Diagnosis for Madame La Grange By Ruth Broome

 

Now!

Madame La Grange.

You are ageing, you are raging.

How the cold winds whistle through you

now,

that you are empty.

 

Now!

Madame La Grange.

You are creaking, you are leaking.

How the cobwebs collect upon you

now,

that you are useless.

 

Now!

Madame La Grange.

You are sicker, you are bitter.

How the sunlight avoids your eyes

now,

that you are haunted.

 

Now!

Madame La Grange.

You are aching, you are shaking.

How the weeds wrap up around you

now,

that you are forgotten. Now.

for more of Ruth's writing visit:  Instagram @ruthie_be_

Writing on the theme of Cut ~ by Sue Akande

credit Sue Akande

It had seemed like a good idea at the time but now …

Every time she walked into the dining room it was there, in the corner, winking and twinkling at her, reminding her that time was running out! She had to take action; it had been there for far too long. Why hadn’t she started on it straight away, as soon as it had arrived? What was she afraid of? What was stopping her from making that first cut?

The highly coloured, heavily sequinned lace had arrived in plenty of time for her to make her wedding outfit - so what was it? Would her sewing machine be up to stitching all those sequins? Was it that she had no pattern for her wedding attire? She had sketched out her idea based on the traditional Yoruba buba (blouse) and iro (wrapper skirt). Other wedding guests were having their clothes made up in Lagos, had she taken on too much by saying she would make her own outfit? Maybe she had watched too many episodes of ‘Sewing Bee’!

She had made outfits like it before, many years ago though and never from such elaborate cloth. The material had been chosen by the bride’s family and following the Yoruba custom of Aso-Ebi or ‘family clothes’ the family and friends of the bride would all be wearing ensembles made from the same material.

She looked at the lace again – there was plenty of it so if she made a mistake, it surely wouldn’t be so disastrous, would it? She would start with the skirt – probably the most straight forward part of the outfit. Spreading the material out on the floor of the dining room she began to cut.

Tempestuous Emotions Come Flooding Back - Troubled Waters by Adam Rutter

Bassa Villa - once known as 'The Magpie'                                                credit Adam Rutter

It was on a November morning. The river Severn had burst its banks. Fog made it impossible for sailors to see the buttresses that supported the bridge arches. The light given off by the candlelit lamps was fuzzy, which the sailors saw just under a feet away as they neared the bridge.  Not enough to avoid a collision. A sailed barge narrowly missed the wall of the arch. The lower half of Cartway was flooded. an oarsman rowed past two pubs, mooring outside the Magpie inn. Two rowing boats were moored outside The Severn Trow; one tied to a doorknob outside The Ship and Anchor. The oarsman dismounted, waded through the open door, wandering past the swamped out cellar. The recovered cask of ales were stacked on top of the bar. He took off his hat, slapping it down on the bar, while drawing out a tankard from his coat pocket.

‘Fill this up will ya landlord,’ he asked.

‘I can only give you half today Sid,’ said the landlord.

‘Oh! No pint today?’

‘No pint today Sid.’

‘Why not?’

‘A lot of ale got washed away in the flood,’ said the landlord, pointing at the casks.

Sid held out the tankard, his fingers gripping tightly on the handle. The landlord poured a small ration. Sid turned his back to the landlord, cutting through the water like a frigate, wet shoes squelching. He sat at the far end of the bar area, arms folded, elbows resting on the table. He took a small sip, trying to make his drink last.

Sid looked out through the door when he heard a pair of oars splashing gently. He lifted his elbows off the table, eyes fixed on the moored boats rising and falling with the ripples generated by the repeated strokes. The ripples lengthened and widened, knocking the boats against the wall. Sid knew who was rowing. He knew nearly every sailor and boatman up and down the Severn. And he knew when they dropped their anchor. Sid watched the rowing boat slide past the door, pulling over outside The Magpie. Was it the boatman Sid knew? It was him alright. The boatman was wearing a bicorn hat. Sid would know it anywhere. But how?

