International Writers' Collective

We're delighted to share this exercise by Sally P., a writer in our Hague workshop.

Athene noctua

Silently I moor on the millenary tree
silver-white bark, knotted and twisted
dotted with fruit and silver-green leaves
Olives are plump, and harvest for them,
means hungering winter impending for me.

Hunting for worms, insects, and voles
is one of my duties this motionless night
but I soar with ambition for rabbit or mole,
delectable plunder for a slight bird of prey
Then laden I roost in yellow-eyed slumber.

Born of the head, the Bright-Eyed recurs,
patron of wisdom, craft and good counsel
On me, steadfast sentinel of dusk until dawn,
she imparts each night the ways of the mortals;
fervour, strife, afflictions, affections.

A flickering light peeps from the window,
I spy on the snug child dreading my call
Piercing the night, my lonely woo woo
echoes and fills her small ears with fright
of a shadowy world, vast and untrue.

I wish I could hoot, do not be afraid,
protecting the night is my purpose and pride
and hers is to sleep, and grow and be strong
My song is a sign that everything’s well.

We're delighted to share this exercise by Amelia van Veenendaal, a writer in one of our Amsterdam workshops. Amelia said of the exercise, "I discovered writing this piece that I am a discovery writer, and once I had the first scene I just let myself go. With the first-person narrator, I found it easy to pull elements of my life and blow them out into a crazy situation." (Heads up: features adult language and situations.)

Delicious Business

At noon the timer goes off. The heat from the oven warms up the entire room as the third batch of brownies for the day are ready to come out. The sweet chocolatey buttery waft makes me hungry. Once cool enough they will be measured, cut, weighed, packaged and delivered. The batches are labeled in our code language: dark chocolate for xanax, raspberry and white chocolate for L*D and salted caramel for ketamine. Last time I fu**ed up and put xanax in the salted caramel batter. It’s fair to say Sue, the manager of the retirement village around the corner, wasn’t happy, but she’s given me another chance. I’m on track to deliver these by 3pm; just in time for the oldies afternoon nap.

Sue hardly engages as I deliver them, fag in one hand as always. Unlit. She used to smoke like a chimney all day with no regard for the law or the elderly residents of the home, until an unexpected visit from the hygiene inspectors last month threatened to shut her down. She told me she’s trying to see the positive, she’s now only smoking half a pack a day. Always glass half full. She meets me in reception, takes them without even a moments eye contact and as she walks away instructs me that she wants the same again tomorrow. I’m not offended. Tough love is what I’m used to.

When I arrive home I open the cupboard to do a stocktake. I’m out of butter, cocoa and xanax. I’ll need Tommy to come over but I still owe him from the last order. After being let go 6 months ago from my highly paid tech sales role, I haven’t been able to pull myself together and the mortgage is crippling me. I run through the options quickly in my mind: ask Chiara the neighbour for a 20 again to “pay the cleaner” because the ATM is broken, flirt with the grocery man on the corner and slip whatever I can from his back pocket, or just f**k Tommy and call it a day. I decide to work through my options from 1 to 3 - may as well try my luck. Chiara opens the door, a look of surprise and immediate regret on her face.

When I arrive home I open the cupboard to do a stocktake. I’m out of butter, cocoa and xanax. I’ll need Tommy to come over but I still owe him from the last order. After being let go 6 months ago from my highly paid tech sales role I haven’t been able to pull myself together and the mortgage is crippling me. I run through the options quickly in my mind: ask Chiara the neighbour for a 20 again to “pay the cleaner” because the ATM is broken, flirt with the grocery man on the corner and slip whatever I can from his back pocket, or just f**k Tommy and call it a day. I decide to work through my options from 1 to 3 - may as well try my luck. Chiara opens the door, a look of surprise and immediate regret on her face.

“Oh Catie, hi! Sorry I’m so busy at the moment I can’t really chat. Is it urgent?” she asks as her body recoils and she backs into her flat, using the door as a physical barrier between us.

“No problem, I'll be quick! Any chance you’ve got a 20 for me to pay Pedro? The bloody ATM is broken, again!” I say with a light-hearted giggle, trying to remember how I would act when I didn’t need money.

“Ah no, no cash, sorry! Gotta go!” she forces out as she closes the door on me, as if she might catch the desperation I have.

