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And here are some of the pieces "wot they wrote".
All I Need
All I need is some peace and quiet’ she shouted
Amongst all this noise and creative din.
I heard a voice in my inner brain’s ear
Just say shhh, let silence in.
For all that I need
Is some peace and quiet.
Far away from this terrible noise, din and riot.
Just so my thoughts would all go away
And that I would continue to have a most wonderful day.
Paul Cooper
Mind Games
He thought a long walk with his dog might clear his head, then through the mists of
memory he suddenly realized, he didn't have a dog anymore. Why was that?
He remembered a golden coat, with curls and a smiley happy face, a weird tail that would
curve over on top. Suddenly that image was somehow transposed into a black and white
image. Why? What did that mean? He knew he could see colour and even in dreams he
knew they were not in black and white. The name Tasha came unbidden from nowhere
and yes, that was a name he knew. Short for Potasha, it was Portuguese or something
and he knew it meant 'little lady'. Great, progress of a sort, that meant that Tasha was
a lady dog. Just what a lady dog was called he could not grasp right now.
His fingers curled in subconscious recollection of the soft tummy fur and the way she
would squirm and wriggle whilst being pampered with his touch.
As he relaxed into this dream like state another memory came literally nosing in, the
black and white one, also wanting his time and affection also.
Now he had it! He used to have two dogs. Tasha the female. Cute as a button,
protective,brave, with the heart of a lion, and, the black and white one, the male dog.
What was his name? He was much more wary. Swift to bark at strangers and the first to
run for cover if confronted. What was his name?
He started going through the alphabet. Andrew, Bruce, Charlie? D drew a blank as did E
Freddy, He chuckled wryly to himself and his head ached with effort.
G George? Stupid Stupid Stupid. These were all male names but not dog names. Was
there a difference? Damned if he knew?
He felt tears of frustration start to form and he knew he was so close to losing it again,
losing that precious thread that he felt made him sane.
He needed some sort of magic to make the pain go away and the thoughts to clear.
Magic? Why did that sound familiar?
Then, like the sun's rays breaking through a cloud it came to him.
Merlin, of course, Merlin, that cheeky little mutt who always walked with a cockney
strutt, who then jumped at his own shadow. He would even duck if a bird flew overhead.
Oh how he missed those two. The sight of them playing chase in the freshly fallen snow,
and the way they would sit like sentinels on the low wall that bordered his driveway, like
a couple of stone lions atop the gates to a stately home in the country.
Tasha, as still as a statue, her head hardly ever moving but her eyes never ever missing a
single movement of car, pedestrian, bird,butterfly or even the wandering wind-born
flight of fluff that was a dandelion seed.
To be continued:-
Alan Barbour
Elsie Mugridge – A Yorkshire Lass
“He thought a long walk with the dog might clear his head. Well it did more
than that; he ended up smashing it to pieces on those bloody boulders up on
Nickleby Tarn.
My God, I were furious with him and even though it’s nearly a week since it
happened I still am furious and bloody angry. I mean why the hell was he not
taking any notice of me, he were just ignoring my own desires and ambitions
and as usual just thinking of himself and nobody else.
Do you know, I can’t, for the love of God understand how we ever got together
in the first place or why we even stayed together for that matter? I mean it
were not like we had children and the rows we had, my God it were like the
third world war. I mean we didn’t have any dependents to worry about and the
dogs were never a reason to stay together under the same roof. Most
marriages ended in divorce and I just can’t see why ours just kept peddling
along, not going anywhere.
As soon as the school suspended him pending the investigation I just knew it
were trouble but when it was all over and we tried getting our lives in order
again everything would be turned upside down. I mean, I knew there wouldn’t
be a ha’peth of evidence to find him guilty of some of the claims which were
being made against him. He were a good man at heart, not very exciting or
passionate and definitely not the sort to upset or take the world by storm. I’ve
had more excitement in my life de-scaling the kettle than I’ve ever had with
him. But he were a good teacher and he didn’t deserve those lies, those
unfounded accusations made by those two illiterate scheming witches and
trouble makers hell bent on making their teachers life a misery. They wanted
the upper hand, the trollops, to get one over on Mr Mugridge because he’d
made them late for their after-school activities.
I were not born yesterday you know, I know full well what they were up to.
They were missing out on those dangerous little liaisons with those lads from
Brackley, you know the ones from the estate. You mark my words, their
grandparents had traveller blood in them and once a gypsy then always a
gypsy.
And so, the little shites, they decided to make him pay for spoiling their social
lives and made accusations that their teacher, my husband had been making
inappropriate remarks about their dress sense, and their make-up and
suggesting they needed some discipline and a good spanking across his
knees was in order.
It’s laughable. If only they knew my husband. Lawrence Mugridge had never
been interested in sex, take it from me because I know so very well. I mean
he couldn’t cope with any relationship if there was the slightest whisper it
might become intimate. He buried himself in books and magazines. But, I
don’t mean magazines about tarts and male fantasies and sexual desires or
abominations. No, no. Lawrence was only interested in one thing and one
thing alone – physics.