The boatman, Jacob Stern, was the only one who wore such a hat on his head in these parts. Why was Jacob wearing a bicorn hat? Had he joined the Royal Navy? How? Jacob had stolen a boat and rowed to Bristol. There he mingled with fishermen and seamen alike. Through these intrepid seafarers, he discovered all the seaports scattered across the south coast of England.

During his adolescence, he would mingle with sailors when they docked in Bridgnorth. It was due to meeting these river tradesmen that he learnt about new places that he never knew before – Gloucester, Newport, Swansea, Falmouth. Through the sailors shipping commerce along the Severn, and their nautical experiences out at sea, he learned to became first class sea navigator during his career in the Navy. He had used the stolen boat to circumnavigate the Cornish coastline and the shores off south Devonshire where his intended destination was finally reached – Plymouth. This was where warships were docked. Plymouth was the very seaport where he enlisted voluntarily with the Royal Navy. His enlistment would ultimately take him into battle off the Cape of Trafalgar. The battle ended with a decisive victory for the British Royal Navy. After so many months out at sea, Jacob was back in Bridgnorth. But why would he go on such a long journey to a town along the Severn that was out of reach from a naval base? Why row several miles upstream from the Bristol Channel? What’s he doing here, wondered Sid.

Sat on the boat was a young woman. Elsa was her name. She was Jacob’s lover. Her hands were wrapped behind her arms, trying helplessly to keep them warm. Her thin legs and bare feet were pale. Elsa's black hair was matted and dishevelled. In spite of coming from a poor family, Elsa had many male admirers, even among the aristocrats. Jacob brought her all the way from Plymouth. She had to remain ashore, waiting for an agonizing five weeks for his safe return from battle. When Jacob was given shore leave, they spent quality time together, and that time was used sailing to Bristol; then rowing up the Severn. Elsa lifted her head, looked through the window; her eyes met with Sid's. Her jaw dropped; eyes widened.

‘What’s the matter? Aren't you coming in,’ asked Jacob, placing the oars inside the boat.

Elsa’s eyes flashed back at Jacob, giving a little nod. His military uniform was fastened with silver buttons, outshining her worn out coat, riddled in holes. He stepped off the boat. Elsa stayed sat, staring up at Jacob like a cat, frozen.

‘Come on. We’re going in,’ said Jacob.

Elsa stood up, slowly. She was shivering. Was it the cold? Or fear? Dread and fear was written in her eyes, but Jacob did not read it. The cold numbed her feet. Stepping into the freezing water, she could not feel the hard surface that she was standing on. Jacob walked inside like a sea captain stepping on board a ship. When he looked at Sid's corner, he stopped.

‘You’ve got a nerve showing your face in here,’ said Jacob.

‘Why have you come back?’ asked Sid.

‘That’s my business.’

‘You have no business here.’

‘Now then gentlemen. I don’t want any trouble in my pub,’ said the landlord.

Ignoring what the landlord said, Jacob stood straight with his hands behind his back, looking down at Sid.

‘You don’t know who you’re talking to my man.’

‘I don’t care who I talk to,’ said Sid.

‘You’re talking to Master Jacob Stern of His Majesty’s Wayfarer.’

‘I don’t care if you’re the Master of a fishing boat.’

‘You know your impertinence won’t get you nowhere.’

‘Oh?’

‘Do you know what I do with an impertinent like you?’

‘What?’

‘I would make you stand on the plank.’

‘Oh, would you now?’

‘Yes. Off the side of the ship,’ said Jacob, leaning towards Sid, hands pressed on the table.

‘What then?’

‘You go in.’

‘Go in where? The cellar?’

‘In the water Sid.’

‘There’s water in here.’

‘That’s right. Which is where you’re going to end up in.’

Jacob grabbed Sid by his ragged clothes, pulling him off his chair.

‘Enough! Get out the pair of ya,’ said the landlord.

‘Don’t worry landlord. I'm going. I will not stay here and be insulted by this ruffian.’

‘How dare you say that to a sailor.’

‘How dare you insult me ... Sailor.’

