AWARE MAGAZINE FOR SALE
Please contact Heather Richardson
if you would like to purchase copies of AWARE
Price £2.99 (+P&P)
Sunday 14 December 2008
CADWC Inaugural Writing Competition 2008
The Winner was John Yeadon, from Adlington, for his story Flight EW321. He was presented with £50 and a copy of AWARE.
The runner-up prize of £25 was presented to our very own Nicky J Poole, from Coppull, with Small Sacrifices.
The winners were chosen by the author Cath Staincliffe, who praised the winners and all five short-listed entrants, saying it had been a difficult decision and that the standard of writing was very high.
All five stories are published in this year's AWARE magazine - Please contact Heather Richardson if you would like to purchase a copy.
1st Prize Winner John Yeadon
Nicky J Poole receives his prize from Cath Staincliffe
Sunday 7 December 2008
Waxwing melting from my sight
Having heard that waxwing have been seen all week in a local tree all week, I finally got some daylight time to go myself yesterday -no berries, no birds. I should have been there yesterday...But not to worry, 40 were seen in Preston yesterday, so I went there today - to find only bare rowan stalks.... Ah well.
Thanks to Rick Spencer of Chorley NATS for this photo - he did get to Chorley tree in time.
I wonder what the chances are of getting a mature rowan in the garden for Christmas...?
Saturday 6 December 2008
I AM by Carole Hatch
This is a poem by new member Carole Hatch......
.....about a voyage of discovery or enlightenment
I Am
Black the silent sorrows,
the heavy cloak of care,
holds the dark world captive
unmoving, ties it there.
Tired, heart despairing,
lost in emdless night.
Resigned to ever failing,
has given up the fight.
The fluttering of frantic wings
that beat towards the sky.
the howling of a hundred winds
that cause the leaves to fly.
the panic flight of hunted things
that flee from suns first light.
the thought that looks the world about
and seeks a foe to fight.
Confusion, undecided
turning this way and that.
running in a circle
who knows to which from what.
Morings first light,
the dawn of understanding
clear and unshadowed life,
peacefull; undemanding.
Still, so still the soul.
how clear the brilliant certainty.
the hear, the now, the moment.
to reachout and touch eternity.
No more the shadows clad in robes,
for kings to praise or beggars damn,
will dim the light that gives me heart
at last to say - I Am.
.....about a voyage of discovery or enlightenment
I Am
Black the silent sorrows,
the heavy cloak of care,
holds the dark world captive
unmoving, ties it there.
Tired, heart despairing,
lost in emdless night.
Resigned to ever failing,
has given up the fight.
The fluttering of frantic wings
that beat towards the sky.
the howling of a hundred winds
that cause the leaves to fly.
the panic flight of hunted things
that flee from suns first light.
the thought that looks the world about
and seeks a foe to fight.
Confusion, undecided
turning this way and that.
running in a circle
who knows to which from what.
Morings first light,
the dawn of understanding
clear and unshadowed life,
peacefull; undemanding.
Still, so still the soul.
how clear the brilliant certainty.
the hear, the now, the moment.
to reachout and touch eternity.
No more the shadows clad in robes,
for kings to praise or beggars damn,
will dim the light that gives me heart
at last to say - I Am.
Wednesday 26 November 2008
AWARE MAGAZINE LAUNCH
THIS YEAR'S AWARE MAGAZINE IS TO BE LAUNCHED AT 'THE HARTWOOD' PUB, Nr CHORLEY HOSPITAL
TV Scriptwriter and Novelist Cath Staincliffe will be the guest speaker.
Cath will also be announcing the winners of our inaugural Writing Competition
3rd DECEMBER @ 7pm
FREE ADMISSION
TV Scriptwriter and Novelist Cath Staincliffe will be the guest speaker.
Cath will also be announcing the winners of our inaugural Writing Competition
3rd DECEMBER @ 7pm
FREE ADMISSION
Tuesday 18 November 2008
And now for some real poetry...
from a possible future member of Chorley Writers'?
The Blustering Wind
Who has seen the wind?
Blowing down the trees
Leaves blowing down the street
Water jumping up and down
and gates flying open and closed.
Who has heard the wind?
Rustling through the leaves
The wind howls like a wolf
and crashes through the trees.
Balls blowing away from children
Birthday cards blowing out of windows
Models blow off window-sills
and break in pieces on the floor.
This is my son's first poem which he wrote as part of a school project on the subject of 'wind'. He is 8.
The Blustering Wind
Who has seen the wind?
Blowing down the trees
Leaves blowing down the street
Water jumping up and down
and gates flying open and closed.
Who has heard the wind?
Rustling through the leaves
The wind howls like a wolf
and crashes through the trees.
Balls blowing away from children
Birthday cards blowing out of windows
Models blow off window-sills
and break in pieces on the floor.
This is my son's first poem which he wrote as part of a school project on the subject of 'wind'. He is 8.
Saturday 15 November 2008
Losing the plot?...
Hello everyone!
So, I think I must need my head testing! Having just spent two days in Oxfordshire on work business, still chipping away at my 50,000 words - a journey which has dipped my toe in religion, and immersed me in an investigation into existentialism, trying to write some poems now and then, I think, officially, I have bitten off more than I can chew! In need of a bit of light relief I thought I'd blog here and say, THANKS! To everyone who commented about my recent success. I'm not sure whether I'm okay to post the poem or not so I'll keep hold of it for the moment. Instead, and as Heather bullied me (just kidding !) I'll post my Villanelle from the recent, and very fun, poetry night:
Missing
Please help me, have you seen my son?
He was right here only a second ago.
I turned for just a moment and he was gone.
We were on our way to the park for some fun
I had him by the hand, and he let go.
Please help me, have you seen my son?
It’s all my fault, oh what have I done?
My boy, he’s only 4 years old you know,
I turned for just a moment and he was gone.
He was wearing trousers with pockets on the knee,
and a t-shirt egg yolk yellow.
Please help me, have you seen my son?
He’d asked me if it was okay to run
I said not to wander, I told him so.
I turned for just a moment and he was gone
Has anyone seen him, please help me, anyone?
No wait…excuse me…are you listening, hello?
Please help me, have you seen my son?
I turned for just a moment and he was gone.
And I think, can I also say officially THANKS! to Heather for organising the poetry night. It was a really fun night, despite the wrist-slitting depressiveness of the poetry! And my son is learning about poetry at school at the moment so we dug out his Spike Milligan book and had some laughs at home too!
Look forward to seeing you all at the launch night.
So, I think I must need my head testing! Having just spent two days in Oxfordshire on work business, still chipping away at my 50,000 words - a journey which has dipped my toe in religion, and immersed me in an investigation into existentialism, trying to write some poems now and then, I think, officially, I have bitten off more than I can chew! In need of a bit of light relief I thought I'd blog here and say, THANKS! To everyone who commented about my recent success. I'm not sure whether I'm okay to post the poem or not so I'll keep hold of it for the moment. Instead, and as Heather bullied me (just kidding !) I'll post my Villanelle from the recent, and very fun, poetry night:
Missing
Please help me, have you seen my son?
He was right here only a second ago.
I turned for just a moment and he was gone.
We were on our way to the park for some fun
I had him by the hand, and he let go.
Please help me, have you seen my son?
It’s all my fault, oh what have I done?
My boy, he’s only 4 years old you know,
I turned for just a moment and he was gone.
He was wearing trousers with pockets on the knee,
and a t-shirt egg yolk yellow.
Please help me, have you seen my son?
He’d asked me if it was okay to run
I said not to wander, I told him so.
I turned for just a moment and he was gone
Has anyone seen him, please help me, anyone?
No wait…excuse me…are you listening, hello?
Please help me, have you seen my son?
I turned for just a moment and he was gone.
And I think, can I also say officially THANKS! to Heather for organising the poetry night. It was a really fun night, despite the wrist-slitting depressiveness of the poetry! And my son is learning about poetry at school at the moment so we dug out his Spike Milligan book and had some laughs at home too!
Look forward to seeing you all at the launch night.
Saturday 8 November 2008
PoemA Day for November
A bit late but not too late to catch up. Robert Lee Brewer is issuing a poem a day challenge with a view to recreating a chapbook. Each day he issues a different writing challenge towards completing the collection. So if you need some motivation and inspiration check it out:
http://blog.writersdigest.com
http://blog.writersdigest.com
Good news everyone...
to use my best Futurama voice!
Anyways, once upon a time I mentioned that I don't really do competitions, and it's true but then every now and again I have delusions of grandeur and enter. So when Carol kindly circulated details of the Pennine Ink Poetry Competition I decided to enter my poem It is not dark.
And guess what?
I came second! Yippeeee!
I've never been placed in a competition before so this is a real milestone for me. Thanks to Pennine Ink for showing some faith in my writing, and to Carol too for circulating the details in the first place.
See, already practicing my Oscar speech!
Anyways, once upon a time I mentioned that I don't really do competitions, and it's true but then every now and again I have delusions of grandeur and enter. So when Carol kindly circulated details of the Pennine Ink Poetry Competition I decided to enter my poem It is not dark.
And guess what?
I came second! Yippeeee!
I've never been placed in a competition before so this is a real milestone for me. Thanks to Pennine Ink for showing some faith in my writing, and to Carol too for circulating the details in the first place.
See, already practicing my Oscar speech!
