Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

‘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 Staring round, I noted the beach, strewn with jackets, handbags, out-of-date sandwiches and a cockatoo staring forlornly at me from its rather cramped cage.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...

I’m not a detective but a party planner. Not professional, just the kind of girl who likes to do nice things for her friends. With a clipboard checklist.             I’m not particularly a fan of balloons either though, Lord knows, some of my friends are . When duty calls, I can blow up four or five balloons before losing puff. Helium seems like cheating to me.             It’s obvious when balloons have been freshly made. That’s precisely what I was looking at when I saw the gate. Two black balloons on either end, bobbing in the wind. And there was a gale that day: that’s how I knew they had only recently been tied up. If they had been there longer than ten minutes, those flimsy knots would have pulled loose and the balloons would be down the other end of the field.             Still I didn’t like the look of those bl...

The vacuum had reached the corner of my bed when I heard a wail give out, immediately followed by a disapproving tut. Glancing down at the brown carpet from which it came, I identified a small green mouth with sharp little teeth. My whole body stiffened but what I felt most was the cool sticky sweat on my forehead.               “I’ll talk!” the voice pleaded before repeating the phrase as a screechy threat.             “Are you meant to?” I asked.             The mouth closed at this, briefly thinking the matter over before stating, “I can do as I feel.”             I didn’t know what to say to that so I answered, “Fair enough.”             This seemed to invite the little green mouth to speak. So man...

  On top of an antique bureau, I find a packet of crisps. This is not my bureau nor is it my packet of crisps. I turn to the owner of one or both.             He is a little old shopkeeper with a fan of grey curls around the massive bald spot on top of his head. Only after I clear my throat does he take his slippered feet off his desk and come to my assistance. I point at the crisps. “Don’t you have a bin for that?”             The old man titters. “Actually, you’ll find that this is just as much an antique as the bureau.”             “How so?”             “It’s Golden Wonder.”             I shake my head, waiting for more.             At last he...

            The royal family were quick to accept the role of 'prize' on The UK's Finest Fillets TV show.             When the family sat down to sample the cod of Ezra Williamson, the Duke of Edinburgh made a passing comment. Unusually everyone was inclined to agree with it: if only they could organise a meal like this every year.             A proper meal, of course, requires a dessert. The Rule Britannia Cake Bake had been going strong for a little under a decade and the Duke of York had admitted to fancying a lemon drizzle cake made by an ambitious minority.             An agreement was reached with the producers and the Duchess of Cambridge was volunteered to sample the winner of that year: an overly-rich upside-down cake. She had to prove her worth...

EDIT: I just realised that I haven't had the chance to introduce myself properly to most of the other members so I'll endeavour to do so here. I'm Owen and I've been coming to infrequent Writer's Lunches since late last year. I'm Vice President at the Huddersfield Author's Circle and a friend of Nick's and Ian's. I write short stories with speculative themes: sometimes sci-fi, usually unusual. "Why are you reading my dream journal?" I asked the man on the bench.             "Seventh of January," he muttered.             "Seriously! how the hell did you get it?"             "You left it out."             "In my bedroom! That's breaking and entering." I reached into my pocket. "I'm calling the police."         ...

“As you know from our website Madam we pride ourselves in doing things differently here. You are free to move around the hotel and browse the interesting layout and décor of unoccupied rooms as we leave these open for people to take pictures of and talk about on social media. We are extremely proud of being the most Instagrammed hotel in the UK.” His demeanour changed as he leant forwards on to the desk and whispered in my ear “Of course there is one stipulation we insist that our guests obey which is that you must not enter Room 27 . It is kept unlocked but we must insist that you do not open the door .” At this I burst out laughing! “Really?! I thought this hotel was called ‘The Pavilion,’ not ‘Castle Dracula!”’ In response, he leant back and grew stony faced. “You may laugh Madam but enter that room at your own peril. Here is your room key.” I looked down in to my hand and saw that the key he had handed me was to Room 26. Was this a subtle form of revenge I thought, but said noth...