Sid walked out through the door, disgusted. When he stepped outside, he stopped, looking down at Elsa. They did not speak a word. They spoke to each other through their eyes. Their gaze – transfixed. Their gaze spoke a thousand words. Elsa had not talked with Sid since their love affair two years prior to her return to Plymouth. Since she was back in Bridgnorth, their inner passion was reignited. Their internal passion was ablaze, as if it were about to explode into a flaming inferno. Standing by Jacob’s boat was still too close for comfort. It was the closest he could ever be with Elsa again. Jacob came up behind Sid.

‘Stay away from her,’ said Jacob.

‘That’s enough,’ said the landlord.

‘No. You’re the one who should stay away from her,’ said Sid, looking over his shoulder.

‘I don’t have to tell you again Sid.’

‘You don’t deserve her. You treat her like scum.’

‘She’s mine. I’ll treat her however I choose.’

‘She maybe yours Jacob, but she's not your possession.’

‘Elsa chose me.’

‘Elsa chose you ‘cos she's afraid of ya.’

‘Huh! Afraid?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why?’

‘’cos she’s too scared to say no to you.’

‘Elsa is more scared of you than me.’

‘So why did she come to me?’

‘Because you never stay away from her.’

‘Elsa may belong to you, but she’ll always be under my solemn protection as long as I’m around.’

‘As long as I’m around, Elsa is under nobody else’s protection but mine. Is that clear?’

‘No.’

‘Perhaps I need to make it more clear for you Sid.’

Jacob clenched a tight fist, threw a punch, and knocked Sid flying. Sid landed on a sumpter horse. The chestnut horse whinnied frantically, kicking its front legs up in the air. Sid got back on his feet. He punched Jacob under the chin, dropping him in the water.

‘Stop! Stop,’ cried Elsa.

Sid's eyes glared at her. Jacob climbed back on his feet, moving his jaw.

‘I’ll be back someday Sid,’ said Jacob, stepping back in the boat.

‘And I’ll be waiting for ya Jacob,’ said Sid when he cast off, rowing across the flooded wharf. Jacob watched Sid disappear behind a wall of fog while the sounds of paddling faded.

Ending A Week of Halloween Writing from our 10th anniversary anthology 'Write On!'

The Closed Door by Elizabeth Obadina

She was just a little girl. Acid yellow, wet leaves whipped against her stockinged legs and whirled in angry flurries amongst the branches of the trees lining the path home from church. She didn’t think of herself as a little girl. Little girls dressed as superheroes and princesses had been demanding her attention all afternoon.  Years ago she’d been like them but now she was grown up. Thirteen. She’d been helping at the Pumpkin Heroes Festival in the church hall to where once, everyday; an age ago, she’d trailed in a neon-jacketed-crocodile from her old primary school down the road to the ‘After School Club’ half a mile away. She’d hated ‘After School Club’.  

Today’s event had been organised by the new vicar keen to take a stand against the tidal wave of Halloween related incidents ripping through the neighbourhood. Feral children wearing witch masks, ghoul masks, demon masks, vampire masks, ghost masks and costumes festooned with bandages soaked in fake blood and cobwebs had been terrorising people for days. ‘Trick or Treat’. More like ‘Threat or Sweets’. Some hapless folk, out of tune with modern Halloween mania, had lit bangers pushed through their letter boxes and stones thrown at their windows after turning away the little and not so little devils on their doorsteps. This year Halloween had fallen on a Sunday, the Lord’s Day, and the vicar felt compelled to act and organised a party for the children of the After School Club plus The Sunday School plus any of their friends and relatives who wanted to come along. The event had been a success as parents of all religions and none, relieved of the obligation to organise Halloween activities, had packed their children off to the church hall and enjoyed a Sunday afternoon of peace and quiet.  

