Carlisle Writers UK

They saw a light through the trees.

2011-11-15T03:22:00.000-08:00

Now as we know most places where people work for hours together, there will be arguments from time to time. Now this particular gang were no exception. They each day argued, but by night they were all friends again. There were seven to this gang and called each other at work by numbers.

This day in August Ganger 7 was being picked on by Ganger 4. Ganger 4 had no patience at all with number 7, all the others had no problem with him. Ganger 7 asked Ganger 1 'will you help me please?' Ganger 7 talked with his hands, that was one reason Ganger 4 had no patience with him.

On the way home last night Ganger 4 had pushed Ganger 7 in the river. Ganger 2 had pulled him out and had sneezed all day, wanting to go home to his bed.

Ganger 3 was concerned and asked Ganger 6 what he thought about the arguments. But he just blushed and said he wanted peace and wished Ganger 1 would change his job as he wanted no trouble. He had even thought of going to work somewhere else he was so upset.

The night bell rang and they all stopped working.

Ganger 7 looked at Ganger 1 with a face that said it all, he did not want to go in the river tonight. Ganger 1 said '7, stay back with me, we will leave after the others have gone.'

The others had all gone home. The rain was very heavy. Outside the lightning flashed and the thunder rumbled. Both men were afraid and thought of staying at work a while longer. But both decided to go home.

Off they ran. They came to the forest and ran for the shade of the trees. Both stopping at a big monkey puzzle tree. The lightning flashed and broke off a big branch that fell and just missed them. They both ran and ran, soaked to the skin, but when they stopped they were lost. Neither knew the way home.

Ganger 7 heard a voice. Ganger 4 had felt awful about the argument he had had with Ganger 7 and did not like the thought of them out in the storm, he was out shouting their names, looking for them. The men were glad to see him, but now the three of them were lost.

This had never happened before. Then they saw a light through the trees and they knew they would have a lovely tea.

Ganger 4 had stopped being grumpy, Ganger 2 was sneezing more than ever. But soon they would be warm and dry. Snow White looked after them so well.

Many Faces

2011-11-15T02:49:00.000-08:00

I see many changing faces all year through
Some with very deep lines, crevices too
Rough, smooth, pink, white and blue
Sometimes when I look at you.

True, false, I don't know
Faces can really put on a show
A downcast face we do see
Lots of tears running down to my knees.

Cold grey daunting eyes that peer
From under a very bushy face
I wouldn't like to go into that place.

A more mature face could hold such strong feelings
It could even be good at wheeling and dealing.

A soft looking baby face could really be misgiving
Behind its mask it could do real cruel things for a living.

A round jolly face is good to see
I really know that face belongs to me.

A young face is good to touch
It really can cheer you up.

A much older face is hard to read
But the eyes do sparkle and are ready to please.

A teenage face tries hard to please
The face they put on
Can come off as soon as they sneeze.
Underneath a face does shine
Oh! That face could be mine.

Here with me is a very happy face
Shining eyes flurry of hair
It really is a face I would like to share
Red rosy cheeks, fiery lips too
The sun is really trying to peep through.

A grumpy angry distorted face is no good
I thought about approaching it
But I don't think I should.

A clown's face is made up of many parts
It has a passion for making people laugh
But underneath he could be hurting too
With a broken heart that is not showing through.

Meetings in 2012

2011-11-06T12:05:00.000-08:00

Meeting dates 2012:

January          9th     23rd
February        6th     20th
March            5th     19th
April             2nd    16th
May               7th      21st
June            4th     18th
July               2nd    16th
August          6th     20th
September    3rd    17th
October         1st     15th
November    5th     19th
December     3rd

If I ruled the world [after the August riots 2011]

2011-10-24T12:44:00.000-07:00

If I ruled the world, children would be my priority. If I ruled the world, I would be looking to my part in the future, now and today. Every child would by right of birth have an education that was unique to them. Every child would have inspiring teachers, whose passion it was to share and impart true knowledge. Every child would be able to play and feel safe in their school environment. If I ruled the world, every child would be told that they were special and that they had a unique gift.

We are all here as pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, to make the whole jigsaw puzzle of humanity. There are no pieces that are better or more superior to others...just different. We cannot make the puzzle if we choose the pieces that are all the same, the same in shape, in size and in colour. So whether our children excel in art, in crafting, or in mathematics; music, science, carpentry, gardening, or in sport, every child is a unique and valuable piece of the puzzle and every child can be a suess in their own chosen world.

Every child has the divine right to be encouraged and to be made to feel special.

The children are our future and in these times of chaos and of violence we need to be looking to ourselves to ask what have I done to be a part of a society where our young people feels so disenfranchised and so separate? What have I done in my part of raising a society of children who believe that it is alright to steal and to cause violent affray? What can I do to help make a difference in the lives of the young people who have nothing to aspire to? What have I done to make the children in my society feel worthless and that life is futile?

Whose children are these smashing our cities and beating up people on the streets? They are our children and we are all responsible. What have I done to help a homeless child feel that they do have a unique place in the world? How can I encourage the 'lost generation' of children realise that thay all have something special, and that they are all worthwhile, unique and valuable citizens? How do I act in my life to show by example that the world is a good place?

If I ruled the world, we would live as an inclusive society. If I ruled the world, all people would be valued. If I ruled the world, I would feel it a great honour and a privilege to offer help and support to a young person. It is these young people who will inherit the world, and we are just the temporary guardians. What lessons have we taught our young people so that they can carry the world forward? Have we taught them values and principles of good and inclusive citizenship?

We are all pointing the finger and saying how bad and lawless 'they are', and yet these are our children, our grandchildren, our citizens. How did we get to this point, a point where we deny any part in the raising of these our own children? Why are we focusing the shame of our society on to the next generation of guardians? What lessons are we teaching our children? And what sort of world have we created that we feel by criticising, shaming and blaming our youth we somehow feel better about ourselves? What sort of pained world have we created by ignoring the cries of our young?

If I ruled the world, I would be more caring in my actions. If I ruled the world, I would act as if every child were my own. If I ruled the world I would weep for the pain and suffering we have caused to the children.

And, as I do rule my own little corner of the world, I will, from this moment on, open my ears and open my heart to hear...and to really listen to the great and unsettled longing for a better world. And if we can now, all of us, calm our anger, our resentment and our judgments just long enough, we may just, just perhaps, be able to hear our own little child - a child deeply hidden in shame, crying inside us too. So, quietly, very quietly just listen - and you may just be able to hear, that very quiet, very still, and yet very clear voice, a voice that is calling us on to a bright new future - it is calling to you now through the lessons of the past and from future generations. Shhh..........

Four Ways to Rule the World by June

2011-08-16T06:59:00.000-07:00

"On the day that I rule world," said War,
"I'll show you all what crying's for
With tank and bullet, fire and rape
And nobody will my wrath escape
If the day ever comes when I rule the world."

"On the day that I rule the world," said Fear,
"Intimidation will appear
With false imprisonment, threat, extortion,
And everyone will get a portion,
If the day ever comes when I rule the world."

"On the day that I rule the world," said Greed,
"I'll pay contempt to others' need
With looting, ransack, depredation
Marauding sneer and devastation,
If the day ever comes when I rule the world."

"On the day that I rule the world," said Love,
"I will rain down blessings from above,
Peace and plenty, friendships, laughter,
These are the values that I'm after
On my agenda they'll abound,
For it's love that makes the world go round.
May the day soon come, when I rule the world."

'Changing Seasons' a piece by Alfa that was highly commended by NAWG

2011-08-16T06:45:00.000-07:00

     A wizened decaying apple, clinging by a thread, isolated on the now barren naked tree.

     The same tree which once, not long ago, stood tall like an Indian Prince bedecked in robes of shimmering reds, oranges and gold.

     The hard ground is wearing its armour of snow as the apple falls, sinking down into the downy whiteness, to wait for its resurrection to new life as the seeds escape the rotting flesh and sink into the earth.

