Winter Song

The time will come for everyone of us to say goodbye to all
We’ll meet again upon that distant shore
Where pain and misery will be
Just memories of what used to be
And happiness will reign for ever more

But it will not be as it should be
If I don’t have you standing next to me
Your love is all that I desire
It’s all I need, all I require
To make this happy day of life complete
To make this happy day of life complete

And as we come to the year’s end
With brothers, sisters, foes and friends
Both by our side and scattered round the Earth
The memories that we hold so dear
Of precious ones both far and near
The future starts now with our love’s rebirth

But it will not be as it should be
If I don’t have you standing next to me
Your love is all that I desire
It’s all I need, all I require
To make this happy day of life complete
To make this happy day of life complete

And as we gather round the fire
The flames of hope reach ever higher
All come and join beside us in the feast
Holding hands and in the calm
Sharing in this safe and warm
I wish you all Love, Happiness and Peace
I wish you all Love, Happiness and Peace
I wish you all Love, Happiness and Peace
I wish you all Love, Happiness and Peace
I wish you all Love, Happiness and Peace

The Truth About Santa Claus

Christmas should be a magical holiday. But how can you believe in magic when Reality keeps getting in the way? Then again, sometimes, even Reality has a few tricks.

Kids have a right to believe certain things. Should we believe in fairies and elves? Is Christmas a special time? Should we believe in Santa Claus?

I’m not sure whether you should believe this story. But I promise you, it could be true. I had gone into what had once been called "The Traveller’s Rest" for a couple of drinks before the evening shift at work. It was around tea-time, the shops were shutting and it was a bitingly cold, wet evening. Christmas was not far away, and all the decorations and coloured lights and other trappings of the so-called festive season just served to throw my own despondency into stark relief. This Christmas did not look like it was going to be one of the best of times. I was in a job I didn't like, which didn't pay enough to cover the bills on my credit cards. And my girlfriend was leaving me, at the end of the week. It was going to be a great Christmas.

I was slightly surprised to see, that quiet December evening, one of the barmaids standing on the other side of the bar, evidently on her day off, making a social call. She was chatting to one of the barmaids on duty, and a chap, who answered to the name of Chris and who I gathered was the manager. The barmaid off duty had brought with her a young girl, of about eight or so, probably her daughter, to show off to the other staff.

Chris, the manager, was explaining with great gusto and in great detail, all his clever plans to make the most money out of the forthcoming holiday season, especially Christmas and New Year's Eves. On the one hand, his know-all clever-dickness was getting on my nerves, on the other he just sounded like a guy who knew his job very well.

It was at this point that Chris decided to share another snippet of his vast range of knowledge with the little girl. "And I'll tell you something, Sarah, about Santa Claus."

"What?" asked Sarah, agog with anticipation. She'd probably been looking forward to Christmas for weeks, and the merest mention of Santa Claus stirred her excitement.

"Santa Claus doesn't exist!" Chris announced.

"What?" she said.

"Santa Claus doesn't exist."

"Yes he does," she said, with determination, defying him. "Course he does!"

"Course he doesn't," he insisted. "How could he? How many chimneys are there in the world? Millions, right? - " I was wondering when we'd get round to statistics again - "And how long does it take you to see just ten of your friends in an evening?"

She tried to answer him, but she was clearly worried. Seeing he had an audience that could not escape either his logic or his voice, he continued, "Santa Claus can't exist. He couldn't get down all then chimneys in one evening. And some people don't even have chimneys. So he can't exist."

"Yes he can," she insisted, "He's magic!"

"He's not magic," said Chris, "Santa Claus is dead! So you can forget about Santa turning up on Christmas Day. It ain't gonna happen."

There was nothing more she could say to that, and she fell silent.

I drained my glass and prepared to go. Just at that moment, the little girl got up and walked past me to look at a pinball machine by the door. She was still very quiet.

As I got level with her, on my way out, I leaned over to her, and said, quietly, "Don't you take any notice. Santa Claus does exist, you know?"

She said nothing, staring at her feet. I'd said what I had wanted to say, and my hand was almost on the door. Then, I said, "You do believe, don't you?"

She looked at me briefly, then her gaze returned, silent, to the floor.

"Listen," I tried again, " I know he exists. Because I've seen him."

This got her attention, at last. Her eyes were so big and dark, you could fall into them. "When?" she said.

"Well," I said, "it was a long time ago." I had to stop and think what to say next. I had a feeling it might be important. "It was a long time ago," I continued, "well, not all that long, really, when I was just a little bit older than you are now. And I was growing up, and one or two people - one or two silly older people who didn't really know anything really - were telling me that as I was growing up I shouldn't believe in Santa Claus any more. They told me Santa Claus didn't exist.

"Then it came round to Christmas, and I started saying, 'I don't believe in Santa Claus any more, he doesn't exist'. Though I felt a bit funny about it really."

"Why?" she said.

"Well, I'd always believed in Santa Claus before and I had always got lots and lots of really nice presents every Christmas, and here I was saying he didn't exist. That wasn't a very nice way of saying 'thank you,' was it? Hm?"

"Suppose so."

"And then it got to Christmas Eve, and I went to bed early, saying, 'I don't believe in Santa Claus.' And I settled down just to go to sleep. But I couldn't sleep. So I got up, and I went downstairs to where we had this big Christmas Tree. And there were presents all around the bottom of the tree, presents for every one. Every one, that is, except me."

Sarah looked suitably impressed by this.

"Every one had been left a present, except me. And it was all because I stopped believing. Because I had said Santa Claus didn't exist. And I ran out of the house, thinking, 'Oh no, it's too late, Santa's gone and not left me any presents, all because I didn't believe in Santa Claus.' And I bet you'll never guess what happened next!"

Sarah's eyes were firmly fixed on mine by now. "What happened?"

"I looked up in the sky, and that's when I saw Santa Claus! He was up there, in his sleigh, being pulled across the sky by his reindeer, and all their bells were ringing, and he had a big sack of presents on the back of his sleigh, the biggest sack you've ever seen. I called to him, 'Santa, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I didn't believe in you! Come back!' But he was in a hurry. He had presents to deliver to all the other children, the ones that still believed in him. He didn't have time to waste on people who thought he didn't exist. But it was too late, now. Or so I thought." I gave her an inscrutable look.

"Why? What did you do?"

"Well, I went back in the house, and I couldn't believe my eyes. Because, there, all around the Christmas Tree where they had been presents for everyone else but me, there was an even bigger pile of presents!"

"An even bigger pile?"

"An even bigger pile! And all of them were for me. And there was a card, for me, too. Do you know who it was from?"

"Santa Claus!" she squealed.

"Yes, Santa Claus! And do you know what it said?"

"What?"

"It said 'Just Kidding'!"

"'Just kidding'?"

"That's right. Santa Claus was just kidding that he wasn't going to leave me any presents. He knew I still believed in him really. He just wanted to make sure I didn't forget!"

Sarah stared at me, her eyes twinkling. I watched her tiny bright face, and started to laugh. And she laughed too.

"So," I said, just glancing for a moment in the direction of Chris, "you'd better remember Santa Claus really does exist, because you've met someone who's actually seen him."

* * * * *

Well, I got in to my job and did a terrible night's work, and it got to the end of the week my girlfriend moved out, and then it was Christmas Eve. I was stuck in the house all alone, and no amount of trying to watch the banal pap that passed as festive entertainment on the TV was going to get me in the mood to celebrate anything. I had steadfastly turned down any offer from friends to go to any party or anyone's house, because I didn't want to turn up alone, and now I was regretting it. I decided to try the local pub, a dull pit of a place - at least the landlord would have restricted himself to a few paper streamers. It was a place I normally avoided, so there was no-one there that I knew, but I picked it tonight because it was in walking distance.

I thought briefly about all that cobblers I had told that little girl. Making her believe in fairy stories, when there was a real world to grow up into. What had I done? Poor little girl, I thought. "Stuff this," I said to myself, and I wandered off home.

