WORKSHOP -next Saturday 12th April - Writing Creative Non-Fiction

Workshop Leader:                                     Emma Woodhouse

Emma is the author of Mary, Queen of the Forty, the true history of Mary Carr, leader of the Forty Thieves gang, as seen in Disney Plus series, A Thousand Blows.

After working for ten years at Blists Hill Victorian Town and then as a teacher Emma now explores Victorian life in her writing.

Emma’s novels The Prendergast Watch and Simple Twists of Fate, were published by Holand Press in February and March 2025. Her next novel, Mercy, will be published by Cranthorpe Millner, July 2025.

She is currently working on a non-fiction book about the life of Mary Carr which will be published by Pen & Sword Books in 2026.

In the Darkest Corner there is Light: Part Four by Jennie Hart

credit: Gencraft AI

Mother: a nurse

Kamel: father

Arman: elder son

Naghma: daughter

Babek: younger son

Mina: Babek’s wife

Part 4

Arman risked being stopped by the Taliban as he drove in the early hours towards the prison complex to look for his family. He parked where he had a partial view of the entrance and waited. He stood by his car and lit a Marlboro, still available and his favourite smoke since his dad worked for the British. An official vehicle slowly drew up and parked before government buildings near the prison. He had no time to get back in the car before the chauffeur opened the passenger door and a Taliban officer got out. He looked over and walked towards Arman. He shuddered with fear; he knew it was a crime to be loitering at this hour, but the officer examined him closely, hesitated, then held out his hand. Arman was amazed but extended his hand in return, a tradition they had both learned from the west. It dawned on him that this was the Minister for Agriculture, Irrigation and Livestock who had presented Arman with his awards.

‘In the name of Allah, I am honoured to see you again and to give further praise for your ground-breaking work for our magnificent nation. You may remember me; I am Abdul Rahman Rashid and here is my card. That is my office you see over there alongside the Pul-e-Charkhi. You may call on me if it pleases you, and in gratitude, I will be honoured to bestow any favour I consider worthy, should you have need.’

Arman bowed, gave humble thanks and Abdul Rashid turned and walked to the headquarters. He was still reeling from the encounter, when a few men came out of the Pul-e-Charkhi gates and among them, was Grandfather, leaning on Babek and both walking slowly in unsteady steps. He embraced them and cautiously helped them into the Toyota.

 

Arman gave his familiar knocks and Mother unlocked the door. She was overjoyed to see the men but incensed at their state, especially her father’s and extremely concerned that the women were not with them. She boiled water to bathe their weeping wounds. Grandfather’s treatment had been similar to Babek’s but he was ninety years old and far more frail. Five lashes were more than he could endure and he too had been given dire warnings. Babek shouted in fury;

 ‘What are these rodents doing to our country? They are mad, mindless criminals.’

Arman and Mother helped grandfather lie down on the low divan and he was asleep in moments. Both knew sleep was healing. Another tap on the door and it was the women. Babek held Mina close and then Naghma; Arman put his arms round both.  The women spoke of their mild treatment, each recognising there would be no second chance. They wept to be back home but when Babek revealed the joyful news of seeing father in the prison yard, everyone was astonished. It was Arman’s turn to tell his story and for him to digest the significance of the favour handed to him by the minister. After hearing his father was alive, a request was already taking shape in his mind.

It was already morning and Arman had to go to work, but the explosion of ideas concerning his father, helped him face the day. Babek was on a two-day break so had a second day to recover. He knew his name and address but not his employment, had been recorded at the prison. Staff was depleted in every field, especially health. For this reason his crime was unlikely to be followed up and in any case, how could they do without him? Arman came home that night exhausted but excited; he had an appointment to see the minister and would prepare a request for his father’s release.

‘Salam Alaikum,’ said Abdul Rashid in a warm greeting, placing the customary hand over his heart and Arman did the same.

‘My father, Kamel Aziz, is an honourable man,’ explained Arman. ‘His only sin was to be an educated man who spoke English and to be selected by the British army to be an interpreter to the officers. When the army left, he was arrested as a traitor.  As you know, many things changed during the war and my father used his skills to maintain his family but was never once disloyal.’

Arman made his case with passion and the minister sat immobile. It was impossible to read his thoughts and Arman feared he had said too much. Abdul Rashid remained silent, looking beyond Arman, staring at the wall. Then he spoke;

‘Arman Aziz, you have done well; in your studies; in your contribution to our great nation, and now in your earnest plea for Kamel Aziz. Tomorrow, I will go to the Pul-e-Charkhi prison and announce your father’s release. I have an honourable relationship with the prison governor; he is my brother. You are a worthy son and I believe your father is a good man.’

There was no more to be said, Arman gave his most gracious thanks, bowed and left the building.

 The next day, Kamel Aziz brought light into the darkest corner and the family gave praise to Allah.

In the Darkest Corner there is Light: Part Three by Jennie Hart

credit: Gencraft AI

Mother: a nurse

Kamel: father

Arman: elder son

Naghma: daughter

Babek: younger son

Mina: Babek’s wife

Part 3

Next day, dressed discreetly in the faceless burka with only eyes showing, mother and Mina accompanied Arman to Grandfather’s and this time, the officials made a cursory search and waved them through. Mother had brought bread and potato dumplings, poor food but augmented by Mina’s spicy sauce. It was a hot day but they made sure all windows and doors were closed before nervously bringing out the instruments.

Mother felt defiant and joked, ’You must sing quietly Arman, your voice can be heard as far away as the Pul-e-Khisti mosque!’ There wasn’t much to joke about in Kabul today.

‘Mother, I’m not going to sing, I would lose my job and worse; the work I’m doing is unbelievably important, I’m going now and will come back at sunset.’

