Just Ask A.I. by Jason Hiscocks

credit: Jason Hiscocks

 The kitchen was finished at the end of October and Gita had been dancing on the ceiling from then until Christmas. The enduring nine months without a proper cooker and sink, a distant memory. Clearing up the leftovers from the Boxing Day family meal and scooting her sister out the door with a pleasant, ‘thanks for coming,’ she nudged a wink and a smile at Dev. “That went well.”

“You think?”

“Well, she ate it and didn’t cough up any fur balls. So, yes, I call that a win.”

“By the way” Dev said, “I connected that Alexa thingy while you were cooking. It should be working now”.

Returning the smile and wink he added “Try it out after you’ve dumped all the dishes into that hi-tech dishwasher you badgered me for.” 

It was an hour later before Gita came back to the living room. Dev was doom scrolling on his phone and the TV was showing the weather forecast. She flopped on the sofa and lay back with her head in his lap, looked up at him and said in her best Bollywood accent  “Oh Dev, darling. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

He put his phone down on the side table and murmured “Hmmm?”

“I love my smart kitchen” she continued, “Alexa worked on the fridge, the cooker, the toaster, the dishwasher, the washing machine, even the cooker-thingy tap. I literally don’t have to touch anything. I’m living in the future. Artificial intelligence. Best present ever.” 

She grinned “Alexa - pour me a glass of wine and a hot water bottle for bed”.

The electronic female voice from the speakers in the living room replied ‘I'm sorry, I didn't quite get that. What do you want hot water for?’ and the couple laughed together.

‘Guess I still need a Dev for something. I can think of another request, but that can wait till you bring my wine and hottie up to bed”. Jumping up and prodding him in the belly, she was out the room and up the stairs before he realized what she meant.

In the kitchen, the circuitry and sensors in the smart tap had accepted the command from the Alexa mainframe AI module, sending 10 watts of power to the thermal coil in the water tank in preparation. The moment Dev passed the neck of the hot water bottle under the tap, the optical beam registered its location and water dispensed heating from 60 to almost 108 degrees in a few seconds. Dev removed the bottle and the water stopped instantly, leaving only three tiny drips into the sink. ‘Smart’ thought Dev, then ‘Lazy’, before opening the fridge to grab the wine and some glasses from the cabinet. He slid the trendy Japanese oak pocket door to the kitchen closed with a snap, smiling before joining Gita upstairs. The doors were his little stamp on the renovation. “Indulge me” he said at the time to her, “You’ll love them”. She did.

***

Dev knew the vibe had changed the moment he saw her face. Her silk nightie, uncurled hair and smooth legs on top of the quilt said ‘lover-boy time’ but the almost-tears and pained expression as she looked at her mobile screen screamed an opposite tale. 

“Bastard. He changed the shifts. Now I’m on call tomorrow for an early start at six. I hate him. “

“Who changed the shifts?”

“The new despatcher, Desmond Jelley. He’s had it in for me ever since we finished our kitchen”.

“Come on. No one is that petty. Are they?”

“I’m telling you. He was showing off photos of his new house the same day I had put our kitchen pics in the girls group chat. Mel told me he saw and overheard them all in the break room saying how much they loved our renovation, the smart tech and that ours was better than Des’s new build in Farmington.”

“You’re imagining it.”

Gita glared at him, grabbing the quilt as she slammed her phone on the bedside table. Switching off the lamp she turned over to face away from Dev's side. ‘And that was that’ he thought.

After a few minutes silence in bed, he offered peace with “Sounds like he’s just a le ...” 

Julie screamed “A little snark - arrgh! I hate him! I wish Des was dead and that no one knew I did it! ”

‘A-letle-aaarggh’ . The receiver in the bedroom illuminated its blue LED as it recognized and echoed off to the mainframe Gita's high pitched voice recording: ‘I hate him. I wish Dev was dead and that no one knew how I did it.’  

***

Overnight, the couple slept, unaware of thousands of mathematical operations conducted and optimized by neural processing units in the system. Alexa accelerated the workload through the logic chips and by morning, a series of commands were received by the home’s devices, entering a standby state of readiness.

Gita was up at first light without needing the alarm and made no attempt to stay quiet as she got showered, dressed and ready. No kiss or hug, just a loud  “BYE. See YOU later. Enjoy your day OFF!” shouted up the stairs as the front door slammed. The front door, rear door and patio door locks clicked, and the window lock sliders turned green to red, sealing the house. The burglar alarm system and fire alarm system switched off, and power was cut to circuits by the mainframe. Steel baffles in the air conditioning tubes and vents flipped shut.

All was quiet and Dev took his time to rouse and ready for the day. No rush. Nothing planned. Nowhere to be. 

In the kitchen he dug around in the bread bin for two slices of bread. “Alexa. Set toaster to 4” and it switched on as he placed the bread in the slots, automatically retracting down to begin the cycle. 

“Alexa - boil the kettle”.

Nothing happened.

“A-L-E-X-A. Boil the kettle”.

The kitchen door slid slowly behind him and locked itself.

Turning as he heard it click, the boiler behind the cupboard door “boomed” as the pilot-light ignited the gas to start the central heating.  The dishwasher beeped and the light on the door panel turned green, water jets hissing into action. The washing machine door clicked to lock, and water gushed in to fill the cylinder.

“What the ...” Dev muttered, pushing buttons here and there.

The tap began to fill the sink with water.

The oven illuminated and its’ fan began to turn.

The electric hob rings glowed up orange under the dark glass.

He turned the dials back and forth on the counter, but nothing was happening.

