We’re almost to the end of the alphabet themed writing challenge. This week it’s ‘V‘, ‘W‘ and ‘X‘ that take centre stage, with the themes of ‘Victory‘, ‘Water‘ and ‘X-ray‘. For inspiration, you’ll find some ideas on these themes if you click on the following link:
Last week’s writing challenge invited stories and poems on the themes of ‘Spy‘, ‘Trapped‘ and ‘Uppity‘. Interesting, eh? The stories and poems certainly were:
Keith Channing used all three themes in his story. I think he captures the characters of a teenage boy and his frustrated mother very well:
Before I left John’s house, I knew I’d be in trouble. I was still smarting from last week’s tirade; John had been making ginger beer in his house, and he gave me some of the germ in a bottle, so I could make some, too. I brought it home with me, topped up the bottle, and put it in the airing cupboard to develop. Mum found it the next day.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Ginger beer,” I said, “John’s making it in his house, and he gave me some of the germ, so I could make some, too. It’s ever so nice.”
“Well, you can take it straight back to him,” she instructed, “I don’t know about his mother, but I don’t want any germs in my house.”
So that had to go back.
I dreaded to think what would happen to me today. It was a Saturday and I’d been playing with John, at his house, all afternoon. Just before tea time, John’s mum asked if I wanted to stay for tea. I told her Mum would worry and be cross if I wasn’t back for tea, so she said she’d send Timmy, John’s little brother, to ask Mum if it would be OK. John’s dad worked for the GPO and they had a phone in their house, but we didn’t, so we wouldn’t call her. It’s only about a hundred yards up the road, so Timmy could be there and back quite quickly and it was still light. When Timmy came back, nobody thought to ask if he had passed the message. It wasn’t until I was ready to leave, well after dark, that we found out that he had forgotten what it was he had to ask, so he didn’t go to my house; he just hung around for a couple of minutes and came back.
“And where do you think you’ve been?” Mum shouted, as I opened the back door to go into the house.
“At John’s,” I replied, in all innocence, “Timmy came to tell you, didn’t he?”
“NO HE DID NOT!” came the reply.
“Well, that’s not my fault, is it?” I asked, “his mum told him to, and he didn’t say he didn’t, so we thought he had. What else were we supposed to do?”
“Your dad’s been worried sick, too; he nearly went to the phone box to call the police.”
“If he’d done that, he would have had to walk past John’s house and he would have seen me playing in their front garden!”
How could parents be so stupid?
“Don’t you get uppity with me, young man,” Mum said, “get to your room.”
I sloped up the stairs to my room, Mum so close behind me I could feel her breath on the back of my neck. I went into my room and pushed the door closed behind me, sulking in that special way only I knew how. When the door closed, I heard the key turn in the lock. I turned to the door, and I could swear I saw Mum’s eye in the spy-hole, as she said, “Get your weekend homework done, then get to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“But what if I need the toilet?” I asked, fearing above all else that I would be trapped there all night.
“You’ll have to hold on to it,” she replied.
“All night?”
“If need be; either that or use the pot that’s under your bed.”
“But pots are for tiny kids; I’m fourteen.”
“Then maybe you should start acting it, and showing some consideration for your parents.”
How was I supposed to make it through the night; more than twelve hours locked in my room. Sure, I could do my homework. That was never a punishment, I enjoyed that, but that would only take me until about nine. That would still leave ten hours. I had no choice but to use the pot. Of course, as soon as I realised that, I needed to go straight away. Would the pot be big enough to last all night? And would I be able to carry it downstairs to the toilet, without spilling any?
This was horrible.
“Best friend’s brother or not, Timmy’s gonna get it next time I see him,” I promised myself.
Ayo Oboro wrote this compelling poem:
He looked down on her.
Obviously seeking attention,
She isn’t very pretty
So he can understand why.
She wants the guys at her beck and call,
And wears the clothes that make them pant.
Now they’re alone.
She’s right in his face.
He tries to pretend she doesn’t exist,
Didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to look.
She speaks a name,
He catches his breath,
It catches his attention
He has to look.
Her eyes are brown.
Brown, beautiful and speaking to him.
He cannot imagine himself with her
He turns away but he can’t let go.
Her eyes draw him and then the name
The name that only he and someone else should know.
She winks at him and says, “I’m the one.”
The one with the message he’d been waiting for.
He’d paid an Agency to do some work
And they send this one to bring his report.
He can’t believe she is an Agency staff,
With dressing like that and such a loud voice.
They spend two hours talking
And another two when she’s showing him where,
Where this and that from her report.
Her eyes won’t let go when he closes his in sleep
And even the next day and the week that follows.
Finally he realizes he’s trapped by the eyes
The eyes of that not so pretty lady
The one he had paid to spy for him.
Jasdeep Kaur brings the challenge to an end with this simply stunning poem:
Trapped
Plush possessions; alluring affluence;
unmoved uppity; combusting contempt;
envious entreaties; venomous wishes.
Are we trapped?
Prying peeps; nosy neighbourhood;
bleak blether; scrumptious slander;
parching prejudice; ruined relationships.
Are we trapped?
Howling hunger; continuous chase;
broken bonds; spiteful soul;
haltered Humanity; malicious maze.
Aren’t we trapped?
Esther Chilton 
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