     They lie dormant 'til youthful Spring, clothed all in green, paints on the trees young delicate shoots and buds which glisten in the mist as the pale watery sun breaks through. As the buds unfurl, and fan out spreading over the branches, new life is bursting out everywhere.

     Summer, calm and serene, covers the branches with blossoms of every hue - white, pink, cerise and red, and soon tall blossomed trees sway in the breeze like dancers at a ball.

     The blossom fades away and the small hard fruit appears, at first unnoticed but growing, expanding, until the shiny ripe fruit is everywhere, peeping out from amongst the already red and orange and golden leaves.

     Winter comes like a hunter, with eyes like stone; the leaves curl, the fruit falls. Winter has made its kill and only..

     A wizened decaying apple is clinging, by a thread, isolated on the now barren naked tree.

NO GRAVE

2011-08-14T12:09:00.000-07:00

They cremated Gradma Bainbridge when she died.
I remember, I was fourteen, and cried and cried.
Yet those tears could not console,
For her parting left a gaping hole.
Like a second mother she was to me.
Spent lots of time in her company.
Holidays, weekends and more,
Were spent with her, before -
The teenage years of other things.
Boys, dances and happenings,
That lead one away from family.
Too busy in life itself, to see
The drifting apart that it brought.
Time and love lost, without a thought.
I didn't get to see her before she died.
I was to go, but was pulled aside
By some event, trivial - but then
I didn't know I would never see her again.
My heart was heavy when I heard the news.
I was angry that I had had to choose,
Some other little petty distraction
Above my Grandma's loving attraction.
Oh sad, sad heart; no grave to mourn.
Her ashes by the four winds borne.
I cannot visit or lay flowers on her grave.
There is nothing left of her; save
The memories - and a photograph or two.
I still think of her and often rue
Those last two years, near the end,
When I drifted elsewhere my time to spend.
So if you have someone you hold dear,
Remember. You can only visit whilst they're here.

An Outing to the Theatre by the Lake at Keswick, 25 July 2011

2011-08-10T15:24:00.000-07:00

It is becoming something of a happy tradition of the group to travel down to Keswick and enjoy the writings of others. On this occasion several of us assembled in the Studio at 8:00 p.m. in late July to watch a dramatisation of The Ragged Trouser Philanthropists.
This reworking of Robert Tressell's socialist book was intended to be a hilarious and fast-paced show about a 'group' of painters and decorators as they struggled for survival with their penny-pinching masters in a stagnating Edwardian England. Some of the mayhem was unintentional for on this first night the lighting did not always behave. But to the great credit of the two actors who attempted this big work, they worked the errors with darkness and props into their play, almost seamlessly.
As ever, the interval was with the aid of glasses of wine a treat in itself. Sally called it correctly when she urged us to make more sense of things by watching the different hats of the two characters as they embraced the several different roles, now a cloth cap and next a bowler hat.
There was a memorable demonstration or parable in the play by means of a loaf cut into smaller pieces of the 'money trick' that creates poverty by introducing money for work done.
The two male actors sang and played instruments in the play and by the end of the second and final part earned our respect for a job well done.

I Can't Believe You Did That..

2011-06-24T00:41:00.000-07:00

"I can't believe you did that"
Said the spider to the fly
"You're supposed to give in gracefully
And hang there till you die

But you've thrashed about and wrecked my web
I don't know how I've borne it."
"Cos I'm not a fly you stupid thing
I'm a very angry hornet

So come on let's be having you
You ignorant arachnid
If I get near you with my sting
You'll soon find out what that did."

So the hornet did inject his sting
And the spider duly died
But the hornet couldn't free himself
So strongly was he tied

And in the morning Mrs Brown found them
near her bed
"Get rid of them" she screamed aloud
"Don't panic" said her faithful spouse
"They're both of them quite dead."

Full Moon

2011-06-24T00:24:00.000-07:00

It's halloween night
With a full moon
Shining bright
Kids out trick a treating
On this spooky night

It's quiet and eerie
With a full moon
Shining bright
And a ghostly figure
Waits into the night

Childrens Poems

2011-06-24T00:17:00.000-07:00

The Funny Greenfly

Two funny Greenfly sitting on a fence,
One was named Time and one was Dense,
Off they went for a fly in the sky,
Then one found out that he could not fly.

Mrs Ladybird

Mrs Lady bird was flying around,
She stopped when she saw something
Sparkling on the ground,
She went to see what it could be,
And it turned out to be her own lost key.

VISIT TO THE EDEN VALLEY HOSPICE

2011-03-10T09:32:00.000-08:00

On Friday March 4th, four members of the group visited the Eden Valley Hospice to read some of our work to a group of day patients. We were welcomed by events co-ordinator Carol Douglas who took us into a cosy lounge where we were introduced to half a dozen patients and their carers. The atmosphere was warm and relaxed, and we enjoyed an hour in each other's company.

Ian told the audience about the group, its aims and the form which our meetings took ... the listeners were intrigued to hear we meet at the fire station!

Most of the material used was from our anthology (In Our Own Write). Ian read his unsettling story (A Sting in the Tale) about the woman followed home from Carlisle by a strange driver, and later made a complete contrast with Helen's sensitive poem 'Rain'. John C read his amusing poem (November 1953) about the 1950s football match which deliberately used all the sporting cliches of journalism, and then, another contrast, his piece about slavery (Blue Eyes).

As Carol had the anthology, by request, Barbara read Janette's poem (A Memorable Person) about a meeting with a character on a train, as well as her own poem about jam making (Autumn Fruits). John N read two short stories.. 'Snowy' and a tale about three bad boys set in Carlisle.

We felt 25 minutes of reading was sufficient for our audience, so we moved on to the round robin/consequences game which we have played ourselves at meetings. This proved very popular, with one gentleman determined to get the tale of the Lambton Worm in to the narrative whenever possible!

After this, a trolley of delicious home-made cakes appeared, dry-throated readers were given welcome cups of tea, and we had a good chance to chat with the day patients.

It was a very happy and successful afternoon.

A TWIST OF FATE

2011-03-10T08:45:00.000-08:00

This story was written as an excercise to include the following:

Object - Carrot

Location - Woods

Characters - Russian Spy and Psychic

Creature - Snake

---------------------------------------------------

Cheznoff's eyes narrowed as he looked at the psychic with suspicion. 'Are you sure you understand the importance of this to our government; and what's more to the point, can you guarantee to pinpoint the exact area?'

'I am certain I can assist you in this matter. I have a good success rate in finding people and lost property. I'm sure your superiors would not have hired me otherwise,' Barcheck quietly replied.

'The carrots are not lost, merely hidden by agent Cruzcheff in the woods, before the Americans could get their hands on them,' sneered Cheznoff, doubting his superior's widom in involving a civilian in a matter of national importance.

'They may as well be lost, as no one knows where they are,' pointed out Barcheck, meeting Cheznoff's eyes in quiet dissent.

Cheznnoff ignored the remark. 'And you are aware of the nature of what the carrots contain?' he asked, unsure of just how much the psychic had been told.

'Only that they contain fine glass rods of some sort of substance, that is important to our country.' replied Barcheck, looking out of the car window, thinking it a strange method of transporting such a curcial consignment of classified material. Still, a load of fruit and vegetables would be as inconspicuous as anything else he reasoned. Perhaps it was some kind of lethal poison, to be used in espionage by despicable prople like Cheznoff he thought. He had taken an instant dislike to him, his psychic instincts picking up on the cruel nature of the man, and the knowledge that he could kill anyone and any thing, without an ounce of compassion creeping into his black soul.

Silence prevailed until they reached their destination. They had driven past the dense woods for some minutes, which ran endlessly along one side of the road, before they stopped about a mile along their length.

'This is where we need to enter the woods. His body and truck were found another mile along the road, but the dogs picked up his scent here. Although, we don't know if this was where he entered or emerged from the wood,' said Cheznoff as they got out of the car.

'Why did they kill him before they knew where the rods were?' asked Barcheck, thinking it strange.

