Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

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

Afghanistan falls Lives destroyed and torn apart A sad, bleak future.

I’m not a detective but a party planner. Not professional, just the kind of girl who likes to do nice things for her friends. With a clipboard checklist.             I’m not particularly a fan of balloons either though, Lord knows, some of my friends are . When duty calls, I can blow up four or five balloons before losing puff. Helium seems like cheating to me.             It’s obvious when balloons have been freshly made. That’s precisely what I was looking at when I saw the gate. Two black balloons on either end, bobbing in the wind. And there was a gale that day: that’s how I knew they had only recently been tied up. If they had been there longer than ten minutes, those flimsy knots would have pulled loose and the balloons would be down the other end of the field.             Still I didn’t like the look of those black balloons. They had an odd stickiness to them, definite stains when I took a closer look. I spied another on a post further along the path, like it was a trail m