Final Assignments for creative writing class

Hey guys,
These are the ones that I turned in for final projects for my Writing London class. They're not brilliant, but they're not terrible. One is a short story and the other is a small drama piece. Hope you like them,

- Lena

The Puddle


“This sucks!” she yelled into the small plastic thing she held by her ear, much to the dismay of the people surrounding her.


She was always self-conscious in public. She felt as though people were glaring at her disapprovingly, and she was right a majority of the time.

‘She must be American,’ she heard them whisper, but continued shouting into the phone anyway.

“I HATE this place! It’s always raining. And if it’s NOT raining, then it’s still wet as FUCK! EVERYTHING’S expensive. I’m cold ALL the time, and I can’t FRIGGIN find ANY Ranch dressing!”

She waited for a response from her friend on the other end, hoping for comforting words, or a promise to express-ship some Ranch dressing and galoshes pronto, but the connection was none too good, so all she got was a crinkly static.

Feeling the tears form, she gulped, and continued her tirade in the absence of a response.

“All we EVER see when they take us on tours are these PILES of old rocks! I don’t even CARE about history, but if I did, it’s not worth freezing my ASS off to see some broken-down old castle!”

She was just starting to calm down, even without a pep-talk from the voice on the other end, which was still rustling with static, when her feet hit something cold and wet.

She had just enough time to shout something fabulously original, like “Ewww, I stepped in a puddle!!” before the panic hit her.

That single instant was all that it took this clever girl to realize that the cobblestones beneath her feet had given way. Now she was no longer mired in a puddle, but, rather she was sinking. To her horror, she was descending swiftly, and soon she was up to her knees in the shivering wet puddle. By the time she’d found her voice again and started shrieking for help, the water had reached mid-thigh.

The same passers-by who had looked on disapprovingly a minute ago seemed to have forgotten that she existed. Regardless of how loud she screamed, no one so much as looked at her. However, she did not scream for very long, because in the course of thirty seconds the water had reached her mouth and the screech became a gurgle.

As she fought for air, she felt water fill her ears, sensed her hair floating around her head in multitudinous tentacles. Fear filled her lungs as she gasped, inhaling water, choking on it.

Suddenly, she inhaled air. Shocked, she opened her eyes, and found herself on the street again, only it wasn’t the same street. While she was still in London, she was not in the same one. The shop windows were different, with a record shop instead of the Wasabi she’d been passing, and a restaurant where the HMV used to be. Even more telling, it was sunny, and not the cloudy day she’d been putting up with earlier. Oddly enough, her feet were still in the puddle that she’d stepped in a minute ago. Breathing a sigh of relief, she took another look around and began to worry once more.

Try as she might, she could not liberate her feet from the goo in which she was standing, and more disconcerting were the tremor she was beginning to feel in the ground.

‘They don’t have earthquakes in London,’ she told herself.

And as four mop-topped boys ran by, she knew what was coming.

The tremor in the ground got increasingly stronger, until she saw them, the horde of teenage girls flying towards her, feet stamping along the pavement, running with all of their strength. She tried to jump out of the way as the stampede approached but it was no use. Her feet were firmly trapped in the puddle, so she had to bear the brunt of it. Flying elbows hit her in every possible place, and she got bruises in places that she didn’t know were possible. Hair of every imaginable shade whipped her face, and she found herself wishing that more people had showered during the sixties. Her feet were in the puddle, but that didn’t protect them, and her tender toes suffered the stamp and stomp of every heel and boot.

As the thudding in the ground passed onward and the last of the flying hair smacked her face, she took stock of bruises and scratches. This day is getting worse by the second, she thought to herself, and the thought was confirmed as she began sinking into the puddle once more.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” were the only words that managed to escape from her mouth before she went under, but no one heard them anyway.

This time, when she arose from the depths of the damp, she found herself in darkness. It was undoubtedly the same city, as she recognized the cobblestones and the street signs, but now she found herself in blackness. It was nighttime, and, for the first time in the several weeks she’d spent in London, all of the windows were shuttered, with black curtains, and, oddly enough, there were no street lights on.

Her mind began working, and as the possibility of where, or when, she might be entered her mind, she shuddered.

The silence was broken by a mechanical roar, and her heart began to pound as she heard an eerie whistle through the darkness. She could see the airplanes above her, smaller versions of the ones she was accustomed to, inky cutouts against the black sky.

The whistle stopped, culminating in a deafening crash somewhere in the city. She couldn’t see what it had hit, but she could see the blaze of light in the distance, and shuddered again, wondering what poor soul had died in the explosion. After another minute of darkness, the now-familiar whistle rang in her ears again, followed by another explosion, this time down the street from where she stood, and she could see the blazing buildings, orange against the black of the night.