Sunday 2 November 2008
National Novel Writing Month
November 1st marks the beginning of National Novel Writing Month; a month in which published and unpublished writers attempt to write a 175 page (50,000 word) novel in 30 days. Details of the event here: http://www.nanowrimo.org/eng/whatisnano
Anyone fancy signing up?
Anyone fancy signing up?
Monday 6 October 2008
AWARE MAGAZINE & COMPETITION
This year's AWARE magazine will feature Chorley Writers' first ever short-story competition which is on the theme of 'Flight' (1000 words or less).
The competition is open to anyone living or working in the PR postcode area.
The entry fee for CADWC members is £2 (£3 for non-members)
The closing date is 24th October 2008.
PRIZES: The winner will receive £50 and there is a £25 second prize.
Shortlisted entries will be read out on the launch night by acclaimed novelist and script-writer Cath Staincliffe
Entries need to be emailed to Dea@compedge.net
or posted to: Dea Parkin, Aware Competition, 3 Dale View, Chorley PR7 3QJ
Competition entries will only be considered once the entry fee has been received.
Please make cheques payable to Chorley & District Writers’ Circle.
Thursday 2 October 2008
Catch 22 'flies in my eyes'!
At the recent workshop on the subject of 'flight', Dea kindly shared with us the story of the man who recently crossed the Channel using only a jet pack. He talked about the 'bees in the body' telling him when it was the right time to fly and, quite naturally, this got me to thinking about the most excellent book Catch 22 by Joseph Heller and the passage in which Appleby has 'flies in his eyes'. Of course mentioning this at the meeting might have lead a few people to believe that I'd gone slightly mad (which is quite probable) but to prove my dubious sanity I thought I'd share this passage with you. If you haven't read it, it is a brilliant book.
Here's the passage:
"Yossarian saw it clearly in all its spinning reasonableness. There was an elliptical precision about its perfect pairs of parts that was graceful and shocking, like good modern art, and at times Yossarian wasn’t quite sure that he saw it at all, just the way he was never quite sure about good modern art or about the flies Orr saw in Appleby’s eyes. He had Orr’s word to take for the flies in Appleby’s eyes.
‘Oh, they’re there, all right,’ Orr had assured him about the flies in Appleby’s eyes after Yossarian’s fist fight with Appleby in the officers’ club, ‘although he probably doesn’t even know it. That’s why he can’t see things as they really are.’
‘How come he doesn’t know it?’ inquired Yossarian.
‘Because he’s got flies in his eyes,’ Orr explained with exaggerated patience. ‘How can he see he’s got flies in his eyes if he’s got flies in his eyes?’
It made as much sense as anything else, and Yossarian was willing to give Orr the benefit of the doubt because Orr was from the wilderness outside New York City and knew so much more about wildlife than Yossarian did, and because Orr, unlike Yossarian’s other, father, sister, brother, aunt, uncle, in-law, teacher, spiritual leader, legislator, neighbour and newspaper, had never lied to him about anything crucial before. Yossarian had mulled over his new found knowledge about Appleby over in private for a day or two and then decided, as a good deed, to pass the word along to Appleby himself.
‘Appleby, you’ve got flies in your eyes,’ he whispered helpfully as they passed each other in the doorway of the parachute tent on the day of the weekly milk run to Parma.
‘What?’ Appleby responded sharply, thrown into confusion by the fact that Yossarian had spoken to him at all.
‘You’ve got flies in your eyes,’ Yossarian repeated. ‘That’s probably why you can’t see them.’
Appleby retreated from Yossarian with a look of loathing bewilderment and sulked in silence until he was in the jeep with Havermeyer riding down the long, straight road to the briefing room, where Major Danby, the fidgeting group operations officer, was waiting to conduct the preliminary briefing with all the lead pilots, bombardiers and navigators. Appleby spoke in a soft voice so that he would not be heard by the driver or by Captain Black, who was stretched out with his eyes closed in the front seat of the jeep.
‘Havermeyer,’ he asked hesitantly. ‘Have I got flies in my eyes?’
Havermeyer blinked quizzically. ‘Sties?’ he asked.
‘No, flies’ he was told
Havermeyer blinked again. ‘Flies?’
‘In my eyes.’
‘You must be crazy,’ Havermeyer said
‘No, I’m not crazy. Yossarian’s crazy. Just tell me if I’ve got flies in my eyes or not. Go ahead. I can take it.’
Havermeyer popped another piece of peanut brittle into his mouth and peered very closely into Appleby’s eyes.
‘I don’t see any,’ he announced.
Appleby heaved an immense sigh of relief. Havermeyer had tiny bits of peanut brittle adhering to his lips, chin and cheeks.
‘You’ve got peanut brittle crumbs on your face,’ Appleby remarked to him.
‘I’d rather have peanut brittle crumbs on my face than flies in my eyes,’ Havermeyer retorted. "
Here's the passage:
"Yossarian saw it clearly in all its spinning reasonableness. There was an elliptical precision about its perfect pairs of parts that was graceful and shocking, like good modern art, and at times Yossarian wasn’t quite sure that he saw it at all, just the way he was never quite sure about good modern art or about the flies Orr saw in Appleby’s eyes. He had Orr’s word to take for the flies in Appleby’s eyes.
‘Oh, they’re there, all right,’ Orr had assured him about the flies in Appleby’s eyes after Yossarian’s fist fight with Appleby in the officers’ club, ‘although he probably doesn’t even know it. That’s why he can’t see things as they really are.’
‘How come he doesn’t know it?’ inquired Yossarian.
‘Because he’s got flies in his eyes,’ Orr explained with exaggerated patience. ‘How can he see he’s got flies in his eyes if he’s got flies in his eyes?’
It made as much sense as anything else, and Yossarian was willing to give Orr the benefit of the doubt because Orr was from the wilderness outside New York City and knew so much more about wildlife than Yossarian did, and because Orr, unlike Yossarian’s other, father, sister, brother, aunt, uncle, in-law, teacher, spiritual leader, legislator, neighbour and newspaper, had never lied to him about anything crucial before. Yossarian had mulled over his new found knowledge about Appleby over in private for a day or two and then decided, as a good deed, to pass the word along to Appleby himself.
‘Appleby, you’ve got flies in your eyes,’ he whispered helpfully as they passed each other in the doorway of the parachute tent on the day of the weekly milk run to Parma.
‘What?’ Appleby responded sharply, thrown into confusion by the fact that Yossarian had spoken to him at all.
‘You’ve got flies in your eyes,’ Yossarian repeated. ‘That’s probably why you can’t see them.’
Appleby retreated from Yossarian with a look of loathing bewilderment and sulked in silence until he was in the jeep with Havermeyer riding down the long, straight road to the briefing room, where Major Danby, the fidgeting group operations officer, was waiting to conduct the preliminary briefing with all the lead pilots, bombardiers and navigators. Appleby spoke in a soft voice so that he would not be heard by the driver or by Captain Black, who was stretched out with his eyes closed in the front seat of the jeep.
‘Havermeyer,’ he asked hesitantly. ‘Have I got flies in my eyes?’
Havermeyer blinked quizzically. ‘Sties?’ he asked.
‘No, flies’ he was told
Havermeyer blinked again. ‘Flies?’
‘In my eyes.’
‘You must be crazy,’ Havermeyer said
‘No, I’m not crazy. Yossarian’s crazy. Just tell me if I’ve got flies in my eyes or not. Go ahead. I can take it.’
Havermeyer popped another piece of peanut brittle into his mouth and peered very closely into Appleby’s eyes.
‘I don’t see any,’ he announced.
Appleby heaved an immense sigh of relief. Havermeyer had tiny bits of peanut brittle adhering to his lips, chin and cheeks.
‘You’ve got peanut brittle crumbs on your face,’ Appleby remarked to him.
‘I’d rather have peanut brittle crumbs on my face than flies in my eyes,’ Havermeyer retorted. "
Sunday 21 September 2008
Litany
Hello all,
Recently I entered an online poetry 'form' competition, a bit of fun, where everyone had to write a Litany, which is a poem, almost like a prayer, where the first word or first few words are repeated on every line. Anyway, I WON!!! And as winner I have the pleasure of selecting the next form and judging the competition. If anyone is interested the website is www.online-literature.com/forums and it's a nice site with a reading section, a writing section, and a general section, and they have blogs too!
Anyway, here is the poem:
Swallow
I swallow the kiss of a secret lover.
I swallow the hand reaching out for another.
I swallow the joy from a toddler’s smile.
I swallow the watch with the broken dial.
I swallow the dreams of a newlywed bride.
I swallow the memories from a dying man’s eyes.
I swallow the hope of a new generation.
I swallow the pause in a long conversation.
I swallow the what, the how, and the why.
I swallow the stars from a crisp autumn sky.
I swallow the essence of a good man’s soul.
I swallow the Earth then spit it out again, whole.
Recently I entered an online poetry 'form' competition, a bit of fun, where everyone had to write a Litany, which is a poem, almost like a prayer, where the first word or first few words are repeated on every line. Anyway, I WON!!! And as winner I have the pleasure of selecting the next form and judging the competition. If anyone is interested the website is www.online-literature.com/forums and it's a nice site with a reading section, a writing section, and a general section, and they have blogs too!
Anyway, here is the poem:
Swallow
I swallow the kiss of a secret lover.
