22nd DEC 2008

All the stories were good and varied but Sally's was the outright winner with her unusual and amusing Christmas tale
HEAR ABOUT YOU
I asked my friend about the title for the next creative writing class and when she replied with "hear about you," I pulled a face and my thoughts were not polite, they were something like "Merry Blooming Christmas"
Oh dear! what would Santa Claus think about my ungracious thoughts, he would not be very pleased with my Baa humbug. 1 got to thinking about Santa and about all the good work he does by pleasing so many children, so my story is about Santa who always has a glowing smile.
Santa was riding his sleigh through the clouds he was deep in thought, one of his elves had gone sick, they worked to rule those elves, full of their own importance and they would never fill in for one another. Therefore poor Santa had to fill the sleigh himself and he was feeling too old for this job, if he had known about the elf going sick he would have telephoned the gnome kingdom but it was to late as the gnome kingdom had started with their parties and that's when they get up to their pranks. Last year they exchanged all the Barbie dolls for Cowboy and Indians sets. He had just arrived back to Wonderland and he was busy shampooing the soot from his rather grimy beard, when all of a sudden the screams from the Earth reached the very pinnacles of Christmas Wonderland.
All the pretty icicles snapped and never have the elves moved so fast as the icicles fell into the Action Man department, the icicles then skidded onto the Transformer department and there was utter chaos all the icicles were like rockets zooming around and eventually ended in the balloon factory. Bangl Bang! The continuous noise was horrendous. The Met office on earth issued a report that a freak thunder storm followed by very large hailstones had fallen in the south.
Santa shrugged his shoulders, enough of last year lets get started. He put the reindeer's onto remote pilot, they did enjoy whizzing through the clouds at breakneck speed, dodging the odd rocket on its way to the moon and when they found an aeroplane the reindeer's would ride alongside it and startled the passengers before they zoomed away into the clouds.
Santa fumbled in his mail bag and he drew out a bundle of letters from the children in Sleepy Town Valley. He began to read a rather grubby letter, Oh ho ho! I see that Johnny Sullivan is being greedy again, why do children of today want so much, they have no imagination, no fun, these items are all expensive, Nintendo ds, ipod, mobile phone, oh no no! Most of the letters read the same with the exception of one sad little letter from Maisy Lou Jones of 1 The High Street Sleepy Town Valley Dear Santa It was nice to hear about you and that you bring children presents at Christmas time but could you please give my present to the girl next door who is poorly and it might be her last Christmas, then she can smile just like you. Luv Maisy Lou. Santa took out his little red book and sprinkled star dust against 1 and 2 High Street, a special gift would be delivered there and there would be two smiling faces on Christmas day. Ho Ho Ho Merry Christmas everyone.

November 24th November

Good varied stories today with Sally's childhood school memories (which came second) and Pat's school bully. Joan E told the story of the secret garden. Brian gave a graphic description of his Dickens like up bringing with the nuns. Sue recounted the Halloween scare while in a caravanette at Calshot. Sheila's story was about sandcastles. John and my own contribution was on the same theme murder most foul. But Ann's was chosen as best and you can read the prize winner your self.

Who Did This
When the firm announced they were closing the local offices and re-locating to Washington, there were murmurs of anticipation until it was pointed out that this was Washington U.K., not Washington U.S.A. Oliver was told there would be a job guaranteed if he decided to move, but there would be a lot of discussion with Emily and the boys before a decision could be made. Emily was a District Nurse and felt she would probably get another job quite easily. The boys were nine-year-old identical twins, Adam and Justin, but they were at an age when they would have time to settle into the new education system before they moved on to senior school. After discussing the pros and cons every available moment, they finally decided to take the chance and make the move,
Oliver started his new job and moved into a small guesthouse while he researched the locality and visited estate agents. During the half term Emily and the boys motored up to spend time with him and look at the places he had short-listed. They were all very acceptable, but nothing outstanding. On the way back one afternoon they took a different route and came across this delightful looking cottage with an estate agents board up outside. It was one Oliver had already registered with, so they called in to make enquiries. They were told it had only come on the market the day before and the details hadn't been sent out yet. The following morning they were all waiting for the agent to arrive and show them inside, having already peered through every window and wandered around the garden and outbuildings. As soon as they stepped inside they all fell in love with the place. It was as if it had been waiting for them. Having found somewhere to live they couldn't wait to move in.

