Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

He slammed the door as he left.  Its sound echoed down the hall.  Celia sat down on the bar stool in the kitchen and pressed the damp towel against her eye.  A normal start to a normal day, although to be fair to Joel, he didn’t usually strike her face.  To be fair to Joel!  She remonstrated with herself.  He wasn’t exactly fair to her. And yet today would turn out to be anything other than normal. She stepped down from the stool and walked unsteadily over to the sink to run the towel again under the cool water.  She turned the tap on, put the towel in the sink and, leaving it there, walked out of the kitchen and towards the cupboard under the stairs. The light bulb in the cupboard had blown and so she reached inside and fumbled about, eventually locating the reassuring, comforting feel of the tall, slim bottle right at the back.  She was about to grasp it and pull it out, when she felt something else.  Squashy, plump fabric of some sort.  She pulled it out into the light

Little Charlie Haigh Running up the cobbles And rushing into school Just before the bell. Chalk squeaking on slate As he copies out his alphabet, Hand shaking in fear As the teacher’s steps come closer. Chanting his times tables And longing for the day to end, When he can run down those cobbles Towards freedom in the woods. I wish I could tell him That 130 years from now Children in this classroom Would be learning about him. I’m glad he didn’t know then About the horrors of the trenches And the sacrifice that he would make With seventy others from his school. He could never have guessed That his name would be listed On a gleaming gold plaque In the school’s entrance hall And that a class would be learning About his life in Dewsbury Before that piece of shrapnel Delivered its fatal wound. He could never have predicted That his name would be honoured And his life would be remembered Two centuries into the

EDIT: I just realised that I haven't had the chance to introduce myself properly to most of the other members so I'll endeavour to do so here. I'm Owen and I've been coming to infrequent Writer's Lunches since late last year. I'm Vice President at the Huddersfield Author's Circle and a friend of Nick's and Ian's. I write short stories with speculative themes: sometimes sci-fi, usually unusual. "Why are you reading my dream journal?" I asked the man on the bench.             "Seventh of January," he muttered.             "Seriously! how the hell did you get it?"             "You left it out."             "In my bedroom! That's breaking and entering." I reached into my pocket. "I'm calling the police."             "I have a question," he said, setting down the journal.             I laughed. "You have a question?"             "You'

To start things off Val, can I ask how you began writing fiction? Was there a specific trigger? There was indeed a trigger, I began writing my first novel when I was being treated for breast cancer. I had taken early retirement and was beginning to wonder how I had ever had time to work when I received the unwelcome diagnosis of breast cancer.  As my treatment proceeded, I started to blog about my experience. My writing here still receives considerable attention: www.survivingbreastcancernow.com . I found my treatment very tiring and had little energy to do anything but read, so I started reviewing the books I read on www.bookreviewstoday.info . I have always enjoyed reading crime fiction and I began to think that, as I had the time, I would try my hand at writing a crime fiction novel. It was not an easy task, and it took a lot longer than I thought it would, but the result was Hunter's Chase . The novel features DI Hunter Wilson. How would you describe him? Hunte

I was speaking to my daughter of the properties of water – the flow, the singing brooks, reflections on a placid mere the inspiration of a tear, how it differs from the rocks. No Dad, she said, rocks too can flow, erupt and spew and turn to gas when subject to sufficient mass – just watch the molten lava flow from this Icelandic volcano. So, it’s not important what it is, what matters is how hot it is. A very happy New Year to all contributors to, and readers of, the Yorkshire Writers' Lunch.