Chorley And District Writers' Circle

2009-06-10T15:57:00.001+01:00

This Blog is closed and has been replaced by our web site:
www.chorleywriters.co.uk

Please go to the web site to see the latest news from the Writers' Circle & to post your work.
Many Thanks

CADWC Committee

Black and White

2009-04-04T13:53:00.002+01:00

(Somebody at risk of harm - but to themselves or somebody else?)

It’s black and everywhere is white.

Or is it white and everywhere is black?

I can’t figure it out. It’s black everywhere and it’s white everywhere.

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.

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?

What have I just done?

Was it right? These things are never black and white.

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.

The centre of campus, the piazza, is totally deserted. Lamps burn pointlessly overhead, illuminating a dazzling, deserted tableau.

I stumble on.

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 – coupé en brosse as the French would say, and red stubble of beard – it is the only colour in this monochrome scene.

"Are you Malcolm?" he says, almost conversationally.

"Malc," I nod, correcting. "Call me Malc."

"My name’s Chris. We spoke earlier. Have you taken any pills?" He has the politeness to grin slightly as he asks.

"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."

"Are you feeling dizzy?"

"Dizzy? No… no, I don’t think so," I lie. I’ve taken some tranqs, but that’s understandable.

"It’s been five minutes since you called the Nightline 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?"

"No, not dizzy. Just hot. Here," I tugged at the clothing at my neck, "let me take my scarf off."

Nightline 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 Nightline 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.

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.

"Sure."

Despite his casual, amiable manner, I knew he was studying me closely.

"There is something else," I said. "My girlfriend."

"What about her?"

"I think I may have… harmed her."

"Harmed? In what way?" said Chris.

"A bad way."

He remained calm, but it was with a hint of effort, of self-control. "Where is she?"

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.

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!"

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.

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 Nightline 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 Nightline. 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.

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.
A figure stands there, bent and with lined face. "Remember me?" he says.

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.

"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!"

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.

"They say life should mean life," he says – I’ve not a clue what he’s on about – "in your case, it will do!"

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.

Just as everything begins to go black.

Maybe it is what I want too.

The end.

Vacuum

2009-03-07T10:35:00.003Z

(Space colonists fear only one thing.)

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.

Albion was looking into Roxette’s eyes with keen adoration as she was telling him the news of the forthcoming grand festival.

"So we are all to congregate in the hanger decks and try to make it as much of a celebration as possible."

"What? Isn’t that a bit… well, tacky, under the circumstances?"

"Don’t you see what my father is trying to do?" said Roxette. "It’s to boost morale after everything that’s happened."

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.

"This was your father’s idea?" said Albion.

"Well – now that the crew of the Argo are joining us on the Prospero 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."

"I should hope he does say something," said Albion. "What happened was tragic."

"I know," said Roxette. "But at least we know we are safe on the Prospero. Our cargo hold door has been double-tested and there’s no flaw. And we found out that the Argo’s door was faulty before it blew, so we do have something to celebrate."

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.

"It’s a pity there was a design fault at all! Just think how lucky we are that, as flagship, the Prospero is built differently."

"That’s true," he shrugged, "otherwise we would have had it. We’re only just reaching half-way."

"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."

"We don’t know what Earth was like, come to that. Neither of us have ever been there."

"I wonder what the new world will be like," said Roxette. "That will be something to celebrate for sure."

"Just so long as we get there," said Albion.

"Oh, stop being such a junk-dump!" she said.

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 Tau Ceti, 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.

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.

The first ship to fall victim was the Mexico. 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.

At first the survivors on the other three ships, the Prospero, the Argo and the Calypso, thought that the Mexico 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 Calypso’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 Mexico. 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.

Now forewarned, the crew of the Argo, 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 Prospero, with a slightly more elaborate and different design, offered refuge. The Argo was abandoned, and all of the remaining colonists joined together on the one sound craft for the final years of their fated journey.

"I presume you will be accompanied by Albion at tonight’s festival?" said Captain Prospero. The ship he commanded was named after his family.

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?"

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."

"But it seems disrespectful to the dead," said Roxette.

"It is in honour of the dead that we celebrate. In that, and a restatement of the mission. You do understand?"

Roxette Prospero looked levelly at her father. "I suppose so. It’s not as if we have any option."

Captain Prospero frowned. "What do you mean? I’m not going to force 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."

