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Introduction Welcome to the 'Your Writing' page for Elizabeth Laird. Read the extract from Hiding Out on the previous page, then think about what you would do if you were Peter. How would you feel? What would you do? Below are your stories and Elizabeth Laird's comments. Every story submitted has shown that you've become really involved - so in some cases we've even had to cut your work a bit to fit it in!
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Sarah - Year 7, St Albans Girls' School
I stood there, my body shaking. They couldn't have just forgotten me! I was in a place where nobody could understand me; where they walked right past me, chatting, in a strange, unfamiliar fashion.
I was still quite breathless, after chasing the car through the town for half a mile, and sat on the edge of the kerb, with my head in my hands. 'If I'm going to get myself out of this mess', I thought, 'I'd better think logically'.
I must have been racking my brains for longer than I thought, and when I sat up and looked around, the usual bussling streets were empty and an eerie silence crept around me. I got up, and brushed myself down, as a slight gust of wind disturbed the sleeping leaves in the dusty shop porches.
I carried on walking, kicking the loose stones up from the cobbled streets. From not far away, I could hear the gentle lapping of waves on the shingle beach. Back and forth, I listened to the scraping of the stones, as the waves dropped them back into the sea, and then washed them back out again.
I was now looking into an endless black ocean, and throwing pebbles into the breaking waves. I would have made my way to the cave, but my path was blocked by larger waves, hurling themselves clumsily at the fast-eroding cliffs.
The sun was setting and was staining the sky with a warm pink, gradually becoming lighter, to a glowing orange. I lay there, gazing up into the seemingly never-ending sky, and listening to the soothing noise of the ocean. It made me think; will I ever see my family again? I peacefully dozed off, with that thought spinning around in my confused mind.
I woke up to the screaching of sea-gulls. A fishing boat was channeling out of the harbour, and the slightest scent of fish was an instant lure to hungry gulls. This served as a reminder as to just how hungry I was.
Looking around, past the mounds of jagged rock, I could faintly see the typical French signs of bakers shops, and small supermarkets, but as I scanned the already busy streets, my eyes were drawn immediately to one particular shop window. I moved closer, egaer to get a better view of the 'freshly-baked' cakes and pastries.
Aware of having my 20 francs in my over-stuffed pocket, I frantically clambered over the rocks and boulders. 'I must eat something', I told myself, and a sudden thought struck me. I had always taken food and love for granted, and now I was without it, I empathised with all the people in the World who had neither. Although I knew I was not to blame, I had a guilty feeling churning around inside me.
All the traffic was whizzing along the newly tarmaced road, and beeping horns drowned out the noise of the waves washing on the beach, and the screaching of the hungry sea-gulls.
I was about to step off the kerb, when one sudden high-pitched horn sounded. I recognised it immediately, and turned to where it was coming from. It kept on going, beeping and beeping! I went hot, and my eyes were filling up with tears. I knew that horn....I knew it, and as a flood of relief washed over me, I heard the screaming of my Mum. I turned my head to the right and saw her, Dad and my little sister running over to me. I had never been so happy to see them in my life. It was a truly emotional scene, and although I flung my arms around them in joy, I was still angry. After all they did forget about me!
Elizabeth Laird
Dear Sarah,
Congratulations. You have written a really evocative piece that brings to life a particular place and a person's feelings in it with marvellous clarity. I love the small touches you have made - the seagulls, the dusty shop porches, the pebbles in the breaking waves. You've certainly got a writer's touch.
If you want to keep writing, here's a hint that I've found very useful all my life. Writing is like riding a bicycle - the only way to learn to do it is just to get on and do it. A good discipline is to keep a diary, and write a small amount in it every day. Don't just note down daily events, but try to describe striking things you see. Explore your feelings and opinions on paper. Try to capture bits of dialogue which show the character of the speakers.
Anyway, good luck. I think your piece is great.