For a while they forgot the terror of the regime and made Grandfather weep at the hypnotic sound of his daughter-in-law’s robab and Mina’s mizmar. At sunset, Arman returned; the women hugged the old man and said goodbye. Arman kissed his cheek and held him close. It was important the women were back in their homes before dusk wearing the burkas they had taken off at grandfather’s.

 ‘Wasn’t that a precious time for all of us, it has truly lifted my spirits,’ Mother said, ‘I will ask Arman to take you with Babek next time, Mina, I will stay home, but we must wait a few days so as not to cause suspicion.’

The next time Babek and Naghma accompanied Mina, driven by Arman while Mother stayed home. They left early, before Arman started work and the dusty roads were crowded with cars, carts and all manner of animals. Grandfather wept to see his other grandson. He made mint tea and had prepared a platter of fresh dates from his trees. He longed for news of the city and Naghma told of shopping in the market and the shortage of bread. Babek described the influx of children to the hospital with malnutrition, a desperate problem in their politically isolated country. Arman said goodbye saying he would return after work. Naghma tuned her robab and Mina her mizmar and they began to play; Babek tapped the beat on his dohol and they all began to sing.

‘Your grandmother will be listening from her grave; she played this on her mizmar with great accomplishment. Thank you,’ murmured Grandfather.

Their happiness was disturbed by a frenzied battering. The door swung open and two hostile guards stood in the doorway blocking the dazzling sunlight.

‘You are disobeying orders and will be punished,’ one said.

The other grabbed Naghma’s arm and her robab fell to the floor. Mina moved backwards and avoided his stick but lost her balance. Her mizmar slid under the table. The first guard hit Babek hard across the face and again on the leg, this time with a baton he pulled from his belt. Grandfather was not spared; he was pushed and fell against the wall. The women were ordered to cover their faces and get into the prison vehicle. The guards were thugs and beat the men as they shoved them in with the women.  

Naghma saw queues of people as they drove through the looming, black iron gates of the sprawling Pul-e-Charkhi prison. Guards were waving sticks and shouting. She had heard the jail was full to breaking point because of the daily new restrictions. Women were queuing separately from the men, all hidden beneath their ugly, grey garments. She saw women being violated with a hand or baton.

Towards evening, she saw Babek and Grandfather being pushed through a doorway; it was stiflingly hot and Naghma and Mina had joined a queue where they crouched on the ground with many other women. They held each other; they’d heard terrible tales. Both women were exhausted and it was towards dawn when first Mina was taken. Later, Naghma was pushed into a bare, brightly lit room. A government official in uniform hit her twice across the head with a heavy hand, followed by a tirade of warnings should it ever happen again.  She was directed to the door and told to go home, obey the law and attend to women’s duties. She was astounded at her mild treatment but guessed the Taliban were not coping with the terrifying but absurd situation. Out in the street several women sat against the prison wall or leaned on each other, dazed or weeping. One of them was Mina. Naghma bent and hugged her before leading her down a street to a bus stop. Early buses were moving round the city and they knew they must get home to avoid arrest for being unchaperoned

 Babek was less lucky, he was handcuffed and shoved down wide stone steps to a prison yard. He was pushed against a wall, stripped of his shalwar kameez and his hands raised and secured to a heavy metal ring. Within moments he felt extreme pain but before he could recover it happened again; five lashes on his naked body. Other men were having the same treatment. His back felt numb and blood dripped onto his bare foot, but the punishment stopped. Some men were being treated more severely and their cries died out as they lost consciousness. Babek felt sick but was freed and led out with a few men through another yard where some prisoners were exercising, walking one behind the other. He feared another beating if he turned his head, but moving his gaze, was astounded to see his father. Kamel’s head was down and he shuffled with painful steps, but, as Babek passed him, father and son made eye contact. Despite his pain, Babek felt a surge of joy; his father was alive.

Arman meanwhile discovered the abandoned house. He always brought the spare key and unlocking the door now, saw the disarray; a fallen chair, the abandoned instruments. He was overcome with fear and dread; the Taliban were ruthless and unforgiving.

Babek and a few more men were shown the exit. His body stung and his kameez stuck to the raw weals on his back, but he was alive, for which he thanked Allah. He retrieved his sandals from the regimented numbered shelving in the prison lobby before being pushed out into the forecourt with a threatening warning. ‘Next time, you won’t be leaving.’  It was night-time still and Babek struggled to stay upright. He saw another batch of men being led from the building and grandfather was amongst them. He watched as another man caught him as he stumbled. Babek limped over to take grandfather’s weight; his clothing was bloody and he was silently weeping.

In the Darkest Corner there is Light: Part Two by Jennie Hart

credit: Gencraft AI

Mother: a nurse

Kamel: father

Arman: elder son

Naghma: daughter

Babek: younger son

Mina: Babek’s wife

Part 2

At home with Mina, Naghma secretly pursued her education and was fortunate the family owned a laptop. So far there had been no government decree to ban internet access and WhatsApp was a popular chat site, but many websites were controlled by the state. She was thankful her brothers were supportive, unlike some men, who wouldn’t hesitate to tell the authorities if they disapproved of their women’s behaviour. A young woman who lived nearby, had carelessly gone out with her ankles showing and the guards had beaten her so badly they had broken her legs.

Naghma’s sister-in-law, Mina, knew she had been fortunate to gain a qualification in nursing, but since the ban on women working, she looked back on her past life with longing, despite its limitations. Confined to the house, Mina helped Naghma prepare the daily meals and was surprised that making delicious meals out of sparse ingredients excited her. She used cayenne and cumin, coriander and turmeric or whatever was growing in the garden, to transform basic vegetables into appetising dishes. Mina’s uncle ran a canteen offering lunches to city workers and when she was younger, she had learned her cooking skills in her uncle’s kitchen. Uncle had been impressed by her talent. Later, her main focus had been her nurse’s training, but now, every Afghan woman was rethinking her future.

