Club Showcase
In this section, the work of our members is divided into sections, and for longer pieces, only an excerpt.
Workshops
It happens in families, it happens in churches, and it's a real scourge on social life to say the least.
But it's worth considering that 'feud' does not mean just arguments or difference of opinion. It is the needlessness which puzzles me.Why do people insist insist on perpetuating something which, maybe decades before, had alienated two families or congregations. Why do people who have never spoken to each other find each other's company distasteful? I think it is more understandable, thought not excusable, when the trouble had to do with employment or perhaps criminal matters.1. It is not just a humble piece of wire.. It is fashioned, machined, planned in an intricate symmetrical shape for a purpose. Its bends and curves give it a flexibility to seize, grip and hold sheets of paper, photos and documents securely, yet such is the clever shape it can let go its prizes when the humble human asks. The paper clip: no human should be without a boxful
2. Paper clip lies beside me on the desk: flimsy, elusive, and when dropped, blending into the carpet. A flattened spiral of metal, a piece of resilient wire. Purpose: as with the universe itself, to facilitate cohesion, to hold things together. In my case, to hold together pieces of paper which have some sort of unity, a common theme or progression.
First Lines
She was a bit of all right, was Doreen. What we used to call a 'bit of crumpet,' in our younger days. Slim, with curves that bent in the right direction, and long soft hair that tumbled in blonde curls round her shoulders. But it was her eyes that made your pulse race, your desire soar, and your knees become jelly.
Eyes that were large deep pools of promise, whuch every man who ever met her wanted. Which is why we were all surprised, no bloody shocked, when she announced her engagement to Harry Shanks. None of us knew she'd ever been out with him. Why should we?
Let's face it, short, fat, sweaty Harry was not the fellow we'd have thought Doreen would ever go out with,let alone consider as a husband.
Articles
An Unsung Hero of Two World Wars -Billy Cotton
Lying about his age-he was 15-he joined up in 1914. Before long he was in the front line at the Gallipoli landings. He must have impressed someone: he was recommended got a commission in the Royal Flying Corps. He returned to Britain as a stoker on a battleship. He first flew solo on 1st April 1918, the same day that the RAF was born. He was still only 19. He did pioneer experimental work,landing planes equipped with floats on water: the prototype flying-boats.
When the second World War broke out, he joined up again and volunteered for 'ditch-flying': rescuing pilots crash-landed in the sea. Unfortunately, an eye defect came to light which he had previously hidden by memorising the letters on the eyetest chart. He fought against being deskbound, and was offered a war-time role for his civilian skills. This took him into France entertaining the troops.
Winchester Writers' Conference 2005
Held at University College, this 25th conference attracted over 400 delegates at the weekend of June 27th-July 1st. An attractive and varied list of speakers and topics awaited the delegates, with Fay Wheldon giving the plenary address. I could devote this report to her pearls of wisdom, so tuck into these samples:
'One can seldom be truly satisfied,' (your own writing). 'One develops the muscles to climb the mountains and negotiate the tank-traps of writing.' 'You have to be worth listening to.' 'You write, you re-write, you edit-and if you use a computer, it sometimes gets lost.' 'In my first interview, the journalist was ill, so I was asked to interview myself.' 'The book trade is currently our of its mind.' The final quote is a Diamond: 'Publishers are too proud for their own good.'
Ins and Outs
There is a world of difference between professional writers who make a living from what they produce and an amateur, however talented, for whom writing is something slotted in when time is available. If you have either to shop or starve, it's not much of a choice. A successful author can afford to delegate time-consuming chores to paid help. The monkey on the back of a published author is his agent-or publisher. Publishers prefer writers who can produce books in series, sequel upon sequel,like hens laying eggs.
Stories
Serving the Colours
What a Party! A party to remember.Supposed to be a family get-together.You know, when folks you've not seen for yonks come and make small talk, slap each other on theback, and drink too much. That was the reason so much shouldn't have been said-and was. The drink, I mean. Grandad was talking about the War, Uncle Ross about the Korean War. He forgot Grandad meant World War Two. Anyway, Uncle Albert also joined in, talking about his time in the Army. Went on about his feats in Malaya: out with the troops and fighting the Communists.
All okay until Grandad looked at him, queer-like, and said: 'But you were in the Army Pay Corps. Never went to bloody Malaya!'
Sleeping Dogs
In daylight it had been a simple walk, following the signs down a wooded hill. Now in darkness they were toiling back, the incline steeper and the signs invisible. City girl,Janice, felt a frisson of fear in dark, disturbed woodland. That little sting was growing now as he realised they were lost.Suddenly she slipped and cannoned crazily downwards, out of control. Halted by a stump, Janice began to weep as she labouriously made her way back up.She begged Ron to stop and really, really try to get their bearings. No only was she scared but damp, filthy and miserable too. Always in control, she hated to be rendered helpless.
Relief audible in his voice, Ron said: 'We'll meet this dog's owner in a minute. Just sit tight. They must be local. We'll get back safely now.' For the first time, Janice saw a dog, a shadowy frisky presence. Watching both dogs dodging, lunging, circling, she was fascinated to notice that her dog had shed her wary manner.
Poetry
Christmas 2006
It's christmas time again
with carols sung half-heartedly
in empty churches.
The faithful come
tearful and redundant;
the silent night is shattered
by the racucous ranting of the rabble.
The old myths are barely remembered.
And the magic is gone
Stiff stubble squeaks beneath the threat of winter's grind;
the autumn landscape freezes in the wind
into the pose of death.
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