ShoutSouth! 2013

Photos from the workshops

Photos from the drama plenary workshop led by Mo O'Hara

Photos from the Saturday Adult workshop led by Sam Hepburn

Photos from the Saturday afternoon celebration with MC Andrew Weale, storyteller and author, Margaret Bateson-Hill, CWISL Chair Sarah Mussi, CWISL authors and illustrators and LSBU student ambassador, Lacarna.

And not forgetting the bookshop run by Under the Greenwood Tree Book shop


'...I have realised there is a lot to being an author than using pen and paper'          

ShoutSouth! 2013

We were delighted that so many parents and teachers took part in workshop run by Sam Hepburn. Here area couple of pieces written that morning. If you attended and would like your work included on the website please send it to          




The mask on my face restricts and reassures. I'm fighting claustrophobia, but I can breathe. The pain in my chest is still there and I concentrate on holding it away from me in a firm fist. If I hold tightly enough it won't hurt. Someone pats my hand as we bump over the threshold of a door and the wheels trundle and squeak.


Lights stream above me, separated by dull grey squares. Faces blur past, some looking at me. I don't look at them. I might see fear or horror, and I will feel it too.




Lemon ... verbena, I think, but certainly lemon. We had bushes of it round the grass and we put the seesaw so it swung down into a bush. The lemon smell closed over my head and the furry oval leaves brushed against my face. The sun beat down as we swung round and round and up  and down.

Laughing voices, ours I think, echo around me and the weekend stretches ahead ...




Blue, starched uniforms, tan tights, black leather shoes. Walking past. Soft murmuring voices accompanied by beeps and creaks, squeaks and groans. The lights shine brightly, fading in and out with consciousness, backwards and forwards on beds, curtains opening and closing, no peace for the wicked! Doctors walking, talking and shouting, patients walking, families crying, help, help, help, now it’s all too late …