They had been there about six months now. Oliver was enjoying his new job and the promotion that went with it. Emily had got a part time job at the local Doctors surgery and the boys had settled in well at the local village school and had started to make friends. When the odd incidents started to happen a few weeks after they had moved in, they initially put it down to the boys playing pranks. Emily had found the cereal and sugar in the fridge one morning and the milk in the cupboard. Another morning all the breakfast cutlery and dishes were either upside down or back to front. "Who did this?" was a cry often to be heard in the household, although the boys always denied it was anything to do with them. When all the twins' clothes were turned inside out, even Emily began to think this was not of their making. The evening the dog woke up from an apparently deep sleep on his beanbag while they were watching T.V. and looked towards the door, wagged his tail and appeared to follow something across the room with his eyes decided it for them that they were sharing their home with a poltergeist. No-one felt the least bit intimidated by it's presence. It was not a malicious being and the tricks were not intended to hurt. They decided to call it Patrick. One morning all the books in the bookcase had been turned upside down and another day Emily and Oliver found each of their pairs of shoes consisted of one of his and one of hers!
Life continued with the addition of Patrick and his tricks until one morning Oliver couldn't find his car keys. He looked everywhere and decided to take the spare set only to find these missing as well. Adam eventually found a set in his school bag. This time Patrick was not popular. On the way to take the boys to school Emily heard a traffic report of a road closed because of a serious accident. She knew this was the route Oliver used. As soon as she had dropped the boys off she tried to phone Oliver, but couldn't get a signal. When she arrived home she called his office only to be told he hadn't arrived yet. Leaving a message for him to call as soon as he arrived, she put the kettle on to make a coffee. When the phone rang, she nearly jumped out of her skin even though she was waiting for it to ring. Oliver told her he had been held up due to dreadful accident. If Patrick hadn't hidden his keys he would have been at the junction about the time it had happened. As she sat down with her coffee she glanced over to the key rack to see the spare set of keys hanging there.

27th October

Modestly I must admit the best story won complete acclaim from all my fellow writers. Following, my masterpeice.

The formula
Once again I felt disappointment at not winning the creative writing competition after making such an effort to produce a story that was lively, full of colour and with a robust main character. I of course never showed my disappointment to my fellow writers but surely the story of the three legged cat by Hannah was hardly in the same class as mine.
I was thinking this when on my way back home I picked up the Guardian as I noticed that its supplement was on the subject of writing a short novel. Not normally my kind of politics but in this case.
After arriving home at my opulent top floor flat overlooking the Thames I soon hungrily started to read the Guardian supplement. I opened up the laptop and settling back into the richly decorated divan I started what I hoped would be a far better structured story that they would find impossible not to award top marks. I felt a warm glow of pleasure at having found such a well written helpful guide. I read that all good stories follow the formula. It advised that you should have a character completely different from your self and then to build the likes and dislikes. Right, my character would be a woman not young but again not too old. Attractive and very sexual. Dressed in a tight fitting light blue two piece suit she looked competent and beautiful. I could see her face shining and alive. A successful business woman sitting at her desk, a modern polished workmanlike affair with the laptop open its screen filled with a large spread sheet of the companies current account.
Evelyn, I thought, that is her name. She was studying a small parcel well wrapped and tied with a pink ribbon. Her secretary had brought it in and said Happy Birthday. It was a complete shock to her she had forgotten she was 40 years old.
The formula said broaden the picture to show where the action is. I could see it was a modern office block and Evelyn rented a whole unfurnished floor on the third storey. She had devoted time and money bringing in the best designers to bring that air of competence and culture necessary to woo the clients when demonstrating the latest company brand marketing strategy. The office block was in the smart part of the city where only the richest could afford the high rents and taxes.
Relationships had to be sketched in. Not too many to be confusing and not so well described to take away the thrust of the main theme and the main character. I saw that Evelyn would have several lovers but only two vying for her affection Jim Henderson a rich mysterious part Arab with no visible means of support but not lacking in funds and Paul Wynberg a financier from the city. Both men were in their thirties both divorced. She thought she loved them both and neither were aware of the other but seeing the unwrapped birthday present it suddenly came home to her that this double life had to end.
I came back into focus, this imagery was intoxicating but it had to end for me too as I have now run over the prescribed 500 words.

