Let me speak

B r i d g i n g W o r d s : B r i d g i n g W o r l d s

o n e

I n t r o d u c t i o n

As the WEA tutor for both Osmondthorpe Resource Centre

and Headingley Community Centre creative writing groups,

I am continually surprised, moved, impressed and

challenged by these writers. In this anthology, they each

share one or two of their most accomplished short pieces of

prose or poetry, and I think it is wonderful to see their work

side by side here. I hope you enjoy the range of imagination,

talent and skills displayed on these pages.

Happy reading,

Becky Cherriman(Creative Writing Facilitator)

The idea for this collaboration came out of a desire from all

involved to push boundaries; to disturb comfortable places

and to develop thinking and writing skills. Using a visit to the

Thackray museum as a starting point and stimulus these two

groups have worked alongside to share their perspectives

of the world and then to write about it. The free performance

of their written pieces on 3rd June 2010 at Leeds Civic Hall

was the culmination of their journey together.

Biddy CoghillWEA Organiser


t w o

I n t r o d u c t i o n

At the heart of all our day to day activities is communication.

The heart of Osmondthorpe Resource Centre also reflects

communication, in all its forms. Of course dignity and respect

remain absolutely paramount to our day to day work.

How often do people speak, yet people don’t hear? How

often do we take time to hear people speak? Why do we

make assumptions, when we clearly don’t take time to

understand?

The answer to some of these questions hopefully will be a

little clearer once you have experienced “Let me Speak.” We

can achieve much in our lives individually, however

undoubtedly we can achieve much more by collaborating

with others. To “bridge words and worlds” is at the heart of

this sentiment. It fills me with great joy to see the coming

together of these thirty individual people, all sharing their

thoughts and experiences for all of us today.

Finally, my last question would be, “now we have spoken,

where do we speak next!”

Stuart Simmons(Manager – Osmond Thorpe Resource Centre)


t h r e e

A c k n o w l e d g e m e n t s

The Let Me Speak! Project has only been made possible

because of the financial support from Leeds City Council,

including the East south East and West North West Area

Committees; the in-kind support from the Thackray Museum;

the tireless hands-on support from the staff at Osmondthorpe

Resource Centre and creative input from WEA tutor

Becky Cherriman; the artistic filming, photography,

publicity and production of Anthology by WEA Graphic

designer David Pittaway and of course,

the two Creative Writing groups themselves.

For all these many, many thanks.


f o u r

1 8 4 2

1842. There were cobbles underfoot and it was freezing. Thisbuilding wasn’t here: this company. It was most uncomfortablewalking on the road, most hard. The birds whistled to eachother like they were speaking.

People wore knitted clothes because it was cold and spenttime getting the coal in. There were no carpets in the houses,a coal fire at the end of each room. People wouldn’t have got

the warmth around their body and life wasn’t very comfortable.

Sue Heath

1 8 4 2

A boy is slipping on the cobbled street, sliding on the strawand the fluid which seeps from the pigpen. The smell is sicklysweet. The men and women are selling their wares, meats andpies laid on any available surface. For a moment, the boyconsiders stealing a pie sitting on the pigpen wall; he couldhide it under his sackcloth shirt. But the seller is watchingclosely, and the boy thinks better of it. Even the huddle ofshops and houses seems to watch him. Through a gap, theboy sees where the fields are green and the sky is clean andblue. He thinks: That is where God must live.

The boy is hungry, but only disease gives itself willingly to him.It hangs in the air.

He returns to the single room he calls home. His sister lies ona straw bed, coughing up blood on her nightdress. A man inblack is reading to her from the Bible. The boy sits and listens.

But he knows, in truth, God does not live here.

Howard Benn


f i v e

A V i c t o r i a n S t r e e t

Picture this, an evening in March, just before or just after thefrost has settled on the rough, uneven road. It’s almostchucking out time and the middle class snobs fall out of thetaverns and into a horse drawn carriage with a guffaw andheehaw to avoid the sinking sun and give the moon a chanceto put in an appearance.

Meanwhile, a pauper sits alone, ignored, broke and lost as hehuddles against the cold, lost in time and lost in thought whilethe rats, his only companions, scurry and pick over today’sscraps that purveyors couldn’t be bothered or simply forgot topick up. The figure, once a man, licks his lips; his hunger andloneliness are a tribute to his past. He chose his destiny so hesits there alone and contemplates one for the road. Has

anyone noticed, does anyone care?