Elizabeth Laird
Deanne (age 12)
Laura won a competition to visit the rainforest. She is so excited that when she gets there she, her mum and her dad go exploring; her mum went off in one direction so she stayed with her dad. She was talking to him and climbing a tree at the same time when she realised that no-one was replying...
Laura half stumbled, half fell down what seemed like a very high tree, just in time to see her dad disappear round the corner and into the deep forest. She stood there, dumbstruck.
"Dad, wait for me, Dad stop." She'd only just managed to get the words out; she heard nothing.
"Dad," her voice was no more than a whisper. Desperately she wanted to run, but it was like a dream, she couldn't move her legs. After taking two very deep breaths she tried again,"Dad, Dad come back, wait for me."
But it was no use, he'd gone.
All of a sudden everything inside Laura left her, she felt totally empty. So she sat there, fears of reptiles and
spiders filled her head. She was alone.
Elizabeth Laird
Dear Deanne,
Congratulations on the start to a gripping story. I like the way you've set it in a rainforest. It gives plenty of scope for all kinds of exciting things to happen. You've hinted at the possibility of snakes and spiders, to make our flesh creep, but there's also the terrible possibility of getting lost and never being able to find the way out.
Your beginning makes us ask questions too. Why has Laura's dad suddenly walked away? Where's her mum? I want to find out what happened next.
You've obviously enjoyed writing your story and I've enjoyed reading it!
Best wishes,
Elizabeth Laird
Becky Calnan (12)
"This is unreal," I told myself, " They're bound to have realised I'm not there. They'll come back."
But they didn't, and after at least 40 minutes, I knew my 'holiday' was going to be a little longer than I'd expected.
"Right, I've got to think practically," I muttered as I heaved myself up from the bank I'd been sitting, totally helpless, on, "I could go to that house down the lane. But I can't speak French!" As I wandered back along the lane, pondering on what I should do, the full strength of it all hit me. It was getting later and later and Mum and Dad were getting further and further away. They could have realised I was missing and were heading back right then.
I slowly walked up the front path, kicking angrily at the dust, and knocked, timidly on the front door of the French cottage. There was no answer. I turned, dismayed, and headed back to the road. Then I heard it. As clear as anything. I walked faster, then jogged and then I was sprinting. I flew through the gate. There was a car coming. And it was coming my way! I laughed out loud. But, as quickly as it had lifted, that dark feeling of loneliness dropped with a great thud on my heart. Again, I was alone. The car, a French one, turned sharply right and disappeared.
"I suppose," I gasped, trying to think positively, "I might be able to have a little bit of fun. On my own!" I cried and burst into floods of tears.
"I've been sitting here for over two hours. I must do something."
I stood up and brushed myself down. The whole ordeal of the French car raising my hopes, had just been too overwhelming; I just sat down and cried.
It was approaching ten o'clock and the sky was dark, mean and thunderous. By then I'd given up all hope of being remembered that night, let alone being picked up.
"They're probably half way across the English Channel by now," I muttered, "no, I mustn't think negatively. The ferry doesn't leave 'til midnight, there's still a chance they're on their way. But for tonight, I'll just have to manage by myself." And with that, I jumped onto the road and started going through all the things I'd need.
'Food, I don't have any money, darn it!" Was luck ever going to come my way? "My rucksack!" I yelled and urged my legs forward, retracing my steps back to the picnic spot where I'd dropped my bag to run after Mum.
I found it; one solitary bag in the middle of the car park.
" Yes, yes, yes!" I screamed, dancing round and round.
Warm droplets of rain, brought me back to my senses. It must of been well past midnight. The ferry must have been well on it's way with or without Mum and Dad, I didn't know.
" I need a shelter. I've got no where to go!" I whispered into the darkness. I began to run, helplessly, not knowing where I was going. The sea's wild lapping tore through my ears and confused my mind.\ A warm, but strong summer storm, in the middle of France was what I was lost in, rejected. Did this have to happen? What had I done wrong?