'That is of no importance. He was a fool. It's the rods you are here for,' snarled Cheznoff.

Of no importance to a man like you thought Barcheck, as they ploughed through the thick undergrowth of twisted branches, brambles and bracken. He paused, concentrating his psychic powers on the little known energies, and tapping into the inanimate forces, not felt by the average person.

'What have you stopped for?' barked Cheznoff.

Barcheck raised a hand to silence him, as the forces flowed through his mind and glimpses of the unfortunate Cruzcheff flashed before him like a dream. A desperate man, running towards him in panic and terror. Barcheck moved on, stopping occasionally to revitalize the feelings and visions guiding him to the secret hiding place. Eventually, as they walked, the impression of despair grew stronger, the feeling of searching and panic intense.

'We are close,' said Barcheck quietly, still trying to pinpoint the exact location, his mind fully receptive to all the spiritual influences he could muster. He walked over to a tall tree, supporting another, half fallen against its great gnarled trunk; and pulling away a pile of broken branches and dead bracken, uncovered the carrots. 'They're here,' said Barcheck, his voice filled with pride and exultation at having found the precious rods. As he turned with a folded carrier, his face and elation grew cold, seeing Cheznoff standing with a sickly grin on his face, and a revolver in his hand.

'Clever you. I must admit, I doubed that there was anything to this psychic thing, but you have proved to be most helpful. Pity we don't need you any more,' and Cheznoff gave a cruel laugh of delight.

Barcheck resigned himself to his fate. He had felt all along, that if he was successful, he would be signing his own death warrant. If not now, in some accident at a future date. The rods were top secret and, even though he would never discuss their existence with anyone, the governmnet would want to ensure that he never could. Barcheck had hoped they had made plans for later, but as soon as he had met Cheznoff, he knew he would be his executioner, but yet, some strange underlying feeling told him not. He had been wrong in thinking that the abstract feeling had meant he could escape death. Cheznoff was to be the one to end his life, he thought.

'Put the bag on the ground and move away,' snapped Cheznoff, as he stepped forwards to check the carrier's contents. He gave a satisfied smirk. 'At least you have pleasant surroundings in which to die. You talk of tapping into the forces of nature, and here you are, surrounded by it,' he sneered.

Barcheck was only half listening to him, watching instead the large snake emerging to the right of Cheznoff, probably disturbed by all the branches thrown onto where it had been resting. His eyes followed the snake's progress as it slithered towards Cheznoff, wondering if it would strike before Cheznoff could shoot him.

If Cheznoff had been of a less dispassionate nature, he would already be dead by now; seeing his murder as an unpleasant but necessary part of his duties. However, as Cheznoff was delighting in taunting him in his last moments, and clearly relishing the thought of the final act of pulling the trigger, he was allowing fate to interfere with his plans.

The snake struck, and Cheznoff yelled in fright and pain, turning his attention away from Barcheck and allowing him the chance of freedom. He ran; zigzagging between the trees and leaping over the rotting branches in his bid to escape. There were no gun shots, no sound of pursuit, so after a while, he slowed to a walk.

He did not know if the snake was poisonous or not. If it was, Cheznoff would be dead, and the government would have to find him and the precious carrots. If not, Cheznoff would complete his mission, and either way, his country would be in possession of the mysterious glass rods. He had been a patriot, but now he would have to reach the border and make another country his home.

A twist of fate had given him his freedom, but would also decree the destiny of Cheznoff and the rods.

KEEPING FIT.. FINDING TIME...

2011-01-19T14:02:00.000-08:00

It is quite normal - in January of each year - for me to be extremely decisive and disciplined when it comes to exercise (only walking by the way) and vow to be fitter by this time next year!! It is also normal - by February of each year - to have forgotten all about it!! But this time I really do intend to make the effort (as soon as stepping outside the front door doesn't risk freezing my eyeballs and getting frostbite). Why?

Well, a few years ago I took part in a charity walk, only a half marathon, but quite a challenge for someone as unfit as me! Not only did I become 'as fit as a flea' while training for this event, I also found it extraordinarily beneficial in other ways too.

While counting off the miles I found I HAD TIME TO THINK, and not just about dinner, shopping lists and the heap of ironing waiting for me at home (though inevitably they did rear their ugly heads now and again). I had time to think about my writing (such as it is) and you have no idea what a joy that was.

I do try to put pen to paper (i.e. type on my computer) whenever I can find the time, which, sadly, some weeks isn't very much. But when I do, by the time I click on (to the next assignment, story, script or chapter of a novel), familiarise myself once more with work in progress, then perhaps type a few paragraphs - time's up!! It's time to shut down again!

So having the luxury of spending hours with my imagination running riot (planning, plotting, inventing characters, talking to them, arguing with them, worrying about them, being alarmed by them!) was absolutely wonderful, and I really do need to do that again.

So - you see - I CAN find the time - when I put my mind to it. Hence, this year, things will be different. Hopefully!

The following anecdote will, I hope, give you a glimpse of how my training went, as I prepared to 'Walk the Walk'.

' WALKING THE WALK'

2011-01-19T14:00:00.000-08:00

I thought 'why not?' when a colleague at work first suggested it, after all we did work in the local Mamography Unit. 'We could do the half marathon, not the full one!' she said, (as if that made it more appealing) both sounded painful to me. 'Walk the Walk - uniting against Breast Cancer' was the fund raising event she was referring to: The annual Moon Walk - in Edinburgh.

'Are you going to do it?' she asked. That's when I thought 'why not?' - there was plenty of time to prepare.. months.. this was only October and it was about time I did something different. Yes.. it would be a change, and a challenge, and most certainly a one off as far as I was concerned.

An eye was kept on the Internet for information and entry forms. Nothing materialised for quite a while, but eventually it all started to happen. Copies of the entry forms appeared, were duly filled in and sent off. By return an information pack arrived containing a training schedule for the twelve weeks leading up to D-day.

I knew I would need to start much earlier - I reckoned the beginning of the New Year sounded about right, which would give me almost six months. After all, the last time I'd broken into a sweat was during labour - and that was 30 years ago!

*******

The New Year arrived, and I had just about talked myself into my trainers when an ingrown toenail put paid to all my good intentions. That was soon taken care of and once recovered, I was 'again' almost lacing them up, when a rogue bout of 'flu brought me once more to a halt.. well, not exactly a halt, I hadn't even started, but you know what I mean.

The day finally arrived when it was all systems go and I could begin my very VERY necessary training. Walking three times a week, including Sundays - didn't sound too difficult to me! (I tried not to be panicked by the date - almost three of my planned six months were already gone).

My choice of venue, for Sunday walking at least, was around the local Tarn. I am not a good judge of distance when walking, but had been told it was just over a mile. This was confirmed by the Council information plaque; one and a quarter miles to be exact. That at least gave me a basic distance guide to work on.

Right.. time to go.. I laced up my boots (couldn't find the trainers) and off I went. It couldn't have been better... a beautiful sunny day, a slight breeze, but - better take a hat just in case. By the time I was a third of the way round the hat was clamped as far over my ears as it would go. It was like Tibet out there. My skin felt so tight I could have sworn I'd undergone a face lift overnight.. it took me a few moments to realise it was just frozen to my skull. But I did enjoy it.. in a masochistic sort of way.

I was surprised by the numbers out walking, somehow I thought it would be me, one man and his dog. In fact there were lots of people with lots of dogs. All of which seemed to answer to 'ey', as in 'ey cum on, hurry up, a'm frozzen,' or 'ey, cum 'ere ya daft bu**er.' Not a Prince or a Trixie in sight!

Children too were mostly nameless, apart from an Emma and a Gemma. All more or less answering to a mixture of - 'git doon afff thee-ar,' - 'git owta that muck,' - and one 'darling, please don't go near the ducks, they might bite... and they probably have fleas!' But all in all both dogs and children appeared to be thoroughly enjoying their outing. I can't say the same for their adult companions.

