WRITING EXERCISES

Writer's Studio Online Course. April 2016

The short pieces that follow were written for the April 2016 Online Writer's Studio course.  Scroll down to read the following:

Week 4. Short story: The Shepherd.

Week 3: Intimidation;     Challenge.

Week 2: Perfectionism; Self-Criticism; Attitude; Love Hurts; Standing in the Rain.

Week 1: The Party; The Beach; Love; I Remember; I Can't Remember

Week 4: Short Story: The Shepherd   

Yiorgo the shepherd stood on a high boulder, silhouetted against the sharp sky of Crete, and looked down upon the terracotta roofs of Kato Vouna. He avoided the village as much as he could, a place of argument and conflict. Yiorgo was as thin and tough as the rock-strewn soil and hard light of Crete, but he was also as anxious and timid as the mountain hare. His narrow eyes and curved nose made him look like the great mountain eagle, and, in truth, when he stood on a high place like this, with the haunting silence of the mountains and the pine forests encircling him, the scent of wild rosemary in his nostrils, he felt like an eagle.

He was searching for a lost lamb. The village priest was always fond of reminding him that “a good shepherd cares for his flock.” He knew which lamb had gone astray and he was determined to find it.

Suddenly he heard the unmistakeable bleating of a lamb, and smiled to himself. He was a good shepherd, just like they said of Christ. Then the smile disappeared. A man emerged from the shelter of the rocks, a burly black-haired man with haughty eyes and ferocious moustache. It was Vassili Makellaris, the village butcher, and he carried the lost lamb cradled under his arm. Whenever Yiorgo saw this man, he could think only of a wedding feast in the village square, many years ago, with the music of the lyra and the circle of dancers, the aroma of roasting meat and flowing wine, and a beautiful bride, who should have been Yiorgo's wife. Vassili had not only taken his heart's desire, but ever since had relentlessly bartered him down in price whenever the old shepherd had a lamb to sell.

“Vassili,” he shouted, keeping a note of harmony in his voice. “Where are you taking my lamb?”

“Your lamb?” Vassili spat on the ground. “Go to the devil.”

Yiorgo scrambled down and stood blocking Vassili's way. “You cannot take my lamb. Its mother is already cursed with a swollen udder. Give it to me, for the love of God.”

Vassili glared at him. “Get out of my way, shepherd. Go back to your flock.” He pushed Yiorgo aside and continued to stride down the mountain.

Yiorgo stood for a moment, his heart pounding with suppressed rage and his eyes moist with tears. Damn him. Always it was Vassili bringing curses to his life. The lamb bleated again, a sound that tore at his heart. He suddenly stooped and picked up a rock. “Scoundrel!” he shouted. “Thief!”

The rock struck Vassili square in the middle of his back and he let out a yell of pain. He turned to face Yiorgo, dropping the lamb with a curse.

“You'll pay for that,” he roared. He strode towards Yiorgo, his face flushed and his eyes aflame. As he grew closer he suddenly lowered his head and charged Yiorgo like a bull, hitting him in his belly with such force that Yiorgo flew backwards and stretched out on the rocky ground.

Vassili stood over his fallen foe with a triumphant grin. “Never meddle with a butcher,” he growled, drawing out his knife. “I'll slit your throat one day,"  He strode towards the lamb, now curled up and shaking uncontrollably. "In the meantime, I'll make a start on this creature.”

Yiorgo scrambled to his feet and picked up his shepherd's crook. “Curse you!” he shouted, and smashed the heavy crook down on Vassili's head. The other man staggered, then turned to face Yiorgo, blood streaming into his eyes and moustache. “What are you doing? You've killed me, you devil.” He dropped to his knees.

A shiver ran through Yiorgo's mind. What had he done? He stood beside Vassili's kneeling form and put a hand on his shoulder. “Vassili, I'm sorry. Here, let me help you.”

The lamb struggled to its feet and gave another quavering bleat. Suddenly, without any warning, an eagle, bigger than any dog Yiorgo had ever seen, swooped down and seized the animal in its talons.