I stumbled over rocks, then felt saturated sand beneath my trainers. I kept running into the midst of the storm. My strangled pleas for 'HELP' were swallowed by the roaring wind. Salt water burned my skin, my eyes watered and the sand was dragging me down. I ached all over, but still I kept running.
"Will somebody help me!?!" My voice bounced around me, "The cave!"
I murmured and collapsed, exhausted, into the warm, dry sand.
Tom Rank, Writers Online
Becky, your story is beautifully written and you really get inside the character of Peter, his hopes, his fears - and his tears!
Chloe Faulder
"What am I going to do? Shall I stay here and wait for my parents? Why did this have to happen to me? Especially today," I asked myself staring at the floor.
I kicked a stone not realising a car was driving past. It bounced on its sharp edges and made a final, silent bounce, landing in the cars tyre. I felt the vibrations from the ground when the stone suddenly hit the tyre.
I watched slowly at the tyre as it began to deflate. I could tell the tyre had burst and it was my fault. It slowly and silently sank down. The red car contained lots of brightly coloured bags and suitcases. Sitting in the front of the car was a small girl who looked roughly my age and a tall man. He pulled over his vehicle, as he knew something was wrong with it.
He stepped out of the car. He was wearing a black, leather jacket, jeans and a blue-striped t-shirt. He was smoking a cigarette. He threw it onto the floor, stepped on it and twirled his foot on it.
He gave me a look, which showed he wasn't very happy with me.
"What you looking at French boy?" he called out to me.
"There's nothing to see here so push off!" I found it extremely rude of him to say that to me. I felt like shouting to him:
"I'm not a French boy for your information!" but it seemed pointless.
"Was that you?" he shouted.
"What do you mean?" I asked him.
"You know, kicking that stone at my car," I didn't reply. I was too busy staring at the beautiful girl in his car.
"Dad just leave it," she called out in a lovely sweet voice. She was wearing a pink, frilly skirt with matching cardigan. From head to toe she was covered in pink, even her socks were pink! She stepped out of the car. What a wonderful sight she was.
"Oh hello," she called out to me.
"Hi," I replied. My heart started beat faster than ever.
"Don't talk to him," her father shouted.
"And why not?" she asked.
"He's broken our ride home that's why!"
"I didn't mean to," I called out acting all innocent.
"I'll have to call for a cab, I'll just be round the corner using my mobile phone ok," he said pointing and walking towards it. I started to talk to the girl. I explained everything that had happened. She told me about how she came for a holiday with her dad. She told me she dislikes her dad but her mother died when she was very young, so she has no choice. Her name was Christie.
The taxi arrived and Christie's dad jumped in.
"Well in you get then Chris, we haven't got all day you know!" he bellowed.
"No," she said.
"I'm staying with Peter," she said. My heart started to beat even faster.
"Well fine by me!" he said.
"To England," he said as the taxi drove off.
"Why did you do that?" I asked looking at the taxi driving further and further away. She looked at me, smiled sweetly and said.
"We'll make it together."
Tom Rank, Writers Online
You've obviously worked hard - well done! Peter seems to have been quite fortunate in your story, doesn't he, after being abandoned like that?
Clare Stephen
I stood there, shocked and horrified.
Hadn't they realised they were a child short?
Hadn't they realised I was still here?
I had no idea what to do. My immediate reaction was to run after the last car. I knew I would never catch up, but it was my last hope. I ran to the end of the long, winding road. I thought I was in luck when they stopped at a mini set of traffic lights, but they were still miles ahead. On my way back to the caves, I noticed a telephone box but when I remembered that I had no money or any idea who I would phone, my heart sank.
I sat down on a bit of tree trunk, and cried until my eyes felt empty. I knew crying wouldn't bring back the parents who left me here, so I untied my jumper from around my waist and used it as a cover to keep myself warm.
I sat there and thought for a while. I wondered how long it would be until they realised, the little boy they had taken on holiday, called Peter, had been left standing outside, by some caves in a country he didn't know the language of. I wondered how long it would be until one of the adults from one car phoned one of the adults from the other car, to see how the children were getting on and doing a headcount.