‘When we are free, I want to open a restaurant,’ she said to her mother-in-law, Babek will help me, but for now, I will invent new recipes and share them with my friends.’  

‘When we are free’, was a daily aspiration.

‘It’s good to have a plan, to look forward Mina, I will help if I am not too old, or, if you have a child. Once I stop working, I could care for the baby. Let’s hope for an end to this cursed life.’

Mina’s other desire of course was to have a child with Babek, but she was still young and both had agreed to wait until their baby could be born into a safer world. Mother looked for the light in life too but she trembled at the thought of her families’ future.

Afghanistan was a nation of music and it was a terrible blow to all Afghans that the Taliban had declared music a corruption and had forbidden it. Naghma still sang to herself while in the kitchen and Mina often joined in. Mina sang with Babek too, but all knew the risk they were taking. They had heard of women being stoned for less. Arman just smiled and shook his head; too much was at stake for him. Before the repressive government, Naghma and her mother had played the robab, a popular instrument the British had likened to a lute and Babek played the doho,l a type of cylindrical drum. Mina played the mizmar, a wind instrument she had once played in the school band. Arman sang in perfect pitch but since the edict, he never sang. They were all afraid. Even the books they possessed had been scrutinised by the authorities and any with unsuitable subjects, had been taken away.

Mina was speechless at the music ban; her own mother had taught her the traditional dances of the region and when very young, she would dance and sing with Mother and their neighbours after the evening supper. ‘How can we ever dance without music?’ Mina said to Naghma, ‘It’s was a cruel law.’

Mother came home from the hospital that evening with Babek and she wept. Government officials had taken over the hospital, even entering the operating theatre, and by the end of the day, all women employees other than a very small handful, had been told to go home and stay there.

‘I’ve been caring for women young and old in that hospital for years and the personal care and kindness I give the women, cannot be given by a man. What despicable, ignorant cowards they are not to revere our role! What a sick government we have.’

‘How terrible for you Mother-in-law, and even more of our income will be gone; can we manage do you think?’ asked Mina.

‘We shall manage Mina,’ They say I will get a small proportion of my pay, but I am more anxious about those sick women. I am also concerned about my husband, I’ve heard nothing. Soon I plan to go again to Pul-e-Charkhi prison soon and make enquiries, but I can only go if Babek or Arman come with me.’

‘Poor Mother,’ said Naghma, ‘How can they do this to you? There is one good bit of news; the powers have decreed that women can go out alone in the city providing they are fully covered; you only need a male chaperone if you are travelling more than fifty kilometres’

‘Well, I can’t believe anything they say, probably tomorrow they will change their mind and I will be arrested for going out alone!’

It was Paternal Grandfather’s idea to take the musical instruments to his home and if they wanted to play them, the music would be muffled by his thick stone walls, his orchard and surrounding scrub. He lived alone on the outskirts of Kabul in one of many scattered dwellings.  Paternal Grandmother had died of a heart attack and grandfather blamed the Taliban. Grandmother had never recovered from her son’s disappearance and she had no longer wanted to live. Grandfather was grief-stricken at her death too but prayed to Allah on behalf of his son and hoped that no news was good news. Arman drove a battered old Toyota Corolla, essential for getting to work and agreed to take the instruments to grandfather’s hidden beneath some sacks of potatoes. Guards on the city boundaries randomly stopped and searched vehicles, so it was a risk, but Arman had some status in the city and was waved through. The next day was his day off and as mother no longer had work, unlike Babek, Arman agreed to take Mina and his mother to Grandfather Kaspar’s.  

‘We’ve been talking about doing it so let’s go today.’

 Naghma said she would stay to use the computer while the rest of the family were out. Since the Covid pandemic she had secretly been studying the latest papers on the behaviour of microorganisms, hoping that one day, women would work again and she could become a specialist in infectious diseases. She desperately wanted to heal children; she had seen their suffering and preventing illness in infancy was vital. Naghma was skilled in quickly closing down a suspicious website and opening an approved one should any prying Taliban call unannounced.

In the Darkest Corner there is Light: Part One by Jennie Hart

credit Gencraft AI

Mother: a nurse

Kamel: father

Arman: elder son

Naghma: daughter

Babek: younger son

Mina: Babek’s wife

Part 1

Naghma moved restlessly around the gloomy living space and gazed towards the two blacked-out windows; faint streaks of morning light seeped through. She shared the typical mud-and-stone-built house with her mother, her elder brother Arman who was unmarried and her younger brother Babek who had brought his young wife Mina to live with them.  Since the latest decree, no woman must be seen through any window facing the street, and new buildings in Kabul were ordered to be built with none overlooking women’s areas. Naghma had applied the black paint herself while thinking bitter thoughts on the latest edict,  

‘Those pathetic bullies, what are they scared of? Do they think they’re going to see us half-naked? What other nasty ideas will they come up with?’

Privately, Naghma dreaded each day, but for her family’s sake, she strived to be optimistic. As a child, she had been fun, seeing light in the darkest corners but it was getting increasingly difficult. She was a tall young woman, with bold, dark eyes, the only parts of her body visible when she stepped outside. She cared for her brothers and knew they equally despised the regime. Babek preferred to be clean-shaven, appreciating the soft, fresh air on his skin, but today, each man must wear a beard. He was stocky in build, like his father with the compassionate nature suited to his profession. He was a qualified junior doctor at the Kabul Jamhuriat Hospital where their mother was also a nurse. Her position was fragile and might be terminated with no warning at the whims of the Taliban.

