Notes invites you to send stories for our monthly writing contest. Cheryl Rao will choose the most interesting ones

We hope that our readers will continue to respond to the monthly writing exercises. Here are some anecdotes received in response to the last prompts.

Idea 1 : Poem

Idea 2 : Anecdote

Idea 3 : Short story

Start writing...

Guidelines to remember

  • Try to keep within a maximum word length of 500 words.
  • Give your full name, age, grade, the name of your college/school along with the emirate where you are based.
  • Please send your poems, anecdotes, and complete stories to education@gulfnews.com
  • Slug your mail with 'Write Time' on top so we know it is a submission for this project.
  • You have two weeks to send in your writing. Your deadline: Sunday, March 9, 2008.
  • The most interesting work will be published in Notes, issues dated March 23, 2008, and April 6, 2008. Stories, poems, and other work that cannot be accommodated in either of those issues will be posted on the Notes website www.notes.ae.
  • "Imagination is more important than knowledge," said Albert Einstein, so get set to go on a journey into the world of your imagination. It's a wonderful place to explore and discover what you are capable of!

Writing Tips: Poetry Writing

This month, why not experiment with poetry writing? You may continue to write stories and personal anecdotes, taking inspiration from the writing ideas given below, but try your hand at writing a poem as well.

Why write poetry? Well, poetry may not save lives or build homes for all, but it certainly can make life more colourful and more interesting! Think of all those wonderful songs we listen to on our iPods. Aren't they poetry set to music?

All around us we have poetry that adds beauty and sensitivity to our lives; we just may not be aware of it! But take it away and we will surely find life bland and tasteless.

What is poetry? In the words of Wordsworth, poetry is "the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings." Haven't you felt this sometimes?

Imagine that you and your family have gone on a holiday to the seaside. All of you may do the same things, sail in the same boat, walk along the same beach - but each one of you feels the experience differently.

You may be overwhelmed by the sight and sound of the waves as they lap the shore; your brother may relish the feel of the sand between his toes; one parent may find the sound of the sea soothing, the other may describe it as restless…

When you write poetry, you reflect this difference of perception and difference of feeling, you capture a moment in time that made a difference to you.

How do you go about writing a poem?

  • Explore experiences with your senses: think in terms of what you see, hear, feel, taste, or smell.
  • Explore language: use words that best describe the feeling you want to convey. In a poem, you want to say a lot in a few words, so the apt word is what you need.
  • Explore sounds: while all poems do not need rhyme, rhythm is important. So read your poem aloud to yourself when you have written it. Listen to how it sounds.
  • Explore reasons: What are you describing? What experience are you trying to convey? How did the experience affect you? Why is it important for you and for the reader? Does it look at an experience or a place or a thing from a different angle?
  • Explore imagery: Think of yourself as a word painter. You are painting a picture for your reader to see - but you are using words instead of colours.
  • Explore structure: A poem does not have paragraphs as prose does, but it may have verses or stanzas. A poem is written in short sentences, each giving a bit of a thought, until the poet finally completes the message.

Are you ready to write a poem?
Articles to read and ideas to work with:

Here are some free writing ideas based on articles that have appeared in Gulf News. Web links are provided to these articles in case you missed them in print.

It's always great to have a friend…. or is it?

REVELATION

"So you're coming for my party, right?" he asked.
"Yeah, I am," I replied.
"Four o'clock: my house," he reminded.
"Yeah," I agreed, as I looked to my left, checking if the bus had arrived.
"Okay then, see you tomorrow!" Dev said, and I bid goodbye and pressed the 'end call' button on my cell.

I looked at my watch: seven seventeen. Thirteen more minutes until the bus arrived. I was the only person at the bus stop. The street was eerily silent, except for one or two cars driving past me.

I looked up at the building that was right across the bus stop. That was when an arm just grabbed me, and covered my mouth, muffling my screams.

Although I couldn't see the man, I could recognize that he was a hefty man. He brought a sharp dagger to my throat, and said, "Quiet!"

I tried to wriggle free, but the man was too strong for my puny little self.

"Give me your cell phone, now," he ordered, his voice a hoarse whisper.

The cell phone was in my hand, and even before I could react, he snatched it, moving the dagger away only for a second. He got a cloth out, and tied it to cover my mouth. Then, with his right hand holding the dagger against my throat, he dialed a number.

"Sam here," he started. I wished he'd have a prolonged conversation so that he'd get a little distracted. "Did you tell our next target where to come?"

I jerked, but the man's arm held me back close to him.
"I'll be there by 4.30 then."

I could feel the cold steel of the dagger on my neck.
"And I don't want the victim to escape!"

It really started hurting, and tears filled my eyes.
"Are you sure she'll come? Sure she won't ditch us at the last minute?"

I wished it would get over fast. I wasn't able to move my arms; they felt numb against his strength. I almost started crying, when he cut the call and said to me, "You haven't heard anything. Tell this to someone and you're dead."

