tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32718804045010272362024-03-14T08:27:22.450+00:00Chorley And District Writers' CircleCADWC Secretaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07371582552175970129noreply@blogger.comBlogger92125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3271880404501027236.post-65354930732950378012009-06-10T15:57:00.001+01:002009-06-10T15:57:53.047+01:00<p><br />This Blog is closed and has been replaced by our web site:<br /><a href="http://www.chorleywriters.co.uk/"><a href="http://www.chorleywriters.co.uk/">www.chorleywriters.co.uk</a><br /></a><br />Please go to the web site to see the latest news from the Writers' Circle & to post your work.<br />Many Thanks</p><p> </p><p>CADWC Committee<br /></p>CADWC Secretaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07371582552175970129noreply@blogger.com42tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3271880404501027236.post-73400315959031181652009-04-04T13:53:00.002+01:002009-04-04T14:00:12.893+01:00Black and White<div align="center">(<em>Somebody at risk of harm - but to themselves or somebody else?</em>)</div><div align="justify"><br />It’s black and everywhere is white.<br /><br />Or is it white and everywhere is black?<br /><br />I can’t figure it out. It’s black everywhere and it’s white everywhere.<br /><br />I look up and it’s black. I look in the distance and it’s dark, nothing is clear, but white specks are floating into my vision. They scurry, form shapes, re-form and disappear, only to be replaced by more phantom figures. I look down and it’s white everywhere. My feet stumble in the white.<br /><br />The white around my feet crumbles and swallows my feet as I try to move. I breathe out and my breath clouds, mixing with the swirling phantoms. It is snowing and it’s very late at night and I don’t know where I am going. What am I doing? What am I about to do?<br /><br />What have I just done?<br /><br />Was it right? These things are never black and white.<br /><br />This is one of my clearest memories of being at North Riding University. The winters were always severe. Snowfalls would sometimes cut off the new campus from the rest of the country, especially, it seemed, at week-ends. Menial staff like cleaners and porters would be trapped, and have to sleep in the main refectory or the chapel till Monday. On this winter evening the snow is more hideous than ever. It is so cold and ice-sharp, it is dry and doesn’t even have the decency to melt on your exposed flesh of your face, till your skin burns and you cannot feel the cold anymore. It dances around me furiously, piling into my eyes as it gathers, onslaught upon onslaught from an unseen black canopy over head.<br /><br />The centre of campus, the piazza, is totally deserted. Lamps burn pointlessly overhead, illuminating a dazzling, deserted tableau.<br /><br />I stumble on.<br /><br />Almost miraculously a figure appears in the distance. Small in stature yet definitely male, he makes his way directly towards me through the driving snow. His hands are thrust deep into the pockets of a duffel coat, though the hood is down and his head is bare in the outrageous blizzard. I can see his close-cropped red hair – <em>coupé en brosse</em> as the French would say, and red stubble of beard – it is the only colour in this monochrome scene.<br /><br />"Are you Malcolm?" he says, almost conversationally.<br /><br />"Malc," I nod, correcting. "Call me Malc."<br /><br />"My name’s Chris. We spoke earlier. Have you taken any pills?" He has the politeness to grin slightly as he asks.<br /><br />"I can’t remember," I mumble. "I’ve been out in this – " I shrug, indicating the whirling ice-flakes. "It’s been so long," I add after a pause. "Yet, I feel so… hot."<br /><br />"Are you feeling dizzy?"<br /><br />"Dizzy? No… no, I don’t think so," I lie. I’ve taken some tranqs, but that’s understandable.<br /><br />"It’s been five minutes since you called the <em>Nightline</em> office. You said you hadn’t taken anything then. Just that you thought you were going to. That’s why I came out to meet you." He almost laughed. "Lovely night for a walk, eh?"<br /><br />"No, not dizzy. Just hot. Here," I tugged at the clothing at my neck, "let me take my scarf off."<br /><br /><em>Nightline</em> was a little organisation run by the Students’ Union. It was there to help member students through the night when ever they had problems, like an essay they couldn’t finish for a nine o’clock deadline, or an impossible finals exam coming up – that would be usually in the summer term, of course, though some schools had mid-year class tests. Also, other problems, like money worries, late grant checks back then, difficulties with parents, fear you were on the wrong course, love affairs running less than smoothly – in fact anything that could disturb the student psyche, a student-based version of The Samaritans. They were said to be particularly keen on helping undergraduates talk through their sexual orientation – nothing like becoming queer to excite the would-be psychotherapeutic volunteers that would stay up all night once or twice a term to run the <em>Nightline</em> service, from the VP-Internal’s office in the Union. Their busiest time, and type of call, though, was always during exams, or the suicide season, as it was known.<br /><br />I flapped inanely at my coat, trying to find a pocket. "Could you take this?" I said at last, handing him the scarf. I am a personification of confusion.<br /><br />"Sure."<br /><br />Despite his casual, amiable manner, I knew he was studying me closely.<br /><br />"There is something else," I said. "My girlfriend."<br /><br />"What about her?"<br /><br />"I think I may have… harmed her."<br /><br />"Harmed? In what way?" said Chris.<br /><br />"A bad way."<br /><br />He remained calm, but it was with a hint of effort, of self-control. "Where is she?"<br /><br />I told him the room address in the hall of residence at the east end of the campus. Sure enough, his demeanour descended from controlled calm to the edge of agitation. The snow dramatically raised its dervish dance around us as we headed out into the frigid night.<br /><br />We get to Marion Harding’s room and the door is ajar. We step inside and Marion is sprawled in an ugly fashion on the floor of the cramped bed-sit room. I am all confusion and unable to explain what might have happened. Chris is bent over the body as police from the North Yorkshire Constabulary arrive. I am suddenly the model of clarity and perception. "He did it!" I exclaim. "I saw him strangling her. He’s the one I called you about. Look – her scarf is hanging from his pocket!"<br /><br />There, on the nightstand, is a sad little epitaph to the recently deceased. Marion’s diary, open at today’s page and, in her handwriting, the note: "Meet Chris tonight." It is there, in black and white.