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

January 2026 Meeting

Minutes of meeting, 7pm, Tuesday 27th January 2026

Venue: The Garden Bar, Bridgnorth Club, Bridge Street, Low Town

Chair:  Adam

Present: Jason, Liz, John A S, Fiona, Adam, Ruth, Michele

Apologies: Kath, Andy, Ann, Jennie, Sue, Suzie, Stuart, Irena, Louise

We welcomed Jason to our group and hope he enjoys the gentle challenges that make our writing workshop special.

Adam began the meeting with a building inspired warm-up exercise. We wrote of our homes, of power stations turned art galleries, of alien structures in snowy landscapes, of Cold War echoes through bunkers and bungalows, and of the people locked into engaging with each other within buildings.

It seemed a long time since our November 'Birthday' autofiction theme was set. We had all enjoyed reading Jennie's Birthday autofiction on line and some of us had tried our own prose and poetry. Michele's achingly lovely poem about her friend Lawrence's 21st birthday will be posted (uncut) on the blog on Sunday. Michele had shortened it but we all agreed that her original uncut version was better. Fiona's poem about trying to ignore a birthday as one gets older was very relatable. Ann's shared her story of a single lady unexpectedly finding a perfect companion on her birthday and Adam's time-slip story set on the SVR was one we were all able to envisage and suggest new details.

Michele's New Year pantoum challenge was much appreciated by us all. Michelle, Ruth, Liz and Fiona had all experimented with the form and enjoyed the sounds of lines and words threading through poems creating a dream like stream of consciousness. Ruth commented on how every time you repeat a line it seemed to carry a slightly different meaning. Our poems shuffled gently forward and all seemed to arrive miraculously with satisfying closure - a most thought provoking form. Ruth pointed us to the more conventional structuring of a pantoum: Pantoum - Wikipedia We all said we would continue trying out this new verse form.

News

Reminder of the Wolverhampton Literature Festival holding from the 6th-8th February. On Saturday at 5pm Emma will be joining a panel discussion about literature arising from Victorian serial killers. On Sunday Ruth will be reading some of her poetry around midday.

Ruth told us about The Gratitude Cafe in Wellington The Gratitude Café – A Heart and Soul Experience in Wellington - The Gratitude Cafe which will be hosting a poetry open mic evening on Thursday 26th February.

Liz said that she'd been given a little diary for Christmas which had just enough space to write a haiku a day. Ruth remembered that Bridgnorth writer David Bingham would be leading a Haiku workshop on Thursday 19th February at The Poetry Pharmacy, Bishops Castle should anyone be interested in going. Haiku Moments with David Bingham Tickets, Thu, Feb 19, 2026 at 11:00 AM | Eventbrite

We talked about how we enjoyed our own Saturday workshops in 2025 and at the February meeting should discuss holding more in 2026.

We also want to organise some more social events in 2026 - and Michele offered to host a barbecue in her new house as soon as the weather turns warmer! Date to be decided. Any other ideas for social events should be brought to the February meeting.

Writing Theme for the month: A Memorable Holiday (poetry, song, drama or prose - but limit prose to extracts of writing under 1,000 words for reading aloud in the meeting. Longer pieces of writing can be shared on line on the blog.)

NEXT MEETING - 7pm TUESDAY 24th FEBRUARY - Ruth to chair

March Meeting 7pm Tuesday 24th March - Fiona to chair.

Capturing the First Snow of '26 by Adam Rutter

Adam will chair HTW workshop on Tuesday 27th January 

Diary Entry

Friday January 9th 2026

Storm Goretti did come, spreading the white stuff across the country. I used my phone camera to photograph the ground buried under a blanket of snow. I knew it was not going to last. so I decided to capture the brief scene of winter to savour every moment as much as I could. 

The camera was set to night mode, which was ideal because I had the perfect opportunity to photograph the snow in low light conditions. The advantage of filming the snow in the dark was its colour; white is bright even at night, the whiteness of the snow combined with artificial lighting outdoors made the photographs look almost as clear as daylight. 