With that, he dropped my cell on the ground, pocketed his knife, and disappeared into the night before I could even get to see his face. I untied the piece of cloth and picked up my cell. The bus arrived, and I hurriedly got into it.

Once I assured myself that I was safe and would reach home in 15 minutes, I checked my cell for the number he had dialed. I gasped out loud. I checked the time of call to make sure I was looking at the right number. Seven-eighteen. Yes, it was the right number. My hand reflexively covered my mouth, as I sat there staring at my cell in disbelief.

The man had just been talking to my childhood friend, Dev.
They say everything happens for good. I now believe in that. For if this man hadn't come and spoken on my cell ...

Neeti Vijay Kumar
Grade 11, Indian High School, Dubai

Kesavan Yeshwanth's The Good Old Days reflects a different reaction to Grandpa's tales …..

THE GOOD OLD DAYS

I still remember it as if it happened just yesterday: actually, it did happen only yesterday. It was a bright Friday morning, and I had planned a lot of activities. Well, actually, most of it consisted of watching TV.

On my way to the kitchen, I took a quick glance at my grandfather, who sat aimlessly in his couch, recollecting his long lost memories of the 'good old days.' Unfortunately, I was his first victim.

I tried to avoid him by creeping out of the house by the back door. In his old age, everybody would expect him to have a weak and crackling voice.

On the contrary, his bark was worse than his bite. He had a voice of a thousand megaphones put together. He called me with his booming voice. I just couldn't act as if I hadn't heard that. I stepped forward to face my fate.

He told me, in a dominating tone, to sit down in a plastic chair near the old, torn 17th century couch. I had no other choice. I sat down without much arguing, actually with no arguing at all, because I'm scared of my old, dependent grandfather and his loud voice.

I know that it's unbelievable for a kid of my age to be scared of his own grandfather, but I am and I always was, and I don't know, maybe I always will be.

He suddenly took out his diary and started to jot down something. After a little bit of writing, he closed his age-old, weather-beaten diary and made sure that I was paying full attention to whatever he was going to say. Then he started to tell me of the so-called 'good old days.'

He told me, "You youngsters today don't know the real meaning of life. Oh! I still remember the days of The Great War."

Did I forget to mention that my grandfather was the pilot of a military aircraft during the Second World War? Well, he was.

"The sky swarming with aircrafts preparing for any sudden attack. You could smell the fear, grief and violence that the war brought along with death. Everybody knew that there could be an attack at any time.

"So, they took cover in the basement of their houses like rabbits in a burrow. But we were brave. We were The Red Arrows, an elite team of skilled pilots. We had survived many ambushes, fought many battles and won most of them.

"I have seen many soldiers sacrifice their life for fame, their family and for their country. I'd say that it was worth it. In the end, after many battles and many a soldier's death, we won. Yes, we won. Afterwards, the land was strewn with bodies.

"The whole place was lit up, not by fireworks, oh no, the fireworks came afterwards. It was lit up by fire caused by the bombs and the missiles. The tide of death had swept away many innocent people's lives and even whole families.

"But these were the sacrifices we had to make to prove that we were the strongest force on the face of the earth. Our leaders were praised and some were even knighted.

"The soldiers who laid their lives for the victory of their country had many memorials built in honour of their bravery and courage. I was even congratulated publicly by The Queen herself."

I interrupted him and asked him whether he was awarded a medal, a promotion or anything at all. He continued, "Well! Did I ever tell you that I hated people who interrupted me? And no, come to think of it, I didn't get anything. But it was a wonderful sight to behold."

I interrupted him again and asked with a little, no, a lot of sarcasm, "What, the graveyard of the bodies everywhere and the half burnt country?"

He was annoyed but he still continued, "What did I tell you of interruptions? Boy, you are getting cheekier by the minute. And no, again, the relief that the war was over and the pride that they had won on the faces of our leaders and my fellow soldiers was the real sight to remember. I wholly accept that the battles were sour but the result was sweet. Thinking of sour, I need my medicines."

He scrambled to his feet with the help of his walking stick. And he moved like a snail to the medicine cabinet. That was the only chance I'd get and I was not going to miss it. The moment he had turned his back, I ran out like the prey from a lion!

By the evening, I was walking anxiously to the playground just across my street, with a bat in one hand and a ball in the other. Well, I bet that you can guess what game I was going to pass my evening with.

On my way, I had realized something - though I thought that I had wasted my whole morning on a worthless piece of history, it made me realize that we should be happy that at least we are not living in the 'good old days' and I wish, with all my heart, that we never will!

What happened the next day is another story. But let's just say that it gets a little stuffy when you're hiding for almost 2 hours in the broom closet!
Kesavan Yeshwanth
Grade 7, Abu Dhabi Indian School

The writer is a freelancer based in Hyerabad, India