Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Note: This is what I call a patchwork of anecdotes.  All occurrences described did happen but certainly not all on the same day...  A woman lays a copy of An Orphan's Courage by Cathy Sharp on the counter. She opens it.             "I was halfway through when I noticed this."             The left hand page is marked 186, the right 201. Fourteen pages are missing. No obvious tearing: a probable misprint. Still, very odd.             The red-headed woman laughs. "I get the feeling that might have been the best bit."             A reservation is made for a copy that is actually complete.             There is commotion to the right, at the table where the newspapers are kept. A male septu...

Five years ago today the first Writers’ Lunch blog post appeared. 261 posts and over 125,000 words later, it is still going strong. The first post, by Emma Harding, was a simple manifesto which has served the lunchers and contributors well. I recommend reading the post, but the essence lies in this quote - ‘we have found that it helps to help each other.’ Over the five years the numbers for the weekly lunch, in a café in Huddersfield, have expanded, contracted and expanded again. There is no quorum, no constitution, no membership, no fees and no requirement to post. Over 20 different writers have contributed with a range of stories, poems, and creative non-fiction. With regard to fiction, there must some genres we have not covered, but writers have used the blog opportunity to experiment with their style and try something different. All contributors are taking steps in the process that makes a writer – building up a body of work, distinctive to that individual. A number of co...

You watched the wind blow in from the west. It was fierce and rapid. It meant business. Everyone was preparing – boarding up windows, reinforcing doors and taking shelter in basements. Not you. The fascination of watching a meteorological phenomenon was too much of a draw. No matter what scare stories were told, the refusal to believe any harm would come to you was steadfast. No one else would be watching this, so it had to be done. Sounds echoed of frantic preparations being made. The sense of fear was palpable, enticing. Watching the panic was enjoyable, although you couldn’t say why. Maybe because the human race lost the tendency to politeness when they were rushing. You, in stark contrast, were as chilled as could be.   Nothing fazed you, definitely not some demonstration by the natural world. That was just an example of power that proved nothing. You had the real power. As more humans ran from the scene, apparently in the ridiculous belief that their homes were rea...

New York 1971. Alex Cameron, a New York Times Best Selling author and top feature writer, was pacing the floor of her writing room in a state of agitation, her face looked stressed which spoilt her good looks. Another magazine assignment stared at her from under a large paperweight that sat on the desk, as if daring her to write it. She lit a cigarette and drew deeply, feeling the initial dizziness of the first nicotine hit of the day, poured a drink from the hot coffee jug and took a draught, straight down in one.   Outside it was getting lighter with every second; she took a look at her watch, twice, not believing what she saw the first time. “My god, four hours?” Her 5’10” frame sagged, feeling the pressure. She ran her hand through her long auburn hair, lips pursed.   She couldn’t afford not to deliver on this one; there was a new guy at the top and she got the impression he didn’t like her. Reluctantly she walked out of her room to the landing and shouted down the ...

He smells, tastes, feels shadows in the abyss: darkness, and the sweet scent of violets. In desolation, he retches, spewing his fear. She cradles his shivering, bandages the burnt and violated face, conceals his rage, feeds his hopes, writes his anguish, helps him count the days and catches his tears with a kiss. This was written in thoughts of my father after the tank he commanded was blown up during the war.   Catching flames across his face, he spent the next few weeks in hospital – not knowing whether he would ever see again, until the ‘facepack’ the doctors had put on, was removed.   It smelt, he said, of Parma violets, but it worked – he temporarily lost his eyebrows and eyelashes, but his sight was saved, with not a mark on his face.   The flames had effectively sealed his eyelids together, but that had protected his sight.   He dictated one letter home to his mother during this time, written by a nurse, but didn’t tell his mother unt...

Welcome to the Creationarium.   It is a laboratory.   Of sorts.   If you look around, you will see many interesting things. Along one wall, there is a long table upon which sit a large number of test tubes.   Some are still, some are quietly fizzing, a few are popping.   Some are colourful, others less so.   These test tubes contain the many memories, accumulated over your life so far.   Some are spilling over into the neighbouring test tube, causing a little fogginess. Some are almost igniting as they mingle with others.   Some retain their original detail.   Others have become a little less clear over time. Yes, these are the memories. Then, on a shelf high above, there are the bottles of good intentions.   There are a great deal of these.   Some will be uncorked and used almost immediately.   Others will never see the light of day. In the corner, you can see a stove.   On it, there is a pot full of bubbling liq...

Matilda had never wanted the clock.   She looked up at the elaborate brass dial, and the dark oak case, gleaming with polish. “We’ve always said it would come to you, Tilly,” said her father. Matilda couldn’t remember this ever being said to her. Perhaps she would have said, politely, that she didn’t really want it. Or perhaps not. The clock stood in the hall of her childhood home like a sentry,   sternly guarding the spindly Queen Anne side tables, the porcelain figurines, and the unread, leather-bound books. She tried to imagine how it would look in the 1970s semi she shared with James. She pictured the clock, squeezed between the Ikea bookcase and the coat rack.   She shuddered. James nodded appreciatively as her father pointed out the clock’s carved columns, it’s intricate finials, and fine hands. “It’s eighteenth century,” said her father. “We won’t have space in the new place,” said her mother, tears brimming in her ...