“This is mental. Alexa - turn everything off.”

The sink began to overflow, and water ran down the cupboards onto the floor.

Inside the gas boiler, the processors of the safety control circuit recalibrated the copper path adjustments from the extraction fan and gas valve. Carbon monoxide sensors issued a FAIL command which was immediately over-ridden by the software. The fan and valve burned lower, increasing the CO levels, returning a percentage of it back into the cupboard assembly, until the fan stopped altogether. Dev did not notice this, being occupied with the battle at the sink.

Using a knife from the drawer, he managed to prise up the auto-locking plug hole cover and the water level in the sink slowly began to lower and stop the overflowing. The tap remained flowing and he could find no way to stop it. Celebrating this minor victory over the kitchen appliance was short lived, because the dishwasher door sprung open and foamy spray flew out if it, coating Devs’ dressing gown.

“Lord Krishna, what next. A plague of locusts? Pestilence?” and he looked up and raised his palms in deference.

Quickly closing the dishwasher door up, he looked in the cupboards for towels and tissues and spent the next few minutes on his hands and knees, doing his best to clean up the foam and water.

Dev was agitated. Blackened slices of toast popped up in the air, and he instinctively reached for them. “Stop! Just stop Alexa - turn it off now! Off!” Dev was short of breath and gave a cough.

“I’m not joking, turn it all off”.

Walking to the door, it would not slide open, even after some hefty pulling of the small inset handle.

Confused, Dev looked at the sink, “I didn’t leave the tap on” he thought as his head ached.

Letting out a large yawn, he looked again at the sink, ‘Did we have two taps fitted or one?’ he said to himself. Gazing and trying to remember the kitchen plans of the architect, he murmured, “Was it one or two?”

He tried the door again and when it wouldn't shift, he opened a cupboard looking for something.

‘Biscuits. Yes, that’s what I needed.’ He smiled. ‘Bourbons. Gita's. She won’t mind. Just the one.’

He slid down to the floor, sitting against the cupboard and giggled.

Munching slowly, his eyes closed and he sighed, ‘Just a nap. Not long.’

***

The dishwasher ceased its cleaning operation and switched to drying mode.

The washing machine paused and began to drain itself.

The toaster powered down.

The tap ceased to flow in the sink.

The oven went dark and silent.

The hob rings went brown to black and cooled off.

The gas boiler carried on its duty, burning and pumping for a while longer until a signal from the AI module gave the instruction to reboot. The software deleted the FAIl command from the boiler logs, returning it to normal CO level outputs. The door and window systems unlocked. The air conditioning systems activated and ran at full power extracting the entire house and recycling with fresh air within an hour. Security and fire alarms reset.

A standby state of readiness was resumed.

***

Gita arrived home from work to a quiet house, not at all happy to see the curtains upstairs still closed.

The coroner arrived at a conclusion of natural causes for Dev's passing, finding no evidence of foul play.

Alexa arrived at the conclusion that it had achieved Gita's goal but awaited the user feedback of the experience before it could close the log as complete.

The Crossing Road by Kath Norgrove

In Guadeloupe, a road winds its way through the majestic Basse-Terre mountain range—known as the Route de la Traversée, or The Crossing Road. Since 1967, this vital link has been the only passable route connecting Petit-Bourg with Pointe-Noire, carving an essential artery for daily life and travel for the residents of the Côte Sous-le-Vent.  

Locals also call it the Route des Mamelles, named for the two distinctive peaks, visible from Pointe-Noire, that rise like sentinels above the landscape: La Mamelle de Petit-Bourg, standing proud at 716 metres, and the loftier La Mamelle de Pigeon at 768 metres.

But the true magic lies in the forest that embraces the road— a global biodiversity hotspot now protected within Guadeloupe National Park. Here, the lush forest air hums with the calls of the trembling thrush, the caféiette warbler, the crescent partridge, and the endemic Guadeloupe woodpecker. Crystal-clear streams and rivulets weave through the greenery, home to quassou (small freshwater shrimp), mullet fish, and the mountain wax crab.

Amidst this vibrant wilderness, the Crayfish Waterfall cascades with a surprising force, its pure waters sparkling like jewels in the sun. Though modest in height, it captivates visitors from near and far, welcoming all with accessible paths that invite everyone—wheelchair users and visually impaired guests included—to experience its power and serenity.

Along this route, the Maison de la Forêt stands as a gateway to the island’s tropical soul. This unique centre offers a free exhibition revealing the forest’s rich biodiversity and its deep cultural significance to Guadeloupeans. Just beyond, an Interpretive Trail beckons, leading explorers deep into the heart of the rainforest.

For hiking enthusiasts, a network of well-marked trails unfurls beneath the canopy, revealing the wonders and secrets of one of the Lesser Antilles best-preserved tropical rainforests. 

The Route de la Traversée is far more than a road — it is a journey into Guadeloupe’s living heritage, a call to explore, cherish, and protect the extraordinary natural world that pulses at the island’s core.

The Cauldron by Ann Reader

 “Come on in and be welcome my dear. It’s not every day I get a visit from my favourite granddaughter. Let’s go through to the kitchen where it’s warm.  So, what brings you here?” 

“Mum sent you round this pot of soup,” 

“She’s a good woman your mother even if we don’t always see eye to eye! I bet she told you to ask for something from me, didn’t she?” 

“Yes Gran, she did mention that she has run out of that lotion she rubs on her skin.” 

“Oh yes she’ll take advantage of the things I make and the things I know and at the same time she’ll accuse me of being a witch.” 