Although I had been to the Tarn countless times, I'm ashamed to say I was unable to name any of the named areas (my memory wasn't what it used to be), so I looked forward to discovering what was out there. My goal for the first week was easily achievable, I only had to go round once.

Off I went.. along a path that for the most of the time would accommodate two people side by side. I decided anti clockwise was the way to go - it was perhaps a mistake. Everyone else, (well, probably ninety eight per cent) were going clockwise. Mostly couples, some linking arms, others attempting to hang on to Emma or Gemma. The dogs were the lucky ones, they were running free.

I could understand the necessity for the elderly amongst them to cling to each other, the wind chill factor alone was an open invitation to 'The Grim Reaper' to have a hay-day. And at first I excused those pushing prams or herding two or three children on their own (their erstwhile husbands at least twenty yards behind discussing the birds out on the lake.. the ones in canoes!). HOWEVER.. by the time I'd finished my walk, I had grown tired of being the one expected to either leap into the lake on one side (to free up passing space) or into the gorse bushes on the other. After all, single file is not a difficult concept when confronted with someone coming from the opposite direction - the ducks had grasped it - why not the humans?

What annoyed me even more was the fact that I was the one who kept saying 'sorry'???!! FOR WHAT? - AND I had failed to take in anything of interest. That was IT.. I then decided - the next week would be different, I would hold my own AND make a concentrated effort to take in more of my surroundings.

All of a sudden I was back where I started, it was done, one circuit complete - 23 minutes - not bad, and not even out of breath. Different socks might be a good idea next time though, but heck, a bit of skin rubbing was nothing. It was a start - only 12 weeks to go!

*******

Walking mid week (with a change of socks) was a different kettle of fish. I timed my first sojourn, which was to trudge the local streets, for exactly 23 minutes (my distance yardstick). It was not an enjoyable experience, the fumes from the traffic were horrendous, and so were the school children I encountered along the way. They didn't bother to look where they were going, either on the pavement or when crossing the roads!! I actually shrieked at one to 'look out' as he almost stepped in front of a lorry. His two fingered response quickly helped me to ignore the rest of them.. if they died.. they died.

I had other more pressing things on my mind, the change in the type of socks had not been a success - the heels were matted with blood by the time I got home.. maybe it was the boots.. anyway I decided the carbon monoxide route was not for me. Although we would be walking the streets of Edinburgh (so I was informed) it would at least be during the night (starting time was midnight) with none of the distractions or dangers of daytime traffic - I hoped.

*******

My next outing was much more pleasant (and I'd found my trainers). Down by the river, over the bridge, round the war memorial and back home. Yes, that would definitely be the answer to midweek walking. The pattern was set.. so I thought. However - bovine interference soon put paid to that theory.

The next time I set foot in the park my immediate instinct was to leave - at once. Did I take any notice? No. I hesitated for a second or two, ignoring the voice screaming in my head that 'this was not the place to be.' Herds of cows - well, about a dozen or so - were scattered around the park, lazily chewing the cud. Not a problem, cows don't frighten me, I am after all, a farmers daughter. No, it was the two human dimwits and their unleashed, lunatic, yapping dogs that worried me.

I passed the first few cows without incident (apart from having to hurdle the cow pats in my path) but kept a wary eye on both the next bunch of cows (two black, one brown and one white Charolet, who appeared to be happily settled under the trees) and the first yapping dog in the distance. As I got nearer my worst fears were realised.

The idiot dog (the size of an average cushion) decided it was playtime; and who better to play with than the big white Charolet (the size of an average people carrier) who, after all, was doing nothing but regurgitating her breakfast! To make matters worse the second idiot dog followed suit. Oh happy day - a tag team!

The two black cows turned their heads to see what all the racket was about, belched, and returned to the serious matter of grazing. The brown cow (now sitting down) lifted her tail, farted, but kept an interested eye on 'the goings on'. The Charolet (also having a break) obviously resented the attention she was being subjected to by these two yapping loons. Her ears started twitching and her calm docile face turned into Shrek.

I have never seen a cow look so bad tempered since I, at the age of about 8 grabbed a cow's teat and squirted some milk at my dog. She (the cow) gave me a well deserved head butt for my lack of manners.. much to my Dads amusement. Anyway - to get back to my tale...

Next.. she (the Charolet) started to unfold her legs and heave her enormous body into the upright position. As she huffed, puffed and snorted her way up I knew it was definitely time to make a hasty exit. I started to walk slowly backwards.

The idiot dogs quite literally sat on their bums and looked up at her, still yapping! In fact they were stretching their necks so far back I expected them to fall flat on their back and get trampled on.. no such luck. As she achieved full height the dogs suddenly realised the folly of their choice of playmate and decided to run - in my direction - their dimwit owners by the way, were standing well back, doing absolutely nothing.

The Charolet also decided to run.. well.. lollop.. in my direction too. I screeched 'cow pats' (or something similar) turned and ran as fast as my aged legs would allow. Luckily the dogs veered off to return to their dimwit owners with an extremely annoyed Charolet in hot pursuit. What happened to them (dogs and dimwits) I neither saw nor cared.. I was too busy.. doubled up over a gate gasping for breath - and oh how needed a loo!!

Sadly, that was the end of my parkland walks.. it was the Tarn or nothing.. So be it - and at least there were toilets there.

*******

I had always felt the Tarn to be rather a dismal place but I was completely won over during the following few weeks. Here are some of the images that remain with me to this day.

*******

The end of March, although bitterly cold and with the wind whipping the bare branches into a frenzy, was slightly softened by the hint of green everywhere and the drifts of daffodils between the trees.

Tiny lambs with knotted black legs and overactive tails, a couple of leggy foals and some wide eyed calves stumbled around the fields - but were wise enough not to wander far from their mothers side. Carrion crows cawed incessantly as they built their nests, stealing the odd bit of wool off the barbed wire and keeping an executioners eye open for any strays.

In April I found myself in Yorkshire following my son round a golf course for a couple of days, four and a half miles of power walking the fairways. At least there I found out I could stay on my feet for 4 or 5 hours.

Back at the Tarn the weather was on the turn. Horizontal rain prevented any view of the other side of the lake, even the ducks were cowering in the woods. But I had put in the miles, and you'd never guess, but I love walking in the rain!

May brought blue-bells, buzzing micro-lights, sailing boats with brightly coloured sails, rowers slapping the water with their oars, a young woman who probably ran 3 laps to my 1, and two shifty looking men in macs with binoculars in the woods! Presumably twitchers??

Beech trees finally spread their bright green canopies and the big fat buds on chestnut trees burst forth. A hint of purple tinged the rhododendron bushes.. a colourful promise of the exquisite flowers to come. The living willow hide, table and chairs, were also coming to life, much to the amazement of a group of young school children, who were being patiently taught the intricacies of building a willow arbour, by the park rangers.

Ducks with their offspring (10 of them) lined up like synchronised swimmers, then, as if to order - bums up, heads under - all in perfect harmony. Best of all, what a joy to see RED squirrels scampering up and down the trees.

I noticed quite a lot of people just enjoy a quiet seat by the lake, taking a flask and a book for company - their enjoyment only marred by the occasional Tornado jet or a putt-putt plane. The odd bus trip parked up too, unloading mostly pensioners who, after making their way slowly round the lake enjoyed a much needed cup of tea, before heading home. At least I had the pleasure of lapping them!

Actually I did once lap two young women ( in their twenties I guess) and as I powered my way past I heard one comment, 'isn't that the same old dear who passed us over the other side?!' You never hear anything good when eavesdropping do you!

After about six weeks I hit my lowest point. I was somewhat bored by my repetitive training route (but the loos were a must), my buttocks were giving me jip and my yesteryear love of walking in the rain had finally turned into today's arthritic reality. But - I gave myself a much needed talking to and got on with it.. after all it was only for a few more weeks, and it was for a very important and worthwhile cause.