She’d been surprised when the letter came from the vicar appealing for past ‘members’ of the After School Club to help with the party. But she’d said yes. She had nothing else to do. Snapchat and Tik Tok and Instagram had been full for days of teenagers in ever changing post-apocalyptic costumes and rivalry was stirring between the hosts of different Halloween parties. Not that it mattered to her. Not much. She wasn’t part of the cool crowd, her best friend was tied up with a big family reunion and her old friends from primary school seemed to be more interested in boys these days. Even though she wasn’t remotely interested in Halloween she felt left out. Alone.  

Every shop front she had passed by was advertising ‘Spooky Offers’, ‘Scary Treats’ and ‘Halloween Horror Cakes’. Plastic carved pumpkins leered out from windows; plastic skeletons jiggled in draughts over doorways; LED hell-fire flickered along windowsills. She couldn’t see the attraction.  

The children at the vicar’s party had enjoyed dressing up, getting wet bobbing for apples, setting LED lights shining from the carved pumpkins they’d brought along for the ‘Biggest Smiley Face’ competition and then there had been a bonfire and toasting marshmallows; some songs and some stories. They’d loved it all. Not exactly Halloween but more of a jolly cross between Harvest Festival and Diwali. A festival of light and happiness for the vicar had said that Jesus was the light of the world and Sunday 31^st October was His day – but she wasn’t sure about all that. 

She shivered. The days were getting colder and the nights were drawing in. The clocks had gone back an hour last night and although it was only five o’clock it was dark and drizzly. She was walking away from the shops and about to take her usual short cut through the park when she heard a long sigh and the wet leaves began gusting around her although there had been no wind when she left the church hall.  

She began walking faster. Hood up. Headphones on. She wouldn’t take the short cut through the park which she had used nearly every day of her life. Her spine prickled. She would take the long way around. She wondered whether she should call her parents, but what for? She was so close to home, on streets she knew like the back of her hand. Streets she had grown up on. She passed by the park gates and headed down Mortimer Gardens going around the square. At the end she would branch left into Epping Gardens and then take a right turn into Wyre Gardens and pick up her normal route home. She stared at the pavement in front of her and shadows danced across her way. Strange she had never noticed them before, but she didn’t usually come this way along the park boundary under overhanging branches. She picked up her pace. It wasn’t late but strangely she didn’t pass anyone else. The streets seemed deserted. 

 Ed Sheeran’s ‘Shivers’ played along her way, ‘You make me dance till the daybreak cracks,’ and she was transported to imagining the parties she hadn’t been invited to, the flickering shadows on the pavement became the disco lights and the gusts of wind her dance partners. She suddenly skipped a few beats and shimmied when she found herself in a pool of light cast by a street lamp. And then she felt silly and stopped and kept her eyes fixed on the ground and hoped that no one had seen her dancing in the emptiness. And the music faded into the background. 

The girl had unthinkingly danced her way into Wyre Gardens. She was on automatic pilot now. Almost home with the park behind her. She wondered why the Victorian planners who had laid out these city suburbs had chosen forests and gardens to name every road. Perhaps they had realised that people still needed to feel part of nature, still needed trees. The shadows were still flickering across her path but she didn’t think to wonder why. The park trees with their overhanging branches were behind her and the lime trees which originally lined every street had long since been cut down to allow for more street parking.  

The forest thought stayed with the girl and she thought of ‘The Green Man’ festival her granny had once taken her to see one long ago Spring bank holiday. Ancient customs. Pagan gods. Did the vicar know his bonfire was just the way the ancients had kept darkness and the spirits of the night at bay as the year sank into winter and the world waited for the Green Man to return next Spring? Probably. She had learned all about those ideas at school when her English teacher played them Robert Burns’ poem last week and then told them to write about Halloween. Most people enjoyed playing with the idea of the worlds of the living and the dead overlapping at this time of the year. Spooky. Supernatural. However most people’s poems and stories owed more to whatever Netflix teenage witch series they had last binge watched than the imaginings of Robert Burns and ancient spirits. 

Almost home. The girl suddenly stopped. She flicked off ‘Shivers’ and Ed Sheeran’s cheerful song cut into silence. She caught a strange whiff of rotten eggs and the street lights cast long jerky shadows across her way. She wavered before walking on. Number 21. Number 23. Number 25 and home! It was odd. There was a new iron front gate. Dad had said he wanted to improve the front entrance. But this was quick work, especially by Dad’s normal standards. 