I slump my shoulders in the hallway. Putting on that veneer of success takes every ounce of energy in my body these days. It is so tempting to call my parents, tell them everything, use their name to set me up with my next job, a favour from one of their billionaire friends who are so nepotistic. But I’ve never felt so alive doing it my way now. So I lift up my head, walk back into my flat and call Tommy.

We're pleased to share this exercise by Madalé Jooste, a writer in our Hague workshop.

I anguish under the whip
of this midday desert sun,
that throws up great gusts
of choking red dust.
It clings to my heavy armour
and now I am a
tiny copper ghost, toppling
— knight-like —
beneath this great shield
upon my back.

Over rock and grass, I do clumsily scuttle
through the crevices of this skeletal place.

All at once, my antennae bolt up
— two pylons catching the electric current —
attentive in their interrogation
of each drifting atom.

That’s it! My god —
that most seductive stench.
The wind turns to me,
full frontally,
and bares this fragrance
as a sweet and musty kiss.

My bristly legs hurry on,
scratching an impatient path into the earth,
when the sound of a low rumbling
rolls past me
— an unmistakable ancient greeting —
elephants welcome me
and crunch swathes of jade bush.

My heart jumps to my throat,
I am close now.

Drawing near,
giant steps vibrate my little innards.
I skillfully weave between
the weathered grey feet
that play the drum of this sandbowl
— echoing into the deep —
as the great heartbeat of this world.

And there it is! A bejeweled mound!
What sumptuously splendid spoils
(for all my long toils)
— a shining pile of dung!
I gorge upon its richness,
and, unfettered,
plunge face and feeler
into this warm heavenly grub.

Sated and spent
— night falls —
I rest beneath the tamboti tree
and listen to the tales of old Snake.
His lisp sounds as the breeze,
that also whispers
of ugly naked monkeys
and their ungodly machines;
scaring King Crane and
laying waste to the lush green kikuyu
far away,
past even the rising of the sun.

What will become of this land
if these violent creatures come?
Where will I wander then?

But as I look up,
the glittering compass
that guides me,
from somewhere
higher than the sky,
tells me that I am not lost;
that my small part is done.

My stalwart ball of treasure
looms by my side.

Tomorrow, I will heave it home,
bury it,
and begin my crusade again.

We're pleased to share this exercise by Anastasiia Shafran, a writer in one of our Amsterdam workshops. Anastasiia said, "The exercise was to write about something unfamiliar, and I immediately thought of cyberpunk - a genre that fascinates but eludes me. This piece blends a cyberpunk setting with ritualistic tattooing, and what began as a challenge sparked a deeper desire to explore both the genre and the theme further."

A Rite of Passage

When Ashen entered the Glyph shop, he immediately felt his insecurity bubbling up in beads of sweat. He deliberately straightened his posture. Three pairs of eyes turned to watch him, momentarily distracted by the hiss of the air door sealing shut behind him. Two workers, one client, from the look of it. All three with too much skin exposed and generously covered in blood-red spirals, swirls, and the geometric beauty of glyphs. Ashen removed his street mask and nodded in greeting. The smell of antiseptic immediately filled his nostrils; the circulating sterile air cooled his forehead.

One of the three, a tall, muscular woman, gestured towards a faux-leather sofa. “Take a seat. I’ll be with you shortly.” He sank into the soft cushions.

The lighting was dim, and despite the sharp antiseptic smell, Ashen felt himself getting sleepy. There was music playing: a crystalline bell chime, a whisper of an instrument, like ocean waves lapping the shore, and a low, murmuring chant woven between the notes.

“You can follow me,” the woman said, startling Ashen from a near-meditative state. She smiled. “First time?” Without expecting a response, she led him to the rear of the shop.

“Ashen, right? Left wrist.” She scrolled through the holo-screen on her forearm to confirm his appointment. “I am Feline. Nice to meet you. Let’s get you nice and cosy.”

As he sat down, Ashen noticed the typical glyph worker’s needle-like nails on both Feline’s index fingers. Then the belts slithered around his legs and chest, strapping him to the seat. It was all part of the process; Ashen looked it up beforehand. He didn’t find much, but he learned enough of the basics to avoid looking foolish.