"No, dad. I meant: it’s not like we can turn round and get back to Earth. We have to go on."

"Life 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?"

"Dad!"

"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."

"Oh, dad! Is our whole future planned out for us?"

"The future of all of us," said Captain Prospero, "is in the stars. It has always been so."

"But it is not set, is it, dad? We still do not know what the future is."

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."

"In what way?"

"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."

"It sounds a bit gaudy," said Roxette. " Are you sure you’ve an eye for this sort of thing?"

"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."

Roxette reflected. "How about… black?"

"Black?"

"Yes. Black velvet, like a dreamless sleep."

"That sounds a little… moody."

"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 is what you want, isn’t it?"

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."

"Yes," said Roxette. "After all, you do want us to look forward to raising our children there."

"Perhaps – who knows? – tonight would be good time to announce a forthcoming marriage?"

Roxette regarded her father strangely. "Perhaps."

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.

"All seems to be going well," Albion said to Roxette.

"Things have livened up since the music and dancing began," she replied.

"And since your father suspended restrictions on alcohol. I’ve never seen so much booze. Amazing how quickly people forget."

"Don’t be harsh," said Roxette. "It helps melt their hearts."

He turned to her. "Lucky we don’t need it."

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 Mexico and the Calypso had been so grievously unable to don before they were overcome.

Furiously, Prospero hurried down to the blue hangar, but the callous fool in the suit had already left for the orange hangar.

"Master-At-Arms?" Prospero addressed a man dressed as a cowboy.

"Sir?"

"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."

"Where is he?"

"There he goes – into the next hangar!"

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.

Prospero strode to the middle of the deck. "Who is that idiot who has come here dressed so distastefully?"

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.

"Master-At-Arms, grab that man."

The Master-At-Arms however, hesitated.

Prospero turned on him. "Unmask that vile interloper!"

"Sir, I…" the master stammered and fell silent.

"Very well," said Prospero, "I shall do it myself!"

He reached forward and snapped back the all-concealing visor.

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.

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.

The end.

2009-03-02T19:16:00.003Z

This Blog has now been replaced by a web site:

www.chorleywriters.co.uk

Please go to the web site to see the latest news from the Writers' Circle & to post your work.

Many Thanks

An outside view of the AGM

2009-01-28T19:31:00.002Z

A lament, to be sung to the tune of 'You Don't See Me' by Keane

You didn’t see me

I got to the door,
I pushed it all right,
Struggled against it with all of my might
The door won’t budge, it’s locked up tight
And I’m out here, out of your sight

I knocked really loud, I waved like a freak
You didn’t see me
You didn’t see me

Don’t worry, I thought, let’s just wait a few
or five extra minutes and maybe they’ll view
This soggy figure all rained on
here in the dark and all alone

but slowly I grasped, it wasn’t to be
You didn’t see me
You didn’t see me
You didn’t see me
No you didn’t see me

And that’s when I knew
I could just be the wall
Cos you, you didn’t need me at all
And that’s when I knew
Give up the fight,
Give up the fight, the fight.

The door won’t budge, it’s locked up tight
And I’m out here, out of your sight

I knocked really loud, I waved like a freak
You didn’t see me
You didn’t see me
You didn’t see me
No, you didn’t see me
No, you didn’t see me.

http://es.youtube.com/watch?v=jOGDLJBt-q8

Changing Channels

2009-01-25T13:25:00.001Z

So? – what have you changed for the New Year?

(Doing some more writing for a start – specially for Lynne)

"Hello!? Anybody about?"

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."

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.’

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?"

"Called out?" Spencie looked startled, and her eyes darted round the room. "I didn’t… didn’t hear you."

"How come you’re not at the office?"

"Took the afternoon off. Things to do. Anyway, how come you’re home so early?"

"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?"

"Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?"

"You seem a bit feverish."

"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?"

"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."

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?"

"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."

She stared at him coldly. "The batteries have probably gone."

"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."

Spencie licked her lip and took his hand. "Maybe you don’t need to watch football after all."

Mike looked back at her, adoringly. "Spencie. Darling… It’s a qualifier – I’ve got to watch it. Have we any spare batteries?"

She pivoted on her heel and stamped off up the hallway to the bedroom. She returned, jackboot, and threw a pair of Energizer Extra Power 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.

It wasn’t until half time, with the score still nil-nil, that he wondered what she was doing in there.