22nd September

Another good morning story telling. Joan told a story about the Princess's visit to a Devonshire village as seen by a small child. My story was of a conman being caught. Brian wrote about some unfortunate Knight Of the Templar who fell down a well. Sue recounted her father's experience during Dunkirk. Pat told of De Vinci and the Mona Liza. John dreaming of a lordship and Sheila spoke again about a trip to the palace and meeting Prince William. Ann you can read as her story was voted best.

August meeting

Met at Jack & Joan's for the first time, down in numbers but not in enthusiasm. Again very difficult to chose the best as each had its own merits and each widely different from one to the other. Joan E wrote of a widow finding her brother. Brian's described a bare footed walk amongst the richly set background of a verdant wood. Joan R's story was of a failed marriage due to the husband being less then straight. Ann related a family story and a lost child. Sue's was very good, a family history that wasn't.
My story was chosen the best so I modestly submit it.
Beneath that is Sue's masterpiece

Next month's at Pat & Brian's on the 21st September subject: Name and Title.

"I want to be an astronaut", I smiled at the recollection of one of my earliest memories when I was still in the infant class at the beginning of the new millennium. Miss? What was her name? Miss Snowball, that was it. Miss Snowball, what a funny name, I had never met anybody else with that name.
"I expect lots want to be an astronaut Wayne". she said. "Anybody else want to be one", she asked the class. Several hands shot up, "Me Miss" "Me Miss", they called out.
It was ten years later and another classroom and another teacher and again talk of future plans was the topic of the day. Again I had said I intended to train to be the first man to land on Mars. I could remember the teacher but not the name who looked doubtfully at me. "That is an ambitious dream." Nobody else still shared the same dream their careers were more prosaic with the exception of Roger Jones who wanted to be a tightrope walker.
I pulled down the outer vizor on my helmet as the sun broke across the horizon of the beautiful red planet.
I remembered the first time I passed the sound barrier in a training jet the almost imperceptible shudder through the body of the plane as the speed crept past mach one then mach two until I was cruising at 2300 miles per hour. The hours when my body was subjected to gravitational forces until I could take no more. But I had passed all the tests and was to be one of the crew of the new inter solar ship, Mars Destiny. Despite my ambition to be the first astronaut to land it was not meant to be I would be the one left on the mother ship while the remaining four would leave me to go down on their own.
But like all plans fate could intervene and change everything. I would be the first man to land and the only one. It was the previous day when disaster struck a small rock no bigger than a fist had struck the outer cone shaped protective dome and a part of that had broken off and pierced the hull. At that moment it was my job to go out to fix the aerial so already in a space suit I watched in horror as the hull decompressed and the four who over the last six months had become close friends died almost instantly.
There was no chance of landing as the control panel was smashed beyond repair the ship would be flung by Mars's gravity out into the cold reaches of space.
I made the decision an hour ago climbing into the escape pod with its small jets I had left the mother ship and using the onboard computer headed into the thin atmosphere that enclosed the small planet. There would be no triumphant return to earth but mankind will try again and I will be found and known as the first man of Mars - Wayne's world.

I WANT TO …
I want to tell you a story – the story of my life.

I was born into the home of an artisan, a cabinet maker with magic in his hands, who could create great beauty from humble pieces of wood. I grew and matured, nurtured in my warm, loving family.

I remember especially the cold winter evenings spent happily in our cosy cottage, with the lamps lit, the curtains drawn against the dark and a merry fire burning in the hearth. Sundays, too, were special days in our house, with no work done, a happy family dinner at mid-day and sometimes the whole family would then go for a walk, in the weak afternoon sun, children scuffing through the dry, brown leaves growing crisp at the onset of frost as the sun set. Everyone jostled to be first to the fire after divesting themselves of coats, hats, scarves, gloves and boots. Then the toasting fork would come out, and the crumpets, and soon everyone would be tucking into steaming mouthfuls, butter dripping down chins and from fingers, only to be greedily licked off, amid much laughter, before the next onslaught.

I served my apprenticeship in these happy surroundings and would have been content to remain there, but I was destined for greater things.

One early spring day we had visitors. A carriage drew up outside and a well-dressed gentleman got out, accompanied by a beautiful young lady. They were welcomed and offered tea and cakes, while they admired the elegant pieces of furniture displayed in the workroom. The young lady, Emily was her name, spent a great deal of her time returning to my company, much to my delight, and at the end of the visit promised to return.