The family were very angry at Naghma’s plight; four years ago, she had completed her medical studies and was to be a doctor at the Indira Ghandi Children’s Hospital in Kabul. She was fond of children and had enjoyed helping Paternal Grandmother care for Babek while her mother was working. When the Taliban gained power they allowed only experienced women in the medical profession to remain; Naghma’s graduation was too late. Babek’s wife Mina was a comforting friend to Naghma, she was an educated girl but her career had also been terminated. It was at the Jamhuriat hospital that she met Babek while training to be a nurse but when she was forced to stop working, Babek had asked her family if they could marry and she came to live in the family home.

Naghma could not bear to witness her mother’s anxiety, now virtually a widow but a strong woman and not yet old. Her husband, Kamel, a modern father, had wanted his children to have the opportunities he’d been given. His education had been his downfall because, after studying languages, he became an English teacher and an ideal recruit as interpreter for the British army. After the rapid departure of the British from Afghanistan in two thousand and twenty-one, Kamel was arrested and the family still knew nothing of his fate. Their mother was under suspicion as the wife of a designated traitor and under regular surveillance. She frequently saw guards watching the house from the street corner and since Kamel’s disappearance, she had been called each year for questioning before the National Security Committee. The family lived close to a number of bus routes and each day Babek chaperoned his mother to work. Women were harassed by the Taliban if not accompanied by a male family member. If mother wanted to visit her parents in a distant village, it was unlawful for her to go alone.

Arman was tall like his mother and sister and might have been an athlete. When young and not studying at the madrasah, he had liked to run and fly his kite and work strenuously in the garden, growing vegetables and helping his father tend his treasured trees; a pomegranate, apricot and fig.

At school leaving age, Arman received training in agriculture through the Aga Khan Development Network. There was an urgent need to grow food for the Afghan population and since the extreme decree forbidding most women to work, the economy was failing. The Agronomy department, where Arman held a senior position, lay in the Kabul River Basin. At eighteen hundred metres above sea level, Kabul was one of the highest capital cities in the world and the Hindu Kush formed a stunning mountainous backdrop. Only a small percentage of land in the Kabul River Basin was designated for agriculture because there were several more cities in that region, and an expanding population, but of all the crop-growing areas in Afghanistan, this was the most important.

Arman had progressed in his studies and was a senior researcher in crop cultivation, most importantly, potatoes, a valuable food crop for the under-nourished Afghani people. Amongst mothers and children, malnutrition was rife and potatoes were a life-blood. Much of the land was poor and drought-ridden, yet also likely to flood. Arman’s carefully researched solutions had come to the attention of the Taliban and he had received commendations. He was a frequent advisor to the Canal Irrigation Board and his ideas helped the success of the sophisticated irrigation techniques in operation, channelling water in a series of canals and capturing surface water, especially when the river flooded.

He was especially passionate about the soil. Chemicals were used in commercial farming but were not the preferred method, as they were harsh and expensive to import. The Afghans, a rural nation, had a long and deep love for the trees and flowers they grew and for all aspects of their land. Arman had developed the age-old idea of using the poorest land to grow nitrogen-fixing crops that could be harvested and made into nutrient-rich fertiliser. This was all part of a major project using circular agriculture to ensure organic material from poultry and livestock farms was also kept in the food chain loop and nothing wasted. Arman’s colleagues and students were proud to be working with him and excited when his achievements came to the attention of the Taliban. Most attended the ceremony when he received his latest award. Even so, Arman hated the totalitarian government and disliked the narrow, unreconstructed thinking of some of his fellow workers, in particular their views on women’s rights, but he never shared his thoughts. He had learned a phrase from the British, ‘Walls have ears’.

Naghma’s lively mind and sense of humour made her family smile, so despite the constant fear from local officials, she begged her family to be positive;

‘They’re tyrants, they’re not going to win; good will win and we’ll look back on our suffering as a bad dream.’

Spacebound Hearts: Chapter One: Into The Wormhole by Adam Rutter

credit Gencraft AI

‘Open the wormhole,’ radioed Alex.

The view of the stars through the window inside the cockpit began to stretch and squeeze, forming a ring around a black hole. The Falcon’s engines roared, pushing the spacecraft toward the invisible anomaly. Red and green lights flicked on the consoles.

‘All systems are looking good Falcon,’ a man’s voice said on the headset.

‘Copy that.’

The Falcon started shaking. The black hole’s gravity was pulling the single seated spacecraft into its mouth. Alex’s pressurized suit was equipped with sensors, monitoring his heartbeat. The bleeps grew faster as his heart was beating more rapidly. As the anomaly grew larger, the Falcon fell into the long, winding tunnel. Alex had left planet Novaterra and the Milky Way galaxy behind, travelling on a quick journey to another galaxy that would take a spaceship 163,000 years to get there at the speed of light.

‘Falcon has entered the singularity. I repeat, the Falcon entered the singularity,’ confirmed Alex.

‘We copy that Falcon.’

Blue lights flickered on the console, indicating a build up of radiation inside the anomaly.

‘Falcon, can you give us a progress report,’ a woman requested, voice distorted.

‘Radiation levels are stable. All systems normal.’

Alex was the first human in history to travel beyond the Milky Way 600 years after humankind left its first boot print on the surface of the moon. This was no ordinary journey. It was a scientific experiment. The vast distance between the two galaxies had been cut down, making it look as easy as travelling from Earth to the Moon. Humanity had colonised a quarter of the galaxy. Now, it was looking for a new frontier. To expand human colonies beyond the galactic boundaries.

‘Radiation levels critical,’ said Alex.

The radio buzzed and crackled.

‘I repeat...radiation levels critical.’

The buzzing was loud and persistent.

‘Do you copy?’

The cockpit was filled with flashing red lights. An alarm blared.

‘Do you copy? DO YOU COPY?’

The wormhole swung and slithered like a winding snake, the Falcon hit against the wall at every corner, bouncing along a narrow corridor.

The walls were closing in.

