Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Transition Transition excites me.   It means development or growth.   Enhancement.   Improvement.   I want to exist in a state of transition.   To set off on a journey and arrive back in the same place but to have developed en route.   That is a good journey. Love A word used too often.   ‘I love Asian food’.   ‘I love Oxford.’   We should only be allowed to utter the word a maximum of 100 times in our whole lifetime.   Then we would use it wisely.   I love that idea.   Oops! Oddballs. I like people who are oddballs. Unless they sit next to me on a bus.   Then I feel intimidated by them. Intensity I wish I had a magic wand and could conjure up intensity when I required it – focus, concentration, passion, expression – at the drop of a hat.   How wonderful that would be. Place Everyone should have a place of their own.   A small space where they can be themselves.   Be safe, be warm, be content. If only for a moment.   It troubles me to think that many people do

Jane was starting to wish she had never given in to the Elf on the Shelf.    Emily had started her campaign in September. “You want an elf, don’t you Thomas?” she asked her little brother.   “What does it do?”   “It watches you, and it tells Santa if you’ve been good,” said Emily.    Thomas looked doubtful. “And it’s funny! It does lots of really fun things!” said Emily. “Everyone else had one last year.” She looked reproachfully at Jane.    It was true. Jane’s Facebook feed had been full of cute, clever photos of little red elves getting up to “mischief” in the homes of other school mums. It all looked like a lot of effort.    By the end of November,   Jane had been worn down. If the elf could get the kids to do their chores, then it was worth a try.      On the first day of December, she played it safe with the elf sitting in a plant pot, watching over the dinner table.    “I don’t like him watching me,” pronounced Thomas, as he tried to hide his broccoli stalks un

In a time long ago, before mountains were fully grown and the cold, harsh, rocky land was covered with snow and ice and the nights were as black as the inside of a black cat, (or an old oven) and wolves and other, unknown animals, (Hmmm), roamed with impunity, a Faerie Queen ruled over her people with a kind, beatific sense of peace and calm.  The Faerie Queen had been on her noble throne, (in reality a so-called magic rock), for many eons and she was thinking that it was time to hand over the wand to a younger queen and besides her bum was numb from sitting on the damned cold stone. So, one bright sunny day, the first for a while, she called a meeting of her sub rulers and their customer-facing drones. (Drones were mainly males but most did not have the parts that definitely meant they were males in the Faerie Queen’s eyes, well not eyes, you get the drift.) Her desired meeting was a call for the election of a new Queen and her most trusted Sentinels. This was the first time for two e

With the girlfriend gone, I can’t afford this place, so it’s downsizing time.    Going through box after box in the attic, I come across my old camera. There’s an unfinished film inside. With the camera pensioned off when I got my first smart phone, the film must be all of ten years old.    In town the next day I find a feller down in the arcade who still does developing. The age of the film shouldn’t be a problem. But it turns out the price tag includes having to listen to an endless story about his dog.    When I collect the prints the following day, I’m suddenly quite excited. No idea what they’ll show. I escape the storyteller and grab a coffee. Most of the snaps are either under or over-exposed. There’s one or two where I’ve tried and failed to be arty. But the final one stuns me.    I’ve no memory of it being taken. Perhaps the barman took the shot.    Four of us, arms over shoulders, like first row forwards, grinning like idiots. Me and my old school pal Jonno and two

He sat down at the carved antique desk and looked out of the window at the long drive ahead.  On the desk before him lay smooth vellum writing paper, coloured inks and an array of beautiful writing implements.  A familiar sight and one which normally centred him and made him feel calm.  But not this time.  He looked out at the carefully manicured lawns and the rows of poplar trees standing to attention in the warm sun.  What would it be like to lose all of this? His hands shook as he lifted his favourite fountain pen and began to fill it with purple ink.  He gripped the chunky barrel of the pen and held it, poised over the paper, as he considered how to start what might be the most important letter of his life. Suddenly, the door opened so violently that it made him jump and a tiny blob of purple ink escaped from the pen and fell onto the paper. 'Damn,' he uttered as the ink slowly spread outwards, as if it were acid, eroding the paper. 'How can you even think of wr

