WRITING EXAMPLES

A BLANK CANVAS (Flash Fiction)

A blank canvas; both the room and her. Waiting for the splashes of colour and life that would be bestowed upon it. She walked in, weighed down by her bags, cramped with supplies to make her optimum learning environment.

She walked to the far corner of the room, reached into a black bin bag and pulled them out, one by one, boldly coloured cushions, soft as cashmere. Pretty patterns that would entice the children into the reading corner, where the words and worlds of Dahl, Rosen, Walliams and Donaldson would do the rest.

Laid neatly upon every desk were the clear pencil cases she had purchased, each with a brand new pencil, rubber, ruler, sharpener and glue stick. She had briefly considered scissors as the final item but, had decided against it. Every decision had to be objectively reviewed for safety, efficiency and the difference it could make. Scissors could be dangerous, a distraction, taken onto the playground, taken home. The cost could be an hour’s learning, £3 per child, an accident or…worse. She could hardly believe she’d contemplated it now. Almost a rookie mistake.

At 35, her dream of becoming a teacher had finally been realised. The lives she could touch, the lessons she could teach, the care she could give. Her school was in a ‘disadvantaged’ area, hardly any children registered with Special Educational Needs actually diagnosed, but so many with ‘behavioural issues.’ She pushed down the anxiety she felt whenever a new colleague expressed concern about the class she’d be given, the children who had been mixed.

‘No Teaching Assistant? With those kids? Even the most experienced teacher would struggle.’

She smiled, assured them that she wanted to support all children. She knew that behaviour was communication, understood that pain was processed in all sorts of ways when you’re 7. She couldn’t wait to show the children, the other teachers, the world, that she could do this. She could make a difference to these kids.

She moved the classroom and seating plan around multiple times that summer. She wanted Kagan style tables, a dialogic classroom where questions and conversation were part of every lesson. She wanted to challenge her ‘greater depth’ children and scaffold the learning of those nowhere near their ‘age expected’ targets. She would be able to monitor those struggling and make all the relevant referrals- Speech and Language, Paediatrician, family support worker, social care- she would notice, she would help.

Recognition of achievements board? Done. Star of the day certificates printed? Yes. Birthday bag, crown and cushion? Tick. Sensory bag for every child who had shown indication of autism? Right here. Fidget bag for those who could have ADHD? Yep. Specialist workbooks for those who could not yet write their name, never mind discuss prepositions? All ready.

The ‘working walls’ were ready for work, the displays were professional and engaging, the desks organised, the work planned, the support materials ready. The perfect classroom.

Three months later, just 90 days, 300 classroom hours and it was over. Ambitions quashed, hopes extinguished and self-belief worn down, like the blue chalk on a snooker cue, until there was no blue to be seen. The toxicity, the bullying, the blame culture that trampled you down rather than lifted you up, these were the only things remaining. And the cushions, she still had the cushions.

BREATHE (Flash Fiction)

Will I feel rain on my skin again? Water cascades down the external windows. I blink away tears, warmth trickles down my cheeks.

Footsteps echo through the corridor. Bleach burns my inner nostrils.

 ‘Bleep…bleep…bleep…’

My internal monologue prays for the continued short bleeps; longer ones inevitably mean disaster.

I try to sit up. The energy expedited is monumental, the pain excruciating. I stop trying.

“These masks are so uncomfortable,” Adrian had complained, sliding into our car. I’d agreed; laughably now. Those soft cotton masks. Now this plastic one supplies my oxygen. A scratchy tube remains in my throat. I long to return to that previous ‘discomfort.’

I recall Government speeches, “Teachers aren’t at greater risk than the rest of the population.”

 I’m not a teacher though, just a TA. That resource distributed to classrooms with the same thought as stationary,

“30 books, 15 rubbers and Mrs Brown for Class 2.”

TA’s work with ‘struggling’ kids,’ administer medication, teach swimming and PHSE; teachers have more ‘important’ work.

Bleep…bleep, bleeeeeeeeep. “Crash Cart!” an alarmed voice shouts.

They run into our room. No, not again. Please. Will it be Ted, the war hero who survived Iraq? Or Juliette, 32, mother of 3?

My breathing sharpens, a panic attack? It would be justified. I take slow, deep breaths, as I have always been taught. I breathe too deeply, the coughing fit that ensues consumes me.

What could’ve been scary enough to warrant panic back then? I had wasted precious time.

That’s all we have really; time.

They pass Juliette. They pass Ted.

Thank God. Wait… they’re running towards my bed. The ‘bleeeeeeeeep’ is my machine.