Carl Flynn

B l u e

The earth cracks in the new heat.The blueness is immeasurable,It is weighed down.The clouds have the sky to themselves,They follow each other in the lavender air.The blue will swallow them up,Or cast them adrift like boats.

The sky is mean with age.

Howard Benn


s i x

A n U p l i f t i n g C h r i s t m a s

I sign the last Christmas card and sit back with satisfaction. A

pile of cards ready on the hall table and I give out as many as

possible to save on postage. The pension doesn’t go far these

days and I’m sure you will agree that we, in lower income

bracket, should help ourselves as much as possible and not

turn down opportunities which arise.

I love Christmas especially the exciting shops displaying all

their goodies – just for the taking. I can’t wait to get my hands

on them.

I had one of my big shopping days only last week and I always

go with my friend Doris. We are both pensioners but rely on

her to do most of the carrying. We get lots of help when out

and about and I find people most considerate reaching down

from high shelves which are obviously inaccessible to us –

being on the short side. And if the security man at our favourite

store sees us struggling, he comes over to help us out through

the door because we always seem to be “bagged” up – using

mainly our own bags. So much better for the environment,

don’t you think? He gives us a cheeky wink and calls us his

“two little goodtime girls”. Doris laughs hysterically and takes

some time time to calm down – “ooo you are a one!”

We’d chosen some cards and a few toiletries and the deals

were even better when we got to the check-out, less 10% for

pensioners. Not that that mattered to us – still it’s nice for

others who do feel the need to pay. We did our usual act, I

stood behind Doris in the queue and watched the scenario

unfold – her face contorts, her knees buckle and she grabs

hold of the counter. As the young girl cashier frantically buzzes

for assistance, I ease my way around Doris swiftly collecting

her items as well as my own and picking up a carrier as I go.


s e v e n

I made my way to the automatic door and headed for the usual

café on the high street and wait. I don’t like the tea in there,

still it was “wet and warm” and free, having complained that

there was something floating in my cup, they gave me a

refund and a fresh cuppa! The management are very good

that way - not liking any fuss – so bad for their image don’t you

think? Doris soon caught up with me and already had her

cuppa. Brookes are well known for looking after their elderly

customers, being chemists and with their reputation, they have

to be.

Our next big shop is today but Doris can’t come. Apparently

she’d feigned one of her dizzy spells once too often in a shop

earlier in the week. Well, she was at the counter deciding what

to get their Vera for Christmas, when a smartly dressed man,

who she’d noticed had been following her around the store,

approached her. Now Doris is not the brightest button in the

box, anyone else would have known he was the store

detective and stop whatever she was up to but not Doris. So

what else could she do when asked to accompany him to the

office but collapse in a heap at his feet.

Well, they sent for an ambulance and she ended up in

Casualty. Yes, she’s alright now – thank you very much, but

the doctor says she has to stay indoors until after Christmas

as too much shopping is not good for her. Better for all

concerned really – she was becoming a liability. As long as we

can get to the January sales. Such a lot of bargains to be

picked up!

I shall miss her but my Christmas shopping can’t wait, I really

need to go again today and shall have to manage the best I

can. I was doing quite well but couldn’t carry anything else so

made the jewellery department of the third store my last call.

Whenever I want some really class stuff I always go there. I

was just making my decision when I felt someone touching my


e i g h t

arm. I knew, without looking up, who it was. I put on my

fainting act and before I knew what was happening I was

carted off to the first aid room. They sat me on a chair and

went for a glass of water. It was a good thing I noticed the

disposal bin handily next to me. I lifted off the lid. Ah well, bang

goes our Edna’s Christmas present. I don’t know whether she

would have liked those earrings anyway. I think it’s a bit

awkward knowing other peoples’ tastes, don’t you?

I always seem to be in a bit of a rush – picking thing up on

impulse. I must start my Christmas shopping earlier next year.

The policeman, who came to sort the matter out seemed to be

quite irritated with me and muttered something about wasting

police time. The store detective was positively rude. Now that’s

no way to treat customers, is it? No respect for the elderly. I

don’t think I shall go in there again, in fact the security man

said something along those lines as he escorted me off the

premises.

All in all it hasn’t been a bad day’s shopping, apart from the

taxi fare. What they charge these days is appalling. Still the

20p tip was worth it, after all the driver did bring the bags right

up to the door. Such a nice young man and, as he bent down,

I couldn’t help but notice his wallet sticking out of his back

pocket. Now that’s what I call an unexpected Christmas

bonus.

