Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  The back door burst open and the bitter East wind blew in Uncle Harry, wrapped in umpteen layers, with only his twinkly brown eyes visible over the huge pile of books he carried. He kicked the door shut with one foot, Mum wincing at the careless treatment, and let the books tumble onto the kitchen table. “Golly, these are heavy, in more ways than one!” Uncle Harry laughed. “I’m so glad to be shut of them!” My cousin, Thomas, was a year behind me at uni and I’d lent him some of my text books for his dissertation project, with the proviso that I needed them back for my Masters - hence Uncle Harry’s visit today.   He and Mum sat at the table with coffee and slices of freshly baked cake, whilst I staggered upstairs under the weight of the art history books.   Took me two trips to take them to my room - Uncle Harry was stronger than he looked! I peeled off Thomas’ sticky notes that he’d used as bookmarks and replaced the books on my bookcase. As I picked up the last few, one seemed

I’d like to get hold of the person who decreed that a Census was needed. Why? We know who we are and it’s not like we are trying to hide where we come from. To top it all, we have to go back to where we were born in order to be declared “citizens” of that place. It’s a three-day journey for me and the wife and she’s a bit peaky at the moment; not sure what’s wrong with her. Nightmare it is. Still, we’re all in the same boat so I suppose we’ll have to grin and bear it so we can get on with our lives. Why don’t they do these things when the weather is less cold of a night? There’s nothing wrong with Bethlehem, (that’s where we are originally from), but we moved for a better life and so that I could be a proper carpenter, you know making nice furniture instead of house bashing all the time; anybody can do that, well not anybody per se but the reality is that they don’t have to have the skills I have. On the other hand, the shekels are good. Anyway, we set off with our donkey and a few

‘It was about 3 o’clock when he knocked on my door. Decked out in clothes I had never seen him in before and I would not have known him if I had passed him in the street. Believe me Sir, he was all smiles and nods and made such loud exclamations of the season’s good wishes that my wife and I were quite lost for words. He insisted on joining in all our games and when they were over, he bade us start again and there was no denying him. Each winner of our parlour games was rewarded with coins and his generosity became almost embarrassing. When someone suggested singing carols around the hearth, he joined in with such gusto. His tapping feet, tripping around the piano, and his fingers drumming on its lid, meant that our attempts at singing in harmony at which, even if I do say so myself, we have become quite accomplished, were quite drowned out by his excessive enthusiasm. I have given him the same chance each year, Mr Cratchit. Every year I have tried to persuade him to join us on Christm

- This year I'm making my own Christmas cards. - Good for you! Not fully making them though? - Yes, fully making. I do have the materials, Angela. I'm going to give it a whirl. - Don't take this the wrong way, Harold, but I think you might just be a little mad. - Pish-posh! I know what I'm doing. I'm a craftsman. - You make jewellery and sell it at market. - Well then. Cards should be a doddle by comparison. - All right, maybe. What sort of card will you use? - Green. Thick. Possibly red. - But not so thick that you can't cut it? - Of course not. Dozy mare. - What designs will you cut? - Intricate. Christmas tree. Maybe mistletoe or holly. - Really? That'll be a very prickly card. You won't get much more than 'Merry Xmas' on it. - So? The name of the recipient will be on the envelope. - That envelope should probably be made of some sturdy paper or else the card will cut it to ribbons. - Oh, shush. - And what abou

  At school, they’d give you a blue monthly report if you had credits and no debits. In other words – good behaviour and good work. If you had any of those pesky debits, it was a white report! But they’d sneak in the debits. Neglect of instructions was the sneakiest – and for me, the commonest. At the age of twelve I wasn’t really sure what the phrase meant, but it kept recurring. You’d think I’d have learnt my lesson. The satnav just told me to turn right. I didn’t. Ignore satnav, engage brain. Haven’t been in this town for years, but I still know best. The road is completely unfamiliar. It feels like one of those dreams where you start off knowing where you are. Then the familiarity dissolves and you’re in a strange land. I contemplate a U-turn, but as that would be admitting defeat, I press on. The rain starts again, wipers follow suit, street lights come on, twilight. The edge of town already? How can that be? Fields and trees begin to push their way forward. Thin tru

  My name is Holly and I have a secret, don’t tell anyone, but I don’t LOVE Christmas.  I realise I am in a very small minority, but it started out with my parents being very inconsiderate, and choosing to have their first child around December. I popped out 12 days late, on Christmas Eve. And who the hell cares about a birthday on the Eve of the most anticipated day of the year? I particularly don’t like it this year, my 50 th birthday. I know that celebrating my 50th will be at the very end of my family and friend’s Christmas list, if on there at all. But it’s not just that, it’s the fact that Christmas was getting earlier each year anyway, and then in 2020, whilst looking for any kind of cheer in the middle of a pandemic, many people in their wisdom decided to start decorating trees and homes as soon as possible, like that would make it all better? This year, Christmas trees have been outside the Co-op for weeks, along with carefully constructed towers of mince pies insid