“So, I assume you went through our catalogue?” Feline asked. “Any preferences?”

“Actually,” Ashen cleared his throat, regaining his voice, “I’d like a Wyld.” He watched the smile fade from Feline’s lips.

“We recommend first-timers stick to the catalogue glyphs,” she said. “They are predictable and compatible with any future glyphs you should like. Have you seen our specialities? The Gravity-glyph allows a brief flight. Or the Sight-glyph, for seeing the immediate future. It’s quite popular. The Strength-glyph…”

“I’d still like a Wyld, please.” Ashen felt bad for interrupting Feline’s sales pitch, but he already knew what he wanted. What he needed. A Wyld would make him stand out. Let him prove his mettle. Many get glyphs, few dare Wylds. Though he said nothing of this to Feline, the idea thrilled him, his pulse quickening, his resolve hardening.

“Let me consult with the owner.” Feline conceded with a sigh and left Ashen strapped in his seat to approach the second worker, a burly, massive man busy with a client.

After a brief, hushed chat, she returned, showing Ashen a holo-page projection. “If you can sign this, we can proceed. It’s a waiver.” He signed.

While Feline prepared the workspace, Ashen watched the owner finishing his work—just a glyph—its design projected and painstakingly traced onto the client’s skin. Choosing a Wyld—a ritualistic improvised glyph—changed the process drastically. Feline put on the gloves, exposing only her index finger. She picked up an ornate dagger, ancient amongst her other modern instruments, and pricked her fingertip. Blood—the sinister glyph ink—swelled, ready to flow down the nail’s needle-like point.

Feline took Ashen’s arm, chanting with her eyes closed. The nail pierced his skin, dark-red blood oozing down the nail’s point, sizzling, spreading, making patterns. She pricked him again and again, in a steady rhythm, matching her chant. Her eyes were closed; she trusted some other force to move her arm. The Blackness surrounded Ashen, its ghostly fingers reaching towards his throat, his heart, his fresh Wyld. He strained against the belts. The shop’s music was suddenly too intense. The Blackness seized him, judged him, and enriched him.

Feline’s pained hiss broke Ashen's trance. The pain surrounded him like a dust cloud; he saw it reflected in Feline’s shocked eyes, yet he felt none of it.

He smiled.

We're delighted to share this exercise by Kariuki Gathanga, a writer our Hague workshop. Kariuki says, "I enjoyed the process of rewriting this piece following advice and critique from my colleagues. I really enjoyed the process of creating a confident omniscient narrator."

Then in a few months, the land will remember how to bloom. Petrichor will rise from the pores of the earth mother. The rain, fat-bellied and drunk on thunder, will scrub the dirt from the sky leaving it glossy in deep splendor. Blue, bruised, but stubborn in hope. Pregnant clouds will punctuate the air. The lush brown curves of the gentle earthly mother, dust-veiled, wide-hipped and half asleep will awaken. Her barren hips now verdant will burst with sunflowers, tailflowers, daisies, lillies, marigolds. The song of death will fade and notes of color and sound will stitch the silence back together. Sunbirds, coucals and carmines will scatter joy like gossip in the wind. The cycle of the land. Nothing becomes plenty. Death begets life. Trading caravans will replace wildebeests across the horizon, as people and the spirits roam the land again. The villages and markets will clatter back to life again. Metal pots, fruits, fruit sellers with fruit songs. Among them Lelei - the man who will see the gods.

Thano niwikalile muno! The dry seasons are getting longer in Kitui. The river that forgot how to run, shrunk into herself, became a stream, became a pond, became a well, and is now a mouthful of drying bones. Dry. Cracked. Coughing up memories of yonder days. The evening horizon spreads in quiet splendor. The empty blue sky is slowly punctuated with shimmers of white misty clouds. The hills roll gently into each other’s bosoms. Gentle curves of the earth mother await awakening.

In the day, the wheat-brown savannah grass reflects the golden shimmer of the sun as it drags across the barren land, deceivingly inviting unsuspecting strangers with mirages of springs. Desolate vastness dotted with a few acacia and baobab trees - the protectors and survivors of the sleeping earth mother. Occasionally, a sighting of heat-struck animals, grazing in delirium, weakly dancing to the tune of death. Across the silent distance, only the wind will be heard, chiming the slow verses of a solemn song. Death.