When I got back to the house, I realised something was slightly different. I let myself in, and found the small reading light in the living room was on. I was certain that I had left it switched off when I had gone out. The house was quiet, but not in the deathly, isolated way it had seemed before, but peaceful and welcoming. In the little pool of light, on the coffee table, there were some packages. Someone had been in the house while I had been out.

There were various people who had a spare set of keys - my folks for instance, and my girlfriend, of course, and a set that were hidden under a plant pot outside the door, that several of our friends knew about. I figured that it could be any of them that had decided to call round, leaving whatever they had been doing that Christmas Eve in order to see me, and I'd been out. So they had left me some presents! I could hardly believe it. A feeling came over me that I could not describe. It was as if I had been standing for a tremendous time in a shadow, and now I had stepped out of it.

Suddenly, as daft as it sounds, I didn't feel lonely any more. I made up my mind that I would find out who the presents were from, and make sure that I went round and thanked whoever it was next day. And I wouldn't stay in on my own being a miserable git feeling sorry for myself, but I would get out and have a good time. After all , it was Christmas! A time to celebrate had to find who the presents were from, so that I could thank them, even if they were only pairs of socks, unbearable after-shave and a ghastly tie. They had really made my evening.

But the first thing I picked up was not a parcel, but a small envelope. I opened it, and a plain little card slid in to my hand. Inside, written in a wide, flowing handwriting - that I couldn't recognise and yet it looked familiar - was a two-word message.

It said, "Just kidding."

Then, at the bottom: "Thank you!"

It was the best Christmas I've ever had.

The end

12th December - half way there!

Presents piled under
the Christmas tree carefully
wrapped with silver bows

11th December (a day late!)

'Oh no he didn’t!'
the funny man shrieks, children
quiver, hiding eyes.

Humbug

The 'festive' season
Turkeys get a good stuffing
And so do Latics*

*Wigan Athletic.

9th December

Welcome to the blog Jan! Thanks for posting that wonderful haiku.

It doesn't have to just be haiku though everyone, how about a short story, article, longer poem, just so long as the theme is wintery, or Christmassy whichever.

On the Outside

Condensation obscures the view
through the window;
but I can see the fire
dancing, and shades of people
sharing wine and stories.
It’s dark outside
here in the cold,
the sound of their laughter
is just a shadow.

Christmas crowds bulge,
an overfilled stocking.
Knitted hats, plastic bags
stuffed to capacity.
There will be no candles
on my Christmas tree;
my stocking
stuffed with air.
It leaks through the holes
where the toe used to be.

Hear the church bells ringing,
singing the joy
of the season.
They do not ring
for me.
Here, on the outside,
I have all the friends I need.
I reach out an open hand,
and another one
turns to water.

(c) B Dale 2007

SNOW

Delicate soft lace,
floating down on frosty air.
Turning the world white

Coming to a community somewhere near you

Each Christmas alone
No reason to celebrate
Spirit is broken

6th December : A Question

Are Chorley Writers
lacking creativity
or festive spirit?

5th December

Sorrowful snowflakes
huddle on the porch dreaming
of a long winter.

4th December : more Haiku

Pine trees shiver in
uniform rows. A pale moon
turns branches silver.

I May Be Grumpy But I Believe I Have A Point

I have discovered
That I cannot do Haiku
Limericks instead.

The problem with Christmas festivities
Is that folk drift into activities
Neglect ‘babe in manger,
Have sex with a stranger!’
And other, still baser proclivities

People, who once had more sense
Spend hundreds of pounds just like pence
Where once there was prudence
There’s insane insouciance
And neglect for the reckoning hence

The respectable, who’d normally cringe
At thought of a boozy binge
Of a sudden indulge
Till their wrecked livers bulge
And their mental state loses its hinge

The thing that really amazes
When you think of Earth’s climactic phases
Little lights are festooned
By reckless baboons
While the planet can go to blazes

But the most obscene thing of all
That makes the festivities pall
Is seeing folk eat
Till they can’t see their feet
While one billion people will go to bed tonight starving

3rd December

Sudden rain bursts flood
the fields. Fat fronds of tinsel
float away downstream

Haiku

Build a fat Snowman
With a carrot for his nose
And coal for his eyes

2nd December : Haiku

A robin bobs from
behind a bush, its breast like
blood against the snow.

1st December (a day late!) : Haiku

Looking through windows
onto a winter landscape
prompts fond memories

It's a Chorley Advent

Hey everyone - how about adding a short post a day in the run up to Christmas - remember, it's a time for giving, a time for sharing... (well, that's what Cliff Richards said!). A Christmas Advent, courtesy of the talented Chorley Writers.

Aware 3 - we have lift off!!!!

Thanks to everyone who made it to the launch of Aware 3. I hope everyone had a good time (I certainly did) and thanks in particular to Peter Bird for helping us arrange this, and to Runshaw College for being very generous hosts. There were a couple of people who gave me their names and contact details on the night who are copied in on this e-mail (beware – you are now on the mailing list!), can I take this opportunity to extend a warm welcome to Trefor Lloyd and Jan Hartley – I hope to see you both at the meetings next year.

We have 32 copies of Aware 3 left to sell. If anyone would like to buy one please drop me an e-mail and we’ll work it out! Cover price is £1.50, to include post and packing this will be £2.00. Let me know if you’d be interested in buying one, or if you have any ideas for outlets in which we can sell them.

Thanks again to all the contributors, and to those who read on the night which were:

myself, Vicky Walsh, Carol Thistlethwaite, Peter Bird, Peter Cropper, Heather Richardson, and Dea Parkin who read Alan Gaskell’s piece ‘Hard-Wired’,

and again to Peter Bird, and Susanne Holt’s son Lawrence who provided some excellent musical entertainment.

Next steps for the group are to put together a programme for next year. If anyone has any suggestions please drop me an e-mail with your ideas. Susanne Holt at Runshaw College has suggested that perhaps we could get together again for a summer garden party, which sounds a great idea to me, and also pool our membership and invite some writer’s to speak at joint events.

Susanne has also extended an open invitation for Chorley Writers’ members to attend their Writers Forum. The next one is 13th January, and it runs from 18:30 – 21:00 ( I think – I’ll double check and if this is wrong I’ll circulate the right info!).

Is anyone attending any of the Lit-fest events next weekend? If so, let us know, and perhaps some of us can catch up there, or give us some feedback on how it all went!

I’ll be in touch again before Christmas, so I won’t wish you all a Merry Christmas just yet. Feel free to make use of the blog – I’ll invite our new members to join. How about adding a Christmas haiku, or short story? Call it the Chorley Writers’ Advent calendar.

Aware 3 : Launch

Just over a week to go until the launch of Aware 3. Special thanks to the following :

- Peter Bird - for finding us a location for the launch
- Alan Gaskell - for arranging the printing of the magazine

and of course to everyone who has contributed :)

If you haven't already, please let Belinda know whether you be able to attend the launch or not.

Location will be Runshaw College (Euxton Lane site). Details of location here : http://www.runshaw.ac.uk/pages.asp?page_id=160

We'll be joining their Writers' Forum night and they too will be launching their magazine. This is a great opportunity to link in with our fellow writers and advertise the abundant creative talent in the Chorley area. Please attend if you can.

Please arrange to be there by 7pm for a 7:30pm start.

Season’s Greetings

A rant, just in time for the 'Festive Season.'

Autumn is often regarded as the most emotive of seasons. The bright glory of lazy summer days or the high activity of holidays in the resplendent sunshine give way to the fading grandeur of woodland in a gaudy yet decaying plumage. It is with a feeling of being reconciled that the year is coming to an end. Yes, Autumn is a season of resigned calm. This is what autumn does to us writers and poets.

Not so, the season of Winter. Winter is an ugly beast that chillingly wants to suck on the marrow of our bones. But there is a most hideous evil at the heart of Winter! I speak openly of none other than the abomination that is called: "Christmas."