What exciting times they were and my happiness knew no bounds when the impossible happened and we were installed in our own home, a much grander establishment than my humble origins, the large entrance doors opening to a spacious reception hall leading to a library, dining room, drawing room and small sitting room. The elegant staircase led upwards to six bedrooms, with the nursery suite above and the kitchen area in a separate wing.

I passed many happy years here, enjoying lavish dinner parties and later family celebrations as the children arrived and the family grew.

Our lives became quieter as the years passed and the family grew up and moved away. I didn’t have much call on my time, but was happy still in the company of my beloved Emily.

Sadly, Emily has now passed away and that is the story of my life so far. I don’t know what will become of me now, as I sit in the dining room alone and think about my life.

I wish you could know my history, for tomorrow the auctioneers come, the public will view the contents of my home and all will be sold. I can hear the auctioneer now, “Lot No 35: A handsome Victorian dining table, beautifully carved, etc, etc.” I dreamily ponder how much people will bid for me and where I will go next, to continue my eventful life. I hope they’re kind and don’t let their children scratch me or put hot plates down on me without a mat!

21 July

Met at John & Sheila's, all very good but Brian's was elected the best story.

TIME

Once upon a time in ancient China, no one was allowed to own Pekingese dogs except the Imperial family. Therefore, when in the 16th century the Emperor wished to honour England’s Elizabeth 1st, there was no greater gift he could bestow than a pair of the dogs, he valued so highly. The bitch was placed in a carved ivory box, while the dog ran free. A royal princess was chosen to escort the animals across the world.

During the long and arduous journey, the bitch gave birth to five pups, and the little dog guarded his family in the ivory box, and guarded the princess too.
The ship put into a port in France, for fresh food and water, at the same time took on six English sailors.
On the voyage up the channel the crew wove wild tales about their passenger: they said she was a slant-eyed demon, and the box she carried contained treasure.

When the ship rounded the Kent coast a storm arose, driving the ship towards the murderous cliffs. The frightened crew blamed the impending disaster on the princess, burst into her cabin. One of the sailors tried to grab the Ivory box, but drew back with his hand bleeding from the little dogs bite. In terror the crew threw the princess, dogs and the ivory box overboard. The wind changed, and the ship veered to safety.
The princess body and the box were washed into a lonely cove near Dover. No one would approach the supposed devil on the beach, except one man, village simpleton, and it was he who discovered that the princess was dead. Only the dog remained alive, and it was dying. It watched the simpleton dig a grave in which he placed the bodies together. Then he gathered wild daisies and placed them in the shape of a cross. Finally, he placed the little dog among the daisies, where it licked his hand and died.

The ship reached London, and the tale of the treasure spread along the shore. The sailor that had been bitten died a long slow agonizing death; no one would go near the mound on the beach, with it cross of daisies. It was said that a ghostly dog defended the lonely grave, and its bite is DEATH.

Perhaps it keeps its vigil still, for it is said that as late as 1900, a boy found a piece of carved ivory near the cliffs. As he picked it up, he felt himself bitten. Though his injuries were slight, the boy died. HAD the daisy dog bitten him? And was therefore DOOMED, only TIME will tell.

23 June

Ten of us with nine stories of almost equal merit. Brian told of his word block that stopped him from writing his involved story of smuggling. Ann wrote about a family reuniting after the parents were injured. Sally told an epic tale of a fisherman. Sue's was about her war time memories and her dad's wooden box containing gifts of beads and bangles. Pat's childhood memories were of her adventures at Testwood. Sheila related about playing truant and saving a dog. Joan R told of a family and MS and suicide. My story was about the first world war. Joan E about visiting an Aunt and looking forward to a dance that was a dream.
And John's elected the best story was a search for the mythical Pogo tribe which you can have the pleasure of reading - don't wince at the end.

