Creative Boost writing

Creative Boost

A couple of weeks ago we held our Creative Boost weekend. There were so many lovely pieces of writing that we wanted to share some on the blog  – so we asked people to send us their favourite pieces.

Here’s a selection…

Crossing the line

Just Do It

Just Do It

Just Do It

I Did It!

It’s Done

Where did I come? Who cares?

What was my time? Who cares?

I crossed the line and I’m feeling fine

Flying, soaring, roaring

No-one can take this away, I did it

Legs crumble, jelly wobble crash

Who cares? I don’t need them now

I really did it!

What next?

Kate Stokes Davies, BBC Wales


Steady now.

There’s a loud smack that nobody seems to notice, followed by endless creaking

to and fro, steaming ahead.

This isn’t simply A to B, this is an adventure. It’s a huge, tin time machine with hidden corridors.

Men in waistcoats disappear, then reappear, swaying.

With each churn and clunk, a new smell wafts into my nose; duty free perfume, then pizza.

Always pizza.

Up and down we go, with a certain grandeur. It’s got its own rules and laws, or is it lawless?

People float by me, overdressed and underdressed, as excited yet underwhelmed as I am.

Creaking left and right, yet powering on.

This is what I want – A ‘get outta my way – here I come world’ attitude. Swaying but steady, strong and adventurous.

I can’t get that where I am now. But what can I do about it – steam on or find a new direction?

It blows in my ear and nearly knocks me off my feet.

I’ll get there.

Clare Wellham, UK Greetings


“From the dark greenhouse

The beast snarled and gnashed his teeth

Terrified, Tom ran away”

Tom awoke with a start. Ever since he was little, he’d always woken up like that. Starting each day terrified at what he might see when he opened his eyes. For him, sleep was a total surrender. An unavoidable lowering of his guard. Ever since he first encountered the monster from the greenhouse, Tom dreaded the night-time. This time, however, something was different – this time he saw nothing at all.

There was no greenhouse monster in sight, and that was some relief. But there was no battered wardrobe either. There was no icy window. No wonky mirror. No door, left slightly ajar. There was nothing. Tom didn’t sleep wearing his glasses, but he was never without them otherwise. “He can’t see a thing if he hasn’t got his specs on,” his mother used to say. But this wasn’t that kind of blindness. This was different. There was no light. There was no shade. He couldn’t see a thing. Tom, the only boy who could see the monster, was now blind.

He froze, terrified to move even an inch. What if the monster was in his room? He listened out for its menacing snarls. For its raspy breath. For the sound of its claws, scraping along the wooden floor. For the sound of its tail, thrashing from side to side in the air. But there was nothing.

On realising this, Tom’s fear began to deepen and broaden. What if he was deaf as well as blind? If he can’t see the monster, and he can’t hear the monster, it surely wouldn’t be long before he was eaten by the monster. He clapped his hands, and startled himself. As the sound rang out through the house and echoed back to him, he became sure of one thing – Tom, the only little boy who could hear the monster, was not deaf.

However, his fear was not allayed by this discovery. His sweaty hands had created a terrible thunderclap, which rippled through the room, unsettling the layers of dust that lay across every surface. The monster would surely have heard him now. Tom wondered whether it was morning yet. If it was, at least the monster would be asleep. But if it wasn’t, the monster would certainly be awake, and hungry, looking for his next meal.

He thought of calling out for his father, but he didn’t. Hearing his yells, the monster would definitely come. And worse – he’d know Tom was vulnerable. He’d know Tom was an easy kill. You can never show your weakness to the monster; it preys on weakness. Tom knew this, but still, the desire to call out was almost irresistible. Opening his mouth and drawing a deep breath, he was about to scream when he stopped himself. No, he thought. You’re smarter than this. There’s a reason why the monster hasn’t got you yet.

Still shaking like a leaf, but now with a small shot of courage, Tom started to slide out of bed. He outstretched his leg from underneath the duvet, his foot desperate to find the floor. It seemed to take an eternity to find. “Where has the floor gone? First, my sight. Now my floor!” His heart began to race even faster. But then, with a thump, Tom stubbed his toe on the floorboard. The pain shot up his leg and he felt like screaming. “No”, he thought. “The monster will hear me. Pull yourself together.”

Doing all he could to overcome the pain and fear, Tom stretched his other leg out. This time, he placed his foot carefully on the floor, scooted towards the edge of the mattress and slowly lifted himself up to his full height. He froze for a few moments, listening for the slightest clue as to what was in the room with him. Hearing nothing, he tentatively put one foot in front of the other and headed towards where the door should be, feeling his way with outstretched arms. His jittery fingers eventually found the handle and, turning sideways, he slowly slipped through the crack.

The silence was still enveloping him. If it weren’t for Tom’s clumsy movements in his own private darkness, the house would’ve been a graveyard. “Is this a good sign?”, Tom asked himself. If his father wasn’t here, and wasn’t snoring away in the other room then he must be at work. And if his father’s at work, it must be daytime. Tom’s terror began to subside, but just as it was almost gone, an unwelcome thought thwarted his recovery. What if his father’s been killed and eaten already? Then he wouldn’t make a sound, for sure. What if the monster got to him in the night, and now he’s all alone in the dark?

Dom Stapleton, InsureandGo


Alarm clock

Days of not caring,

Days of more sharing,

Of more staring,

Of more daring.

That’s what I recall when the sun hits my eye

Of late, late mornings where I tried less to try

When I was less tough,

more sleepy, more flighty, more bold

Let me not lose that when I am old.

John Espirian



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