<br /><br />When I graduated from NRU in Business Studies, it was an easy step to take a job in London, just after the Big Bang of deregulation on the stock market and financial institutions. It was easy to make a killing here too. I dutifully became obscenely wealthy and, as the Eighties segued into the Nineties and the bubble subsided, I quietly stepped back from coke-fuelled trading in the City to semi-retirement in my Docklands flat. The only thing I really lacked was a partner, a girl by my side. But the only woman I had ever loved had turned me down back in my college days because she was already seeing a sociology major called Chris, who, amongst his many good works, volunteered for the <em>Nightline</em> service at NRU. The only woman I ever loved was Marion Harding. I found out, one winter’s evening when my heart could bare the pain of rejection no more, when Chris was on duty at <em>Nightline</em>. I gave her one final chance to reject him in favour of me. She failed to do so and I took the only course of action I could see open to me. If I could not have her, then nobody would. It was a choice as clear as between night and day. Framing Chris was an exquisite bonus. He had the means, opportunity and possible motive – an arranged meeting to break up with him and go out with me, perhaps. He was sentenced to life. Or as good as, in this penal system.<br /><br />Now I sit in my apartment, staring at the ancient brick architecture and genuine maple floor and gaze blankly across the river, and I wonder what it has all been about. Light floods the open plan room but not my dark secret. How life would have been different with Marion at my side, when there is a knock at the door. Callers are unusual, but I answer just the same without hesitation.<br />A figure stands there, bent and with lined face. "Remember me?" he says.<br /><br />No, I do not, and say so. I expect an explanation. There is something vaguely familiar about the close-cropped red hair. He hits me suddenly with something so hard, all I see is a flash of light. Though I know I must be falling, it is as if the floor pivots up to meet me in the back. I am dazed and confused and can find no breath.<br /><br />"Perhaps you remember this," says the red-haired figure now kneeling on my chest. "This scarf is just like Marion’s. The one you planted on me all those years ago. The one you strangled her with and used to send me to prison for life!"<br /><br />He is looping the scarf around my neck. I can hardly breathe as it is with his full weight upon my chest, and the blow to the face moments earlier – what did he hit me with? There is blood in my mouth and I feel terribly hot.<br /><br />"They say life should mean life," he says – I’ve not a clue what he’s on about – "in your case, it will do!"<br /><br />The scarf slithers around my throat and he tugs it tighter still. I can get no air and my lungs are exploding. At last, I suddenly realise who he is and why is here and what he wants.<br /><br />Just as everything begins to go black.<br /><br />Maybe it is what I want too.<br /></div><div align="center"><br />The end.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3271880404501027236.post-44740629189902209492009-03-07T10:35:00.003+00:002009-03-12T00:57:50.316+00:00Vacuum<div align="justify"></div><div align="center">(<em>Space colonists fear only one thing.</em>)</div><div align="justify"><br />The stars jabbed out of the blackness of infinity from every direction. They were above and, as above, so below. They were to port as to starboard and ahead as aft. They freckled the face of the endless night and tried to pierce the eyes of the lovers, but the lovers only had eyes for each other.<br /><br />Albion was looking into Roxette’s eyes with keen adoration as she was telling him the news of the forthcoming grand festival.<br /><br />"So we are all to congregate in the hanger decks and try to make it as much of a celebration as possible."<br /><br />"What? Isn’t that a bit… well, <em>tacky</em>, under the circumstances?"<br /><br />"Don’t you see what my father is trying to do?" said Roxette. "It’s to boost morale after everything that’s happened."<br /><br />The stars swam dizzyingly all around them outside the Observer Dome as the great craft rotated. It was the only sky that Albion and Roxette had ever seen throughout their lives.<br /><br />"This was your father’s idea?" said Albion.<br /><br />"Well – now that the crew of the <em>Argo</em> are joining us on the <em>Prospero</em> for the rest of the mission, he felt as captain that he had to make their arrival into some of occasion. Don’t worry – he’s going to say something about the other crews that… were lost. But he thought if that was all he did everyone would be miserable for another couple of light-years and he didn’t want that. So – we’re having a big bash."<br /><br />"I should hope he does say something," said Albion. "What happened was tragic."<br /><br />"I know," said Roxette. "But at least we know <em>we</em> are safe on the <em>Prospero</em>. <em>Our</em> cargo hold door has been double-tested and there’s no flaw. And we found out that the <em>Argo</em>’s door was faulty <em>before</em> it blew, so we do have something to celebrate."<br /><br />Albion was coming round to Roxette’s view, but he still remained to be completely convinced. "A pity no-one found out before we lost the other two ships," he murmured.<br /><br />"It’s a pity there was a design fault at all! Just think how lucky we are that, as flagship, the <em>Prospero</em> is built differently."<br /><br />"That’s true," he shrugged, "otherwise we <em>would</em> have had it. We’re only just reaching half-way."<br /><br />"My grandfather told me of the festivities they had on Earth when the fleet was launched. I don’t know how they could they have made such a huge mistake."<br /><br />"We don’t know what <em>Earth</em> was like, come to that. Neither of us have ever been there."<br /><br />"I wonder what the new world will be like," said Roxette. "<em>That</em> will be something to celebrate for sure."<br /><br />"Just so long as we get there," said Albion.<br /><br />"Oh, stop being such a junk-dump!" she said.<br /><br /><br />The small fleet of four huge spacecraft had set off from the closeting comfort of Earth orbit for their exoplanetary destination two generations ago, the fusion-powered ion drive engines thrusting the ships at a steady acceleration, such that inside the craft, the feeling was exactly like the gravitational pull on the surface of their home planet. Within a year, they were close to the speed of light, though the convoluted warping of space and time, as described by Einstein’s theory of General Relativity, meant that this velocity was only approached but never reached. The one thing that was simple to understand: they would never be going back. Families set out on that stupendous journey, of such stupendous duration, that the parents would age and die, while children would be born and grow to take their place. At least, that had been the mission plan. Half way through their transit to their new home, a second Earth orbiting around the star <em>Tau Ceti</em>, the ships were to turn about face – no problem in the lifeless vacuum of space – and fire their engines forward as brakes, to bring them to a timely halt at their destination.<br /><br />But not all had gone to plan. Sealed inside the enormous containers, ever to be held with means neither of ingress or egress to the airless void save for inside a full, hard-pressured spacesuit, the fecundity of the travellers had fallen well below expectation. A full complement of passengers was 500, expected to be reached as journey’s end approached. However, not one ship held even a hundred as mid-point neared. Then disaster struck.<br /><br />The first ship to fall victim was the <em>Mexico</em>. The demise was as sudden as unexpected. A catastrophic failure of the hull, and the one thing feared by any who ever ventured into the void of space befell all on board, the loss of life-giving air to the unfillable vacuum of space. With no time to don pressure suits, death was swift. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. Blood was its Avatar and its seal – the redness and the horror of blood. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim as the nitrogen in the tissues boiled through the skin, shutting him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress and termination of the process, were the incidents of half a minute.<br /><br />At first the survivors on the other three ships, the <em>Prospero</em>, the <em>Argo</em> and the <em>Calypso</em>, thought that the <em>Mexico</em> had been prey to the most extravagant bad luck, a one-in-a-million chance encounter with a primordial chunk of space débris. Then barely had the shock and the grief at the loss begun to subside when the <em>Calypso</em>’s automatic monitoring systems detected that its hull too had been compromised, only this time without the explosive, balloon-like bursting that had laid waste to the <em>Mexico</em>. This time the true fault was identified – the massive hatch to the cargo bay, that would have been opened to unload the myriad items required to colonise and populate a new world, was found to be terminally compromised about its edge, its seal ruptured. Too late – the loss of air so rapid, that all had perished before they could evacuate in shuttle craft or in emergency pressure suits to the two vessels gliding alongside.<br /><br />Now forewarned, the crew of the <em>Argo</em>, identical in every way to its two sister ships, checked and eventually yet with haste identified a profound error in the construction of its own cargo bay door. Only the <em>Prospero</em>, with a slightly more elaborate and different design, offered refuge. The <em>Argo</em> was abandoned, and all of the remaining colonists joined together on the one sound craft for the final years of their fated journey.<br /><br /><br />"I presume you will be accompanied by Albion at tonight’s festival?" said Captain Prospero. The ship he commanded was named after his family.<br /><br />Roxette fidgeted uncomfortably. "Are you sure this festival is the right thing to do, dad? I mean, some people might think it’s a bit in bad taste. Do we all have to go?"<br /><br />The Captain faced his daughter and studied her gravely. "Yes, everyone. In all the time since I took over as commander of this mission from my father, I have never instructed passengers of this vessel in a more important duty."<br /><br />"But it seems disrespectful to the dead," said Roxette.<br /><br />"It is <em>in honour</em> of the dead that we celebrate. In that, and a restatement of the mission. You do understand?"<br /><br />Roxette Prospero looked levelly at her father. "I suppose so. It’s not as if we have any option."<br /><br />Captain Prospero frowned. "What do you mean? I’m not going to <em>force</em> you to attend if you would really prefer not to. But it would seem strange to the rest of the crew if my daughter were not there."<br /><br />"No, dad. I meant: it’s not like we can turn round and get back to Earth. We <em>have</em> to go on."<br /><br />"<em>Life</em> has to go on. Our life and our future lie ahead of us – something which is true for anyone. I was wondering – have you and Albion ever considered the idea of getting married?"<br /><br />"Dad!"<br /><br />"One day you may take over this command. One day when I am too old. It would be beneficent to yourself if you had someone, such as I have your mother, by your side to share in the burden of command, Roxette. Someone such as Albion, for example."<br /><br />"Oh, dad! Is our whole future planned out for us?"<br /><br />"The future of all of us," said Captain Prospero, "is in the stars. It has always been so."<br /><br />"But it is not set, is it, dad? We still do not know what the future is."<br /><br />Prospero knelt down at his daughter’s side. "My darling daughter, I am determined to make the festival as exciting an occasion as possible. There will be no shortage of stores from which to prepare a banquet. There will be actors playing skits, dancers, comedians, musicians. All these and security inside our spaceship home. Only outside will be the limitless vacuum. But perhaps you can help me."<br /><br />"In what way?"<br /><br />"The hangars, where the shuttle craft for planet-fall lie sleeping, offer plenty of room for revelry but are joyless in their appearance. I am thinking of decorating them, each with its own colour-scheme. One is to be blue, lit with blue lights, to suggest the oceans we long to see, the next exotically in purple, the next green, with green illumination to look like inside a jungle, the fourth orange, the fifth white and the sixth violet."<br /><br />"It sounds a bit gaudy," said Roxette. " Are you sure you’ve an eye for this sort of thing?"<br /><br />"Well, exactly," he allowed a modest grin. "And I’m sure it’s something that runs in the family. So I was wondering – maybe you could suggest the colour scheme for the last hangar."<br /><br />Roxette reflected. "How about… black?"<br /><br />"Black?"<br /><br />"Yes. Black velvet, like a dreamless sleep."<br /><br />"That sounds a little… moody."<br /><br />"No – it will be romantic. Black with red lights, a passionate scarlet, a deep blood colour. So that people who want to get close can do so in an intimate setting, not in a bright glare. That <em>is</em> what you want, isn’t it?"<br /><br />Captain Prospero was dubious. "Perhaps we could have a big digital clock at one end, with a red display, counting off the time to our arrival at our new home."<br /><br />"Yes," said Roxette. "After all, you do want us to look forward to raising our children there."<br /><br />"Perhaps – who knows? – tonight would be good time to announce a forthcoming marriage?"<br /><br />Roxette regarded her father strangely. "Perhaps."<br /><br /><br />Everyone was to wear fancy-dress, costumes of their own making. The anticipation that would build in such preparation would heighten the excitement, Prospero thought. No-one was to remain at duties. Prospero alone would man the bridge, watching the festivities from the cameras mounted on the decks.<br /><br />"All seems to be going well," Albion said to Roxette.<br /><br />"Things have livened up since the music and dancing began," she replied.<br /><br />"And since your father suspended restrictions on alcohol. I’ve never seen so much booze. Amazing how quickly people forget."<br /><br />"Don’t be harsh," said Roxette. "It helps melt their hearts."<br /><br />He turned to her. "Lucky we don’t need it."<br /><br /><br />From the bridge, Prospero watched, content that his instructions for a joyful occasion were going to plan. There were to be generous prizes for the most inventive costumes awarded at the height of the evening. It was then that he spotted something on the blue hangar’s monitor that appalled him. Some idiot had thought it would be amusing to come dressed in a pressure suit, the sort that would be worn in an emergency evacuation of a stricken craft. The very suit the kind of which the poor souls of the <em>Mexico</em> and the <em>Calypso</em> had been so grievously unable to don before they were overcome.<br /><br />Furiously, Prospero hurried down to the blue hangar, but the callous fool in the suit had already left for the orange hangar.<br /><br />"Master-At-Arms?" Prospero addressed a man dressed as a cowboy.<br /><br />"Sir?"