It must have been getting dark when I saw a red car, just like my Mum's, speeding towards me! I had my arms out ready to hug her, but then I saw it was just a group of teenagers and I felt like such an idiot.
I sat back down again and thought that twenty-four hours ago, I would have done anything to make parents extinct, like the dinosaurs. Dad seemed about the same age as a dinosaur! Again, twenty-four hours ago, I would be in deep trouble for saying that, but now, nothing. In a strange way I kind of miss it. It's not quite the same, wiping your own face! It's like they say, 'You never really know how much you miss someone until they're gone.'
It was 7:30 by now. Their ferry would be leaving in just half an hour. Then they would be gone forever. Suddenly, a very skinny figure began walking towards me. He had sandy coloured hair and dirty clothes that looked as though they hadn't been washed for days!
As he approached me, he stopped and sat down next to me.
'Tommy', he said.
'Peter', I replied.
'Parents leave you here?' he guessed. 'Same thing happened to me, I've been here for a few days now. They've obviously still not noticed. See, we went on holiday with another family, both cars left without taking me. I don't understand why they still haven't come back to get me yet.'
'Maybe they've forgotten where they left you.' I said, trying to be comforting.
'Charming', he said. We both laughed.
For a while we just sat there in silence, but then he came up with the brilliant idea of swapping jokes. I knew it would cheer me up, so I agreed. We both sat there, giggling like girls for ages.
As we both became quite tired, we used our jumpers as blankets and settled down to go to sleep.
When I woke up the next morning, I forgot where I was. I said 'good morning' to Tommy, but when I looked at where he had been sleeping, I saw that he was no longer there. Maybe I had been snoring so he had gone to sleep round the other side of the caves. I saw a little note in his place so I picked it up and put it in my pocket. I walked round for a little while calling:
'Tommy, Tommy, are you there?'
But I soon got tired. So I stopped, he was obviously gone. I don't know how, I don't know when, and I don't know why. But he was gone.
Suddenly my Mum's car came towards me, and stopped where I was standing. She silently hugged me and took my hand and strapped me into the car. We began driving but no one said anything. I remembered the note I had put in my pocket earlier. I opened it. It said:
To Peter,
My parents have just come to pick me up. Thanks for the great time. You had some brilliant jokes! I'll never forget them.or you.
Hope your parents come soon,
Tommy
Xxxxxxxx
Tears came to my eyes when I remembered Tommy. I thought I'd try one of his jokes on my parents. I quietly said:
What do you get when you cross an owl with a skunk?
A bird that smells but doesn't give a hoot!
They all laughed and asked where I had heard it from. I spent the rest of the journey telling them about Tommy, my new best-friend.
Tom Rank, Writers Online
We really liked your story, especially the way you mix Peter's humour and his feelings of despair and loss with phrases like "and cried until my eyes felt empty". You've found a really good way to end, too, with Peter remembering Tommy's joke - well done!
Year 3 at Newick CE Primary School
The Year 3 children at Newick CE Primary School in Sussex have been using Elizabeth Laird's story as the basis for some group writing.
Holiday Calamity
Peter felt absolutely devastated. He saw the superstretch limo fade into the distance in a cloud of dust. He ran as fast as his legs would carry him but he was not fast enough and soon the car had disappeared. "Don't worry, they'll be back in a minute," he thought as he sat down on the grass and gasped for breath.
When ten minutes had passed Peter started to worry. His parents would be miles away by now and, although it was only an hour since the picnic, he began to feel hungry. He was alone in a foreign country and did not even know where he was. He couldn't see any houses so he decided to climb a steep cliff so that he could see in the distance.
Far away on the horizon he could see a solitary farmhouse, so he set off to see if could get some assistance. There was a track at the bottom the cliff so he decided to walk along it. When he got to the track he saw an abandoned bike which, although very rusty, was rideable. He rode the pebbly track which led almost to the farmhouse. He walked towards the house and heard dogs barking so he knew that there would be people about.