For another.
My story begins with the trip of a life time to the remote dense forests of the Congo, which before I went filled me with trepidation and anxiety as to what sort of experience I was about to have.
I had agreed to be part of an expedition looking for the lost pogo tribe who had not been seen by the white man for more than 50 years.
We flew to Zambia where we met the guides who would take us over the border into the Congo where hopefully we would make contact with this mysterious tribe. After a couple of days rest we drove the 200 miles to the border, and after unloading our camping and other provisions, we headed off into the jungle
The apprehension and trepidation was very apparent amongst us but we made steady progress and estimated that on the first day we had covered at least 12 miles.
The sights and sounds all around us were so different to home life and never ceased to amaze me.
We continued on for a week or more and apart from the never ending sights and sounds that we had become accustomed to the jungle was a wonderful experience for all of us.
We got used to hunting for food and were lucky enough to have a first class man, one of our guides Jomo, who turned out to be a good shot.
On we travelled for another few days and it became apparent during the third week that we were not alone. Certain signs convinced our guides that we were being watched. this feeling had a different effect on our group compared to the guides who said that we should not worry as the last time the tribe were located they proved to be most hospitable.
At the end of the third week we got our first sight of the members of the Pogo tribe. They appeared fairly shy we soon became friendly with them, and mixed well.
Our guide had a very basic knowledge of their language and so we were able to understand each other and we then set about a documentary film of this fascinating tribe .
There was some discussion with the tribal leaders about rewarding them for their participation and we all thought that the trinkets and baubles that we brought should be adequate. to satisfy these simple people. This was not to be the case, and things turned nasty. We soon felt real fear and apprehension when the tribal leader said that we would have to make a sacrifice that will have a lasting effect upon us all. We have become a group of boy sopranos with our manhood gone forever.

May's true story from Pat's early days

All the short stories were very good and made choosing very hard after a second vote for the 3 that tied Pat's was chosen.
Next month back to the Monday and at chez nous

Attention
Attention! Our father said with a smile. The four of us were duly lined up in order of height and he proceeded to hang us upside down on the apple tree. Mother closed her eyes and went indoors. We loved it, and then he tied a thick rope up high with an old broom handle through the loop on the end. We took a huge swing out over the flower bed (musn’t touch the flowers) and pushed our feet against the bark of the tree to stop. We had lots of fun…no broken limbs, just scrapes and scratches. If one knee was bleeding he would say “lets scratch the other one so that you have a pair”..which made us all laugh.

On damp days we played on our plasticene board, which was carefully divided into four with a thin strip cross.We spent hours modelling tiny people, furniture,piano ect. Our brother made tanks and cars of course. Needless to say, the brightly coloured strips eventually became one large drab ball which our father used to graft a Cox’s Orange Pippin onto our Beauty of Bath apple tree..
No one else had an apple tree with two varieties!

There were chickens at the end of our garden,and we discovered, much to our delight, that if you disturbed the hen during her laying, she produced an egg with a raised ring around the centre. One day Dad brought thirteen duck eggs home and set them under a broody hen and hey presto! Thirteen fluffy yellow ducklings. However, all was not well..chickens like to roost on high and ducks don’t.One night a rat crept in and killed the lot. He didn’t eat them, just went for their throats. We were upset, Dad was furious and out came the prong. There were rat runs coming in from the orchard at the back of our garden and yes, he did catch some and one was pronged through by mistake, wriggling and squealing on the end of the fork.

Our father spent hours in the shed with a pot of rouge. You see he was smitten with Patrick Moore’s Sky at Night on TV and wanted his own telescope, out of the question in those days. So he built one. The heavy round glass took months to grind down and polish with jeweller’s rouge. Finally it all came together and we could see dark patches clearly visible on the moon! What a treat. Then we trained it on the chimney pot in the old orchard house which was empty due to being hit by a shell that went between us and next door, bounced of a tree and blew out the windows and doors. It was rather creepy to play in and once we found the skeleton of a cat or dog. However, we were able to spot tiny flies on the chimney from our telescope in the garden.

28th April

Ten of us and one guest, Gloria, down here on holiday attended today's meeting. Quite a lot of discussion about the walking holiday in Exmoor before getting down to the serious business of reading out our individual master pieces. One or two of the stories were very good but the clear winner was Brian's exciting tale of what could happen in this time of terrorist threats.

