Creative Writing: Walking Through Portsmouth

Laura Burden presents more creative non-fiction from Year 12 pupils in her Ignite class. 

We have been looking at creative nonfiction, especially travel writing. Pupils in the group have written a description of a place/an experience reasonably near Portsmouth. The writers have asked to be anonymous on this occasion.

Pupil 1

A walk through Fratton:

I disembarked, stepping onto the platform donned in all black. I pulled out my phone and plugged in my headphones, feeling the world disappear around me as I placed each one in. The crisp air brushed my hair back as I pulled my hood up; the November was sky turning darker, with the once pleasant crimson hues turning black faster than I anticipated. The remnants of last night’s Halloween could be seen on the doorsteps surrounding me, with masks and costumes scattered on the pavements.

I was walking for 20 minutes when a cruel reminder of reality came back to me in the form of a surprisingly solid pumpkin hitting me in the back. There’s not many things that can surprise me on a routine walk through Fratton but the awkwardly wet flesh of a pumpkin slapping my back has to be one of them. In hindsight, I should’ve taken into account the murmurs and movements of twelve year olds edging towards the chunks of pumpkin laying in the alleyway with smirks on their faces. As it hit me and I began to comprehend exactly what had happened , I saw red, trapped in a haze of anger and primal instinct… Or at least I walked away wishing I had, scraping what could’ve been a great pumpkin pie off the back of my beloved hoodie.

Pupil 2

The Wickham Co-op 

I round the corner and enter through the sliding door as I dodge past exiting shoppers, arms laden with their purchases. I cut out the first few rows as I head directly to where I need to go, swerving my way round the idle bimblers who clog the aisles. I stop at the shelf I need. I’m in the refrigerated section. The white light oppressively glaring down on me, a chill in the air. I scan the shelf in front of me, searching amongst the variety of brightly branded butters and pots of single and double cream. I grab the garishly yellow Anchor butter and round the corner onto the next aisle. I am greeted by a circular shelf, stacked full with loaves of bread. I find my desired brand, Warburtons, and reach to the back to find the one with the best possible date. 

Pupil 3

 Havant Tesco:

I enter the sliding doors towards the grand inviting metal escalator. I always come here as it is never the same experience twice. My microcosmic get away. Upon entering the array of products catches my eye. The strand extends in front of me, surrounding my senses in the seasonal goods that line the shelves, gleaming in colour. This time, red and green are shining at me which I'm sure entices the younger generations a lot more than it would a seventeen year old girl like me. I wade through the aisles, each one presenting itself as a different theme for a different type of shopper. Everything is pristine and orderly and I admire the home furnishings all lined up perfectly as if untouched. My eyes are spoilt for choice as I pass the makeup sections as I know there is still so much more to see. The green vegetable aisle is enough to make even the biggest meat eaters want to turn vegan. Every turn of the head discovers a new range of goods that are being overlooked by all the busy mums rushing to find things for dinner, small children trailing close behind.

Pupil 4

Albert Road on a late Saturday night: 

The feral pack of children outside Kwiki Mart on Albert Road beg me to buy them Echo Falls as I walk past, clutching my bag desperately closer to my chest. Staring down at the chipped concrete pavements, I try to block out the homeless man outside Ken’s Fried Chicken who seems blissfully unaware of the ‘Me Too’ era. Wind slices away at my face and I wonder how the fourteen year old getting kicked out of the WedgeWood rooms for having a fake ID is wearing an outfit fully made from lace and mesh.  Wafting through the air, the stench of kebab takeaway doesn’t quite eliminate the odour of vomit that leaks from the gutter and the man lying on the curb who groans, clutching a can of cider. I swerve past the crowds of students loitering by the crossing, desperately trying to find someone willing to sell them a gram or two. As I reach Tesco, I sigh with relief that home is nearby, but not near enough to avoid a gang who seem to religiously worship North Face jackets.