Everyone knows that Christmas is bad for you. Normally sensible people who diligently handle their financial affairs suddenly lose all sense of reason and blow every penny. People binge openly. Habitually-temperate individuals are to be seen as drunk as a lecturer with a pay rise, or a poet with any pay at all. Alcohol intake soars, tobacco, otherwise eschewed, is suddenly fashionable, as cigars light up like bonfires, food is gobbled in vast quantities as diets are cast aside, waistlines bulge, five a day comes to mean "meals," rather than "portions of vegetables." Promiscuity is encouraged, with sinister rituals dragged up from antiquity involving sprigs of plants such as mistletoe. Never mind how many children are conceived outside wedlock during this period, the number who start life outside any kind of enduring relationship must be staggering. All the more frightening is proportion where the act of conception has been captured for posterity on a photocopier at office parties.

And then there’s the lies to the children. How many children are dumb enough to believe a fat interloper in a conspicuous costume but with his hooded face covered can enter umpteen different properties all around the globe simultaneously though an antiquated and indeed often non-existent heating system? And then just give things away for nothing in return, no favours of any kind. The fat guy and the sleigh, all the supernatural creatures and the cloven-footed animals with illuminating body parts, it is revealed as the children get older, were invented, and used as a form of behavioural modification blackmail as the year’s end approached. Trust you parents after that? Why should you? They’ll say rubbing belly-buttons makes babies next!

Then there’s the extended family and the problems Christmastime entails. Families are extended for a reason – the reason is they can’t stand being near each other and want to put as much distance between who they share a blood line with. Blood is thicker than water and it usually ends up spilled on the carpet. Families getting together is the biggest cause of family breakdown in the world today. This is not rocket science – they couldn’t break down if they weren’t brought together in a supercritical mass in the first place, could they. It’s a sociological atom bomb waiting to go off.

While all that’s going on, there are questions about the damage inflicted on commerce and industrial activity. Whole industries close down while others, briefly, like fungus, spring up in their place. Just when they are needed most, in what should be their money-making peak of the year, plumbers and electricians disappear. And not only does God not exist, try finding a doctor or dentist at Christmas. Absenteeism is so rife, some companies can’t even tell whether they are actually still operating any longer or have gone into receivership. From the customers’ point of view, as far as public transport is concerned, it may as well have done so. "How was your journey then?" "How do you bloody think it was? No wonder Joseph and Mary had to stay in a stable – we nearly had to break our trip at a bloody Travelodge!"

Almost the ultimate indignity is yet to come. This is referred to as The Christmas Number One. For music-lovers everywhere, this alone is justification to stick a pencil into each ear and swirl it around until you stop moving. (A similar phenomenon with the eye is to be encountered when you are forced by some niece you have discovered makes you watch a DVD of Dude Where’s My Car? or Weekend at Bernie’s II. While on the TV, just to get you in the Christmas mood, there’s Saving Private Ryan followed by Schindler’s List.)

Christmas is as desperate as a famine inside a war inside a plague. Finally there is the social cost. This is best illustrated by the colossal, soul-crushing feeling of desperation when you find that you are actually left out of the festivities, that you have no cringe-inducing parties to attend, no visitors nor people to visit, no presents, no cards and only the wallpaper for company. As if to rub salt in the wound, the televisions companies have started to pick up on this and just as you are sitting through your umpteenth viewing of North By Northwest they spray across the screen a phone number you can call "if you’d like to talk to someone." How would you start such a conversation? "I’m such a Billy-No-Mates, I was going to slash my wrists but I can’t find the kitchen knife so I thought I would call you, you self-pious, do-gooding little bastard."

Christmas begins to blight us now from the beginning of September along with the anniversary of the start of World War II – a re-enactment of the Somme artillery barrage rumbles on from mid October till advent calendars come into use. Then New Year (why does the Year of Our Lord start seven days after the anniversary of His arrival – did someone forget to post the birth announcement? Had they been sniffing too much myrrh to remember till a week later? "Messiah arrived – must make a note." Then it’s back to work, just preceded by carting car-loads of wrapping paper, greetings cards, the odd dodgy present and possibly the odd clingy relative, to the recycling centre, staggering credit car bills or mind-numbing overdrafts until the final embarrassment of St Valentine’s Day. At last, you can remind yourself, Summer is now not far off, once you’ve got past Easter.

Then you’ve got about six months before the whole ghastly spectacle begins all over again. Let nothing you dismay, you merry gentlemen! God rest ye!

The End (-ish)

The Meeting Place

In response to the Nicky J Poole Prize for Futility I have put my money where my mouth is and supply here my own possible offering (parrot, tumble dryer and train journey included, and inspired by the Paul Day statue, The Meeting Place.)

The Friday evening Eurostar glided into St Pancras like an ice dancer, three minutes ahead of time, having left Paris just over two hours earlier. Jocelyn felt her stomach flip and her heart jump at the sight of the white, blue and gold train. It slid into place along the platform and sighed to a halt. This, she realised, could be the most important moment of her life. The most wonderful, or the most horrible.

Either way, she would never forget what was about to happen next.

Don’t go

Wait for me

She made her way from where she had been standing beneath the Paul Day statue to watch the crowds coming up to the ticket barrier. Dozens upon dozens of people, like a ragged, growing tide, began to drag round her. The business man in his smart suit, shoulder bag and lap-top, the family group perhaps back from a holiday, the young woman with a child, the middle-aged woman steering a trolley of luggage, the couples and the singles, like a billowing cloud around her, blocking her view. And still she could not see the one face she sought. Was Dominic going to be there, amongst them?

She was distracted by a cry from her right, as two people fled into each others outstretched arms, reunited at last.

"I expect you’ll forget me," she had said.

That day, she had just been to order a new tumble dryer for her flat. On the way back from the store, the heavens opened, great fat gobs of water splattering. As she dived for the cover of a taxi, they met.

"Share?" he suggested.

The rest of the hours of the day they passed together. As the light faded, Jocelyn realised a feeling of contentment, like she had never known before. She was thinking of the many days to come when Dominic broke his news.

"I have to go away – a long trip. Europe, then the Middle East, India, China and Polynesia. It’s all to do with work, liaising with local offices."

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

"That – " she shifted her gaze from his, "… not what I wanted to hear."

"I know. I’m sorry. It’s my job. It will be the big trip for the company. Once it’s done, someone else can worry about the day-to-day details. I was quite looking forward to it. I never took a gap year from college. Now I’m not so sure I want to go."

"It’s part of your work. The thing that keeps you going," she said. Where was that from? "Where is Polynesia?" she tried to sound intellectually curious, detached.

"What is Polynesia? – That’s what I said," he told her, trying to joke. "I thought it was the ability to forget a parrot, when they first told me. Either that or being able to forget about several things at once."

"Are you likely to forget things?"

"Oh, lots of things. I forget almost everything given half a chance."

"Does that included strangers you’ve met?"

"Strangers, yes."

"So you could forget me?"

"You’re not a stranger," he said, "I feel I’ve already known you for ages."

"But you haven’t."

"Don’t misunderstand – I’m sure it will take ages more to get to know even a tiny bit about you."

"How long will you be gone?"

"About two months. Not sure exactly. Perhaps you won’t want to know me then. I mean, if I can’t wash my clothes while I’m away." He offered a remorseful smile.

"You’ll need a tumble dryer," she said.

Thoughts passed between them.

Don’t leave

Don’t forget

His postcard had a picture of a parrot – a scarlet Macaw. It said when he would be back. After that were the words, "Wish I wasn’t here."

Perhaps she had got the wrong date or time. She had washed the sweatshirt she jogged in, not realising she’d pushed the postcard into the pocket, until she found it mangled and shredded in the very same tumble dryer she’d bought that day. Somehow she had forgotten to check before she threw the shirt in the wash after her morning run. The date and time of his return had been on the card and she was sure she remembered them anyway. But what if she were wrong?

What if he didn’t want to come back and see her after all. They had barely had time to get to know each other. Time – something you always have too much or too little of.