Hearing the whistling noise once more, she looked up to see a bomb swiftly descending upon the street where she was standing. As she desperately tried to pull her legs from the puddle and failed, she began to notice that she was sinking again, and prayed to descend faster, closing her eyes and listening to the thud of her heart beat. She felt the impact of explosion just before her head disappeared beneath the water, doing its damage with just enough time for a broken piece of glass to scratch her cheek as it flew by.

She took deep breaths as the darkness of the puddle fell away and tried to calm herself again. Suppressing tears, she looked around.

She might’ve still been in London, but it wasn’t one that she recognized. Green fields and rolling hills spread as far as she could see and a sparkling river flowed a short distance in front of her. Standing along the riverbank was a small stone fortress, complete with walls and a keep.

Looking around, she saw that she stood in a valley, poised between two hills. Her eyes widened as she looked at the hilltop to her right, seeing a battalion of warriors in Roman gear, armed with spears, swords and shields. What scared her more was the glowering rage on their faces as they looked across the valley to their counterparts, dressed in rough-looking animal furs and leathers. They had shields and spears also, but theirs, she noticed, looked like more of a home-made variety.

Just as she’d finished observing, the warring parties began to roar, casting war cries into the air as they rushed the valley. Cringing, she realized that she was at the center of their battlefield.
Clasping her arms over her head as she saw the sharpened ends of the spears coming at her, she let out a shriek and felt herself sinking into the puddle once more. As the water reached her head, she could feel the first spear swipe, and heard the screech of pain as it made contact.

Feeling the water recede, she looked around and found herself on the same familiar street, and people were giving her dirty looks again, because she was still shrieking. She stopped screaming as she realized where she was.

The voice on the other end came into focus.

“Oh, my God!! Are you ok?!?”

The concern in her friend’s voice was painfully evident, so she pulled it together for an answer.

“It’s … okay,” she responded slowly. “I just …. I …. stepped in a puddle.”

She knew that no one would believe her if she told the truth, so lying seemed like the best option.

“Oh, then you didn’t need to scream like that. I mean, it was just a puddle.”

“But … my feet are all wet now,” she stammered.

“And as to what you were saying, it can’t be that bad. It could be worse. Think about it, London’s amazing, with all that history …”

“Umm… yeah … history,” she repeated. “Could be …. worse. Listen … I gotta go. I’ll call you later.”

She snapped the phone shut and smiled as she squelched along the sidewalk. After all, things could be a lot worse.

****************************

The Mouse
Scene opens on an underground station, sometime after eleven o’clock at night. It’s practically abandoned, with only one person waiting for the train. It’s a young woman, in her early twenties. She’s wearing a party dress with black sequins, and carrying a matching black beaded bag. She’s also wearing high heels, and she’s obviously a bit tipsy, judging by the way that she is mildly stumbling along the platform. We will call her Tina.

T makes her way unsteadily over to the seats at the edge of the platform, and collapses suddenly into one of them. She lays her bag down next to her. She surreptitiously looks around, making sure that she is alone on the platform before taking her face into her hands and beginning to cry. It starts off quietly, as she tries to control the volume in an echoey train station, but soon the sobs and sniffles start to resound. She pulls a tissue out of her bag and blows her nose quite loudly.

A: Wotcha’ snifflin’ about?

T (without looking up): I happen to have (sniff) had a bad night.

(looks up, and eyes widen)

Who said that?

A: I did.

T (looking confused and somewhat worried, swipes across her eyes with the back of her hand to wipe away tears): Who are you? Where are you? I don’t see anybody.

(Gets up and wanders around the platform a bit, trying to see if there really is someone she missed but the platform is abandoned)

A: Typical ‘uman. Don’t see nothin’ but whot’s in front of ya, and ya don’ even see that very well.

T: Who are you?

A: Look down, sweetheart.

T (glances around quickly. Says this somewhat angrily): Ok, what are you playing at? I don’t see anyone here

(looks down)

… except …

(looks more pointedly at the ground by her feet, yelps and jumps away several feet from where she was standing. She lands badly, wobbling and almost twisting her ankle before she plops into a seat that is directly behind her on the platform)

A: Well, if yer gonna react like that, then maybe I don’t want to talk to you no more.

T (blinking away tears): But you’re a … a … a

A: mouse? Yup. I am. Squalling about it won’t do ya no good.

T: But … but … I didn’t know you guys could talk …

A: We can. We just generly don’t, seein’ as folk’ tend to react like you did.

T: Well, then. I just …. Well…. Ok.

A: You, my young friend, are clearly not ok.

T: Excuse me?

A: People who sit at tube stations cryin’ in the middle of the night ain’t usually ok, at least not in my experience.

T (vehemently): Oh, and you’ve got so much experience with people crying in tube stations?

A: Oh, yeah. I hang out on these tracks all the time. You’d be surprised what people will do when they think they’re alone.

T (still sniffling, but curious): Yeah, like what?