Big snow flakes drifted across the street lights dragged by the gale. What I enjoyed shooting the most were the snow covered washing lines. They looked like cables encrusted in stalagmites. 

The snow started to thaw a bit bit this morning. But there was still plenty to photograph.

A Night to Remember - an Autofiction by Jennie Hart

 Roger was a fairly ordinary person, quiet, friendly, musical. His life could be described as mundane. He was a small man, small in stature, but not, at this moment, in aspiration.

October the eighth was his sixtieth birthday, and next week, he was to have the celebration of a lifetime, a grand, life affirming party. He had decided to push the boat out and entertain and delight his musical family so had hired the St Paul’s Orchestra. Roger’s plan was to be the lead instrument in the performance of Mozart’s Piano Concerto Number Nineteen and for that reason, he had been practising daily for months

Roger was a piano teacher and his pupils were his musical family. He had few living relatives, only a male cousin and an old auntie. He also had Yurec, a Polish friend with whom he would sometimes go to a concert at the Royal Festival Hall, or St John’s Smith Square. Roger’s pupils, especially the adults, brought further interest and occasional excitement into his otherwise rather un-sensational life. His pupil’s had met a few times before; he liked to bring them together for a glass of wine, a Christmas lunch or a summer barbecue, but this sixtieth affair was on a grander scale, more high class than most had ever known.

The day arrived, the final rehearsal with the orchestra was to take place before the guests arrived. An expensive quality grand piano had been hired and was about to be delivered at any moment, and the musicians were due to arrive for a four o’clock rehearsal. Jane and Belinda, members of the musical family had come to the banqueting hall beforehand to arrange flowers for the tables, delicate blooms in blue and mauve with abundant sprays of lush green foliage. They became aware that although the duty manager had said an hour ago, the piano removal company was just parking, there was still no sign of the piano.

Belinda had already had a near disaster with the cake, a Grand piano-shaped gateau, exquisitely and professionally iced, a gift from the musical family. It was vital the cake arrived at the Hall in perfect condition, so she had carried it herself from the bakery with utmost care, never taking her eyes off it. She was so intent on holding the cake securely, that she failed to see the grating. Her heel caught and she went flying, her elbows take the impact while she hung on to the cake. Belinda showed Jane her bruises. It had not been funny at the time, in fact it had been very painful, but both women laughed out loud now as Belinda related the story. ‘Let’s hope the piano deliverers have not found a very large manhole and decided to dump the instrument down there!’. 

The duty manager was irate. ‘There’s a big marquee in the grounds,’ he had told the men, ’So look out for the ramp alongside. You can take the piano into the main building that way. Those bleedin’ idiots heard the word marquee and that’s where they’ve gone an’ put it, and now there’s a kids party going on with bleedin’ chocolate and crisps and sticky fingers!’  

The delivery men had left an hour ago and only professionally trained carriers can lift and place a Grand piano. The piano was stuck in the marquee. The tuner arrived and members of the orchestra drifted in for rehearsal, but there was no piano to tune or to play. The situation was serious, Roger had been preparing for this evening for a year and a half and the highlight of the evening was to be his musical party piece. The tuner phoned the removal company and a perplexed woman in the office said she had no idea where the men would be, ‘Gone home, I shouldn’t wonder; it’s Saturday afternoon and they’ll be looking forward to a night out.’ She said she’d have a go at finding them.

Roger arrived for his final rehearsal and knew nothing of the afternoon’s events. It was soon very clear what a tragedy it would be if the piano could not be relocated. He and the orchestra were stricken with inaction, none of them could safely move the piano, but the Mozart Piano Concerto could not be performed without it.