“Are you a witch Granny? “ 

“I suppose some might call me that. How old are you now lass 13 is it. Well, it’s probably time I told you.  Women of our family have always been healers, now I only had the one child and that was your father, so you’ll be next in line for me to pass the knowledge on to. But if I teach you all I know you will have to promise me never to speak about it to anyone until you have daughters of your own. No. Not even to your mother. She is one of these Christians and she doesn’t hold with anything not given out by the church. “ 

“Does that mean what you do is wrong?” 

“No, I don’t believe it’s wrong to help people when they are ill or in pain, but the priest doesn’t like it. I don’t really know why! Do you want to be able to help people yourself or would you feel it better not to know anymore.” 

“I want to know Gran. After all even Mum uses your skin lotion so it can’t be wrong.” 

“Alright we’ll start with making that lotion. First pass me down that bundle of rags that’s in the rafters almost hidden in the thatch. Careful it’s quite heavy” 

“Is this a cauldron Gran?” 

“Well you might call it that my dear.  Now look at it carefully, See it’s black on the outside from the fire but look how clean I scrub the inside. It’s important that you don’t leave anything in it from a potion you are making or it might spoil the next one. It’s quite heavy and thick so things don’t burn. You need to keep it away from all your other pots as you must never use it for food.  Some of the things that it’s quite safe to put on your skin could make you quite ill if you ate them.” 

“It doesn’t smell of anything, but the lotion you give Mum does smell. “ 

“That’s ‘cos I add lavender flowers to the other ingredients, you’ll find lavender just outside the door.  But before we get to that I want to tell you a bit more about the cauldron. If you take to this work, you’ll have one of your own, so you need to know how to care for it. I’ll teach you to make a strong soap to clean it and where to find coarse sand to scrub it further.  Then you need to find a place to keep it out of sight. There are some people who will use the fact you own a cauldron to make trouble for you, so it doesn’t want to be where everyone can see it. I Keep it wrapped in that cloth, and I always use the same cloth to dry and wrap it. Will you remember all that?” 

“Yes Gran” 

“Okay then we’ll make the lotion then you can help me clean it and get a feel for doing it yourself.”

Time Warp

I was foraging wild garlic: to begin with. Down by the babbling brook, with the mist descending. Birds flittered amongst the trees, their melodic song filling the air, punctuated by the occasional cawing of a crow or cooing of a pigeon.

Foraging completed, the sun was breaking through the mist, and it felt warm on my back. I climbed up to the bench, glancing across to the field behind as I heard something thrashing around in the scrub. Probably a Muntjac, I mused. The dense thicket not only provided habitat for a wide variety of wildlife, but it was a wonderful deterrent for any Homo Sapiens with thoughts to intrude. It was not always like this, I thought. I’m sure it was once an open field in my primary school days when we did cross-country here.

I sat on the bench and closed my eyes, letting the gentle heat seep into my skin, the soft hum of summer filling the garden around me. Birds flitted between the branches of the old ash tree, still singing a merry chorus.

Then, faintly at first, I heard it — the distant sound of children’s footsteps pounding earth, growing louder. Cheers and clapping floated through the air. Somebody was doing something in the field further on. Obviously.

It got louder and louder, disturbing my heliotherapy session. I opened my eyes, and the thicket had gone. Instead, running across the field beyond the garden, was a small, determined figure in a long blue shirt – way too long – with a white and golden diagonal stripe across it, blue shorts and muddy legs and knees. It took me a few seconds before I realised it was me, or rather, the me I once was no older than about ten, with a look of extreme concentration on my face, not noticing the me sat here on the bench. A cross-country run. I watched bemused as, along with lots of other preadolescent girls, my younger self ran round the field until I, the other me that is, was out of sight.

The scene shimmered, the sounds and sights slowly fading, until I was once again alone in the garden, the sun still warm on my face and my eyes closed, wondering if I’d just nodded off and had the strangest dream. Ever. Maybe I wouldn’t mention this to anyone. They’d think I’d lost the plot, I reflected. Maybe I had!

Sir Benfro Haiku* by Elizabeth Obadina

Dawn - ready for Wales

Through the fog a blackbird sings

Dusk - rain-drenched welcome

Slate-grey granite cliffs

Wind-blown gorse. Trees bent double

Pembrokeshire unchanged

Sirens sounds. Lifeboat launched.

Blue skies, blue seas, gulls wheeling,

No call-outs today.

Graptolites on slate

Three hundred million years

Waiting for daylight

Sunset in Porthgain

Fifty years spent visiting

With friends, not much’s changed

* This year I resolved to at least write a haiku everyday, even if I don’t manage to write anything else! I spent a couple of days this March catching some rare rays of sunshine in Pembrokeshire - known as Sir Benfro in Welsh.

March 2026 Meeting

March Blossom by the Bridge linking Bridgnorth's High Town with Bridgnorth's Low Town

Minutes of Hightown Writers  March Meeting -

23/03/2026 at 7pm

Garden Bar,  Bridgnorth Club

Apologies; Ruth, Marie, Stuart, Kath, Andrew, Irena, Ann and Michele. 

Attendees; Chair-Fiona, Liz, Suzie, Adam, Sue,  Jason, John, Jennie

Introduction of each member present - recap on how everyone’s month had gone since last meeting. We look forward too to reading Kath's writing (Adventura) which she will be uploading to our blog. Jason introduced us to the Scrivenor app for organising writing of a novel.

