Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  ‘You caught me napping. Yes, this is my corner. Bin my favourite spot for years. It’s in the sun, see. Wall gets warm and I like that heat on my back. Not as supple as I used to be. Round here, they knows it’s my space, so I gets left alone. Sometimes some young, smart-arsed tom thinks he’ll push me around but they only do it once. Life in the old fella yet! She lives here; Violet. The cat lady they calls her, those neighbours with their tattoos and piercings and walnut whips like remould tyres. Their kids shout out at her. Caught one yesterday throwing bird seed. I spat at the little wretch and it frightened her enough for her to go crying to her ma. I saw them pointing in my direction but I hoofed it before they could do anything else to annoy me. Of course, if Ronnie’d bin here we’d ha sorted ‘em all out. No one f***s with us. But he’s bin gone years. We was like twins. We didn’t start fights, we finished them. Some said we was ugly but Violet never said that. Course, ...

I dive deep into the still, dark pool within. Deep enough that I wonder how long I can stay here in the depths, until I am drowned under the weight of the waters above. Deeper yet still, the answers I seek shoal, spook, and dive— elusive, quick‑silver flashes that, seen and then unseen, are ever out of grasp.

  Friday   Tabitha closed the portal and sighed. Eloise uncovered the mirror and went back to sucking on the chain of her ankh necklace. Drusilla stepped forward from the opposite end of the room to scrub away the chalk lines.             “I’m so done with this week,” Tabitha announced, wiping the blood from her nostril.             “How much longer can we keep this up?” Eloise asked. “I mean, spell quotas? They’re driving this coven into the ground.”             “It’s a shit show,” Drusilla replied, rising from her knees, “which is why I’ve done something. For us.”             Tabitha and Eloise frowned at her.             Drusilla grinned. “I booked a place in the countryside. For the weeken...

    ‘Oranges and lemons’ said the bells of St Clements, Rung out, in tones as regular and strident As does my humdrum shopping list. In fact, I have to be quite honest My lack of cooking skills are to blame. Each week, it seems I buy the same: Campbell’s condensed chicken soup Then down on tins of beans I swoop, Fresh fish and bacon, cheese and butter Look at my list, which brings a mutter, Run back up the aisles to jams and honey Then check my purse, I’ve got the money, Something special now for Sunday tea: But what are kumquats, dragon fruit, lychee? From fruit I pass the stacks of melons And end up buying - oranges and lemons.

No chance to grow, be cherished and loved My precious baby boy. Leaving behind just heartache and pain When there should have been such joy. I’ll never forget your tiny face The picture’s engraved on my heart. I held you tightly in my arms Knowing we soon would part. As time moves on, the pain subsides Yet the memories are bright and clear. Rest in peace my little one There’s nothing for you to fear.

It's a life by algorithm, in case you hadn't seen, for our own good, they said, now everyone is keen. The things you watch, the things you say, all noted in the cloud, we're getting more of what we like, so feeling oh so proud. Give me more, I want it now, we rubbed our hands with glee, I can have whatever I want if I pay the monthly fee. Netflix, YouTube, Amazon, their promise is insane, yet all I do is flick around as everything's the same. Fear not, there's more, for the hungry and the needier,- it's our saviour at long last, in the guise of social media. The personal lives of everyone streaming live and on your phone, make-up tips, pick-pockets, and an irritating drone. Watch it once, or hesitate, and they've got you by the goolies, But keep your scroll, and do not stop, to ponder who the fool is? Stepping out of line may seem divine, but be wary if you stray, there's a world out there of popping boils and treating tooth...