Remembering Abu Simbel Twice yearly at the equinox a golden spear pierces early vapour (sometimes setting clouds on fire) arrows along the Grimescar Valley until, encountering an obstacle to its interstellar path (my house, my cave, my temple) it rips through a curtain crevice to slay my dream-bound sleep with blood-red light, changing me in a single strike from sleeping animal to waking god.

Excalibur washed up at Hollingworth Lake. I was down by the shore, feeding ducks at the time. All of a sudden, the sword bobbed up and sent them squawking away.             I could tell what it was on sight, ancient and grandiose.  The hilt was very plain considering the legend; bronze rather than gold. At least the quartz in its pommel had retained some lustre, if not any real colour. There were quite a few noticeable rust marks along the blade itself too. Considering coastal erosion, I would say Excalibur did well to look so good. It took me a minute to realise that I could raise it. Did that mean I was King of England now? Arthur's rightful successor? Not too likely. I had glanced at my Auntie's copy of the family tree. She insisted our roots began sometime during the Jacobean era. Nevertheless, I felt like an absolute badass. I swung the sword around a bit: “Take that, Morgan le Fey! And that, Mordred!” Did Arthur have another enemy with a name beginning with ‘M

The day the world changed, the sun was shining.   It was long after the party, when all the street was covered with flags made from old clothes and bed sheets, and we’d stayed up late, and I saw my mother smile with her eyes for the first time.  The women were always chattering, but the chattering had taken on a different air, as they prepared for the big celebration.  The factory was closed for the day.  Everyone was happy that day, eating, drinking and smoking, dancing even, into the night.  And mother was full of bumptiousness, as Aunty Sarah called it.  Although mother wasn’t sure that was the right word at all.  After that we waited “for the men to come home” but the waiting went on.  Mother lost her smile again, but after a while of staring at the door, everything went back to as it was.  Mother went to the mill and I stayed home with Auntie Sarah, until the day I was dressed in new shoes from Aunty Nancy’s shop, and we had our picture taken at the photographer shop.  Me

Remember, Remember She used to love Bonfire Night, it was the highlight of Autumn for her, she was never a huge fan of Halloween and the grotesque costumes that the other kids found hilarious. She’d shiver in the damp, windy nights, trying to keep up with the older kids on her street who squealed in delight, knocking on neighbours’ doors and running into the distance, before she lost sight of them in the darkness. No, Bonfire Night was different; warm, magical and filled with ‘Ooos’ and ‘Ahhs’. Bonfire Night meant getting wrapped up in layer upon layer of woollen tights, jeans, fat socks and purple wellies, vests and polo necks, a big duffle coat and knitted scarf, thick mittens and an itchy bobble hat that covered her eyes. By the time she tramped across the fields, holding her Mum and Dad’s hands, she’d walk stiffly like a robot, snug as a bug in a rug. Once the fire was lit, she’d edge closer, the heat warming her eyeballs and spreading like warm water acros

Winston Powel sat on the edge of the bed in the dark motel room, staring out through the grimy window at the low moon. The window was slightly open and a cold night breeze stirred the thin curtains and cooled his skin. He refocused his vision and assessed his reflection. Black skin, white eyes, black suit, white shirt, and black tie. He smiled. White teeth too. The night was not quiet; police sirens blared far off in the city, a dog barked and its owner cursed down in the parking lot, and the phone in the next room rang and rang. His smile faded. He felt a vibration next to his chest and reached into his jacket pocket. Pulling out the phone, he pressed a key and read the words on the screen. "INTERVIEW CONFIRMED. 2AM." Putting away the phone, he stood up. Turning on one heel, he snatched up the car keys and overnight bag from the bed and headed for the door. Taking a quick look back into the room, he nodded in satisfaction, opened the door and walked out into the