<br /><br />"I know you’re not on duty but – somebody has come in a really offensive costume. We need to remove him before he upsets everyone."<br /><br />"Where is he?"<br /><br />"There he goes – into the next hangar!"<br /><br />The figure passed between other party-goers, all of them falling silent. Captain Prospero and the Master-At-Arms followed but could not catch him as he slipped between the crowds from one hangar to the next. At last, he arrived at the final hangar, with its black fabrics and scarlet illumination. Albion and Roxette were there, hand in hand, watching on.<br /><br />Prospero strode to the middle of the deck. "Who is that idiot who has come here dressed so distastefully?"<br /><br />The figure turned slowly to face Prospero. The gold-tinted visor was drawn down on the face-plate of the helmet, the thin film of metal hiding the visage within.<br /><br />"Master-At-Arms, grab that man."<br /><br />The Master-At-Arms however, hesitated.<br /><br />Prospero turned on him. "Unmask that vile interloper!"<br /><br />"Sir, I…" the master stammered and fell silent.<br /><br />"Very well," said Prospero, "I shall do it myself!"<br /><br />He reached forward and snapped back the all-concealing visor.<br /><br />Instead of someone he recognised, he saw a face, contorted and twisted in a rhesus of agony, fluids bubbling from the bulging eyes, blood sweating from skin and oozing from the nose and mouth, as one dying in the final stage of catastrophic decompression in the vacuum of space.<br /><br />Prospero fell back, a vaporous shriek wretched out of him as all air was torn from his lungs. He collapsed to the black-clothed deck, dead. Roxette screamed, and threw her arms round Albion, his name dying on her lips. He grabbed at her before he too succumbed. Within scarce a beat, those nearest likewise crumpled as the atmosphere ceased to exist, throats ripping, eyes exploding. On it went like a wave through the whole flux of people inside the spacecraft, and the digital clock stopped and its glowing ember lights went out. And now was acknowledged the presence of the vacuum. It had come like a thief in the night. And darkness and decay and the vacuum held illimitable dominion over all.<br /></div><div align="center"><br />The end. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3271880404501027236.post-10177367944471070902009-03-02T19:16:00.003+00:002009-03-02T19:21:37.454+00:00<div align="left"><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:180%;"><p></span></p></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:180%;">This Blog has now been replaced by a web site:</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div align="left"><a href="http://www.chorleywriters.co.uk/"><span style="font-size:180%;"><a href="http://www.chorleywriters.co.uk/">www.chorleywriters.co.uk</span></a> <p></p></a></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><p>Please go to the web site to see the latest news from the Writers' Circle & to post your work. </p></div><p></p><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><p></p></div><div align="left"><p></p>Many Thanks</div>CADWC Secretaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07371582552175970129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3271880404501027236.post-50251962488076180882009-01-28T19:31:00.002+00:002009-01-28T19:34:40.687+00:00An outside view of the AGM<em><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:78%;">A lament, to be sung to the tune of 'You Don't See Me' by Keane</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:78%;"></span></em><br /><strong>You didn’t see me</strong><br /><br />I got to the door,<br />I pushed it all right,<br />Struggled against it with all of my might<br />The door won’t budge, it’s locked up tight<br />And I’m out here, out of your sight<br /><br />I knocked really loud, I waved like a freak<br />You didn’t see me<br />You didn’t see me<br /><br />Don’t worry, I thought, let’s just wait a few<br />or five extra minutes and maybe they’ll view<br />This soggy figure all rained on<br />here in the dark and all alone<br /><br />but slowly I grasped, it wasn’t to be<br />You didn’t see me<br />You didn’t see me<br />You didn’t see me<br />No you didn’t see me<br /><br />And that’s when I knew<br />I could just be the wall<br />Cos you, you didn’t need me at all<br />And that’s when I knew<br />Give up the fight,<br />Give up the fight, the fight.<br /><br />The door won’t budge, it’s locked up tight<br />And I’m out here, out of your sight<br /><br />I knocked really loud, I waved like a freak<br />You didn’t see me<br />You didn’t see me<br />You didn’t see me<br />No, you didn’t see me<br />No, you didn’t see me.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://es.youtube.com/watch?v=jOGDLJBt-q8">http://es.youtube.com/watch?v=jOGDLJBt-q8</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3271880404501027236.post-39637050369744266272009-01-25T13:25:00.001+00:002009-01-25T13:29:23.632+00:00Changing Channels<div align="center"><em>So? – what have you changed for the New Year?</em></div><div align="center"><em>(Doing some more writing for a start – specially for Lynne)</em></div><div align="justify"><br />"Hello!? Anybody about?"<br /><br />Mike stepped inside the apartment, and listened. He could have sworn he’d heard a faint noise, muffled, distant, but now it appeared to have stopped. "That fridge’s getting noisy. I suppose we’ll need a new one soon."<br /><br />He immediately started hunting for the remote for the TV. As usual, like all remote controls, it had attempted to secrete itself under a cushion. He was wise to its ways, however, retrieved it, aimed the priceless gadget at the set and pressed ‘On.’<br /><br />He was waiting patiently for signs of life when the hallway door opened. "Good grief! Spencie! I didn’t know were home. Why didn’t you answer when I called out?"<br /><br />"Called out?" Spencie looked startled, and her eyes darted round the room. "I didn’t… didn’t hear you."<br /><br />"How come you’re not at the office?"<br /><br />"Took the afternoon off. Things to do. Anyway, how come you’re home so early?"<br /><br />"The international’s on live. England against Belarus. The kick-off’s four o’clock, so I thought I’d sneak out of work and catch it. I didn’t expect you’d be in for dinner till it was nearly over. Are you alright?"<br /><br />"Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?"<br /><br />"You seem a bit feverish."<br /><br />"Do I?" She put a hand to her cheek, her fingers fidgeting upwards to cover her eyes. "I’ve just been doing a spot of gardening. Potting some flowers. In the bedroom. Why don’t you come and see?"<br /><br />"That’s alright," Mike laughed, in the way that she had once found so appealing. "I wondered if you had a secret lover in there!" He moved closer to her and put his forehead against hers. "Hey, toots," he said, mock-Bogart, "I thought I was all the man you could handle."<br /><br />She seemed to relax into his arms. "Why don’t you come into the bedroom anyway, and let me…" she brushed his cheek with her mouth, "… check?"<br /><br />"Well, swee’heart… – what is wrong with this damn remote?" He suddenly snapped his attention to the still-silent television. "The game will have started! I think we’re going to have to get a new TV. And a new fridge too. I’m sure I could hear the thing buzzing when I came in."<br /><br />She stared at him coldly. "The batteries have probably gone."