Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Ricardo doused his sacrifice in petrol and the night erupted with the black rooster’s screams. It was almost like the animal knew what was coming. Wings beat against the bars of its crate, the rooster shrieking its protest for all the world to hear. Ricardo winced, his heart quickening as he glanced nervously at the surrounding shadows. The old church was as empty as ever, its congregation long dead and its location all but forgotten. No one would be running to the rooster’s rescue. No one would be interrupting this sacred rite. Taking a deep breath, Ricardo struck a match and held it over the crate. He fought to steady the shake in his hand, part of him convinced he would be caught at any moment. What was the punishment for animal cruelty? A fine? A few years in jail? Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe he should try summoning one of the other, less malevolent loa first. The match’s flame curled around his fingers and the decision was taken from him. With a string of curses, Ricardo drop...

   “You can’t put a price on a good night’s sleep.” The salesman smiles flashing a row of gleaming white teeth.   He probably uses the same phrase every time he sells one of these expensive beds, but I suppose it’s true, and I am taking rather a long time to make up my mind.      I know I want a double bed and I’ve chosen the headboard in a neutral shade, in case I change the décor in my bedroom, and I’ve eventually decided on a mattress after testing hundreds, well not that many obviously, but quite a few. My problem at the moment is deciding whether to have drawers at the sides or at the bottom of the bed.    He’s beginning to lose patience.   He’s trying not to but he’s looked at his watch three times and now he’s stifling a yawn.   I don’t care. It’s an important decision, not to mention a lot of money, and I will not be rushed.    “The thing is,” he continues through gritted teeth.   “How much room do you have a...

Lifeless it sat there on the table, an empty vessel awaiting a soul. Its two eye-shaped holes stared unseeing at its creator, and a slit lined with human-like teeth gaped in a vague approximation of a smile. But there was nothing human about that face. It had no nose like its orange counterparts of the modern world, lacking the character often bestowed upon those distant relatives in the here and now. A candle passed into the hollow frame, though the lantern was made no less eerie for the orange glow. Its creator didn’t seem to notice. This was her favourite time of the year, and she observed these ancient customs with more than just sacred duty. Lady Sarah of Wilton stood back to admire her handiwork. She could have had the servants carve out the turnip for her, but every year she insisted on doing it herself. All Hallows’ Eve was one of the few nights where anything might be possible. It was a night for lost souls, their one chance to find their way to Heaven through the prayers of t...

And so here I stand on a bridge between worlds. I’d have been grounded if my parents had known I was even considering coming out here, but that’s not what causes me to hesitate. The passion and defiance of my teenage years has brought me this far, hormones drowning out any thoughts of the consequences of my disobedience. What do they know anyway? I’m almost a man, almost an adult in the eyes of the law. I am my own person and no one can take that away, family or otherwise. My life is mine to lead, my choices mine to make, and they will just have to learn to accept that. Strange sounds carry on the breeze, creatures of the night screaming both threats and warnings. If I had any sense I’d turn back. Everything about the woods seems uninviting, yet they also carry a forbidden allure tempting me onwards. One more step and I will cross from civilisation to wilderness. Why is that so hard? I remind myself of the prize within and my uncertainty is swept aside by fresh determination. ...

It looked incredible. Black oak aged for three centuries, originally used on an ocean-going vessel from the heart of the age of sail. The price had been incredible too—over two thousand pounds.  But, how many people could boast a window frame dating back to the early seventeen hundreds? We’d seen an advert about the wood beam, reclaimed from a Whitby shipyard as they wrapped up their business because of the current economy, and just couldn’t resist. We made a real feature of it in the bedroom, decking the room out in an opulent array of pirate maritime chic. When it was complete, the room was the spitting image of something you’d expect to see in Pirates of the Caribbean. My wife and I laughed at the imagined view of Johnny Depp flouncing around from the table filled with map charts to lean into the soft oval curve of the frame and the beautiful window seat it edged in its ancient dark timber. We both loved it, and it wasn’t until the third night that I awoke dripping with...