By now the lambs had grown so much they would soon be heading for the Sunday lunch table. Papa Doc (sorry - duck!) stood in the reeds bellowing out orders to the now 8 ducklings.. (I still worry about the missing 2).. while Mamma duck tucked her head under her wing and had a well deserved kip - or was she just afraid to watch, as her babies were thrown about by the waves they were surfing on?

Before I knew it, it was almost time to do THE 10 MILE WALK, which according to my training schedule was necessary at least a couple of weeks before D-day. Much to my surprise, and with still four weeks to go, I was ready.. and able.

As I power walked my way (8 times) past sluice wood, roman wood, sedge and sandy bay; patted snoopy dog (made from a log) and Neptune's chair (I knew every nook and cranny by now) I realised I was in fact quite fit and did it in 3hrs 5mins!! (mind you I had to go to bed for the rest of the afternoon). Now I knew I could - and would - do the half marathon. In case you're wondering..... yes I did, and..... I have the medal to prove it. In fact, four months later I also did the Cumbrian Run - well, I walked it didn't I... ?!!

One last thing, to those two young girls I lapped, this old dear says 'NA NOO NA NOO!!' (or something similar!).

A FEW MORE PHOTO'S FROM 'THE AUCTIONEER'

2010-12-20T02:37:00.000-08:00

A few more photographs - Christmas 2010...

'Meeting' on Monday 13 December 2010

2010-12-16T16:53:00.000-08:00

. At last a group photo - taken at the annual Christmas knees-up in The Auctioneer.. sometime after 7:00 p.m. Unfortunately all members could not attend, but for those who did - a good time was enjoyed by all..

Pastime in good company and in convivial surroundings Tuesday 16 November 2010

2010-11-22T10:53:00.000-08:00

We seem to be overdoing it on the launch of this year's anthology. But who cares? Very many thanks to Barbara who arranged this evening and to Foxes of Abbey Street, who were our hosts.
It was good of the friends and family who turned out to suport our readings from In Our Own Write.

Janette, above, amuses us with her poem All Change?

Brenda, with book in hand above, makes us think with her take on The Swing was Swinging but No One was there. In the foreground is Alfa with scarf and blonde hair who was also thought-provoking in her chosen piece called Vigil.

Some of the friends who encouraged us.

And more of them:

The friends are difficult to distinguish from the writers! But Helen is in this triumvirate and she read from her own poem Rain.

Above is Marjorie, our Chairperson and whose wish it was that we risk publishing our own anthology this year, (last year we very pleased to be part of The Carlisle Arts Festival and to be invited by Nick Pemberton to contribute to a joint anthology with Cumbria Multicultural Women's Network entitled New Voices in Cumbria). Marjorie reads from her Making Sense.

Please find above a couple of new voices in our own Carlisle Writers' Group.
Karl is on his feet reading Who am I? by Pan Allan, a poem he especially selected.
And seated and looking thoughtful is John who later read his choice: Joan Gooding's prose, Christmas Eve.

Barbara sits with her red wine and read Autumn Fruits to us, a poem with an unexpected ending.

Sensibly drinking hot chocolate and trying to smile about this in the snap above is Sally, the Secretary of Carlisle Writers Group who arranged and designed our anthology In Our Own Write and read from her own prose piece All Sense of Time...Lost.
Finally, our thanks go to John for most of the photographs of this memorable event and my apologies to anyone whose contribution to this fine evening I have carelsessly omitted or poorly summarised, ICM

Laughter Therapy & Trix Jones at Carlisle Writers on 1 November 2010

2010-11-04T06:18:00.000-07:00

Laughter Therapy and Trix Jones at Carlisle Writers

Monday 1 November 2010

The group was very pleased this week to hear from this published and local author about her paths into print and the difficulties she faced and overcame. Determined to be energised by serious illness and not beaten, she used her lifelong love of words, reading and writing to support Imperial Cancer Research. She self-published two pocket-sized volumes of her poems and stories. Details are given here of one of them:

More Laughter Therapy
Author: Trix Jones

Publisher: Trix Jones

Book Type: Paperback

ISBN-13: 9780954084615 - ISBN-10: 0954084616

Publication Date: 8/1/2002

Pages: 56

Of course she had help, notably from her illustrator Shane Surgey.

Cumberland Newspapers and Gwenda and Steve Matthews of Bookends and Bookcase proved to be important and she contrived a launch that coincided with Race for Life.

But there was her own battling to be done. She had to fight the paperwork to deploy the cancer research logo and organise the issuing of an International Standard Book Number, or ISBN. An ISBN is a unique identifying number used by publishers and booksellers. With it, books can be identified according to publisher, edition and country of origin. There is no requirement for ISBNs. However, without an ISBN, most major bookstores and online booksellers will not sell the book. They use the ISBN to order and track their inventory.

See How to Get an ISBN Number in the UK | eHow.co.uk

http://www.ehow.co.uk/how_6774430_isbn-number-uk.html#ixzz14GYoyAQz

Several years later and after many speaking engagements, Trix is healthy and fit again and she has raised over £6,000 for her chosen cause.

Having got the bug of publishing books for children, but which are equally acceptable to adults, Trix then created the Ghastlies.

This series arose out of her work in Community Education and the concern she has that boys in particular can drop behind in reading skills. She believes that she has made two interesting discoveries and generously shared them with us. Firstly, that children appreciate something in print that is already partly recognisable and has associations with things they know and love already, (one of her Ghastlie characters is a Mum with a piled-up hair-do, similar to one that can be seen in a TV cartoon). Secondly, though it may seem at times to break all of the rules, she sought what children wanted! She has learned to tap away swiftly at her lap-top as children’s own creativity flowed, (she is proud of having been regarded by them as the f'astest typist in the West'). Helping them to write their stories has improved her stories.

Trix also acknowledges her debt to Gerard Benson, one of the poets behind Poetry on the Underground, and has learned much from his workshops. For example she showed how using words with ‘w’ and ‘l’ in them help get across the idea of water. And she passed on his stress of planning in the making of poetry.

See http://www.poetrybusiness.co.uk/index.php/gerard-benson

Trix explained some of the labyrinthine ways of literary agents and publishers. She offered ways past the forbidding ‘no unsolicited manuscripts’ and yet urged would-be authors against too slavish a following of advice from agents or the big five publishers. For it is to be remembered that their main interest is in making money. And it can be a long road where you the writer have to do much work in providing much of the marketing profile yourself, (where before you thought the agent or publisher would do it!).

Trix decided with the Ghastlies to go with a local publisher, Hayloft, based near Kirby Stephen.

· ISBN 190 452 4044

· Published 2003

· Price £6.00 *

· Paperback

· 64 pages

· Illustrated with 36 drawings

See http://www.hayloft.eu/ghastlies.html

One more thing that Trix has learned: is that she should have got more animals into her stories!

AGM 2010

2010-10-29T09:26:00.000-07:00

Nominations: Annual General Meeting.

In the absence of any other nominations, or volunteers, Marjorie Carr and Sally Williamson were asked if they would be willing to continue in their respective roles as Chairperson/Treasurer and Secretary. It was voted unanimously that these officers should continue to serve and with many thanks.

Writers on the Road - Visit to Hayton School for Poetry Day 7 October 2010

2010-10-26T11:05:00.000-07:00

We were really impressed by the children of Hayton School - right from the time of the conducted tour of the building. The children who took us round were friendly and chatty. And in the classrooms, during the readings, the children all sat for an hour and listened to strangers reading poetry and prose that, in the main, wasn't initially written with children in mind. And they did listen! They responded to questions and participated in discussions and really seemed to lose themselves in what they were listening to. It was a very enjoyable day, and we were delighted to be invited to go back again and do the same thing next year.

During the morning a poetry workshop was led by Marjorie with Year 6, [top juniors in ‘old money’], while Alfa, Joan, Sally and Ian read their own and other poems submitted from the group to Year 5, [third year juniors]. The groups swapped over later and in the afternoon the younger children were read to also.

