Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Opposite the old church and at the top of High Street, was the park, its land generously purchased and developed by a local benefactor whose name it had borne for more than twenty years. It was a place livelier in summer when nurses with their large prams pushed well bundled babies under its leafy canopies and where families strolled along its serpentine paths, their feet unintentionally falling into step with the distant sound of a brass band playing on the solid, iron bandstand. Later, before returning to their villas on the main routes out of the town, these families would pause to admire the tinkling waters of the fountains and acknowledge those they knew with a tip of their gleaming hats or the slightest smile and incline of their pretty heads. When the first frosts crisped the paths, the park gates were locked to keep out those they thought might seek shelter in its pavilions and so, until spring, only two gardeners were allowed entry. Only they saw the beauty of the snowdrops

Benjamin Witherbread, age 6 and a half, was staring at a rather strange sight from his bedroom window. The room, hence the window, was on the highest and oldest part of his parent’s rickety, rackety house. The house, as any sensible living thing would surmise, looked as if it would fall down if someone or something blew on it with even a small puff of air. However, it had stood at the end of a large wood near a muddy track which seemed to be going nowhere other than to circle the wood, for probably two or maybe sixteen hundreds of days or months or possible years. Nobody knew. Not even Benjamin’s Father or Mother come to that. His grandfather Silas however knew to the day.             The “Strange Sight” that filled the young Benjamin’s good eye looked very colourful and he was reasonably sure that flags were fluttering although it could be something else. He patiently waited for it to come nearer so that he could see it properly with his good eye. It stopped. Benjamin waited and was w

  Home is where the heart is , a phrase that is constantly proving to be true, and since we moved, this old house from the 1850s, has many stories to tell within its thick stone walls. From the sturdy servant bells in the kitchen, and grand focal-point fireplaces to the vast array of different period windows, there’ a tale unfolding in every corner. This house has been a tug of war, since we fell in love with it this time last year, it took eight of the longest months to finally call it our own and cross the threshold in August. Our emotions raged from excitement to hope, frustration to panic, before finally our veins were flooded with sheer relief. We’d invested our hearts at an early stage, myself especially and I simply couldn’t imagine losing it after all these months of back-and-forth negotiations and being stuck in a chain, but it came dangerously close! But wow was it worth it, when we originally viewed it, it was Winter, and dark. The trees in the garden were stripped and s

  Alicia, when she returned from her holiday, was naturally upset at the loss of her pet, but soon settled back into her work routine and shortly afterwards the pair found they were expecting their first child.   Gideon was ecstatic.   He took the greatest care of his wife throughout the pregnancy and willingly agreed to his father-in-law’s suggestion that the girl should return once again to their country estate, where the baby would be born.   Gideon and William visited as often as they could.’ Holmes glanced across at his friend, who was listening intently to the tale. ‘As a doctor, you might not have agreed with keeping the girl in the middle of the jungle, but it seems she thrived. And her father had studied medicine for a while, so it was felt that he could cope. However, it was during one of William’s visits that the tragedy happened.’   Holmes stopped, staring for a while into the flames of the fire, but after a few minutes he shrugged, leaned forward and continued. ‘I will f

  Holmes eyed his friend warily.   ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will tell you the story. It was told to me by a very close friend, whom I shall call Gideon.’ Holmes leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in thought before he began.             ‘Gideon had been brought up in Sumatra, where his father was a missionary.   However, the eldest son, Gideon’s brother, David, died of Dengue fever, as later did his mother and a younger sister. Another child died in a fire and eventually the father went mad with grief.   Gideon was the only member of the family left. He returned to England to study medicine in London, which is where I met him. He put his life in Sumatra behind him and, in fact, never mentioned it for many years.’             ‘But surely he must have talked about his childhood? Or where he grew up?’ Watson asked. ‘Didn’t you ask?’             ‘My dear Watson, Gideon simply clammed up if anyone asked him. We knew he’d lived abroad, but not exactly where.’ He paused, tak

  She was cold. I knew a lodge full of smokeless coal and dry kiln logs.   Through blinding snow, we ran on towards smokeless coal and dry kiln logs.   Wrapped in folds, we came upon scents of smokeless coal and dry kiln logs.   Through the door and past hall clocks to the smokeless coal and dry kiln logs.   Brass hearth glowing halo hot with the smokeless coal and dry kiln logs.   She dropped her stole and I coughed full of smokeless coal and dry kiln logs.   We both bowed at this phoenix cot praising smokeless coal and dry kiln logs.   Embracing gold and taking stock of the smokeless coal and dry kiln logs.