EXPLOSIVE SITUATION

It was approaching evening in London. Darkness crept across buildings coloured orange by the setting sun as Stuart made his way to the meeting place. He had received a call, about five minutes ago, and the mans voice seemed strained, he had given the correct code word, and told a car would pick him up in five minutes, at the usual place, and not to wear his uniform, “ do I need my tools,” no, we have got them for you.” Stuart was the most experienced bomb disposal engineer in the country. He had written several pamphlets on the subject for the armed forces.
Within two minutes a plain looking car pulled up,” Mr. Stuart? That’s me,” get in sir, where are we going,” he asked the driver, “ you’ll know soon sir”, all your gear is in the boot.
He leant back in the rear seat of the car, contemplated the back of the driver, who was driving him who no’s where.
They raced through the streets, as he looked
in front of the car, he saw two police motorcycles clearing the way. They seem to be going in to the heart of London, Around St.Jame’s Park, there seemed be a lot of police. The car pulled into Birdcage Walk, and came to stop, “ we’re here, sir”
The car door was opened from the out side, and standing there was the Chief of Police for the London area. The first thing that hit him was that old familiar smell of smoke, and burnt out buildings.
The chief took him to one side,” as you know this is the back of Downing street, there has been a incidence, No 10 has been hit really badly, and ALL the cabinet members were in the building, and are still in there. Some of the firemen have been in part way, but, they saw two unexploded bombs, so we called you.” What have you told the news people? Just the a small gas main had blown, and that no one was hurt”
The driver had placed Stuart’s bag of tools by him, and took off. The Police chief gave Stuart a two way radio, this is on a service channel, you can talk straight to me,ok?
Stuart nodded
Stuart entered the back gate of No 10, there before his eyes was one the he had seen many times, he passed through the trimmed neat garden, and climbed over the blocks of fallen bricks and entered the house, his nose itchy with the shifting layers of dust that cloaked the air. An early bomb had caused the upper part of the house to topple in on itself.
Rubble had tumbled down the stairs from the level above and lay strewn across the floor, blocking an opening on the other side.
Then he saw them two mortar bombs. It seems that at less four had been fired at the house the first two must have done the damage. By the looks of the two in front of him, they were 120mm HE/Fragmentation mortar bombs. The bombs were fitted with strengthened stabilizers, the body made of steel and cast iron. The longer stabilizers eliminated the possibility of falling short, and provided two-fold fire accuracy. People who knew about mortars did this.
He placed his bag down very carefully, gently blew the dust from one of the mortar shell, the shells were British Army Issue, by the letters and writing on the side, it was a high explosives, made less than four months ago, How did the bombers get the latest issue?


Just think, two days ago he had been camping and walking in the New Forest. He loved to walk there close to the sea, often the warm southwesterly breezes carried a faint hint of salt air even to this part of the forest, but the sea itself was nearly always hidden until one came out of the oak woods on to the coastal marshes. He needed that break now and then, just to unwind and get out of London.
Don’t let your mind wander, not now, he said to himself.
“Hello Chief, can you hear me? Yes Stuart what is it like in there?” Very quiet. Am going to defused, one of the mortar shell, they seem to unstable to move, by the way the cabinet room is completely destroyed, ALL in the room are dead”
Stuart, knelt down by the mortar shells as he reached out to touch it, they both went off, the blast blew him and the rest of the building apart.
The Police Chief started to go towards the now smoking rubble, MY GOD; he looked towards the end of the street and saw that the Army was taking control, telling his police to move away. The army was now in control.
The last words that the chief of police said into his radio, before he was shot, was
WE HAVE AN EXPLOSIVE SITUATION HERE.

31st March

At Pat & Brian's today and again a great mix of stories making choosing the best very difficult. By one vote Sally's was acclaimed the winner.

If I'm seen

Tom was seven years old he was a lanky lad with short cropped hair, the type of hair that was rather like a old worn tooth brush, he had startling blue eyes in a small pinched face with a wide smile that seemed to reach from ear to ear.
.
His gangly appearance was highlighted by his clothes. A grey Jersey with receding cuffs to halfway up his arms and two neat holes at the elbows, the cuffs were ragged and soiled by the repeated brushing upwards with one cuff and downwards with the other, past his runny nose.

Tom’s Mother was not renowned as a dressmaker, her hilarious attempts at mending and dressmaking were a family joke. This was apparent by the style of Tom’s shortened trousers that had rough patches on the seat and the left leg of the trousers was much shorter than the right. His slender legs were emphasised by the absence of socks, and the tatty boots he wore were rough against his chilblained feet.

