Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

We ran, bent at the waist, through the dark tunnels, with the wolf’s howls behind us. The cool dawn air had barely reached my nostrils when another sound – a hot, rushing roar   - came thundering behind us. I threw myself out of the mouth of the mine and rolled behind a rock, arms wrapped over my head, as all hell burst open around me.   Fire and dust and rock rained down. I heard yells and curses amidst the crash of rock on rock, but I daren’t lift my head to see if the others had escaped. Dust filled my eyes and ears and mouth, and I choked and retched. At last it subsided. I wiped my eyes on the filthy sleeve of my jacket and shook the dust from my hat. In the dim dawn light, I could make out the grey shapes of others, getting to their feet, looking around for their companions. “Here!” someone thrust a canteen into my hand. I looked up to see the woman standing over me still carrying her pack. A man with the same dark skin stood beside her, rubbing welts on his wr...

“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...

“He was here a second ago…where’s he gone?” Julie seems mildly irritated and gulps from her water bottle. “Was he?” asks Jemma. “I was talking to Seamus, I thought he was behind us.” We look up and down the road but there’s no sign of Clive.                “Are you sure that he was here a second ago?” I challenge Julie.  I can’t stand vagueness.  “Well I thought he was, but I was walking with Pam.” “So you can’t be sure?” “Well no…” “Oh for goodness sake, who was the last person to see Clive?” I ask. God these people irritate me.  They speak slowly, they think slowly. No wonder none of them have achieved anything in their lives. Everyone looks at each other blankly. A mild look of panic crosses Jemma’s face. She reaches for her phone but can’t get a signal. We all check ours but to no avail. “Someone must have seen him leave the path…he can’t have just vanished.” S...

(See July 21 st for Ork Part 1, and 8 th September for Part 2.) The horses slip and slide down the wet hillside towards Ork’s house. The two men dismount unhurriedly. Ork watches them carefully, uncertain of what he can do to save himself if they have harmful intent. They keep their distance and the taller man speaks in a strange accent which Ork fails to recognise. He has to ask the man to repeat his question.   “I am Ork. I am the printer.” He sees no point in denying it. “How do you want me to help you?” He addresses the taller man, but it is the short squat man who answers.  “You misunderstand. It is we who can help you.” His face twitches as he hears a shout from the shed and Ork quickly explains about the sins of his former apprentice. “Perhaps it would be better if your sinner doesn’t overhear our conversation. We shall leave now.” + + + Riding two on a horse is never satisfactory – for men or horse. Digger runs between the two mounts, confused by V...

Ork can hear something out there in the pitch black night, some noise behind the buffeting of the wind in the eaves. The bed is almost warm. Reluctantly he heaves off the blankets and walks in his bed-socks to the window, pulling back a corner of the heavy curtains. He is rewarded with a view of complete darkness, not even a twinkle of light to be seen. He hears the sound again, an unpleasant sound. He returns to the already cold bed, lies on his back, covers up to his chin and tries to forget. At first light he is awake again, dresses and descends the steep stairs to the kitchen. He pulls back the heavy oak door and peers out into the yard. The crow is clearly dead. It’s not the first time, but he still doesn’t know the meaning of these messages. He fills the wooden pail, moving the pump handle vigorously, watching the live crows circling the beech copse on the hillside. The axe is newly sharpened and he’s able to split the logs with minimal effort, storing them in the large wi...