He knocked on the door but nothing happened. He saw a bell push and pressed it. He heard the faint ring of the bell at the rear of the house. Still nothing happened. He peeped cautiously through the window and could see two people asleep in armchairs. One of the windows was slightly open so he called softly, "Hello, can you help me?" Nobody stirred so he called more loudly.
One of the people jumped up in surprise and shouted, "Que est que ce?"
"Parlez-vous anglais?" said Peter, desperately trying to remember the French he learned at school.
Tom Rank, Writers Online
It's great - I can see that you've all worked extremely hard. The writing really captures the anxiety of Peter - and I'm impressed by the French! You've developed your story to a very interesting point, as well.
Ffion (age 13)
Thoughts flashed through Peter's head like traffic lights in reverse; Go! Wait! Stop!! Quickly, reality sunk itself firmly into his brain. He had been deserted. His family had left him standing by the side of a road, in France. France! Of all places! The one country where he couldn't speak a word of the language. Of course, he'd only ever been to France and Wales(unless you counted that weekend with Dad in Dundee, when they went to stay with Aunty Maureen to watch the rugby.
Peter sat down on a nearby rock to think. Cupping his chim in his hands, he scanned the road for signs of his parents car, as if they would suddenly realise that he wasn't with the other family,and actually sitting on a rock in central France, waiting for them.
This holiday had been like a dream. His first trip abroad, and their camp site had been the best. The weather had been blazing hot for days , and he and Eleanor had both turned wonderful shades of hazelnut brown. The food was gorgeous, and typically French. Fresh croissants and baguettes every morning, bought by his father usuing his dangerously shaky French, salad for lunch and chips for tea. Suddenly, a thought raced through his head and planted itself firmly at the front, so he could not put it away. It might as well have been covered in fluorescent fairy lights and making huge bleeping noises, it was so obvious. HE HAD NO FOOD. He may have to stay out on the road for days on end, and he had NO FOOD. How do you survive?? You can't eat rocks, and that was the only substance Peter could see for miles. There was no vegetation, not even the tiniest clump of weeds.
Stupid dream, Peter thought. Nightmare, more like. He scuffed his way back over to the cave, watching the clouds of orange dust fly away after he stepped on them. Hundreds of tiny pebbles and bits of gravel flew into his open-toed sandals, causing him to pull them off and chuck them down on the road in disgust. Utterly depressed, he sat back down on his rock, and began to sob. Shiny tears slid down his milk chocolate cheeks, and in the breeze his auburn hair ruffled gently. Suddenly, he heard the sound of a car engine approaching. Could it be?? Had they finally realised?? Quickly, he sprinted to fetch his sandals and stuffed them on his feet, and then started jumping up and down, waving and calling to the car. It neared, and he saw that it wasn't his parents, but two blond haired, tanned men, wearing Hawaian shirts and swimming trunks. They had two surfboards tied to the rear window of their car.
Then one said "You England?" Peter guessed this must mean
"Are you English??"
Elizabeth Laird writes:
I think this is terrific! You've got a great feeling for suspense, and you've entered right into the spirit of the story. You've made Peter and the place he's in come alive, with little details like the grit in his sandal, the wind ruffling his auburn hair, and the Frenchmen's Hawaiian shirts.
When I read it I feel we can actually see the people and what's happening - that we're there with them. You've managed to get into Peter's thoughts, too, and made them
come alive. And I really like the way you've used dialogue with the two sinister Frenchman who've picked Peter up in their car. Dialogue is often the most difficult thing to do effectively, but you've done it well.
Your story's going to be very different from mine, and it intrigues me. What's going to happen next? Are Peter's parents going to come back, and find him missing? Will the strangers turn out to be friends or enemies? I think
you'd better write some more!
Congratulations, anyway, on a great piece of work.
Elizabeth Laird
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