Marjorie’s workshop began with poems that emphasised rhyme as Spike Milligan’s Silly Old Baboon and Robert Southey’s Sonnet on 1 December. One boy commented “cool” on the last poem. Then the class were encouraged to list on the whiteboard things associated with nature in general from types of plants and animals to places. There was great enthusiasm and hardly time to keep up with further suggestions as to adjectives or verbs that would describe these listed things appropriately. Pulling out the words that rhymed, the children began to construct their own poetry. This was all very enjoyable.

Alfa, Joan, Sally and Ian were also exhilarated by the comments some children made on their readings and will recall “you rock” and “awesome” for many a year.

Some of us Carlisle Writers are retired schoolteachers and for them this day was like the trumpet’s summons to old war horses! Some of us will readily admit that the day was tiring and we remain much impressed by younger and current teachers who do so much, every day of the week, and week in and week out.

During Alfa, Joan, Sally and Ian’s time with Year 6, we took a breather by reading out John Nevinson’s Story of the Year 1998, entitled Snowy. John is in our Carlisle Writers’ Group but couldn’t attend on the day. We basked in the reflected glory of his excellent tale for children.

MEETING DATES 2011

2010-09-30T12:50:00.000-07:00

........................JANUARY ...................3rd.......17th
........................FEBRUARY ................7th........21st
........................MARCH ......................7th........21st
........................APRIL ........................4th........18th
........................MAY ........(bank hol) 2nd.......16th
........................JUNE .........................6th....... 20th
........................JULY ..........................4th...... .18th
........................AUGUST ....................1st...... ..15th
........................SEPTEMBER .............5th...... .19th
........................OCTOBER ................. 3rd...... 17th
........................NOVEMBER ..............7th...... .21st
........................DECEMBER ...............5th

Carlisle Poetry Evening 27 September 2010 at The Bank Gallery, 7:00-8:00 p.m.

2010-09-21T15:28:00.000-07:00

Do come along to hear readings from our new anthology and to support this new gallery at the same time.
You may even buy copies of In Our Own Write at the launch rate of £4:50.

Entrance is by way of the doorway next to the Griffin Pub in Court Square,(close to the Citadel Railway Station). If that door is closed, try making your way through the Griffin Pub.

New! 'In Our Own Write' - Carlisle Writers' Anthology September 2010

2010-09-12T11:43:00.000-07:00

This year, thanks to our Chairperson, Marjorie Carr's prompting and largely due to the efforts of our Secretary, Sally Williamson, in organising it all into print, we have our own new anthology.

It has 58 pages with 25 pieces of interesting poetry and prose and can be got from one of the members for £4.
A5 sized, (half the size of A4), it fits into a good pocket and will make an excellent stocking-filler, (after you've read it of course!). Our thanks are also due to QIC Print of Carlisle.
The table of contents is as follows:

The Hands of Time

2010-08-08T09:26:00.000-07:00

Time. Where does it go?

It's marked in hours, but even so

It varies; it's not consistent

Within our minds it's warped and bent.

Sometimes it passes all too quick.

Another, the clock hands just stick.

You watch each pointer move a fraction

As if held back by some distraction,

But when you have a busy day

They race around, as if to say,

"You can't catch me. I'll wind hands down"

Your work undone, you sit and frown.

You'd wanted all this done, and look

How long each single task has took.

Where does it go when you've made plans,

Within the limits of what time demands.

Can we ever be certain to achieve

When time sets out to deceive?

It will only take an hour or so;

Or so you thought four hours ago.

Is it that we underestimate?

Or, that time can fluctuate?

Whatever, it's the same for all of us

For time dictates what one does.

To Share

2010-08-08T09:16:00.000-07:00

My poems lie here in my book,

I often open it and look

At all the words I've ever penned

Different topics, but with one end.

They all rhyme and tell a story

Sadness, love, hope and glory.

They are my thoughts on life itself

Personal thoughts, belonging to myself,

That I would share, if I could

To stir feelings, perhaps do good.

But they lie here on the page,

Trapped, as if in a cage.

Never to be freed by another's eyes.

Kept in darkness - in silent guise.

Waiting for another's hand

To open and read as planned.

All the verses that express emotion

All written down with true devotion.

But, if not read, no one has cared.

Why write them, if they can't be shared?

A 'Twisted' Sense of Pride

2010-06-09T02:15:00.000-07:00

This June, our national football team

Is going to South Africa, for the World Cup

When we were told not to wear our team colours

I thought, 'This country has gone tits up!'

Since when did our nation get twisted

Into a totalitarian state?

Where certain minorities have their say

Fuelling the 'BNP's' fires of hate

They wouldn't have even dared to constrain

The Welsh, the Irish or Scots

Who if told not to wear their teams colours

Would rather be hung, drawn, quartered or shot

Their sense of pride in their history

And for their Countries, is world renowned,

For England to bow to the vociferous few

Would be letting the team in South Africa down

Not to mention, our troops in Afghanistan

Fighting terror so we can live free

Nailing their colours to the mast

Standing proud in the fight for their country

We here in England must echo that pride

As onwards all 'our boys' forge

And I for one, will be flying my flag

For Queen, Country, 'boys' and Saint George.

IMAGINATION?

2010-06-09T00:56:00.000-07:00

It was nearly one in the morning when Richard left his girlfriend's house, to drive the two miles home. The hard frost had already covered the road with a thin film of white rime, which glistened and twinkled in the glare of the headlights. He drove a little more carefully but, on nearing the outskirts of his village, a figure suddenly walked out into the road.

He braked hard, praying he could stop in time. The wheels locked as he skidded silently towards the person, so he released the brake pedal, to quickly depress it again, hoping this time his wheels would purchase some grip on the icy surface.

He slewed to a stop just inches from the person, who seemed oblivious to his presence, even though the headlights were on full beam. He quickly realized it was an old lady, dressed only in a dressing gown and slippers, who continued to walk on unaware of how close she had come to being a casualty. With heart pounding he jumped out of the car, his initial thoughts being what was she doing there? He gently placed his hands on her shoulders to halt her progress, as she turned her face to look at him questioningly.

"Are you all right? You must be frozen. What are you doing out here at this time of night?" he asked quietly, not wanting to frighten her.

She gave him a sad look, then replied, "It's Michael. He comes to see me but they won't let him in."

"I take it you live here?" said Richard indicating the driveway, which he knew led to the old people's home.

"Yes, but they won't let him in. I've come to find him. Now he's come back, it's not fair they won't let me see him."

Richard began to shiver. It was freezing hard but the old lady didn't seem to be affected by the cold. He knew it was a fairly long driveway leading to the home and he couldn't just leave the car as it was, but he didn't want her wandering off again, so he coaxed her inside, saying, "I'll take you back. You must be cold and it's no good looking for people in the dark you know. I'll ask the staff to get in touch with Michael for you."

He drove up to the main entrance but the door was locked, so he had to ring the bell, looking over his shoulder a couple of times to make sure the old lady was all right. He had to ring twice more before a middle-aged lady warily opened the door to him.

"Sorry but I think I have one of your residents here. She was in the middle of the road and I nearly hit her." Roger pointed to his passenger.

"Oh not again," the lady said, throwing the door wide open and tutting as she walked to the car.

"You mean it's happened before?" exclaimed Richard, thinking they must have little regard for the safety of their residents.

"Yes. Two nights ago."

"Well how does she get out if the doors are locked?"

The lady sighed. "She goes out the fire exit but, even then, how she gets past us I don't know." Having reached the car she opened the door and addressed the old lady, sighing and tutting again. "Come on Ethel. You've got to stop doing this. We don't want you coming to any harm. Are you not frozen love?"

She gently helped the old lady out, seeming genuinely concerned, and guiding her back to the house with Richard.

"Who's Michael. Is it her son?" Richard asked as they reached the door.

"Don't know. As far as we know she has no family."

Richard was curious. "She said you won't let Michael in to see her and that's why she was out looking for him." The lady slowly shook her head and tapped it with a couple of fingers, implying the old lady was senile, then reached for the door to close it. Richard shrugged thinking it all very strange. "Right. I'll be off then," he said watching the old lady wandering away on her own.