I swallow the hand reaching out for another.
I swallow the joy from a toddler’s smile.
I swallow the watch with the broken dial.
I swallow the dreams of a newlywed bride.
I swallow the memories from a dying man’s eyes.
I swallow the hope of a new generation.
I swallow the pause in a long conversation.
I swallow the what, the how, and the why.
I swallow the stars from a crisp autumn sky.
I swallow the essence of a good man’s soul.
I swallow the Earth then spit it out again, whole.
Thursday 4 September 2008
Beware of gifts
(In response to a total absence of reaction to the previous script I posted, here is a sequel scene. As you can see, things get jolly exciting. There are two points of information I would like to add about these scripts - firstly, the story of which they form part was worked out before the scripts were written. Secondly, though each script runs to about a single page (before formatting as a script) I wrote several pages describing to myself the two characters, they relationship to each other and to other charcters not present, ie their parents, their objectives, and, of course, their inside leg measurements. In short, I had a very concrete idea of who these people were and what they were up to before making up a word of dialogue. Only my failing to have actually visited Bosnia prevents me from having a full picture of where they are and what it is like - and I have a relative who has been to this sunny clime I can chat to should I wish to take this story further. Comments, as always, be they ever so hurtful, are welcome. Meanwhile, has anybody else got a script they want to share?)
GRACE: What are you doing back here?
ANDY: We gotta go.
GRACE: Go? Go where?
ANDY: Leave. Leave now!
GRACE: Leave the flat?
ANDY: The flat. The town. This country.
GRACE: Leave Bosnia?
ANDY: At last! I’m getting through.
GRACE: We came here to do a job.
ANDY: And I’ve screwed it up.
GRACE: Why? How?
ANDY: We haven’t time for this.
GRACE: Andy, you’re not making sense.
ANDY: I went to see Voislav.
GRACE: I know – the biggest sex trafficker here.
ANDY: He paid me to see the girl.
GRACE: Aldina? The pregnant girl?
ANDY: He made me talk her into going.
GRACE: So? Is your conscience bothering you?
ANDY: Apparently!
GRACE: What happened?
ANDY: He gave me money… and a gift.
GRACE: What sort of gift?
ANDY: A gun. A pistol.
GRACE: Something for the man who has everything.
ANDY: Then I thought, “I hate this monster.”
GRACE: And?
ANDY: And I shot him.
GRACE: You did what!?
ANDY: I shot him.
GRACE: You twit! You bastard!
ANDY: I know. I just – just lost it.
GRACE: We’re trying to stop a sex trafficker…
ANDY: I know.
GRACE: But not by bloody murdering him.
ANDY: I know! They’ll be after us.
GRACE: You promised our parents we’d be safe.
ANDY: Well, we’re not now.
GRACE: No! Now you’re gonna get us killed.
ANDY: That’s why we have to leave.
GRACE: You were like this as a kid.
ANDY: What?
GRACE: Every Christmas…
ANDY: What are you on about?
GRACE: Someone gave you something you didn’t like…
ANDY: What do you mean?
GRACE: You always threw it back at them!
END OF PIECE
GRACE: What are you doing back here?
ANDY: We gotta go.
GRACE: Go? Go where?
ANDY: Leave. Leave now!
GRACE: Leave the flat?
ANDY: The flat. The town. This country.
GRACE: Leave Bosnia?
ANDY: At last! I’m getting through.
GRACE: We came here to do a job.
ANDY: And I’ve screwed it up.
GRACE: Why? How?
ANDY: We haven’t time for this.
GRACE: Andy, you’re not making sense.
ANDY: I went to see Voislav.
GRACE: I know – the biggest sex trafficker here.
ANDY: He paid me to see the girl.
GRACE: Aldina? The pregnant girl?
ANDY: He made me talk her into going.
GRACE: So? Is your conscience bothering you?
ANDY: Apparently!
GRACE: What happened?
ANDY: He gave me money… and a gift.
GRACE: What sort of gift?
ANDY: A gun. A pistol.
GRACE: Something for the man who has everything.
ANDY: Then I thought, “I hate this monster.”
GRACE: And?
ANDY: And I shot him.
GRACE: You did what!?
ANDY: I shot him.
GRACE: You twit! You bastard!
ANDY: I know. I just – just lost it.
GRACE: We’re trying to stop a sex trafficker…
ANDY: I know.
GRACE: But not by bloody murdering him.
ANDY: I know! They’ll be after us.
GRACE: You promised our parents we’d be safe.
ANDY: Well, we’re not now.
GRACE: No! Now you’re gonna get us killed.
ANDY: That’s why we have to leave.
GRACE: You were like this as a kid.
ANDY: What?
GRACE: Every Christmas…
ANDY: What are you on about?
GRACE: Someone gave you something you didn’t like…
ANDY: What do you mean?
GRACE: You always threw it back at them!
END OF PIECE
Sunday 31 August 2008
Addendum to the Script / Dialogue Workshop
This a kind of addendum on the Script /Dialogue Workshop example posted by the CADWC Secretary, about to characters called Fred and ‘Ginger.’ I think it is a lovely little scene that works well.
However, I feel readers should be aware that the original version was written under certain restrictions and did not appear in quite this form at first. To explain:
- the scene had to include two characters;
- there were to be no ‘stage’ directions and no scene-setting preamble;
- no speech could be longer than seven words.
As you can imagine, this can seem quite restrictive at first, and yet the beauty of this scene was that it did work perfectly well with dialogue only, and with only short speeches.
This does not mean all screen drama needs to be written like this. It does have the effect, though, of injecting pace into a scene – and that’s important for capturing today’s spoilt-for-choice, remote-control-armed audience.
You might care to try this exercise yourself. Then scrutinise the result to see if it fulfils the fundamental requirements of setting both scene and characters for the reader/audience, as well has having pace. Above all it has attention-grabbing quality that would work both as part of a much larger story and as a ‘micro-story’ in its own right. And don’t you just want to know what happens next?
The idea for this exercise was not mine – like all good ideas, I knicked it from somewhere else – a writing course I had been on, and adapted it. Therefore it seems only fair that I tender my own humble example that I did for that course, and you can make your mind up whether it works or not, by these yardsticks. Please feel free to comment as you wish. Per censuram eruditio.
Persuasion
Grace: Hi, Andy, what are you doing here?
Andy: Grace, what are you playing at?
Grace: What do you mean?
Andy: Mum and Dad are worried sick.
Grace: Why?
Andy: ‘Why’? Why do you think?
Grace: They think you can change my mind.
Andy: Get you to see their view.
Grace: And you’ll succeed where they failed.
Andy: Not just them – I think it’s madness.
Grace: Listen, Andy, something’s got to be done.
Andy: But why by you?
Grace: Why not me?
Andy: What can you do on your own?
Grace: Lots of things. I know about this.
Andy: Sex trafficking?
Grace: I do work at the Home Office.
Andy: No qualification for going to Bosnia.
Grace: It’s good enough.
Andy: Grace, it’s too dangerous to go alone.
Grace: Fine. Come with me.
Andy: What!?
Grace: Come with me. You could be helpful.
Andy: What would I want to go for?
Grace: To do the right thing.
Andy: I’d rather do right by staying home.
Grace: How would that help these poor women?
Andy: They’re not my concern. You are.
Grace: So come with me.
Andy: And do what?
Grace: Look after your little sister.
Andy: That’s what I’m trying to do now.
Grace: And it’ll keep Mum and Dad happy.
Andy: What am I going to tell them?
Grace: That you’ve suddenly developed a backbone.
Andy: I don’t think they’ll believe that.
Grace: Why not, you softie?
Andy: Had I, I’d stand up to you.
End of Scene
Friday 29 August 2008
SCRIPT / DIALOGUE WORKSHOP
We all had a great time at Peter Bird's Script & Dialogue workshop on Tuesday. I've asked everyone who attended to post their mini-scripts on the Blog so you can see what we got up to !!!
INTRODUCTION
Fred and ‘Ginger’ (real name Bob) are colleagues - the dynamic duo of ‘Armand Recovery Services’. They’ve worked together for more than 10 years. Both in their 50’s. They’re bailiffs and they hate it. Both dream of retiring and taking up sea fishing in a big way. Fred is the ‘knocker’ - he deals with the people at the door and the legalities. He's slim, twice divorce with a nervous disposition. Ginger is the ‘heavy’ not a tough or malicious man he’s just good at picking up furniture. Married with three grown-up daughters at home. He’s hen-pecked and resigned to his lot in life.
OPENING SCENE
A suburb of Leeds. Pan shot of a run-down street. Its 5am and still dark outside.
Cut to Fred and Ginger. They walk single-file down a short path in an untidy garden towards a battered front door. The door is slightly ajar. The house and street are ominously quiet.
GINGER: Have y’got the warrant?
FRED: Course I ‘ave!
GINGER: Well go on then, knock an’ get on wi’ it.
FRED: It’s already open.
GINGER: What do y’ mean it’s open?
FRED: Open! Y’know – it’s open!
GINGER: Hmmm. Doors are never open.
FRED: Suppose w’ just knock and go in?
Close up of Fred as he pushes the door with his forefinger. The door slowly swings back with a creak. Fred looks back at Ginger who shrugs and gestures for Fred to go in.
GINGER: After you mate.
FRED: Isn’t it always?