“No!” shouted Yiorgo. He threw himself on the eagle and grabbed the lamb. The great bird began to flap its wings with enormous strength, and Yiorgo felt his own strength inadequate. “Vassili, help me!”

Vassili, his own mind whirling with pain, staggered over and took hold of the lamb, one arm around Yiorgo. Together they proved too much for the eagle, which released the lamb and flew off, its indignant cry shrieking and echoing amongst the hills.

They stood together, panting with fatigue, and watched it disappear into the towering mountains.

“Oh, no,” cried Yiorgo, staring at the body of the lamb. The soul of the little traumatised creature had fled.

Vassili put an arm around the shepherd. “Never mind, shepherd,” he murmured, wiping the blood from his eyes. “Damn you, let's share a glass of raki.”

Yiorgo's stone bothie stood not far from the place of drama. A fire flamed and crackled near the little hut as he poured two glasses of the fiery spirit beloved of all Cretan men, tsipouro or raki. Vassili, on the other side of the fire, was dismembering the body of the lamb, dividing it equally into two shares. It was a fair result, thought Yiorgo. They had both earned a reward. He looked up at the dark outlines of the mountain. Struggle and conflict are part of the nature of this land, he reflected. We must work together. He glanced across at Vassili, busy dividing the lamb into equal portions. On the other hand, he mused, if I can get him drunk, perhaps I can take more than half.

 Week 3: Intimidation

The anger of the parents seated in the school hall that night was palpable. Peter Fletcher, seated centre stage, had never seen such a turnout. There was nothing like a threat of school closure to bring the community together. The threat had succeeded in uniting all of them, parents, teachers and students, gathered here now to rage against the bureaucrats.

The chairman tapped the microphone, time-honoured signal to begin. Peter sat at ease amongst the official speakers, supremely confident in his ability to hold a crowd in the palm of his hand. Public speaking defined him. It was one reason he was such a popular teacher. He had asked to be the last speaker, for he knew that his skill would only intimidate the other speakers, and he had no wish to do that.

Katie Jensen, representing the student body, was the first to speak. Peter watched her approach the microphone. Nice girl, Katie, brave, too, a fifteen year old standing in front of that sea of faces. He glanced across at the second speaker, still waiting for the call. Eddie Smith represented the school board. Peter found himself hoping that Eddie, never an impressive figure at any time, would not disgrace himself. After all, most adults baulked at speaking in public, and Eddie had never spoken to a gathering like this. Peter noticed that Eddie did not have any notes. That's a mistake, he thought.

Katie's presentation was credible enough, and she resumed her seat to polite applause. Eddie was then called to the podium. He looks nervous, thought Peter. Good thing I didn't go before him. It would have completely unnerved him.

Eddie stood for a moment, as if he had forgotten what he wanted to say. This in fact had the effect of concentrating the audience's expectations. Suddenly, Eddie leaned forward and swept the crowd with his hand. “If”, he began, in a voice of command, “If you are wondering why we are here tonight, look no further than the bean counters bereft of any sense of culture or intellect, those fools who run the Education Department. They seek to destroy our community using false and concocted statistics.” He paused again. “I say we should not stand for it.”

Oh my god, thought Peter, this is good. The worst was yet to come. In ringing, Churchillian phrases and devastating logic, Eddie tore apart the official reasons for the closure. By the time he sat down the audience were inspired beyond measure, ready to follow him to the barricades if need be. Eddie's speech was rewarded by an applause that shook the windows of the school hall.

Peter heard his name called, and he stumbled forward, his mind numbed by the sheer power of Eddie's oratory. He stood looking out at the crowd and could not think of a word to say. He shuffled his papers, cleared his throat, and mumbled out a few inaudible words before sitting down, followed by a scatter of polite clapping.

 Week 3: Challenge

The little yacht passed from the broad calm of Jervis Bay into a maelstrom of raging water. Three metre sea on a three metre swell, the forecast had said, six metres of vertical rise and fall. Quite a challenge for the hardiest mariner, thought Raptor, but more than a challenge for two adults and six teenagers, Venturer Scouts on their first ocean sail.