I called after him as he went down the path and handed him a

Christmas card.

Irene Cliff


n i n e

B e e c h e y I s l a n d

On John Torrington, 20, of HMS Terror, who died of TB, pneumonia

and lead poisoning and was buried 1st January, 1845.

The bear left, a black cloud slid inThe canvas over the grave snapped: pickaxe sparkingI cleared the stones and thumped a spade through the ice

Don’t shake me

He was five feet down in the permafrostBuried by lamplight in light snowfallSnow dripped into the pit as we prised off the lid

Don’t strike me

He was there, right thereSeen through the bubbles and cracks in the iceWhich I melted with buckets of water

Don’t soak me

From his bed of shavings I raised himAnd looked close into his eyesHis head lolled on my shoulder

Don’t lift me

I lay him under the skyMost thin and delicate,Ribbons tying his pale soft hands and feet

Don’t reveal me

With a scalpel I entered his brainSliced open his chest, examined hisFatless, shrunken body, his black shrivelling lungs

Don’t cut me

I pulled off his thumbnailRemoved the spotted scarf which bound his headSheared off some hair from the nape of his neck

Don’t rob me


t e n

I dressed him again, folding the blue wool shroudTacking new nails into the careful coffin lid,Edged with tape, tin plaque in the shape of a heart

Don’t freeze me

And I buried him a second timeOverlooking the filamentStretching out into the Arctic, from Beechey Island

Don’t leave me

Campion Rollinson

B i l l ’s W i s h

Bill is 89 years. He wishes he could see his parentsElizabeth and George again. They were very special to him.

He’s heard about a man called Tom who grows sunflowers.Sunflowers remind him of his mum because she had abouquet of them when she got married. So he buys asunflower plant from Tom and keeps it in a domed glass jarlike his mum did.

He has to wait for it to grow but, because he’s poorly, he isworried that he might not have long to live.

That night, just before Bill goes to bed, a bright light comesthrough the window. It’s an angel. She sprinkles dust overthe sunflower. There is a magical aroma and he goes backto the day he was fourteen when his mum told him aboutthe bouquet in the jar in their living room.

He is really happy to see his mum and dad again.

Julie Bell


e l e v e n

B e a n s O n To a s t

Open the tin with a crocodile snap,

Pour into the pan with a little tap,

Into the toaster with bread nice and thick

Whilst watching the clock with a tick tick tick.

Ding! My toast is done all lovely and brown,

It reminds me of when I had some in town.

Then onto my plate lovely and hot

Smell this. A banquet it is not.

Chris Woodhead

S h a k i n g H a n d s

Shaking hands

Grip tight

To a Big Mac

And medium fries.

Behind a large coke,

Someone hides.

Daniel Tavet


t w e l v e

E n d l e s s N i g h t

Close your eyes and count to ten, at some point you’ll wake again.Floating, floating into dreams, full of shapes and hidden themes.

Drifting through clouds and skies so blue,I’m looking for an answer or a clueWho am I? Where am I? What shall I do?

My senses are dulled, yet my thoughts have ignited.Like a flame they burn so bright,Guiding me through the seeming endless night

The journey I travel is a strange one, twists and turns aplentyAnd yet I’m pulled toward the path I must take, like a magnetfinds its twinWhere will I end up? What will happen? Will I visit here again?

Up, Up I travel now,Further away from this strange, yet familiar land.Voices wake me from this strange slumber, which I barely

remember being under.

Becky Forster


t h i r t e e n

F a l l O u t

You never saw her without her apron on. You were often

greeted by her imposing frame almost welded to the oven that

dominated her kitchen.

Grandmother was a matriarchal figure who imposed an iron

discipline to her daughter and three grandchildren No one

could win an argument with her. Mum often tried but usually

had to back down and retire to a quieter place.

You recall that Grandmother was a hard working individual

whose role in life was to care for the welfare of long term

tenants that all lived in her large terrace house situated in the

Maningham district of Bradford. Blenheim Mount is a large

imposing set of houses that have now been turned into small

hotels.

One of your childhood play spaces was a large white painted

cellar that was furnished with steel washing bowls and a large

wringer and washing machine. The white sheets, hanging on

the many lines, acted has hiding places where you played at

Cowboy’s and Indians.

Grandmother had recently lost her husband who had been

employed to administer a number of properties situated

nearby. Most of these houses had now been sold. Grandfather

was a trained bookkeeper whose books were kept in neat

precision. A tear rolls down your face as you study the figures

all lined up like soldiers on parade.

