Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

The man in the kimono was waiting for me at the bench. One would think his green clothes would have made him seem quite natural in the setting but, of course, no dew-dotted leaves or grass shined quite like it. With one last glance around, I showed him the book. I was careful only to show the first couple of pages before snapping the cover shut. “I want a hundred for it,” I told him. I watched him warily as he reached inside his kimono and produced a silver cashmere purse. He filled my hand with notes. I counted them twice before passing the Book of Sand to him. As he began to riffle through the pages, I stood up and hurried away. “Why do you run?” he asked me. I glanced back once. “Don’t question my motive. The book is yours now.” He said nothing else, just left me to run as fast as I could. Of course my suspicious behaviour might have prompted him to check the book but then I could tell he was an idle sort. He had his thick leatherbound tome for display purposes so why w...

  Call me mistaken or mad but I’m sure I found The Book of Sand . Jorge Luis Borges, please forgive me.             At the time I was working at The National Library as an assistant, though my heart wasn’t in the full responsibilities of the job. Whenever possible, I would avoid visitors and their confounding inquiries and disappear into the stacks.             Being a reader of Borges in my youth, I fancied that The National Library he wrote about was the very same that I worked at. Recalling the story of The Book of Sand , I browsed the basement where the book had allegedly been abandoned. I rummaged through yellowing maps and tissue-thin periodicals till I found a damp shelf. It was fragile but still standing with three books on it. I took each out and opened them until I found the one that contained more pages than the spine would suggest. More pages than seemed pos...

  The back door burst open and the bitter East wind blew in Uncle Harry, wrapped in umpteen layers, with only his twinkly brown eyes visible over the huge pile of books he carried. He kicked the door shut with one foot, Mum wincing at the careless treatment, and let the books tumble onto the kitchen table. “Golly, these are heavy, in more ways than one!” Uncle Harry laughed. “I’m so glad to be shut of them!” My cousin, Thomas, was a year behind me at uni and I’d lent him some of my text books for his dissertation project, with the proviso that I needed them back for my Masters - hence Uncle Harry’s visit today.   He and Mum sat at the table with coffee and slices of freshly baked cake, whilst I staggered upstairs under the weight of the art history books.   Took me two trips to take them to my room - Uncle Harry was stronger than he looked! I peeled off Thomas’ sticky notes that he’d used as bookmarks and replaced the books on my bookcase. As I picked up the last fe...

I’ve travelled the wide world over, met authors, poets and composers. I’ve seen kings and queens, on their islands of dreams, with their legends and sweet memorabilia. I’ve travelled to countries far, far away, seen beautiful mountains and lochs. All with a library ticket – to a wonderful world of books.

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."         ...

Emma arrived late, as usual, at our weekly writers’ lunch in The Blue Rooms cafe, Byram Arcade in Huddersfield. On this occasion, none of us were interested in the Perrinesque reason for her lateness because Emma was carrying the proof copy of Dining on WORDS . Our pre-lunch chatter ceased as the physical evidence of our co-labours was passed around the table to nods of approval and checks that our names were really on the back cover. The collection was created from pieces which first appeared on this blog. The lunches, initially a way for several ex and current creative writing students from Kirklees College to stay in touch, developed into a writing group where we support and encourage each other’s works-in-progress. Over time, we could see each other’s writing develop in range and confidence. We had publication successes to share, from articles to competitions and books, fiction and non-fiction. The blog encouraged us to keep writing – and to keep lunching – because our only fi...