A: Young thing, like you, I don’t think I oughtta tell you. I mean, yer gonna discover life’s mysteries soon enough, without me jadin’ yer ears.

(Albert lets a few seconds pass while twiddling his whiskers)

I wouldn’ sit in that chair if I was you, by the way. Certainly not after I knew what went on it.

(T leaps up, stares wide-eyed at the seat she was sitting in, although there’s nothing visibly wrong with it, and starts frantically brushing off her bottom)

A (chuckling): I’m sure yer fine. Ya can stop brushin’ yer bottom, unless that’s somethin’ you folk like to do fer fun, in which case, go ahead.

T (giving her hands a final swipe down her dress before straightening, looks a little shamefaced): Yes, well, thank you. And it’s not something we do normally, not most of us, anyway.

(Silence settles as the girl examines the mouse, and mouse stares back at the girl.)

A: My name’s Albert, by the way.

T: Well, it’s nice to meet you, I guess. I’m Tina.

A: Can I ask you somethin’, Tina?

T (sarcastically): Since I’m already talking to a mouse, I don’t suppose things can get any weirder. Go ahead.

A: Why was ya cryin’?

T (her eyes start to well up again and she sniffles before she speaks): Oh, my boyfriend broke up with me tonight.

A: Ah, that’s all? That ain’t nothin’ to cry over. A pretty little thing like you’ll find another one, a better one, soon enuff. Plenny of fish in the sea, as they say.

T: But (lets out a sob) he’s the …. He’s the …. (dissolves into tears again)

A (gently): He’s the what, darlin’?

T (shakily, wiping off her running nose): He’s the reason I came to London. He’s the only person I know here. And tonight … he told me I wasn’t good enough for him anymore.

A: If yer don’ mind me sayin’, Miss, he sounds like a giant dimwit.

T: What?

A: Ya heard me. If he could talk to you that way, he don’ deserve you.

T (still sniffling): I suppose you’re right. I am better off without him.

A (speaking with authority): Ya shouldn’ give up on yer life just because some idiot bloke broke up with ya. (slightly under his breath now) An idiot ya shouldn’ta been with to begin with.

T (somewhat sullenly, but quietly): Well, how would you know?

A (sagely): Oh, we know more than ya think, us mice do. We see ya. We see the couples kissing on the platforms, feel the beat poundin’ through the ground when the musicians play for coins. We see the mothers, leading sticky-fingered children through these underground tunnels. We see the homeless, the ignored, the happy, the sad, the angry. We see it all, much more than you do, with yer noses stuck in yer newspapers, music dinnin’ in yer ears through yer headphones.

T (surprised, and a little awed by his impassioned speech): I’m sorry. I just .. I just thought it was an underground station.

A: It is. That’s the only way you ‘umans see it. Just a way to get from here to there. Not caring what you miss along the way. Ya come in with yer nose glued ta the ground, and ya walk out the same way. Ya don’ feel the breeze of the trains rushin’ by on yer whiskers. Ya don’ feel the joy of findin’ unexpected crumbs of cookie. Ya don’ hear the joyful squeaks of the children when their pa brings dinner home.

T: Well, I haven’t got whiskers, and human children don’t squeak, but I see your point.

A: More’s the pity about the whiskers. I think ya’d look charming with a nice set of ‘em. But there is more to life than cryin’ over some silly bloke who can’t pull his head out of his arse long enough to know how lovely you are.

T (smiling, for the first time): Thank you. You really are a very sweet little mouse.

A: Yer welcome. It’s a pity to see someone so sad, when there’s so much in front of ya, so much world to see.

T: Yes, I understand. You’ve really been very kind to me.

A: Not a problem at all, Miss.

(T perks up, listening to a sound in the distance)

T: The train is coming. Hadn’t you better hide?

A: This time of night …. There shouldn’ be very many people to notice me, and the condition they’re usually in… they wouldn’ notice a wall in front of their faces half the time. But I do have ta get back to me wife. Me little ones are waitin’ up fer me to get home, waitin’ fer dinner. You haven’t got anything, have ya?

T (digs through bag, pulls out small chunk of cookie): Huh, I didn’t realize I had that, but you can have it now, if you like.

A: Thank ya, miss, the little ones will appreciate it. They like the chocolate chippies best.

T: It was very nice meeting you, and, although I doubt I will, I would very much like to see you again.

A: It was a pleasure meetin’ you too, miss. And I do help you’ll think of me every so often, when yer explorin’ this grand ol’ city.

T: I’m sure I will.

A: Good night, Miss.

T: Good night, Albert.

T smiles down at the little mouse and steps onto the train, which has at this point arrived and the doors have opened. She gets in and sits down and the train pulls away. After the roar of the train is gone, we hear the click-clack of little mousey feet and some happy squeaking as Albert journeys on his way home.