The course started with a 200 word character sketch which we then developed into a slightly longer piece. The excerpt below is my favourite version of this character description:-
The early autumn gloam, when the clocks have just gone back can be transformative, it turns people into animals and birds, their vision, working harder to know how to see, how to trust.
“Excuse me, myyy lorve, can you spare any change?”
A thin Bristolian voice slides out of the darkness. I stop and look around; he is surprised I do. I do as I try to make myself give respect to all. Even if I say no, it is human to acknowledge each other in times of trouble. What follows is more about how the atmosphere was that night. How I go on in this world and less about him, who probably found his way to the local hostel and warmed himself with a tea.
Two round black eyes peer, darting in every direction. The edge of his damp dark hoodie encircles his thin face, like an owl’s ruff. The fallen leaves silence his movements; the bird of prey on wing. He is always on edge, ready, never trusting. The ground; his perch, unsteady, his balance always shifting.
“I don’t think I have any cash.” He leans to peer into my proffered purse, the darkness and truth of my situation make me brazen. The gauntness of his face, a pointed chin covered with a patchy goatee is revealed. The hunger in his eyes grows, they seem to focus down. He prepares to swoop.
“Alright” he is surprised at the honesty and satiated by the reveal of the empty wallet. He disappears into the murk, clothes first, dirty white trainers and shining eyes last.
I carry on at a good pace, alert to the sounds and smells around me, sniffing through the details, finding a story that will lead me to an end.
Character sketch in response to 'a woman on a bus with a Pekinese in her bag. Both have a red bow on their head.
She lived for the moment. Truly. In a way, she wasn’t a person, not with a day to day existence, a forever home with cocktail parties, friends and family. She worked at being itinerant, learning different skills to match her brief. See, this was the key. She cared about the reinvention, the change, the ability to live many lives in the course of one.
The spying was secondary to this.
As for age, she went through them all, sometimes again and again, sometimes she skipped onto the future and very occasionally she caught up with herself. It was the dark stone of impermanence that kept her going though, deep in her heart. There was never the real her.
Today she sits on a bus, looking out of place. Her wax jacket and gum boots suggested that perhaps the Bentley had broken down, the family are unable to afford the mechanic, all the remains of the fortune go towards maintaining the estate. On her lap is an oversized doctors’ bag, all creaking leather and mildew. Two bright eyes peek out under a top knot, tied with a bright red bow. A friendly yap issues from the Pekinese. The woman sports this hair do too, looking quite eccentric with her greying locks.
Character sketch in response to starting with the first line you hear when you switch on the radio.
“I wonder where it’s gone?”
“That’s what we’re always wondering. Where’s the money gone?”
He was hunched over the laptop, his muscly arms made it seem smaller than it was. He supported his head on his fist like a 21st Century Thinker. The veins on his arms popped. Time shrank, he clapped down the lid of the computer and stormed out of the room, fists in small tight balls unmoving, by his thighs.
The front of the house reverberated with the powerful cushion of air pushed back when the door slammed. As he walked down the street, squinting as the morning sun bounced off the puddles angled deep in his eyeballs, the ground pounded with every furious step. He tried to say hello to Julie from two doors down, he is a polite boy, but it came out as a grunt and she looked concerned and side stepped to avoid his furious pace.
A noise rose out of him like a strangled dog- “Arrrgggh.” He took a swing at the air. I don’t want to be aggressive. I don’t want to scare old ladies. I don’t want to be me. By the time he has pounded around the block the power has gone. The pounding moves back to his head, which hangs low with the weight of it. He twists the key in the lock and with his tail between his legs, comes back home, not two minutes later, to explain his bad behaviour.
Begining of short story working on developing a character from our notebook
The jingling increased in volume with each step. Then it stopped and was replaced with shuffling and a clatter as something was placed or dropped to the ground,
“Can I have a hand please?” followed by a knock knock knock.