<br /><br />"Again?" he said, exasperated. "They’re always packing up. I can’t change channels on this stupid TV without the zapper." He snapped the cover off the back of the control and again he looked puzzled. "The batteries really have gone! There aren’t even any in here."<br /><br />Spencie licked her lip and took his hand. "Maybe you don’t need to watch football after all."<br /><br />Mike looked back at her, adoringly. "Spencie. Darling… It’s a qualifier – I’ve got to watch it. Have we any spare batteries?"<br /><br />She pivoted on her heel and stamped off up the hallway to the bedroom. She returned, jackboot, and threw a pair of <em>Energizer Extra Power</em> at him. "I shall get a bunch of spares tomorrow," she announced, as if making a manifesto commitment, then retreated back to the bedroom, closing the door sharply.<br /><br />It wasn’t until half time, with the score still nil-nil, that he wondered what she was doing in there.<br /><br /><br /><br />There was an atmosphere in the apartment after that. Christmas was coming. To Spencie, this meant: presents, wrapping paper and decorations. To Mike, it meant a crowded fixture list in the Premier League. Negotiations were entered into, and a <em>rapprochement</em> was achieved – Mike would go shopping anywhere Spencie wished as long as this didn’t coincide with Manchester United playing at home. He would not attend away matches as long as highlights were shown.<br /><br />It came to the Saturday before Christmas. Both had had a good day – a pile of purchases lay on the throw-rug before the couch, and Mike was secretly relieved to have an excuse not to travel to all the way to Fratton Park.<br /><br />And so they ended up on the couch, <em>Match of the Day</em> seemingly sinking into the background as the two of them demolished a bottle of Pinot grigio. Even the highlights had lost relevance as Mike had already accidentally seen the results in a branch of Currys.<br /><br />"I was wondering," said Spencie in her curiously circuitous way, "whether we might be thinking of an early night."<br /><br />Mike looked at her and seemed on the edge of a decision. "And Carrick keeps feeding Ronaldo down the channels," the commentator was saying, "but the Portsmouth defence is holding firm."<br /><br />"Well, change it," Mike yelled at the TV, "cross to the other wing!"<br /><br />Mike wondered later at what point in the evening Spencie had gone to bed.<br /><br /><br /><br />It was already dark on New Year’s Eve when Mike let himself into the apartment, with his now customary sheepishness. Spencie had become so volatile these days, so unpredictable, he had to be ready for anything. And, on this occasion, he felt pretty sure that he was.<br /><br />Spencie confronted him in the lounge. "I was wondering when – or if – you’d turn up. Thought perhaps you had gone to see your precious United."<br /><br />"Don’t be daft, pet – they don’t play on New Year’s Eve."<br /><br />"I sometimes think you love Man United more than you love me."<br /><br />Under his breath, he muttered, "I sometimes think I love Man City more than I love you."<br /><br />"What!?" she bellowed.<br /><br />"I said Man United aren’t as pretty as you."<br /><br />"How can I be compared with a football team on the basis of who’s prettier!?<br /><br />"Come on, Aspen," – he knew she hated it when he used her formal name – "change the record: ‘you’d rather watch a game than make love.’ When have I ever said that?"<br /><br />Spencie seemed to coil like a serpent and hissed, "Do you know what is the one time each year we don’t make love?"<br /><br />"When your mother visits?"<br /><br />"No," she retorted, triumphant, "when it’s the <em>football season</em>. Well, not any more!" She strode out of the room and returned a moment later with a stranger, another woman, rather plain and shapeless in Mike’s view, with a blunt bob haircut. "Meet Geraldine – my new <em>lesbian</em> lover! So whatever plans you had for this New Year, I think you might have to change them!"<br /><br />Spencie had imagined her announcement would have the lurid impact of a bomb in a paint factory. But it somehow landed curiously flat.<br /><br />"I’m not so sure about that," he said, and fetched a male stranger from the entrance. "Meet Gerald, my new best mate. I just came back to tell you – we’re going down Canal Street for the evening to discuss a flat back four and two holding players over a few glasses of Bailey’s."</div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="center"><p>The End</div><div align="justify"><br /><em>Author’s note: several people were kind enough to offer constructive criticism of this piece and, particularly, whether the use of the word ‘Lesbian’ was necessary near the end. I myself agonised over this as I am all in favour of letting the reader draw his or her own conclusions and at no other point is gender orientation mentioned explicitly (why should it be?) I came very close to removing the word, but changed my mind, for the following reasons. Firstly, she is not just adopting a new partner, but making (apparently) a major life-style choice - the main interpretation of the piece's title,</em> Changing Channels<em> - as a consequence of her recent relationship. Secondly, she wants to emphasise this point specifically to annoy and prick the conscience of her former partner. Finally, and more trivially, she is probably lying! – she has in all likelihood, neither got a new partner nor adopted a new lifestyle – her outburst is motivated as an attack on her old partner. His response, however, is somewhat different…</em></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3271880404501027236.post-26165643357080783722009-01-03T11:34:00.001+00:002009-01-03T11:36:43.769+00:00<div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:180%;color:#993399;">HAPPY NEW YEAR</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:180%;color:#993399;"></span> </div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#333333;">Hello to all CADWC members & I hope you all had a great Christmas.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#333333;">See you all at the next meeting.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#333333;"><strong>7.30pm - Tues 27th January 2009</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;color:#333333;">Astley Farm House, Astley Village</span></div>CADWC Secretaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07371582552175970129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3271880404501027236.post-47546302978417568232008-12-14T10:00:00.001+00:002008-12-14T10:02:38.854+00:00<div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:180%;"><strong>AWARE MAGAZINE FOR SALE</strong></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Please contact Heather Richardson</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;"><a href="mailto:heather@creativekitcompany.co.uk">heather@creativekitcompany.co.uk</a></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">if you would like to purchase copies of AWARE</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;">Price £2.99 (+P&P)</span></div>CADWC Secretaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07371582552175970129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3271880404501027236.post-65080140921102580912008-12-14T09:42:00.007+00:002008-12-14T10:00:45.497+00:00<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">CADWC</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Inaugural</span> Writing Competition 2008</span></strong><br /></div><p>The Winner was John <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Yeadon</span>, from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Adlington</span>, for his story Flight <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">EW</span>321. He was presented with £50 and a copy of AWARE.