Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

A man labours upon the gentle slope of a blustery hillside. He digs a grave; a large grave. He grips the rough-hewn haft of the crude spade with blistered hands. Senses deadened, feeling no pain beyond that in his shattered soul. A plague sweeps Europe; the Black Death they call it. They say it has claimed the lives of one in every three. At the foot of the heather-strewn hill lies a small collection of ramshackle wooden buildings. Smoke rises from a number of roofs to be swept away in long, grey, wispy trails by the unforgiving wind. Two weeks ago, the Black Death reached our village. It took away the two people most dear to me. The man on the hill pauses in his task to stretch and rub his lower back. He removes his dirty off-white shirt, folds it neatly and places it beside the cross and two blanket rolls—one large and one small. He gazes at them and then towards the village. They were even denied their last rites — there hasn’t been a priest anywhere near our vil

   This ole wooden building is dang fine and dandy. He don’t see why no one would change it, no sir, but if the little lady’s wanting him to build another un, then that’s alright with him as well. At this time o’ life, you gotta take your pleasure where God pleases himself to put it for you. And God sure has put it square and fine in the palm of his hand this time, sending through the movin’ pictures of that there dem fine lady on the sparky ole box of tricks Saint Clare set up for him on the table inside the porch.   Clement takes a look real close in the mirror at his pale skin, tiny black points coming pricking through on his chin again. Dang that razor, and that there interfering besom, his mater, thinking she can still tell him how to wash his smalls. After all this time, him being married three times and all, he sho’ knows how to look after his own clarts without no dame telling him what’s what. But he sho’ wants to look his best when she appears on that thar box. He has just e

Late was the hour in which the beast came crawling out from its dark lair, unbeknownst to me. I was still hard at work at my desk, struggling to meet another deadline when one of the cats alerted me to its presence, her unblinking stare fixed on something on the floor, something which called to her predatory instincts and had her up and ready to pounce. And I could guess what that something was, dread filling me as I followed her gaze to discover the nature of the creature. Anyone who claims spiders are harmless has never felt the sting of an arachnid’s fangs as they puncture skin, often leaving angry mounds of swollen flesh in their wake. They have never heard the horror stories of limbs having to be amputated and worse, never seen the terrifying images of the damage those fangs can do on Google. But sometimes the deadliest killers are among the smallest, not that anything about this beast was small. There it sat on its eight sprawled legs, each limb roughly the same size as my lo

Can you hear me? I’m in that song I used to sing, Randomly sung by another’s voice, And in the tunes I used to play, Over and over again, Driving you crazy, then, Making you cry, as you hear them Now, on the radio. Do you feel me? I’m in the sun, Kissing your cheeks, Leaving my glow on your forehead, And the wind, Stroking your hand and your arm, “It’s okay,” I say, as the sea rushes in, I’m in every hug, still. Yes, you see me! I’m in every rainbow That surprisingly fades in, Brilliant and brighter, On those significant days, When you miss me the most, Letting you know, I’m still here with you. And it really is me, Hopping along your lawn, Boldly towards you, My red breast beaming, Black eyes watching you too, In those places we never went to, But even there, I am with you.