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 rapprochement 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.

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.

And so they ended up on the couch, Match of the Day 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.

"I was wondering," said Spencie in her curiously circuitous way, "whether we might be thinking of an early night."

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."

"Well, change it," Mike yelled at the TV, "cross to the other wing!"

Mike wondered later at what point in the evening Spencie had gone to bed.

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.

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."

"Don’t be daft, pet – they don’t play on New Year’s Eve."

"I sometimes think you love Man United more than you love me."

Under his breath, he muttered, "I sometimes think I love Man City more than I love you."

"What!?" she bellowed.

"I said Man United aren’t as pretty as you."

"How can I be compared with a football team on the basis of who’s prettier!?

"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?"

Spencie seemed to coil like a serpent and hissed, "Do you know what is the one time each year we don’t make love?"

"When your mother visits?"

"No," she retorted, triumphant, "when it’s the football season. 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 lesbian lover! So whatever plans you had for this New Year, I think you might have to change them!"

Spencie had imagined her announcement would have the lurid impact of a bomb in a paint factory. But it somehow landed curiously flat.

"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."

The End

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, Changing Channels - 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…

2009-01-03T11:34:00.001Z

HAPPY NEW YEAR

Hello to all CADWC members & I hope you all had a great Christmas.

See you all at the next meeting.

7.30pm - Tues 27th January 2009

Astley Farm House, Astley Village

2008-12-14T10:00:00.001Z

AWARE MAGAZINE FOR SALE

Please contact Heather Richardson

heather@creativekitcompany.co.uk

if you would like to purchase copies of AWARE

Price £2.99 (+P&P)

2008-12-14T09:42:00.007Z

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

Waxwing melting from my sight

2008-12-07T16:34:00.003Z

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...?

I AM by Carole Hatch

2008-12-06T22:21:00.002Z

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.

AWARE MAGAZINE LAUNCH

2008-11-26T21:00:00.002Z

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

And now for some real poetry...

2008-11-18T18:39:00.002Z

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.

Losing the plot?...

2008-11-15T08:57:00.003Z

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.

PoemA Day for November

2008-11-08T22:57:00.002Z

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

Good news everyone...

2008-11-08T12:48:00.002Z

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!

National Novel Writing Month

2008-11-02T11:16:00.002Z

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?

2008-10-06T21:05:00.002+01:00

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.

Catch 22 'flies in my eyes'!

2008-10-02T20:12:00.002+01:00

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. "

Litany

2008-09-21T10:24:00.002+01:00

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.

Beware of gifts

2008-09-04T13:06:00.003+01:00

(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

Addendum to the Script / Dialogue Workshop

2008-08-31T20:58:00.004+01:00

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

SCRIPT / DIALOGUE WORKSHOP

2008-08-29T21:11:00.004+01:00

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.

2008-08-22T11:38:00.003+01:00

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.

Tanka-you!

2008-08-10T11:12:00.002+01:00

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.

From the Reading Night.....

2008-08-09T09:42:00.002+01:00

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 – space to breathe and take in her surroundings. The café 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.

Geisha

2008-07-07T10:55:00.004+01:00

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.

Haiku

2008-06-21T12:25:00.002+01:00

Fringing railway tracks

orange poppy clusters stretch

up to summer skies

Aware 4

2008-05-31T13:51:00.002+01:00

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.

AGM Minutes (excluding committee): 27th May 2008

2008-05-31T13:50:00.000+01:00

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.

Post AGM Changes

2008-05-29T18:40:00.002+01:00

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.

Farewell from the chair

2008-05-28T08:19:00.003+01:00

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

Success!

2008-05-20T20:47:00.002+01:00

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/

About the AGM

2008-05-18T08:20:00.000+01:00

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.

Secretary and Chair Required (not for sitting on...)

2008-04-22T22:19:00.003+01:00

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

2008-04-22T22:15:00.003+01:00

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.

The launch / reading evening 25th March at Lancashire College

2008-03-25T23:54:00.003Z

L-R Nicky J Poole, Carol Thistlethwaite, Peter Cropper and Alec Price

Check out my new blog

2008-03-16T20:41:00.002Z

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.