Fred knocks loudly on the door frame.
FRED: Hello? Mr Johnston. Bailiffs!
There's no answer. He steps into the house. Ginger follows but stumbles over the ‘storm-drain’ and pushes Fred further into the house.
Cut to the interior of the house. Shabby, dark and drab.
FRED: Watch it! …… Jeeesus it’s dark.
GINGER: S’ok I’ve got the light switch.
A dull light comes on from a single bulb overhead.
FRED: Blood – e – hell. Look at that.
Cut to a sprawled figure lying face down in the hallway. Its hand is clutching the handle of an old fashioned suitcase. There is a pool of blood. Cut to Fred’s feet - he is standing in the blood. Cut to Ginger who is looking over Fred’s shoulder – his view obscured.
GINGER: Is it a dummy?
FRED: God I ‘ope so. It’s got no head.
INTRODUCTION
Fred and ‘Ginger’ (real name Bob) are colleagues - the dynamic duo of ‘Armand Recovery Services’. They’ve worked together for more than 10 years. Both in their 50’s. They’re bailiffs and they hate it. Both dream of retiring and taking up sea fishing in a big way. Fred is the ‘knocker’ - he deals with the people at the door and the legalities. He's slim, twice divorce with a nervous disposition. Ginger is the ‘heavy’ not a tough or malicious man he’s just good at picking up furniture. Married with three grown-up daughters at home. He’s hen-pecked and resigned to his lot in life.
OPENING SCENE
A suburb of Leeds. Pan shot of a run-down street. Its 5am and still dark outside.
Cut to Fred and Ginger. They walk single-file down a short path in an untidy garden towards a battered front door. The door is slightly ajar. The house and street are ominously quiet.
GINGER: Have y’got the warrant?
FRED: Course I ‘ave!
GINGER: Well go on then, knock an’ get on wi’ it.
FRED: It’s already open.
GINGER: What do y’ mean it’s open?
FRED: Open! Y’know – it’s open!
GINGER: Hmmm. Doors are never open.
FRED: Suppose w’ just knock and go in?
Close up of Fred as he pushes the door with his forefinger. The door slowly swings back with a creak. Fred looks back at Ginger who shrugs and gestures for Fred to go in.
GINGER: After you mate.
FRED: Isn’t it always?
Fred knocks loudly on the door frame.
FRED: Hello? Mr Johnston. Bailiffs!
There's no answer. He steps into the house. Ginger follows but stumbles over the ‘storm-drain’ and pushes Fred further into the house.
Cut to the interior of the house. Shabby, dark and drab.
FRED: Watch it! …… Jeeesus it’s dark.
GINGER: S’ok I’ve got the light switch.
A dull light comes on from a single bulb overhead.
FRED: Blood – e – hell. Look at that.
Cut to a sprawled figure lying face down in the hallway. Its hand is clutching the handle of an old fashioned suitcase. There is a pool of blood. Cut to Fred’s feet - he is standing in the blood. Cut to Ginger who is looking over Fred’s shoulder – his view obscured.
GINGER: Is it a dummy?
FRED: God I ‘ope so. It’s got no head.
Friday 22 August 2008
This poem was written a few weeks ago before the conflict in the Caucasus started – so in case you’re wondering it’s not trying to be some kind of cryptic allegory. It’s just a poem about a cat !!! :o)
GEORGIA
My white cat
(Georgia),
The one with the stubborn streak,
Just walked across my face
Demanding food to eat.
She sits on my chest
And stares down at me.
“No food – no move,”
Her eyes told me.
She shifts a paw,
Then a claw
Menacingly.
So I fed her.
GEORGIA
My white cat
(Georgia),
The one with the stubborn streak,
Just walked across my face
Demanding food to eat.
She sits on my chest
And stares down at me.
“No food – no move,”
Her eyes told me.
She shifts a paw,
Then a claw
Menacingly.
So I fed her.
Sunday 10 August 2008
Tanka-you!
Thanks to everyone for the feedback on my Geisha poem. You may not have realised but the poem was constructed using three Tanka.
About Tanka
Tanka (or Waka) is an ancient Japanese form of poetry following a strict format of both syllable and line count, similar to the more well known form of haiku, though it might surprise you to hear that tanka were around long before the haiku.
The tanka form consists of 5 lines of unrhymed poetry, with a syllabic count as follows 5, 7, 5, 7, 7. This is a famous example of Tanka poetry by Empress Iwa no Hime. Note the syllable count differs due to translation from Japanese:
My Lord has departed
And the days have passed.
Shall I search the mountains,
Going forth to meet him,
Or wait and wait for him?
or this one from Okura
What are they to me,
Silver, or gold, or jewels?
How could they ever
Equal the greater treasure
that is a child?
The tanka, along with other Japanese forms of poetry, are a great way of exercising your creative juices, they're good for poets and non-poets, and they're pretty fun to write too. Why not have a go at writing one today? Here's mine:
Sunday morning
Echoes of bacon,
coffee still warm in the pot.
Sleepy: beds unmade.
Grass overgrown, pray for rain
and sweet silence: peaceful day.
About Tanka
Tanka (or Waka) is an ancient Japanese form of poetry following a strict format of both syllable and line count, similar to the more well known form of haiku, though it might surprise you to hear that tanka were around long before the haiku.
The tanka form consists of 5 lines of unrhymed poetry, with a syllabic count as follows 5, 7, 5, 7, 7. This is a famous example of Tanka poetry by Empress Iwa no Hime. Note the syllable count differs due to translation from Japanese:
My Lord has departed
And the days have passed.
Shall I search the mountains,
Going forth to meet him,
Or wait and wait for him?
or this one from Okura
What are they to me,
Silver, or gold, or jewels?
How could they ever
Equal the greater treasure
that is a child?
The tanka, along with other Japanese forms of poetry, are a great way of exercising your creative juices, they're good for poets and non-poets, and they're pretty fun to write too. Why not have a go at writing one today? Here's mine:
Sunday morning
Echoes of bacon,
coffee still warm in the pot.
Sleepy: beds unmade.
Grass overgrown, pray for rain
and sweet silence: peaceful day.
Saturday 9 August 2008
From the Reading Night.....
Closing Doors by Heather Richardson
The umbrella fluttered droplets onto a growing puddle by the doormat. Shutting the door with a tinkle, Suzanne caught the waitress’s attention and was waved towards the only vacant table in the furthest corner of the coffee shop. She paused, just for a second, to trace a route through the crowd, before side-stepping between the occupied chairs profusely excusing each jostle.
Sitting down next to the wall she was pleased to have three empty seats around her Рspace to breathe and take in her surroundings. The caf̩ was stifling, steam lifted from the patrons and condensed on greasy windows. She eavesdropped on the intense chit-chat while removing layers of winter clothing. She loved this place, with its tinkling spoons on cheap porcelain, the smell of Turkish coffee percolating the heavy tobacco atmosphere, and even the loud hum of the ancient refrigerator with its beckoning pastries.
She didn’t need to order here. The waitress, teetering on inappropriately high sling-backs, was already picking her way across the sugar strewn floor with a black coffee held aloft. With bored ease she slid the saucer across the table and slapped down the bill in one fluid movement, before turning on her heels to click and stick her way back to the counter.
Spinning the cup handle into position Suzy lifted the bowl in both hands. She could feel the headache of the day slip away as easily as the dark liquid slipped down her throat. A chair slurred backwards into hers. Coffee sloshed over and into her lap as she was shoved forwards and wrenched from her reverie. “Pardon moi Mademoiselle,” an old gent wheezed as he rose hesitantly to leave. He brushed past too close, smelling faintly of an antique shop - all musty books and beeswax. Her annoyance faded as she watched him shamble to the door and out into the street. She turned her attention back to the brew when she noticed an envelope on the table.
The umbrella fluttered droplets onto a growing puddle by the doormat. Shutting the door with a tinkle, Suzanne caught the waitress’s attention and was waved towards the only vacant table in the furthest corner of the coffee shop. She paused, just for a second, to trace a route through the crowd, before side-stepping between the occupied chairs profusely excusing each jostle.
Sitting down next to the wall she was pleased to have three empty seats around her Рspace to breathe and take in her surroundings. The caf̩ was stifling, steam lifted from the patrons and condensed on greasy windows. She eavesdropped on the intense chit-chat while removing layers of winter clothing. She loved this place, with its tinkling spoons on cheap porcelain, the smell of Turkish coffee percolating the heavy tobacco atmosphere, and even the loud hum of the ancient refrigerator with its beckoning pastries.
She didn’t need to order here. The waitress, teetering on inappropriately high sling-backs, was already picking her way across the sugar strewn floor with a black coffee held aloft. With bored ease she slid the saucer across the table and slapped down the bill in one fluid movement, before turning on her heels to click and stick her way back to the counter.
Spinning the cup handle into position Suzy lifted the bowl in both hands. She could feel the headache of the day slip away as easily as the dark liquid slipped down her throat. A chair slurred backwards into hers. Coffee sloshed over and into her lap as she was shoved forwards and wrenched from her reverie. “Pardon moi Mademoiselle,” an old gent wheezed as he rose hesitantly to leave. He brushed past too close, smelling faintly of an antique shop - all musty books and beeswax. Her annoyance faded as she watched him shamble to the door and out into the street. She turned her attention back to the brew when she noticed an envelope on the table.