Oh..if only we’d taken that chance, that one chance of a lifetime five years ago
and accepted that job in Melboune, Australia. Just think of the life we could be
leading right now. The choices, the freedoms, the opportunity for travel. A new
social life and more money than we actually needed. But, you see,
Lawrence’s problem was that he never made the right decision. In fact it was
guaranteed that he would make the wring decision even though everyone
around him could see the wood for the trees. And so we stayed in this grimy
little village, near to Sculverdale and surrounded by hills which, for most of the
year were just wet and brown. I hated it from the day we arrived. We only
came here because his Mother left us the house and there was an offer of a
job at the local secondary school.
I knew it were a mistake. I should have put me foot down and said
“Lawrence…no…this is not for us, lad. We need to get away from here and
start ours lives from scratch”. But I didn’t did I? Because at the time it seemed
too easy. Each year Lawrence would say “Elsie, Love. Next year we’ll leave
this dreary place. I promise”.
But there’s no chance of that now.
It all went tits up when the suspension were announced I mean, my god, the
whole village knew before me. And the rows we had over it – I knew it was
killing him inside and he became quite depressed about it. You see, I was
confident it wouldn’t amount to much – I’d already seen the unease in the girls
faces like they’d bitten off more than they could chew. I were confident that
Lawrence would be fine and any day the girls would tell the truth. But he was
more than depressed over it – ay, he was having a breakdown. I should have
seen the writing on the wall. But I didn’t.
“Get out” I shouted “get out from under my feet. All I need is some peace and
quiet”.
They were the last words he heard from me. He took the dog out onto the hills
and it had been raining and hour before. I knew he shouldn’t have gone up
there, mind. But I was still angry not only about the accusations but the
Australian offer and the miserable place we lived in.
And then the two female officers came to the cottage later that evening and
told me the bad news.
Of course now, I haven’t even had the opportunity of using my catch phrase,
the one I used time after time.
“Lawrence Mugridge I said you’d never amount to much, didn’t I?”
Anthony Berry
Monday 31st January Workshop.
She breathed in the cold night air, refreshing after the stifling of Joe’s cottage. The front door closed quietly behind her and she walked into the calm clear dark. Her heart still beat loudly, her head thumped and her fingers trembled and twitched but she ignored the rhythms of her body and strode purposefully down the lane and away from that mad house.
After some time when her heart and head had stopped the frantic drumming and her breathing had slowed, she realised she had no idea where she was. It was very darkand very cold. The ground under her feet was soft, she was no longer in the lane but when had she left it?
She could not recall leaving the path or climbing a style or anything like that. She could just remember walking, walking mechanically, whilst her mind was elsewhere. But what had she been thinking about?
There was a line of trees and hedges way over on her right and what looked like a wall on her right. Her arms were very cold and she realised bare. Why on earth hadn’t she brought her coat? She flayed her arms around in an effort to get them warm and slapped them against her body before folding them. She flung her arms away from her. Her dress was wet and sticky. Had she brushed against something in her haste to get away?
And that’s as far as I got, but I did think I’d chosen the wrong sentence. I should have taken-I have never tasted oysters- I would go on like this—though I imagine their texture is similar to fresh eyeballs stored in a saline solution overnight in the fridge. And why bother with oysters when you can have the mouth popping, essential fluid squirting, of the real thing? They’re harder to get hold of so have a rarity value too and then of course there is the danger involved in harvesting them. It gives me a positive thrill just to know I have them in my fridge waiting for me to want a snack.
I may just finish that one.
Linda Bean Kennedy
I Have Never tasted Oysters
I have never tasted oysters. But then, there are a lot of things I have never done. That’s just a posh one
that I don’t really want to do anyway. I think I’d probably hate them. It was because of Marie that I had
that thought. She was posh. Well, still is, I suppose. And she was always going on about oysters and
champagne and caviar and stuff. How she really didn’t want to associate with a pleb like me.
No, that’s not fair. She didn’t actually say that, it was more of an intimation really. But she was the
nearest thing to a friend I had, and, looking back, I think that was mutual. We met at the Edinburgh
Festival. I was having a go at stand up and she was with this chap, Maurice, who billed himself as the
singing body builder. She was the eye candy in his act. We both flopped.
But it was worse for her, because the singing body builder took it out on her and I found her sitting on
the pavement sobbing, with two black eyes and a cut lip. So I took her back to my digs and mopped her
up a bit. Then it turned out he’d gone off with her bag, money, cards, the lot. Well, I might be a failed
stand up but I had my old Ford Fiesta there so at least I wasn’t destitute. The next morning we both went
home.
We went to this biggish house in Chislehurst where her Mum and Dad were. She said there was no way
she was going back to the flat she had rented with the thug, and I didn’t blame her for that. Her Mum and
Dad seemed a bit vague, but her Dad said he’d sort her cards and stuff when they got back from playing
golf that day, so I left her to it and went back to my flat.