She ran up the steps to the front door. The house was very quiet but through the stained-glass panels of the old door – the original Dad had said - she could see light shining in the kitchen at the end of the passage. She went to punch in her entrance code, but the keypad to open the door wasn’t there anymore. Dad had been busy! He’d been saying for months about getting a more secure system fitted. Maybe that was going to happen tomorrow.  

The girl reached for the old brass knocker. Someone had polished it to shine like new. She rapped loudly to be let in. A shadow appeared through the glass and the door opened. The young woman who opened it was dressed like a character out of the play the girl had been part of in primary school: Oliver Twist.  

“Yes?” the young woman asked. 

The young girl just stared. 

“What? Can I help you?” 

The young girl was speechless. 

“Who is it?” An older woman’s voice sounded from the kitchen, “Just shut the door Mary if it’s another of those tinker urchins from the park.” 

The young woman looked the young girl up and down from her seemingly bare legs to her hoody shaded face. 

“Yes ma’am,” she replied and shut the door in the young girl’s face. 

 

The young girl was stunned beyond responding. Then she stared through the green, glass ivy trails of the window into her home. No-one appeared. Then she turned around, her back to the closed door. The street she had explored every inch of in the thirteen years of her life; the street she had been born in, had changed.  

There were no parked cars, no wheelie bins, the road was a muddy track and gas lamps quietly fizzed, spluttered and cast flickering shadows over the slabs of a newly laid pavement. 

After a few minutes of looking at the unfamiliar, yet oh so familiar street view from her front door, the young girl did what she had always done when she was in trouble as a little girl. She descended the four steps from the closed front door and took the four steps down to the old cellar and there under the front-door steps and besides another less elegant, closed basement door she curled up and fell asleep.

She slept through the noise of car doors slamming, the cries from the search parties out on that cold Halloween night. She slept through the flashing blue lights that filled every cranny of the garden at Number 25. She slept through being sniffed from head to toe by Darcy, her beloved labradoodle who for reasons no one could work out refused to leave the empty cubby-hole under the steps. She slept through when her phone battery died and the music stopped never to be around when Ed Sheeran’s ‘day-break cracked’. She shivered and slept on, oblivious of the furore erupting all around her one hundred and fifty years away.

First published October 2021

Reprinted 'Write On' 2024 p132-4

 Copies of Write On are available from Bridgnorth Library - price £8 

or

from Amazon price £8 

Write On!: A decade of stories and verse from Bridgnorth's High Town Writers: Amazon.co.uk: Bridgnorth, HTW: 9789403723792: Books

A Week of Halloween Writing from our 10th anniversary anthology 'Write On!'

Halloween Sonnet by Kath Norgrove

It is now that time of year

beware of the lost soul

that comes forth from graves so near,

don't scream and lose control

 

It appears from the dark

wailing, in a sphere of white

and horror grips your heart

as it gives you a fright

 

From below some eaves

a shrieking bat,

whilst playing below in the leaves

is the witches familiar, a cat

 

and t'is best you do believe

for this is old All Hallows Eve.

 Copies of Write On are available from Bridgnorth Library - price £8 

or

from Amazon price £8 

Write On!: A decade of stories and verse from Bridgnorth's High Town Writers: Amazon.co.uk: Bridgnorth, HTW: 9789403723792: Books

A Week of Halloween Writing from our 10th anniversary anthology 'Write On!'

Truth or Lie?  By Kay Yendole

It was 1966 at Mayfield Girls School.

At lunchtime the group of seven 5^th formers met in the Common Room to chat, play music, and on this occasion for fun, to dabble with the mystical oracle, a magical game of the material and the immaterial, a link between the known and the unknown, the Ouija Board.

Giggling and laughing at the answers it gave them clearly to questions about career choices, who they would marry, how many children would they have, would they travel, clues about the love of their life, where they would live and more superficial curiosities.