The stragglers from the train were clearing the platform. If he had been amongst the passengers she had missed him. More probably, he just wasn’t there. He’d said he forgot things. Perhaps she was one of them. She was positive she had seen everybody who had got off the train. Even when she’d glanced away at the affectionate couple greeting. Hurt and disappointment pricked and stabbed at the back of her eyes. She turned and, slowly at first, but with gathering pace, she began to walk away.

Just as she hurried beneath the statue, her gaze fixed resolutely on the ground, someone got in her way. Before she could side-step, she had collided with the stranger. Why couldn’t the fool look where he was going? She stared up angrily into the eyes of the irritating person blocking her path.

"Hullo," said Dominic.

"Dominic!" She could not believe her eyes. "Did you just come in on the train?"

"Why else would I be at the station?" he smiled.

"But I didn’t see you coming off the platform." She almost stamped her foot.

"You must have missed me."

"Missed you? Missed you? I was waiting at the barrier!"

"I did say, ‘beneath the statue.’ If you’d stayed at the barrier I might have missed you."

I remembered

I’m here now

He put his arms around her waist. She reached up to touch him on the cheek. She didn’t speak, just looked into his eyes.

"I told you I’d come back," Dominic said.

"I never doubted it," she answered in a whisper. It may have been a lie, but it didn’t matter.

She was right. She would remember this moment for the rest of her life.

The end.

"Did you turn off the gas?"

"No! I thought - you..."

The Rains Came

A writing burst, based upon "After the rain."

After the dry season, the winds grew, the billowing cloaks of cloud arose from the horizon like the cape of an awakening messenger, and the onslaught of the downpour began. It was like the entire continent tipped its face to the beaker of the ocean and drew the first of many thirst-quenching drafts.

So it had been for time beyond memory. The reassurance of the seasons, regular as breath, the land, once parched, now slaked, the crop-planting that had waited patiently in abeyance could step forward and take its place, centre-stage. The equilibrium of sufficiency soon reached. And still it rained.

The land began to groan under the deluge. Streams bulged, distended like the belly of a woman with child until they could contain no more, and burst upon the plains and fields. Still it rained. The ground itself seemed to dissolve into brown paste. Passage of any distance became impossible. The rivers strained at the leashes of their banks, and broke free. The countryside began to disappear beneath the inundation.

People fretted. This was not as rains of previous seasons. There was malice in the air and earth was its victim. The very idea of farming, of planning for a harvest months hence, washed away as concern for the here and now pressed. They started to gather food and think of shelter, the most valuable possessions and of the weak and the vulnerable. But, to the rain, there was no shelter. Its places of reach were legion and escape was for no-one and nothing.

And still it rained.

The rain lasted from sunrise till darkness. Tirelessly through the night it continued, till the grey light returned, forever veiled by the wings of cloud that stretched, heavily, rupturing, from horizon to horizon. The thought of dryness became but a memory, the dank smell of sodden fields, sodden houses, sodden clothes became a universe. Slowly, insidiously, the lower ground disappeared beneath newly-born lakes, whose shores expanded in all directions, while the resorts of high ground retreated, like a defeated army in rout. The people and the animals huddled together in these dwindling places, and animal and man looked from one to the other, united in a common cause of misery.

And still it rained.

It was as if the sky itself had chosen to take possession of the land and make it part of a different regime, one where the old principles and processes were swiped away, where water would rule. It rained and it rained and it rained. There was no quarter, no relent. Any appearance of a slight lessening of the constant drip-hammer was illusory. The rain fell as if with a purpose, and would not ease till it was achieved, unconditionally and without mercy. Rain was now in charge forever.

And still it rained. The last of the ground was consumed by the hordes of wave, invading, taking command but taking no prisoner. Only casualties, only victims, who, one by one, attempted wildly to try to defeat the waters by running into them, only to be plucked from view as their limbs weakened. The rain fell and fell and fell, till every patch of earth, every building, every tree, every living creature was overrun. It rained until the ocean was and the land was not, till there was only water. Water held dominion over all and nothing moved upon the face of the deep.

Nothing of the old order remained. This was the new order. After the rain.

The end.

Indelicate

At the recent meeting we undertook a writing burst exercise. One of the unused words was 'Indelicate', which was my choice and a word I have been thinking about for a few days. I finally was able to construct something, please let me know what you think :)

Indelicate

This is the moment of turning,
when the ocean swells
and spreads towards
the shore.
A solitary shell,
waits exposed
in foetal curl,
its delicate surface
sand-scarred
to pitted bone,
and just a
trace of pearl
remains;
a memory
encircling
the point of entry.
Inside another memory sings
of distance and motion,
of white sands,
the taste of foreign skin,
the sharp allure
of the exotic.
It is a song that hums
closer, ever closer
as the ocean
encroaches, slipping
into the open lip
depositing salt,
sand, memory,
enveloping
ridge and curl.
With each stroke
it sinks
deep, deeper
into annihilation,
aware only of
the power of
the waves,
and the force
that drives
it relentlessly
to its own
destruction.

Meeting 23rd October 2007

Meeting minutes from 23rd October have now been circulated. Summary follows:

- Aware 3 - has been proofread and is being sent to print. 50 copies will be printed to begin with. Thanks to Alan for his assistance with arranging this.

- Aware 3 Launch - we have been unable to book Astley Hall for the launch on 27th November. Alternative dates and locations are being investigated. If anyone has any suggestions please e-mail at chorley.writers@4tn.net.

- Low blog usage is a cause for concern. If anyone requires any assistance logging on to the blog, please e-mail chorley.writers@4tn.net, and user instructions/assistance can be provided.

The rest of the evening was taken up with writing burst exercises. We decided to each write two words or sentences on a piece of paper, pick one out of a 'hat' (or an envelope in this case!) and try and write something inspired by the word or sentence. Try your hand at one of these and share the results:

"After the rain..."

"The threat of relegation became greater with every passing week..."

"For a split second it just hung in the air..."

"Indelicate"

And if anyone is feeling especially brave, this is the Nicky J Poole Prize for Futility :

write a piece including : a parrot, a tumble dryer and a train journey. Extra credit will be given for including the new Paul Day statue 'The Meeting Place', see above for details. (I'm not sure what the prize is, possibly just the kudos for having made it!)

Domestic Bliss

This story was too late to appear in the next edition of "Aware" (Number 3) on the theme of "Home and Away," so you lucky people are getting it here for nothing.

Fluorescent jackets, two, bright yellow, Day-Glo strips, belts heavy with equipment – night-stick, radio, spray, cuffs – below stab-vests. Fluorescent strip lights, dirty grey, flooded the shadow-less pallor of late-night casualty. The police officers approached the reception desk. The triage nurse nodded in dull acquiescence towards the far corridor, opposite the entrance, leading out of the waiting area to the treatment section. The officers walked through.

#

"Mrs Beryl Rimmer?" said the first officer. The second stood holding back the plastic curtain of the assessment cubicle. The nurse, a plump-ish woman in her forties, finished attending to a dressing on Mrs Rimmer’s face. She’d seen this all before. She stepped round the trolley and squeezed past the second officer, out into the corridor.

"How did it happen?" said the officer.

#

Bob was late. Beryl hated it when he didn’t come home in time for tea. She was always fearful there would be a scene. She would try to avoid it, try not to say anything that might upset him, provoke him into one of his moods. But it wasn’t fair. He would be out enjoying himself, spending their money, having too much to drink. He always seemed to drink too much these days. How was she supposed to get on with her life, let alone enjoy herself, when she didn’t know what time he’d be back? Or in what state?

It hadn’t always been like this. There were the good times. The old times. Back when they were first courting. They couldn’t get enough of each other then. There was no where else either of them wanted to be. Now, it was difficult to be in the same room together, without there being an atmosphere. A tension.

She flipped the shirt over on the ironing-board. She’d done the sleeves, now the shoulders, about to do the back. Her mother had always said, "Be a good housewife, and your man won’t wander." That, and "A happy marriage is one where both of you know your place." All sounded a bit old-fashioned now. The iron was too hot, but she didn’t think to turn it down. As long as she didn’t linger, it would be alright. Get the creases out faster.

