Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

‘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 ...

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?     ...

  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...

‘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...