Never again will I see rainbows, roll snowballs, taste chocolate, hold Adrian’s hand, or hear Jake’s infectious laughter.

Alarmed voices surround me. Breathe, it’s just your job, I want to tell them. Please. It will be okay. You all have lives to live when your shifts end.

I feel calm now. The cough eases, the alarmed voices fade into nothingness, the pain evaporates. A soothing light engulfs me and I can breathe freely once more.

OUT OF HIS MIND (Short Story)

Peter was a small, freckled child. Average build-aesthetically. Just a normal kid. However, at school, Peter stood out. His teachers talked about him having ‘a big future ahead of him.’ His dad bragged about his intelligent son at the snooker hall, his mum seemed genuinely thrilled with each ‘A’ he achieved. At eight, he felt a sense of responsibility to continue to please his parents. 

As Peter got older, he stretched himself to gain their approval. He was Head Boy, President of his Debate Club, and lead in the school play. He felt judgement from his peers for being ‘perfect,’ resentment from his siblings, and was sure his classmates laughed behind his back. He had ‘friends’ whom he sat with at dinnertime, but never went back to friends’ houses for tea. There were no real one-to-one connections, nobody he could be completely open with. College would be easier, he told himself, and university easier still. 

Yet instead, with each level of education, Peter ‘stood out’ less. He thought that was what he wanted, and yet just being somewhere in the middle of the class academically, gave him a crushing sense of failure, of invisibility. When his dad bragged about him now, it seemed like a lie. He was screaming on the inside; ‘I’m not at the top of the class anymore, Dad!’  

But he couldn’t speak these words out loud, and so he also felt like a fraud. He began to feel physical symptoms of this inadequacy- pains in his chest, ‘butterflies’ in the pit of his stomach. 

University was tougher still, there were so many articulate, confident students, he disappeared into the background. There were references he didn’t get, ‘classics’ he hadn’t read, ski trips he hadn’t taken and culturally relevant places he’d failed to visit. No matter how hard he tried, his working-class background meant he was always playing catch-up.He felt himself physically disappearing too – piece by piece. He dreaded going home, the questions they would ask, the expectations that would pile on top of him, the crushing weight of their dreams for him. 

From that first year of university, Peter could remember an overwhelming desire to escape. Not from any physical space, or even necessarily from other people, but from himself. He dreamt of running free from his body, and more specifically, free from the thoughts and emotions that consumed him. 

Then he met her. Peter and Lucile had literally bumped into each other one day, back when Blockbuster Video existed. They both absent-mindedly reached for the same video box- The Holiday– and then laughed, each a little embarrassed for considering the cheesy rom-com. They discovered they were students in the same halls. When Lucile suggested watching the movie together, Peter gratefully accepted. He couldn’t believe his luck. From that first night, they both found it hard to think of much else and quickly became inseparable. He was her first, and he soon realised that he wanted her to be his only. He wanted to give her the world, and he made her his world, too. Things felt easier; she allowed him to forget himself. 

One night, a year or so after they met, they were in a student bar waiting to order a drink, when they heard raised voices. People seemed to be pointing at something or someone, and a crowd started to form. The bouncers ran over quickly, shouting at people to get back. Peter looked at Lucille, who was holding on tightly to his hand- or was it he who was squeezing her hand? Then, as the crowd opened up, Peter saw her. The unfamiliar girl was lying on the floor, a pool of crimson blood at her side, her blue  eyes were open but vacant. Another girl, perhaps a friend, was screaming- it pierced the air and transformed the previously loud, busy bar to a room so quiet that when Peter’s glass dropped to the floor and shattered, everyone heard it. That scream would return to him, as would those eyes, in some of his darkest moments. They later found out that the young woman, who had been just 18, had been trying to stop two men from fighting and had been stabbed accidentally- a knife that was never meant for her, a night out that was never meant to impact so many lives. 

A week later, sat in the middle of a Contract Law lecture, Peter suddenly felt faint. He steadied himself by grasping the back of the seat in front, and didn’t notice when the occupier turned around to see what he was doing. The room literally began to spin, he couldn’t focus. People were talking at him; someone touched his arm. He stood up and shakily made his way to the end of the row, failing to apologise to those he was squeezing past and holding onto the back of every chair. Someone, a girl he thought, held his arm as he walked down the stairs and led him to the door. Everything went black.  

When Peter came around, he was in a hospital bed, Lucile was at his side. She looked so worried. Before he had a chance to speak to her, a woman in a white coat walked in.  

‘Hi Peter, I’m Dr Babu.’ 

Oh God, he thought, everything coming back to him.  