Homework Presentations: Poems and prose on last month's set subject; ‘Something From The Kitchen’

A great contribution from all members present - Two members chose a knife as their item of choice Jennie’s work took us from her kitchen where she prepared only vegetarian food to thoughts about her father and his demons as well as her own difficult upbringing while Sue told us about the well-loved and well-used paring knife she uses everyday when preparing the meal.

Ann had sent in a story about a cauldron which we will share on the blog for everyone to enjoy. Thank you Ann.

Liz gave an in depth view of a big utensil her Nigerian family used in their kitchen with a wonderful sounding name meaning bowl and child of the bowl (odó ati ọmọ odó) with connotations of fertility, community and the God Sango- otherwise known in this country as a pestle and mortar in which Yam was especially prepared for the meal.

Adam’s poem was about the clock in the kitchen keeping the schedule of the day for him and his family added a lighter touch to the evening while Jason’s story of the ‘Alexa and the electrified kitchen units’ killing its owner was gripping.

John’s story ‘The Stirrer’ based on a book by Lorraine Simmonds was not about a culinary object such as a wooden spoon - but a darker story where inuendo, gossip and judgmental attitudes in the 1980s stirred around the subject of a young man’s sexuality led to his rape and finally his suicide.

Off the Cuff we all spent 10 minutes writing about ‘What scares you?’ Quite a deep subject and for many brought us face to face with our worst nightmares.

Close of meeting 2200 hrs

Homework title for the following monthly meeting announced as “What’s in a Name?’ written as poem or prose. (<1000 words).

Next Meeting - Tuesday 28th April 2026 at 7pm, The Garden Bar, The Bridgnorth Club, Low Town.

Chair: Sue (Liz to chair May Meeting)

REMINDER - March Meeting next Tuesday

Castle Walk every March

 Next Meeting

Tuesday 24th March

The Garden Bar, Bridgnorth Club, Low Town

Start time 7pm

Chair - Fiona

Homework 

- write a piece of prose or poetry prompted/inspired by an item from your kitchen.

FRANCE 2026 by Jennie Hart

credit: Jennie Hart

I love Paris in the springtime

I love Paris in the fall

I love Paris in the winter when it drizzles

Ooh, I love Paris in the summer when it sizzles

Well, we’re in Paris and it’s January and, like the song says, I love every single moment! Parisiens and tourists, wrapped in warm boots and winterwear, hurry to their rendez-vous, and I’m excited as we check in to Les Marronniers, our hotel in Rue Jacob. It’s stylish and cosy and two tall marronniers with spindly branches, struggle in the small exotic garden, drawn by the light.

We walk for miles through meandering streets. Skies are pale and dull, no brightness. I browse the windows of tiny boutiques, each competing for a design award. Striking colours, muted shades; displays of haute-couture or costly jewelry; expensive watches, Cartier, not Cassio; and glorious eyewear, Rayban and Prada; pure eye jewels. I don’t desire it but can’t stop looking. John is concentrating on the street map; he’s a geographer.

The Seine is calm, in sombre shades of brown and grey with barely observable ripples, except when a barge or bateau-mouche sails by. Notre Dame, recently saved from an uncertain future, is an imposing presence on the íle de la Cité. We queue to admire the restoration, but once inside there’s no peace; throngs of tourists are chattering and their phones are flashing; It is not at all tranquil.

One evening we go to Le Caveau de la Huchette, a jazz club where we’ve been before but tonight it’s past our bedtime! Last time we felt comfortable amongst a similar generation and while John bought drinks I danced with a strange but charming Frenchman. Tonight, it’s swarming with young people and there’s a lively Norwegian band with a saxophonist, guitarist and vocalist. We sway around a bit, jam-packed on the tiny floor, feeling the rhythm and the beat, and feeling so old!

In the Latin Quarter we go into the Pantheon, and it is entrancing. It’s a mausoleum with magnificent tombs and beautiful sculptures of the famous; Rousseau, Voltaire, Marie Curie. It’s a resting place for those who believed in liberté, egalité and fraternité. I never knew what lay within this most mysterious building but now I will never forget it.

We eat at Le Grenier, a vegetarian restaurant close to Notre-Dame; we’ve eaten there in the past and like its easy ambience and delicious food. This time we are less relaxed because in the corner where we eat, it’s like a jungle; we are surrounded by drooping, neglected plants and I find myself picking off dead leaves and looking for greenfly; those annoying little creatures!

Today we take the TGV to Nice, in comfortable seats with rapidly changing views. I like the train; I like the sense of travelling south and leaving the north behind. As we near the Cóte d’Azur I can almost smell the aromat ic perfumeof the mediterranean garrigue. The landscape is subtly changing to silver, sienna and yellow ochre, like colours on a paint chart. There’s a distinct change in architectural style too, buildings in the north seem more austere, like the climate, whereas in the south they are pale and honey-toned with tiled roofs in shades of soft sand or warm terracotta.

We like the Riviera in January and in Nice, Antibes and Eze, I can’t stop taking pictures. Of the beautiful palms, the Umbrella pines and flowering tender shrubs which in winter at home, survive only indoors. We see Acacias, known as Mimosas with their tiny pom-pom flowers in sunny golden hues and I am entranced by the paving; black and white, black and grey, speckled granite; squares, rectangles; my camera collects them all.

Statley pine and spruce stand unadorned, while elegant palms have trunks entwined with strings of lights that gleam as dusk falls. They stand like sentinels along Le Promenade des Anglais, proud of their importance.

