Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

I try to write but nothing good will come and when I speak the words stick in my throat yet still this dream that something must be done. Although you hear me say I’m having fun cold blood is spilled for every word I quote. I try to write but nothing good will come just futile rants, blank pages overrun with streams of adjectives to self promote but still this dream that something must be done. Dramatic night spins threads with scenes begun but dawning light sinks lines that do not float. I try to write but nothing good will come.   Though thoughts are light my pencil weighs a ton grey fog obscures the last few words I wrote but still I dream that something could be done. I fear it is the same for everyone - shouting, ears covered, pleading for a vote. I try to write but nothing good will come yet still this dream that something must be done. This poem, a villanelle, is dedicated to every writer who has struggled to put word...

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...

So you’re down here. You couldn’t sleep either. Not after that bloody light. What light? Come on! It was you who woke me up telling me about it. Hang on – that was a dream – there was this really bright beam shining down just outside the bedroom window. It was in my dream so you can’t have seen it. It was still glaring when you woke me. Weird! But it was no dream. I’m making a cup of tea. Want one? Please – and a slice of granary toast if you don’t mind, with jam. It was a dream to me. Can you switch the radio on while you’re over there? See if you can find some nice calming music. Hey! One thing at a time. Where’s the jam? Oh you put it in the fridge again. Doesn’t need to live in there you know. That’s odd the radio doesn’t seem to be working. You know that thing where it comes on and then goes off almost straight away. Well now it’s decided not even to bother coming on. We’ll have to get a new one. I’ve been saying for ages. Oh Chewy! You’ve decided...

Creased white leather unsullied by the morning dew protects the crumpled tissue, stained red where she’d patted her lips: ‘New Blood’ by Rimmel. Lurking inside they find a few coins; her student card proclaimed she’d taken charge of all her eighteen years, controlled their adult dreams and dangers. One strap flung carelessly, the other still clutched in stiff fingers. Her scarlet life spreads out and her cheap perfume lingers.

He slammed the door as he left.  Its sound echoed down the hall.  Celia sat down on the bar stool in the kitchen and pressed the damp towel against her eye.  A normal start to a normal day, although to be fair to Joel, he didn’t usually strike her face.  To be fair to Joel!  She remonstrated with herself.  He wasn’t exactly fair to her. And yet today would turn out to be anything other than normal. She stepped down from the stool and walked unsteadily over to the sink to run the towel again under the cool water.  She turned the tap on, put the towel in the sink and, leaving it there, walked out of the kitchen and towards the cupboard under the stairs. The light bulb in the cupboard had blown and so she reached inside and fumbled about, eventually locating the reassuring, comforting feel of the tall, slim bottle right at the back.  She was about to grasp it and pull it out, when she felt something else.  Squashy, plump fabric of s...

Little Charlie Haigh Running up the cobbles And rushing into school Just before the bell. Chalk squeaking on slate As he copies out his alphabet, Hand shaking in fear As the teacher’s steps come closer. Chanting his times tables And longing for the day to end, When he can run down those cobbles Towards freedom in the woods. I wish I could tell him That 130 years from now Children in this classroom Would be learning about him. I’m glad he didn’t know then About the horrors of the trenches And the sacrifice that he would make With seventy others from his school. He could never have guessed That his name would be listed On a gleaming gold plaque In the school’s entrance hall And that a class would be learning About his life in Dewsbury Before that piece of shrapnel Delivered its fatal wound. He could never have predicted That his name would be honoured And his life would be remembered Two centuries into...

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."         ...