I opened the door. Her face was a foot off the floor, looking up at me as she grasped for a too-full tea tray. Everything on it was attempting to slide off in sympathy with the mousy lady’s glasses, which she now caught as they attempted their escape.
She grabbed the tray and wrestled herself into an upright position.
“Thanks, erm tea?”
I gestured at the sideboard.
“OK”, she put down the tray rather heavily and took an assortment of things from it. A large bunch of keys, a phone and some folded papers. She spun on her heel and attempted to make a hasty retreat.
“Wait.”
She tried hard to look collected as she recoiled, hastily smoothing a stray hair out of her eyes. The smile appeared too late and was forced.
“Sorry, yes?”
“Are you in a rush?”
“There’s a lot on today, so I want to get it all prepared. Sorry. Have I forgotten something?”
“No. No, that’s all fine. Our next break is at 12, can we have more tea then?”
“Yes, that’s on my schedule.”
“Thanks”.
She leaves in a flurry, the tray flapping at her side. The extra few seconds provided me with what I need. I extract a salt and pepper hair from the carpet and carefully wrap it in a tissue and put it in my neat pocket.
I make sure the door is on the latch, there are no windows, no glass pane in the door. The fluorescent tube hums softly, making a slightly electrified environment.
I work quickly. Take a sock out of my respectable looking lap top bag, remove my heels, balance on the marshmallow of the padded chair and stretch it across the smoke detector that is in the centre of the room. I then remove three yellow, stinking tallow candles from the bag, light a wick and start pooling wax into the extra saucer I requested. I move the lit candle across to another wick and hold it, dripping over the saucer until it catches, then stand it in the wax. Repeat one more time. Now there are three candles, with their flames dancing. I turn off the buzzing light and let the shadows dance up the walls.
I check again to make sure I look perfectly corporate today in a small hand mirror. My lips are red and sharply edged, my hair is smooth and gently waved. I smile slightly and place the mirror to the left of the candles. I close my eyes. You are going to have a great day, I whisper, as I begin to allow the shape of the young lady who brought the tea in, to form in the mirror of my mind.
The early autumn gloam, when the clocks have just gone back can be transformative, it turns people into animals and birds, their vision, working harder to know how to see, how to trust.
“Excuse me, myyy lorve, can you spare any change?”
A thin Bristolian voice slides out of the darkness. I stop and look around; he is surprised I do. I do as I try to make myself give respect to all. Even if I say no, it is human to acknowledge each other in times of trouble. What follows is more about how the atmosphere was that night. How I go on in this world and less about him, who probably found his way to the local hostel and warmed himself with a tea.
Two round black eyes peer, darting in every direction. The edge of his damp dark hoodie encircles his thin face, like an owl’s ruff. The fallen leaves silence his movements; the bird of prey on wing. He is always on edge, ready, never trusting. The ground; his perch, unsteady, his balance always shifting.
“I don’t think I have any cash.” He leans to peer into my proffered purse, the darkness and truth of my situation make me brazen. The gauntness of his face, a pointed chin covered with a patchy goatee is revealed. The hunger in his eyes grows, they seem to focus down. He prepares to swoop.
“Alright” he is surprised at the honesty and satiated by the reveal of the empty wallet. He disappears into the murk, clothes first, dirty white trainers and shining eyes last.
I carry on at a good pace, alert to the sounds and smells around me, sniffing through the details, finding a story that will lead me to an end.
Character sketch in response to 'a woman on a bus with a Pekinese in her bag. Both have a red bow on their head.
She lived for the moment. Truly. In a way, she wasn’t a person, not with a day to day existence, a forever home with cocktail parties, friends and family. She worked at being itinerant, learning different skills to match her brief. See, this was the key. She cared about the reinvention, the change, the ability to live many lives in the course of one.
The spying was secondary to this.
As for age, she went through them all, sometimes again and again, sometimes she skipped onto the future and very occasionally she caught up with herself. It was the dark stone of impermanence that kept her going though, deep in her heart. There was never the real her.