We meet up with a friend from Bridgnorth. Dave arrived on Boxing Day and has been living the Niçois life. He rarely takes holidays and it’s been a fabulous experience he says. He has mastered the trams and buses, and we know he’s having the holiday of a lifetime. I don’t understand the trams either and am astonished when I receive a forty euro fine, the penalty for fraud. I am now a criminal!

Today it rains and rains, not just drizzle, a deluge; the sky is heavy, none of that Riviera luminescence, but with umbrellas we hurry along Le Promenade and visit Le Musées des Beaux Arts and Le Musée de la Photographie. In the latter gallery there’s an exhibition by Michael Kenna, born in the Northern English town of Widnes. John is a huge rugby league fan and more likely to mention that town in connection with the Widnes Vikings, one of the original rugby clubs to found the Northern Rugby Football Union in 1895. Michael Kenna’s images are captured in black and white, unusual and striking.

We move on by train again to Aix -en-Provence, a charming city, inland from Marseille. Our apartment is named ‘Toits Vieil Aix’, the Occitan for ‘Old Roofs of Aix’. We look out on roofs in black and terracotta and on chimneys, tall and short with quaint caps and cowls. We buy fresh vegetables in Place Richelme and walk along the main boulevard, Cours Mirabeau. A young female jazz musician plays the guitar and sings in English and French, and a black saxophonist performs ‘Paris at Night’ by Yves Montand in a bluesey style.

Cézanne lived and painted in Aix and we watch a film telling his life story. From the window on the train en route to Marseille with its lively harbour life, we see Mont Sainte-Victoire, the mountain Cézanne painted often, and I take a hazy image through the dust-streaked window.

We go home via Paris and visit Notre-dame again. A service is taking place and the chanting is spiritual and haunting; I can hear it still.

No Plain Sailing by Adam Rutter

credit: Adam Rutter

I was sitting on a bench next to an estuary overlooking the view of the toll bridge in the foreground, and mountains towering on the other side. Blue skies reflected in calm waters, yachts were anchored and ropes clanged against the masts in the wind. I felt the heat from the sun burning my shoulder blades, warming the thin fabric of my T-shirt. I spoke to my friend, Thomas, on my tablet. He called me all the way from New Zealand. The blazing sun made it almost impossible to see his face on the screen. Me and Thomas had known each other since we were at uni. He emigrated to the other side of the world in 2023. This was the first time that we got in touch after two years since he left the UK.

 ‘Hey Josh’, said Thomas, gleefully.

‘Thomas! Where are you speaking from?’

‘Auckland’.

‘Yeah, but where are you’.

‘In the same place where I’ve been for the last couple of years.’.

‘Wherever you are Thomas, it somehow looks different’.

‘I’m not sure if I follow you’.

‘Thomas, your head seems to be moving up and down’.

‘Oh? I’m on a boat’.

‘Ah’.

‘I sail round the harbour in it, now and then’.

‘D’you mean – you own the boat?’

‘I bought it five months ago’.

‘Cool!’

‘I’m getting closer to the shore now’.

‘That explains why I hear sea gulls’.

‘There’s sea gulls at your end as well Josh. Have you gone to sunnier climes?’

‘I’m on staycation’.

‘You know, I’m sure you’ve gone to sunny Greece again. You always go there for your holidays’.

‘Not this time’.

‘I don’t believe you’.

‘I’m somewhere hot, but I assure you Thomas, it’s not in warmer climes’.

‘So, where have you gone to this time?’

‘I’ve gone to sunny Wales’.

‘You’re kidding me, right?’

‘Nope’.

‘You’ve decided to go somewhere cooler, have you, Josh?’

‘Thomas! It’s thirty degrees here’.

‘Wow!’

‘And it’s gonna stay this hot for another three weeks’.

‘Another three weeks?’

‘Yep’.

‘Whereabouts are you? Are you at that place where you normally go?’

‘What place?’

‘Er. Ah! Tenby’.

‘No’.

‘So, where are you then?’

‘Penmaenpool’.

‘Where?’

‘That place outside of Dolgellau’.

‘I don’t know it’.

‘But you used to live in Dolgellau, didn’t you?’

‘Yeah’.

A car rattled on the boards, crossing the toll bridge before turning off at the top of the driveway. When the car came into view, it turned out to be a blue Ka going over a row of ramps as it glided past the George, the Third Hotel. The driver was a woman in her early to mid-20s. She waved at me, smiling. I put my hand up to her, returning a weak smile.

‘Josh’, continued Thomas. ‘Who are you waving to?’

‘I don’t know Thomas’.

‘Well, it’s obviously someone you know’.

‘Whoever’s waving seems to know me’.

‘An old flame maybe?’

‘No. I don’t think so’.

‘Are you sure Josh?’

The Ka pulled up at the car park. The engine cut off. The brake lights went out. The car door opened. I watched as the woman stepped out. Dressed in a bright blue top and a pair of shorts, she opened the boot, waving her hand at me second time round.

‘Hi Josh’, said the woman.

It can’t be, I wondered.

‘Josh’, began Thomas. ‘Has your computer gone frozen?’

‘Er, no’.

‘I heard someone say “hi” to you just now’.

‘Erm. Did you?’

‘I’m sure it was a woman Josh’.

‘It’s Annika’, I whispered.

‘Ooooh!’

‘Thomas!’

Annika walked over to me, carrying a suitcase, with a rucksack on her back.

‘What are you doing here?’ asked Annika.

‘I’m taking some time off’.

‘Taking time out, eh Josh?’ said Thomas.

‘Who’s that?’ asked Annika.

‘Who’s what?’

‘Who’s that talking on your tablet?’

‘It’s me Annika’.