At the height of the midday sun, the rulers of the African skies circle in wait, chanting, screeching - the chorus of death’s slow song, an omen to the slowly fading survivors of Thano. The face of death will soon be upon them. The ebony starry nights bring relief to weary souls laying wait in their villages. Crickets with fiddles for legs, and fireflies with glowstick bellies soothe the night with magic tunes, singing to a sky that forgot how to cry. In the distance tomtom drums thud background beats. A fading heart in the hills. Villagers crying to the rain gods. Prayers with no name. The rain is nigh.

Then in a few months, the land will remember how to bloom. Petrichor will rise from the pores of the earth mother. The rain, fat bellied and drunk on thunder, will scrub the dirt from the sky leaving it glossy in deep splendor. Blue, bruised, but stubborn in hope. Pregnant clouds will punctuate the air. The lush brown curves of the gentle earthly mother, dust-veiled, wide-hipped and half asleep will awaken. Her barren hips now verdant will burst with sunflowers, tailflowers, daisies, lillies, marigolds. The song of death will fade and notes of color and sound will stitch the silence back together. Sunbirds, coucals and carmines will scatter joy like gossip in the wind. The cycle of the land. Nothing becomes plenty. Death begets life. Trading caravans will replace wildebeests across the horizon, as people and the spirits roam the land again. The villages and markets will clatter back to life again. Metal pots, fruits, fruit sellers with fruit songs. Among them Lelei - the man who will see the gods.

On this first day back at the market after this last near-death experience, Lelei felt a creeping unease, almost aware of the fate circling his soul like a vulture. All morning, he wore a resigned smile, heavy on the corners. The air smelled of death, he thought.. A dark cloud tugged at his chest. He had arrived at the market at the crack of dawn, sluggishly setting up his stall at the corner of the irregularly shaped square—more oblong than a square.

The market slowly breathed to life with the usual chatter as the sun yawned, stretching lazily behind the chiming church bell tower, occasionally peeking shyly through the heavy grey clouds. A group of men stood in one corner, sharing insults; hands and gestures flying, laughter ringing amid spontaneous wrestling bouts.

Suddenly, a headless chicken flapped over his stall, spurting blood all over his new kaftan and his fruits, as a pantless child gave chase, finally catching it as he fell into a puddle of muddy water in one of the uncobbled patches in the square. He had just finished wiping off the blood off his face when Wanja - his Wacuka aunt arrived - horror on her face as she watched him lick off a drop that had reached the corner of his mouth.

“Spit that saliva out now! Oh dear boy!" she shrieked. "You never drink the blood of a living-dying rooster!" Almost wailing, she couldn’t help but wonder why the gods have been so unfair to Lelei. She spat onto the loose edge of her placket before rubbing off some stains from Lelei’s brow.

To say Lelei was an unlucky human being was an understatement. And Wanja knew that his life was bound to hers – precariously, like a thread loosely dangling on the edge of a knife.

We're pleased to share the following exercise by Gabi van der Linden, a writer in one of our Level I Amsterdam courses. Gabi says of the exercise, "I tried...using figures of speech and sound to bring the subject of the poem to life, with a particular focus on metaphors as a way of both grounding and conveying mood. I wanted the poem to say as much about the narrator as it did the subject. I drew from my own experience as inspiration for this poem, living in a city where the privileged and the disadvantaged regularly cross paths. When the tension that simmers beneath this yawning inequality occasionally bursts through the surface, it holds a mirror up to all of us. And in many ways, it allows us to remember our shared humanity."