Diana was told she was pregnant which had us all falling around in stitches but we all knew she was in a relationship with an older man.

The laughter continued as the glass spelt out the name Colin as Kay’s intended as the only Colin they knew was some goofy boy from their primary school. Patti received career advice about art and books. Jeanne was not surprised to receive Mick in answer to her question; she’d been dating him since she was fourteen. Denise would be working in travel and Marianne was told she would go East. We were all laughing but Christine was alarmed when asking her question about how old would she live to as the glass started spinning round and round and spun right off the table smashing to smithereens on the floor.

Then entered the lofty Miss Greenfield their R.E. teacher, normally pleasant and mild mannered, taking in the scene with the letters and numbers and broken glass she shouted at them clearly furious at what they were doing.

“ You are inviting the devil into this room, opening the gates of hell, you foolish girls, clear it up immediately, you may no longer be trusted to use this room for the rest of term.’

Shocked at her reaction they were subdued and a little frightened at what she clearly thought to be an evil act.

By the end of term Diana confirmed she was pregnant, Jeanne was engaged to Mick, Denise got at job at British Airways, Patti became a librarian, Marianne got a job in a Japanese bank. But tragically Christine died in a car accident when her father had a heart attack at the wheel.

None of them ever dared mess with the Ouija Board again.

 Copies of Write On are available from Bridgnorth Library - price £8 

or

from Amazon price £8 

Write On!: A decade of stories and verse from Bridgnorth's High Town Writers: Amazon.co.uk: Bridgnorth, HTW: 9789403723792: Books

A Week of Halloween Writing from our 10th anniversary anthology 'Write On!'

Halloween - a song by Ann Reader

Tonight the veil between the worlds grows thin

Beware the ones out there don't let them in

But as you bar your doors, remember some are yours

And leave a gift outside for absent kin.

Tonight the veil between the world grows thin.

 

Tonight the dark takes over from the light

So keep a candle burning through the night

And leave a lantern out

For those who roam about

A light to light the way for absent kin.

Tonight the veil between the worlds grows thin.

 

Tonight the lord of Samhain takes his crown

Summer's lady lays her mantle down

And every wraith and ghost

Will join that unquiet host

Tonight they're very close, your absent kin,

Tonight the veil between the worlds grows thin.

 

Tonight the world puts on her winter cloak

The Holly king takes over from the oak

And he'll not take his leave

Until the next May eve.

Tonight's the night to grieve for absent kin.

 

Tonight's no childish game of trick or treat

The soul cake's made and ready for to eat

But leave some on the portal

For those who are immortal

'Tis said they like the sweet things absent kin.

Tonight the veil between the worlds grows thin.

 

Tonight we're well provisioned here within

We've wine and cider, ale and metheglyn[1]

And we will raise a glass

For we also will pass

Tonight we'll drink a toast to absent kin.

Tonight the veil between the worlds grows thin.

[1] Metheglun – an ancient spiced mead drink

 Copies of Write On are available from Bridgnorth Library - price £8 

or

from Amazon price £8 

Write On!: A decade of stories and verse from Bridgnorth's High Town Writers: Amazon.co.uk: Bridgnorth, HTW: 9789403723792: Books

 

Wellies or Bellies by Irena Szirtes

I've only just discovered this little piece won a 100-word challenge, subject ‘Wellies or Bellies’, back in 2021! I attended a few zoom sessions with Wrekin Writers before they were able to resume face to face meets, and entered it then. I've sent for the anthology to see it printed in all its glory! It’s just a bit of fun with some personal memoir, and my ongoing obsession with boots!

Tourism, Addiction and the Dire Demise of Wellies

    City ladies? Absolutely! Still children, giggling at big-bottomed ski-pants on tottering stilettos, we relished knowing wellies worked best. Beguiled, still mud and cow-clap unaware, the ladies gifted sweeties; we told them where to find frogs.