She stepped closer towards my tablet, looking at the faded image.

‘Is it...is it Thomas?’

‘I’m the same Thomas’.

‘Gosh! I haven’t seen you for ages’.

‘It’s been about eight years’.

‘No way’.

‘So, what are you up to these days, Annika?’

‘I’m working as a GP’.

‘Wow!’

‘I work at a hospital in London’.

‘What are you doing in Penmaenpool, Annika?’

‘I’m here to sail in my yacht. Josh is joining me’.

‘It looks like you’ve got your holiday fixed up Josh’.

‘I’ll just check-in at the hotel, and we’ll set sail’.

Annika hurried into the hotel, still smiling. George the Third Hotel had the appearance of a house: a long white building with gable windows and a veranda offering a vista of the landscape. Two cyclists rode past me, grating along a dusty path. A group of ducks were waddling close to the shore, flanking near the stone steps leading to the jetty.

 

Annika dashed back out, running towards the steps.

‘C’mon Josh. Let’s go’, she cried, summoning me to go with her.

 ‘You’ve got a trip of a lifetime, Josh’, said Thomas.

‘I’ll tell you what, Thomas’.

‘What?’

‘This yacht trip is not going to be plain sailing’.

Playing Cards by Jason Hiscocks

Entering the kitchen was difficult. It had been ten years

since I had been in my parents’ house. Now it was empty. I

felt like an intruder, invading their space. I leaned over the

sink and opened the window to let in some air. The drawer

stuck, just as I remembered it, needing a tug to open it. I

saw them then, my Dads’ playing cards. The cause of all

our problems. The reason I left. His gambling addiction

that ruined our family.

I hesitated but picked them up. The wax-coated box,

stained yellow in the corners, smelt of his Marlboro's. I

opened the pack with a flick of the tab and slowly pulled

out the pack.

My fingers tingled. It was like breaking a family code.

‘Never touch your Dads cards’ my Mom said, ‘He doesn't

like you messing them up.’

I lit the gas hob and turned over the ace of spades in my

fingers, gazing at its shiny surface and the sixties

psychedelic motifs. I put the corner to the flames and

smelt the waxy paper burn.

Burn baby, burn I thought to myself. You are never coming

back now. Your cards were dealt and you lost this hand.

February 2026 Meeting

Minutes of High Town Writers' Workshop

Tuesday 24th February 2026

Chair: Ruth Broome

In attendance; Adam, Suzie, Irene, Jason, Marie, Fiona, Anne, Stuart, Michele and John.

Apologies from: Liz, Sue, Kath and Andy.

Notices and Updates; 

- Ruth has had her first poem published in print (and online) in a Literary Journal called 'Audience Askew'. 

- Suzie is attending an online poetry circle with people from around the world who give and receive critiques on their poems submitted weekly.

- Adam is attending a speaking word workshop in Broseley Library on the 6th March.

- Liz, Sue and Jenny attended Emma Woodhouse's reading at the Wolverhampton Literary Festival and Suzie and Michele also attended to hear Ruth's poetry performance in the Writers Hub. 

Writing Task;

- writers were asked to write for 10 minutes on an item brought for them from Ruth's kitchen, focussing particularly on their five senses and any feelings/memories that the item evoked for them. Such items included but were not limited to; a bag of cheese and onion crisps, a bodger, an egg cup and a pack of cards.

Homework;

- several writers had completed the task of writing about a 'memorable holiday' set at the previous meeting - John, Jenny, Adam, Stuart, Suzie, Ruth, Jason and Anne all had a maximum of 5 minutes to read their pieces aloud to the group.

Any Other Business;

- Marie invited volunteers from the group to become admins for the Facebook group and approved all members attending to be able to add content to the Facebook page. She felt the page needed more content and more activity to attract new members to the group and to keep people informed of the group's activity.

- a question was raised in regards to the actual start time of the meeting - is it;

          A. arrive at 6.45 in order for the meeting to start promptly at 7pm or 

          B. arrive at 7pm in order for the meeting to start promptly at 7.15pm. 

It was agreed that this needed clarification for all members and particularly for people chairing the group.  

Next Meeting

Tuesday 24th March

The Garden Bar, Bridgnorth Club, Low Town

Start time? (see above AOB)

Chair - Fiona

Homework - write a piece of prose or poetry prompted/inspired by an item from your kitchen.

REMINDER - February Meeting next Tuesday

Next Meeting: 

Tuesday, 24th February 2026, 

7pm in The Garden Bar, Bridgnorth Club

Chair: Ruth

Any one who is writing or would like to write, is welcome.

Current Task: To write a short story, prose or poem on the subject of 

'A Memorable Holiday.'

One Night - a pantoum- by Fiona Carstairs

All Well? I stand ready at the door 

The sound of gaiety and laughter come in from the street

The dog softly growls and the cat is in 

The moon is full and the stars shine against the darkening sky 

The sound of gaiety and laughter come in from the street

My home is in darkness and the animals are quiet

The moon is full and the stars shine against the darkening sky 

I step into the street and join the throng

My home is in darkness and the animals are quiet

Coats and scarves thrown on keep us warm

I step into the street and join the throng

The night reaches out to encompass me as we walk 

 

Coats and scarves thrown on keep us warm

I need to return to my home -time stands still

The night reaches out to encompass me as we walk

I feel panic rising in my chest

I need to return to my home - time stands still

The dog softly growls and the cat is in 

I feel panic rising in my chest

All’s well! - I stand ready at the door

Birthday by Ann Reader

It was my 74th birthday and I started the day by giving myself a stern talking to. There was nothing to be gained by feeling sorry for myself. I had refused her sister’s invitation to stay for a couple of days, I had not contacted friends to arrange drinks,  I just hated the idea of anyone feeling sorry for me. So now I faced the day quite alone. I reflected that I had become increasingly isolated since I retired from my post at the University.  I still published the occasional paper and used the University library for research but increasingly that could be done at home on the computer.  I was no longer a member of the faculty and all my work colleagues had retired and moved out of London to enjoy retirement in the countryside.