Monday 7 July 2008
Geisha
Geisha
Pale as moon shadow
shrouded in cherry blossom
the Geisha dances.
She holds men’s hearts in her palm,
desire pricks her bloodied lips.
Creating whirlwinds
she swirls, a force of nature
mesmerising eyes;
each movement carefully planned,
perfectly executed.
She is mystery,
a symbol of forgotten
times when beauty reigned.
Shrouded in cherry blossom
the Geisha dances for you.
Pale as moon shadow
shrouded in cherry blossom
the Geisha dances.
She holds men’s hearts in her palm,
desire pricks her bloodied lips.
Creating whirlwinds
she swirls, a force of nature
mesmerising eyes;
each movement carefully planned,
perfectly executed.
She is mystery,
a symbol of forgotten
times when beauty reigned.
Shrouded in cherry blossom
the Geisha dances for you.
Saturday 21 June 2008
Saturday 31 May 2008
Aware 4
Hi all,
The theme for Aware 4 has been set, so get writing your stories, poems, articles, haiku, flash fictions, haibun, etc, anything you can think of on the theme of:
Flight!!!
Please send your submissions either to chorley.writers@4tn.net or directly to Dea at info@fictionfeedback.co.uk.
The theme for Aware 4 has been set, so get writing your stories, poems, articles, haiku, flash fictions, haibun, etc, anything you can think of on the theme of:
Flight!!!
Please send your submissions either to chorley.writers@4tn.net or directly to Dea at info@fictionfeedback.co.uk.
AGM Minutes (excluding committee): 27th May 2008
Decide future format of the group
Blog-site
Administrator responsibility for the blog would need to be re-allocated following Carol’s departure. Agreed that Heather would take responsibility for this, as well as Belinda (already an administrator) and Alan Gaskell. Alan suggested that we consider moving the site to a wordpress site which would be picked up in a Google search, whereas the current site isn’t. Agreed that the intention with the site is to use it as a promotional tool for the group and therefore it would be beneficial to make the site more publicly available. Alan is also looking into website development which would include a ‘private’ section of the site (for members only) allowing critique between members only, not on public display.
Monthly meetings
In order to encourage members to attend the meetings it was agreed that we would consider alternating the monthly meetings between a Tuesday and a Wednesday, and fixing it as the last Tuesday or Wednesday of the month to make it easier to remember. Heather will look into changing dates at CVS and will circulate a revised programme once complete. However, this may be dependent upon meeting the key keeping requirements. One to review.
Location
As noted above, there are difficulties with the current location due to problems with meeting the key keeping requirements. Need to circulate the members to determine if there is anyone able to collect/drop off the key. If not we will need to consider an alternative venue for the meeting. This has been previously discussed but dismissed due to the cost involved (current venue is free). If we are unable to find a key keeper then the next meeting may need to take place at another venue, with considerations to be made about how to cover the cost.
Belinda will contact Chris Bryan at Chorley Council to see if he can assist. Heather will ring the CVS to see if we can obtain a spare key.
Membership fee
The idea of introducing a membership fee was floated in the group. This would be in line with other organisations which include a fee, as well as assisting in covering the groups’ costs throughout the year. Suggested that a small fee of £10 for annual membership, with a concessionary fee of £5 (students/financially assisted members/pensioners) would be a reasonable cost. Need to make members aware of this, as well as considering how the fee would be collected.
Aware 4
It was agreed that to encourage quality submissions for Aware 4 (launch in November) we would agree on a theme and start collating submissions now. Agreed that the theme would be Flight. Please e-mail submissions to Dea at info@fictionfeedback.co.uk. Submissions may be poems, short stories (Dea to confirm length restrictions if any), articles, haiku, flash fiction, and anything else you can think of! Dea suggested perhaps following a slightly different format this year, possibly including a competition or ‘showcase’ element to the magazine. One for consideration, further details will follow.
Blog-site
Administrator responsibility for the blog would need to be re-allocated following Carol’s departure. Agreed that Heather would take responsibility for this, as well as Belinda (already an administrator) and Alan Gaskell. Alan suggested that we consider moving the site to a wordpress site which would be picked up in a Google search, whereas the current site isn’t. Agreed that the intention with the site is to use it as a promotional tool for the group and therefore it would be beneficial to make the site more publicly available. Alan is also looking into website development which would include a ‘private’ section of the site (for members only) allowing critique between members only, not on public display.
Monthly meetings
In order to encourage members to attend the meetings it was agreed that we would consider alternating the monthly meetings between a Tuesday and a Wednesday, and fixing it as the last Tuesday or Wednesday of the month to make it easier to remember. Heather will look into changing dates at CVS and will circulate a revised programme once complete. However, this may be dependent upon meeting the key keeping requirements. One to review.
Location
As noted above, there are difficulties with the current location due to problems with meeting the key keeping requirements. Need to circulate the members to determine if there is anyone able to collect/drop off the key. If not we will need to consider an alternative venue for the meeting. This has been previously discussed but dismissed due to the cost involved (current venue is free). If we are unable to find a key keeper then the next meeting may need to take place at another venue, with considerations to be made about how to cover the cost.
Belinda will contact Chris Bryan at Chorley Council to see if he can assist. Heather will ring the CVS to see if we can obtain a spare key.
Membership fee
The idea of introducing a membership fee was floated in the group. This would be in line with other organisations which include a fee, as well as assisting in covering the groups’ costs throughout the year. Suggested that a small fee of £10 for annual membership, with a concessionary fee of £5 (students/financially assisted members/pensioners) would be a reasonable cost. Need to make members aware of this, as well as considering how the fee would be collected.
Aware 4
It was agreed that to encourage quality submissions for Aware 4 (launch in November) we would agree on a theme and start collating submissions now. Agreed that the theme would be Flight. Please e-mail submissions to Dea at info@fictionfeedback.co.uk. Submissions may be poems, short stories (Dea to confirm length restrictions if any), articles, haiku, flash fiction, and anything else you can think of! Dea suggested perhaps following a slightly different format this year, possibly including a competition or ‘showcase’ element to the magazine. One for consideration, further details will follow.
Thursday 29 May 2008
Post AGM Changes
Hi everyone,
Minutes from the AGM will follow in the next few days. Firstly, there have been some changes following the AGM which I'd like to make you aware of. With effect from 27th May the committee now consists of:
Chairperson: Peter Cropper
Vice-Chair: Dea Parkin
Secretary: Heather Richardson
Treasurer: Hayley Noble
Thank you to each of the above for volunteering; hopefully, working together and with increased involvement from the membership, the group can go from strength to strength.
I would also like to take this opportunity, on behalf of the group, to extend our thanks and appreciation to both Carol and Hazel who have been staunch members over the years, without whom, perhaps, the group might not still be in existence. You both have our eternal gratitude and good wishes; may you both enjoy peace and success in the future. You will be missed!
We still have a few issues to resolve - in particular there are problems collecting and dropping off the key for Astley Farmhouse which means that we may need to consider moving the location of the meetings. If anyone is able to take over this responsibility please come forward, it would be greatly appreciated by all.
We're hoping that Chris Bryan from Chorley Council will be able to make our next meeting, and provide us with some advice regarding locale and financial assistance. Further updates on this will follow.
Minutes from the AGM will follow in the next few days. Firstly, there have been some changes following the AGM which I'd like to make you aware of. With effect from 27th May the committee now consists of:
Chairperson: Peter Cropper
Vice-Chair: Dea Parkin
Secretary: Heather Richardson
Treasurer: Hayley Noble
Thank you to each of the above for volunteering; hopefully, working together and with increased involvement from the membership, the group can go from strength to strength.
I would also like to take this opportunity, on behalf of the group, to extend our thanks and appreciation to both Carol and Hazel who have been staunch members over the years, without whom, perhaps, the group might not still be in existence. You both have our eternal gratitude and good wishes; may you both enjoy peace and success in the future. You will be missed!
We still have a few issues to resolve - in particular there are problems collecting and dropping off the key for Astley Farmhouse which means that we may need to consider moving the location of the meetings. If anyone is able to take over this responsibility please come forward, it would be greatly appreciated by all.
We're hoping that Chris Bryan from Chorley Council will be able to make our next meeting, and provide us with some advice regarding locale and financial assistance. Further updates on this will follow.
Wednesday 28 May 2008
Farewell from the chair
Thanks to everyone who attended last night's AGM and to all those who have volunteered to be part of the new committee. I find myself in the position of being able to direct new members to the group so it's pleasing (and relieving!) to know that there will still be a group to signpost folks to.
Please support your new committee. I'm sure they'll work hard on your behalf. I've posted my report to the AGM as a comment to this blog.
Goodbye and good luck.
Carol
Tuesday 20 May 2008
Success!
Bored, and browsing the web this evening I made a startling discovery! Reading through the online magazine "Ink, Sweat and Tears" I discovered two of my own poems, submitted a month ago, nestling in the 01st May entry! Perhaps their e-mail went astray, but no matter; it was a most pleasant surprise. Interesting site for a read if nothing else; check it out at:
http://www.ink-sweat-and-tears.com/
http://www.ink-sweat-and-tears.com/
Sunday 18 May 2008
About the AGM
As previously indicated, the posts of Chairperson, Secretary and Treasurer are up for ‘grabs’, and as Carol is leaving the group we will need someone to take responsibility for the key to Astley Farmhouse. So that you can decide whether you’re interested or not please see below a brief overview of what’s involved:
Chairperson - Chair meetings and write a chairman’s report for the AGM (edit Aware?)
