Association of Christian Writers

 Inspirational events, effective resources and professional advice for writers who are Christians 

A sample of  writing by ACW members. These come from either published books, soon to be published books, or works in progress. You can find out more at the Members Showcase  

Wendy H. Jones from her novel Killer's Cut


Despite the green-eyed man driving the old Mercedes Benz carefully up the steep mountain road, the human leg still rattled around in the boot. Only the light of a low-slung moon, almost dazzling in its brilliance, lighted his way. The narrow road wound through rocky, gorse covered terrain, known only to the spirits of the night. This was a barren, God forsaken wilderness. The sound of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata accompanied the occupant of the car. It was a soothing backdrop completely at odds with the macabre purpose of this trip.


Lyn Alderson from her work in progress Sold Out for Jesus (working title)


Jeeto sat on the grass in the village by the filthy pool, her malnourished, half-naked body a pitiful sight to everyone who walked by. She had been placed under a tree, inches away from the mud that surrounded the murky water, her skimpy clothing just protecting her modesty. She had a dirty face and looked weak and ill. She seemed depressed and resigned to her terrible plight.

I had seen Jeeto sitting like this many times before, year after year, and nothing had changed. I passed her by once again, a little girl feeling her pain. 

Kathleen Watson from her book The Little House in Heaven


Melissa Green lived with her mother in a big brown brick house with a grey slate roof, up the top of a hilly street. They only lived in the middle part of the house, up a wide white wooden staircase.  Opposite their front door on the landing, was another white door that was always shut. It was just part of the house, like the white pineapple knobs on the banisters. One day Melissa saw that the other door was open, and she glimpsed a little flight of white stairs beyond it. Where could those other stairs go? she wondered.



Clare Weiner writing as Mari Howard from her book BabyBaby


'Here’s looking at you, babe!’
      A folded piece of A4, a lecture handout from four years ago, flutters to the floor.  Leaning down to retrieve it, I’m overtaken by all the gnawing regret of the old love affair I’d intended Cambridge would help me forget.
Max always liked to do daft things: I can see it now, him passing me the drawing while looking straight ahead at the slide the lecturer had on the screen. The cartoon’s drawn in ball pen. It’s ridiculous: under a dinner table, a pair of bony male knees, below a kilt, equipped with human eyes, regard a pair of shapely female legs, ending in elegant feet in high heeled shoes.

Theresa Grant from her work in progress, Awakening - The Lord's Prayer. 


The Lord’s Prayer is the greatest prayer of all time. It is brief yet all encompassing, and concise yet comprehensive. It is both personal and corporate. A prayer to be recited and to be used as an outline. How you pray this prayer will affect not just your whole prayer life, but your whole life. 

Growing with The Lord’s Prayer has changed how I pray. Praying other Biblical prayers may change how we pray about some areas of life, but only this prayer impacts every aspect of our lives. This is why it is the greatest prayer ever.

Fiona Lloyd from her work in progress, Becky's Diary


This morning didn’t go quite as planned. I was determined to get up early and spend some quality time with God. Set the alarm for 6.30am. At 6.20am Adam climbed into our bed with a Thomas the Tank Engine book. Tried to suggest that he went back to bed because it was very early and I wanted to talk to Jesus, but he made such a noise that he woke Ellie up as well. Her choice was The Cat in the Hat. Couldn’t help wishing my children were a bit more accommodating when I’m trying to be spiritual...

Helen Murray from her work in progress, Won't Aways be Dark at Six


Conversation was centred around the Christmas tree, which appeared to divide opinion. Was it appropriately Christmassy to have a colour co-ordinated tree? What was wrong with having it the way it had always been? Surely purple was insufficiently festive?  Where were the red ornaments that poor Madge crocheted last year - an oversight, or an insult to her memory? Bridget had strong opinions, as she did on most things. When she began offering her views on the controversial decision to top the tree with a star this year rather than the aged angel, the conversation moved on without her.    

Paul Alkazraji from his book The Silencer

Jude Kilburn looked back over his shoulder. The narrow road behind was empty. He sat at the rear of a taxi van gripping the seat in front to steady himself as they bounced and climbed. A man-sized dummy like a Guy Fawkes doll flashed by hung by its neck from the roof of a half-built house. He knew it was a common practice thought to ward off evil in Albania, but it was as if on the edge of his own spirit he felt the passing of a shadow with it. 
 

Wendy H. Jones from her novel Killer's Craft


The bodies lie, quiet and still, in a perfect black and white tableau, no longer able to sing their praise to the heavens. A thick, malevolent silence cloaks the scene. Not a word is uttered, not a sound made. One deadly twist, introduces them to Charon, the aged ferryman who waits to carry the dead to the other side. That is if you believe such myths. Killer, of course, does not.

