talk to him that day, he left and went home early.

As he pulled up on the drive, he found multiple cars on the driveway which he did not recognise. Opening the door and waltzing into the living room, he found his wife with her friends. As soon as he entered a few of them almost choked on their drinks and had to muffle some laughter. “Honey I’m home” he announced expecting a happy response. Instead she turned to face him and had shock horror on her face. “Is everything alright?”. “Perhaps, Oakley, you can explain to me why you are standing there, smelling of my perfume, wearing a face full of makeup and wearing my favourite dress!”

Internal monologue of a character in an awkward situation

I think the title is self explanatory for this week. I chose to use the story of mistaken identity after my wife reminded me of a hilarious situation; the situation of Guy Goma on the BBC. While I have used the real story and some of the real names also, please be aware that this is fiction and just my own writing for fun. If there are any issues, please feel free to reach out.

Mistaken Identity

Today is a very important day for me. I’m going for an interview at one of the largest television companies in the world, the BBC. As I walk through the doors that could be the start of my new life I’m obviously very nervous and I feel a bit warm under the collar as I walk to the front desk to let them know I have arrived. “Hello, I’m here for an interview.” I smile politely and await the response from the lady at the desk. “Name?” she replies; which I give, “Just take a seat here please and someone will be down to fetch you soon.” And so I waited, ensuring the lapel of my suit was flattened; after all first impressions count right?

A man appeared and spoke to the receptionist, she pointed at me and so I knew my time for the interview was here. They conversed a bit further, possibly just asking if she’d seen ID or something else before he sauntered over to me, straightening his tie as he did so. Was my tie straight enough I thought at the time but it was too late to check now.

“Guy?” The man said inquisitively. I confirmed that was my name, he shook my hand and started to lead me down a corridor. I counted the doors as we went to try and find a way to calm myself before what could be a great life changing opportunity at a new job.

I could feel the constant side eye as the bloke was looking at me over and over again and it was making me feel self conscious. Did I have food on my face or something much worse? Maybe the man was just racist and so I’m never going to get this job and this is just a formality. Either way, I still need to give it my best shot.

The interview room looked very odd to me, it looked like a full TV set. Cameras were set up, pointing in the direction of where I was sitting and across from me was a lady I recognised though I couldn’t place her from where. I shook her hand and she shuffled some papers in front of her in what can only be described as a power move before she said “Are you ready?”

5 4 3 2 …

Suddenly the lights on the camera went on. This is the strangest interview I have ever been in. Perhaps this is similar to when they record phone calls for training and monitoring purposes. The lady across from me started to speak.

“Well, Guy Kewney is the editor of the technology website NewsWireless. Hello. Good morning to you.”

Wait. Did she just say ‘Guy Kewney’? That’s not my name. There’s no way I am able to keep this off my face. My eyes go wide and my mouth goes agape. My name is Guy Goma and I am here to interview for the position of a data support cleaner. I most certainly am not the editor of technology. Now I’m sweating bullets. I’m in a position I can’t get out of. I suppose I will just have to improvise.

“Good Morning.” I replied. “Were you surprised by the verdict today?” I think surprise is probably the most appropriate word right now. I came in for an interview for one job and ended up doing a completely different job LIVE on TV. “I’m very surprised to see this verdict to come on me because I was not expecting that. When I came, they told me something else, and I’m coming. You got an interview there. So it’s a big surprise, anyway.” Of course I was talking about my own situation but she simply responded with “So a big surprise?” and I confirmed. The next question was harder to give an improvised reply to.

“With regards to the cost that’s involved, do you think more people will download music online?” “Actually, if you can go everywhere you’re going to see a lot of people downloading into the internet and the website everything they want. But I think uh is much better for the development and improve for people to get what they want on the easy and so fast the things they are looking for.”

Looking back, people say I ‘predicted’ online music streaming. I however can tell you that in that moment, all I could think about was trying to keep a straight face.

The segment only lasted 30 seconds; 30 seconds until I was ushered out of the chair and back out of the door.

I never got that job in the end.

Cautionary Tale

This one just came out of nowhere. I started with “You reap what you sow” and somehow ended up here. Enjoy

The Overlapping Voices

“I SIMPLY CANNOT HEAR MYSELF THINK!” Every voice overlapping, every single one questioning why, over and over again without a single breath between each word. This is the tale of Steven Brockett, a man with little to nothing but the bottom of a bottle.

His first offense happened after a particularly hard drinking session where he stumbled home and bumped into a young man.

“Watch where you’re going pal!”, the man said clearly not realising the state Steven was in. Steven saw red and swung at him, fist flying with the fury of a sledgehammer and no regard for his own wellbeing. The punch connected, knocking the man down an alley where Steven stalked him down to deal another blow. The punches didn’t stop and Steven suddenly felt power like he never had before; for the first time ever, he was in control.

As Steven walked home with that feeling of power and joy, he didn’t give a second thought to the man he’d just left behind unmoving. The man was to be a father next week but what does it matter to the fatherless child when Steven felt like that. However, that feeling didn’t last forever. It wasn’t long until it faded and he wanted to feel powerful all over again. Instead he collapsed on his bed, clothes bloody and fist bruised.

The following day at his job, his colleague spent all day grinding down on his patience. Always asking why, never just letting Steven be. Sometimes the question didn’t sound like it came from his colleague, the voice sounded like someone he’d met the previous night. Eventually something snapped inside him. He’d had enough. As they left for home, Steven followed the colleague just long enough to find somewhere to teach him a lesson. The anticipation of feeling in control against his work was making him jumpy and before long he made his move

This time, exhilaration is the only way to describe how he felt; without the alcohol holding back his joy he was free to feel the full power of what it felt like. Another body on the list. But this time the feeling of power faded just slightly faster. It faded just fast enough for him to decide to sink his guilt the way he used to know how, at the bottom of the bottle. He stopped after pint number four, realising it wasn’t going to work like it used to. That night he dreamed of his fist flying and another voice joined him in his sleep asking questions.

Each day went by and the list of people increased, a bus driver, a librarian, too many others to count. The voices only grew, they started to intertwine and each kill had less of a feeling of euphoria compared to the last. Always looking for the next fix, just another hit, another chase. His addiction had simply shifted from drink to murder and he’d started to become immune to the effect it brought him.

But the voices bothered him. He started seeking out ways to try and drown them out. Earmuffs didn’t work, earplugs didn’t either. He bought earbuds to play music through hoping music would drown them out. The voices started singing along instead. Pills could put him to sleep but they arrived in his dreams and the following morning. Drinking excessively didn’t help and his new addiction kept pushing for more and more sacrifices.

And so we arrive at a man who sat in his home, hearing the overlapping voices, all questioning why. Nothing had worked to make them stop. And so his final idea was to allow him to not hear them anymore; you can’t hear without any ears. He sliced the first one off, so numb to his own pain he didn’t even flinch; but the voices continued and didn’t silence. One more ear was all he thought and so he sliced off the other without a second thought. The voices remained. Tears welled from his eyes as he realised the act had not stopped them whispering questions in his mind. Without his ears, he didn’t hear the squelching as he bashed his fists against his head begging them to stop. He didn’t hear the fire alarm going off as the kitchen had caught alight. Eventually, the flames made their way and licked at him as he fell unconscious from the loss of his blood. His tears boiled away and now he knew what it felt like to be like the man who would’ve been a father.