Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

IN THE MUDDY YARD of a half-stone, half-timber farmhouse stood a tall, thick-set man. He should have been dead – the three arrows buried deep in his broad chest and the bloody, ragged festering hole through one thick thigh were testament enough. He was dead... yet still he moved. Somehow, his senses still worked too as he slowly turned and began to shamble ominously towards the four soldiers who had halted on the edge of the wood, no more than fifty feet away. The soldiers moved cautiously into the clearing of the farmstead, forming a semi-circle. They lowered their crossbows and drawing thin bladed daggers or hand-axes from their belts. Missile ammunition was scarce these days and only to be used in emergencies; a single plague victim, no matter how big he was, did not constitute such an emergency. The dead man’s bare, heavily muscled arms, barrel chest and sturdy leather apron – now soiled with all manner of dirt and mess – marked him as a blacksmith by trade. The leade...

There is one night a month when you are not mine Then you belong to the forest You think I am asleep but, I see you I see you change. You fall to the floor and shiver, tremble all over Then gradually glistening blades of fur emerge from your skin They form a silky dense coat of silver Your hands become paws with concealed sharp-edged claws A tail appears from the base of your spine A fluffy, brush-like tail. The biggest change is to your face I never see this transformation as your back is always turned At first it startles me, The handsome husband I know turned into wild wolf Then I look into its eyes and recognise you The familiar compassion and warmth is there still This is you. I long to reassure you and stroke your silky fur To remind you that this is temporary and not your fault But before I can do so You pace across the room and run into the night Then leave me until morning When I wake and find my husband next to me again Coated in a blanket ...

The best you can achieve just takes a leap of faith. The job application, a love letter, quitting a habit, a new business venture, taking your leave of a person or place. It just takes a leap of faith. And yet that leap is chained, glued, riveted to the past. Such a simple thing. A leap of faith. But what about the gap? The crevasse? What if you fall? What if anyone is watching? Judging? Laughing? What if you take the leap and don’t land where you want? For you might not. What if you can’t go back? For you never can. What if this? What if that? And then? And then what? What unimagined joys, inventions, acts of heroism are lost because someone like you didn’t take a leap of faith? Leap. And the net will appear. Leap.  It’s just a step. Take that step. Have faith. Leap. Now.

The morning after polling day, I decided to camp out on [FB] Face Book, with a cup of piping hot tea, crowned with a slice of lemon. As my PC whirred into action, my ear was picking up what the ‘regular’ callers to LBC Radio, had to say about the election results. I quickly posted on FB, that the LBC presenters would be choking on their saliva, as they reported the results. There were more than a few callers from both major parties, incandescent with rage, apoplectic even, and others, who were overwhelmed with joy, that ‘ their leader ’ had won. Anyone engaged in the political process in the UK in June 2017, knew that both those emotional responses were a tad extreme, considering the reality of the results. I laughed a lot. My conclusion was that some LBC presenters, could conceal their emotions better than others. The callers needed not show any restraint, after all they were not directly responsible for broadcast content, so of course they let rip, and depending on the directio...

“Have you seen who’s in the paper?” The bedsprings creaked as she shifted her position. “Given I’m still asleep, darling, I would say not.” “Well, wake up then and have a look. I think it will intrigue you.” I stayed where I was for about 10 more seconds before concluding that I was indeed intrigued. I rolled over towards her and opened my eyes. She was sitting up in bed, the newspaper spread across her lap, her profile in silhouette against the light streaming through the insubstantial curtains.  “Here, take a look,” she said, moving the paper in my direction and placing an immaculately manicured fingertip on a small grainy picture at the bottom of the page. I peered at it and recognised him immediately. A tall, smartly dressed older man with a young lady on his arm standing on the steps of Number 10 Downing Street. “R,” I said. “Amazing what the right school tie does for you. Seems like they’ve forgiven him his misdemeanours then.” “We knew he was in the ...

We craned our necks to see who would be the latest arrival at the party – all except Dmitri, who kept his gun pressed into my chest. It appeared he was the only one not to be surprised by the sudden appearance of the head of British Intelligence. ‘R’ wrinkled his nose. “My God, it smells worse in here than it does out there. Fear does that, doesn’t it? Never mind, we’ll be on our way soon. You can put your toy down, Dmitri. The games are over. Alan can either hand over the complete microfilm now or he can wait until we take him apart piece by piece in the Lubyanka.” Dmitri moved away from me and I brushed my shirt to erase the impression of the muzzle. Perhaps it was the heat, but I was confused. I needed time to think. Why was ‘R’ speaking to Dmitri like he was an old friend? As if they were on the same side… The penny dropped and a wave of disgust and nausea swept over me. I had spent most of my career working for a traitor. A second later, no more, and I realised that m...

 “It says here, ‘finish it’.” That is all.  So that is what I propose to do, ladies and gentlemen.” Dmitri beams, and tucks the telegram back into his pocket. The temperature seems to have risen by twenty degrees in the cabin, and it’s not only due to the afternoon sun piercing through the porthole windows.  The air is rapidly becoming fetid; sweat and fear overpowering the aroma of cigarette smoke. At Dmitri’s signal, Johnson sits, perched on the edge of his seat as if ready to bolt. I wonder where he thinks he’s going to run to.  We are like rats in a trap in here.  The curtain at the front of the cabin is pulled back and it takes me a moment to recognise Charlie Markman, cool in a crisp white pilot’s shirt, complete with epaulettes and braid. I stifle a smirk; this plane is an absolute crate.  Charlie nods at the Creightons and I see James bristle, his fingers gripping the arms of his seat.  Charlie sees it too and grins, ...