You reflect on the time you discover some of these books that

had been hidden away in an indoor telephone box which

doubled as a childhood den when you went on frequent visits.

Grandmother was our main carer as both parents worked long

hours.

It was one cold and windy Christmas day. You recall climbing

out of the family car closely followed by your younger brother

and sister. An argument has just reached a conclusion


f o u r t e e n

between your mum and dad that appeared to be related to the

reason for coming to Grandmother’s house.

You are excited about receiving lots of presents you did every

Christmas. You recall the intense smell of turkey and gravy as

the main doors open to the large and imposing hallway.

You are soon cowering in a corner of this hallway as your ears

pick up another loud exchange of voices between dad and

grandmother. A battle has commenced. Your thoughts of a

wonderful Christmas day rapidly disappear like smoke coming

from a chimney and you find yourselves tumbled back into the

car. Your brother and sister are in a state of confusion as they

reluctantly follow you. You look despondently out of the car

window has you hear mum whisper a ‘Merry Christmas’ as

dad frantically looks around the area for a place to feed his

disappointed family. You arrive at the only place open and try

and enjoy a meal of pasta and spaghetti eaten in a stony

silence. Six years will elapse before they are to speak again.

Michael Freeman


f i f t e e n

F r o m M y B e d r o o m W i n d o w

From my bedroom window I gaze dreamily at the magicbeing played from my laurel bush.

Through sleepy eyes I watch a squirrel dancing frombranch to branch.

The sun catches the rainbow colours of enchantment asthe spider web entraps its ever ending victims.

I spy a tiny blue tit enwebbed in the mellow of theleaves. I see the dance of the butterflies in theirsplendour.

As the time of life goes hazily by, I watch.

I am captivated by the loveliness of the silver leaves asthey sway to the ever ending glory of nature’s charm.

All this I see in a dreamlike existence, knowing all willchange as the rain comes falling down, taking the magic

with it.

Marlene O Connell


s i x t e e n

God’s Deliverance - Saint Uncumber

God is good. He has heard my prayers, and delivered me. He

listens to believers, faith is recognised and rewarded. My aunt

and guardian is justified. He has found a Way for me.

My father is not a bad or troublesome man, though he cannot

enter paradise. For he is a non-believer, a pagan, and will not

be allowed through the portal. Though he has always shown

love and tenderness to my younger sisters and me, and we

love and respect him as dutiful daughters ought, we fear the

wrath which God metes out to pagans.

In other matters he has swayed to our desires, but now he is

resolute with me and will not be deflected.

It was the will of God that our mother died bringing forth my

youngest sister. Our father then sent for our aunt, her sister.

Less fair and beyond hope of wedlock in her twenty-eighth

year we were entrusted to her care. A pious woman, she had

kept silent her conversion for it was still dangerous to proclaim

belief. She made sure though that we were instructed in the

faith, so that we could share everlasting life.

Now in my seventeenth year my father would have me

betrothed to the pagan King in the lands over the mountains.

And as I averred he is resolute. Not having a legitimate son he

seeks a marriage accord to ensure the continuance of our

House. He has shown me the portrait of the King sent as part

of the treaty preliminaries, and if it be a true likeness then I do

admit he is blessed with handsome features and an intelligent

eye which stir feelings in me I have not hitherto felt. It is

reported that he has welcomed my representation sent to him,

where the portraitist for whom I sat, under instruction,

exaggerated my bounty, though I wished it otherwise. But in

my soul I know it is a temptation sent by God to test my

strength and I must resist this espousal to a pagan. I will not

fail Him.


s e v e n t e e n

The day draws nigh, the documents are signed, the

arrangements made, my rich apparel has been sewn – and my

prayers have not been answered. I will not be married to a

Pagan, it cannot be His will.

But now, praise Him, on the very morning of the ceremony my

final prayers to God throughout a night of scant slumber have

been answered. I did not pray for misadventure to befall my

intended. I prayed that God, Himself would decide the manner

of my deliverance. And He has found a way.

My maidservant on entering my chamber early could not stifle

a cry. She ran from the room, and returned with a looking

glass. There I saw God's will. In the night He had caused a

luxuriant beard to sprout from my cheeks, a growth as dark as

my tresses, a growth which reached down to my bosom.