‘Warning,’ announced a computer generated voice. ‘Cabin pressure is decreasing rapidly.’

Alex pressed four green buttons, attempting to keep oxygen at a maximum  level, but it was futile. The air pressure was falling at an incredible rate. Alex’s only best chance was to reach his target destination before the wormhole collapses. The valves inside his suit were released via an AI feedback loop. It was enough to give him plenty of breathable oxygen, though for only a short period of time. The Falcon tossed and twirled, ricocheting like a bullet.

‘Warning! Structural integrity failure is imminent,’ said the computer.

The cockpit rattled and shuddered. Alex was bouncing from side-to-side, shaking violently. Even though he was wearing a helmet, the violent shaking was still enough to deliver a severe blow to the head if it struck against a hard surface.

‘Warning! Structural integrity failure is imminent.’

Steam jets pierced through walls inside the cockpit, hissing. Alex saw stars at the other end; the wormhole’s exit grew bigger. Big enough for the Falcon to escape, but with potentially disastrous consequences. Alex jolted, hitting his head against the wall. The violent blow rendered him unconscious. His spacecraft – out of control. Alex was left at the mercy of the volatile wormhole, determined to projectile his spacecraft out into a dangerous universe, possibly flying into a deadly target. An asteroid? A planet? The wormhole’s exit was drawing closer. Its gaping hole, closing. The Falcon was thrown out into space, and the wormhole imploded, sending out a shockwave. The spacecraft was being pushed out further, hurling toward a region of space unknown to humanity.

On-board the Falcon, an automatic distress signal began transmitting ... 

Walking through town with a dolphin by Suzie Pearson

No-one bats an eye

One kid,
ONE!
calls out “nice dolphin”
We look at each other,
laugh at the moment

Should I be surprised?
This is a town where we’ve seen
        a coati on a lead,
        a ferret on a string,
        and an eight foot green dragon running the streets

Nowt as queer as folks, I guess

First appeared: https://wordsfromanotebook.com/walking-through-town-with-a-dolphin/

-----

I wrote this after carrying a large toy dolphin from low town to high town to donate to one of the charity shops, and the absurdity of the visual stuck with me. You need to have lived in Bridgnorth to know!

Coast by Elizabeth Obadina

Every Sunday

After lunch we would walk

Over the fields to the cliff top

Where I would dawdle and stop

And stare and wonder and dream dreams

Beyond the horizon.

Every June

I would go down to 

Sands cooled in evening sunshine

And in space emptied of trippers unwind

And let gentle waves wash my exam-jammed mind clean

Ready for the next challenge.

Every trip home

I would crunch through

The pebbles searching for treasures

Cast up by the ocean, cast out from the measures

Of rocks housing fossils, once living and now

Finding new meaning again.

Life is now landlocked.

Coasting: where the sea’s in my dreams

The cliffs and the harbours and beaches

Are locked in the dim, distant reaches

Of my mind which still yearns  

For life by the coast.

Liz Obadina

27th June 2017

High Town Writer's March 2025: Meeting minutes

Minutes of High Town Writers' Workshop

Sweeping Away Indifference by Louise Lee - inspired by a '555' prompt

"The situation remained like this for a long time until all of a sudden ... "

Writing inspired by the 5th line of the 5th page of the 5th chapter of a book on a charity shop shelf.

Bridgnorth: A 'high' town and a 'low' town connected by many steps and divided by a river.

Having fun cleaning public steps is not something that people usually admit to.

    It would be an exaggeration to say that John was in his element, but he had a peaceful serenity and a determination to do a good job. 

    The steps are one of a pair leading to paths going in opposite directions along the river. John was on the steps on the left as the cars approached the bridge coming into Low Town. As he stood on the top step facing the road, opposite him was the clock tower. He had read that the clock, which has been there since 1867, requires frequent winding. “Rather them than me”, he muttered to himself.  He turned around and looked down. On this side of the bridge, at the bottom of the steps, is a path and short road called “Severn Side South.”  He surveyed the area he was assigned to tidy and figured that he would go just beyond the bottom step. Focussing his vision further down the path, he saw the usual row of cars. He didn’t know why people left their vehicles here, facing towards the river. There were a series of fee-paying car parks opposite the river. The first two are for customers of the Black Horse pub and the Falcon Hotel, then private spaces for residents of the houses along Severn Street, followed by the public one. This is where he left his car when bringing Maisie on her walk. They would walk through the car parks, turn left, and head towards Wellmeadow and the caravans. Or turn right, and his beloved dog would run up the steps, anticipating a lovely, interesting walk across the road towards Severn Park. 

    Time has moved on, and sadly, she is no longer a part of John’s life. John joined the community choir to fill a gap, and one thing led to another. One of the choir members suggested that, as he was still relatively new to the area, perhaps he would like to join the gardening group, where he would meet some new friends. This was Helen, the appointed leader of the group, who he later realised was on a recruitment drive. 

    It was a cold day in March, but the steps were in a dip, protecting him from the biting wind.

Meeting on Tuesday - Feedback Task

 The task for Tuesday was to provide feedback on members’ writing.

The first 8 parts of Irena’s ‘Hoods and Bots’ story (inspired by a 555 phrase) has now been ‘flipped’ on the blog so that you can read it scrolling from top to bottom Part One begins yesterday 22nd and Part Eight concludes on 15th!

Please read that and writing from other members published since the last meeting and leave feedback in the comments boxes or comment during Tuesday’s meeting.

Hoods and Bots: Part One by Irena Szirtes - inspired by a '555' prompt -

  “They passed Lester’s, the coffee shop on Eighty-fourth where Robert used to take Grace for breakfast sometimes before school.”

 The fifth line of the fifth page of the fifth chapter of “The Horse Whisperer” by Nicholas Evans

credit Canva-Irena Szirtes

In honour of Wilhelm Imiołczyk, whose name I've taken for this story.

