Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Once, there was no ‘us’, just ‘I’. Proud monolith, I bestrode the land, commanded it, immune and constant for all time, I thought. That was hubris: no other mountain challenged me, but subtler forces were at work. Wind wore me down with jagged fragments of myself; water sank deep fingers in my flesh that froze and fractured me. Soft snow, seeming so gentle, built a second mountain on my back to grind my bones. When that at last was melted, we were no longer one but many; bright streams raced to carry us away. A stump remains, though not for long: nature still harries it; men bore and burrow for the silver in its veins. We that are gone no longer feel a kinship with it. We have embraced our journey, come to love the cold caress of water, our slow dance of descent towards the sea. Division, we have learned, is not defeat, and change is not surrender. Beneath the sea, we know, is stillness: as we gather there, we shall know peace. And with peace, in time, will come rejoining: many s...

  A body is stretched out on the threadbare carpet. A nearby coffee mug, tipped on its side, has dribbled out an artistic brown stain. The front window blind is tight-closed, refusing to let in any bit of a pale morning light. A pair of candles in ornate wooden holders, have burnt down almost to nothing. Evidence of another power cut. The walls and ceiling are covered in rough woodchip wallpaper. Two pendant lights, housed in large paper lanterns, hang down in the middle of the room. The radio on the top shelf of the bookcase is playing uncomplicated classical music to itself. There’s movement on the floor. A leg stretches, a groan, a hand moves to the forehead. John Star wakes gradually, every limb stiff after a night of broken sleep on the floor. He thinks back. That punk band in the Rocket . They were good. But he can’t remember what they were called. Maybe he should start drinking less. A small alarm clock, dangerously close to his ear, bursts into life and his left-h...

  On 24 February 1582, Pope Gregory XIII proclaimed that the Gregorian Calendar would come into effect in October of that year. This would replace the Julian Calendar which had become ‘out of sync’ with what was actually happening to the seasons, which made it difficult to calculate the actual date of Easter. To make up for the discrepancy, the date leapt from 4 October to 15 October, thus losing ten days. Leap years are those that are divisible by four (eg 2024. Just missed it if you were thinking of proposing, ladies.) The quandary over whether to celebrate a 29 February birthday every year or only every fourth year did not occur until much later. The first Gregorian calendars simply had two days called 24 February. Why they chose that day, rather than having two 28 February days is a mystery. Years that are divisible by 100 are only leap years if they are also divisible by 400. The next one will be in the year 3000 AD. You may want to book early for the celebration...

  As the new year began, so did the January Blues. Day after day, the weight of the leaden sky seemed to dull her senses and she longed for brighter weather. Then the rain arrived in slanting sheets, lashing the kitchen window and washing away any hope of a better day. Steam from her mug of tea softly spiralled upwards, kissing the glass where juddering teardrops of rain obscured her view of the garden. Outside, by the back door, the Daphne pulsed its glorious aroma into the winter air. She lingered there each morning, breathing in the sweet, citrus smell from its tiny, pink, four-pointed flowers before retreating to the kitchen and her desk by the fireside.    She picked up a log from the wood basket and placed it on the glowing embers, disturbing the dog who stretched his legs and then sank back into his bed to resume his paw-twitching dreams of long runs through fresh spring woods and the heavy smells of soft, warming soil. In the post that morning were the usual...

  I was looking forward to the weekly creative writing group, but as soon as I arrived, I sensed something was wrong. The same people were around the table, but the atmosphere was tense.   What an earth is going on?   Then she walked into the room.   I’d never met her before and introductions were brief.   She was our new President.   How strange, this was usually decided at the AGM, but that was six months away.   I hadn’t received an e mail, so was slightly confused.      Eventually, she opened her laptop with a flourish, and smiled, a twisted unnatural smile, quite unnerving, as she was staring straight at me.   Everyone had their heads down, not looking in my direction.      “Right, let’s cut to the chase.”    She paused, taking her time, enjoying the suspense.       I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, this shouldn’t be happening.      “We have decided that member...

  “ Attention madame, attendez, attendez!”   Jocasta stopped walking and turned to see a man running after her, trying to attract her attention. He was fifty-ish, dressed in a cream polo shirt, blue jeans and a shabby brown jacket. Whoever said the French have a great sense of style had obviously never been to this dull little town. The man reached her, slightly out of breath. She hoped he didn’t want to sell her anything.     “ Excusez-moi, madame, mais vous avez laisse votre sac à main dans la voiture. Il faut etre prudente dans cette ville. Il y a des voleurs.”   “I’m sorry. Can you speak English?”   The man’s face puckered as if he were trying to find something in a very deep pocket. Then he composed himself before speaking.   “Madam. You leaved your sack in the automobile.”   ‘Leaved’ – oh, that was so sweet, especially in that lovely sing-song accent. Jocasta didn’t have the faintest idea what he was talking about. ...