A Crisis in Fresh Produce

I skulked in just as things were heating up.
You didn’t gesticulate wildly or raise your voice,
but everyone could feel your anger radiating
impotently, the weak heat of an already-dead sun
coincidentally or comically caught between
the luridly red tomatoes, the chillies and individually-packaged peppers.
Your thin, transparent plastic bag gave you away,
near bursting with old plastic bottles and cans,
the currency of kings
who rule our city’s filthy streets.
The four or five of us unlucky enough to be witnesses
to this geopolitical crisis writ small
circle slowly, toothless sharks swimming through molasses.
I remember reading that “world helplessness”
is at the core of human suffering,
and I reluctantly start practicing the words for intervention.
You want to speak to his manager, you say,
using the wrong word for manager.
You try to advocate for yourself, playing by their rules:
survival of the civillest,
a street performance in three parts.
Your face glistens with the effort, the gap closing
between your nose and his nose,
two celestial bodies barrelling towards
an extinction event.
Arms and bags and plastic bottles take flight
from your weathered oak of a body
just as a woman appears by your side.
Basket in hand and not a scuff on either shoe,
an ally, alibi, lending you legitimacy
and me permission.
I pull my long, dry raincoat tighter around me.
I run into you later on amidst the baked goods,
cheeks still burning as we both pick out
the same box of cinnamon buns.

We're pleased to share this exercise by Suzanne DeCarlo Dundas, a writer in our workshop in The Hague. Said Suzanne of the exercise: "This assignment called for a narrator "very familiar with the setting." Of all the shifts I worked at the Lafayette in the summer of 1975, the one described remains, by far, the most "familiar." It is a true story about baklava-scooping servers and two people who, fifty years later, still capture the world's attention.“

A Williamsburg, Virginia Tradition since 1953” crowed the 15-cent postcards for sale in the avocado foyer of The Lafayette Charcoal Steak and Seafood Restaurant. The postcards featured the parking lot, the kitchen lacked any means to fire up charcoal, and the décor was an unappetizing, though trendy, green. Still…locals and tourists alike enjoyed the Lafayette.

The clearest signal of a Layfette diner’s prosperity and sophistication was being escorted through the dining room to a tankful of doomed crustaceans sporting rubber bands on their claws. One’s ability to pay $8.95 for dinner and one’s discernment in choosing the plumpest and least traumatized lobster were on full display. If the escorting waitress happened to be a College of William and Mary coed whose bosom was spilling out of the tight red corselet of her vaguely Greek, unabashedly rayon, uniform, so much the better.

Lobster was the most expensive item on the menu: Lamb shish-kebab was the most popular. The Lafayette was owned by Greek immigrants Chrysanthi and Stelios Sacalis, called, for linguistic ease, “Mama and Papa Steve.” Their culinary sensibilities flavored the menu, which boasted of shish-kebab prepared according to a 2,000-year-old recipe. “It’s the meat, not the recipe, that’s ancient,” went the in-joke. Lemon juice and oregano can only do so much to soften the muscles of baby sheep so diners were seen sawing through charred chunks of meat with vigor, flicking brown-flecked oil onto white tablecloths. Any less than favorable assessment of the “shish” was forgiven after Mama Steve’s baklava and coffee with ouzo.

The baklava was loved by the servers too. After the last piece was gone, the servers would descend en masse upon the baklava tray, scraping out the last bits of filo pastry and honey with spoons. The cooks--whether drunk or sober, always a toss-up--chose instead to descend upon the decapitated lobster exoskeletons headed for the trash. They would greedily plunder the secret compartments of flesh overlooked by diners, those amateurs.

On August 5, 1975, the baklava excavators looked up to see one of their own, Robert, eyes weirdly wide and gleaming with excitement, charge into the kitchen. “Mick Jagger and Keith Richards are at table 14.” Everyone scoffed. “Think! They’re playing Hampton Roads Coliseum tomorrow night. They’re here to see Colonial Williamsburg.” Servers and cooks alike rushed to the kitchen door, jostling to peer through the greasy plastic window.

There they were, with two blond women. The hostess, Helen, one of those old women whose out-of-whack testosterone levels made her very skinny and very nasty, had seated the foursome smack dab in the middle of the open dining room. She had no idea who they were. She’d simply done her job and sat them in the station due the next customers.

Mick and Keith seemed happy to be in an unrarefied, authentic place. For now.

Robert telephoned a musician friend who arrived almost instantly and was seated at the table right next to Mick and Keith. He declined to order anything but iced tea, 30 cents, and sat staring beatifically at the Stones. Word got out in the dorms and the stare-with-iced-tea pattern was repeated as starstruck students stormed the Lafayette, half empty on a Tuesday. Mick and Keith tried their best to enjoy their meal and ignore the gawking, mostly male, audience.