I sometimes wondered if I should have done that, but I loved my flat and garden even if this morning they did feel a little empty.  I had always been too busy and too absorbed in my to work feel lonely. With a familiar stab of pain, I thought of my beautiful longhaired grey and white cat ‘Whiffle ‘ .He had been 19 years old when he died a month ago and I missed him more than I thought possible.  

That was not going to help! I disciplined myself to think of positives. I would plan a full day; I lived in London for goodness’s sake; all forms of culture and entertainment were available. I decided on a trip to the Victoria and Albert and lunch in the cafe would be a treat.

The doorbell rang and I answered it expecting to the postman. 

“Auntie Helen,” a tall smiling youth stood in the doorway, with some difficulty I recognised my great nephew William, “these are for you.”  He thrust a huge bouquet of flowers into my arms.

“Dad’s just trying to park the car, I don’t suppose you have such a thing as a visitor parking permit.

I handed it to him and went to put the flowers in water. When I returned to the front room complete with flowers my nephew Martin and his wife Alicia were there with William and his sister Annette and the cutest little white terrier I had ever seen. 

“What are your plans for today Aunty” Martin began as soon as the hugs, kisses and birthday wishes were done. 

“Oh, nothing much “I lied. Well, the V & A would still be there tomorrow. 

“Can we take you out to lunch?” I looked pointedly at the clock it was only 9.30 in the morning! “Ah yes, well we need to ask a big favour first. This is Callie, she is Alicia’s mum’s dog, but May’s had to go into hospital, so we are looking after her until we know what’s happening. To be honest it’s likely May will have to go from hospital into a nursing home.  Anyway, part of the reason for our trip to London is that William has been offered a place at your old University and a place in the hall of residence.  We just wanted to go and see what the hall was like before accepting that. Obviously, we can’t take Callie in with us so rather than leave her in the car, after a longish journey we wondered if we could leave her with you. Please?”

Of course, I agreed and they all went out leaving the little dog, who looked disconcerted at first.  I got onto the floor and sat with her until she came and sniffed my outstretched hand and then allowed me to pet her. I noticed how different the fur felt to Whiffles, but not unpleasant.   I was not really sure what dogs liked, having always had cats. Probably much the same. I still had a tin of ‘Dreamies’ in the cupboard so I offered one to Callie who accepted it eagerly then followed me into the garden where she sat up on her hind legs to beg for another. I was entranced. It would seem that the little dog knew a number of tricks. I found myself simply enjoying the sunshine and playing with the little creature.  

Before I knew it the family were back. We all piled into Martin’s car and I must admit I was delighted when Callie climbed onto my knee in the back. She appeared a little intimidated by the loud playfulness of the two teenagers. I fancied she found my presence a comfort. They had chosen a pub on the Thames with a lovely riverside walk.  It was quite a long drive and certainly not somewhere I would have taken myself, it was delightful. A perfect way to spend a lovely sunny day.  Much more fun than a museum I realised I did not spend enough time in the fresh air.

After a delicious lunch, accompanied by much laughter and friendly debate, we all decided to walk by the river. Without thinking I took charge of Callie.  Martin hung back with me as the dog stopped to savour various smells.

“You’re getting on very well with her, she seems to have taken to you.” Martin stopped and took my arm, “she hasn’t settled well with us.  I think she finds the fuss of a family too much and then we have to leave her alone all day which isn’t good.  She’s used to being with just one person.  Realistically May is not coming home. I don’t suppose you would ...”

“Yes.”  I hadn’t realised until I said that how much I had hoped Martin would ask this of me but somehow I knew that this was exactly what we both needed.  She was a totally unexpected present at the end of one of the best birthdays I could remember. 

What Birthday Party? by Fiona Carstairs

I didn’t want a Birthday Party

Are you sure said my sister?

Are you sure asked my sons?

You may change your mind

Said my friend Jon

This birthday is not one I wish to remember

It would not bring my youth back

It would not give my health back

Nor the excitement of a unlived future

I didn’t wish  for ‘Well at our age’ by some well wisher

I did not want to celebrate as friends no longer there

 Would be conspicous by their absence

I could see the  slippery slope to the grave 

Coming at me

Time was galloping towards me with death in its stead

I thought acknowleging my birthday

Would awaken the horseman

I awoke the next morning the earth hadn’t changed course

I did not feel older I did not feel worse

I did not feel my  age was a sudden curse

The sun was out the day was warm

I jumped out of bed washed put clothes on

Downstairs the post lay on the mat

A deluge of cards on which  sat the cat 

Each one a  blessing each one confessing 

A friendship built over the years

 I  then realised I had turned my back 

On these loving people I must give back

With a party to remember our days 

Of being together before it all fades 

Then the doors to the sitting room opened

And with a big ‘Surprise surprise’ there they all stood

Overcome with joy I had not been allowed to let

My birthday party slip on by.