My day job is dental nurse, so I’ve been able to afford this decent flat, all mod cons. Decked it out all
white and minimalist, suits me fine. Ground floor, so I’ve even got a bit of garden. I was on my own then,
between relationships. At least, I was hoping I was between them, there was nothing much on the
horizon.
So I was curled up on the sofa one evening watching the telly, when I suddenly got this creepy feeling
that someone was watching me. I had a big glass door that looked out on to the garden and I jumped out
of my skin when I realised someone was standing outside, very still, just watching me. It took me a
minute to realise that it was Marie.
“What are you doing, scaring the shit out of me?” I yelled at her as I opened the door. “And what is
wrong with going round the front and ringing the bell like any normal person?”
“I needed someone to talk to. I couldn’t think of anyone who would help me but you.”
She was as white as death and shaking like a leaf. “I’ve killed him, you see. You’ve got to help me.
Please.”
Well, to cut a long story short, she really had killed Maurice the thug. She sat on my sofa, consumed a
bottle of wine, and told me the whole sorry tale. How he had turned up at her parents, all dolled up and
penitent and begged her to come back to him. The little fool fell for it.
She was working in an organic, upmarket café, only for pin money as she had some trust fund or
something like that. After three weeks of being back with him, her Visa bill came in and she discovered
that he had been using her card while she was at work and she was several thousand quid over the limit.
She was furious. He was supposed to be working at a firm in the city, but when she rang them they had
never heard of him. So she waited for him to come in. And when he did, she went for him. Verbally.
You’d think with her experience, she’d have just got the police in. You can imagine what happened. He
knocked her to the floor a few times and kicked her twice. She picked up a pair of scissors and stabbed
him through the heart.
To be continued…(perhaps!)
Sally Gardner - as written at the workshop January 31st, 2011.
I have never tasted oysters
I have never tasted oysters and here’s why. At the age of thirty two my wife
and I were looking forward to eating our first oysters at a Cockney wedding
in Bethnal Green.
The wedding ceremony was augmented by the additional blessings from the
Pearly King and Queen. We then all sojourned to a nearby banqueting hall
for the reception.
There was a long table full of food and the happy couple led the way to it
and started sliding slippery oysters down each other’s throats.
Soon the guests were invited to join in the fun. I didn’t like the look of the
fishy treat and declined the offer, but my wife was wholehearted in her
response and eventually moved on to cockles and jellied eels.
I was drawned to the pinky-fresh ham on the bone and spent the evening
eating only that with buttered rolls.
A jolly good time was had by all but when we went home to bed sleep was
impossible as my wife kept everyone awake as she vomited-up all of those
lovely oysters she had eaten.
Ever since then I have always been fond of pinky-ham on the bone.
Alvin Culzac
I have always relied on the kindness of friends
I have always relied on the kindness of friends – which is probably why I lead such a
miserable life.
Not one of them has ever given me a single oyster – or even a married one, so I
remain forever oysterless.
I thought that a long walk with my dog might clear my head, but my kind friends
hadn’t given me a dog either. Actually, the reason that my head needed clearing is
because I have a hangover – because I drink too much when I think about the
kindness of my friends.
Perhaps I have not given them sufficient chance lately to prove their kindness.
With that in mind I made my way to Church Road, where two of my dearest friends
live.
I couldn’t remember their house number, so I walked down, what I thought was the
correct side, looking for the welcome mat that said, ‘Why don’t you just piss off?’
The front door was ajar, so being assured of an enthusiastic welcome, I stepped
inside.
It was a very, very strange place – and it felt so cold. Yes, this was Frank and
Linda’s house alright!
At that moment Linda poked her head round the sitting room door. “All I need is
some peace and quiet,” she shouted.
“But I’m relying on the kindness of my friends,” I replied.
She came towards me and took my hand. ‘Ah,’ I thought. She’s being kind. Then
she led me back to the front door and suggested that I read the doormat again.
It was at this point that I craved sleep more than anything else in the world.
Roland Gardner
The Slatted Barn
Who could say who would be next?
For three actresses had previously fled the scene
The directors cry of ‘it was only an owl’
Had fallen on closed and deafened ears.
Seeking solace in the slatted barn
They had vanished forever in its depth
Replicating the saga of the bloody murder
Where no trace of blood was ever found.
A story that was all consuming to the author
And a hook for an ambitious, but blasé producer
After all actresses desperate for stardom were
Ten - a - penny and expendable. Granted, it is a
Very strange place, so achingly cold and damp
But perfect and atmospheric for the big screen.
They all felt it; the bone chilling silence
Words, learnt by rote, unspoken from painted lips
Her declaration of returning love left hanging
Halted by the sudden opaqueness of her lover’s eyes.
A guttural scream echoed in the stillness of the set
A scream, no owl’s throat could ever express.
Breaking out of character, she fled from the lights,
Into the swallowing darkness of the slatted barn.
©Janet Hedger
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