The yacht pitched and rolled through the narrow heads, and they stared up in awe at the towering cliffs of rock, now battered by the relentless sea. The waves towered above the mast of the yacht, blotting out the grey sky at times, only to smash themselves against the nearby land in hissing foam. The Scouts had not yet eaten, probably a good thing, but Ulladulla lay twenty nautical miles to the south. Already young Jeremy was sobbing with fear as the yacht climbed each wave, screaming in fear as it then dropped into the next trough. They were all drenched to the skin with waves that broke over the yacht from above, icy water that penetrated every part of their wet-weather jackets.

Raptor glanced across at the other adult, Wallaby, struggling with the helm. This challenge is beyond us, he said without words, we should turn back. Wallaby caught his eye and nodded assent. This was reassuring, for Wallaby was a seasoned sailor from the West. He knew rough weather.

Now they faced a new challenge. How to turn the yacht without being rolled over. If they failed to gybe in time, the waves would hit the yacht on its beam end and they would capsize. Executing a gybe in this weather also ran the risk of carrying away the boom, perhaps even the mast. The new challenge was indeed formidable.  

 Week 2: Perfectionism

I dug a hole for a post once, but it wasn't perfect. It was deep enough and wide enough, but not something I would call a perfect hole. It wasn't symmetrical, for a start, and it had a slight slant. Nevertheless, it served its purpose. The post was part of a fence. That was ten years ago, and the fence is still standing.

Reminds me of the brick wall I made for our garden. You may not believe this, but not one single brick in that wall was perfect. Every one of them had an imperfection of some sort. They all managed to be the right size, more or less, but they differed in colour, for example, and some had slight cracks. These cracks provided shelter for tiny flowers and sweet-smelling moss, which was actually quite nice.

Perfect? Is anything truly perfect?

The flowers in the wall were perfect. No one could possible improve on their delicate, bright colours or the fleeting perfection of their little hairy stems.  

 Week 2: Self-Criticism

Criticising your own writing is like holding yourself responsible for being born. We need to take responsibility for many of the things we do in life, but not for the things we create. Those things just come upon us. We cannot create anything without inspiration, without being inspired. From where, or indeed, from whom, does this inspiration come?

There is an ancient belief that the artist is inspired by the breath of the divine, by the universe itself. The Greeks called this force a δαιμων, a demon, working through the human mind and hands according to its own will. The Romans, with the same idea, called this force a genius, the spirit that inhabited a person, a household, a city, a people. In both cases, the artist was merely a vessel through which great things happened.

So 'self-criticism' may very well be sacrilege, an attempt to steal credit from our inspiring demon. We need to be more like Alexis Zorba, in Nikos Kazantzakis' great novel of the same name: “What do you mean, 'what work do I do?' How do I know? My hands and feet, they do the work.”

Therefore, when the fickle crowd showers praise upon your work, don't listen. Stop your ears. Instead, whisper silent thanks to the genius that blessed you and inspired your pen.  

 Week 2: Attitude

Is it necessary to have a good attitude to be a good writer, to reach one's potential? There are plenty of authors, judging by the nature of their work, who have a good attitude, who show optimism towards life, self-confidence, humility, and a willingness to see good in everyone. Yet there are other writers, quite famous ones, who have attracted public notoriety because of their seemingly dysfunctional life. They, too, can produce works of value and quality. So perhaps attitude is not that important. When I ask what attitude do I have towards myself, however, it seems inescapable that it needs to be a good attitude. My life experience may have been sweet, it may have been sour, but the bottom line is that my attitude needs to be positive. I need to believe in myself. I need to believe that, for good or bad, what I have to say is worth saying. It is worth reading. I am only one small voice in the vast universe of noise, but I am as worthy as any other, for I am equally unique. 

 Week 2: Love Hurts

Dolly made a face that expressed the suffering of an older sister. “Rupert’s little joke,” she explained. “My name is actually Dolores, so everyone calls me Dolly. Rupert calls me Lulu, after the song, ‘Don’t bring Lulu?” You know, You can bring Pearl, she’s a real nice girl, but don’t bring Lulu.

