Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

She was extremely cold and could not make her brain work, so instinct took over and made her seek shelter. At the end of the alleyway there were some railway arches so she made herself get there. She crumbled to the floor as soon as she was beneath them. When she partially regained her senses, she realised that she was surrounded by people trying to make her warm by covering her with old clothes and sacks. They were close to and touching her. She screamed and climbed unsteadily to her feet ready to run, instead she fell straight back down. “Ere, there ain’t ennyfin to be scared about, lady. We’re all in it togevver. Wotcha you doing wiv no proper clothes on anyway?” “Help me up if you would be so kind. I am only lost.” “If you would be so kind, that’s a bit la di da,” said a large smelly man. “What’s a posh bird like you hangin’ around ‘ere for. Are you a reporter or summink, nosin’ in our bizniss? Yeh I bet that’s what she is boyz, a sleazy nosy snitch. And you know what we ...

Cordelia McArthur was the only child of Margaret and Henry Soames, both of whom worked in Government departments in the sprawling offices of Whitehall. They, like most other Whitehall-ers in their plain dress sense, travelled in from the suburbs every weekday along with thousands of others who seemed to walk quickly, as if they were in competition, to reach their respective departments first. They had married in their late thirties six weeks after meeting at a seminar called “The Disappearing Commonwealth”. They were passionate about their work which they “took home” and were somewhat surprised when Margaret fell pregnant. As the pregnancy progressed, Margaret bloomed, became talkative and interested in things that she had never been. Towards the end of her term, having at that juncture left her job, she began suffering from bouts of fainting and sickness. Her doctor, a friend of the family, insisted she completed her time in hospital in order that medical staff could keep an eye on ...

  There is a tunnel beneath Birkby Hall Road connecting Norman Park to a place that locals know as ‘The Rec’ but I call ‘The Wreck’. Technically it is an extension of Norman Park, that was the original intention, but one side is considerably more neglected than the other and has been since the Millennium.             I must have been about eight when my sister and I spent a sunny afternoon crawling through that tunnel. We leapt off the Norman Park swings onto the wood chip path, turned a sharp left and got down on our hands and knees. The stone structure was solid enough but I didn’t want to linger and admire it. Even so I could hear my sister close behind, quietly encouraging me to slow down and run my hands across the smooth curved texture. Ahead of us, the circle of hazy light was steadily widening, flecks of barely visible grass boosting my resolve. My palms slapped cold stone faster, hoisting me the final couple of fee...

  January is my cat, gentle as snow just falling,      laying soft against my cheek. January is my cat, needle sharp claws      scratching, ripping my skin. January is mutable, skittery, burning ice,      a coal black, silvered wonderland. January sparkles in sunshine, freezing the night,      clothing the world with wintry, warm snow.       Photo by Sandra Kapella on Unsplash    

  Year turns.   Face forwards. Predictions abound.  Hopes rise. Work hard.   Be kind.   Love.   Accept.   Reflect.   Learn. Huge smile.   Or fake it.   Move on. Be grateful.   Live now.   Once upon a time, you wished for what you now have. Appreciate it. Happy New Year, all. Write something every day. Edit it the next!!