    Soon stilettos stopped coming. Bobble hats and eye-goggling boots came instead. Walking boots! Besotted, boot-obsessed, I begged for some. Decades on, my wellies languish under boot heaps: fleece-topped, frivolous, zany and zipped, bejeweled, buckled or buttoned; laced velvet vintage, wet-look, western, red-leather-racy to soft-shell-snow-proof.

     But walking boots keep first place in my boot-a-holic’s hoard, and I can still tell you where to find frogs.

Birthday Shoes by Elaine Pearson

Someone bought me a pair of shoes today

And they’re lovely there is no doubt

But there’s something very wrong with them

And I just can’t figure it out

 

‘Cos I keep on falling over

Can’t walk more than a step or two

Lookya! There I go, I’m down again

Don’t know what I’m gonna do

 

I know, I’ll put me glasses on

Try to throw a little light on the matter

Ah, now I see what the problem is

You’ll think I’m as mad as a hatter

 

‘Cos now I can see what I’m doing

I find the cause is not so drastic

Little buggers are tied together

With a big string piece of elastic! 

It’s just a barn by Suzie Pearson

The building looms ominously

It’s just a barn

Locked

Peer through pale blue curtains

Straining to hear whispers, see hints of movement

Trying to make sense of it

A puzzle made of smoke and mirrors

Grasping at meaning

Needing a key to unlock it

But it’s just a barn

=======

I wrote this after the 'I met a psychic once' poem.

The pale blue curtains are a reference to her penchant for wearing that colour. I was trying to convey a sense of how we try and interpret what we see /hear with deeper meaning...but maybe sometimes it IS what is says in the tin.

It really IS just a barn.

https://wordsfromanotebook.com/its-just-a-barn/

October 2024 Meeting

Minutes of High Town Writers' Workshop

7pm Tuesday 22nd October in The Spirit Room of Peepo's

Present: Adam (chair), Liz, Jennie, Irena, Stuart, Will, Suzie, Ruth, Fiona, Sue

Apologies: John A-S, Ann, Andy, Kath, Marie, Emma

We welcomed Will to the meeting and shared with him how we all find the group helpful in developing each person’s writing. Liz reminded people that some of the writing that members missed hearing or want to hear again can be found on the blog. People who want to share their writing - any writing! - on the blog can send it to hightownwriters@gmail.com or post it directly. She thanked Andy for sharing his writing on 'Water' and 'Cut' even though he had not been able to make the September meeting. Liz also directed members to Suzie’s blog which can be found at https://wordsfromanotebook.com/

For our warm-up writing, Adam asked us to imagine a different version of ourselves in either an alternative reality or if our lives taken a different path.

The meeting continued with sharing our October writing on the theme of 'The Barn' which featured a character based on an individual known to the writer. This character creation was explored during the warm up activity Jennie set for the September meeting. Many of us found the task very challenging but hats off to Ruth who rolled her unpleasant character into the very fabric of a nasty barn and wrote about the barn as if it was a person!

We asked all members to think about our December meetings / get-together/meal and to come up with ideas at the November meeting - 

Irena will be leading a writing workshop at Bridgnorth Library on Saturday 16th November from 10am - further details from the library 01746 763358.

Next meeting : Tuesday 26th November at 7pm

Writing theme for October/November is ‘The Typewriter’

 The meeting ended at 9.30pm

Meeting Today

 October 2024 Meeting

Tuesday 22nd October at 7.0pm

Peepo’s Spirit Room

Writing theme: The Barn - featuring a character modelled on someone you knew/know

Evita’s Cadiz Mystery by Adam Rutter

Edward looked at the view of whitewashed buildings from his hotel room, watching terraced houses turn crimson-red at sunset. Looking down, he saw a woman looking through a pair of binoculars, by the roadside. The binoculars were attached to a tripod. The woman had been looking in the same direction probably within the last ten minutes. Maybe more. She was still looking through the binoculars, at the same spot, shortly after sundown. Even when turquoise blue skies faded into twilight, it was still bright enough to see right across the village. She was at a viewpoint, which offered a panorama of Vejer De La Frontera for tourists. Situated in Cadiz province, in southern Spain, Vejer De La Frontera nestled in the valleys of Andalucia, a remote location that was isolated from a city. Edward had visited Spain many times. He used to go to the Pyrenees, trekking the entire breadth of the mountain range, from Cataluna, to Andorra. This was the first time he stayed in Andalusia. It was popular with hikers like Edward, including the occasional globetrotter passing through.