Roger had confessed his anxiety to his pupils; his great fear of losing his nerve or his place in the music, but never once had it occurred to him that he might lose his piano. If it couldn’t be moved in time, there would be no performance The enormous amount of money Roger had spent was out of all proportion to his monthly income. It would be money down the drain if there was no piano. Yesterday the gateau had almost gone down the drain, today he feared it was going to be his party.

It was five pm and Roger was panicking and then his phone rang. It was the piano remover boss, ’We’re on our way mate! Sorry to cause you bovver.‘ They arrived and with speed and expertise and profuse apologies, the piano was brought in. Alas, there was no time for rehearsal. 

The flowers were on the tables, Belinda displayed the cake to her satisfaction, and Roger lifted his coat tails and sat down to play the magnificent instrument. His fingers touched the keys, but his usual lightness of touch was hampered by stickiness. His notes did not flow. Nor did his sustain pedal, work to satisfaction, it would not rise and fall. Roger’s embarrassment was clear; his page turner rushed to his assistance. She lifted the lid to see Hoola Hoops and Jammy Dodgers regaled along the strings, and breadcrumbs squeezed between the keys. Guests crowded round and helpful hands removed the party snacks, whilst kitchen spray was found to clean the ivories.

At last, Mozart’s tones and harmonies filled the air. It was to be a day to forget but without doubt, a night to remember!

A poem out in the wild!

 Thought I'd share a recently published poem with you all

This one is called The Shed and was written after a weekend spent helping my Dad clear out his shed and garage.

Hope you enjoy - there's loads of other great words in the Issue as well

Click here to read: The Hoolet's Nook

Nigerian Nighttime - a pantoum by Elizabeth Obadina

Locked indoors, safely drowsing, yet listening, listening

For the heavy screech of the iron gate opening

Listening past fans turning and air-cons purring

Looking out over paw-paw trees and plantain leaves, shadows blowing

For the heavy screech of the iron gate opening

Whilst the mayguards are grumbling, and gambling and watching

Looking out over paw-paw trees and plantain leaves, shadows blowing

And my time stands still

Whilst the mayguards are grumbling, and gambling and watching

And I feel soothed for this is how things have been

And my time stands still

And I am alone

And I feel soothed for this is how things have been

Listening past fans turning and air-cons purring

And I am alone

Locked indoors, safely drowsing, yet listening … listening.

New Year Blessing - Our Town by Michele Ross

The Garden Wall of The Bridgnorth Club

 A market town spilling down sandstone cliffs to the river

The steam train whistle echoes

The soft hiss of my steam machine glowing in the dark

And lights strung up the bypass

The echo of the last steam train whistle

As the dunnocks huddle in hedges

And lights strung up the bypass

Moving slow and old as sand

The dunnocks huddle cold in hedges

My dry mouth is seeking water

Moving slow and old as sand

How pleasant to have slept and not to have to stir just yet

My dry mouth parched as sand, despite

the soft hiss of the steam machine

To have slept well and not to stir

The market town spilling like water down to sand - how pleasant.

Write a Pantoum (thanks to Michele)

Here’s a nice new year poem idea I found on substack: "Poetry Unbound"

Here's the substack reference:  https://open.substack.com/pub/poetryunbound

There’s a podcast link too: Poetry Unbound - sounds good.

A Pantoum (Malaysian form) about new year's eve night (or any nighttime)

Write eight lines and number them:

Where are you?

What's a night sound from outside you hear regularly?

What's a night sound from inside you hear regularly?

What can you see in the dark?

Who is nearby?

What's time doing?

What physical sensations can you feel when you wake at night?

What's one thing on your mind when you wake?

Arrange the lines in this order ( you can change them as you do this, when you see what emerges):

1 - 2- 3 -4

2 - 5- 4 -6

5 - 7 - 6 -8

7 - 3- 8- 1

Michele's ended up like this: ... READ IT TOMORROW!!!!!

Footsteps in the Snow by Ann Reader

I can’t resist it, I must go - And jump into the virgin snow!

See those Footsteps in the snow 

Some they come and some they go.

