Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Mournful they toll, the church bells sounding their song of sorrow as the day dies and the sun’s light fails. And so it begins. Halloween they call it now. Halloween, just another seasonal holiday, over commercialised and made trivial in today’s society. The old ways have been lost to science, ancient truths replaced with the comfort of modern lies, sacred rites turned into childish fun and booze fuelled parties. But this is still All Hallows’ Eve, Samhain, the time of the dead. And there are still those who believe. As the veil between worlds thins and dusk falls, the bells toll for lost souls and Christians pray. Pagans light their bonfires and prepare their feasts, an extra place at the table set for the departed. But surely these are no more than silly superstitions, out of place in present times? Surely there’s no real danger to be had in walking the streets this night, or at least none more than on any other night? So you tell yourself as you make your way home, a late fini...

Yes, I am going to raise my head above the parapet on this one. I have had it, I am done, well not quite done, or I would not be raising the matter, here would I?  Ripped jeans? Distressed clothing? Clothes looking like it has been passed down through four generations without so much as a good wash. That is what is now fashionable. I recall when we had the grunge look in the 1990s. That required effort to actually trawl through second hand shops, to find tat to blend with contemporary fashion in order to feign being stylish. Wasn’t my taste either, but you could respect the effort and creativity. Distressed clothing, in my opinion, is just an affront to those poor people in other parts of the world who would rather die, than be seen in torn clothing, as it denotes poverty for them and who wants to look poor, especially when you really are? I wouldn’t mind, but people pay good money to look ‘distressed’, and I hear that according to the way the clothing is ripped...

These six super-short stories were inspired by the Novel in 25 Words competition run by Bath Spa University.  Let me know in the comments if you have a favourite, or maybe reply with a short short of your own!  Another shot The striplight flickers, goading his nascent migraine. Hailing the bartender again, he rereads the note. Someone joins him at the bar, but it’s not her. Guilty You’ve got to admit it though, that what he did must surely, whatever your conscience tells you, mean that two wrongs do make a right.   Silence Should she say anything? Would she be believed? Who would even listen to her? People knew, of course they did. But no one spoke up. Faux-pas ‘Well, I ask you!’ Delphinia said, with not a little conviction. ‘What did she think would happen after she’d come in something so completely outré?’ Risky business The boats are back. All but one. They wait, pray, search. Silently, they give thanks that their own are safe. The boats...

The last train has been and gone. A destination board illuminates two bicycles alone at last in the station rack, locked in an embrace. His, angular, splattered with mud, leather saddle built for endurance. Hers, rounded, set up for comfort, dressed in a fashionable lilac livery. His front tyre touches hers, like horses nuzzling in a field. A hard helmet rests in her wicker basket. Did he ring her bell? Was she impressed by whistles? Days pass. Images are analysed. Two men clad in blue plastic, armed with bolt cutters and compassion, carefully set the lovers free.

I breathed in at the wrong moment, got a lung-full of her cigarette smoke and coughed like a bastard for the next five minutes. She glanced over at me, her concern successfully camouflaged behind an expression of irritation. Don't know what she's worried about; if I popped my clogs, she'd easily fill my place with someone else. In fact they would be queuing up outside her door – most of them knew she was quite able and more than willing in the bedroom. But she smoked like a chimney, so when we smooched it was like kissing an ashtray. That was the main reason over the years I'd slowly persuaded her to do more doggy-style.   Whoops, there I go again, thinking about sex. Now I have to concentrate real hard to suppress the stirrings, as the pair of white-coated staff members approach to help me wheel Josephine back through the double doors and into the Fairfield Retirement Home.