{"id":101458,"date":"2022-12-08T22:24:57","date_gmt":"2022-12-08T22:24:57","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.sawriterscollege.co.za\/?p=101458"},"modified":"2023-02-20T22:38:54","modified_gmt":"2023-02-20T22:38:54","slug":"2022-writers-college-creative-writing-student-of-the-year","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.sawriterscollege.co.za\/2022-writers-college-creative-writing-student-of-the-year\/","title":{"rendered":"The Writers College Creative Writing Student of the Year (2022)"},"content":{"rendered":"\t\t
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Each year we run an internal competition for our creative writing students who want to showcase their writing. This year, we selected Peter Hood’s short story ‘Lunchbox’ for the Writers College Creative Writer of the Year Award. Read his moving story below.<\/h2>\n

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Lunchbox<\/h2>\n

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\u00a0by Peter Hood<\/h4>\n

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Think I\u2019m a con? That\u2019s okay, but at least I\u2019m honest. Try testing your level of generosity and motive. Are they always transparent? I doubt it. That vagrant you see standing day after day at the same intersection. Does his or her plight hit you in the gut? Do you satisfy your conscience and give something? Sometimes \u2014 maybe. But always? Don\u2019t kid yourself. Resentment will have set in long before then.<\/p>\n

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Hey! I\u2019m not knocking you or them. Those few cents and the occasional note you dole out to the bums. They need it, and besides, someone once said, \u201cGiving is food for the soul.\u201d So I give. I do my part. Sometimes to the church as a tithe, and sometimes I dish it out myself. It\u2019s for that reason I always keep a small stash of coins in the car.<\/p>\n

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As I offered the burger, I watched an emaciated life form in odd-fitting clothes rise and approach. His movements were languid and lacked the fluidity of a young man. The boy, fashioned by the elements, had an enlarged head and small skeletal hands that oozed odious pus from sores. I remember dropping the burger in shock.<\/p>\n

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\u2018What the hell? You sick or something?\u2019<\/p>\n

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The boy smiled, and for a moment, I was taken aback. I wasn\u2019t sure what I\u2019d expected, but this?<\/p>\n

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\u2018I\u2019m Lunchbox.\u2019<\/p>\n

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\u2018Lunchbox?\u2019<\/p>\n

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It was his eyes that bewitched me. They sparkled with innocence and hope.<\/p>\n

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\u2018When I\u2019m older, I\u2019m going to be a famous soccer star. Just like Messi.\u2019<\/p>\n

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I forgot about the girl, and I spent the next hour listening to Lunchbox\u2019s stories. At first, it was to humour him, but that changed. His openness and naivety drew me in. He said he was twelve and had spent all of his life living on the streets.<\/p>\n

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\u2018Soccer\u2019s the best. If it\u2019s not raining, me and my buddies buy \u201cslap chips\u201d <\/em>and bread, and watch a game. There\u2019s a TV in that store\u2019s window,\u2019 he said, pointing. \u2018The night guard, Phineas, if he sees us, turns it to the soccer channel. He\u2019s cool. We like him, and he doesn\u2019t chase us away.\u2019<\/p>\n

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He told other stories. How, on Thursday afternoons, Father Mac, the old priest from the stone church in town, made them hotdogs. And also, if they were lucky, he\u2019d give them clothes. One time he got a t-shirt with Messi\u2019s name and number on it.<\/p>\n

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\u2018Weekends are also great,\u2019 he said. \u2018Me and the guys stay at the dumpsite and stock up for the week. You\u2019d be surprised at what some people throw away.\u2019<\/p>\n

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An hour later, we parted ways, and in all the time we\u2019d spent together, he\u2019d never once complained about life or its hardships.<\/p>\n

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\u2018You promise to get your hands seen to? Here,\u2019 I said, handing him some notes, \u2018there\u2019s enough for medication and a little extra to buy you and your buddies some K.F.C.\u2019<\/p>\n

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Around two in the morning, I awoke from a nightmare, my body drenched in sweat and perspiration. Hundreds of little Lunchbox frames had been marching through my head, their atrophied bodies kicking a great leather ball. But it was their faces that terrified me the most.<\/p>\n