The faint glow of a nightlight provides just enough illumination to a monochrome image portrayed in its purest form. Killer, seeming nothing but a shadow, gazes in wonder before slipping from the room. 


Nick White from his book Destiny and Dynasty


He looked across at the trees that lined the riverbank. They were birch trees with trunks that seemed as if they had been painted white. The knots in the trunks looked like eyes. It was unnerving, as if the trees had eyes that were watching him. 


He couldn't decide if the trees were on his side or not. He felt that they were coming to a decision about him, some kind of judgement. That they were waiting for him to do something.

Pamela Evans from, Inspiring Women Every Day Nov-Dec 2014


Paul listed bringing up children and showing hospitality among examples of good works (1 Timothy 5:10). These and other forms of service require effort, but we need to question what’s happening if we’re always on the run: perpetual motion machines are a liability if overheating, low on oil and heading in the wrong direction! Any time we’re feeling harassed, dry, or short of love or patience, we may turn to the God who is love. The Holy Spirit is ready to refresh our hearts, and Jesus’ offer to redirect our efforts remains open (Matthew 11:28-30).

Anne Jordan from her short story U. R. Normal


The character is dyslexic


me truble started wen me mum dyed. She lernt me all me letturs wen i woz likkle befor i went to skool  She woz gud to me and we wud danc to pet shop boys songs at bedtyme me in my blew spotted jammies that floppet rownd me ankuls  i ended up forling on the sete cos i woz dissy wiv lafing.Then she got syck, ,cancur it woz .Me dad put her bed neer to the telly so she cud wotch corrie Wen she dyed me hed went funny like me brane had moved to the rong place.

Stephanie Cottam from her book, Countertransference


Phoebe left the room completely stunned. She had no idea what had just happened, but she needed to escape without anyone witnessing the tears threatening to flood her face. There was something dark at play behind what had just happened, and although she had been left reeling, Phoebe was determined to uncover what was going on… once she’d released all the tears.

Passing one of her colleagues coming out of the gent’s toilets, Phoebe hid her face behind her long blonde hair, and kept her head down, to avoid making eye contact as she made her way to the front door. 

Margaret Kazmierczak from her work in Progress, Ayesha


Ayesha screwed up the piece of paper that her father had written his blessing on fifteen years earlier and dropped the picture frame on the floor watching it smash as it bounced on the wooden surface.  Tears rolled down her red cheeks as she desperately clung onto the last threads of normality. 

“I can’t do this anymore” she sobbed.' 

Abbie Robson from her book, Secret Scars


Not long after that day, I began to see the insanity of what I was doing and I completely fell apart.I had to give up my job and move back home with my parents, and I only just managed to stay out of hospital by smiling sweetly and saying the things I knew the doctors wanted to hear. I curled up as small as I possibly could, said as little as I could get away with, and watched the grey world go by. Life was a happiness that eluded me, and I gave up searching.

Vince Rockston from his work in progress, Aquila


“So, my little Valerius, It’s time to tell me the whole truth, starting with what your real name is. And who gave you those lashes.”

Her head droops. “Very well." She pulls up her legs into a squatting position. "It’s no use trying to hide anything from you. I’m at your mercy.” 

“I’m no monster.”

“I know. Thanks for treating my wounds. And for not getting mad when you saw I wasn’t honest.” She screws up her face. “God doesn’t like liars. But I thought I had a better chance of escaping as a boy.”

Sheila Robinson from her novel, A Passionate Spirit


Then she saw a child in front of her. She stopped dead. A little girl. Long fair hair, wearing a green dress. She seemed to be four or five years old, and Zoe saw no adult with her. As centre administrator Zoe knew the name of each guest. There was no child among them.


“Hello,” said Zoe. She smiled. “Are you lost?” 

“Where’s my daddy?” asked the little girl.

“Your daddy?” repeated Zoe. “I don’t know. What’s his name? What does he look like?”


The child made no reply. Instead, she looked through Zoe.

Fran Hill from her work in progress, Miss


At the Headteacher’s emergency briefing, every staffroom chair was taken. I found a place to stand, sorrying to people left and right for impinging on floor space they’d staked out. The email had said, ‘All staff to meet at 8.45am for an important announcement.’ Because we knew this edict had the word ‘Ofsted’ all over it like scabies, no one had dared stay away claiming too much to do before lessons began. Still, I hoped, as those dangling from cliff edges hope, for a reprieve. Let it be about a new strategy or project instead. Please.