"Thanks for bringing her back," the lady called as the door closed.

As he climbed back into his car Richard felt sorry for the old lady. She didn't seem senile but then, to be out after midnight, in just a dressing gown and slippers, wasn't exactly rational behaviour. He was curious and wanted to know more. Who was Michael? As he was on holiday that week and had plenty of time on his hands, he decided he would visit Ethel the next day, to see how she was.

Ethel was seated in the lounge, dressed in a jumper and tweed skirt. Her fine white hair framed a delicate face and soft blue eyes. She seemed to remember him but constantly looked out of the window, talking past him, as if watching for someone. She looked very frail and a large oxygen bottle with mask was parked next to her chair.

He learned she was eighty-six and had gone to the home three years ago, after the death of her husband. "We lived in the village most of our lives and were married in the village church," she reminisced. When asked about Michael, she said her son had called to see her every night over the last few days. "But they won't let him in," she ended sadly and, for almost the first time, met his eyes briefly.

"Why not if he's your son?"

She shrugged. "I can hear him knocking at the door, but they won't let him in."

Richard was confused. Would Ethel be able to hear him knocking and why didn't he use the bell? Was it just her imagination?

"The staff don't seem to realize you have any family. Have you told them you have a son?" he asked gently.

"Course I have a family. I have Michael and I've told them he's come back, but they think I'm nuts." She tapped her head as the carer had done the night before.

"How do you mean, come back?"

"I haven't seen him for a long time but I know it's him. If they won't let him come in I must go to look for him, 'cos they don't believe me." Ethel began to get a little flustered and then became rather breathless. One of the carers immediately came over and placed the mask over Ethel's face, turning on the oxygen. Richard gave her a questioning look.

"She suffers from angina and her lungs are packing in. Aren't they love," she volunteered, but including Ethel in the conversation.

Ethel nodded, inhaling deeply until her breathing slowly regulated itself. Richard couldn't help asking the carer if the son visited.

Her reply was aimed mainly at Ethel. "You don't have a son Ethel, and no one's been to see you. It's just these last few days you've gone on about Michael. You've never mentioned him before now. I think it's just because you've been under the weather lately," she said, gently running a hand over Ethel's head.

Despite the mask Ethel gave the carer a sharp look, silently challenging what she had said. "Have it your own way Ethel. But if Michael came, we would let him in - no matter what the time." She smiled at him as if proving a point then, as Ethel's breathing had improved, removed the mask and switched off the oxygen. "There now love. I'll leave you to chat with your visitor." Again she turned to address Richard, lowering her voice slightly. "She tends to tire easily, so don't be surprised if she suddenly nods off on you."

Ethel did look tired so Richard decided to stay just another five minutes, but he seemed to have gained Ethel's trust. She continued to tell him more about Michael and her husband, concentrating mainly on the difficult birth she had had, and the early years of Michael's life, but after about quarter of an hour, in mid-sentence, she dozed off. Richard quietly left her there, trying to evaluate the knowledge he had gained.

His next stop was the church, to look at the records. He reasoned that, for Ethel to be so precise about the details of Michael's birth, he might well be a real person.

He discovered Ethel Marlow had married an Alfred Simpson, sixty years before, and that the baptism of Michael Simpson was recorded three years later. That would make him fifty-seven. When Ethel had said he had "come back" did that mean he had moved away from the village, or possibly emigrated he considered, if she hadn't seen him for a long time. At least now he knew he existed, but was Ethel imagining his visits?

The following day Richard visited the home again, intending to tell the staff that Ethel did have a son. He was shocked to see a police car outside and more so, on being informed of her death.

She had managed to escape the staff again and had been found in the church yard early that morning. Richard just couldn't believe it. Betty, the carer he had seen the day before, was visibly upset too and drew him to one side.

"I know it's a shock and we'll miss her, but maybe it was for the best. Her lungs were shot at and the angina attacks were getting worse. Then - if her mind was going - it's saved her a lot of pain," Betty surmised.

"But she did have a son. That's why I came back today, to let you know she had a family," Richard stressed, wondering why they had never checked.

Betty seemed surprised. "Well he never visited. I know Ethel said he knocked, but she couldn't hear the main door from her room, and who in their right mind would visit after midnight?"

Just then a policeman approached. "Excuse me sir. That other lady has been telling me you visited Mrs. Simpson yesterday. It's just routine, but did you know her well?"

"No. I brought her back the night before, when she was out wandering. I was just curious about what she had said, but have since learned she did have a son, Michael. Maybe you could try to trace him."

"No need sir. We know where he is," the officer said and turned to leave.

Richard quickly rose to stop him walking off. He just had to know if Michael had cared enough to visit his mother. "Sorry. You know where Michael lives? Did he come to see her then?"

The policeman gave him a strange look. "No sir. Michael Simpson died aged seven. Mrs. Simpson was found resting against his headstone."

Richard was speechless. He wandered back to his seat next to Betty, steeped in confusion.

"What's the matter? You've gone as white as a sheet," Betty said with concern.

"That officer has just told me Michael is dead and Ethel was found at his grave."

Betty wasn't as shocked as he thought she would be. Perhaps seeing death on a regular basis made things more acceptable for her. "There you go then. She was just imagining it. They get like that near the end, but she did find him eventually, didn't she."

She laid a comforting hand on his arm, but Richard wasn't any easier in his thoughts. Perhaps Michael had visited his mother. On that first night he had seen Ethel, he could have sworn there was another person there, just beyond the reach of the headlights to see clearly, but heading in the direction of the churchyard.

SPRING

2010-05-23T05:51:00.001-07:00

It has been a harsh Spring
A cold and wet and windy Spring
But now dare I say it
The warmth of the sun
Its penetrating rays seeking
Waking up the sleeping
Earth has been slow in stirring
Embedded under snow and ice
The plants have been waiting
To burst forth
Their heads to uncurl
Their petals to unfurl
And take their rightful place
Nodding in greeting

HAIKU

2010-05-23T05:47:00.000-07:00

The spirit of the day
Is the spirit of the night
Only dressed in black

Beads of hard worked sweat
Mirrors on the men's bodies
In the shafts of light

Spring is new and fresh
Beckoning the crocus
The Easter Anthem

Night heralds the dawn
With the crowing of the cock
Men go to their work

GATHER

2010-02-16T04:18:00.000-08:00

We gather friends along lives rocky road in life.
And some become so special; they ease our troubled road
Trouble and strife, Never leaves us alone.
We live and share this earth of ours.
We marvel at how we come and go
Death is still a mystery to us
For rich and poor we come the same
And gather as we go,
But when we leave this earth,
and vanish into dust
We leave it all. For that's a must
And exit as we came.

TIME

2010-02-16T04:10:00.000-08:00

Here we are in this time and space
We have no control at all
Our minds take in all we can learn
And very often we yearn
for different things.
But no changes can we make
In this endless universe so grand
As we go through life
Our heads get full if knowledge
And years are added to life
It seems such a shame
That we wither and die
For wisdom comes with age.
Then we are gone.

Final image of Carlisle Writers at play on 7 December 2009

2009-12-09T12:10:00.000-08:00

All play and no work

2009-12-09T11:34:00.000-08:00

Carlisle Writers took the evening off this week and, on Monday 7th., met instead at The Auctioneer for a fine Christmas Dinner together.
Many thanks to Sally who took the time and trouble to photograph us all and politely neglected to include herself, (the rest of us were too busy eating and drinking to offer to include her - but if you have an image of this good lady and were there, please forward it).
A merry Christmas and a happy new year to our several readers!

Tangled Web of Conscious Recall

2009-11-10T02:02:00.000-08:00

Like the capture silk
of a spider web,
memories are spun together

every radiating strand
a pathway to the past
interlaced with
the circular fibres of our lives

from the day of our birth,
our minds spinnerets
weave threads of reminiscence

each thread stronger than the last
its tensile strength gained
from our life's experiences
and tales of family lore

until as adults,
our tangled web of recollection
becomes complete

a silken complexity
of immeasurable beauty

its delicate framework
susceptible to breakages
caused by
the ravages of time, and disease.