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_TaN9Uhqt5wQ/SUTWOODbDjI/AAAAAAAAAAc/jxOkzE4m5RU/s1600-h/CADWC+1st+prize+J+Yeadon.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279580202964028978" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 229px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 227px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_TaN9Uhqt5wQ/SUTWOODbDjI/AAAAAAAAAAc/jxOkzE4m5RU/s320/CADWC+1st+prize+J+Yeadon.jpg" border="0" /></a> The runner-up prize of £25 was presented to our very own Nicky J Poole, from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Coppull</span>, with Small Sacrifices.<br /><br />The winners were chosen by the author <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Cath</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Staincliffe</span>, 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.<br /><br />All five stories are published in this year's AWARE magazine - Please contact Heather Richardson if you would like to purchase a copy.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><strong></strong></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><strong>1st Prize Winner John <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Yeadon</span></strong></span></span><br /><br /></p><p align="center"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_TaN9Uhqt5wQ/SUTXSN6q9GI/AAAAAAAAAAk/Zn4OJX78TYg/s1600-h/secondprizecolour2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279581371158426722" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_TaN9Uhqt5wQ/SUTXSN6q9GI/AAAAAAAAAAk/Zn4OJX78TYg/s320/secondprizecolour2.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:78%;"><strong>Nicky J Poole receives his prize from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Cath</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Staincliffe</span></strong></span></p>CADWC Secretaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07371582552175970129noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3271880404501027236.post-76550828862566229092008-12-07T16:34:00.003+00:002008-12-07T16:45:29.252+00:00Waxwing melting from my sight<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5gFc5p12xP8/STv7uOoy1fI/AAAAAAAAAdA/SuUoGKa6Fxg/s1600-h/waxwing.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 129px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5gFc5p12xP8/STv7uOoy1fI/AAAAAAAAAdA/SuUoGKa6Fxg/s200/waxwing.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5277088160016422386" border="0" /></a>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...<br /><br />But not to worry, 40 were seen in Preston yesterday, so I went there today - to find only bare rowan stalks.... Ah well.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Thanks to Rick Spencer of Chorley NATS for this photo - he did get to Chorley tree in time.</span><br /><br />I wonder what the chances are of getting a mature rowan in the garden for Christmas...?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3271880404501027236.post-85137349265728126962008-12-06T22:21:00.002+00:002008-12-06T22:24:23.403+00:00I AM by Carole HatchThis is a poem by new member Carole Hatch......<br />.....about a voyage of discovery or enlightenment<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>I Am</strong><br /><br /> <br />Black the silent sorrows,<br />the heavy cloak of care,<br />holds the dark world captive<br />unmoving, ties it there.<br /><br />Tired, heart despairing,<br />lost in emdless night.<br />Resigned to ever failing,<br />has given up the fight.<br /><br />The fluttering of frantic wings<br />that beat towards the sky.<br />the howling of a hundred winds<br />that cause the leaves to fly.<br /><br />the panic flight of hunted things<br />that flee from suns first light.<br />the thought that looks the world about<br />and seeks a foe to fight.<br /><br />Confusion, undecided<br />turning this way and that.<br />running in a circle<br />who knows to which from what.<br /><br />Morings first light,<br />the dawn of understanding<br />clear and unshadowed life,<br />peacefull; undemanding.<br /><br />Still, so still the soul.<br />how clear the brilliant certainty.<br />the hear, the now, the moment.<br />to reachout and touch eternity.<br /><br />No more the shadows clad in robes,<br />for kings to praise or beggars damn,<br />will dim the light that gives me heart<br />at last to say - I Am.CADWC Secretaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07371582552175970129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3271880404501027236.post-33575329586235707922008-11-26T21:00:00.002+00:002008-11-26T21:03:28.972+00:00AWARE MAGAZINE LAUNCHTHIS YEAR'S AWARE MAGAZINE IS TO BE LAUNCHED AT 'THE <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">HARTWOOD</span>' PUB, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Nr CHORLEY HOSPITAL</span><br /><br />TV Scriptwriter and Novelist <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Cath</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Staincliffe</span> will be the guest speaker.<br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Cath</span> will also be announcing the winners of our <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">inaugural</span> Writing Competition<br /><br />3rd DECEMBER @ 7pm<br />FREE ADMISSIONCADWC Secretaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07371582552175970129noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3271880404501027236.post-52189853176100343682008-11-18T18:39:00.002+00:002008-11-18T18:43:30.477+00:00And now for some real poetry...from a possible future member of Chorley Writers'?<br /><br /><strong>The Blustering Wind</strong><br /><strong></strong><br />Who has seen the wind?<br />Blowing down the trees<br />Leaves blowing down the street<br />Water jumping up and down<br />and gates flying open and closed.<br /><br />Who has heard the wind?<br />Rustling through the leaves<br />The wind howls like a wolf<br />and crashes through the trees.<br /><br />Balls blowing away from children<br />Birthday cards blowing out of windows<br />Models blow off window-sills<br />and break in pieces on the floor.<br /><br /><br />This is my son's first poem which he wrote as part of a school project on the subject of 'wind'. He is 8.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3271880404501027236.post-20036352624159293432008-11-15T08:57:00.003+00:002008-11-15T09:05:18.834+00:00Losing the plot?...Hello everyone!<br />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:<br /><br /><strong>Missing</strong><br /><br />Please help me, have you seen my son?<br />He was right here only a second ago.<br />I turned for just a moment and he was gone.<br /><br />We were on our way to the park for some fun<br />I had him by the hand, and he let go.<br />Please help me, have you seen my son?<br /><br />It’s all my fault, oh what have I done?<br />My boy, he’s only 4 years old you know,<br />I turned for just a moment and he was gone.<br /><br />He was wearing trousers with pockets on the knee,<br />and a t-shirt egg yolk yellow.