Word was sent to my betrothed who demanded an audience

with me. Upon the sight of my hirsute complexion he vowed to

end our espousal. And so the joining of our two Houses will

not come to pass. My father is sore displeased and will decide

my punishment in due time. Whatever my fate I know God will

protect me on this earth and in the hereafter

God did not protect her. Her father, apoplectic with rage, had

her crucified. Later she was canonised as a christian martyr.

Her name was Uncumber. In the Loreto in Prague there is a

side chapel named after her, Saint Uncumber, in which there is

a statue of her dressed as a woman, bearded as a man.

Women pray to her seeking liberation from tribulation, or

husbands. They seek to be “disencumbered” from abusive

husbands, She is the patron saint of unsatisfactory

relationships

Adrian Simmons


e i g h t e e n

S o l d i e r ’s L a s t L e t t e r

As I write this letter

Xmas time is coming

And I have to go to war

And Xmas time is coming.

I've been there so many times before,

Dodging all the bullets,

Trying to get through the day.

Over the trenches,

Through the minefields,

Me and my buddies are so far away


Life is for living,

There shouldn’t be no wars.

Put down your musket boy

Can’t you hear the bugle call?

THE battle is raging,

Shells are falling everywhere,

People are crying, and dying

But no one seems to care


The battle is over,

It’s time to bury the dead.

Hey soldier, come here

And rest your weary head

Because Xmas time is coming,

Peace on earth and goodwill to all men!

G M Chilvers


n i n e t e e n

An extract from a story The Keeper“This is possible.” the voice was more felt than heard. Thiswas one of the things that gave his identity away to the Keeperbefore he even saw him, although the almost transparent andslightly wrong shades of colour that the Seeker manages toachieve on this side confirmed his identity. Grandfather hadwitnessed many things that had been passed on to theKeeper, which most people would have considered quiteinsane. But he knew the truth and wisdom of the lessons hehad been taught in years past. Most importantly, ‘show no fear’as this would have been considered a weakness to beexploited by the Seeker.

He turned to see his unexpected visitor. ‘It could be the manfrom the council’ he thought, smartly dressed in a suit with abriefcase tucked under his left arm. No horns, tail or clovenhoof, not even a bright red skin tone; these thoughts make himsmile inside. But the Keeper knew him for what he was, ‘theseeker of souls’. Caution would be necessary.

“What’s possible?” enquired the Keeper.

“The love of your life, emerging as a human” came theanswer.

“Will she return my love of her?” he asked, knowing thatdealing with these types can be full of pitfalls.

“Her love for you will be complete and unbounded to the daythat she dies.” came the sincere reply.

“Will she share my interests and love of the hives?

“She will have even more interest, knowledge and love ofthe hives than you yourself.”

“And she will definitely be a complete female human being?”

“YES” I promise by everything I represent in the shadowworld” replied the Seeker of souls.

Satisfied with the promise, the Keeper then asked thequestion that he already knew the answer to. “There will be aprice to pay I presume?”


t w e n t y

“But of course,” came the reply.

“This will be the usual?” trepidation now starting to show in hisvoice.

“Ho yes.”

“When would collection of the debt become due?”

“Upon the death of the Queen.”

“This would be the Queen that will be my love and companionfor life?” asked the Keeper, trying to be sure of the contract hewas about to enter into. He knew that these things had to bestated simply but accurately, to avoid the complications thatcan sometimes arise when these types of deals are taken on.

“Yes the very same.”

“Show me the papers, and you will have your answer beforethe sun goes down.” said the Keeper, his heart racing, butknowing what his answer would be already.

Seemingly without opening his briefcase, the papers were inthe Seeker’s hand. “Read carefully and sign at the bottom, youmust use your own blood. But knowledge of this will be yoursalready I presume?”

“My knowledge of you and your ways are limited to folk talesand rumour.” said the Keeper pensively. “All my fears are thatyou will find a way of cheating me of the thing I most desire.”

“I am incapable of cheating, though I would give much for thisability. Carrying out your instructions is all I can do. A promisemade by me is not just made in this world but in places thatare not to be crossed, where even I am held to account.” saidthe Seeker almost tearfully. With that he faded away as if allhis colours were melting together very slowly. The Keepershivered not with cold or fear, but the someone-standing-on-my-grave feeling.

B McKinley


t w e n t y o n e

T h e M o t i v a t i o n C l a s s

My husband Michael’s mother Amy died in 2006 at the age of

97; she had a wonderful sense of humour, and, despite a

certain degree of dementia, excelled at quizzes and dominoes,

often thrashing the very junior members of the family, her

great-grandchildren, at the latter.