  I have become an app. app-arently. Presumably because I popped my clogs; no other reason makes any sense. I think I’m alive, virtually at least, somewhere in the “ether” I’m told. Not quite grasped that bit yet. Other than that it’s sort of a different normal once people get used to it. I have to be downloaded in order for people to interact with me; connect with me as it were. Unlike most apps it’s free plus no ads – cool eh? Sue! so you downloaded me…..How you doing? Did you go on the holiday without me? Yes, I did actually, a good time – Gerald went too What? Gerald oh my g … Well you weren’t here – it was platonic But you went anyway? Before or after I …. you know my funeral Why do you want to know that Right so before then; thanks a lot, wife. I had to or lose the money. What? We were insured. I thought so too but apparently you didn’t pay it….. Yes I did, on my card… oh damn I remember…. I was out of credit. Good job you had death insurance then, one th

  J22 Stiff scrubby stubble erupts Bristling below cornflower skies And piercing crumpled honey-dew blankets Which fall, billow and rise.   J23 Sludgy muddy Roman squalls Whip up waves which spit and lap. Western winds assail walls While crumbling concrete spans the gap.   J24 But my home is Victorian: Soot-settled, smooth and warm Black velvet, solid stone Soft to touch, seen-it-all.   J25 Soggy-sewage-winter leaves Cake crumpled steel skeletons And summer trout in Lincoln Green Brave the roaring river’s decibels.   J26 Shoppers and commuters congregate In this tight commuter belt. Commercial traffic coagulates In arteries caked in salt.

‘He’ll not go down there. They’ve got a plot at St Mary’s. Had it for ages. His mam and dad were from there and have been keeping a space warm for him these last ten years.’ The three men fell silent, finished their drinks and then shouted the landlord for a last round. ‘That one was your last. Time to go home.’ On the following night they had news. The crackling, wet cough that had slid Jack Priestley into semi-consciousness on the previous day, had taken their neighbour to his Maker that morning. When they went to pay their respects, gone was the tell-tale bloom of pink on his cadaverous cheeks: gone the eerie, ruckling sound bubbling up from his exhausted chest. His eyes that had bulged and stared, had finally closed. A peculiar, suffering look he had for almost a year, had left his features in peace.   He was silent. As they had thought, he was to be laid to rest at St Mary’s with his father and mother, both gone long before him but patiently saving his place. It had all

I take a deep breath The air is fresh, clean and pure Free from pollution.   I’ve waited so long To leave the city behind The noise and chaos.   Alone with my thoughts Cushioned by nature’s beauty I now feel at peace.

  At this stage ouroboros is practically a diamond-backed living tyre. The eternal snake is tireless in its rotation, rolling down the black road of existence.             Surely somewhere down the dusty trail, Ouroboros would have spotted a more delectable snack than its scaly tail. Imagine if it had changed course and shape for a mouse. Of course this would have to be metaphorical too, an analogous mouse that pokes its head in on all that has ever been and ever will be, in search of some crumbs. Karma crumbs, probably.             Ouroboros would spot the little chancer, extend its fangs and lash out with some existential venom. That poor mouse might be in the throws of perpetual agony, at least until the eternal snake decides to swallow the hapless interloper. Who knows what the digestion would be like, never-ending and bilious with angst?               And what then? Would Ouroboros be able to revert to its primary instinct of rounding off infinity? Surely it would be past al

  The station clock says ten to three. Harold stands on his plinth, Looking energetic. Two lads kick a football across the square. Accurate passes, a touch of ball juggling, The sort of skill this solid full back never had. The wind blows the spray from the fountains Towards my bench, a light rain In the sunshine. Two ice cream cones melting faster than Their owners can consume them, Dripping. Another five minutes and it’s Time for the train. Mask on, Ticket through the barrier machine. In my mind I’m dribbling that football through the subway to the platform.   A day later, along the canal, waterproofs dripping, the bench is welcome. The downpour has stopped, the sun peeks through the grey. A delve into the rucksack for flask and sausage roll, Gazing out across the water, to abandoned buildings beyond. Pipes, no longer carrying liquid or gas, trail ahead. A duck swooshes down onto the canal, a perfect landing, Making a racket as it cruis

‘What the hell are those umbrellas doing there?’ I spoke out loud, despite being alone. Sitting up, I banged into the nearest one. It lurched away, fell over and knocked into the brolly behind. That keeled over too and so on, ad infinitum, dropping one by one until they lay like a necklace, round the bay. A black necklace. Why are they always black? No-one ever leaves a bright colourful umbrella anywhere. I got up, carefully this time. I thought back to the party, eventually recalling a woman offering me an unbelievable deal on this sunny island. Then everything went black and I woke up … somewhere in the Pacific, I think. Staring round, I noted the beach, strewn with jackets, handbags, out-of-date sandwiches and a cockatoo staring forlornly at me from its rather cramped cage. The rocky shoreline made the place picturesque, with the tide splashing in a flurry of white horses against it. The tide coming in? ‘Move, you idiot,’ I thought and ran, grabbing the parrot o