Treasurer - Bank cash, issue cheques. Prepare year end balance sheet.
Secretary – circulate details of forthcoming events to the group, promote & provide details of the group to new members, collate details of attendance/apologies for meetings, write meeting minutes, act as point of contact for group communications.
Key person – collect key after 10am on the day of the meeting and return it before 10am the following day. (assuming the group still meets at CVC)
In addition, the Chairperson & Secretary will need to take responsibility for updating and maintaining the blog – this includes adding or inviting new members, and controlling format and look. It’s all easy stuff, and I’d be happy to show whoever takes over the role how it’s done.
Unfortunately if we are not able to fill these posts it will be necessary to suspend the group. If it doesn’t re-start after an agreed period all the monies should go to a similar group in or near the borough.
Chairperson - Chair meetings and write a chairman’s report for the AGM (edit Aware?)
Treasurer - Bank cash, issue cheques. Prepare year end balance sheet.
Secretary – circulate details of forthcoming events to the group, promote & provide details of the group to new members, collate details of attendance/apologies for meetings, write meeting minutes, act as point of contact for group communications.
Key person – collect key after 10am on the day of the meeting and return it before 10am the following day. (assuming the group still meets at CVC)
In addition, the Chairperson & Secretary will need to take responsibility for updating and maintaining the blog – this includes adding or inviting new members, and controlling format and look. It’s all easy stuff, and I’d be happy to show whoever takes over the role how it’s done.
Unfortunately if we are not able to fill these posts it will be necessary to suspend the group. If it doesn’t re-start after an agreed period all the monies should go to a similar group in or near the borough.
Tuesday 22 April 2008
Secretary and Chair Required (not for sitting on...)
Nominations for secretary, chair and treasurer are required for the AGM Tues 27th May. I urge everyone to consider nominating and volunteering.
I'd like to take this opportunity to thank Belinda and Hazel for admirably fulfilling the roles of secretary and treasurer.
Belinda is resigning as secretary at the AGM due to work commitments etc so we urgently need someone to replace her. I am pleased to report that she will remain in the circle but might not be able to attend every meeting.
A founding member of the circle, I am resigning due to other commitments. So the circle also urgently needs a chair - please, all of you, consider taking on this post. I have really enjoyed it but it's time for me to move over. I hope to be able to recommend new members to the group, although I will no longer be part of it.
It may be possible to hold the meetings on a different night (more info to follow) so don't be deterred from volunteering if Tues is not the best night.
Please consider taking on these roles and keep the circle going.
Tues 22nd April - short writing bursts
Take Mr. Mortique, a gamekeeper, a pot plant, no more than 100 words, a 10 minute dash and what do you get? A quick flash fiction:
Was Riddley a happy man? He shouldn’t be – working for Mortique. Mortique, who was above allowing employees in his house. Above paying them too.
Riddley had reared the grouse, organised the beaters - and Mortique had stashed all the cash. Hadn’t paid Riddley – oh no. So now it was Riddley’s payback time. He smiled as he curled his fingers round the key that had been carelessly left in a door. He nodded as he watched the undercover cops head down the private drive after an anonymous tip that there were cannabis plants inside the house where employees weren’t allowed.
Tuesday 25 March 2008
Sunday 16 March 2008
Check out my new blog
Hi Folks,
I've created a new blog about launching my book and its journey to beyond...
http://fromthefieldbook.blogspot.com/
I hope you'll visit it and tell me what you think.
I've created a new blog about launching my book and its journey to beyond...
http://fromthefieldbook.blogspot.com/
I hope you'll visit it and tell me what you think.
Sunday 9 March 2008
Book Launch
Book Launch – Tues 25th March 2008 7.30pm
from the field book by Carol Thistlethwaite
GSOH by Nicky J
Local writers Alex Price and Peter Cropper
will likewise be reading and selling signed copies of their books
Thursday 28 February 2008
My dreaded poetry assignment
hi
as I mentioned I had my OU poetry assignment due tomorrow and I really struggled with this until this morning. I lost a best friend yesterday and wanted to write in the hope it would help me with his death so this is what I did and its formed part of my assignment to. Unfortunately it hasn't helped me yet but hopefully might do soon.
thanks
Hayley
Passed
This you sized space is aching and stabbing at my chest.
It needs your chair to be filled,
to see your hands move,
to watch you yawn,
to make your dinner.
It was to be simple, you were to come home
to me and a rice pudding baking slowly.
The heavy waiting had passed, they said ‘recovery’
and I breathed again.
Then the phone again, ringing where it shouldn’t have been.
They said words like ‘complications’, fluids
where there should have been none,
the only word I heard, ‘died’.
I was calm, I made the calls, listened
to the grief, then washed your breakfast plates.
Now ‘arrangements’ are being made around me and all I can do
is stare at the you sized space.
The regret and what if pushes against the grief threatening
to win.
Did I tell you I love enough, did I hold you enough, did I kiss
you enough, did I?
Your animation is lost in the photographs
meant to fill the gap. You defined me
and now my definition is lost,
shapeless, staring at the you sized space.
as I mentioned I had my OU poetry assignment due tomorrow and I really struggled with this until this morning. I lost a best friend yesterday and wanted to write in the hope it would help me with his death so this is what I did and its formed part of my assignment to. Unfortunately it hasn't helped me yet but hopefully might do soon.
thanks
Hayley
Passed
This you sized space is aching and stabbing at my chest.
It needs your chair to be filled,
to see your hands move,
to watch you yawn,
to make your dinner.
It was to be simple, you were to come home
to me and a rice pudding baking slowly.
The heavy waiting had passed, they said ‘recovery’
and I breathed again.
Then the phone again, ringing where it shouldn’t have been.
They said words like ‘complications’, fluids
where there should have been none,
the only word I heard, ‘died’.
I was calm, I made the calls, listened
to the grief, then washed your breakfast plates.
Now ‘arrangements’ are being made around me and all I can do
is stare at the you sized space.
The regret and what if pushes against the grief threatening
to win.
Did I tell you I love enough, did I hold you enough, did I kiss
you enough, did I?
Your animation is lost in the photographs
meant to fill the gap. You defined me
and now my definition is lost,
shapeless, staring at the you sized space.
The flicker of a candle
This is a poem I had published in the Blackburn Telegraph, inspired when I bought a Christmas decoration. Will you please spare a couple of minutes of your time to read and comment. Thanking you in anticipation.
THE FLICKER OF A CANDLE.
Sitting on a book.dripping in wax
Soft to touch!…lovely to hold,
The flicker of a light
So dim in the night.
Candle light, candle power
It’s a unit a measure of light,
It sits on the book it’s flame erect
It flickers from dusk into night.
A candle !…a prayer
For a loved one we pray,
A glimmer of hope
What would Charles Dickens say.
A Candle can be large or small
But without the wick there is nothing at all,
Just hold it my love!..yes hold it for me
The flicker of a candle!..is that all you see.
Pat Preece ( a Blackburn Lass )
THE FLICKER OF A CANDLE.
Sitting on a book.dripping in wax
Soft to touch!…lovely to hold,
The flicker of a light
So dim in the night.
Candle light, candle power
It’s a unit a measure of light,
It sits on the book it’s flame erect
It flickers from dusk into night.
A candle !…a prayer
For a loved one we pray,
A glimmer of hope
What would Charles Dickens say.
A Candle can be large or small
But without the wick there is nothing at all,
Just hold it my love!..yes hold it for me
The flicker of a candle!..is that all you see.
Pat Preece ( a Blackburn Lass )
Wednesday 27 February 2008
Meeting 26th February 2008
Thanks to everyone who made it to the meeting yesterday - we had a bumper turnout which made for a really interesting critique night. A warm welcome to Hayley Noble, Frank Pemberton, Christine Tremain, Ros MacInnes, Pat Preece and Brian Preece who joined us for the first time last night. We hope to see you all again soon.
Perhaps it would be good if a few of the attendees could add their critique pieces to the blog, as Nicky has done?
Just a quick note about the next meeting. This will be another first for Chorley Writers with a joint book launch night, to take place on 25th March at Lancashire College. We will need to confirm numbers early so could you please let me know asap if you will be attending. Feel free to bring guests but, again, can you let me know numbers for the night.
Perhaps it would be good if a few of the attendees could add their critique pieces to the blog, as Nicky has done?
Just a quick note about the next meeting. This will be another first for Chorley Writers with a joint book launch night, to take place on 25th March at Lancashire College. We will need to confirm numbers early so could you please let me know asap if you will be attending. Feel free to bring guests but, again, can you let me know numbers for the night.
Tuesday 26 February 2008
Extract from GSOH – hiding at Crispin’s
(The scene: Roger, on the run from the police, suspected of a series of murders of women he has met through a dating agency and trying to prove his innocence, has recruited one of his dates, a TV journalist called Candice, and her colleague, Crispin, to help him. Roger and Candice have tried to get his remaining former dates to go into hiding with him, but, having initially drawn a blank, are forced to stay the night at Crispin’s house.)
As they drew up back at Crispin’s house, it was already growing dark, which suited both of them fine. Roger didn’t want to be seen. Candice certainly didn’t want to be seen with Roger.
