Monster monologues

I occasionally volunteer at the Ministry of Stories, a creative writing centre for kids in Hoxton. Over the past few weeks pupils at Mossbourne Community Academy have been thinking about what makes a monster and how that is determined by our expectations and experiences of literature, film and TV. What are each monster's likes, dislikes, hopes and fears? How would you describe their personality? The end goal of this project is to produce a series of short filmed monologues, written by the kids and performed by trained actors. 

We have looked at classic examples: the werewolf, the vampire, the zombie, the Siren, Medusa… We have also watched clips from Monty Python and Monsters Inc, among others, to demonstrate how funny it can be to subvert the traits of these monsters. To add an element of surprise.  

The kids are eager to put pen to paper and one exercise that caught their imagination was writing a letter to agony aunt and full-time banshee Imelda Monstrozer. It was a great way to get into character and put into practice some of the ideas we had discussed. Ministry mentors try to be quite hands off during these sessions unless the pupil is struggling or looking confused. So instead of waiting anxiously to be wowed I decided to have a go myself for five minutes. Obviously the kids will do much better.

Dear Imelda,

I am so bored of necking blood all night and sleeping all day. Surely there's more to life than this? What about hitting the beach or going on holiday with my mates? Oh wait… I don't have any mates. Not real ones, anyway. They're all scared that I'm gonna suck the life out of them. Either that or they only want to know me for what I can give them. Killer cocktails, coffin tips, eternal life… What's the answer?

They say variety is the spice of life. I'd like to know what avocado and poached eggs on toast taste like. Crispy aubergine, Japanese style. Salt-baked beetroot with cobnuts and damson, why not? Perhaps there's a monster resort or health farm I could go to? Get a little colour back in my skin, you know. A makeover. A new wardrobe while I'm at it. Find the new me. I know that sounds deep but I'm not your average bloodthirsty creature with a one-track mind. I'm meant for greater things.

Yours everlastingly, 

Vinny Vampire

Incidentally, the Ministry of Stories is looking for filmmakers to shoot these monologues. If you can help please get in touch here.

The fat rat

A quick tale that I knocked out while helping to test The Story Engine, a forthcoming online mentoring platform developed by the Ministry of Stories.

Once upon a time there was a pie-eating rat, Sir Roger III, a rotund fellow that couldn't help but snaffle every conceivable flavour of deep-fill goodness, from wild berry to Herefordshire beef & ale. His rich taste in meals was matched only by his dandy-like penchant for extravagant attire – waistcoat, cravat, monocle, cane. One day he was rolling down the sewer when he met an even more rolly-polly rodent – Tubby Trevor, undisputed king of gnawers and nibblers – who glanced over and suddenly broke out in uncontrollable laughter. 

"So, Roger, been working out I see. Call that a body? You used to be a real fat rat, now look at you. Trim. Lithe. Paaaathetic. Mwahaha. Carry on like that and this sewer will certainly be big enough for the both of us. And where would the fun be in that? I think its time you moved on. How about the bins by the local Whole Foods, mwahaha."

Roger pulled out his vanity mirror and check himself over. A tear began to form in his eye as his mind drifted back to memories of past glories at the annual Ratso Pie Fest where his signature celebration would be the point at which he had eaten so much that his "R" embossed edible waistcoat buttons burst off and flew into the mouths of his adoring fans. Like a triumphant tennis champion launching his soggy sweatband into the crowd. Only tastier. 

Then as the sewer began to echo with the bloated laughter of Trevor, something came over Roger. Was this how he would like to be remembered in Daily Muck, the local rag? What would his father, the fattest of all the rats – a pioneer no less – say about the whole affair and the shame he had brought on the family? Fuelled by rage and new heights of hunger, he plodded over to his vault, where he kept his emergency stash of High-Fearnley Furrball gut-busters and challenged his nemesis to a pie off, a dual to the death. 

Trevor twiddled his whiskers, loosened his belt and waddled over to the vault. Moments later they began to dig into Roger's stash, practically inhaling one pie after the other. The floor was covered with shreds of crust and a sea of assorted fillings. Trevor's form was impressive, setting about his task like a rat possessed. Roger quickly began to feel cramps and it looked as though this might be the end but then, the ghost of his father appeared to offer a little encouragement – you know, like those scenes in the movies where the hero is almost down and out. From nowhere, he summed up his fourth wind and gobbled every last morsel in the place. He would have moved on to Trevor had he not been hoisted into the air by his fans, now descending en masse and squeaking gleefully. Roger's expanding girth sent buttons flying once again into the mouths of this adoring public, signalling the end of the contest.

Dejected and humbled, his solemn eyes just about visible underneath dollops of sweet and savoury sauces, Trevor approached Roger and held out a tail in reconciliation. "You've still got it, Roger. Now excuse we, will you. I think I'm going to be sick."

