The Creative
Writing Course couldn’t have ended any other way. Put a bunch of Scribblers in
the same room, and guess what! It didn’t matter how big the room was. The egos
had landed.
But the back
room of The Pig & Whistle was just about the smallest venue Jim could have
chosen for their end of course closing party.
Earlier in the
day there’d been the review of their dramatic offerings by the Literary Agent
drafted in for the purpose.
It’s not a
competition, the course tutor had said.
It’s not about
the winning.
It’s the taking
part.
It’s not that
the Agent didn’t like them.
And on and on.
Easy for a
published author to say. Harder on the Creatives.
But there could
only be one winner, and the Agent’s decision had been final. Everyone shaking
their heads in astonishment.
The tensions
had been building all week. The pleasantries spoken between the students
masking bitter jealousies, unspoken sarcasms. Jim’s assumption that all writers
spent their lives in attics, brooding over yellowing parchments, quill pens
scratching away to the light of a guttering candle, their eyesight gradually
failing, was somewhat far from the truth.
Some of them
were quite handy with their fists, as well.
He wished he’d
taken Pauline (whose idea this had all been) to one side, pointed out the risks
involved, the inevitability of personalities poised to clash.
But in the end,
a general vote had carried the idea.
Fancy dress and
an open mike session at The Pig & Whistle for the last night!
Jim had gone
along with it, despite his deep misgivings.
Most of the
students agreed that his and Pauline’s beef-and-horse themed costumes were spot
on. In fact, they’d been the only outfits left in the party shop.
Jim should have
predicted how Bob the Butcher (who’d called his entry for the competition “The
Steakhouse Incident”) would have reacted.
The open mike
session had soon deteriorated, Trevor’s sarcastic remarks directed at the
competition winner finally bringing the week’s barely concealed tensions to
boiling point.
And now, as Jim
dragged the drunken Pauline out of the pub, he wished he’d been firmer.
His lasting
image was of the pub landlord’s hands as he’d ejected them from the premises,
the intended message clearly conveyed;
Don’t any of
you ever come back again!