"How’s the exclusive going?" was Crispin’s only greeting.
"Have you any food?" was Candice’s only reply.
"Try the freezer."
Candice grilled some pork chops without ceremony and without vegetables. Crispin added some canned peas, microwave chips and instant gravy as an afterthought. Bachelor cuisine. Candice sat, studying the meal, Roger toyed with his food, and only Crispin made any attempt to eat anything.
"You should get stuck in, mate," said Crispin to Roger. "It’s probably better than prison food."
"I wouldn’t be so sure about that," said Roger.
"I’m going to make some calls," Candice announced, abandoning her plate. She pulled out Crispin’s mobile. "I’ve got to have another shot at talking the women round."
"You won’t be needing this, then" said Crispin, stabbing her chop with his fork, along with a generous scoop of chips.
"You can have this too," said Roger, scraping his food on to Crispin’s plate before Crispin could stop him.
Crispin had just loaded his face with a huge mouthful, when the doorbell rang.
"You expecting anyone?" said Candice.
"Don’t!" said Roger. "Remember what happened when I said that?"
Unable to talk, Crispin stole a sidelong glimpse out of the front window.
"Fffck!" he cursed, spitting potato down the curtains. "Iff Frnnk Knn’nnduh!"
"It’s what?" said Roger.
Candice suddenly caught on. "Frank Kennedy! He’s a friend of Crispin’s. A detective friend."
"Oh, God! Not again!"
Crispin emptied his mouth on to his own plate in a disgusting spray of food, and slipped the other two plates underneath. "Quick – get in the kitchen! I’ll find out what he wants and try and get rid of him. If I can’t, make a dash for it."
"Don’t worry – we know how to do this."
The two scuttled out of sight while Crispin gave himself a quick preen, tried to remember what normal looked like, and nonchalantly opened the door. He made sure he had a tight grip on it, just in case he needed to shut it again quickly.
"Frank!" he said, a trifle too cheerfully. "What can I do for you?"
"Let me in for a start. I’ve not come all this way to admire your bloody doorstep."
"I’m just having my…" But Frank had already pushed past him. So much for holding the door. "You in here?" Frank made his way into the front lounge where the dinner table was set. "Good. It’s turning miserable out there tonight."
"What do you want?" said Crispin, following him into the room. It didn’t look like he’d brought the rest of the police force with him, but Crispin didn’t think this was a social call either.
"I got to thinking, perhaps we can do each other a favour on this dating agency killer thing." He noticed the huge pile of food on the stack of plates. "Flippin’ ‘eck. You eat well, for a thin ‘un."
"Er, that’s because I work hard. Got to keep my strength up."
"Why the three plates?"
"I’ve no place mats."
"Just as well – you might eat them an’ all. You don’t mind me coming in, do you? I’m not interrupting anything?"
"No, not at all. Well… yes. Only my dinner."
"There’s nobody else here is there?"
"No, of course not."
"Only I don’t want to get in the way."
"No, Frank. Stay as long you want. As long as it’s only a few minutes."
Out in the kitchen, and easily within earshot, Candice and Roger craned to catch every word of this performance. The number of times Candice had told Crispin not to contradict himself when writing copy.
Crispin attempted to back-track. "So, what is it you want, exactly?"
"Well, I was thinking – I’m giving you the nod and wink on any developments from the police end, when it occurred to me that you are in a privileged position with the public."
"I’m… I’m sorry, Frank, I’m not following you."
"Get rid of the little blighter," Candice hissed to herself behind her hand.
"I’ll second that," whispered Roger.
"What we could do with," said Kennedy expansively, settling into an armchair, "is some background on dating agencies in general, y’know what I mean? What kind of people use ‘em, what the service is like and so on. Build up a picture of the clients or whatever they call themselves. Sad bastards, I call ‘em."
"Know what you mean, Frank," Crispin nodded.
"So how about you run a piece on Northwest News and see if you can get members of the public to phone in with their stories? See if you can paint a picture of these nutters. Any gory details, so much the better. Especially off-the-record confessions."
"Frank – you know, nothing is ever off the record."
"Exactly. Find out as much as you can about these wierdos and losers."
The sound of Candice’s teeth grinding was abruptly drowned out by Crispin’s mobile phone going off in her hand.
"Excuse me, Frank." Crispin was the height of casual urbanity. The only thing was, he thought he was going to wet himself. "Duty calls. That’s my phone, in the kitchen."
"Wish I could cook," said Kennedy and, as Crispin left the room, stole a mouthful of pork from Crispin’s plate.
"I can’t get rid of him!" Crispin whispered to Roger. "He’s going to reinvent Crimewatch, Police Five and Dragnet at this rate!" He suddenly realised that Candice was taking no notice of him, and listening with rapt concentration to the phone call she had just received.
"Candice," said Crispin, "if it’s another date, tell him he’ll have to wait!"
Candice hung up. "It’s Elizabeth! She’s in trouble. She thinks she’s got a prowler."
"Well? So have we!" said Roger. "Does she want to swap?"
"We’ve got to go," said Candice.
"I’ll not argue with that!" Crispin leapt to the back door, unlocked it and shoved the pair of them out into the night. Trying to recollect a Tai Chi exercise, he then slowly swaggered back into the lounge to rejoin the detective.
"Just one of my sources with a tip," said Crispin.
"That mobile phone of yours must be bloody loud," said Kennedy, swallowing hurriedly. "I could almost hear what the other person was saying."
"Well… er, they do say good policemen have big ears."
"Do they bollocks. You’re thinking of Noddy."
Outside, in the pitch dark of a damp Manchester evening, Candice and Roger encountered another obstacle. The gate on the side path of Crispin’s house was locked.
"Hang on," said Roger. "I’ll give you a bunk up."
"You will not!"
"Then you give me a bunk up."
"Piss off."
"Which finishing school did you go to?"
"Roger! Climb on top and pull me!"
"Whoa! Honeymoon night flashback."
A patent leather toe-cap caught a shin.
"What was that noise?" said Kennedy. "Y’know, these chips are a bit soggy. You should give ‘em another couple of minutes… There it is again. Can y’hear?"
"It’s… it’s…" Crispin shook his head, utterly bereft of a cover story. "It’s burglars. Probably."
"Oh, that’s alright then."
"Excuse me? You’re a police officer. Aren’t you supposed to catch burglars?"
"Jesus Christ!" said Kennedy, giving up on the chips. "If I went after every bloody burglar in Manchester, I’d never get any work done."
Outside, Roger and Candice had somehow managed to scale the gate. Candice thought she might have laddered something. Roger though he might have ruptured something. They tiptoed over to the Galaxy and quietly let themselves in.
As Crispin heard the familiar sound of his own car starting up and driving away, Kennedy took out a Regal and lit it. "Now, about this TV piece…"
Crispin looked in stern disapproval at Kennedy’s cigarette. "Do you mind?" he said.
"What?" said Kennedy, puzzled for a moment. "Oh! Sorry." He took out the packet and offered it to Crispin. "Help yourself."
End of Extract
Wednesday 13 February 2008
New Novel GSOH available now!
Dear Folks,
my new novel, GSOH, is now available at Lulu.com. I hope you will take a look - you can read a preview of the first few pages.
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Best Wishes,
NJP.
Sunday 3 February 2008
Chorley Writers' Websites
It's a new year and Chorley Writers are keeping busy! A number of our members have started websites this year - check out the following:
Alec Price - http://www.alecpricewrites.co.uk/
http://nickyjpoolewritings.blogspot.com
Belinda Farrell - http://www.belindadale.co.uk/ or http://blog.belindadale.com/
Of anyone else has, or is starting a website, how about posting details here?
Alec Price - http://www.alecpricewrites.co.uk/
http://nickyjpoolewritings.blogspot.com
Belinda Farrell - http://www.belindadale.co.uk/ or http://blog.belindadale.com/
Of anyone else has, or is starting a website, how about posting details here?
Meeting 29th January 2008
Hi all,
Apologies to everyone for the unexpected cancellation of the meeting on 22nd January - obviously our thoughts must be with the family of Jessica Knight, and our hopes that she makes a full recovery.
We were able to reschedule for 29th January - thanks to everyone who made it to the meeting. We have a proposed programme for the remainder of the year, incorporating a few more critique nights, and perhaps some 'non-Tuesday' social events to give those of us who struggle to make Tuesdays a chance to meet up! Details of the programme will be circulated shortly and, of course, posted on the blog.
As well as discussing the programme we managed to do some reading too! Lynne Taylor gave us the low down on her new novel, an international thriller involving a heady plot of industrial espionage, action, explosions, love, diamonds and Amsterdam! Sounds like a thrilling read.
We were also very lucky to read the first chapter of our own Alec Price's book The Trogglybogs of Brinscall Moor - a story aimed at children, and based around the local area. It's gripping from the start, full of local flavour and interesting characters. Check out more details of Alec's work at www.alecpricewrites.co.uk
And what would be a reading night without poetry? Poems were read from the new book Tilt by acclaimed poet Jean Sprackland, and Carol read poems from Smiths Knoll (magazine), and The Frogmore Papers. There was a brilliantly funny one about men - Carol, perhaps you could share it here!
Congratulations, of course, to Carol on her forthcoming publication from the field book - it's great to have such a positive success in the group, let's hope for more in 2008!