One afternoon we called to see her at her very comfortable

residential home, only to find the way to the lounge blocked by

a wheel-chair; after going by a circuitous route through the

dining room we found Amy and sat with her near the back of

the room. She said she didn’t want to join in but knowing her

competitive nature we knew she soon would. Sharon, an

enthusiastic young woman with a ponytail and a purple polo

shirt was spreading a coloured mat across the centre of the

floor. My first horrified thought was that they were about to

play Twister….no, thankfully not; this had a series of squares

with large coloured letters of the alphabet emblazoned upon it.

She straightened up, and obviously new to this group she

enquired in a strong Leeds accent, “Does Debbie play this

game with you?” there was a murmuring around the room.

She continued to explain that the game was to throw a bean-

bag onto the mat and think of a boy’s name starting with the

letter it landed on; there was some nodding of understanding

in the assembled throng of grey heads, Zimmer frames and

comfy slippers, and soon the game was underway….. “B”,

Barry, Bernard, Bertie, “T” Tom, Terry, Tony,

“F” Freddie, and so it went on until a little boredom entered the

room and a few heads drooped in slumber. “Right!” said

Sharon, “We’ll play the same game only thinking of animals’

names. Again there was a ripple of interest “P” pig, pony, polar

bear, “C” cat, “M” mouse, then “D” “Dog” shouted a few voices,

“Dromedary” shouted Amy…”Is that some sort of animal?”


t w e n t y t w o

asked the leader. “It most certainly is, it’s a type of camel”

declared Amy. “Oh, right” replied Sharon a little non-plussed,

but fortunately someone was already throwing the bean-bag

onto the next letter, “N” “Come on” she called, “think of an

animal beginning with “N”…silence, then a voice came from

the wheelchair near the door, Annie who had slept quietly for

the last ten minutes, “Norman!” she shouted triumphantly.

We were by this time convulsing with laughter, and gained a

few tuts from the players, on the lines of “I can’t hear for them

at t’back”, so we tried a little self-control. Sharon was speaking

again “Does Debbie ever do ‘Sayings’ with you?” Again a

murmuring until she said, “You know, like a Stitch in time”, oh,

yes, they knew sayings, so off she went, Many hands make

light work, Two many cooks spoil the broth, Neither a

borrower, Take care of the pennies, and so on, and they got

quite lively coming up with the answers until she said “Where

there’s a will”, quick as a flash, Amy shouts “There’s relations!”

These relations made a very swift exit.

Jenny Jones


t w e n t y t h r e e

S t e p h a n i e

Love and lust and you go together like purple kisses I remember what I was like as a youthI was always running and playing the foolI remember laughing at everything and nothing I remember dancing with you at our receptionI remember kissing the hairs on the back of your neckI miss you so much I`d lie on top of you or you`d lie on top of me I miss you very muchI loved, or rather I love you with all my being I find time so ever lasting and so sad without you.

Jim Taylor

A tree in the forest falls.You hear the noise –branches clashing,trunk thudding,ground unyielding.

A tree in the forest falls,nobody there to hear or see.Do branches clash?Does trunk thud?

The tree is down.There was no noise,no ear to change the moving airto electric pulses in a brain.

T h e F o r e s t

Vivian Williams


t w e n t y f o u r

T h e S c a r f

He walked slowly, each step an ache in his heart.He had known this would happen,the clouds became darker as he walked:he was starting to remember, it had been snowing,the landscape was cold as the woman he lovedHe thought back:where had he lost his grasp of her love?When had their dreams ended?His stride overtook his endless aim.The suspense held him still. He recaptured the thought of her last breath, the startled stare, those eyes, those eyes:

The rain fell heavily, dripping from his dark curly hair,embracing the tears already there.His breath became more laboured as his thoughts became more intense.In his hands he felt her silken scarf,he trembled.He was so close now, running,he could hear the rushing water

waiting for him.

Marlene O Connell


t w e n t y f i v e

T h e Wa r d r o b e

I like to keep my other life in the wardrobe. Doesn’t

everyone? Then I can retrieve it when I need to, in private.

Sometimes, I don’t think I should really. Yet I can’t seem to

stop. Are you intrigued? Have a guess what it is. I expect you

think it’s special clothes – perhaps glamour, a bit naughty, for

pole or lap dancing perhaps. Or maybe I’ve turned to crime,

blaming it on my age, and begun shoplifting garments with

designer labels? And what about fancy dress costumes? You

know how I like parties and fun things.