Attentive servers stood, as always, at the back of the room. Anyone headed to the restrooms had to pass within three feet of them. This was also true for rock gods using the facilities of mortals. “Mick’s tiny, skinny as an eel. His ass is narrower than two tennis balls next to each other. And he walks like he dances--jangly, like he can’t control his limbs.” This harsh review came from one of the coed servers, a big fan of newcomer Barry Manilow.

Returning to his table, Mick was met by a line of supplicants snaking around the room. The rest of the party’s authentic American experience consisted of Mick and Keith sullenly signing autographs while the women sulked. After they’d gone, their server, pulling down $1.30 an hour plus tips, dashed to Mick’s table to find $7 on a $69 tab, a mere 10% tip. “So cheap,” said the servers, disappointed at having met their heroes. Some aphorisms are true.

We're delighted to share this exercise by Jan Bronauer, a writer in one of our Amsterdam Level I courses. Jan, a former Singapore resident, said of the exercise, "What surprised me is how cynical the tone came across when the piece was written, while my personal attitude is much more measured. It's a beautiful illustration of the battle between our rational and emotional faculties, that we can be critical of something we continue to love and admire."

One might be forgiven for thinking that Singapore is a fictional place. The unchanging seasons cradle the country in a hallucinatory simmer, a slow burn reducing whole decades into a feverish daydream. Excused after a life of hard work, grandparents scavenge the impeccably clean streets for snippets of purpose, often found in the desolation of empty concrete void decks – the communal meeting place of humungous government-sponsored housing units which have quietly accompanied almost every Singaporean’s coming of age since the 1970s.

Remnants of Singaporean history punctuate the cityscape like false melancholic flagpoles. Keong Saik Road – once a nefarious red-light district for rich merchants to meet their secret mistresses – boasts a bustling rooftop bar and fancy Italian restaurants in elaborate old shophouses. Instead of mistresses, foreign craft beers now greet business executives who show up tastefully dressed in soft silken ties and top-of-the-line linen shirts. All while meticulously tiled verandas and elongated white window frames remind of the neighbourhood’s Peranakan heritage. Despite the deceptively spontaneous mix of old and new, there is thought and intention behind every brick that has been laid down or allowed to remain in place. As if creating a video game, someone has taken a look at every miniscule pixel of this alleged utopia.

Sara was around ten years old when she first came head-to-head with the painful reality of Singapore’s progress. After she had flunked one of her maths exams due to her difficulty concentrating – what we would now call ADHD – her Tiger Mom decided to double down on her after-school tuition. She sent Sara to a fifteen-year-old math prodigy who was supposed to improve her maths skills within weeks. Each session cost Sara’s parents half a fortune, but it was their way of making sure that their daughter was not going to be a failure in this ambitious society. However, no matter how hard she tried to learn mathematics, the discipline stubbornly slipped away from her as soon as she opened the textbook. Like raindrops hammering against a window, all these formulas and theorems just didn’t stick. But she knew that there was no way out, so she kept on trying to force square pegs into round holes and eventually passed junior college – by a hair’s breadth.

Sara’s parents grew up at the height of Singapore’s struggle for international prominence, when personal circumstances were put aside at the service of economic prosperity. It was a game of Musical Chairs where everyone toiled tirelessly in anticipation of harder times to come. Unlike Musical Chairs, however, the music had never stopped, and everyone kept acting as if it could stop at any moment. Cruelly self-ware, Singaporeans call this mindset ‘kiasu’ – constantly being anxious about losing out. It’s possibly the most insidious genetic gift passed down from parents to their children during this time in Singaporean history.

It was at university when Sara started to cultivate her more rebellious personality. At her parents’ insistence, she resigned herself to attending a management university which was made up of a collection of new shiny glass buildings huddled uncomfortably close to the historic National Museum. However, given a choice for what felt like the first time, she decided to study sociology. She wanted to do whatever others didn’t do. She found comfort in the small class sizes, actively engaging in discussions with professors and classmates rather than sitting in an anonymous lecture hall and absorbing sterile information like a sponge.

Her best friend during the first year was a blue-haired punk girl called Stacy, who started to influence the way Sara dressed. In a city so orderly and perfect, people would naturally gawk at them whenever they went to the nearby mall for lunch. It was an odd affirmation that they subconsciously continued to crave.