  The teenage witch was filled with rage Her emerald eyes shimmering fire. How DARE they say she was under age! The entire clan would feel her ire.   She stormed and slammed the whole day through, Magical lightning in her wake. “You can’t do this, you can’t, not YOU!” And through her tears the idea did break.   Her eyes had fallen on the books Belonging to the baby witch. She picked on out, and on some hooks She held it firm, began to stitch…   Random pages, muddled beasts, Now permanently joined with thread. What fearful schemes and wicked feasts Would follow soon with this dreams of dread!   She muttered curses, fumbled spells, Waggled fingers and poured her dust. She didn’t hear the laughs, the bells, “I’m going to do this, I must, I MUST!”   She falls asleep, in deep despair, And dreams of chaos, dark and sweet - She must be free, life’s so unfair, There’s ALWAYS a baby under her feet!   The morning comes, blue skies and s

Another late night at Ye Old Cross Inn, the innkeeper's wife turfed out the crowd while he took stock of the ale left within and rattled the necks of bottles of stout.    Together they watched their patrons stagger up the slope from Alnwick's Narrowgate, following lamps with glints thin as daggers to cold doorsteps where angry wives wait.    And as the innkeeper reached for three bottles that sat by the window on a blackening wall,  his wife glanced up, clearing pipes of their dottle and saw him land hard from an unlikely fall.    Clutching his body, the wife felt a chill: those three dirty bottles were frightfully still... This poem was inspired by Ye Olde Cross Inn of Alnwick, Northumberland. The mythic bottles can be found inside.  For more details:  https://www.thedirtybottles.co.uk/about/

She walked past the grey-white memorial, draped now with flags. Soon it would be surrounded by a field of poppy wreaths. The cenotaph, the empty tomb for lost boys who have no known burial place, nowhere for their family to tend over the lonely years. Millions of red poppies laid only to be swept up in the rubbish and discarded like the lives they represented. Then on down Parliament Street, turning left towards Big Ben and Westminster Bridge. It was cold, now, clouds gathering together in mourning colours, throwing shadows onto the surrounding buildings. She looked down into the dark swirling waters, where someone had already thrown a wreath. It swept past like a strange sea creature riding the waves, bumping into the arches and twisting onwards. Dad had often talked of Uncle Will. ‘On the minesweepers, he was. Dangerous job. He’d had three ships went down with him on board. He never could understand why he’d survived so many times, when so many were lost. And then the l

Quite a do we are at string quartet groom in top hat pretty people nice ‘n’ neat wedding people flash not sweet Stunning bride smiles sweetly looks around leaves discreetly calls a friend coz she’s a cheat wedding people flash not sweet Top table champagne flows boring speeches everyone knows she’s up the duff by a guy in Crete wedding people flash not sweet Food arrives on silver trays decanted wine that will amaze she don’t care she took his meat wedding people flash not sweet The DJ starts plays some hits guys dancing looking like tits bridesmaid off hers sweat in the heat wedding people flash not sweet New husband looks for his bride she ain’t there she’s gone to hide with that guy the one from Crete wedding people flash not sweet Him from Crete steps into the room all chat stops to look at the groom but he don’t know the guy from Crete wedding people flash not sweet She’s mine says the guy from Crete what the f*** is this says the

Ricardo doused his sacrifice in petrol and the night erupted with the black rooster’s screams. It was almost like the animal knew what was coming. Wings beat against the bars of its crate, the rooster shrieking its protest for all the world to hear. Ricardo winced, his heart quickening as he glanced nervously at the surrounding shadows. The old church was as empty as ever, its congregation long dead and its location all but forgotten. No one would be running to the rooster’s rescue. No one would be interrupting this sacred rite. Taking a deep breath, Ricardo struck a match and held it over the crate. He fought to steady the shake in his hand, part of him convinced he would be caught at any moment. What was the punishment for animal cruelty? A fine? A few years in jail? Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe he should try summoning one of the other, less malevolent loa first. The match’s flame curled around his fingers and the decision was taken from him. With a string of curses, Ricardo drop

Let me tell you a tale of the Shadow Wood A place of darkness, misunderstood Legends, Myths and Stories told Keep away all but the bold A girl sat shaded by an ancient oak Enveloped by it’s dappled cloak But as she leaned into that trunk From within came a deep… dark… thunk She waited till the night drew near With strangely not an ounce of fear The wood stood silent as the grave No signs of life at all it gave No animal or bird or sound Naught but silence all around Nothing moved, the air was still Just a sudden deathly chill As darkness fell, another sound And warm light spilled across the ground Her shadows shifted as she stood And turned to face the Shadow Wood Oh foolish child can you not see The danger of that ancient tree From deep within a golden glow Spread through its roots an eerie show Dancing shadows light and dark Shifting shapes on roots and bark A silent carnival gold and black The girl reached out but the roots… reached… back Shrouded in their warm embrace Tendrils gen