If I’m not writing, I’m thinking about writing. And if I’m not thinking about it, I’m probably not thinking at all.

Thinking, while updating my website

Having graduated from a Creative Writing BA (Hons) degree at Arts University Bournemouth, where, having entered as a writer of fantasy fiction and songs, I explored, grew confident, and fell in love with many other forms of writing – from memoir, to screenwriting, to copy. During, and alongside, my degree, I have written (and currently find myself rewriting) a fantasy novel, Beneath the Surface: The Shekinah Children. 

Since then, I have thrown myself deep into two other projects: another fantasy novel, and a memoir-and-advice book: 9 Months, My Arse (and the ‘Arse’ that is Adult-Adolescence – a Product of Chaos). Alongside these, I constantly add to my repertoire of country/pop songs, and, as a ‘Marketing Executive’, I find myself writing content 5 days out of 7.

Current projects include:

The Shekinah Children:
A fantasy novel of 80,000 words and first of a series: ‘Beneath the Surface’ – wherein a historical real word is merged with a pirate/medieval-fantasy world via the premise of a hollow Earth. News of a dragon hatching ignites a race between a circus ship, an empire, and an ape-like race – all while we watch a gambling archer get lost in the jungle with the newly hatched dragon.

9 Months, My Arse (and the ‘Arse’ that is Adult-Adolescence – a Product of Chaos):
A memoir-and-advice about extreme-premature birth, grief, and facing life after loss. It tells my story, wherein I recount the experiences I shared with my partner and reflect on them, including chapters, such as Circles, A Sense of Permanence, and F*** Sympathy (Most of the Time, Anyway)

Book & series title TBC:
Another novel/series set in the same fantasy world as ‘The Shekinah Children’, taking place long after the events of the original series/premise in a more a more medieval, post-apocalyptic setting. It follows the Bulwark family as their hometown, Fallowfield, suffers from a number of deaths-by-disease. Protagonists, Timber and Angelica, get caught in a plot, revealing the truth behind the mystery plague. **Currently writing.

The door opens and the cold returns; the stranger now stands a silhouette against the backdrop of a bustling street. “In the meantime,” he says, “I suggest you get reading.”


It’s simple: I loves to write. To play God and escape to a fantasy world. To recount and reflect in the form of non-fiction. To do the bidding of others in copy. Heck, I’ll even puff out my chest and say: “There’s nothing better than a slick, well-written email.”

I am a creative writer of all sorts: fiction, non-fiction, songs. Copy, too.

Keep scrolling down to find examples of Ben’s writing.

From fiction to memoir, copy to lyrics.

There’ll be flash-fiction too.

Alternatively, contact me (Ben) directly.

I will happily send you examples, and/or discuss ideas,
regarding anything you might need.

Let the examples begin.

addressing my hypothetical audience (you), while editing my website

Example #1: fantasy-fiction

An extract from UntitledChapter One: Fear for the Folk of Fallowfield

Hammurabbi removed a cup from a hook above the kitchen counter. In front of him, a blue flame kept a coffee pot warm – forever at the optimum drinking temperature. With a parched lick of the lips, he poured himself a cup of the fine brew. “You did well coming to me, girl.” As he spoke, he joined the child at the table in the centre of his cluttered caravan and continued: “From what you’re saying, this old man of yours needs to keep away from those stinking greens.”

“Right.” With her hood down, her knotted hair fell in a scramble of champagne locks, intertwined with old ribbons and small clumps of mud.

“Merciful dragons,” Hammurabbi cursed under his breath, rising from his stall – all too soon after planting his arse on it. Rummaging through a nearby cupboard, he continued to curse under his breath: “Bleedin’, pointy-eared, good-for-nothin’ gree…”

He clicked his fingers and cheered. “Ha!”

Meanwhile, the young girl watched the old apothecary curiously. “My name’s Angelica, by the way.” 

Hammurabbi, holding a small leather pouch, turned to face the child. “Huh?”

“My name,” Angelica said with innocent wit, “you should know the names of your customers.”

The apothecary’s bushy eyebrows dropped in a frown.

Angelica smiled: “For your records. What if someone fools you, you know?”

Hammurabbi returned to his stall, placing the pouch on the table. “This is the stuff you want,” he said, sliding it to her and ignoring the child’s observation. “When a family gets sick,” he continued, “the individuals only spot the symptoms on others. Not themselves.”