I’ll give you a clue. It’s nothing to do with clothes. The

wardrobe just happens to be there with a large space and

shelves. So – does it get more interesting? I like to tease. I

could have a collection of very old toys that I bring out to play

with. Or become a kleptomaniac, with a hoard of small things

– jewellery of course, lipsticks, stuff like that. Do you think I

keep evidence of a serious crime – a knife wrapped in a blood-

stained cloth. Or am I a secret drinker with a stash of bottles? I

could be melancholic and have a cardboard box of

mementoes of a loved one – a baby’s bootees, locks of hair,

tear-stained love letters. Now, if we were playing ‘Hunt the

Thimble’ I’d shout- “you’re getting warmer!” Have you never

heard of that game? Too young I suppose. It doesn’t have to

be a thimble. Anyway… Give up? Shall I tell you?

I have dead people in my wardrobe! Well, their ashes in urns

– those shelves for scarves, bags etc are very handy. I have 4

so far. First, there’s my sister. She was 6 when she fell out of

the apple tree, she was showing off trying to reach her fancy

hair ribbons that were dangling from the branches. I was first

on the scene and tried to help – well, I’d seen a bit about first

aid on Blue Peter, and even though I was only 8 I wasn’t fazed

by it. The grown-ups actually said how calm I was. Mother had

the urn in her wardrobe to start with, then when she died it

came to me.


t w e n t y s i x

Mother was the next. She fell downstairs a few years later

when I was a teenager. She’d never admit it but I think she

liked a drop of whisky on the quiet. Anyway, she must’ve

overbalanced. I found her at the bottom of the stairs. I could

see at a glance she’d broken her neck – I’d done a proper first

aid course by then. So I just tried to make her presentable, pull

her skirts down, before the ambulance arrived. And I still had

time to fasten the stair-rod more securely over the carpet, to

prevent further accidents. It was always working loose.

The other 2 urns contain husbands. I keep forgetting their

names – Edwin or Edward, Gerald or Gerard, or some such

names. Anyway, they were indistinguishable in character. I

think of them as Husband1 and Husband2. Husband1 died

about the time I discovered the joys of keeping herbs, for

cooking to start with. Fascinating subject, uses, remedies,

side-effects and so on. He always had a weak stomach and

didn’t believe in doctors & chemicals so I tried to help.

Husband2 followed a few years later. We had a lot in common-

the herbs of course, and nature walks. He taught me a lot

about berries and fungi. He had a bad heart. Among other

things.

So, there we have it, and now you know my little secret.

When I feel bored or nostalgic, I open the wardrobe and we

can talk about old times. Well, I can. They’ve no choice but to

listen now. There’s still space for more urns. Dad’s alive, just,

in a nursing-home. He won’t let me visit. Don’t know why. It

must be dementia, as he says I’m not his daughter. After I

offered to look after him at home, too. It’s a bit hurtful. You

weren’t expecting this were you? “It’s always the quiet ones”,

they say. Have I wasted your time? Or do you think I’m

special?

Carole Dalton


t w e n t y s e v e n

T h e We b

Love is a webBeing spun and repairedThe wind and the rainWill damage no doubtThough partners may stayTogether throughout.

The shape of the webCan be admired by someThe journey for us thoughHas really begun.

The spider will rewindTo make good the breakCouples preferA new start to make.

The spider works hardTo try to repairWith lots of new threadThere is no despair.

The thread of the webSo fine as the cottonThe troubles they hadShould now be forgotten.

The lace on the windowSo perfect and trueWill their love stay together?We wait for the clue.

Do we pray for the same?Not so we believeWe bury our head

And try to deceive.

Robert Norfolk


t w e n t y e i g h t

T h e Wo r l d o f L o v e

Love is the sun on the sea when on holiday,love is warm and cosy,love is bread and butter pudding.

Love is the colour pinkand going to the bingo.Love is a chocolate cake.

Love is a rainbow,a walk on the beach,love is the start of a new life.

Love is a sexy kiss.It is also hearing Michael on the telephone

love is a diamond ring.

Amanda Hudson

T i n g To n g

Ting Tong woke on a rainy winter morning,opened a bar of chocolate for breakfast, put Jeremy Kyle onthe TV and got settled on the nice comfy sofa for the day….asusual.

