Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  The breeze sucked the orange curtain against the open window and I heard the soft flack of fabric as it bellied then flattened against the chipped metal frame. Outside, kids played football in the cul de sac, running off and on neighbours’ gardens, each one George Best, selfish with the ball, desperate to get past Mrs Worthington’s and Old Man Humphry’s in their worn-out pumps before reaching the corner and the shot at goal that was the Fishers’ gateposts. Inside, behind the half-closed curtain, we sat on the rug, smoking, flicking ash into the empty grate as mournful lyrics told us of sorrow, regret and lost love in those places where he had loved so many women – downtown New York, Quebec, a Greek island. I wanted to be in those places, independent, away from the confine of days in school uniform, the sound of bells measuring the day into lessons, feet on corridors, slamming doors and the scrape of chairs on parquet floors. T...

  St Akelda’s Super-Structured School Opportunity Road Great Bridge Yorkshire 2025 Awards Instead School Inspection Service London Dear Sir/Madam I understand that my name has been put forward for an award in the “Innovative Initiatives” section, for which a supportive explanation is needed. When I first took over St Akelda’s Academy, last year, it was not thriving. We were two places above the relegation zone and I knew I had to act if I was to save the Academy from becoming a mere school again. I looked at the timetable: boring. Access to subjects: restricted. Attendance: poor, especially by bored teenagers who turned up mid-morning, if at all. I looked at the staff: bored, stifled, no hope of progression or promotion. That was when I formulated, then proposed, my new idea: first to staff, then to parents. The school day was to be altered to suit the dispositions of the different age groups. The number of hours per day, per...

  The joy of magic, So funny and intriguing, Lifting our spirits.

  A little girl sat alone in a locked office. She was waiting for her father in his swivel chair with her hands atop his large wooden desk. Between her hands was a box of toy magnets. Bouncing it between her fingers, the box rattled.             She frowned at it. His present to her. As if everything her father had put her through could be improved by a few dozen magnets. She had loved them a year ago but today she wanted so much more.             Clenching her fingers, she tore the box open. Two magnets came tumbling out. The green one gleamed in the light of the desk lamp. For a moment she saw her own reflection in it. As she seethed, this image turned into her father.             The purple one developed a strange sheen too which was soon filled by a reflection of her mother. The girl brought the magnets togeth...

  My reflection gazes back A face I hardly recognise Pale grey skin, almost transparent Dull and lifeless eyes brimming with unshed tears, staring at nothing Just waiting – waiting.   No need to turn, I know it’s time I sense his presence, feel him near His breath is warm against my cheek A sweet caress which holds no fear.   I feel the pain of tearing flesh Of crimson life blood flowing free My image fades before my eyes And then there’s nothing more to see.

Once, there was no ‘us’, just ‘I’. Proud monolith, I bestrode the land, commanded it, immune and constant for all time, I thought. That was hubris: no other mountain challenged me, but subtler forces were at work. Wind wore me down with jagged fragments of myself; water sank deep fingers in my flesh that froze and fractured me. Soft snow, seeming so gentle, built a second mountain on my back to grind my bones. When that at last was melted, we were no longer one but many; bright streams raced to carry us away. A stump remains, though not for long: nature still harries it; men bore and burrow for the silver in its veins. We that are gone no longer feel a kinship with it. We have embraced our journey, come to love the cold caress of water, our slow dance of descent towards the sea. Division, we have learned, is not defeat, and change is not surrender. Beneath the sea, we know, is stillness: as we gather there, we shall know peace. And with peace, in time, will come rejoining: many s...

  A body is stretched out on the threadbare carpet. A nearby coffee mug, tipped on its side, has dribbled out an artistic brown stain. The front window blind is tight-closed, refusing to let in any bit of a pale morning light. A pair of candles in ornate wooden holders, have burnt down almost to nothing. Evidence of another power cut. The walls and ceiling are covered in rough woodchip wallpaper. Two pendant lights, housed in large paper lanterns, hang down in the middle of the room. The radio on the top shelf of the bookcase is playing uncomplicated classical music to itself. There’s movement on the floor. A leg stretches, a groan, a hand moves to the forehead. John Star wakes gradually, every limb stiff after a night of broken sleep on the floor. He thinks back. That punk band in the Rocket . They were good. But he can’t remember what they were called. Maybe he should start drinking less. A small alarm clock, dangerously close to his ear, bursts into life and his left-h...