In the living hell of WW2 Poland, his forged papers saved lives.

Hoods and Bots: Part One

     It began with Veganuary, and ended with Bubonic Plague. Struggle for political power waxed violent in the wake of WW3, and every civil liberty lay assassinated by 2043. A third of the UK population shared their grave, before the 2080 plague was anywhere near halted.

   “Despicable Bot!” I thought, eyeballing the Greenshirt, the Regime officer cradling a Cappuccino by the cafe window. I watched him savour the fear his presence spawned as customers sloshed through the footbath, before selecting a table as far from him as possible.  Even non-Resistance called Greenshirts ‘Bots’, after chat bots of the 2010s, the ones that only answered pre-selected questions in pre-programmed ways. But Regime Bots were malicious as well as blinkered. It struck me he might be a groper too: it was just a gut feeling, but I’d learned to trust those long ago. 

  “A man whose integrity's so small,” I thought, “there’s a cavern for his giant ego.”  But I shuddered. I wouldn’t want to find myself in his interview room. I wondered how many tortured souls he’d forced to confess real or imagined crimes, crimes against a dictator who decreed plague-bearing rats had more rights than any human being.

   As the Bot noticed my expression sour, I pretended to stare through the window behind him, at rats running the street, in and out drains, up and down drainpipes, over people’s feet. Cars couldn’t avoid them, and the crushed were soon fought-over fast-food for hungry comrades.  I hated seeing so many rats, hated coming to town, but it was necessary evil: I had my mission to fulfil.

Hoods and Bots: Part Two by Irena Szirtes - inspired by a '555' prompt -

   “They passed Lester’s, the coffee shop on Eighty-fourth where Robert used to take Grace for breakfast sometimes before school.”

 The fifth line of the fifth page of the fifth chapter of “The Horse Whisperer” by Nicholas Evans

credit: Canva/Irena Szirtez

In honour of Wilhelm Imiołczyk, whose name I've taken for this story.

In the living hell of WW2 Poland, his forged papers saved lives.

Hoods and Bots: Part Two

In the dark before dawn, the terriers leapt high as my waist. They loved an assignment like this, an early walk through the forest to ‘lift’ a defector from the rendezvous agreed on Cafe Cameron Day. I intended to arrive a good half-hour early: I’ve always been OCD about timekeeping, and besides, there’s always sunrise to enjoy. Dawn dragged my attention from the beleaguered forest. Unchecked deer populations were stripping the countryside bare, and the venison we took made little impact. Seedlings were devoured before they had time to grow, so bird and insect life was failing. Hay meadows had gone too, along with their complex ecosystems, because there were no farm animals to feed through the winter, and few horses, because Benson Parry had decreed riding or working horses was cruel. Even resourceful feral pigs were struggling; a few more years, and they’d starve along with the deer. Sometimes I wondered if disease would take them first, like myxomatosis took rabbits. I dreamed of revived land, grazed by horses, their empathetic bond with people rekindled, and by the free-range cattle and sheep I just about remembered from childhood. Even then they were scarce, and farmers had walked like the disembodied: dishevelled, displaced, soul destroyed. How often I’d longed to live in Northern hills, where prescribed crop growing was impossible, and resourceful stockmen developed new strains of sheep from non-sheared breeds. Unmarked and unattended even at lambing time, living feral on fells and mountains, these sheep appeared to be a Regime triumph. We knew better. They were secretly shared, monitored and managed, and how I longed to see them! 

   It was when I reached the top of the ridge, I knew something was wrong.

Hoods and Bots: Part Three by Irena Szirtes - inspired by a '555' prompt -

   “They passed Lester’s, the coffee shop on Eighty-fourth where Robert used to take Grace for breakfast sometimes before school.”

 The fifth line of the fifth page of the fifth chapter of “The Horse Whisperer” by Nicholas Evans

credit: Canva/Irena Szirtes

In honour of Wilhelm Imiołczyk, whose name I've taken for this story.

In the living hell of WW2 Poland, his forged papers saved lives.

Hoods and Bots: Part Three

It was another dawn mission, a very different one, and my mouth was dry as a desert. I packed a hood for my own use: Roland had been issued with one of his own. The hoods’ purpose was disguising identities, but it was no secret our more radical members made use of them to ambush and murder random Regime personnel, usually at dead of night.

    Roland was still being cleansed of propaganda but had completed an initial two months of intensive interviews and meetings with our leaders. It was time for him to see some active Resistance life. He was still unaware of our underground complex, nor was he allowed a weapon, but a high-tech rifle hung over my shoulder. My job was to help defend an operation of which I was a small part; Roland was simply there to observe.

    I’d hardly seen Roland over the last two months and found I still disliked him. I’d protested someone else should take the six-month shift showing him operations, and pretended I was too busy scaring the occasional rat to make conversation as we moved out together on foot. Rats had increased even here, but this was no mission for my excitable rat pack. Hercule accompanied me everywhere in his capacity as combat dog, unless missions took me into the city, where his presence might have caused suspicion. 

Hoods and Bots: Part Four by Irena Szirtes - inspired by a '555' prompt -

   “They passed Lester’s, the coffee shop on Eighty-fourth where Robert used to take Grace for breakfast sometimes before school.”

 The fifth line of the fifth page of the fifth chapter of “The Horse Whisperer” by Nicholas Evans

credit Canva-Irena Szirtes

In honour of Wilhelm Imiołczyk, whose name I've taken for this story.

In the living hell of WW2 Poland, his forged papers saved lives.