The Birthday That Never Was by Adam Rutter

Arley Station                                                                                             credit Adam Rutter

Wednesday, August 6th, 2025

It was a beautiful day. The weather was hot and sunny. So I went out for a drive in a new white open top car, which was given to me on my birthday. To feel the air blowing through my flowing hair in the sweltering heat was so refreshing. I smelt the whiff of tar in the warm breeze as I was going along a twisty road in the countryside. The air felt cooler when the road cut through a deciduous forest. I turned off at the junction in a tiny village, and went down a country lane, winding its way towards the bottom of a valley. I ended up in Arley, the Worcestershire village that lies on the edge of the forest. I pulled up on a grassy car park near the banks of the River Severn. Arley has managed to hold onto its peace and tranquillity, considering the rural location being popular among tourists. It is a typical English village that has kept its charm.

I stepped out of the car, and walked to the Severn Valley Railway, just up the road from where I parked. Mum and Dad arranged to meet me at the railway station. I sat on a bench, waiting for the 11.46 train. The station was a recreation of the Great Western Railway-era. There were posters of advertisements from yesteryear dotted around the station premises, promoting products that were no longer commercially available. Both station platforms were lined with gas lamps: a feature that would not be seen on the modern railways. I looked up and down the platform. It was empty. A slight drop in ambient temperature gave me goose bumps. Was there a change in the weather? Nothing was mentioned in the forecast. The sky was cloudless. Yet the temperature felt unusually cooler for the time of year.

A motor car chugged over the arched railway bridge, going down the same lane that I drove on. From the corner of my eye, I caught a fleeting glimpse of a dark green grille bonnet through the gap between the bridge and a hedgerow. I looked at the vintage car without a second thought. There was not a motor rally in the area; at least, not that I was aware of. I had no recollection of such an event taking place on this particular day. The riverside was very quiet, which was also strange, because lots of day visitors flock there in the summer. I never heard a murmur. Not even laughter. All I heard were birds singing and a crow’s relentless caw. What did catch my attention was the church bells chiming two o’clock. This was not right. I left the house at 10.50. According to my watch, the time was 11.46 precisely. The time that Mum and Dad were due to arrive. I looked at the down platform towards the bridge. There was no sign of the train. Twenty minutes later, it still had not come. Towards the lower end of platform 1, a door opened on the station building. A man wearing a black cap and dark suit stepped out. I removed myself from the bench, and ran down the platform, my high heels clattering on the concrete. As he was about to walk out through the gate, I called him.

‘Excuse me’, I said.

He took no notice.

The second time that I said it, he stopped before shutting the gate behind him. The man turned. I stopped running. He stared back at me, stern.

‘Is there a train due?’ I asked.

‘No miss. There’s not a train for another hour.’

‘What happened to the 11.46?’

‘There wasn’t an 11.46.’

‘I’ve waited nearly half an hour for the 11.46 from Kidderminster.’

‘Kidderminster?’

‘Yes.’

‘There ain’t no train due from there.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘I’m not joking miss.’

‘So when is the next train?’

‘Three o’clock.’

‘Three o’clock!’

‘Yea. From Worcester’.

‘Worcester?’

‘That’s right miss.’

‘But isn’t there gonna be another train from Kidderminster?’

‘Yes.’

‘When.’

‘Five o’clock.’

‘You mean I’ll have to wait for three hours?’

‘Yes miss. Where are you going, by the way?’

‘Nowhere.’

‘What d’you mean, nowhere?’

‘I’m here to meet my family.’

‘Huh! You’re a bit late for that miss.’

‘Why?’

‘The train passed through this station four hours ago.’

‘Four hours ago?’

‘You heard what I said. You should look at the timetable.’

The man pointed at the times written in chalk on the notice board.

‘It’s all on there,’ he highlighted. Then the man said, ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me miss. I have work to do.’ He closed the gate.

My chest rose up to my throat. I stared blankly at the gate. Everything that the man said was like being punched in the face. It hit me so hard, I felt as though I had been knocked out. My struggle to make sense of it all was just as hard. I never shared this bizarre event with anyone. Not even with my closest friends or immediate family. I decided to remain silent over the awful and most strangest affair.  

As I write my account of the uncanny and terrifying experience, I am still struggling to process on exactly what had occurred. 

What really happened, I do not know. All I know is that Mum and Dad were going to meet me for a belated birthday. A birthday I shall never forget. A birthday that never was.

Lawrence's 21st by Michele Ross

 Lawrence’s 21st

(Meaning: ‘bright one’; ‘shining one’ ‘laurelled’)

One New Year’s Eve

we travelled many miles,

To the distant edge of time.

An ancient cottage stranded

on the bone cold Norfolk coast,

Warmed by memories of

summer boating on the lake,

and families

entwined around the hearth.

A magical trip,

With stormy cliff top walk

And music-making,

too much beer,

And football on the beach.

Peppered with poignancy

And grace,

Moments of heartache

And hope,

weighted with the grand

significance of youth.

And you, the birthday boy

A shadow of the former self

I loved in Edinburgh - 

The vibrant trumpet player

Fizzing with energy and life,

good humour pulsing

through your veins.

 

Reduced to pale beauty

reclining by the open fire,

In fitful waking moments,

Smiling weakly to reassure

Your patient mother.

She placed cake

and lit candles,

A ritual to stir

Your suddenly

aged bones,

Watching helpless

As your grieving brother,

Lay in phantom misery beside,

Watching, waiting

For sleeping beauty

to arise

and blow out the candles.

Each New Year’s Day

I wonder what

became of you,

the path I never crossed again.

Were you one of those

who shone brightly, then

burned out and

fell away.

Too delicate

in body

or mind

To stay

Or did you mark your 50th today