Today she sits on a bus, looking out of place. Her wax jacket and gum boots suggested that perhaps the Bentley had broken down, the family are unable to afford the mechanic, all the remains of the fortune go towards maintaining the estate. On her lap is an oversized doctors’ bag, all creaking leather and mildew. Two bright eyes peek out under a top knot, tied with a bright red bow. A friendly yap issues from the Pekinese. The woman sports this hair do too, looking quite eccentric with her greying locks.
Character sketch in response to starting with the first line you hear when you switch on the radio.
“I wonder where it’s gone?”
“That’s what we’re always wondering. Where’s the money gone?”
He was hunched over the laptop, his muscly arms made it seem smaller than it was. He supported his head on his fist like a 21st Century Thinker. The veins on his arms popped. Time shrank, he clapped down the lid of the computer and stormed out of the room, fists in small tight balls unmoving, by his thighs.
The front of the house reverberated with the powerful cushion of air pushed back when the door slammed. As he walked down the street, squinting as the morning sun bounced off the puddles angled deep in his eyeballs, the ground pounded with every furious step. He tried to say hello to Julie from two doors down, he is a polite boy, but it came out as a grunt and she looked concerned and side stepped to avoid his furious pace.
A noise rose out of him like a strangled dog- “Arrrgggh.” He took a swing at the air. I don’t want to be aggressive. I don’t want to scare old ladies. I don’t want to be me. By the time he has pounded around the block the power has gone. The pounding moves back to his head, which hangs low with the weight of it. He twists the key in the lock and with his tail between his legs, comes back home, not two minutes later, to explain his bad behaviour.
Begining of short story working on developing a character from our notebook
The jingling increased in volume with each step. Then it stopped and was replaced with shuffling and a clatter as something was placed or dropped to the ground,
“Can I have a hand please?” followed by a knock knock knock.
I opened the door. Her face was a foot off the floor, looking up at me as she grasped for a too-full tea tray. Everything on it was attempting to slide off in sympathy with the mousy lady’s glasses, which she now caught as they attempted their escape.
She grabbed the tray and wrestled herself into an upright position.
“Thanks, erm tea?”
I gestured at the sideboard.
“OK”, she put down the tray rather heavily and took an assortment of things from it. A large bunch of keys, a phone and some folded papers. She spun on her heel and attempted to make a hasty retreat.
“Wait.”
She tried hard to look collected as she recoiled, hastily smoothing a stray hair out of her eyes. The smile appeared too late and was forced.
“Sorry, yes?”
“Are you in a rush?”
“There’s a lot on today, so I want to get it all prepared. Sorry. Have I forgotten something?”
“No. No, that’s all fine. Our next break is at 12, can we have more tea then?”
“Yes, that’s on my schedule.”
“Thanks”.
She leaves in a flurry, the tray flapping at her side. The extra few seconds provided me with what I need. I extract a salt and pepper hair from the carpet and carefully wrap it in a tissue and put it in my neat pocket.
I make sure the door is on the latch, there are no windows, no glass pane in the door. The fluorescent tube hums softly, making a slightly electrified environment.
I work quickly. Take a sock out of my respectable looking lap top bag, remove my heels, balance on the marshmallow of the padded chair and stretch it across the smoke detector that is in the centre of the room. I then remove three yellow, stinking tallow candles from the bag, light a wick and start pooling wax into the extra saucer I requested. I move the lit candle across to another wick and hold it, dripping over the saucer until it catches, then stand it in the wax. Repeat one more time. Now there are three candles, with their flames dancing. I turn off the buzzing light and let the shadows dance up the walls.
I check again to make sure I look perfectly corporate today in a small hand mirror. My lips are red and sharply edged, my hair is smooth and gently waved. I smile slightly and place the mirror to the left of the candles. I close my eyes. You are going to have a great day, I whisper, as I begin to allow the shape of the young lady who brought the tea in, to form in the mirror of my mind.