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We log through word and deed our anger at the atrocities and perversions of war. But for the horrors that befall the likes of Lunchbox and his friends? What do we do for them \u2014 the innocent, the indigent, the vulnerable?<\/p>\n

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I should do something special for Lunchbox. Get him cleaned up, buy him some new clothes, and take him to a soccer match. But what then? What after? Send him back to the streets? No! Best forget him; focus on the positive things in life.<\/em><\/p>\n

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It\u2019s so easy to justify one\u2019s actions or in my case, inaction. A week later, after seeing a client in town, I thought about Lunchbox. Did he get his hands seen too? With business done, I took a drive and looked for him. Why do this? Is it to appease your conscience, or do you feel guilty for not following through? <\/em>The answers eluded me, but I still spent the better part of an hour searching. Eventually, I headed back to the office.<\/p>\n

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The following day was Thursday, and I remembered that Father Mac made them hotdogs. Then the epiphany. Why not take some sweets and clothes? Father Mac could dish them out with the hotdogs. As for Lunchbox, I\u2019d give him something special to remember me by. Maybe a soccer ball. That\u2019s it. That\u2019s what I\u2019d do.<\/p>\n

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Around eleven the following morning, I went shopping for clothes.<\/p>\n

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\u2018Early Christmas?\u2019 asked the cashier. \u2018Must be a real large family you have.\u2019<\/p>\n

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I smiled and even tipped her.<\/p>\n

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Next was the sports shop where I got not one, but two soccer balls. Then finally, the sweet shop.<\/p>\n

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\u2018Mister,\u2019 said the manager, \u2018with what you\u2019ve purchased, we\u2019re happy to give you a ten per cent discount.\u2019<\/p>\n

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\u2018Thank you; much appreciated,\u2019 I said.<\/p>\n

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After piling everything into the car boot, I headed into town. The church wasn\u2019t difficult to find; I\u2019d driven past it dozens of times. After parking in a side street close by, I collected my bounty and went off in search of Father Mac.<\/p>\n

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I saw him coming out of a side entrance near what I assumed was the rectory. Plonking the packets on the ground, I introduced myself and asked about the hotdog lunch and the kids. With a melancholic look, he said the delivery had been cancelled\u2014something about the store owner going bust.<\/p>\n

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\u2018And the kids?\u2019 I asked.<\/p>\n

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\u2018Oh! They\u2019ll be happy with what you\u2019ve brought; they\u2019ll think it\u2019s Christmas.\u2019<\/p>\n

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\u2018But next week?\u2019<\/p>\n

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\u2018We\u2019ll worry about next week, next week,\u2019 said Father Mac.<\/p>\n

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Then he smiled, helped me with what I was carrying, and invited me in.<\/p>\n

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I\u2019m not sure what I expected. Father Mac\u2019s home was a one-room dwelling attached to the church. No kitchen. No bathroom. He must have read my mind as he pointed to another building a little way away.<\/p>\n

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\u2018It has a small kitchenette and bathroom,\u2019 he explained. \u2018And it\u2019s clean.\u2019<\/p>\n

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In Father Mac\u2019s quarters, a large, wrought-iron bed, propped up on bricks, stood in the corner. A couple of faded pillows and an anaemic-looking blanket were its companions.<\/p>\n

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\u2018It\u2019s the kids\u2019 idea,\u2019 he said laughingly, pointing to the bricks. \u2018Something about if a \u201cTokoloshe\u201d comes visiting.\u2019<\/p>\n

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\u00a0On the floor in the middle of the room, a locked steel toolbox covered with a towel acted as a table, and a single plastic chair stood by its side. Against one of the white-washed walls, as a sentinel watching the despair of life pass by, stood an enormous pine cupboard protecting, I assume, the sum of Father Mac\u2019s worldly possessions.<\/p>\n

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He sat down on the bed and pointed to the chair, and motioned me to sit. \u2018So! What\u2019s with the Father Christmas angle?\u2019 he asked.<\/p>\n

