Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Last year a few of us at Yorkshire Writers' Lunch competed in a challenge to reimagine and rewrite classic Christmas hits.  Though it's only October, now is the time to start sharing them out. We have quite a few to get through, so let's start with one of mine... Inspired by Walking in the Air by Howard Blake  Nobody down below believes their eyes, peering up at inbound Christmas. That festive comet wrapped in tinsel, barbed with twinkles, hurtling brighter by the week. Soon enough it'll pierce our chilly atmosphere, force a mince pie,  mulled wine, carol choir crater and see us all upended, merrily displaced, walking in the air.

   The job came in as an encrypted message, to the phone he had been given for that purpose. The message itself was no more than a jumble of letters, numbers and symbols, but it matched the one he had been given. Attached to it were four files: a document containing terse, precise instructions; two photographs, of a rotund, balding man in his 50’s; and a map. He committed them all to memory, then turned off the phone. He would drop it down a suitable drain later, somewhere distant from both his flat and the location shown on the map.                The message had given him only a couple of hours to prepare, but the location wasn’t far away, and by now the process was second nature to him. He inspected the rifle, checking the sights and magazine, then placed it back in its innocent-looking suitcase. He took a few minutes to decide on appropriate clothing. The location was quite central, and close to the stat...

Trigger Warning: Death & Grief I cared for you darling till life ran out. I held you, your last breath was in my arms. I asked you to come back to me, not to leave. Though all in vain, you were taken from me. You slipped away without saying a word Quietly and in the moment, unexpectedly. We could not have known it was the day The angels would come and steal you away. Without warning or drama, just peace and calm I placed your head into my arms. It was already too late to save you, Just to hold you was all I could do. As tears overwhelmed, my eyes were full, Knowing I'd lost you forever and this is all. Your eyes will open no more to see me again. All we had and shared had come to an end. A final goodbye, the end of life. I walk on alone but on which path? Becoming lost in a world, sinking deep, While all I have left are the memories I keep. Precious and treasured within my heart, Safely keeping for the rest of time. A wandering soul drowning in tears, Flooding into my world, f...

Have you ever wondered, as you look up at the night sky, just what would happen if there were no more planets? Don’t worry. Well, not at first, anyway, because there’d be little effect. The Sun holds us in place, so we could continue jaunting round and round in orbit for a few more million years. But we would miss the brightness above us – no more Venus, the morning and evening star; no Mars, no Saturn or any other planet/star that we can recognise. Eventually though, we’d have more space rocks being thrown at us and potentially hitting their target. Jupiter is the one which usually deals with that danger and throws them into touch. It is also the other planets which help to keep us in place, so Earth’s orbit might change and/or the axial tilt might change, with possible catastrophic results. Aren’t you glad you won’t be there to see it? But we have already lost one planet and who knows when another might, arbitrarily, be transformed? Remember Pluto? No, not that yellow-coa...

  Those precious summer holidays, memories from the past. Two whole weeks of pleasure, hoping the sun will last.   Running towards the sparkling sea, buckets and spades to hand. Dad struggling with the deckchairs, as we race across the sand.   Lots of goodies to tempt us, hot dogs and fish and chips. The tangy taste of vinegar, lingering on our lips.   Candy floss and sticky fingers, sugar in our hair. Waffles soaked in jam and cream, devoured without a care.   The excitement of the funfair, screams and laughter fill the nights. Climbing on our favourite rides, beneath the flashing lights.   Those precious summer holidays, memories from the past. Two whole weeks of pleasure, hoping the sun will last.

  Sunday evening after tea. Always the same time each week. He would take his watch out of his waistcoat pocket, pause, compare the hour and the minutes then reach for the brass key at my base and start to count the turns under his breath until we were both ready to face another seven days. Then my chime, the voice of my movement, wound until all my wheels danced to a steady beat. The glass was closed, the key replaced and I felt primed, taut. She never liked my black, slate body with its mock Corinthian columns and its polished dome. I remember hearing her ask him why I had pride of place. ‘Why can’t we have a pretty ormolu timepiece with a gentle ting-tang instead of this monstrosity?’ He thought me a thing of substance, something which seemed to fit his self-image, upright, solid. He died more than 20 years ago and afterwards, she reluctantly shouldered his weekly routine. At first, I feared she would lift me down, take me to the pawn brokers three doors further down the...