Those heavy treads, I know those 

The postman comes and then he goes.

Pretty puss with perfect paws 

I think I know which ones are yours.

The bigger ones cannot be you

Was that a fox, just passing through? 

Then there’s bird prints on the ground

That’s where pigeons maybe found. 

Perhaps the magpie or the Jay

All came hopping down this way. 

And I confess those prints are mine

For when it lies so white and fine

I can’t resist it, I must go

And jump into the virgin snow!

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!

BELATED HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE!

It's hard to believe that we're already a week into 2026 - and if you're like me you've probably not spent  much time writing between our last meeting and the next one: our first this year.

So to remind you all:

Next Meeting: Tuesday, 27 January 2026, 7pm in The Garden Bar, Bridgnorth Club

Chair: Adam

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

There's still time to tackle the current writing challenge set by Jennie last November:

Task: To write a short story, prose or poem in the form of Autofiction on the subject of 

'A Birthday'. 

A special thank-you to Michelle, Ruth and Ann for kick-starting HTW into 2026

Look out tomorrow for Ann's poem

At the weekend if you're still stuck getting your writing going look out for Michelle's suggestion to try writing a Pantoum (Malaysian form) about new year's eve night (or any nighttime), and on Sunday read her New Year appreciation - pantoum style - of Bridgnorth.

And, thank you Ruth for reminding us all of the upcoming Wolves Literature Festival.

Wolverhampton Literature Festival

I went last year and it was well worth the visit.

And finally, not to forget John's 2025 reminder to update the blog - I've eventually changed the 'About Us' to reflect our moved meeting place from Peepo's to The Bridgnorth Club.

Once again:

HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE - ENJOY A GREAT YEAR OF WRITING IN 2026

Liz

My Mum by Jennie Hart

My Mum

 Was she meant to go

when winter beckoned her

unexpectedly?