It seemed he had run for hours, his chest hurt as he inhaled the cold air, heaving and panting for breathe he leaned against a tree. He bent over groaning if only he could relieve the stitch in his side. Hastily Tom looked behind him. there was no sign of the school board man nor yet of his mother. She had given him a good chase, he was quite proud, he had the fastest mother in town. He had to be careful because the fastest mother in town carried a wooden spoon and if she caught up with him her frustrations would be abated on his somewhat dangling patches. As it was he had sprinted up a hill it was mostly covered in creepers with the odd bramble vines that had twisted around all the most likely holding branches that would perhaps injure a hand holding onto a wooden spoon, it was not his fault she got to the top of the hill as he reached the bottom and sped away into distant lands.

He thought, “Not much further to go, to his fathers allotment and if I’m seen running over the farmers field I’ll say that that I have just shot a tiger and its only wounded and I am running for my life. Oh! And they had better scarper too“.

Falling over a wall into the allotments he saw his dad who was digging away at the hard ground, his Father looked up and laughed when he saw Tom, who by now was all red faced and even more untidy than usual. He beckoned to his son and together they sat happily on an old wooden seat where they shared bread and cheese. Even the birds were happy. It was a beautiful day.

Next meeting on the 28th April, Chez Nous - the theme "an explosive situation"

25 th February

Nine of us met at John & Sheila's for another creative writing meeting. All of us had a good story to tell. It was fun to read your own work and fun to listen to others with many a conversation prompted by the story as some recaptured childhood experiences. We decided that the two best stories were the following Joan's early experience on the family farm and Sue's imaginative story with a twist to it.

In the Headlights by Joan
It was a dark cold frosty morning. A long day lay ahead, the cows were waiting at the gate to come in for their feed and a handful of hay. They each knew their place and were fed accordingly. The heavier milkers having extra concentrate in their mangers. Each cow had a name to identify them Bluebell, Nancy, Eve and Rose just to name a few. While they contentedly ate a chain was fastened loosely around their necks then the milking began in earnest. A small mixed herd of about twenty or so were soon hand milked.
The fresh warm frothy milk was transferred to the cool clean churns then the cows were released back to the fields. The churns were taken by horse and cart a mile up the lane in time for the early morning collection.
There were many other jobs to do letting out the chickens feeding the calves and Freda the saddleback sow. The seasons played a large part, sowing the crops after the land had been prepared, weeding and hoeing and then later on harvesting. From a young age on the way home form school it was my job to open the field gates and call the cows in for milking. The rough unmade lane led to the farmhouse and buildings, was about half a mile long on our side of the river.
The head cow led the way. If any of the cows were missing it was my job to go and search usually they had stole away to calf in the forty acres of open woodland, boggy moor and fields. One would have a good idea where to look, some secluded spot away from the rest of the herd. Once found I loved to stroke the new born calf's soft silky coat. The calf was usually lying down having been thoroughly licked clean and fed some hours before. I would get them to their feet, hopefully mum would lead the way and the calf would follow but usually I had to walk in front with the calf and give it a helping hand. We would arrive home eventually to a bed of clean straw for them to rest in.
In the winter the cows would stay near the homestead. With the shorter days it was time to relax a little once the live stock needs had been attended to. As the excitement of Christmas drew near we went to town to do the shopping a ten mile trip each way. We browsed in Smith's where they sold almost everything in those days, toys, dolls, games and books.
On the way home along the dark country lanes we would see pairs of amber eyes glinting in the headlights of the car. Was it a cat, a dog ... or perhaps a fox on the prowl?

IN THE HEADLIGHTS by Sue

As he was caught in the headlights’ glare and heard the noise of the approaching monster, he knew he was too spent and weak to escape and the day flashed before him.

He saw himself once more standing on the steep, forested hillside in the early light, revelling in the sense of space, the high mountains, the rising sun. He stood proudly, head held high, his powerful shoulders and muscled flanks sharply outlined. He started his descent, stepping lightly down the barely discernible track, glancing to left and right and occasionally stopping to savour some bright red berries.

And so he would have continued, but suddenly he stopped, listening intently. The sounds came again, faintly on the breeze, and a quiver went through his body as he heard the unmistakable baying of hounds. He started to trot more purposefully, then broke into flight, eventually breaking through the trees, stopping at the edge of open meadowland to survey the scene below, as the sun climbed towards its peak. Nothing; but behind him, the hounds gave tongue more urgently now, joined by faint voices. They had found his fresh trail.