Angelica retrieved the pouch.

“And girl.” The apothecary raised an eyebrow as he sipped his coffee. “Sometimes the sick only single out one of their herd… a scapegoat, let’s say. It’s a self-preservation, denial kind ‘a thing.” He sipped his coffee once more, proceeding to exhale as he placed the cup on its saucer.

“I only came for medicine, Mister Apothecary. Not some lesson on goats.”

“Well,” Hammurabbi chuckled at the child’s tongue, “your father best thank you for his imminent healing.”

Angelica shrugged. “I’m just following instructions.” She rose from her chair.

“I see.” The old man nodded to the door. “Let’s hope your instructor is thanked then, shall we?”

“My father’s sick, remember.” The child walked toward the exit.

“Aren’t we all?” Hammurabbi whispered, his gaze lingering on the rocking chair that had not long offered him peace.

Angelica opened the door and stepped outside. “Come on, Noah. Mum wants some of Mister Loft’s bread to go with dinner.”

Her shaggy hound was absent.

“Noah?” the girl called, “Noah?”

“I’m definitely having contractions.” Not good. Not good at all. And with the next contraction came the curse:

“F***, my waters.”

‘9 months, my arse’

Example #2: memoir

An extract from 9 Months, My Arse (and the ‘arse’ that is Adult-Adolescence – a Product of Chaos).

Let me first revisit and define ‘chaos’ and ‘adult-adolescence’ once more – the moment, the dog (us humans) plants its arse on the floor and begins its transformation, from pet to owner.

To put it as short and simple as I can, ‘chaos’ is the ceasing of order (all that you know). It is a process that throws you into something drastically new, breaking traditions and familiarities that you have come to grow so comfortable around. It is a transformative destruction of order, morphing you into someone different. It is as if chaos puts an end to the person you are/were and rewrites you. Chaos is (OK, I will put it simply this time) the encapsulation of ‘death and rebirth’ – well, the habitat wherein you go through such a process. The person you are dies, to be reborn anew. And, as I have already mentioned, the key here is to prepare for it. To accept it. To embrace it when the chaos comes – whenever that might be, because there is no telling when chaos will arise. Do this, and you might find yourself with some control over your rebirth. Who will you become?

Gem and I’s chaos, my chaos (for the purpose of this book), was Elijah’s coming-and-going and the storm that followed within my ‘bubble of origin’. For someone else, it might be a divorce. A sacking. Illness. It could be a move away from their hometown. Far away. Perhaps to a whole new country or continent – thus a new time zone and culture. It doesn’t necessarily have to be something ‘bad’ or ‘tragic’ either. It could be enrolling in a course that so happens to be the reason you move to that new continent. It could be that you get a promotion at work that (again) takes you far away. Maybe you find yourself walking into a brand-new job – with new people, new responsibility, and a new routine. Perhaps it is meeting a new partner. Perhaps it is having a child with (or without) said partner.

The reality here is: chaos comes in many, many forms – all so variant from one another.

And chaos is, undoubtedly, subjective to the person.

For some, moving away might not be what triggers it. For others, even a new-born child might not do the trick. It all depends on who that person is at that point in time. What would utterly rattle their present reality? What would throw all they know up in the stratosphere, leaving it to plummet to the earth in pieces – pieces that undoubtedly land far apart from another? What would force them to change? To, once more, go through adolescence. In this book’s case: adult-adolescence. We might go through adolescence as youths – as teens elbowing their way through the motions of our teenage years. This, as I explained at the very beginning of this book, I see as the dog sitting for the first time. Defying its owner. Realising that, today is a day they do not wish to go for a walk. Afterall, it is raining. And home was so much more. And home had treats in it. But, unlike dogs, we have the ability to take this process further.

Example #3: lyrics

Taste The Wine’

It all starts with a “Hello,
What are you doing?
‘Cause I am all alone.
And I could do with a friend right now.”
You don’t have to say no more –
That’ll get me our my door.

‘Cause it feels so right, I know it’s wrong,
I shouldn’t have your number on my phone,
But when you call there’s nothing at all,
That’ll stop me coming, baby.
You’ve got me wrapped around your finger,
Like the ring I gave you,
And when you said ‘no’, I should have known,
It was over, but now, I am over,
Your house and there’s a buzz,
I can feel it, I swear it’s love.
And when those lips land on mine,
I can taste the wine.

And that should be enough,
To tuck my tail and run,
But I’m having too much fun.