    Tomorrow, I shall paint my room red. At the moment, my bedroom is a drab beige colour. It wasn’t my original choice, it was my husband’s. He always preferred colours to be discrete and bland. I always preferred a sense of the dramatic in my decor. But now, he wasn’t here, he had left me all alone, so I could make these decisions for myself. The prospect excited me, I finally felt free.     I walked around the DIY store this afternoon unsure of what I was looking for. I found a paint chart and decided on the most vivid shade of crimson red with a hint of burgundy.     “Wow, that colour is quite something!” the shop assistant said. “Are you painting a chimney breast or something? It seems a bit strong for a feature wall!”     “I’m painting my bedroom in it,” I replied, sniffily.     “Wow! Ok, you must really like strong colours then! My husband would throw a fit if I decorated a room in that colour!”  ...

Late was the hour in which the beast came crawling out from its dark lair, unbeknownst to me. I was still hard at work at my desk, struggling to meet another deadline when one of the cats alerted me to its presence, her unblinking stare fixed on something on the floor, something which called to her predatory instincts and had her up and ready to pounce. And I could guess what that something was, dread filling me as I followed her gaze to discover the nature of the creature. Anyone who claims spiders are harmless has never felt the sting of an arachnid’s fangs as they puncture skin, often leaving angry mounds of swollen flesh in their wake. They have never heard the horror stories of limbs having to be amputated and worse, never seen the terrifying images of the damage those fangs can do on Google. But sometimes the deadliest killers are among the smallest, not that anything about this beast was small. There it sat on its eight sprawled legs, each limb roughly the same size as my lo...

For years my soul was a raw and bloody thing, fresh wounds opened every day, fresh torments suffered that far surpassed those of the flesh. Pain that runs deeper than any which nerves could ever transmit, my heart and mind sores never allowed to heal – for the first part of my life, this was all I knew. I was the very epitome of misery and anguish, never to know true happiness, never to know true love. Never to laugh or cry, or know what it is to be human. There was only pain and suffering of the kind that damages, the kind that marks. Until I met her. She was divine perfection with a heart that held enough love for us both. Every moment spent with her was a drug to subdue the agony at my core, every caress a healing touch, every laugh a salve to soothe the worst of my aches. And gradually the lesions began to close and scar, the pain no longer constant but only an occasional discomfort. She was my angel sent to raise me up out of Hell, and for a time I knew peace. I am damn...

“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...

Mournful they toll, the church bells sounding their song of sorrow as the day dies and the sun’s light fails. And so it begins. Halloween they call it now. Halloween, just another seasonal holiday, over commercialised and made trivial in today’s society. The old ways have been lost to science, ancient truths replaced with the comfort of modern lies, sacred rites turned into childish fun and booze fuelled parties. But this is still All Hallows’ Eve, Samhain, the time of the dead. And there are still those who believe. As the veil between worlds thins and dusk falls, the bells toll for lost souls and Christians pray. Pagans light their bonfires and prepare their feasts, an extra place at the table set for the departed. But surely these are no more than silly superstitions, out of place in present times? Surely there’s no real danger to be had in walking the streets this night, or at least none more than on any other night? So you tell yourself as you make your way home, a late fini...

Men shifted nervously in the night, finding little comfort in their campfires and bomas erected in a desperate attempt to keep their demons at bay. “Quiet,” Lt. Col. Patterson hissed. The Indian workers eyed the white man with distaste – he had no idea what he was dealing with. Patterson took no notice of the superstitious fools, his sight fixed down his rifle. There was no warning when they struck. Suddenly silence gave way to screaming, stillness to chaos. A man lay dying, blood pumping out of his savaged shoulder and the ruins of his leg. Unable to believe the beasts had crept past his defences, Patterson wheeled around towards the sound of the commotion, squeezing off a shot on reflex. The bullet brought instant death to the fleeing worker. Patterson cursed and scanned the camp for the targets that kept eluding him. There! In a flash of movement it pounced on its second victim, and Patterson shot again. The bullet thudded into its flank but it did not go down as expected. T...