Hoods and Bots: Part Four

    Hercule, Roland and I lay flat atop an ancient railway embankment, hoods on, weapons primed. There were many of us from multiple units scattered along the embankment both sides, most with weapons like mine, two pairs with missile launchers to target enemy spy drones, which often accompanied freight trains. I wondered if everyone else was dry-mouthed too. Time and tension felt one and the same. We could practically hear each other sweat, though the early morning air was cold.

    It was over in an instant: the whirr of a high-speed hovertrain into ear-splitting, sparking derailment as the cab tipped off the wrecked magnetic track. One drone squealed to the ground; the other dipped and dodged, as smart as our target-seeking missiles. Soldiers rose like ghosts from long grass and scrub to check the demolished cab and break into trucks holding boxes of weapons, technology and supplies intended for Regime use. Just as I registered relief I hadn’t fired a shot, some dozen guards emerged from the rear of the train around the bend, weapons discharging. All was confusion, shouting and shooting as our embankment marksmen opened fire. Just as the second drone blazed from the sky, Hercule tensed, and from the corner of my eye I saw a guard, pistol pointed, crawling up the bank right for us. A flash-thought told me, ‘Send Hercule,’ but I shut it out. Without knowing why, I disengaged the heat-seeking device before I aimed, closed my eyes and fired a volley. When I opened my eyes, the pistol-toting guard lay still, and the hatred that burned for him began to turn itself on me. 

Hoods and Bots: Part Five by Irena Szirtes - inspired by a '555' prompt -

   “They passed Lester’s, the coffee shop on Eighty-fourth where Robert used to take Grace for breakfast sometimes before school.”

 The fifth line of the fifth page of the fifth chapter of “The Horse Whisperer” by Nicholas Evans

credit Canva-Irena Szirtes

In honour of Wilhelm Imiołczyk, whose name I've taken for this story.

In the living hell of WW2 Poland, his forged papers saved lives.

Hoods and Bots: Part Five

   Bhuresi poured us coffee in the glossed kitchen that graced her home in the village near our base. There was a single piece of Zimbabwean folk art on the wall, a nod to her roots, to the ancestors who fled Mugabe many decades ago. It looked incongruous among the sleek trappings of high-tech modern life. But Bhuresi, even when decked in African fabrics and towering headgear, never looked out of place. Without trying, she emanated an impression it was everything and everyone else who might be just a little out of kilter with her very own brand of normality.

 “Now Mia. You say you want to discuss Roland. What’s your problem?”

Hoods and Bots: Part Six by Irena Szirtes - inspired by a '555' prompt -

   “They passed Lester’s, the coffee shop on Eighty-fourth where Robert used to take Grace for breakfast sometimes before school.”

 The fifth line of the fifth page of the fifth chapter of “The Horse Whisperer” by Nicholas Evans

credit: Canva/Irena Szirtes

In honour of Wilhelm Imiołczyk, whose name I've taken for this story.

In the living hell of WW2 Poland, his forged papers saved lives.

Hoods and Bots: Part Six 

   I didn’t have much success getting to know Roland. He sometimes asked questions, was curious about Resistance workers who might have defected to the Regime, why that might happen, what our response would be. But he didn’t offer detailed answers to questions about his own life, or how he was feeling. His personality seemed shrouded; I sensed life felt onerous, in slow motion, happening to him, rather than because of him. I still felt uneasy in his presence, sensing brutality sleeping like a cat, not stirring, yet somehow agile and alert.

   A month after that meeting with Bhuresi, Roland surprised me. We were out checking camera traps, ensuring there’d been no Bot incursions near the camouflaged base.  Hercule was way ahead when he suddenly started limping; I instructed him to sit. Roland took off before I had chance to tell him to wait. He seemed uncharacteristically energised and got to Hercule before I did. I observed the calm confidence of an experienced handler, watched him kneel by Hercule’s long muzzle, lift his fore limb, reassure him quietly. Apparently, Roland had never been phased by seeing Hercule ready for action.

Hoods and Bots: Part Seven by Irena Szirtes - inspired by a '555' prompt -

   “They passed Lester’s, the coffee shop on Eighty-fourth where Robert used to take Grace for breakfast sometimes before school.”

 The fifth line of the fifth page of the fifth chapter of “The Horse Whisperer” by Nicholas Evans

credit Canva-Irena Szirtes

In honour of Wilhelm Imiołczyk, whose name I've taken for this story.

In the living hell of WW2 Poland, his forged papers saved lives.

Hoods and Bots: Part Seven

   The following Saturday I almost collided with Frank by the village shop. I could never get away as quickly as I’d like, because Hercule and the rat pack were always excited to see him, always hoped he’d beg a bit of unofficial custody and take them adventuring through the forest. He was still lethally attractive: all the more for seeming unaware his looks and charisma could draw most women, though by now he knew it full well. His smile still got to me, but pain was stronger than attraction now. No matter. Today I wanted to ask him about Roland.

“I saw you the other night, late, I mean, really late - on the bench with Roland,” I began. “How come?”

“You must be mistaken, I haven’t seen Roland. Must have been someone else.”

“Frank Barker, if there’s one thing we thought we'd never see again, it’s bullshit, and all the time you’ve been stuffed full of it! I’ve taken enough lies from you - I’m not taking any more.  I’m not stupid and I’m I’m not blind! You know full well it was him!”

Hoods and Bots: Part Eight by Irena Szirtes - inspired by a '555' prompt -

   “They passed Lester’s, the coffee shop on Eighty-fourth where Robert used to take Grace for breakfast sometimes before school.”

 The fifth line of the fifth page of the fifth chapter of “The Horse Whisperer” by Nicholas Evans

credit Canva-Irena Szirtes

In honour of Wilhelm Imiołczyk, whose name I've taken for this story.

In the living hell of WW2 Poland, his forged papers saved lives.