She thought she heard his key in the lock.

#

"Had your husband been drinking, Mrs Rimmer?" said the officer. The other took notes.

"Why do you ask that?"

"You said he was late home. Why was that?"

"He can come and go as he pleases. I don’t mind him spending a bit of time with his friends. There’s nothing wrong with our marriage."

"Of course not," said the officer. "Was he drinking with his friends?"

"He might have been."

"Is that why he stayed out?"

"He doesn’t stay out," she said, defensively. "He’s always back at a proper time."

#

Bob let himself in. Beryl was ironing. That was good. He was pleased to see her doing some housework. Perhaps she had learnt her lesson. It wasn’t just for him. There were the children to think of. They needed a good family environment to grow up in. Perhaps she had sent them off to bed early. He didn’t like them to see when he and Beryl had words. "Any tea?"

"Don’t you go expecting to be fed at this time of night," she said. He thought he saw her bite her lip. "I threw your dinner in the bin."

He was angry and disappointed. "I told you I was going to be a little late." He was hungry, and he had told her he wasn’t sure when he’d be home. He had had nothing to eat and here she was, being difficult. Why for once couldn’t she just do the right thing – get him a meal that would keep till he got back. "It was a leaving do. I couldn’t come home any earlier."

"Oh no, of course you couldn’t. Always putting someone else before me."

"How dare you say that," he retorted. "I’ve always put you first."

She seemed unable to contain herself. "You go out, spending our money on yourself and your mates. What about me?"

Bob was surprised. It wasn’t like her to refer to his friends like this. She usually didn’t even mention them, as if she preferred to pretend they didn’t exist. Why couldn’t she be more reasonable? Why couldn’t she be friends with them too? He felt his anger rising. "They could be your friends too if you’d make an effort. "And as for ‘our money’? This is my money. I earned it. And I haven’t spent all of it. Trouble is, my sweet angel, if I bring it home you go through my pockets and steal it and spend it on clothes that make you look like a tart. Most men would give you a clip round the ear for carrying on the way you do!"

#

The police officers pushed into Bob’s cubicle.

"You Bernard Rimmer?" said the first officer.

"Bob," said Bernard. "My friends call me Bob."

"Well, Bernard," said the second officer, "would you mind telling us how you come to be here?"

"It all started when I was a little late getting home from work," he said. "It was somebody’s leaving do. A colleague who’d been with the company for ages. We were giving him a good send-off. Drinks, food, everything. Or, rather, everyone else was. I could only stop for a couple of drinks. My wife, Beryl, doesn’t like me staying late after work. No matter what the reason. Then my colleague – the one who was leaving – bought everybody a round of double brandies. That was very nice of him, that. I bought him one back, knocked one back myself. Then I had to dash off. I had to catch a bus – I couldn’t drive after all that alcohol. That made me even later."

"What happened when you got home?"

"Well, I’d all this to drink on an empty stomach. I’d not had any time for anything to eat. So when I got home I was starving. Beryl – that’s my wife – said she had cooked me some dinner but thrown it away. I’d told her I was going to be late home. There was no need to do that. It’s not right."

"So you hit her," said the first officer.

"It wasn’t like that," Bob protested.

"Let me just go and check with the doctor," said the second officer. "I think he’ll confirm somebody hit her."

"Yes – no," Bob struggled for words. "I did hit her. But it wasn’t like that!"

#

The two officers stood, heads together, in the corridor as the doctor approached them. One turned to the other and said, "I hate domestics."

"Waste of time, if you ask me," said the other. "She should just walk out and leave him and take the kids with her. Divorce him, have the house, all of his money, and be done with it. Get rid of the bullying little creep for ever."

"Just got the results of the x-ray," said the doctor. "Mrs Rimmer has a broken cheek-bone. She’s been struck a very heavy blow, possibly with a blunt object."

"Good enough for me," said the first officer, "let’s go and arrest the sod."

The two officers pushed their way into Bob’s cubicle once more. "Bernard Rimmer, you are under arrest for assault occasioning actual bodily harm. Anything you say will be used as an excuse to beat the crap out of you."

The police officer hadn’t realised the doctor had followed him in to the cubicle and was standing right behind him. "I think there is something you should see first," said the doctor.

"I was trying to tell you before," Bob protested. "When I got home, my wife was ironing. I offered to give her the money I still had from the leaving do when I came in. As I put it down on the ironing board, she trapped my hand with the iron. She burned me! The only way I could get free was to pull the iron off. It broke free and hit her in the face. I was only trying to protect myself."

The doctor pushed between the two police officers and showed them both Bob’s hand.

There, right across the palm from fingertips to wrist, was a livid purple burn, triangular, curved edges, in the shape of an iron.

"His hand must have been in contact with something very hot for quite some time to inflict such a severe wound," said the doctor. "If it had been me, I don’t think I could have stuck it for so long."


Epilogue – Ignorance Isn’t Bliss
"In January 1999 the UK Government’s Home Office published the results of a survey into domestic violence. It was the biggest ever carried out anywhere in the world and involved more than 10,000 men and women.

"It was called Study 191 and it stated, quite categorically, that 4.2% of men and 4.2% of women perpetrate the crime of domestic violence. In other words they had discovered that men and women are equally violent."

For any who wants information about men being victims of domestic abuse, contact http://www.mensaid.com/, help@mensaid.com or call 087 1223 9986.

Passing the Time : Aware 3

Another prospect for Aware 3 - let me know what you think!

Passing the Time

Open spaces
banks of trees
rows of houses
playing fields
swollen rivers
fallen leaves
silver pylons
industry
busy tractors
sudden rain
steam the window
up again
cruising the tracks…
cruising the tracks…
cruising the tracks…
cruising the tracks…

Play some music
read a book
write a poem
do some work
bacon sandwich
cup of tea
watch the passing
scenery
watch a movie
play a game
things we do whilst
on the train
passing the time…
passing the time…
passing the time…
passing the time…

"Crackle and groan, shiver and moan"

Here is something that I had about 6 large stanzas of, and ended up distilling it down to this. It's part of the 'Home and Away' theme.

Crackle and groan, shiver and moan,
Shuffle of feet.

Explosion of colour, dynamic motion,
Rocking conceit.

All meaning crushed beneath shiny wheels,
Take me home

Critique piece for Aware 3

For the 'Home' bit. I'm still working on some other possibilities, but my heart's not been in it recently. This poem was written after looking out of the window on a day at work in Manchester.


A City under Construction

A bright flag flaps in the wind, and
above the sky is a grey sheet
pierced and clipped like a
giant paper snowflake.
Cranes punctuate the skyline,
exclaiming, hyphenating and
everywhere adding to the growing
mass of glass, and steel, and bricks
that redefine this city. Builders
congregate on the streets
with fat yellow hats
and no sense of urgency,
erecting barriers,
demolishing piecemeal.

The jackhammers’ relentless cry
rises above the traffic.

I miss the old city;
with its soft maternal glow,
its fallen arches, and wrinkled
pavements. There was always
warmth to be found amongst
the ramshackle streets,
and buildings that sagged
into a crooked smile.

But now that smile’s been fixed
beneath the surgeons knife,
and I shiver at the sight of it.

Critique piece : Your Love

Hi Guys,

Here's a piece for critique. This isn't for Aware 3, just something I've written. Let me know what you think:

Your Love

Your love was a needy child
that cried in my absence;
that waited by the door,
grabbed me by the leg
and wouldn’t let go.
I wasn’t ready to be a parent,
to wipe away your blood
and tears, suckle you
against my breast and
feel replete. I grew tired of
the endless games, the
repetition of nonsense words,
“I love you”, “I love you too” –
“I love you”, “I love you too”.
I sent you away to school.
Now my cries break,
the silence of the night,
and the darkness of the tomb.