Apologies to everyone for the unexpected cancellation of the meeting on 22nd January - obviously our thoughts must be with the family of Jessica Knight, and our hopes that she makes a full recovery.
We were able to reschedule for 29th January - thanks to everyone who made it to the meeting. We have a proposed programme for the remainder of the year, incorporating a few more critique nights, and perhaps some 'non-Tuesday' social events to give those of us who struggle to make Tuesdays a chance to meet up! Details of the programme will be circulated shortly and, of course, posted on the blog.
As well as discussing the programme we managed to do some reading too! Lynne Taylor gave us the low down on her new novel, an international thriller involving a heady plot of industrial espionage, action, explosions, love, diamonds and Amsterdam! Sounds like a thrilling read.
We were also very lucky to read the first chapter of our own Alec Price's book The Trogglybogs of Brinscall Moor - a story aimed at children, and based around the local area. It's gripping from the start, full of local flavour and interesting characters. Check out more details of Alec's work at www.alecpricewrites.co.uk
And what would be a reading night without poetry? Poems were read from the new book Tilt by acclaimed poet Jean Sprackland, and Carol read poems from Smiths Knoll (magazine), and The Frogmore Papers. There was a brilliantly funny one about men - Carol, perhaps you could share it here!
Congratulations, of course, to Carol on her forthcoming publication from the field book - it's great to have such a positive success in the group, let's hope for more in 2008!
Thursday 24 January 2008
International launch 20/21 March 2008
'from the field book' by Carol Thistlethwaite is a collection of poems about British bird species. Click on the link below for a short preview and read what the critic says. http://www.bewrite.net/authors/carol_thistlethwaite.htm
Monday 7 January 2008
Tell us what YOU want!!!
The time has come to put together the programme for 2008, so we'd like to know, what do you want to see in the programme this year? More speakers, more reading nights, more critiques, more writing bursts, more, more, more???
Let us know what you'd like us to be doing as a group this year so that we can build a programme that reflects your needs and desires (well, within limits!)
Mail chorley.writers@4tn.net with your suggestions, or bring them along to the first meeting of the year which will be:
22nd January 2008
7:30pm
Astley Farmhouse
See you there!!
Let us know what you'd like us to be doing as a group this year so that we can build a programme that reflects your needs and desires (well, within limits!)
Mail chorley.writers@4tn.net with your suggestions, or bring them along to the first meeting of the year which will be:
22nd January 2008
7:30pm
Astley Farmhouse
See you there!!
Thursday 3 January 2008
Real Christmas
It was hard. Really hard. Darryl had lost his job in the summer. The redundancy had come right out of the blue.
"We’ll be alright," he said to Stacy. "Don’t worry. I’ll soon get something else."
The summer ended and the new school year approached. Stacy said: "Can we get the kids new uniforms for this year? They’re growing up, Jason and Beatrice."
"Can’t they get a bit more wear out of the clothes they’ve got?"
"It’s not fair, Dad. The other kids will make fun of us," said Jason.
"And I don’t fit this any more," said Beatrice. Darryl could not help but feel a tiny wave of pride wash over him has he saw his little girl was already nearly on the threshold of becoming a young woman. That he could not dress her in the finest of fine clothes bit into him like a whip.
"It’s true," said Stacy, "it’s not a case of wear – their things just don’t fit – they’re growing kids."
It ate into the few savings Darryl had left to see the two youngsters properly kitted out for the forthcoming term. Maybe somewhere would have vacancies as the winter came on. He had worked for five years in the same company in the strategic planning department. He had to look forward, and have faith in the future.
Christmas approached, and what little cash he had left dwindled almost to nothing on essentials. It looked like Christmas was going to be bleak indeed. No fancy food, no decorations, not even any presents. Stacy knew the situation they were in all too well. What were they going to do? She and Darryl could get by, they’d had many a happy Christmas in the past, before this famine of lean times had befallen them. But, for the children, the thought of the disappointment on their faces was almost too much to bear.
Darryl led Stacy, Jason and Beatrice into the living room. "Keep your eyes closed!" he commanded, as he directed each one of them into position. "Tight closed… right – open them… now!"
Jason and Beatrice and Stacy all looked, and blinked in amazement. There was a tree, decorations, lights, cards… Selection boxes of chocolates and great big packages underneath – a great Lego ‘Dinosaur’ construction kit for Jason, a new hi-fi for Beatrice and a collection of CDs. Other, little parcels, small objects of desire. On the table, the food was stacked high, cakes and biscuits, liqueur chocolates, cooked meats and paté, a cheese board complete with a ripe Stilton, nibbles of every description. There were stacks of Christmas crackers, and not cheap ones either. Nuts, fruit, bottles of red wine, cans of beer, even a bottle of champagne. And, in the centre of the display, a huge turkey. On side plates, trimmings like roast potatoes in goose-fat, honey-glazed parsnips, pork and apricot stuffing. In fact, everything for a perfect family Christmas.
Stacy was open-mouthed. "How could you possibly have afforded all this?" she gasped, her voice choked with joy.
"I was in strategic planning," he said. "And I was good at my job. And I mean, good!"
"But where did you get all the money? It must be a miracle."
"It cost next to nothing – they were virtually giving it away down the shops. Happy Christmas!"
It didn’t matter that it was January 3rd, that it was past New Year. All the shops were selling off their excess Christmas stock as fast as they could unload it, at rock-bottom prices. Darryl had banked on this. He had planned ahead. It was a miracle that he knew would happen, as it did, every year.
As the children set about tearing the wrapping off presents and pulling crackers to gales of laughter, Darryl said, "And I got you this – that cashmere sweater you wanted. Even that was half price!"
Stacy found it more difficult than ever to speak. "But I’ve got you nothing to give you!" she said, caught out by Darryl’s surprise master plan.
"Yes, you have," said Darryl, quietly. "I’ve got you."
It was their miracle, even if some of it was cut-price. It was their very own, special, January 3rd Christmas.
And, with it, hope for the future.
"We’ll be alright," he said to Stacy. "Don’t worry. I’ll soon get something else."
The summer ended and the new school year approached. Stacy said: "Can we get the kids new uniforms for this year? They’re growing up, Jason and Beatrice."
"Can’t they get a bit more wear out of the clothes they’ve got?"
"It’s not fair, Dad. The other kids will make fun of us," said Jason.
"And I don’t fit this any more," said Beatrice. Darryl could not help but feel a tiny wave of pride wash over him has he saw his little girl was already nearly on the threshold of becoming a young woman. That he could not dress her in the finest of fine clothes bit into him like a whip.
"It’s true," said Stacy, "it’s not a case of wear – their things just don’t fit – they’re growing kids."
It ate into the few savings Darryl had left to see the two youngsters properly kitted out for the forthcoming term. Maybe somewhere would have vacancies as the winter came on. He had worked for five years in the same company in the strategic planning department. He had to look forward, and have faith in the future.
Christmas approached, and what little cash he had left dwindled almost to nothing on essentials. It looked like Christmas was going to be bleak indeed. No fancy food, no decorations, not even any presents. Stacy knew the situation they were in all too well. What were they going to do? She and Darryl could get by, they’d had many a happy Christmas in the past, before this famine of lean times had befallen them. But, for the children, the thought of the disappointment on their faces was almost too much to bear.
Darryl led Stacy, Jason and Beatrice into the living room. "Keep your eyes closed!" he commanded, as he directed each one of them into position. "Tight closed… right – open them… now!"
Jason and Beatrice and Stacy all looked, and blinked in amazement. There was a tree, decorations, lights, cards… Selection boxes of chocolates and great big packages underneath – a great Lego ‘Dinosaur’ construction kit for Jason, a new hi-fi for Beatrice and a collection of CDs. Other, little parcels, small objects of desire. On the table, the food was stacked high, cakes and biscuits, liqueur chocolates, cooked meats and paté, a cheese board complete with a ripe Stilton, nibbles of every description. There were stacks of Christmas crackers, and not cheap ones either. Nuts, fruit, bottles of red wine, cans of beer, even a bottle of champagne. And, in the centre of the display, a huge turkey. On side plates, trimmings like roast potatoes in goose-fat, honey-glazed parsnips, pork and apricot stuffing. In fact, everything for a perfect family Christmas.
Stacy was open-mouthed. "How could you possibly have afforded all this?" she gasped, her voice choked with joy.
"I was in strategic planning," he said. "And I was good at my job. And I mean, good!"
"But where did you get all the money? It must be a miracle."
"It cost next to nothing – they were virtually giving it away down the shops. Happy Christmas!"
It didn’t matter that it was January 3rd, that it was past New Year. All the shops were selling off their excess Christmas stock as fast as they could unload it, at rock-bottom prices. Darryl had banked on this. He had planned ahead. It was a miracle that he knew would happen, as it did, every year.
As the children set about tearing the wrapping off presents and pulling crackers to gales of laughter, Darryl said, "And I got you this – that cashmere sweater you wanted. Even that was half price!"
Stacy found it more difficult than ever to speak. "But I’ve got you nothing to give you!" she said, caught out by Darryl’s surprise master plan.
"Yes, you have," said Darryl, quietly. "I’ve got you."
It was their miracle, even if some of it was cut-price. It was their very own, special, January 3rd Christmas.
And, with it, hope for the future.
The end.
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