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I told him how I\u2019d met Lunchbox and about the nightmare. And how I\u2019d wanted to do something the following day but hadn\u2019t. All the while, he said nothing but listened. When I\u2019d finished my story, he stood up.<\/p>\n

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\u2018Indifference,\u2019 he said, \u2018is difficult to overcome. Give it time. All healing needs time. But come, I want to show you something.\u2019<\/p>\n

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Then, gently placing his arm on my shoulder, he led me to an inner courtyard garden. I\u2019m not easily surprised, but the wonderland before me made me giddy and filled me with inexplicable euphoria. The scents emanating from this oasis imbued their bouquet into every fibre of my being. For one moment, it felt as if I\u2019d stepped into an angel\u2019s playground.<\/p>\n

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\u2018It\u2019s their place,\u2019 he said, \u2018their special place. Let me show you.\u2019<\/p>\n

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We walked through this little Eden toward the wall at its far end. Nailed to it were about sixty small brass plaques engraved with various names and expressions of virtue. I saw Joy, Patience, Peace, and many more.<\/p>\n

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\u2018It\u2019s my gift to them,\u2019 he said. \u2018It\u2019s their private place of rest.\u2019<\/p>\n

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Father Mac, realising my confusion, explained. He said that each plaque represented a brief life snuffed out. Some he knew, but most of the kids that passed, he didn\u2019t. When a death occurred, the police would let him know, and the garden was his way of remembering they were special.<\/p>\n

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I\u2019ve never been one for pledges, but that day I made a few, some to Father Mac and some to myself.<\/p>\n

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It\u2019s been two months, and yes, I believe I\u2019m changing. A tenderness seems to have replaced my apathy. And on Thursdays\u2026 Well, that\u2019s my special day now! I bring hotdogs and whatever else I can scrounge together. Just watching their faces is pure pleasure.<\/p>\n

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As for Lunchbox, I never saw him again. But I often think of him. His friends tell me he\u2019s a soccer star. I know that\u2019s true because when I dream, I see him playing midfield with the angels.<\/p>\n

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About the Author, Peter Hood<\/h3>\n

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I left school at fifteen and never thought about writing. Then at sixty, I began reading. The short story genre became my passion. I was introduced to the likes of Gogal, Melville, Jackson, Poe, and so many more wonderful writers. It was their\u00a0works that inspired me to put pen to paper. That was five years ago. I tried writing thoughts and ideas down but battled with basic language. I also did not know what verbs, prepositions, and nouns were, let alone what adjectives,\u00a0adverbs, conjunctions, and articles are. All I knew was that I needed to write.\u00a0<\/p>\n

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Since then, every day has become a wonderland of excitement and expectation. I’ve written several short\u00a0stories and completed the November NaNo write, but ninety-nine per cent of what I’ve written, I’ve never shared with anyone. Something, I suppose, to do with the fear of rejection.<\/p>\n

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Thanks to the Writers College 5-Day Challenge, their prize allowed me to take the next step and do the Literary\u00a0Short Story Course<\/a>. This and the encouragement from Andrew Solomon, my tutor for the course, prompted me to submit my short story, ‘Lunchbox’.\u00a0<\/p>\n

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Photo Credit: Flickr.com: Huiping Ho<\/p>\n

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<\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Each year we run an internal competition for our creative writing students who want to showcase their writing. This year, we selected Peter Hood’s short story ‘Lunchbox’ for the Writers College Creative Writer of the Year Award. Read his moving story below. Lunchbox \u00a0by Peter Hood Think I\u2019m a con? That\u2019s okay, but at least […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":101460,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"wds_primary_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[550],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-101458","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-creative"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.sawriterscollege.co.za\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/101458","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.sawriterscollege.co.za\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.sawriterscollege.co.za\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.sawriterscollege.co.za\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.sawriterscollege.co.za\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=101458"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/www.sawriterscollege.co.za\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/101458\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":102286,"href":"https:\/\/www.sawriterscollege.co.za\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/101458\/revisions\/102286"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.sawriterscollege.co.za\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/101460"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.sawriterscollege.co.za\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=101458"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.sawriterscollege.co.za\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=101458"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.sawriterscollege.co.za\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=101458"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}