Her soft, melodic voice captivated him. “Yes,” he said, “I know the song. You can bring Rose, with the turned-up nose, but don’t bring Lulu.” He felt a joyful glow rising like a small flame in his heart. Feeling bolder, he asked in jest, is it true that Lulu always wants to do, What the boys don’t want her to?”

She set her face firmly in a look of mock outrage. “No, it’s not. I’m not like the song. Rupert is so wet. He really has no brains.”

Tom chuckled, wanting this moment to last forever. However, before he could say anything, a male voice interrupted their conversation. “Dolly, where’ve you been? I’ve been waiting for yonks.”

Tom saw a young man, similar in age to himself, smartly dressed and wearing a fedora carefully blocked to retain its brand new shape. He bent and gave Dolly a kiss, casting an inquisitive eye at Tom as he did so. “You know I can’t stand wasting time,” he said to her in a low but firm voice.

“I’m sorry Andrew,” she murmured. “I was talking to Mr. Lawson” She turned to Tom. “Thank you for the advice, Mr. Lawson.”

He nodded politely. “I hope you find Kennedy a useful reference, Miss Delhunty.

She gave him a shy smile, a secret, wistful smile, and turned to hurry through the quadrangle after the other man. Tom felt a dull pain somewhere inside him. His encounter with Dolly had been a brief moment in his life, yet it felt like a moment of tremendous importance. He dragged himself despondently up the antique staircase to his rooms. On balance, he told himself, it was better to have met Dolly Delhunty even once than to have never met her, despite the pain. 

 Week 2: Standing in the Rain

The rain continued to fall like sheets of lead, glistening off the armoured sides of the squadron and puddling in the churned up tracks of mud. Anderson hunched his shoulders against the deluge, twisting in the confines of the turret to check on the other vehicles. The squadron had practiced forming a laager at night but they had never done so in this incessant, blinding rain. He uttered an obscenity under his breath as a cold rivulet of water dribbled down his back. Even his boots squelched. His beret was a sodden rag, held on his head only by the earphones of the radio.

Why were the bastards taking so long, he wondered. Not that it mattered. Even when they stood down for the night he would have to endure this hell. He had no dry clothes and no likelihood of sleep anyway.

A voice crackled on the radio net, a disgruntled trooper complaining to a sympathetic comrade. Thomson recognised the voice, trooper Roberts. He flicked on his transmitter. “One-One Bravo, this is One-One. Get off the net.”

Damn them. They had no idea. Armoured vehicles make a great racket during the day, when noise doesn't matter, but at night they become death-traps, inviting close-in attack. At night, the hunters became the hunted. The laager was akin to a circle of wagons, giving each other protection, but only if they crept silently into the formation, no noise or light.

He glanced down and noticed that Jackson, the driver, had closed his hatch against the rain. “Bloody hell, Jackson,” he called down into the driving compartment. “Stick your head back out. You're supposed to be on watch. You can't see for shit through the periscope.”

Jackson responded by throwing open the driver's hatch and mumbling under his breath. Too bad, thought Anderson. If I have to get soaked he can suffer too. Stuff him.

A voice crackled over the squadron net. “All stations, this is Sunray One. Action complete. Out.”

At last. He flicked the troop net. “All stations, this is One-One. Switch off in succession.'

He called down to the driver. “Switch off, Jackson.” This began a chain effect, each engine switching off in turn so that any hostile ear would be deceived into thinking the vehicles were motoring into the distance.

Quiet settled on the laager until finally there was complete silence in the night.

“Hey boss,” whispered Jackson, “someone's comin'”

Anderson swung his 30 cal. to the front, catching his frozen thumb in the breech. The rain, ignoring his pain, continued to fall.