Book Launch

2008-03-09T14:16:00.004Z

Book Launch – Tues 25^th March 2008 7.30pm

Chorley and District Writers’ Circle invite you to the launch of

from the field book by Carol Thistlethwaite

GSOH by Nicky J Poole

Lancashire College, Southport Rd, Chorley 7.30 – 9pm

Local writers Alex Price and Peter Cropper

will likewise be reading and selling signed copies of their books

My dreaded poetry assignment

2008-02-28T12:04:00.003Z

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.

The flicker of a candle

2008-02-28T10:44:00.002Z

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 )

Meeting 26th February 2008

2008-02-27T19:59:00.002Z

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.

Extract from GSOH – hiding at Crispin’s

2008-02-26T23:38:00.002Z

(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

New Novel GSOH available now!

2008-02-13T10:43:00.003Z

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.

Best Wishes,

NJP.

Chorley Writers' Websites

2008-02-03T11:34:00.000Z

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?

Meeting 29th January 2008

2008-02-03T11:22:00.000Z

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!

International launch 20/21 March 2008

2008-01-24T19:21:00.000Z

'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

Tell us what YOU want!!!

2008-01-07T19:06:00.000Z

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!!

Real Christmas

2008-01-03T23:34:00.000Z

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.

The end.

Winter Song

2007-12-21T20:32:00.000Z

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

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

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

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

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

The Truth About Santa Claus

2007-12-21T20:28:00.000Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" she said.

"Santa Claus doesn't exist."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?" she said.

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

"Suppose so."

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

Sarah looked suitably impressed by this.

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

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

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

"Why? What did you do?"

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

"An even bigger pile?"

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

"Santa Claus!" she squealed.

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

"What?"

"It said 'Just Kidding'!"

"'Just kidding'?"

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

It said, "Just kidding."

Then, at the bottom: "Thank you!"

It was the best Christmas I've ever had.

The end

12th December - half way there!

2007-12-12T18:19:00.001Z

Presents piled under
the Christmas tree carefully
wrapped with silver bows

11th December (a day late!)

2007-12-12T18:17:00.001Z

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

Humbug

2007-12-10T23:26:00.000Z

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

*Wigan Athletic.

9th December

2007-12-09T14:13:00.000Z

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

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

On the Outside

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

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

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

(c) B Dale 2007

2007-12-08T11:31:00.000Z

SNOW

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

Coming to a community somewhere near you

2007-12-07T13:37:00.000Z

Each Christmas alone
No reason to celebrate
Spirit is broken

6th December : A Question

2007-12-06T19:19:00.000Z

Are Chorley Writers
lacking creativity
or festive spirit?

5th December

2007-12-05T19:32:00.001Z

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

4th December : more Haiku

2007-12-04T18:41:00.001Z

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

I May Be Grumpy But I Believe I Have A Point

2007-12-03T20:55:00.001Z

I have discovered
That I cannot do Haiku
Limericks instead.

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

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

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

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

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

3rd December

2007-12-03T18:00:00.001Z

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

Haiku

2007-12-02T15:47:00.000Z

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

2nd December : Haiku

2007-12-02T12:04:00.001Z

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

1st December (a day late!) : Haiku

2007-12-02T12:01:00.000Z

Looking through windows
onto a winter landscape
prompts fond memories

It's a Chorley Advent

2007-12-02T12:00:00.000Z

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

Aware 3 - we have lift off!!!!

2007-12-02T11:57:00.001Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aware 3 : Launch

2007-11-17T13:40:00.000Z

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

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

and of course to everyone who has contributed :)

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

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

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

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

Season’s Greetings

2007-10-31T00:44:00.000Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End (-ish)

The Meeting Place

2007-10-31T00:34:00.000Z

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

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

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

Don’t go

Wait for me

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

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

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

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

"Share?" he suggested.

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

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

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

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

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

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

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

"Are you likely to forget things?"

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

"Does that included strangers you’ve met?"

"Strangers, yes."

"So you could forget me?"

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

"But you haven’t."

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

"How long will you be gone?"

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

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

Thoughts passed between them.

Don’t leave

Don’t forget

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

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

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

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

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

"Hullo," said Dominic.

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

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

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

"You must have missed me."

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

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

I remembered

I’m here now

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

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

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

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

The end.

2007-10-28T19:16:00.000Z

"Did you turn off the gas?"

"No! I thought - you..."

The Rains Came

2007-10-27T17:40:00.000+01:00

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

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

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

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

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

And still it rained.

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

And still it rained.

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

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

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

The end.

