Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  She took a deep breath, stretched all her limbs and assumed the pose. Left foot planted squarely on level ground, a good solid base. Right leg raised and bent, as if she were running – as, in a way, she was, though her performance would be over before that foot touched the ground. Its role of providing a second point of support was fulfilled instead by a staff of gnarled oak, painted silver and gripped firmly in her right hand. Cupped in a tangle of wood at its tip was a glass sphere, glowing faintly white from an LED beneath it. Her left arm stretched upwards and backwards, its hand holding an eight-pointed sun disc the size of a dinner plate, painted gold. Between the two hands and over her shoulders hung her robe, of which she was particularly proud. It gleamed in alternate pleats of gold and silver which swung down in twin parabolas from her arms, reaching to just below her knees, themselves clad in silver leggings. Her face, too, was all silver and above it was a cotton wool clo

Reginald Demp. That’s what it says on his birth certificate. He doesn’t mind the surname. Even though it’s odd, They didn’t take the mick out of it at school, But they didn’t hold back on Reginald, Reggie and Reg! *** The take-away from school Was a couple of ‘O’ Levels and a bundle of odd memories. But now he’s got himself a job on a building site, a new office block, A short bike ride from home. The new boy on the site, new boots, new overalls, … and a new name, ‘The Rookie’, Courtesy of Bob the foreman. Most people would run a mile from such a name, But Rookie likes it. Reginald, Reggie and Reg are no more. He has a new identity. *** The next day, Bob is showing him the ropes. Very basic. No knots. They walk across the compound. Bob introduces him to the lift, A metal cage attached to the side of the new building. Bob pulls back the gate, they step in, the gate is closed, protesting noisily. A button is pushed and the ground drops away!

  Hidden out of sight It’s just a tattered sketchpad I turn the pages.   Faded over time The words barely visible Descriptions unclear.   Who are these people? Perhaps family members Or maybe just friends.   I stare, she stares back From the last and final page. Watching and waiting.   Her quiet beauty Could never be disputed Though troubled and sad.   “Who are you?” I ask “What secrets can you tell me?” Moments you’ve treasured.”   She cannot answer Her stories remain untold The memories trapped.   I touch her pale face Dark eyes now dancing with life Their magic shines through.   My hands are shaking Yet she watches undeterred It slips from my grasp.   I know I must leave Yet she beckons me closer. I feel her presence.   I cannot explain It’s just a tattered sketchpad Old and forgotten. " Old Notebook " by  Eric__I_E  is licensed under  CC BY 2.0 .

Once upon a time, there were seven dwarfs who lived happily together in their little cottage in the wood.   ‘Well, I don’t think it’s fair,’ snapped Cranky. ‘Our cousins’ve got one. I don’t see why we shouldn’t have one, too. We could lead a life of ease, like they do.’   ‘But what would we do with her, if we had one?’ asked Doleful.   ‘Oh, stop being so negative. She could do our washing and keep house. She’d be a better cook than Dumpy. He usually eats more than reaches the table.’   ‘But how can we get one, Cranky? Just how many mothers do you know who want to kill their daughters?’   Burpy asked, accompanying the question with a loud belch.   ‘Most of ‘em, at some point. We just have to catch them at the right moment.’ Awful answered.   ‘Oh, you are rotten, Awful,’ Weepy said. ‘Or just awfully rotten. Come on, time we were at work.’   The seven filed out, collecting their little picks on the way and singing their unhappy little song. After a hard day’s work, they filed home again,

  A writer is a jobbing journalist, a name-dropped novelist, a happy hobbyist. A writer is.   Writing is pen to paper, hunt-and-pecking, cut-and-sticking. Writing is.   A writer is a rhyming poet, a folktale teller, a script performer. A writer is.   Writing is getting it down, holding it close, letting it go. Writing is.   A writer is forward-planning, first-drafting, self-editing. A writer is.   Writing is a passing whim, a burning urge, cash in hand. Writing is.   A writer is self-improving, ever-learning, word-adoring. A writer is.   Writing is success, failure, hard work, pleasure, feeling better. Writing is. " bing writers " by  kbowenwriter  is licensed under  CC BY-SA 2.0 .