On this day

MY HOLIDAY FROM HELL

A summer spent travelling in the US should be a once-in-a-lifetime adventure for a university graduate. Unforgettable it was – for all the wrong reasons

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hoto taken on the 11th anniversary of 9/11 by Allegra Imhoff

Tuesday. Another day, another dollar in the sweltering South.

Look for toys. Ask questions. Beware the dog. 

Knock knock … and knock again. The door opened. There I stood, side on, a few paces back from the entrance just as I had been taught. My smile, although false and contorted with a grimace of desperation, offered a glimmer of hope. "I am a professional educational consultant. I can do this," I thought.

In front of me stood a hulking figure, in ripped denim jeans, sleeveless check shirt, stubbled face and frayed trucker's hat, under which sat two piercing eyes; the kind that meant trouble. It was the look of a man with nothing to lose. Before I could get into my stride and explain why this charred, clipboard-carrying figure was standing on his porch, he reached to his side and pulled out a shotgun. Raising it slowly and pointing it at my midriff with real intent, he hissed these chilling words: "Boy, you got a lotta nerve showing up here right now. Get off my porch."

How had it come to this? Well earlier that year, impulsive and unsuspecting, I had signed up for a business programme selling educational handbooks to families door-to-door. On paper it felt like a raw deal. I would have to raise all the money for flights, two weeks of training in Nashville, accommodation, food and 'office supplies'. Upon arrival in my designated area – Roanoke, Virginia, a sleepy, hilly expanse known as the "Star City of the South" – I would have to go from door to door asking if anyone had a spare room to let that summer. Once I strapped on my book bag and began wrestling with my map I would be working on 100 per cent commission – no guaranteed wage.

So why do it? The thrill-seeker in me, perhaps. Seduced by the road, that rebellious sense of adventure that crackled from every page of Kerouac and Hunter S Thompson that I had read up to that point, there seemed no option but to meet uncertainly head on. But on that particular day several troubles were weighing me down: colleagues who had jumped ship, poor sales figures, the fallout from countless six-day weeks of fourteen-hour toil in 90 per cent humidity and brushes with death while peddling along the freeway though the pitch-black night.

The neighbourhood I was working in seemed quieter than usual: no toddlers playing with their house-bound 'moms', no nannies busying themselves around the garden, no traffic. Greetings at the door were more hostile than usual, accented by a different reaction. A traumatised stare. Confederate and stars and stripes flags were drooping half-mast.

On to the next house. An elderly lady – the church-going type – recoiled from the door. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she declared. I moped along, confused. Was I missing something here? A public holiday, a hard-line ban on peddlers, the colour of my skin perhaps?

"Keep going," I thought. I turned the corner, surveyed the street and singled out a beautiful white bungalow with a "welcome" mat in front of the door and all manner of flowers delightfully arranged around the garden. Surely I'd be safe from harm at this sanctuary? And thankfully I was right. A compassionate Irish lady ushered me in with worrying urgency. Inside, the television was on full blast. It sounded like an episode of NYPD Blue. “The plane have just crashed into the building.” She paused, looked out at the garden for a moment and continued. "I think my son-in-law’s in there,” she muttered. “I’ll fetch some tea."

The date? 9/11.

Out to anybody that lost somebody that day. 

The gig

Here's a short story that I bashed out at a recent brand workshop. The aim of the day was to master a certain style of writing that "takes you there". The ability to paint a picture with only words – active verbs, alliteration, detail and sentences of varied length. The brief was quite loose and certainly liberating: 5-10 minutes to describe the atmosphere of a picture of a crowd at a famous London venue. The moment you describe could be real or imaginary. I'll leave it up to you to decide if this ever happened.
 
 
This is it. There's a sea of black and red, dotted with flickers of stars and sequins that dance off the bright white lights in the sky. Shouts, cheers, screams and whoops whizz from left to right, from the front row to the posh seats way up high. 

Even that slightly stiff suited bloke is going crazy. He's bursting at the seams, you know. Not sure about those tight lack trousers. 

And hats. They're prescription issue for everyone in the house.  

Almost time. Lights up. Twenty-five years in the making, and then some. Slipping, sliding, gliding, kicking … and moonwalking of course. He makes it look so easy. The Fred Astaire of the beat.

Who cares if we're out of rhythm as the fanfares sound and the troupe of dancers descend into the audience to lend a hand. For that moment, I am that 10-year-old boy with the cassette, pen and pad set bought from Woolworths in 1988 for £9.99. For that moment, I am the King of Pop.

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A self-portrait by Michael Jackson from his 1988 Moonwalk autobiography, looking 10 years into the future