<br />Please help me, have you seen my son?<br /><br />He’d asked me if it was okay to run<br />I said not to wander, I told him so.<br />I turned for just a moment and he was gone<br /><br />Has anyone seen him, please help me, anyone?<br />No wait…excuse me…are you listening, hello?<br />Please help me, have you seen my son?<br />I turned for just a moment and he was gone.<br /><br /><br />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!<br /><br />Look forward to seeing you all at the launch night.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3271880404501027236.post-12307595139942133032008-11-08T22:57:00.002+00:002008-11-08T23:00:26.423+00:00PoemA Day for NovemberA 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:<br /><br />http://blog.writersdigest.comUnknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3271880404501027236.post-48853200686632971532008-11-08T12:48:00.002+00:002008-11-08T12:51:17.493+00:00Good news everyone...to use my best Futurama voice!<br /><br />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 <em>Pennine Ink Poetry Competition</em> I decided to enter my poem <em>It is not dark</em>.<br /><br />And guess what?<br /><br />I came second! Yippeeee!<br /><br />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.<br /><br />See, already practicing my Oscar speech!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3271880404501027236.post-75788826216360501662008-11-02T11:16:00.002+00:002008-11-02T11:19:24.670+00:00National Novel Writing MonthNovember 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: <a href="http://www.nanowrimo.org/eng/whatisnano">http://www.nanowrimo.org/eng/whatisnano</a><br /><br />Anyone fancy signing up?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3271880404501027236.post-67234455903230954802008-10-06T21:05:00.002+01:002008-10-06T21:16:00.792+01:00<div align="left"><strong><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">AWARE MAGAZINE & COMPETITION</span></strong></div><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">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). </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The competition is open to anyone living or working in the PR postcode area.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The entry fee for CADWC members is £2 (£3 for non-members)</span> </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">The closing date is 24th October 2008. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"><strong><span style="color:#990000;">PRIZES:</span></strong> The winner will receive £50 and there is a £25 second prize. </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Shortlisted entries will be read out on the launch night by acclaimed novelist and script-writer Cath Staincliffe</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Entries need to be emailed to </span><a href="mailto:Dea@compedge.net"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Dea@compedge.net</span></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">or posted to: Dea Parkin, Aware Competition, 3 Dale View, Chorley PR7 3QJ</span> <br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;">Competition entries will only be considered once the entry fee has been received.<br /><em>Please make cheques payable to <strong>Chorley & District Writers’ Circle</strong>.</em></span>CADWC Secretaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07371582552175970129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3271880404501027236.post-18730622877908140322008-10-02T20:12:00.002+01:002008-10-02T20:19:15.182+01:00Catch 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 <em>Catch 22</em> 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.<br /><br />Here's the passage:<br /><br />"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.<br />‘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.’<br />‘How come he doesn’t know it?’ inquired Yossarian.<br />‘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?’<br />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.<br />‘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.<br />‘What?’ Appleby responded sharply, thrown into confusion by the fact that Yossarian had spoken to him at all.<br />‘You’ve got flies in your eyes,’ Yossarian repeated. ‘That’s probably why you can’t see them.’<br />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.<br />‘Havermeyer,’ he asked hesitantly. ‘Have I got flies in my eyes?’<br />Havermeyer blinked quizzically. ‘Sties?’ he asked.<br />‘No, flies’ he was told<br />Havermeyer blinked again. ‘Flies?’<br />‘In my eyes.’<br />‘You must be crazy,’ Havermeyer said<br />‘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.’<br />Havermeyer popped another piece of peanut brittle into his mouth and peered very closely into Appleby’s eyes.<br />‘I don’t see any,’ he announced.<br />Appleby heaved an immense sigh of relief. Havermeyer had tiny bits of peanut brittle adhering to his lips, chin and cheeks.<br />‘You’ve got peanut brittle crumbs on your face,’ Appleby remarked to him.<br />‘I’d rather have peanut brittle crumbs on my face than flies in my eyes,’ Havermeyer retorted. "Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3271880404501027236.post-15414668288756996912008-09-21T10:24:00.002+01:002008-09-21T10:29:33.907+01:00LitanyHello all,<br /><br />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 <a href="http://www.online-literature.com/forums">www.online-literature.com/forums</a> and it's a nice site with a reading section, a writing section, and a general section, and they have blogs too!<br /><br />Anyway, here is the poem:<br /><br /><strong>Swallow</strong><br /><br />I swallow the kiss of a secret lover.<br />I swallow the hand reaching out for another.<br />I swallow the joy from a toddler’s smile.<br />I swallow the watch with the broken dial.<br />I swallow the dreams of a newlywed bride.<br />I swallow the memories from a dying man’s eyes.<br />I swallow the hope of a new generation.<br />I swallow the pause in a long conversation.<br />I swallow the what, the how, and the why.<br />I swallow the stars from a crisp autumn sky.<br />I swallow the essence of a good man’s soul.<br /> <br />I swallow the Earth then spit it out again, whole.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3271880404501027236.post-51004247089283653652008-09-04T13:06:00.003+01:002008-09-04T13:20:23.672+01:00Beware 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?)<br /><br />GRACE: What are you doing back here?<br />ANDY: We gotta go.<br />GRACE: Go? Go where?<br />ANDY: Leave. Leave now!<br />GRACE: Leave the flat?<br />ANDY: The flat. The town. This country.<br />GRACE: Leave Bosnia?<br />ANDY: At last! I’m getting through.<br />GRACE: We came here to do a job.<br />ANDY: And I’ve screwed it up.<br />GRACE: Why? How?<br />ANDY: We haven’t time for this.<br />GRACE: Andy, you’re not making sense.<br />ANDY: I went to see Voislav.<br />GRACE: I know – the biggest sex trafficker here.<br />ANDY: He paid me to see the girl.<br />GRACE: Aldina? The pregnant girl?<br />ANDY: He made me talk her into going.<br />GRACE: So? Is your conscience bothering you?<br />ANDY: Apparently!<br />GRACE: What happened?<br />ANDY: He gave me money… and a gift.<br />GRACE: What sort of gift?<br />ANDY: A gun. A pistol.<br />GRACE: Something for the man who has everything.<br />ANDY: Then I thought, “I hate this monster.”<br />GRACE: And?