Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

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.