Hoods and Bots: Part Eight

    When Bhuresi summoned me, I felt I must have done something wrong. That feeling had often grabbed me since I shot the railway guard, though I knew the alternative was unthinkable. ‘Everyone talks under torture,’ it was said, though we knew there were exceptions. My father’s memory was honoured because he gave nothing away – a true Imiołczyk, he’d maintained silence, ensuring there were no further arrests or security breaches following his death. It was a lot to live up to and only added to the inadequacy I often felt post-Frank.

“Come in, come in, coffee’s ready.”

 The smell of fresh coffee brought me back to the moment, but I still took my seat feeling like a teen whose curfew-busting was rumbled. Bhuresi had, after all, helped Mom raise me following Dad’s death, and it was hard to forget she’d caught me out more than once, even though my teen years were now well behind me.

“Don’t look so worried,” she said, sweeping her work aside and placing herself at the kitchen table. “I’ve news you’ll like. You’re off the last two months of your Roland assignment.”

“Oh,” was all I could manage for a moment. “Do you mean your decision was overridden?”

“Not exactly. You might have noticed Roland hasn’t been around this week. He’s had a bit of a personal crisis - big time, actually. I told you there were concerns about his mental health, didn’t I? And you saw the state he was in on the bench with Frank for yourself.  Well, he's been in counselling, and I’ve been told in no uncertain terms that what emerged could put you in serious danger.”

“Like what? I can look after myself – did I ever tell you I held him at knife-point the day I lifted him?” I failed to say Roland had offered no resistance.

“You did what? Mia, that was foolish – I dread to think...”

“But no one told me I was lifting a Bot! What was I supposed to think?”

“Hell yeah, that was one almighty cock-up! How could anyone possibly’ve known you’d encountered him in town? But what’s the deal? I thought you wanted out!”

 “I do, but why do they think I can’t handle it?”

“I’m not party to details, I’ve no information about what came out, only that he needs placing with someone combat hardened, someone like... umm... someone like Victor Mann.”

 She let this sink in, then looked at me with a degree of tenderness I hadn’t seen since I was a child sitting on mom’s rug, obsessively arranging my toy farm. “I wouldn’t want you looking at having to – you know – having to - the very worst-case scenario.”

“Oh, you mean... worst case scenario... someone like Victor...”

 I squirmed a little. Victor had joined us from another unit two years ago. His role included willingness to carry out ordered assassinations, though such orders were rarely given.  He was definitely the sort who had few qualms about becoming what he hated. Everyone knew he’d worn our black hood on many a dark night.

“So, it’s not about doubting your abilities, just that the assignment may no longer fit your role. And I do have even better news.”

“Go on.”

“You and Roland would’ve been taking a trip North, to brainstorm and   negotiate ways we can buy and transport lamb from Resistance farms up there.”

“Hold on,” she said, as my mouth dropped open and I began to speak, “Wait a minute, now – yes, I’m well aware you’ve been fascinated by livestock - since you were knee-high to a grasshopper, in fact!” And “Oh yes, we teased you about it non-stop,” and “yes, drawers stuffed full of drawings of sheep and cows and horses - I’ll bet I’ve still got some somewhere!” Then,  “If  you’ll just listen one minute – thank you - I proposed you go North with Roland and Victor, the idea being to ease Roland’s transition, and because –  this is the best bit -  there might be a new role for you, if we can get the trade going and think of surreptitious ways to transport the goods. What do you think? You can’t take the dogs, of course. You'd have to work something out”

 “Wow, That’s awesome! Hell yes, the terriers have never seen sheep, they’d be beside themselves. Hercule might be ok though?”  

She shook her head. “No dogs allowed on this one. That’s non-negotiable. Sheep farmers are protective, they won’t have their sheep used for impromptu stock breaking. Anyway, you’ll have Victor with you.” She paused again before adding, “So who’d need a combat dog?”

 “You’re right Bhuresi!” Excitement had taken away all sense of the decorum a professional meeting demanded.  “I can just see Victor on his hands and knees in a collar and lead alongside Hercule! A Bot with half a brain would choose a fight with Hercule any day of the week!”

Bhuresi’s eyes twinkled, but she said, “Let’s show some respect, shall we?  Remember Victor's a decorated veteran, and the military training he provides is invaluable.”

 I knew this was why leadership turned a blind eye to Victor’s nocturnal excursions. He had proved very useful.

 “Ok, sorry - point taken. The North...wow! Are we going to Scotland? NotToo far!”

“Derbyshire then?”

“Right between the two! The Lake District and Cumbrian fells.”

“Wow, that’s brilliant!  I can’t wait to see those fells... love it, how farmers bred Soays and Lincolnshire Horns to get past that stupid ban on shearing,  turned them loose on common land, even males, think of that, males on the common land after centuries... and how the Bots think the sheep are totally feral and...”

“Yeah, ok, I know all that, I’ll take that as a yes then.”

“Yes indeed! Thanks, Bhuresi! Oh, the delight of seeing real grazing animals!  I can’t wait! When do we go?”

“Sometime during the next couple of weeks. Come see me on Friday around two, and I’ll have the details.”

     It was my turn to add something at the last minute, something prickling me.  “Why has no one confronted Roland about the locket yet? Why would we let him see facilities up North if he’s still Bot? Why would we string him along like this, especially if he’s dangerous?”

Bhuresi shrugged. “Like I said before, I don’t know everything. The powers that be know what they’re doing.  But meanwhile, think of all those messages getting intercepted by our agent.  You did a pretty good job spotting the locket, don’t you think?”

“I suppose I did.”

“But don’t let it go to your head girl,” she added, giving me a playful punch on the shoulder, something else she used to do when I was little.

   The thought I should advise Roland to watch himself around Victor flickered through my mind.  Then confusion:  why should I care about an infiltrator, especially him? Everything began to feel out of kilter again, but excitement about the upcoming trip soon refilled my head.

To be continued.