I’m sick, really sick. She is going to say that I have cancer, or I’ve had a heart attack, or announce some other terminal ailment. 

‘You collapsed at university today, Peter. We’ve run tests, and we have a few more to run, but our findings are positive so far. We think you’ve had a panic attack. Has anything particularly stressful or traumatic occurred recently?’  

Lucile began to tell her about the stabbing. Peter felt mortified; he’d panicked? That was it? He was in the hospital; he had thought he was dying! But no, he had simply panicked? He felt his cheeks growing hot, he longed for the ground (or at least the hospital bed) to literally swallow him up. He just wanted to go home and forget about it all; he was fine. 

He wasn’t though. He didn’t want to go out much after that, every raised voice made him weary- even in the supermarket. His palms became sweaty, his heart rate became faster, it took all his energy not to run. To arrive home with shopping, to have completed a lecture – these once inane tasks became huge achievements, ones that he was in no hurry to repeat. Whenever Lucile wasn’t with him, he worried for her. He wanted to ask her not to go out, to live in his room with him, the only place that felt safe.  

Since that very first panic attack, things had changed considerably. After the first one, Peter was proactive. Believing that ‘knowledge was power.’ He read, he watched, he researched. He tried experimental diets, juicing and strict exercise regimes. He engaged in holistic activities such as mindfulness, visualisation, yoga, journaling, affirmations…everything worked. A little. For a while. Everything seemed hopeful at first. It was exhausting, though. Trying to stay well became an obsession, something that consumed his life until there was nothing much in it that was worth being well for. Only her. Only Lucile. 

It was a late July afternoon, absent from both blinding sun and unseasonal rain. Without conscious warning, Peter became light-headed, as though the air in the room was evaporating and flashes of darkness were taking its place. As he was standing up, he reached for the old leather armchair to steady his legs, he felt as if there was an earthquake underneath him, unable to maintain his stance. Lucille’s mouth was moving; mouthing words, but he didn’t have any idea what she was saying. Once he had believed that the beauty and light within her would be enough to heal his own darkness, they may have even come close at one point. Still, Peter had promised his forever, not hers, and surely hers could be brighter, happier, fuller, if not consumed by the burden of him. 

Peter tried to control his breathing, to slow it down. He had done so a thousand times before, yet it was getting harder. Focus, he thought, find something to focus on. The crack in the wall? Yes, that would do. He tried to stare at the details of the crack, say them in his mind- What colour? How big? What caused it? He held onto his chest, as if by doing so he could prevent his thudding heart from cascading out of his body. 

Another panic attack. For once, the terminology seemed appropriate for the event – he was literally being attacked by panic. Every cell, every atom, no longer able to function the way it should. It felt like the attacker could win, that he could actually die in this moment. Peter tried not to feel the momentary relief that he always did when this thought arose. He had pins and needles in his face, his arms, his hands. His nose felt like it was collapsing into his skin, his nostrils getting smaller and less able to take in sufficient air. The cripplingly overwhelming fear that transfixed him, made him wish for nothing more than a release from its strangulating grip. Please, he thought. Please let me go. 

Some days were panic-free, those days were often when the depression took hold. Depression isn’t what people think it is. It’s not a sadness or laziness. It’s not a self-indulgent pity or feeling tearful when you shouldn’t. For him, depression was a darkness where his soul should be. It was a heavy weight that he carried in his chest, making the simplest tasks- getting up, getting dressed, eating- so mammoth that they seldom felt worthwhile. It was a ‘lack of,’ a vast expanse of emptiness that plagued his every thought. It hurt, it physically hurt- his chest, his head, his whole body at times. Rather than ‘fight or flight,’ it was more like ‘lay down and die.’ It was so unimaginably difficult to make it through each hour of each day that anything would be better. He was drowning in quicksand, but he was the only one who could see it. It was exhausting. So, when his father-in-law looked at him with clear disappointment, he understood perfectly. Peter wasn’t good enough for his precious daughter; wasn’t good enough for anyone. Quite literally ‘a waste of space.’  

When they left university and moved in together, it felt like a fresh start where everything could be better, easier, safer. Peter quickly proposed and envisaged an incredible life for them both. She was kind, beautiful, patient- she was everything. As long as she was here, he would be fine. She was his ‘safe place.’ 

The panic attacks started again six months before the wedding they’d planned. It felt overwhelmingly out of his control. People would be drinking in the evening, what if there was an argument or fight? What if Lucille tried to stop it? It was too big of a risk to take. He begged her to elope, to leave the stress and the worry behind. They would be married, did that other stuff really matter? He sighted reasons, like the avoidance of debt and stress; she reluctantly agreed. Peter knew it wasn’t what she’d dreamed of, and the knowledge that he was letting her down was almost as difficult as he imagined the big wedding would have been. 