Meeting 28th August 2007

Thanks to everyone who made it to the meeting last Tuesday, and thanks in particular to Peter for delivering an excellent workshop on the subject of research.

We are now looking for submissions for Aware 3. The theme this year is "Home and Away" , and I'll be really interested to see how this theme is interpreted! We're looking for short stories and articles (not exceeding 1500 words), as well as poems, short prose, flash fiction, whatever you feel like! Submissions should be e-mailed to Belinda, or you can e-mail them via chorley.writers@4tn.net. Please send submissions in by 24th September.

The next meeting is 25th September and will be a critique night. If you have any submissions for Aware 3 that you'd like to be included in the critique please ensure this is highlighted on the piece. Alternatively if you have any other items for critique you could either e-mail them to chorley.writers@4tn.net, or alternatively post them here.

Sucks In The City

(Short story that, for reasons explained elsewhere, has to include the following random word pairs and expression, namely: "axe lips, war stick, city hair, basket vampire, zip book, door vomit, pan party, banana lace, shelf buttock, nest beauty, specially for Carol.")

Karl was late.

Ironic, considering what they about to, and its emphasis on speed. Speed implied promptness. And Karl couldn’t even get here on time. Just to mock him, it seemed, were all the stainless steel and glass clocks on posts along the surreal pathway he’d just walked down, like a deleted scene from Alice Through The Looking Glass.

Darren Taylor adjusted his suit and checked he wasn’t getting pits under his arms in the warm summer evening. He had spent his day in shirt-sleeves in the air-conditioned offices of 1 Canada Square and now he would rather be relaxing in front of the TV, his shoes and tie off, with a can of beer and take-away. Instead, he was standing around outside the huge arched glass canopy of Canary Wharf DLR and Tube station, looking along the waters of Heron Quays and wishing he could go home.

Not that it was much of a home now. Not since Carol had left. But he’d sooner skip on the DLR and take the five short stops to the small flat he occupied in Mudchute, rather than carry out the frankly stressful undertaking Karl had suggested. Or insisted on, to be more accurate. "You’ll love it, man," he’d said. "I never miss it." Where the Devil was he?

Darren was within seconds of chucking the whole idea, when he heard Karl’s inimitable and somewhat irritating greeting. "DT! Sorry I’m late, buddy, but just had to clinch a final deal for the week-end. Nothing like making a small fortune to set you up for an evening out. How about yourself – close on anything good today?"

"I may I lost the company millions again – I don’t think I understand any of this business." Darren realised he was talking to himself – Karl was already setting off across the concourse towards their destination for the evening, The Merchant Banker on Grime Street, south of the Quays. That was the official name of the bar, but everyone who worked in Canary Wharf knew it as The Muck and Brass or simply Grimy’s. This was probably after someone had pointed out that "merchant banker" was rhyming slang for something else in the rest of London, especially to the indigenous residents of the East End, where the two city slickers worked.

Darren hurried to keep pace with Karl. "I’d rather have had a shower and changed before coming out," he said, struggling to keep up.

"Nonsense!" said Karl. "You want to catch everyone while there’ll still on a high from doing business."

"I don’t feel on much of a high."

Again Karl wasn’t listening. "Striking fast is the whole point of the battle, buddy. Knock ‘em off their feet before they’ve had time to have second thoughts."

"Battle?"

"Got your war stick ready?"

"What?" Darren was perplexed.

"Your killer chat-up line. Speed-dating is like going to war. You’ve got to make split-second decisions. It’s hard, it’s aggressive and you’ve got strike fast. Your war stick is a killer chat-up line in the dating battle – sticks the prey like a butterfly in a display case for you to enjoy at leisure."

"I thought we were going out to meet some girls, not to kill them."

"Of course not," said Karl. "Take a few prisoners perhaps. That’s why you need a good chat up line. You’ll learn, buddy. Might take you a bit of practice before you hit on one that suits you. Just don’t use the one I tried when I first started."

"What was that?"

"You won’t believe this." Karl suddenly halted and turned to face him, as if confessing to a long-redeemed misdemeanour. "I used to say, ‘Your eyes match my duvet.’ Nearly got me slung out of the place."

"It isn’t very subtle," said Darren.

Karl still appeared not to hear him. "No use at all," he nudged shoulders with Darren. "It’s speed-dating. You’ve got to be much more direct than that! Here we are." Karl took another step, then halted again, just outside the entrance of Grimy’s. "One last thing – door vomit."

"I beg your pardon?"

"If you’ve got any emotional baggage in your guts, buddy, chuck it up now and leave it at door."

"So best not to think about Carol."

"This is specially for Carol. After all, DT, she walked out on you. This is where you get your own back. You go in there with ‘rebound’ written all over your face like that, the lassies will spot it a mile away and never come near. Come on."

They plunged into the bar of gleaming glass and chrome, and vicious Budweiser neon. Darren sometimes wondered if the architects of Canary Wharf had simply forgotten the existence of dark timber and its calming grandeur. Perhaps he wasn’t a city slicker at all. Maybe he should be a labourer on a farm or something. Before he could speak, Karl had thrust a bottle of American beer in his hand when he’d far rather had had a pint of bitter. "I’ve already paid for our tickets. We’ve got about 15 minutes before the off, let the latecomers straggle in. Gives you time to loosen up and absorb the atmosphere."

"What atmosphere?"

"Just take a few deep breaths," said Karl – all too literal and missing the point. "Just about to meet someone – several someones in fact – that could be that special person – "

" – or persons – "

" or persons," Karl agreed, "in the rest of your life. Which is about to start now. Prepare to get cooking!"

"Cooking?"

"Cooking in Life’s Take-Away. The wok of human relationships – it’s stir-fry time in the pan party of pulling. Time to get sizzling. And, if you feel yourself losing your bottle – well, just buy another bottle, one for you and one for her, some tart-fuel or one of those huge great goblets of wine the size of a bucket. Of course, you may end up with a six-pinter at the end of the evening if you can’t see straight, but that’s all part of the game.

"You’re such a romantic."

"That’s my man. It’s a good idea to have some kind of game-plan – think of the sort of woman you want to go for. Don’t waste your time with anyone who’s not your sort."

"How do you tell which is which?"

"I’ll give you a run-down of the different species and how to spot them. City hair means a Power Girl working in the Square Mile or Canary Wharf – probably worth a few quid but she will expect you to be the same. Basket vampire – looks cute as a kitten but get her home and she’ll expect you as her new S.O. – that’s Significant Other – to be a meal ticket on the gravy train for life. When they’ve got something frilly and colourful showing above their business suit, that’s a spot of banana lace – one bit of female decoration on androgynous City clothing to suggest ‘I am a girlie, really.’ Though for goodness’ sake, don’t call her that or she’ll freeze your assets off in a flash. Beware axe lips also. Not to be confused with ‘wax lips.’ They look DDG – "

"Drop dead gorgeous?"

"You’re getting the hang of it – and as kissable as they come, but you disappoint one of them…

"And they’ll chop you down with a sentence."

"With a word, buddy, with a word. Lastly, look out for the nest beauty. Pretty as a picture, but all they want to do is set up home somewhere – have you picking out fabrics and deciding on colour schemes before you can say ‘Where’s my slippers?’ Unless that’s your type, of course…" Karl let the statement hang in the air like a question. However, Darren refused to speak. "Sometimes wondered if that’s what you thought Carol might become."

"Really?" Darren was surprised.

"Never would have happened with Carol, though, DT."

"Why not?"

"She was a Power Girl, if I’m any judge. If you thought she was the settling-down-and-having-a-quiet-life-type then you were pretty much mistake."

"I never really thought about…" Darren trailed off. Maybe he had got Carol wrong. After all, she had left him, for some reason. But, on the other hand, if Karl was right, maybe he would have one day wanted to leave her. The high life didn’t really seem to be his thing.

"Ready for the off?" said Karl.

"Ready as I’ll ever be."