He plunged through the meadow, crushing the sweet grass and delicate flowers as he ran, coming to a wood into which he gratefully fled. He ran on, searching, and eventually found the wide, shallow waters of the river. He gratefully leapt in. After hurriedly lowering his head and slaking his thirst from the cool water, he turned downstream for a brief spell, before starting up a narrow track. He followed this until he came to rocky ground, onto which he leapt and stood, trembling and listening intently. There was still time. He turned back the way he had come, into the water, turned upstream again, now using all his strength to race on. He thought his heart would burst, when he spied rocks at the water’s edge and again made for the bank, stepping out carefully.

The sun was now well down the sky as he turned to pick his way delicately over the rocks and up over the ridge, always accompanied by the baying of the hounds and the ugly voices.

As he descended the far side, the skies became dark and stormy, with rising wind and the smell of rain. He ran on, searching for the track. First came the lightning, then the thunder, followed by raindrops which quickly became a downpour. His thoughts skittered around as he searched for shelter – at least the rain should erase his scent.

At last, when his legs threatened to carry him no further, he spied the track and gratefully turned onto it. He trotted on and eventually came to the shelter he sought, slowing his pace as he entered.

Suddenly, there was a thunderous roar and he stood, legs buckling in the glare, knowing there was no escape. His last thoughts were that at least the hounds hadn’t got him.

The train driver let out a great oath as he saw the man in the headlights sinking slowly onto the track, chains dangling from each wrist. He lunged for the brake, but Jed knew it was too late as the wheels screeched and spat sparks to either side of the rails and he thought, “He won’t be going back to the penitentiary”.

23 January 2008

Our first meeting today and we were all agreeably pleased with how it went. Nine of us turned up with eight short stories to relate between us. All the stories were good and so different but by a wide margin Sue's was voted the best. Next month's story is to include the words "In the headlights".

THE EMPTY ROOM
She stood gazing around the empty room, entranced. This was it; this was what she had been searching for – and it had come to her in this unbelievable way.
She turned to the young man at her side and said, "I’m still finding this difficult to take in. Do you think I could just have a few minutes alone – I won’t be long." He readily agreed and left her as she slowly circled the room, taking in the beautiful wood flooring, the lofty ceiling and its perfect proportions.
She came to rest in front of the tall windows which ran the length of one wall, in the centre of which french doors led to a delightful rooftop garden. She grasped the two handles and turned them, but they failed to open. She felt a sharp stab of disappointment; she must get out onto the terrace. She took a step backwards, thinking to call the young man and demand the key, but as she was about to turn, her gaze fell to the window sill on her left and there lay a key. She snatched it up eagerly and fitted it into the lock, where it slid smoothly, turned, and the doors quietly opened.
Still holding the doors wide, she stepped out and took in the breathtaking view over the rooftops to the country beyond. She felt dizzy with this sense of freedom, light and poised, as if she could effortlessly fly out across the city and go wherever she wished.
The peaceful room, the beauty of the delightful garden and the glorious space beyond were symbolic of this new chapter in her life and she knew she had come home.
She slowly released the doors, letting them swing wider in the breeze, and wandered between neatly kept flowerbeds which lay to either side of the patio. Pots of daffodils and early tulips provided splashes of contrasting colour against the shrubs and a promise that summer was on its way. Elegant metal chairs surrounded a table in the centre of the patio, inviting in their emptiness.
She resisted the pull of those chairs and wandered on, coming to a delightful pool, with colourful fish emerging and disappearing lazily between its sheltering plants.
She reached the balustrade and leaned her elbows on it, cupping her chin in her joined hands with a sigh of sheer content. Had she died and gone to heaven?
She could have rested there indefinitely, basking in the kindly warmth of the spring sunshine and listening to the gentle splash of water from the pool’s fountain, but she had to go.
She trailed her fingers along one chair back in passing, already seeing herself enjoying a cup of coffee or a tall, cool drink with friends – such tantalising thoughts.
She drifted past the daffodils, which seemed to be nodding their approval in the gentle breeze, and once more entered the empty room, closing the doors quietly behind her and turning the key in the lock.
As she faced the room once more, there was a sudden thunderous knocking on the door opposite, rooting her to the spot with shock. She couldn't’t move. The knocking continued, even more urgently, and was joined by an anxious voice which called, "Are you awake? Your taxi will be here soon" – and she opened her eyes to a dreary, wet morning, remembering she had an appointment with the solicitor.