Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Inside the Forcing Sheds at the side of the Volga, the crop of crimson and red stalks with their yellow, tightly wrinkled heads, failed to appear. The growers silently watched and waited. They tested the soil and the air but there was no explanation -except the unthinkable. Sabotage. Not one of the stern-faced experts dared to voice their suspicions but as the days and nights passed, it became the only explanation.   Some foreign force had invaded the Sheds of the Motherland and committed an act of cold, calculated, international, agro-warfare. Across the city, a man was being briefed on this latest act of aggression. Rhubarb was a vegetable he had adored since childhood. Its laxative properties had often been called upon to work their relieving magic on the most stubborn days. There were moments when he allowed himself to remember growing up, the days of rhubarb crumble, sticky-fingered rhubarb and ginger jam spread thickly on homemade black bread. Only those in his very innermost...

  My uncle, Amos Oddy, was dying, though he didn’t know it. Yet. Everyone around him knew it and that was the problem. How do you convince someone to write their will, which you know will be needed sooner rather than later, when they think they’re invincible? ‘ I’ll sort it,’ Aunty Gilly said. ‘He’s my brother and I remember how difficult it was when grandma died intestate. That will get him started.’ It probably would, but she’ll make sure he started with her as the first and main beneficiary. Her daughter, Agnes, was just as bad. ‘ I think he should see a solicitor straight away. Mine is very good. I’ll make an appointment for him,’ she said. Amos’s other nephew, Bill, intended to take him round the animal home and discuss leaving bequests to charity in wills, while Bill’s brother, Max, wanted to have a real ‘heart-to-heart’ with his uncle and explain how upset they’d all be at the time and how much easier he’d make it for all his loved ones if he just thought about how to di...

Pushing on, Ork thought about what Martin had said.     “’Tis clear Lambert’s paper-dead, but that don’t mean he’s actual-dead.” So, Martin could read. The sly dog. Up till that moment, Ork hadn’t considered the possibility that Lambert might still be alive. Victor continued the rhythmic movement of his hooves, until a patch of thistles caught his eye and steady progress became no progress. Well, if the horse was going to have a bite to eat, so was he, Ork reasoned. Reaching into a saddlebag, he pulled out a dark blue cloth. Inside were two hunks of bread, a slice of roast beef and a small wedge of cheese. As he ate sitting on a grassy knoll by the side of the track, it dawned on him that the third member of their party had gone missing. Putting two fingers to his mouth, he let out a few sharp whistles. Within a minute, Digger pushed his way through low bushes and emerged, evidence of his own very recent meal, clear from the state of his chops. As Ork continued...

    I deal in words , the flutter of notes High pitched, low drawl, hand-written scrawl Connection exchanged   I credit in words , the currency rich A Thank You, A Bless You! Compliments paid   I withdraw in words , sometimes miserly Few spoken, broken   Words fail   I spend in words , sometimes too much Rushing, gushing instead of shushing Listen carefully   I tip in words , a cheque to help Suggestions, recommendations, Selling belief   I save in words, precious treasure Nurture until ready, steady Go   I bank on words, to tell the truth Stand up, voice up To be heard