"OK, here’s the rules. Here’s your ticket. This let’s you into the Enterprise Lounge. When the hooter goes, you’ve got five minutes. Go and talk to the nearest available female and see how you go. It’s alright to take notes, because by the end of the evening, the faces may have become a bit of a blur. She’ll be doing the same, probably, or putting you in her zip book – that’s her PDA –"

"Personal Digital Assistant?"

"That’s right. Probably a Blackberry or something similar. Replaces the old ‘little black book.’ You want to get your mobile number and email address in there as fast as you can. Likewise, you want to get her contact details – assuming you’re interested – and mark how attractive she is as you go."

"Why don’t I just give her marks out of ten?" Darren remarked, dryly.

"Excellent! That’s what I do. Then at the end of five minutes, the hooter goes and you move on to the next filly, and so on. By the end of the evening, you see how many you’ve got, rank them in order and start giving ‘em calls over the week-end."

"Wonderful."

"If we cross paths as we circulate, we can have a quick check on numbers." Karl nudged Darren’s shoulder. "Just hope we don’t go for the same ones, eh?" At that moment the hooter sounded. "Here we go! Catch you on the other side."

Darren had to tackle his demons. The demons of shyness, self-doubt and simply not knowing what he was doing. What was the killer line he was supposed to come out with? A lady with city hair approached him. Therefore he had to speak.

"Hello."

"Hello"

(Going well.)

"Your eyes match…" He broke off. This was not going well.

"Of course they match, you rude little sod! How dare you!"

The blonde goose-stepped off. No wonder they called it speed-dating. From his first seeing her to her disappearing forever had taken eleven seconds. He needed another drink. At the bar, a raven-headed woman was ordering "a JD straight up, large."

"I’ll have the same," he called over her shoulder. She turned to see who had attached himself to her order, with a slight pout. "I see you like a stiff one," he said. Her expression withered to disgust. Four seconds.

Darren stood, pulling on his drink, feeling like a spare groom at a wedding, trying to spot any other female singleton he could approach, while waiting for the hooter that would toss the ingredients of the people-wok into the air again. Karl cantered past, pursing some brunette who, to Darren, appeared to be trying to put as much distance between herself and Karl as possible. "Isn’t this great fun, DT?" he yapped. "I’ve got two numbers already!"

"Bully for you," thought Darren.

By the half-hour mark, he had interlaced eight meetings with eight drinks orders. Things had only got worse as he tried to remember Karl’s patois of the dating scene. At one point, Karl hove into view, and Darren would have asked him for a little more advice. Instead, he got an idiot grin from Karl as he held up his outstretched hand to indicate the number, five, as he scuttled off in pursuit of some other lady. Darren had tried opening with compliments, which had been OK if a little predictable at first, but as the alcohol took its effect, he had started to come out with comments such as "you have banana lips," "I like your hair nest," had invited one to an axe party, called another girl a zip vampire and described yet another to herself as a war beauty with a face like a pan.

"I’m no good at this, am I?" He slurred wearily to a rather shapeless female, one of the few still left, and for whom the choice of a jacket in houndstooth check had not been well-considered.

"Talking or standing?" she remarked. "You seem to be having trouble with both."

"What’s the secret of chatting someone up?"

"If I told you, one of us would have to die." This was her valedictory remark.

At last, the final hooter-blast of the evening sounded, a voice over the PA announced the speed-date session was ended, and invited to people to relax. To help with relaxation, I Predict A Riot started blasting out from speakers in every corner. Darren screamed an order of another JD from the barman and slumped disconsolately on a bench. He had just about completed feeling totally sorry for himself when Karl showed up, Budweiser in one hand, and pen and notepad in the other. "What a great evening, eh?" he bellowed, so close to the side of Darren’s head that his voice made Darren’s ears ring. It was necessary as Karl was in competition with Hard Fi wailing out Cash Machine. "You stay sat on the sidelines much longer you’re going to suffer from shelf buttock!"

"So you got lots of dates," Darren yelled.

"Loads!" Karl yelled back. "A great evening!"

"So you keep saying."

"What?!"

"I said, I’m very pleased for you. I didn’t get any!"

Karl took this in. "What, none at all?"

"None at all."

Karl abruptly slumped in an echo of Darren’s posture. "I’ve got a confession to make."

"Yes?" Darren wasn’t really interested.

"I’ve had a rotten night."

"What?"

"Rotten. I got none, too. Not a one."

"None at all?"

"None. Nix. Niente, nada, null points. Zero, zilch, the leather medal, the wooden spoon – "

"I understood you at ‘none.’"

"This was supposed to be a brilliant evening for both of us. A brilliant end to a brilliant week. Do you want to know something else? I didn’t close a big deal this afternoon. I haven’t closed a brilliant deal all week. In fact, not for a number of weeks…"

Darren hated to see a grown man cry. Even if it was Karl. And he was just about a grown man. "Never mind, Karl," he said. "I’ve got a great idea where we can go and have a good evening."



They slumped down in front of Darren’s TV to watch a Cheers marathon on UK Gold, battered cod, chips and curry sauce steaming in their laps. Darren yawned and rubbed his face with both his hands trying to clear away the images of the evening. "That was the worst best time I ever had."

"I can’t argue with that, buddy."

"You know," said Darren, surprised that Karl had heard him through his fingers, "I think I’ve decided. I’m going to pack in my job, first thing Monday, sell this place and move to the country. Maybe live on a farm in south Wales. Property’s cheap there."

"Now that is speedy decision-making," said Karl. Darren waited for Karl to give some half-wit reason why he couldn’t leave the city and become a country boy. But he didn’t. "Darren?…" Karl said slowly.

"Yes, Karl?"

Karl propped his head up on one hand, unwittingly plonking his elbow in his curry sauce.

"Do you think I could come too?"

The End.

24th July Writing Burst!

Thanks to everyone who turned up for the Writing Burst last week. I think it's safe to say that it was a lot of fun, though producing something half decent under that sort of time pressure is a bit of a challenge! A warm welcome to Heather Richardson who joined us for the first time, and who has also successfully posted to the blog already!

We did some interesting exercises, I particularly enjoyed the 'object' exercise, where we had to write something inspired by the various objects brought in. We had an interesting array of inspirational devices including a dalek wine stopper, a home-made bookmark, a very funky mini-tool kit, a pocket compass, a card from sorrento, lip gloss, amongst other things. I have a poem I'm polishing up thanks to that exercise, which I'll hopefully share with you later in the week.

We followed up with an exercise from a fantastic book that Heather brought in, which involved filling in the blank in the following sentence:

"Seven days ago -------- now nobody will talk to me!"

Which generated some interesting responses!

The final exercise involved taking a piece of paper and folding it in two. On one side of the paper one person wrote 10 nouns in a row down the page. The paper was then passed over to another person, folded so you couldn't see the original list, and the second person wrote another set of 10 nouns in a row down the page. The paper was then opened out so the word combinations could be seen. The exercise then requires that you attempt to write something using the word combinations. So, we thought it'd be a great idea to throw some of these combinations out to the group and see what you do with them! There were five of us there, so I've picked one from each sheet, with a few bonus one's thrown in, because we really liked them! See what you can do with the following, and post the results on the site!

axe lips
door vomit
war stick
pan party
city hair
banana lace
basket vampire
shelf buttock
zip book
nest beauty (specially for Carol!)

Have fun, and I look forward to seeing the results!

Next meeting is on 28th August.

First Effort from a Blogging Virgin

Being a bit of a technophobe I'm too sure if I doing this properly ..... but hey ho !!!
Here's my first contribution to the blog !

Beetle

There’s a beetle on the window.
He’s lying on his back.
All six legs pointing skywards
Are looking rather slack.

And in the gentle draft
His shell rocks fro and to.
The creature isn’t breathing
Like living beetles do.

Meeting tomorrow

Just a reminder to everyone that the next meeting is tomorrow evening at 7:30pm. Don't forget it's a writing burst so please come prepared to write!
See you all then.

Where Is The River Chor?