It all starts with a “Hello,
What are you doing?
‘Cause I am all alone.
And I could do with a friend right now.”
You don’t have to say no more –
That’ll get me our my door.

‘Cause it feels so right, I know it’s wrong,
I shouldn’t have your number on my phone,
But when you call there’s nothing at all,
That’ll stop me coming, baby.
You’ve got me wrapped around your finger,
Like the ring I gave you,
And when you said ‘no’, I should have known,
It was over, but now, I am over,
Your house and there’s a buzz,
I can feel it, I swear it’s love.
And when those lips land on mine,
I can taste the wine.

And that should be enough,
To tuck my tail and run,
But I’m having too much fun.


It all starts with a “Hello,”
And it ends with “Oh no.”

Let’s take a break from examples – and discuss inspirations.

I share a love-hate relationship with reading; I’ll admire what other people create, only to envy them: ‘Why can’t I do that?’ A pep-talk will follow… every writer is different. You’re not them; they’re not you.

Me, talking about writing

The world-building in my fantasy-fiction is inspired by books, such as The Hiram Key and Before the Pyramids, where Christopher Knight, Alan Butler, and Robert Lomas investigate early civilisation (the earliest, even), and The Smoky God – which tells a tale of a boat that sails inside of the Hollow Earth. My fantasy storytelling, however, comes from a combination of: The Book Thief, Vampirates, and Northern Lights.

Though there does come with a natural differentiation in tonal style, my fantasy-fiction and nonfiction both share similarities – that much, I am sure. And it is one that comes from reading the likes of: The Sex Lives of Cannibals and 12 Rules of Life. Regarding my ideologies, that shape my fantasy-fiction and nonfiction alike, they are heavily influenced by the latter mentioned by J. Peterson – as well as the likes of The Book You Wish Your Parents Had Read and Your Children Will Be Glad You Did and Adult Children; The Secrets of Dysfunctional Families.

During one of my first copywriting lectures, I ordered – and will be forever thankful for it – the book: Ogilvy on Advertising (a gospel for copywriting). I have since gone onto to study the likes of Breakthrough Copywriting and Words That Sell.

When it comes to music and lyrics, I will always have artists, such as Alex Band and Hunter Hayes, at the forefront of my inspiration. The latter’s album, Wild Blue (Part 1), has played a huge part in my more recent works – I even found myself writing a research essay about the album during the final year of my Creative Writing BA (Hons) degree.

Lastly, it should be said that I keep The Elements of Style close to me too – as quoted earlier: who doesn’t love a slick, well-written email? Without knowing the rules, you can’t break them. (When and where to use brackets, for example).

Through writing you can channel anything you need to help keep you moving forward.

‘9 months, my arse’

Example #4: non-fiction & lyrics

An extract from 9 Months, My Arse – featuring the lyrics for To You, Our Son

And thirdly, the following song found its way to completion and into the studio (yet another form of channelling):

I am writing this song for you,
In case you can hear me, ‘cause I’ve got a date for you to,
Pencil in,
So you can be there as Papa Bear walks your…

Mamma down the aisle,
While your daddy’s heart runs wild,
And a ballad sings a song,
And our vows,
Say as long as time,
Keeps carrying on,
And carries us on,
Back, back to you our son.

So, boy, remember twenty-two o’ five,
‘Cause I want you to know you’re still a part of this ride,
You set us on,
So, will you be there as Papa Bear walks your…


In case I have not…
Said thank you, or I love you,
Or I cannot be prouder of you,
Or I will carry you right where you laid your head,

Well, this is thank you, and I love you,
And I cannot be prouder of you,
And I will carry you right where you laid your head,
For the rest of time.

Starting with your,
Mamma down the aisle,
Making my heart run wild,
And our vows will say it true,
That we’ll come back, back to you,
But there are things we’ve got to do first,
Before we join you in the universe.

When singing a song like this, I feel like (in a way) I am singing to Elijah. It channels that need to still keep him with me, to keep a father-son relationship, to make good of my promise. Looking at the song itself, I wrote this in gratitude toward Gemma and how crucial a role she played in helping me through my transition. I felt incredibly low. And she helped me climb back up. Thank goodness she had counselling before I did – that’s what I say. ‘Else I/we might have been a wee bit f***ed.