I’m fed up of being miserable and lonely, thought Ting Tong.At the same time a rat dating agency advertised its newwebsite on the TV.Ting Tong had a bright idea!The laptop was on!

On the website there was a beautiful white rat called Fluffy….it

was love at first sight for soft-hearted Ting Tong.

Lisa Daniel


t w e n t y n i n e

To n g u e I n C h e e k

As my sin bin is full of rejected work and that much soughtafter accolade, an Alpha Plus, further from gain than ever, achange to Poetry was considered. Daunted, as it was nottaught at school, and I know little about the subject, seriousresearch was obviously required.

The books I studied made me realize I was about to learn alittle of foreign languages. Well I mean Scansions, Syllables,Iambic Pentameter and Trochee to start but didn’t they tell mesomething in Latin about verb roots? Scansion? To scan…Hmmmm as for Iambic, it’s all Greek.

As I read, a friendly Gremlin voice whispers, ‘So we’vedecided to have a bash at Poetry, have we?’

‘Be quiet and go away, I’m busy.’ I replied.

Syllables are Metres and their identifications are calledScansion. Such syllables are grouped into a Foot; these into aLine, which becomes a line of Verse. Lines compose a Stanzaand Stanzas form a Poem.

‘There, how’s that Gremlin?’

‘Total rubbish because a metre is 39.3701 inches and a foot isthe appendage of the tarsus bones at the bottom of the ‘tiband fib’. God knows what the Maths and Biology teachers willsay when they hear that one. They’ll probably think you’ve lostit!’

‘I’ll ignore that comment.’

Syllables are either stressed or unstressed. In a line where thestress falls on the first syllable of a word, it is called theTrochaic; conversely if the stress falls on the second syllable itis Iambic.

‘Simple enough to the intelligent,’ admitted Gremlin.


t h i r t y

‘I know this is stretching your brain a bit Gremlin but what I’vejust explained should be clear, even to you, that stress of thesyllables helps with the rhythm of the line.’

‘Stress, that’s what you’re going to suffer if you read muchmore’, grumbled Gremlin.

‘Oh, do shut up Gremlin, I’m trying to concentrate.’

‘What about Dactylic and Anapestic metres? You don’t knowabout them do you?’

‘Well no…not exactly and they sound very complicated, so atthe moment I’m reading on a bit further. Now go away andleave me alone.’

Oh dear, back to Latin, with words such as Monometer andPentameter – from what I remember the words refer tonumber in a metre.

Over the page Caesura appears, which means a break whenreading a line and is identified by two perpendicular lines afterthe word. Why not a full stop escapes me.

‘Any clues Gremlin?’

‘I didn’t think so by your silence.’

A rather superior word, Onomatopeia caught my eye and as itwas obvious I couldn’t either pronounce or spell it, perhapsPoetry wasn’t for me after all.

‘I knew it, he’s beaten,’ echoed Gremlin in high delight.

In contrition I offer the following in knowledge that I don’t knowwhether they are Trochaic or Iambic let alone Monometer,Dimeter or Trimetet as I apparently have difficulty inrecognizing rhythm in words…I go, far, far away, anonymousto all.

E G Gregory MBE


t h i r t y o n e

To P i c k A P o c k e t

O r N o t

The pickpocket is running from the law.Where has he gone? What has hedone? Why was he done it? He countsup his money thinking he will feed hisfamily tonight.

The pickpocket is running from the lawuntil one day he hears that dreaded call,“Stop thief!”

The next day in court, “Pickpocketting issomething that I will not tolerate. You’resentenced to six months hard labour,”says the judge.

In the prison yard the pickpocketdreams of freedom, thinking, ‘Will I do itagain?’ He was the pickpocket thatcould not run from the law.

Steven Greenall


t h i r t y t w o

G a r b a g e

This is the story

of a desperate man,

whose only home

was a garbage can.

This is the story

of a cold, cold night,

and a bundle of rags

that gave up the fight.

Simon Drake


t h i r t y t h r e e

O l d M r s J o n e s

Old Mrs Jones lives all alone,

daren’t go to the door.

It may be a burglar –

leave her dying on the floor.

Petrified by memories

of a vicious attack last year,

beaten up for a miserable quid,

the price of half a beer.

Her home has become her prison,

a prison worse than hell.

Dear Home Secretary,

I hope your mother’s well.

Mrs Jones, Mrs Jones,

my heart goes out to thee.

I swear I’ll slash my wrists

before I let them set me free.

Simon Drake


t h i r t y f o u r

Let me speak

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