Five months later, Peter had another panic attack. It made no sense. They were at home. There was no threat of danger; yet the world seemed to be closing in on him. Had there been a subconscious thought that had led to this? In his more lucid, self-aware moments, Peter often comprehended that those who were free from depression, anxiety and pain were actually ‘crazy.’ How could you not have these feelings as a living, empathetic and intelligent human? There were quite literally children dying of starvation when others had billions, there were families of innocent civilians being blown up due to the disagreements of those in power, anyone of us could be diagnosed with cancer or Alzheimer’s or heart disease tomorrow, whilst today we could be the victims of a terror attack or drunk driver.  We could lose our jobs, our homes, our ability to support those around us. There were people who purposely neglected, beat, raped and abused. We were literally destroying the planet that we lived on and forcing entire species to the brink of extinction. We could lose the people we love tomorrow and, even, if we escaped all of that, we would eventually die. Die. Forever. And yet those with anxiety were the ones who were ill, in need of medication? What about those who were quite happy and content with their world; their lives- surely, they’re the ‘mad’ ones? 

Then there were other people- those who loved Peter; but were unable to comprehend this disease.  

‘It’s all about positive attitude.’ (Sister)  

‘Come on, you need to snap out of this.’ (Uncle),  

‘You’re making your mum sick with worry; this has to stop.’ (Dad).  

He wished that this illness was more visible, more treatable. He was sure if someone was to open him up, they’d see the darkness that seemed to ravish him from the inside out. His mind was a cyclone, and yet his brain functioned slowly, like a children’s toy when the battery’s energy was almost completely depleted. Sometimes his speech was slurred, he forgot things, he was clumsy.  

‘Man up’ they said at work, laughing when his words became muddled. 

‘Are you day drinking again mate?’  

A forced turning up of the side of the mouth was the only thing he could offer by means of social interaction, of fitting in. 

He was constantly jumpy, on edge, in the corner of his eye, the dressing gown was a ghost, the pile of washing a small child, the gates rattling in the wind were unwelcome footsteps in his garden. Switching off was impossible. His only respite was sleep, until his nightmares began to fill the night with a heavier darkness than most could comprehend. The guilt and shame for existing in this way felt like it was literally eating away at him- every day there was less of him remaining. 

On the day he decided was his last, he made sure everything was perfect for Lucile. He cooked food and put it in the freezer, he vacuumed, and washed the bedding. He ironed the clean washing and did the dishes. He wasn’t a strong or brave man, or a man who could bring her the joy he’d promised, but he was a good man, and he desperately wanted her to remember him that way. Perhaps he could have continued existing, but to continue to put her through this pain, to stop her from experiencing the happiness that she should, he couldn’t do that anymore. 

He lay on the sofa, he didn’t want this to be the way she remembered their bed. The sofa would be easier, cheaper to replace. Peter had thoughts that he considered logical; he knew her mum wasn’t at work tonight, for example. He knew she’d rush over; she’d comfort Lucile in her initial pain. The bills were paid for next month too, he hoped that this would help her.  

She would be happy again, not tomorrow perhaps, but at some point, and that was a happiness that she truly deserved. An impossibility whilst he existed, he thought. This was the only way. He had swallowed them all back with Bacardi and coke, even at this stage he couldn’t drink it without the coke. The empty packets of sertraline, amitriptyline, the propranolol, the paracetamol, the codeine- they all lay on the side, there would be no doubt of his intention or their effectiveness. 

After worrying about death for so long, this felt nothing like Peter had imagined it would. He felt calm, peaceful, and, in his heart, he felt sure that the people he loved could move forward now. He imagined Lucile pushing a beautiful little girl, her daughter, on a swing set in a flower filled garden. The two of them laughed and music played from somewhere inside their home. Lucile was free of worry and pain, consumed by love and joy. That image in his mind was to be his final one. 

He was so selfish though, wasn’t he? They said when they heard. Always moping about. Everyone tried to help him. His parents are still together you know, his wife is beautiful, and they didn’t struggle for money, what did he have to be miserable about? How could he do this to his family? They said, he seemed fine… mostly. Why didn’t he just get help? We would have listened, we would have understood, they said when their words no longer had any power to help him. 

Peter had never wanted to die, to hurt anyone, or leave them behind. Never wanted to leave her behind. He wanted to help his loved ones to live again, to release them. He had simply wanted to escape from himself. He wanted to live, but that wasn’t an option, not in his mind anyway.