I come from Chorley, a place of renown
For very little, it’s a sleepy old town
It has a street market and a couple of gas tanks
And quite a few pubs and one or two banks
Now I’ve searched ev’rywhere both here and around
In back-streets and parkland, even underground
It’s named from a river that no-one has found
Where is the river in old Chorley town?

It’s quite a conundrum when you’re in Astley Park
There’s fields and there’s trees but of water no mark
I’ve gone up the hills and I’ve come down the valleys
Marched up the high roads and crept down the alleys
I’ve stopped and asked questions till I have to be muzzled
But even when silent I’m still really puzzled
I’ve sat there in silence with my throat really sore
From asking in Chorley where is the River Chor?

They tell the town’s name comes from where it stands
In meadows by a stream with its own river strands
Now I’ve wandered and searched and I’ve given my best
To find the answer to my humble quest
Even in Székesfehérvár, our Hungarian twin town
Till repeating myself is just getting me down
So will someone please tell me, I’m getting a bore
Where the flippin’ ‘eck in Chorley is the flippin’ River Chor?

The place had some factories but they’ve all closed down
Replaced by brick boxes of a dormitory town
(If you want somewhere to burn, loot and pillage
You couldn’t do much better than that damn Buckshaw Village!)
And in the far past there were pits underground
But never will you hear a brook’s babbling sound
Can someone please tell me as the point’s pressing sorely
Where’s there a river flowing through township Chorley?

Now I’m getting weary and I want me some peace
But it seems that my query, it never will cease
I think of the Amazon, the Thames and the Nile
But mention the Chor and I just wryly smile
I’ve searched and I’ve searched till my time’s nearly done
But if I go to heaven I’ll ask the Great One
As I am going through St Peter’s great door
Where in God’s name in Chorley is God’s River Chor?

The Bridge On The River Chor

Some more success!

Hi all, again! Just to let you know I've had my first publishing success - I've had a poem accepted for publication in Decanto magazine. It won't be published until June 2008 but it's officially my first proper success. The poem is called 'When he was gone' - watch out for it.

Champagne corks will be popping tonight in my house!

Poems Online

Just to let you know that Sam Smith has selected some of my poems for his Select Six page. To view them go to the address below:

http://www.bewrite.net/select_six.htm

Chemical Dreams

I recently entered an online competition in which you had to produce a poem to a set form. The form was a varient on the sestina, abridged to make it more manageable for the competition, and I guess you'll have to trust that I managed to stick to the form. Anyway I found out this morning that I won! Granted, I think there were only about 7 entries but all the same.....

Feeling happy and the need to inflict my very minor success on you all - hope you like it!

Chemical Dreams

I fall awake from chemical dreams
absorbing the sleepy light of day;
knowing that all is not as it seems,
wondering whether I’m here to stay.

I have a strange feeling about this day
the light is heavier than it seems.
The gathering clouds are here to stay;
billowing darkly around my dreams.

Time passes slowly, or so it seems,
a wandering moment is here to stay;
settling softly within my dreams,
breathing the warmth of a summers day.

So deep in this moment I will stay
buried within my chemical dreams.
No more to seek the cold light of day,
wishing that life was more than it seems.

I Wish I Was a Robot

Soft as a whisper, naked, unprotected,

Fragile and frail, flimsy and faint,

Exposed and helpless, unsure and empty,

Weak, indefensible, hollow restraint.

A tearing, a rending, breaching this thin shell,

That punctures, perforates, then ruptures and breaks,

First piercing then leaking, bending and riv-ing,

Then failing and dying, death and decay.

The Writing Room

The Writing Room

Hugh stopped the car at the top of the hill above Massingham House, once the home of Arthur Cray, poet, philosopher and man of letters. Cray was long dead and the house now inhabited by two great-nieces who had made it a shrine to Cray's memory with the intent to open it to the public as a 'literary heritage resource'.

He picked up his binoculars, surveyed the building and made a few notes about the setting. He sighed as he thought of the task before him, then drove slowly to his appointment.

The younger sister, Enid, answered the door. Hugh extended his hand for her to shake but she grabbed it and pulled him into the house trilling ''Mavis, it's the man from the BBC.''

Hugh extracted his hand and offered it to Mavis. ''Actually I'm a freelance broadcast journalist.'''

Mavis shook hands enthusiastically. 'So good of you to take an interest in our literary heritage project. Now what can I offer you? We have a very nice claret or is a gin and tonic more your line?''

''A cup of tea would be just fine, thank you.''

Mavis poured herself a large measure of whisky. "I'll put the kettle on in a moment."

Enid slid her arm through Hugh's. "You must see the writing room first. It's central to the whole project."

Hugh allowed himself to be led up a spacious staircase to the first floor. Enid threw open a door. "We've worked so hard on restoring this room, especially the panelling, and you're the first to see it.'

Hugh looked around puzzled. Little tallied with his research. He cleared his throat. "Is this the original room? It seems, well, rather larger than I expected."

Mavis smiled. "My dear, we've just extended it a little. Arthur's room was so cramped, you couldn't fit more than two people in it. No good at all for the visiting public."

Enid gestured enthusiastically. "We knocked down the adjoining wall, then transferred the panelling from a bedroom. It's now the way Arthur would have wanted it."

Hugh opened his notebook. "I see."

Mavis leaned towards him. "Arthur had a vision for this house and we have done our best to realise it."

"And was this vision recorded anywhere? In the diaries for example?"

Enid blushed. "We believe it was in a letter that got lost, but Grandmother told us all about Arthur's ideas."

Mavis gripped Hugh's arm. "It's oral history passed down the generations."

Hugh hastily made some notes. Mavis peered over his shoulder. "Show me what you are writing, young man."

Hugh proffered the notebook.

"I can't read shorthand."

"Well I'll translate. The writing room, central to the whole project, is beautifully panelled in carved oak. Cray's desk has the original inkwell and blotter."

Mavis beamed. "Now let's show you the restorations we've made to the reception rooms. It's all been done according to Arthur's vision."

Three months later, the sisters invited a select group of village worthies to listen to the radio broadcast on Massingham House in the series 'Literary Tours of England'. Enid ushered the guests into the drawing room and Mavis graciously distributed sherry.

A hush fell as Hugh's sonorous tones filled the room. "Visitors to Massingham House are advised to first consult Featherstone's 1935 guide to the area, for the illustrations are the only way to gain some impression of the original interiors. The building has been over-restored to the point one wonders if this is the same house at all. The famous writing room is the worst affected, being enlarged solely to accommodate visitors….."

Mavis leaped up and switched off the set. There was an embarrassed silence, then Enid spoke. "It's your fault Mavis. You never did make him that cup of tea."

Margot Agnew

Meeting 26th June 2007

Thanks to everyone who attended the Critique night last night. May I extend particular thanks to Alan Gaskell, our newest member, who has also been instrumental in setting up this site. Thank you Alan, and welcome to the group.

For those who were unable to attend, minutes will be circulated as normal but here's a brief overview of what was discussed:

Website / Promotion - welcome to the website! Here it is, and it will be what we make of it. Please feel free to contribute, tell your friends, your relatives, post it up on every lamp post! In addition to the website we're looking to put together some posters, nothing fancy but something we can post up in the local libraries and the like, to try and highlight our presence to any budding writers out there. If anyone would like to have a go, or would like to assist in any way in promoting the group please let me or Carol know. In addition, we are looking to liaise with Runshaw College, who will be running an advanced writing course this year.
Critiques - thank you to everyone who submitted work for critique, and to those providing support and advice.

Next meeting - the next meeting is on 24th July and is a Writing Burst night. Please come along ready to write! If everyone who attends could bring with them a suggested prompt this will give us a bit more variety to work from, whether it be an opening line, a theme, a photograph or magazine article - whatever you can think of! Thanks and see you all then. Bii

Welcome to The Chorley and District Writers Circle.

We are a collection of like-minded individuals who share a passion for writing. Meeting once a month, we have members with varying writing specialities.

If you are interested in what we do please e-mail Belinda Farrell.