I know that not everyone reading this will be able to, or want to, write songs, but I hope this shows that through writing (or any form of channelling, really) you can express so much – you can unload so much. And, with whatever form you choose, whatever you wish to channel, it is OK to do so. These songs, these memory balls, your channelling are not there to be judged. They are there to express whatever might have been burdening your mind.

Channelling lightens the load.

And heck, it might help you connect with who, or what, you might have lost.

In my case, I have found channelling as a way in which I can keep talking to Elijah (in a way). And like-so, if you somehow find yourself reading this book and chapter, Elijah, I will do better by my promise. It might just be that ‘talking’ is literal. It is channelling. It is me talking to you in all kinds of ways – even the way in which I live my every day. It is all this promise. It is all keeping you with me – keeping you as part of this ride you set us (your mum and I) on.

Example #5: flash fiction

‘The First of the Famous Hangover Cures’

This is exactly what I need after a long night of pint after pint. Memories return in a blur as I sit down and sigh. This feels good. Of course it does. I’m about to proceed with the first of the famous hangover cures. 

And the kettle is on.

Relief hits me at the presence of the dark substance. Steam rises and strokes my cheeks.

Its warm scent hits my nose. 

I take my time, savouring the cure.

Tissue dabs my steamed cheeks. Then cleans any spillages. One more sigh and I’m back on my feet. A swift move of the hand and I flush the chain, leaving the cure behind me. 

Off to the kettle I go.

And so the second hangover cure begins.

Two more examples (#6 & #7): lyrics & flash fiction

‘Write a Country Song’

When I’m feeling low,
And I don’t know where to go,
When I am all alone,
I write a country song.
When I’m out with my friends,
Tryin’ to drink to make my heart mend,
And I stumble through that door,
I write some more.

I play a few chords and sing a few words,
And I’m home. Yeah, I’m home.
I let out all the hurt until the notes fall low,
I’m home.

When it’s getting late,
But I am wide awake,
‘Cause this heart still aches,
I write a country song.


When a new day comes,
To bring the sun,
I celebrate,
With that song from yesterday.


It clicks as you twist, splitting the ball in half. It is hollow. The stranger points to the inside of the ball. “We call our world the Innerworld.”


‘Free Men’

I surrender.

As I said those words, I thought I had lost my freedom.

They took me and tied me, dragged me away. Left me here, sat waiting for my indefinite hell of a new life. All because I was born within particular borders, forced to follow a particular man. Truth is, I had lost my freedom a long time ago.

The men watching me – there were two; the way they spoke, and laughed, and slapped their thighs. They were comrades with a bond. Friends, sharing a bottle of whiskey – drinking as brothers! It made me think of all the people I had lost along the way. They wouldn’t laugh again. So, how could I? How could these men? Was a drop of whiskey all it took? 

I couldn’t understand their tongue. Nor the order that their officer gave them. All I noticed was his finger pointing at me as he barked. But as he left, the men did not come to me with cuffs or chains. They came with whiskey.

“Drink!” they said – as if I could understand them. It’s funny. I remember thinking: I bet they’re telling me to drown, the filthy Kraut.

“Drink,” they said, holding the bottle closer.

“Drink?” This time, it was me who spoke. If I didn’t understand the word’s meaning at that moment, I did the moment after.

The bottle met my lips. Whiskey rolled over my tongue, ran down my throat. My thirst, my taste buds, they were all I could focus on.

I hardly heard the two men cheer.  They pulled the bottle away.

I said my word, “Getränke.”

They smiled.

I smiled.

“Drink,” they said.

It didn’t feel like long – although I remember both sun and moon. We drank more than just the one bottle of whiskey! When they cheered, I did too. When I laughed, so did they. By the end, the two men were laying on their backs. I was taken away. Their chuckling faded. The happiness ceased.

But I will always remember that moment: the one where the war ended and three men became free men. For that, I will always be grateful for the words: I surrender. They had given me my freedom.

Writing can consume you. Distractions, reminders that we’re part of a ‘real’ world, are more than welcome: they’re needed.

Ben, addressing his hypothetical audience & reminder of the ‘real’ world (you)

Find Ben Caleb Rose on social media:

You can find Ben on most social medias as ‘Ben Caleb Rose’. See below for a list of links.

Facebook: click here

Instagram: click here

Twitter: click here

YouTube: click here

LinkedIn: click here

Contact me. Offer me a distraction.

T: +44 (0) 7790606966
E: calebcreative@mail.com

%d bloggers like this: