Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  Mic Technique   You can hear me at the back, can't you? I'm allergic to pop filters. Metal or sock they bring me out in rash decisions.   You'll forgive me if I sound faint. I prefer it a metre to the side. It's better for my stance which projects confidence while my voice doesn't.   It could be worse. My verse at the start was supersonic and I ran a mile as soon as my mouth ran dry.   Now I share at a more measured pace but I still won't have that microphone near my face.

  Three weeks, four weeks, sometimes five. Time for a place to become familiar and comfortable; not quite enough for it to feel like home. And that is just as well. When the call comes, there can be no sentimentality. Pack a bag and leave, never to return. That slice of my life is instantly discarded, prelude to a frantic journey to another town, another living space empty of memories, associations, friends. A few weeks to write those walls, those windows into my mind, to spread some essence of myself upon them, then the cycle will begin again.               It had been going on so long, this procession of disconnected segments. There was no pattern to it, no linking threads that I could point to and say ‘that is my life.’ And I realised that only I could give it shape and meaning, provide a string on which to thread these beads of my existence. And so, at each new place, I bury something from the last: an object th...

  The breeze sucked the orange curtain against the open window and I heard the soft flack of fabric as it bellied then flattened against the chipped metal frame. Outside, kids played football in the cul de sac, running off and on neighbours’ gardens, each one George Best, selfish with the ball, desperate to get past Mrs Worthington’s and Old Man Humphry’s in their worn-out pumps before reaching the corner and the shot at goal that was the Fishers’ gateposts. Inside, behind the half-closed curtain, we sat on the rug, smoking, flicking ash into the empty grate as mournful lyrics told us of sorrow, regret and lost love in those places where he had loved so many women – downtown New York, Quebec, a Greek island. I wanted to be in those places, independent, away from the confine of days in school uniform, the sound of bells measuring the day into lessons, feet on corridors, slamming doors and the scrape of chairs on parquet floors. T...

  St Akelda’s Super-Structured School Opportunity Road Great Bridge Yorkshire 2025 Awards Instead School Inspection Service London Dear Sir/Madam I understand that my name has been put forward for an award in the “Innovative Initiatives” section, for which a supportive explanation is needed. When I first took over St Akelda’s Academy, last year, it was not thriving. We were two places above the relegation zone and I knew I had to act if I was to save the Academy from becoming a mere school again. I looked at the timetable: boring. Access to subjects: restricted. Attendance: poor, especially by bored teenagers who turned up mid-morning, if at all. I looked at the staff: bored, stifled, no hope of progression or promotion. That was when I formulated, then proposed, my new idea: first to staff, then to parents. The school day was to be altered to suit the dispositions of the different age groups. The number of hours per day, per...

  The joy of magic, So funny and intriguing, Lifting our spirits.

  A little girl sat alone in a locked office. She was waiting for her father in his swivel chair with her hands atop his large wooden desk. Between her hands was a box of toy magnets. Bouncing it between her fingers, the box rattled.             She frowned at it. His present to her. As if everything her father had put her through could be improved by a few dozen magnets. She had loved them a year ago but today she wanted so much more.             Clenching her fingers, she tore the box open. Two magnets came tumbling out. The green one gleamed in the light of the desk lamp. For a moment she saw her own reflection in it. As she seethed, this image turned into her father.             The purple one developed a strange sheen too which was soon filled by a reflection of her mother. The girl brought the magnets togeth...

  My reflection gazes back A face I hardly recognise Pale grey skin, almost transparent Dull and lifeless eyes brimming with unshed tears, staring at nothing Just waiting – waiting.   No need to turn, I know it’s time I sense his presence, feel him near His breath is warm against my cheek A sweet caress which holds no fear.   I feel the pain of tearing flesh Of crimson life blood flowing free My image fades before my eyes And then there’s nothing more to see.

Once, there was no ‘us’, just ‘I’. Proud monolith, I bestrode the land, commanded it, immune and constant for all time, I thought. That was hubris: no other mountain challenged me, but subtler forces were at work. Wind wore me down with jagged fragments of myself; water sank deep fingers in my flesh that froze and fractured me. Soft snow, seeming so gentle, built a second mountain on my back to grind my bones. When that at last was melted, we were no longer one but many; bright streams raced to carry us away. A stump remains, though not for long: nature still harries it; men bore and burrow for the silver in its veins. We that are gone no longer feel a kinship with it. We have embraced our journey, come to love the cold caress of water, our slow dance of descent towards the sea. Division, we have learned, is not defeat, and change is not surrender. Beneath the sea, we know, is stillness: as we gather there, we shall know peace. And with peace, in time, will come rejoining: many s...

  A body is stretched out on the threadbare carpet. A nearby coffee mug, tipped on its side, has dribbled out an artistic brown stain. The front window blind is tight-closed, refusing to let in any bit of a pale morning light. A pair of candles in ornate wooden holders, have burnt down almost to nothing. Evidence of another power cut. The walls and ceiling are covered in rough woodchip wallpaper. Two pendant lights, housed in large paper lanterns, hang down in the middle of the room. The radio on the top shelf of the bookcase is playing uncomplicated classical music to itself. There’s movement on the floor. A leg stretches, a groan, a hand moves to the forehead. John Star wakes gradually, every limb stiff after a night of broken sleep on the floor. He thinks back. That punk band in the Rocket . They were good. But he can’t remember what they were called. Maybe he should start drinking less. A small alarm clock, dangerously close to his ear, bursts into life and his left-h...

  On 24 February 1582, Pope Gregory XIII proclaimed that the Gregorian Calendar would come into effect in October of that year. This would replace the Julian Calendar which had become ‘out of sync’ with what was actually happening to the seasons, which made it difficult to calculate the actual date of Easter. To make up for the discrepancy, the date leapt from 4 October to 15 October, thus losing ten days. Leap years are those that are divisible by four (eg 2024. Just missed it if you were thinking of proposing, ladies.) The quandary over whether to celebrate a 29 February birthday every year or only every fourth year did not occur until much later. The first Gregorian calendars simply had two days called 24 February. Why they chose that day, rather than having two 28 February days is a mystery. Years that are divisible by 100 are only leap years if they are also divisible by 400. The next one will be in the year 3000 AD. You may want to book early for the celebration...

  As the new year began, so did the January Blues. Day after day, the weight of the leaden sky seemed to dull her senses and she longed for brighter weather. Then the rain arrived in slanting sheets, lashing the kitchen window and washing away any hope of a better day. Steam from her mug of tea softly spiralled upwards, kissing the glass where juddering teardrops of rain obscured her view of the garden. Outside, by the back door, the Daphne pulsed its glorious aroma into the winter air. She lingered there each morning, breathing in the sweet, citrus smell from its tiny, pink, four-pointed flowers before retreating to the kitchen and her desk by the fireside.    She picked up a log from the wood basket and placed it on the glowing embers, disturbing the dog who stretched his legs and then sank back into his bed to resume his paw-twitching dreams of long runs through fresh spring woods and the heavy smells of soft, warming soil. In the post that morning were the usual...

  I was looking forward to the weekly creative writing group, but as soon as I arrived, I sensed something was wrong. The same people were around the table, but the atmosphere was tense.   What an earth is going on?   Then she walked into the room.   I’d never met her before and introductions were brief.   She was our new President.   How strange, this was usually decided at the AGM, but that was six months away.   I hadn’t received an e mail, so was slightly confused.      Eventually, she opened her laptop with a flourish, and smiled, a twisted unnatural smile, quite unnerving, as she was staring straight at me.   Everyone had their heads down, not looking in my direction.      “Right, let’s cut to the chase.”    She paused, taking her time, enjoying the suspense.       I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, this shouldn’t be happening.      “We have decided that member...

  “ Attention madame, attendez, attendez!”   Jocasta stopped walking and turned to see a man running after her, trying to attract her attention. He was fifty-ish, dressed in a cream polo shirt, blue jeans and a shabby brown jacket. Whoever said the French have a great sense of style had obviously never been to this dull little town. The man reached her, slightly out of breath. She hoped he didn’t want to sell her anything.     “ Excusez-moi, madame, mais vous avez laisse votre sac à main dans la voiture. Il faut etre prudente dans cette ville. Il y a des voleurs.”   “I’m sorry. Can you speak English?”   The man’s face puckered as if he were trying to find something in a very deep pocket. Then he composed himself before speaking.   “Madam. You leaved your sack in the automobile.”   ‘Leaved’ – oh, that was so sweet, especially in that lovely sing-song accent. Jocasta didn’t have the faintest idea what he was talking about. ...