Capture the Scene - a creative writing exhibition
Capture the Scene
Back in April I collaborated with poet Joanna Butler to run a free writing workshop in Bristol called Capture the Scene. We were overwhelmed by the number of people interested in taking part, but kept the numbers down and had a lovely afternoon exploring and developing our writing to really enhance our descriptive powers.
Each person who attended produced a spontaneous piece of writing about the sea, and to celebrate the wealth of talent demonstrated by participants we’re displaying them here in an online exhibition, with paintings by abstract artist and songwriter Anna Young directed inspired by the writing.
Primarily a musician, Anna has discovered a talent for and love of painting in recent years and her work tends towards the abstract. This is her first public, online exhibition.
Enjoy!
Judy
Daylight seems brighter here
Daylight seems brighter here
The endless amount of sand and waves takes my breath away every time I’m there. It is a place where the wind will never stop blowing, where daylight seems brighter than anywhere else and where colossal ships are nothing more than tiny dots on the horizon.
The sound of the waves rushing to the shore reminds me of the sound of tall trees in the wind whilst tiny grains of sand fight to cling on to my skin. No matter how much I scrub, wash and brush, they always find their way home with me.
The sea is a never-ending lake. It is hard to imagine there is land on the other side, a yet undiscovered land with different cultures, languages and food, separated from me only by vast amounts of water.
Rainbow coloured kites play in the ever-powerful wind as surfers catch the waves heading for the beach. Squawking seagulls soar high above the dunes, the border between this desolate place called the beach and the world that we live in.
Judith Jansen is originally from Holland and has only recently started creative writing. She currently writes proposals for a Bristol law firm.
An endless race for freedom
An endless race for freedom
An endless race for freedom
The marriage of a thousand generous streams overflowing with an endless, limitless race for freedom.
The blue of the sky is borrowed to reflect the still-glass, framed waterfall which has come to rest, to sleep and be. Barrels full of vanilla ice-cream topping foam are generously dressed over parts of the cerulean water. And when it comes into shore it captures handfuls of white sand and takes them out for a roller coaster ride on high waves. In, out.
Miles of fine, sifted salt season the length of the entire beach as far as the hand-placed-over-eyes can see. They tickle the soft bits between your toes, playing hide and seek with the teasing waves. The water engulfs them and scoops them back out to the wide, wet blanket. Rush, wave, in, out.
Rainbow-coloured sails peep over the distant horizon, where the liquid earth between here and there float precariously on a plain of blue. Swaying gently, in, out.
Birds fly, but quite high. They crave the cool air way above the borrowed blue. Breeze, fresh, cool. Sand, white and smooth. A splash of water returning to visit the shore, the sand, and in between my toes.
Anne Lyken-Garner is a freelance writer for both online and hard copy publications. She’s also the editor of the Writer’s Bureau online magazine. Anne also works in TV part-time. Visit one of her blogs at www.myrelationshipsupermarket.com
A layered, varied noisescape
A layered, varied noisescape
When I am at the seaside on a sunny day it feels as if the sky and clouds are above a reflection of themselves; blue sky above blue water, white clouds above white foam on waves with the far off horizon separating the two vast realms.
I remember a holiday in Barbados one February when my daughter was two years old and myself and her father sat on the beach with her as she ran naked with two other children. Local people predominated; it seemed, with only us and another white tourist or two.
The sand was as soft as the softest animal fur on my skin and we ran or played or lay on our towels next to the teal-coloured sea. Grey small rocks were scattered at intervals along the wide thick layer of white sand.
My daughter cried when the waves took away her red plastic Teletubbies sand mould and one of my flip flops was stolen the same way.
I cannot think of an appropriate word for the noise of the waves or the sea - ‘whooshing’ maybe but that is not adequate for the layered and varied noisescape.
I remember feeling very frightened as I sat watching when my daughter was almost carried off out to sea because her dad, who was playing in the sea with her in water up to his thighs, forgot to watch her for a minute. She was so small and I felt angry at how he could be so careless.
The temperature was not as hot as it gets in summer and we screamed when the cold seawater hit our bodies after we sunbathed. The patterns in the sky of dark grey and white clouds on teal and blue was beautiful and dramatic.
I felt very happy and free - it seemed as if the horizon was a million miles away and that water and sky would go on forever.
Noreen O’Driscoll is a single parent and is relatively new to creative writing. Her most memorable writing until now is a long essay for school about how chocolate is made. She plans to write more in future!
Sixpence to spot the sea
Sixpence to spot the sea
Sixpence to spot the sea
My father offered sixpence to the first child to spot the sea. Fighting off the sleepiness of our long journey, we stared through car windows for the first glimpse of water. A few false sightings, then suddenly one of us shouted, ‘There!’ and my father said, ‘Yes!’
A small triangle of shining water on the horizon disappeared and reappeared behind the hills until it became a shimmering expanse, another world reaching into infinity. Driving closer, we noticed the ripples of the waves, breaking crests of wind-whipped water and began to hear its roar.
Barefoot onto the soft dry sand which dragged at our feet, we leaped over the wavy line of seaweed until our feet slapped the hardpacked grains, leaving wet prints.
The roar of the sea grew and faded with the rolling waves. My grandfather said every seventh wave was the biggest, so we watched and waited for it before rushing into the cold breakers, feeling the shock of it on our warm bodies, and the power of it pulling us under and knocking us down. Then we gasped, spluttered, laughed and stood up, ready for it to hit us all over again.
Julia Wellard is very much at the beginning of writing creatively, currently being inspired by the Bristol Writers Circle.
First Glimpse of summer
First glimpse of summer
A triangle of blue sharper and brighter than the sky - that’s the first of it. Then a tang in my throat like the savoury suck of a chip dipped in salt and vinegar. As we get closer, other sensations ring through me: a crack and crash like a glass falling and rolling and splintering again and again in a bathroom washbasin; a deep breath in, gasp out shuddering through the shore; the freshness of rain in the air, bursting against my skin from every direction possible.
And the triangle soars, spreads out, transforming into a strip that hurtles all the way to the horizon, meeting the sky with a dazzle that forces me to glance away; a size too vast to comprehend: bigger than a house, a town, a country; bigger than the confines of my mind can contain. But more than that was the endless movement, less like one vast thing than a mass of smaller things, heaving, jostling; vying for the surface yet never quite breaking through.
“Ready?” you ask, already stripped down to your swimming trucks.
I kick off my sandals, feeling the sand cool and gritty between my toes.
“Ready,” I say, and begin the race towards the sea. Summer begins.
Judy Darley is a fiction writer and journalist. Previously she’s had short stories published by a number of literary magazines including The View From Here, Gemini Magazine and Open Magazine. This piece was originally published in Crab Lines from the Pier and has been re-published here with the kind permission of Indigo Dreams Publishing.
Sea Sound
Sea sound
Sound. The sound of a trusted hand moving slowly over the naked curve of a beloved. Up and down. In and out. Forwards and backwards. Skin against skin. Only with the sea the sound is amplified a million times so that the sea becomes the hand and it is the shoreline that is naked. So that it seems as if the whole world could be shaken awake by this magnificent arc of yes and yearning.
Joanna Butler is a poet, actress, playwright and singer. She has performed her own work at The Poetry Cafe, Tate Modern, the Battersea Arts Centre and the National Gallery. Currently based in Bristol, Joanna has recently collaborated on spoken word recordings with North Sea Navigator and Angel Tech. Joanna is currently working towards her first poetry collection.
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