Week 1: The Party

It was easy enough to find the party in the darkened streets of Batlow, for it was the only brightly lit house in the whole town. Ben could tell immediately that the group-house was shared by females. In place of the disorder, food scraps and a toilet with the stench of a public urinal typical of young bachelors he found order and cleanliness, curtains and cushions. The party itself had the predictable form of a courtship ritual, where everyone stood about with alcohol in their hands and tried to make conversation, shouting over the sound of the music. We've got to get out of this place, if it's the last thing we ever do, ..., Girl, there's a better life for me and you. The words had become a theme song for all the young, unmarried professionals exiled from the city, teachers mostly but also nurses and other public servants.

There were more women than men, of course, laughing and flirting in little gatherings around the room, but he had no great desire to join in. Ben was like a male lyre-bird that couldn't dance, lacking bright objects to display. His shyness had no attraction in a noisy market like this, unlike his two friends, the one, Max, brash and loud, and the other, Julio, dark, handsome and passionate in that Sicilian manner. Ben studied his two friends, who were competing for the attention of an attractive girl, Jenny, standing with her back to the window, a girl under siege.

He turned away for a moment and suddenly found Julio beside him, whispering in his ear.

“Mate, you've gotta help me. Can you draw Max away. He's moving in on Jenny, just when I was getting somewhere.”

Max's love for his Monaro was enough to draw him out of the house.

“I came out to take a leak,” lied Ben, “and I thought I could smell oil under your car.”

“Damn,” said Max, sprawling under the engine. “I can't see any. It's too dark. There's a torch in the glove box.”

Someone in the party put on a new LP. Making love in the afternoon, with Cecilia up in my bedroom. I got up to wash my face, when I came back to bed someone's taken my place. Ben glanced back to the window and saw Julio triumphant, Jenny bubbling with laughter.

“You bastard,” fumed Max, seeing the same scene. He scrambled to his feet and ran back to the house. Ben followed, hearing the high-pitched scream of a wild brumby in the hills, two stallions biting and kicking each other while the herd waited for the victor.

Jenny, for her part, was feeling bored with the attention. Her mind was not here in this party in high-country Batlow but much further away. She was thinking of the weekend, when she was free to hurry back to a cosy little flat in Sydney, and the one who waited there for her. There was nothing here in Batlow that stirred her heart. She did not like boys, as a general rule, especially these juvenile men exiled from their family who were only slowly and grudgingly growing up. She was amused by their rivalries, their posturing and their transparency. She was condemned to live among them for a while, condemned by the bureaucrats in Bridge Street, but her bond fulfilled, she would one day return to the only soul who gave her life joy, both spiritual and physical. She and Ruth had been together since high school, sharing their little nest in Hurstville, sheltering from the prejudice and ignorance of society. Come Friday night, she would be once again in Ruth's arms, two hungry hearts beating as one.  

Week 1: The Beach

They sailed past a long strand, stretching away to the south, a sweep of grey sand backed by grass-covered dunes. The morning sun glared into their eyes, giving the tideline sea-wrack a glistening accent and creasing the sand with ridges and furrows of shadow.

The sea washed rhythmically up the beach in shallow, foaming sheets, and the sun shone through the curling wavelets, making the water crystal. Migrating godwits waded through the foam, stabbing their long bills deep into the sand and moving their heads in fussy, wedge-like motions as if performing a dance. Curlews wandered through the flotsam along the strandline, stabbing the sand at intervals in a deliberate, elegant promenade. Beyond the beach, a green tinge of couch grass covered the first of the dunes, giving way to a rolling tangle of stunted bushes and marram grass.

 Week 1: Love

There are two words for 'love' in the modern Greek language. The first, Ο ερωτας, will be familiar because it has passed into English as the word 'erotic'. Let us translate it as 'physical love' or perhaps 'lust'. Sometimes in the world of film censorship classifications, this is what is meant by 'sex scenes'. These so-called sex scenes, can be either an expression of violence or a sort of James Bond/Indiana Jones machoism or they can indicate the fulfilment of a desirable relationship between two of the protagonists, the first a doubtful message and the other applauded by our romantic self. The second Greek word is η αγαπη, which has no direct correspondence in English but can be translated as 'spiritual love'. It is what we mean when we talk of 'Platonic love'. These two words may occupy opposite ends of the spectrum of meaning, but in fact they seem to express two faces of the same person. Spiritual love is often at the heart of ethical and religious belief systems, where we are encouraged to 'love our neighbour', where 'love conquers all' (amor vincit omnia) and is rarely seen as a bad thing, except perhaps when we encounter excessive patriotism or 'love of one's country.' On the other hand, we seem to have a much greater range of attitudes towards physical or erotic love. While 'spiritual love' has no limits, 'physical love' is usually tightly bound by social rules and customs. Society imposes limits on its expression, on who can be loved, which is not surprising, for sometimes 'physical love' can be a selfish, harmful expression of dominance and power. Within the social limits, however, ερωτας can enhance and define αγαπη. Love may be 'a many splendoured thing' but it is also a very complicated thing.

