dear Wednesday people,

this is Laura's piece for workshopping. if you're able to print it and make notes, please do; otherwise maybe write down comments so you'll be ready for workshopping next week. apologies it's taken a couple of days to put up; I have trouble with docx documents - plain text in the email is probably best for anyone else who's sending me material.

Laura's piece begins:

It was midnight and everyone in the Trafalgar Pub was pissed. Dozens of bearded, beer-gutted men hammered out Khe San and someone spilled Jim Beam on my dress. I half-walked, half-stumbled from our table to the bar, put on my best ‘I’m-not-drunk’ face and ordered Nick and I another beer. We were sixteen, it was our first night out and we thought we were the coolest. We were going to be eighteen soon; we were going to get out of this shithole and move to the city and leave all the hopeless drunks waiting to die amongst the cow shit on their farms. We were going to make a life for ourselves.

The alcohol was making me tired, and I was impatient for more. Chants of “fight” floated through the rumble of the pub. So with the promise of a real, live punch-up, I weaved my way through the throng and joined in the shouting. My head was all floaty and I wondered if the night would end with me throwing up in a bush somewhere. Then, through all the fog, I spotted Nick on the ground, blood on his face, mouth hanging open. Tim, a year twelve at our school, was bashing into him as though tenderising a steak. “Fuckin’ poof,” he spat out. “You want me cock up ya bum, don’t ya, you fag?” I felt sick. I stepped forward and grabbed Tim’s shoulder, but he shook me off. I stood there crying, and screaming unintelligibly at everyone around me. I was full of shame, scared that if I called the police I’d be arrested for underage drinking. So I just stood there, watching a man’s fist slam again and again into my best friend’s gay face.

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