<br />ANDY: And I shot him.<br />GRACE: You did what!?<br />ANDY: I shot him.<br />GRACE: You twit! You bastard!<br />ANDY: I know. I just – just lost it.<br />GRACE: We’re trying to stop a sex trafficker…<br />ANDY: I know.<br />GRACE: But not by bloody murdering him.<br />ANDY: I know! They’ll be after us.<br />GRACE: You promised our parents we’d be safe.<br />ANDY: Well, we’re not now.<br />GRACE: No! Now you’re gonna get us killed.<br />ANDY: That’s why we have to leave.<br />GRACE: You were like this as a kid.<br />ANDY: What?<br />GRACE: Every Christmas…<br />ANDY: What are you on about?<br />GRACE: Someone gave you something you didn’t like…<br />ANDY: What do you mean?<br />GRACE: You always threw it back at them!<br /><br />END OF PIECE<br /><em></em><em></em><em></em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3271880404501027236.post-63960509625600577392008-08-31T20:58:00.004+01:002008-08-31T21:18:59.443+01:00Addendum to the Script / Dialogue WorkshopThis 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.<br /><p><br />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:</p><ul><li>the scene had to include two characters;</li><li>there were to be <em>no</em> ‘stage’ directions and <em>no</em> scene-setting preamble;</li><li><em>no</em> speech could be longer than <em>seven</em> words.</li></ul><p align="justify">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.</p><p align="justify">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.</p><p align="justify">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?</p><p align="justify">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. <em>Per censuram eruditio</em>.</p><p><span style="font-size:180%;">Persuasion<br /></span>Grace: Hi, Andy, what are you doing here?<br />Andy: Grace, what are you playing at?<br />Grace: What do you mean?<br />Andy: Mum and Dad are worried sick.<br />Grace: Why?<br />Andy: ‘Why’? Why do you think?<br />Grace: They think you can change my mind.<br />Andy: Get you to see their view.<br />Grace: And you’ll succeed where they failed.<br />Andy: Not just them – I think it’s madness.<br />Grace: Listen, Andy, something’s got to be done.<br />Andy: But why by you?<br />Grace: Why not me?<br />Andy: What can you do on your own?<br />Grace: Lots of things. I know about this.<br />Andy: Sex trafficking?<br />Grace: I do work at the Home Office.<br />Andy: No qualification for going to Bosnia.<br />Grace: It’s good enough.<br />Andy: Grace, it’s too dangerous to go alone.<br />Grace: Fine. Come with me.<br />Andy: What!?<br />Grace: Come with me. You could be helpful.<br />Andy: What would I want to go for?<br />Grace: To do the right thing.<br />Andy: I’d rather do right by staying home.<br />Grace: How would that help these poor women?<br />Andy: They’re not my concern. You are.<br />Grace: So come with me.<br />Andy: And do what?<br />Grace: Look after your little sister.<br />Andy: That’s what I’m trying to do now.<br />Grace: And it’ll keep Mum and Dad happy.<br />Andy: What am I going to tell them?<br />Grace: That you’ve suddenly developed a backbone.<br />Andy: I don’t think they’ll believe that.<br />Grace: Why not, you softie?<br />Andy: Had I, I’d stand up to you.</p><p align="center"><br />End of Scene</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3271880404501027236.post-13393573354548267862008-08-29T21:11:00.004+01:002008-08-31T17:14:50.833+01:00SCRIPT / DIALOGUE WORKSHOP<span style="font-family:arial;">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 !!! </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>INTRODUCTION<br /></strong>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.<br /><br /><strong>OPENING SCENE<br /></strong>A suburb of Leeds. Pan shot of a run-down street. Its 5am and still dark outside.<br />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.<br /><br /><strong>GINGER: Have y’got the warrant?<br />FRED: Course I ‘ave!<br />GINGER: Well go on then, knock an’ get on wi’ it.<br />FRED: It’s already open.<br />GINGER: What do y’ mean it’s open?<br />FRED: Open! Y’know – it’s open!<br />GINGER: Hmmm. Doors are never open.<br />FRED: Suppose w’ just knock and go in?</strong><br /><br />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.<br /><br /><strong>GINGER: After you mate.<br />FRED: Isn’t it always?<br /></strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Fred knocks loudly on the door frame. </span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>FRED: Hello? Mr Johnston. Bailiffs!</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">There's no answer. He steps into the house. Ginger follows but stumbles over the ‘storm-drain’ and pushes Fred further into the house.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Cut to the interior of the house. Shabby, dark and drab.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><br /><strong>FRED: Watch it! …… Jeeesus it’s dark.<br />GINGER: S’ok I’ve got the light switch.</strong><br /><br />A dull light comes on from a single bulb overhead.<br /><br /><strong>FRED: Blood – e – hell. Look at that.<br /></strong><br />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.<br /><br /><strong>GINGER: Is it a dummy?<br />FRED: God I ‘ope so. It’s got no head.</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;"></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Courier New;"></span>CADWC Secretaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07371582552175970129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3271880404501027236.post-25671052824291565772008-08-22T11:38:00.003+01:002008-08-22T11:42:51.300+01:00This poem was written a few weeks ago <em>before </em>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)<br /><br /><strong>GEORGIA</strong><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">My white cat<br />(Georgia),<br />The one with the stubborn streak,<br />Just walked across my face<br />Demanding food to eat.<br />She sits on my chest<br />And stares down at me.<br />“No food – no move,”<br />Her eyes told me.<br />She shifts a paw,<br />Then a claw<br />Menacingly.<br /><br />So I fed her.</span>CADWC Secretaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07371582552175970129noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3271880404501027236.post-36447542599752271592008-08-10T11:12:00.002+01:002008-08-10T11:30:14.836+01:00Tanka-you!Thanks to everyone for the feedback on my <em>Geisha</em> poem. You may not have realised but the poem was constructed using three <strong>Tanka</strong>.<br /><br /><strong>About Tanka</strong><br /><br />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 <strong>haiku</strong>, though it might surprise you to hear that tanka were around long before the haiku.<br /><br />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:<br /><br />My Lord has departed<br />And the days have passed.<br />Shall I search the mountains,<br />Going forth to meet him,<br />Or wait and wait for him?<br /><br />or this one from Okura<br /><br />What are they to me,<br />Silver, or gold, or jewels?<br />How could they ever<br />Equal the greater treasure<br />that is a child?<br /><br />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:<br /><br /><strong>Sunday morning</strong><br /><br />Echoes of bacon,<br />coffee still warm in the pot.<br />Sleepy: beds unmade.<br />Grass overgrown, pray for rain<br />and sweet silence: peaceful day.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5