 Week1: I Remember.

She was eager to talk, and they were more than happy to listen. Perhaps the reminiscence of times past is one of the greatest pleasures for the old, but it can also be an intriguing story for the young. Julia had much to tell, not only of people and events but also, perhaps more importantly, of wisdom and values.

“I was once like you, deliciae,” she said to Lucia, stroking the young woman’s soft hair. “You see me now as wrinkled and grey, but you should have seen me in my youth. Ah, I was forma, pulchra, a beauty, so they all said. My eyes were once as clear as yours, cara, my skin as smooth and warm. Our beauty does not last, you know. We have it for such a short time.”

She placed her hand on her bosom. “It is heart that matters, not face. Do not fuss too much about your looks. Cultivate your heart. Be kind to people, speak well of everyone, and above all, listen to others. Remember, we have only one tongue but two ears. Therefore, listen twice as much as you talk.”

“I was your age when I married.” she continued, speaking to all three girls. “He was so handsome, my man, so strong and full of life. We were together for over fifty years.”

She opened a small casket and took from it a medallion. It was bronze, with a fragment of purple ribbon attached. “This was his. It was presented to him when he retired from public life.” She caressed the medallion for a moment then held it out for their inspection.

The medallion resembled a coin, only much larger. It was decorated with a portrait head surrounded with laurel and the inscription FLAV HON IMP. Atticus turned it over and read the brief inscription on its reverse side. Greetings to our Distinguished Flavius Coranieid.

“This is very old,” Atticus murmured, almost to himself. “It is a medallion of Flavius Honorius.” 

Week 1: I Can't Remember.

September 1931.

Intensive Care ward, Royal Prince Alfred Hospital, Sydney.

 Tom became aware first of the throbbing inside his head. He listened to the strange sounds that swirled around him, breathed in the acrid, carbolic smells. A sudden metallic sound caught his attention, and he squeezed open his eyes, gasping at the painful brightness. He stared down at the foot of a hospital bed, a clipboard hanging from the rails. A dull fear crept through his mind at the sight of these ordinary objects. Where was he?

He closed his eyes. Did it matter? He could not remember anything other than Dolly's mischievous eyes and her smile, that dazzling smile that seemed to bring the Spring and Summer all at once. This image brought comfort, before the darkness returned.

Time passed, minutes, hours or days he could not say, and the darkness was suddenly interrupted by a soft female voice.

“Mr. Lawson, sweetheart, I'm going to take your blood pressure now.” Tom opened his eyes and the nurse stepped back in surprise. “Oh you've regained consciousness. How wonderful. I'll fetch the doctor.”

Another figure stepped forward to fill Tom's horizon, a tall, lanky figure in the uniform of the NSW Police Force. Tom squinted in the glare of the hospital light. “Uncle Jack,” he murmured. “Is that you?”

“It is, Tommy lad. I'm glad you're back with us. Take it easy now. Don't try to sit up.”

“Why am I here? What happened to me?”

“Calm down, son. It's alright. Don't you remember the assault?”

“I can't remember anything, Uncle Jack.” Tom felt a sharp pain stab throughout his body. “I don't know. Maybe I can remember a few things.” His eyes filled with tears. “I remember being surrounded by men in pointed hoods.”

Uncle Jack drew in his breath. “I tell you, Tom, the press might go on about the Reds, but I reckon the New Guard are just as dangerous.”