Walter Cooper had a hand gun one with his name on it if you ignored the fact that an “aitch” was after the “tee” on the stock. Walter did ignore that fact. Walter loved his Walther but didn’t love anything else. Except Hetty a long time ago; he’d given up when she died. Now it was his gun he adored He couldn’t remember a day that passed that he didn’t fire it. One shot. One death. Then a complete strip down and clean. Like his mum did to him every day. Scrub, scrub until it was spotless. Scrub, scrub He’d shot his mum on a Saturday during the football results. After he’d scrubbed her clean with a wire brush he buried her next to the goat. He’d hated that fucking goat. It was Hetty’s and she loved the goat more than him. His love for her was never returned. Still he could say that he did love someone. He was happy with that. It was a shame she died playing with his gun. But he had told her not to. And he’d already cleaned it that day. Fuck

And so here I stand on a bridge between worlds. I’d have been grounded if my parents had known I was even considering coming out here, but that’s not what causes me to hesitate. The passion and defiance of my teenage years has brought me this far, hormones drowning out any thoughts of the consequences of my disobedience. What do they know anyway? I’m almost a man, almost an adult in the eyes of the law. I am my own person and no one can take that away, family or otherwise. My life is mine to lead, my choices mine to make, and they will just have to learn to accept that. Strange sounds carry on the breeze, creatures of the night screaming both threats and warnings. If I had any sense I’d turn back. Everything about the woods seems uninviting, yet they also carry a forbidden allure tempting me onwards. One more step and I will cross from civilisation to wilderness. Why is that so hard? I remind myself of the prize within and my uncertainty is swept aside by fresh determination.

 As we are heading towards remembrance Sunday, I thought this might be appropriate. We're just dead heading the last of ours in the garden. Poppies An offering in his grubby hand , scratched where he’d scrambled over stones to pluck the scarlet flowers, drinking their claret cup of summer in the scorching sun; Imagined joy comforts his lateness. Going home, jubilant, face raised for his mother’s kiss. Her slap scratches where she marks her words with meaning, scarlet anger brimming over. Bouquet, drooping in the cruel glare, cascades burning tears down his grubby fist.

Another one is calling you, calling upon you. You describe it as an urge. It creeps underneath your skin. It gestates there. You can see it in your mind’s eye. You imagine holding it, placing it in your room, at the end of your bed, on a shelf. You think about the right way to make it real, what size it is, what colours to use. You can hardly wait to meet it.    Then one day, you find the right stuff; vintage burlap with a fine weave, a fat quarter of ivory wedding dress silk or a square of peach coloured velvet. Sometimes they demand a deviant touch. Thighs or biceps in Victorian flowered cotton or striped mattress ticking, a secret feature for you to enjoy. You collect the ingredients, scour shops and tins for the buttons, a crocheted doily, a strip of ribbon.    You draw the features in lightly, choosing the best angle for the eyes, the tilt of a brow and a rosebud mouth. But none of your cutesey faces. This is a proper character who fills your head. You catch an expression in

Thousands of miles above, the satellite registered a smooth stretch of land, like a scar. The previous day’s image showed a close tapestry of streets and buildings, each tiny square representing a building, a home. Now, through the dust, it was flat and featureless as a desert.   Hundreds of miles away, seismic monitors recorded a huge spike, followed by a series of peaks like a mountain range.   Computers processed data on the tectonic shifts which had caused this once-in-a-generation geological event. In distant towns, pictures fell off walls. Cups rattled in cupboards. Car alarms burst into a pointless, tuneless dawn chorus and sleepy people stumbled out of bed to find their keys. On the morning news, over coffee and cornflakes, we watched grey figures poke amongst the flattened remains of their homes. Women with silent toddlers on their hips dragged out anything which might be useable – a dented pan, a grimy blanket, a single shoe.   In the televisi