 

The woman opened her rucksack, and took out a camera. She attached the telephoto lens, and then began taking snaps. The village was built in a natural arena with the best vantage point from the hillside. Since his arrival, he had seen tourists taking selfies at the viewpoint. Had he seen anybody else looking at the vista through binoculars?Apparently not. The woman was the only visitor he had seen using binoculars. Edward saw the odd photographer taking single shots, whereas he was watching her taking multiple shots. By now it was dusk. There was only a few moments till nightfall. Edward walked out of the hotel, wandering to the other side of the road. He leaned against the wall, pretending to admire the view, watching the full moon popping up from behind the houses lining the crest of the hill.

‘You know this scenery will still be here tomorrow,’ said Edward.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, talking with a Spanish accent.

‘You can see this scenery a thousand times, but it’ll always look different every time you come here.’

‘I’ve not come for the scenery.’

‘So I take it that you’re on vacation.’

‘I’m here just for tonight.’

‘Are you visiting relatives?’

‘I will cut to the chase. I'm here on official capacity.’

‘A business trip, huh?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Is it the first time you’ve come here?’

‘My first and last.’

‘Let’s introduce ourselves.’

‘Let’s start with you first, shall we?’

‘Oh. Okay. My name is Ed. And you?’

‘Evita.’

‘It’s good to meet you Evita.’

‘It’s good to meet you Evita. I was thinking...’

‘Would please excuse me? I have an early appointment scheduled for tomorrow. I'm sorry to cut our meeting short,’ said Evita, putting her equipment away.

‘Have a good night Ed,’ she continued, putting her return on. She cut down a narrow cobbled street. Her anklebootsclattered on the cobbles, echoing underneath the arch, subsiding towards the valley, falling into silence. The street lamps flicked on. The village was as quiet as the evening.

 

The following day, Edward cut down the cobbled street, stopped at a café for a cappuccino, which was in the middle of a narrow street, just a few blocks away from the hotel. Walking out of the café was a woman wearing a black dress with a white collar, taking the cappuccino to Edward’s table.

‘Here you go,’ she said.

This time, she spoke with an American accent.

‘Hello Evita,’ said Edward.

She looked up, her eyes popping out like a cork.

‘Ed!’

‘You were here just for the night huh,’ he said.

‘I can’t discuss it now Ed.’

‘Discuss what?’

‘The mission.’

‘Mission? Oh, by the way, whatever happened to the lingo?’

‘Please don’t Ed.’

‘You were just shunning me last night.’

‘It’s not my job to shun people.’

‘No, because you’re working at a hospitality.’

‘Not for long.’

‘Oh, just for tonight again, is it?’

‘I’ll be staying as long as my services are required.’

‘Why? Are you on a contract?’

‘To cut the long story short Ed, I'm a private investigator.’

‘Oh so you’re investigating me, are you?’

‘Maybe.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Does the name Stephen Wentworth mean anything to you?’

‘Sure. He's the guy who went missing in 2021.’

‘So you know about his disappearance then? ‘

‘Of course. He was my best pal.’

‘Where is he now then?’

‘How should I know? I haven't seen Stephen since he went missing.’

‘When was the last time you saw Stephen?’

‘A few days before his disappearance. Why are you asking me all this?’

‘What if I told you that Stephen Wentworth is in Frontera?’

‘You've got to be kidding me. What! Stephen out here? No way.’

Evita’s face was as serious as somebody being told bad news.

‘He is here. Isn't he,’ asked Edward. ‘He is in this village. Tell me,’ he continued.

‘Yes. He is.’

‘How d'you know?’

‘I saw him.’

‘When?’

‘Last night.’

‘Hey!?’

‘The moment you spoke to me at the viewpoint, that’s when I saw Stephen.’