Indelicate

2007-10-27T12:43:00.001+01:00

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

Indelicate

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

Meeting 23rd October 2007

2007-10-27T12:36:00.000+01:00

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

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

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

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

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

"After the rain..."

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

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

"Indelicate"

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

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

Domestic Bliss

2007-10-12T01:38:00.000+01:00

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

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

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

"How did it happen?" said the officer.

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

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

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

She thought she heard his key in the lock.

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

"Why do you ask that?"

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

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

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

"He might have been."

"Is that why he stayed out?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The police officers pushed into Bob’s cubicle.

"You Bernard Rimmer?" said the first officer.

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

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

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

"What happened when you got home?"

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

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

"It wasn’t like that," Bob protested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Passing the Time : Aware 3

2007-09-27T21:49:00.000+01:00

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

Passing the Time

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

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

"Crackle and groan, shiver and moan"

2007-09-20T22:38:00.000+01:00

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

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

Explosion of colour, dynamic motion,
Rocking conceit.

All meaning crushed beneath shiny wheels,
Take me home

Critique piece for Aware 3

2007-09-09T07:49:00.000+01:00

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

A City under Construction

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

The jackhammers’ relentless cry
rises above the traffic.

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

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

Critique piece : Your Love

2007-09-01T15:19:00.000+01:00

Hi Guys,

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

Your Love

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

Meeting 28th August 2007

2007-09-01T15:10:00.000+01:00

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

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

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

Sucks In The City

2007-08-06T22:30:00.000+01:00

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

Karl was late.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don’t feel on much of a high."

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

"Battle?"

"Got your war stick ready?"

"What?" Darren was perplexed.

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

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

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

"What was that?"

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

"It isn’t very subtle," said Darren.

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

"I beg your pardon?"

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

"So best not to think about Carol."

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

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

"What atmosphere?"

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

" – or persons – "

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

"Cooking?"

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

"You’re such a romantic."

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

"How do you tell which is which?"

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

"Drop dead gorgeous?"

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

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

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

"Really?" Darren was surprised.

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

"Why not?"

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

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

"Ready for the off?" said Karl.

"Ready as I’ll ever be."

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

"Personal Digital Assistant?"

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

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

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

"Wonderful."

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

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

"Hello."

"Hello"

(Going well.)

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

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

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

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

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

"Bully for you," thought Darren.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So you keep saying."

"What?!"

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

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

"None at all."

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

"Yes?" Darren wasn’t really interested.

"I’ve had a rotten night."

"What?"

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

"None at all?"

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

"I understood you at ‘none.’"

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

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

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

"I can’t argue with that, buddy."

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

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

"Yes, Karl?"

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

"Do you think I could come too?"

The End.

24th July Writing Burst!

2007-07-28T14:12:00.000+01:00

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

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

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

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

Which generated some interesting responses!

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

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

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

Next meeting is on 28th August.

First Effort from a Blogging Virgin

2007-07-25T08:21:00.000+01:00

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

Beetle

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

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

Meeting tomorrow

2007-07-23T16:09:00.001+01:00

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

Where Is The River Chor?

2007-07-19T21:50:00.000+01:00

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

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

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

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

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

The Bridge On The River Chor

Some more success!

2007-07-16T20:14:00.001+01:00

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

Champagne corks will be popping tonight in my house!

Poems Online

2007-07-09T19:25:00.001+01:00

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

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

Chemical Dreams

2007-07-09T18:43:00.000+01:00

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

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

Chemical Dreams

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

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

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

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

I Wish I Was a Robot

2007-06-30T23:03:00.000+01:00

Soft as a whisper, naked, unprotected,

Fragile and frail, flimsy and faint,

Exposed and helpless, unsure and empty,

Weak, indefensible, hollow restraint.

A tearing, a rending, breaching this thin shell,

That punctures, perforates, then ruptures and breaks,

First piercing then leaking, bending and riv-ing,

Then failing and dying, death and decay.

The Writing Room

2007-06-27T19:50:00.000+01:00

The Writing Room

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hugh opened his notebook. "I see."

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

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

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

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

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

Hugh proffered the notebook.

"I can't read shorthand."

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

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

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

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

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

Margot Agnew

Meeting 26th June 2007

2007-06-27T14:40:00.000+01:00

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

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

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

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

Welcome to The Chorley and District Writers Circle.

2007-06-26T22:58:00.000+01:00

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

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