I do not know

I remember she left in haste

like a firework’s flash

I wish I had known she was leaving

Until that day, her bright nature

dazzled

she shone with light

It seemed to me

the whole town loved her

were warmed by her glow

her flame

always burning

She was always busy

mostly resolute and smiling

I saw her once

by the fireside

cleaning grey ashes

from the cold grate

silently crying

Dad was a moody man

unpredictable

fighting his own demons

When young

his father beat his mum

Perhaps he beat his son

Dad banged his bed

to frighten the cockroaches

made doctor’s deliveries barefoot

Mum owned a shop

baked Christmas cakes

and spiced loaves for the town

In December

mum was fraught

Dad slapped white paint

on plastered walls

desecrating the holy space

where new-baked cakes

and spicy loaves lay ready

Cold wet paint splashed

on cake frosting

Odour seeped into icing

Her popular emporium

stored all one could imagine

A cornucopia of thrills

For the mill girls, young lads

the working men

starting shifts or leaving

mum opened early

each day around seven thirty

The girls bought sarsaparilla

Milky Bars and Woodbines

Sought nylon stockings

luxurious

skin-toned

gossamer-fine

The postman, our doctor

the Station Master

smoked Capstan or Park Drive

Older men Saint Bruno

or Old Holborn

rolled their own in tea-breaks

the working-man’s lifeline

All year long

Mum made wedding cakes

for brides on their special day

created in her unique way

Celebrity chefs might want

to emulate her style

pretend it was their own

but all the while

it was my mum’s

Youngsters came for lemonade

in bottles not in cans

bought Mars Bars

pork pies, crusty rolls

with luncheon meat

cheese or spam

Mum made a corner

for the children

at kids’ eye-level

no need to stretch

tantalising treats

Swizzle lollies, wine gums

Sherbet dips and sugary sweets

At the weekend

Northern Dairies ice-cream

and ice lollies

Sometimes by Christmas

mum was too tired

to wrap presents

one year I wrapped my own

the surprise a pretence

I was young

I liked the thrill of opening

I pinned up silver garlands

wove tinsel round the tree

I was so excited

She was exhausted

Sometimes on Christmas Day

a knock at the back door

a tardy customer

for a packet of Paxo

a tin of peas

a packet of fags please

Mum was the essence

of our north-east town

a summer breeze blown in

from heaven knows where

to give her time

to all those housewives

mothers with babies

worn-out men and old ladies

who stopped to shop

To bicycle riders

not called cyclists in those days

who paid tuppence to my mum

to leave their bikes

propped up by the shed

not sheltered but safe

in her hands

Mum and her shop are long gone

from that shabby terrace

on River Head

along from the old Blue Bell

where men played darts

or dominoes

and sad women

laughed and sang

stayed drinking late

It was exhaustion the doctor said

He got it wrong

It was a stroke

She did not get the proper care

I wish I had known

Jennie, Mum, Grandma, Baby Cousin

Death of an Idealist by John Ayres-Smith

His semi-clothed body was still, lifeless and curled around in a foetal position on the dishevelled bed. He was not breathing, although his eyes stared as though fixated on a shocking scene misleading one into thinking he was still alive but he was undoubtedly deceased.

Most family members had an idea that one day he would do what he had referred to so often – suicide, so although Julia was shocked, she was not surprised.

She thought, no point in doing CPR, no rush to call anyone, let alone 999 – her medical background meant that she knew this was a corpse and had been for a day or more.

She carefully, with a sense of finality, gently closed his eyelids and he, indeed, now appeared at peace.

As she arose from her kneeling beside the bed, she observed a handwritten A4 sheet of paper and she recognised Mark’s signature at the bottom of the page. – A suicide note?

She half wanted to leave it there, undisturbed, along with his mortal remains but she thought … someone will read it and cry and she even considered screwing up the note, destroying it but that would be her anger taking over.

She walked to the window, gazed in a trance not seeing what was before her but gradually descending into a reminiscence of two weeks earlier when she and Mark were hugging tightly, both in tears, squeezing as tight as their muscles could achieve. She recalled him sobbing out the words …

“I can’t do this anymore. I have nothing. I am no one.”

No longer could she recall her own words – she just remembered her pleadings, her attempts to tell him he had a life and that he could and should live it.

As she daydreamed, her brother’s dead body a few feet away, she re-ran his life over the last few years…

Julia never liked Mark’s latest wife. She was manipulative – very good at it – so much so that Mark was an easy target and she worked at keeping the identifiers well away, so she, Julia, was kept at arm’s length. In the last few months after the couple split-up, Mark dossed at his sister’s on and off – generally off when he had met someone that was prepared to listen to his woes over what were probably one-to-three-night stands when he was in receipt of sex and solace from kind women that wanted to hear why such an intelligent, seemingly good and certainly good-looking, kind man was homeless and kept breaking down so uncontrollably.

When he returned to his sister, he would have stories of a new love … but then another … and another. Trouble was he still loved her – the mother of his three children and the controller of his life and their lives. Suzanne was “the thin controller”.

These kids were still little, and since the split, Suzanne had brainwashed them so superbly that never again would they respect their father, preferring to stay engulfed in the sea of lies and negativity where Mark was concerned and over the years Suzanne masterfully engineered a ‘brick wall’ separating him from his children whom for some time he had not seen.

Mark’s siblings knew it was destroying him but they had their lives. It was only Julia, his elder sister that cared enough to try to support him however she could.

Her own relationship with her husband was suffering in that he, Peter, had had enough of these “pointless support vigils” as he termed them – every time Mark came to stay.

All Peter could say is “you are wasting your time – he’s a dead loss”.

That thought shook her, as she turned at looked over at Mark’s dead body.

She sobbed and fumbled around for a tissue, walking out into the bathroom.

Suddenly a loud thud emitted from behind her. She ran into the other room and found Mark’s body sprawled on the floor: she gasped.

 

To be continued …