A Fine Evenings at Foxes Cafe Lounge 18 Abbey Street, Carlisle

2009-10-03T10:54:00.000-07:00

So it's over and we've got the book, if not the tee-shirt!
Many thanks to Nick Pemberton who organised the event on 21 July 2009, to Foxes Cafe Lounge who hosted the launch and provided some of us with much needed Dutch- courage and to Cumbria Multicultural Women's Network who shared the presentation and whose good work is also in the 47 page collection of poems and prose entitled New Voices in Cumbria.
The theme of the collection was 'home' or 'belonging'.
As well as Nick on this page, (from whom the sun shines out of his...shoulder!), you have Barbara, Sally and Janette.

'New Voices in Cumbria' and the Carlisle Arts Festival

2009-07-12T16:03:00.000-07:00

New Voices in Cumbria is a collection of writings from the Cumbrian Multicultural Women's Network and the Carlisle Writers Group that explores ideas of home, of belonging, of borders, and of boundaries.
As part of the Carlisle Arts Festival, this collection is being launched in Foxes Cafe Lounge, 18 Abbey Street, Carlisle, CA3 8TX at 7:30 p.m. on Tuesday 21 July 2009, when there will be readings, a short play and a chance for the writers from these two groups to finally meet one another.

ROSE by Brenda

2009-05-23T01:02:00.000-07:00

Tom and his friend had decided to be very brave and go and explore the old run down house in Mull Lane. The house had not had people living in it for years. They had wanted to go alone, but Tom's little sister, Rose, had followed them yet again. When they got there they locked her in the old wardrobe and ran away laughing.

Being locked in the wardrobe in the old house was a traumatic thing to happen to Rose. Tom had asked her not to follow him and his friend Mark, Rose had taken no notice of him. Now she wished very much she had stayed at home.

She saw that the door was easy to open, but decided to let them go and wait a few more minutes before she followed them. Just as she was going to come out of the wardrobe a beautiful lady came into the room, she walked over to the old dressing table and sat down on a chair that had once been cream velvet, but now was mucky with the stuffing coming out. Rose tried not to move.

She watched the lady pick up a brush and start counting as she brushed her hair, counting up to one hundred strokes, then she stopped. She put down the brush and parted her hair with her fingers, then she put in a beautiful hair slide. It looked like a butterfly with different coloured stones. They were like little lights dancing as the sun shone on them.

Rose thought, 'why would a beautiful lady come into a broken down house?' She watched her plait the back of her hair perfectly, adding a lemon ribbon, before putting on a hat with a large lemon net that covered her face. A little girl came in, skipping. "Mummy you do look nice," she said. They left the room hand in hand.

Rose thought the little girl must have dressed up, as she wore a long dress to her ankles. The last time Rose had had a dress like that she was bridesmaid for her Aunty May. The lady also had a long dress on.

Rose moved and knocked a wooden hanger down. The lady came back in the room and looked around. "What was that noise Mummy?' asked the little girl. Rose stayed very still, thinking that if these were the new people who had bought the house, she would get into trouble.

The next thing Rose knew, she was being shaken by her Mother, "wake up Rose, your brother is sorry he locked you in here." Her Dad was there with a torch and her brother was crying. It was dark. Rose had fallen asleep in the wardrobe and her parents had come to find her. Her brother kept saying "sorry" all the way home.

When they were home, Rose kept thinking about the lady and the little girl, and how the lady had combed her hair. Rose told her Mother but her Mother said she had been dreaming. Rose thought no, it was real, and described the beautiful slide in her hair. No one took any notice and said it was a dream.

Rose never followed her brother any more and they became distant. They hardly did anything together again. The years passed and they both went to College and got good jobs. Rose lived away from home. Tom only saw his sister in the holidays. He never said anything to anyone, but he felt Rose had changed from the day they went to the old house.

Years later a story about the house was in the newspapers, about the death of a Mother and seven year old little girl in a fire caused by a paraffin lamp falling over. The house was left uninhabited for a long time, but now the house had been renovated and sold, and that was why the story was in the news. Tom brought the paper to show Rose when he visited her in her home.

Rose was now married and lived with her husband and daughter May, who was seven. Tom still lived at home with his parents in the little village in Cumbria, where they had grown up.

Tom said to Rose, "look at the paper, I've brought it for you to see. It is all about the old house we used to play in."

Rose said to Tom, "I have a surprise for you, we have bought it. We are moving back to Cumbria. We bought the old house, it is beautiful inside now. I have been down to see it a lot. I was going to move and surprise you all. I can't wait to live near Mum. We move next week."

Tom looked shocked, "the papers say the house is haunted. Don't you remember when you were small I locked you in the old wardrobe and what you saw?"

"You mean the dream I had. It was just a dream. I am going to enjoy living there with Mum and Dad's house so near. We will all be neighbours. Don't you tell them, I want it to be a surprise," said Rose, "come to the table, we'll have some tea." Her little girl May sat next to Uncle Tom. Rose smiled at May, "you will love to go to the school I went to, won't you dear?'

May smiled and said, "Yes Mummy, we will soon be in our real home." Rose adjusted her hair slide. May said, "Mummy's butterfly slide is beautiful, the colours dance when the sunlight shines on it."

Tom agreed as Rose turned her head to show him. Tom didn't know why he felt funny, but something was not right. He wished he was at home, with his parents.

I'D LOVE TO BE ............ BUT

2009-05-06T00:06:00.000-07:00

I'd love to be a model
Tall and thin like Jerry Hall
But I like fish and chips too much
And I'm only five feet tall

I'd love to be a dancer
With poise, and style, and grace
But I was born with two left feet
And would end up flat on my face

I'd love to be a climber
Scaling mountains in one single bound
But I get dizzy in high heels
So I'd best keep my feet on the ground

I'd love to be an athlete
With medals of gold on my chest
But it takes all my breath, to run a bath
So relaxing at home is best

I'd love to be a painter
And have works of art hanged in great halls,
But the only paint that I can use
Is emulsion you slop onto walls

I'd love to be an actress
Starring on the silver screen
But with my memory, I'd forget the script
'What was I saying?' - see what I mean

I'd love to be an explorer
Through untamed jungles I'd caper
But I love the luxuries of life
Like hot baths, and toilet paper!

I'd love to be a poet
And write my own anthology
But that's just another pipe dream
So I'll have to be, just me

'Cows in the Rain' or 'Cars in the Rain' writing task for 20 April 2009

2009-05-04T07:56:00.000-07:00

Ending up like Mother?
Blame the phone, well I do! That infernal instrument plays havoc with the sense of my conversations. Take Saturday last, for instance, when I got a call from Best Beloved Daughter, Amy, who, as usual, was only half listening to what I was saying, (can I blame her for I only lend half an ear to her so that I still don't know which of her best friends is a police officer and which is getting married this year). Anyway, I was twittering on to Amy about spending a happy hour or so that afternoon planting herb seeds, when she broke in with;
"Did you just say I should try some bird seed?"
"No," I snapped back, "I didn't say herpes and I certainly wouldn't recommend you try it when next you visit! I meant you can sample my basil or coriander."
Well eventually Amy grasped what I was on about rather than what it sounded like. But both of us soon tired of this inconsequential chit-chat and she soon asked me to put her mother on the phone.
I smiled to myself, thinking of this miss-hearing. For my own mother, 'Frankie', was teased mercilessly in her lifetime by the family and especially by me for similar errors. One of her best malapropisms was her description of our new front-room suite as being made of 'stimulated leather'. One of her less funny ones was her put-down phrase for Carlisle United that they "deserved to be regulated".
Of course it is me who sets the pace these days in miss-heard statements and I'm the biter who's bitten. And what do I make of this writing homework set by Joan? 'Cars in the Rain', or 'Cows in the Rain', sounds to me as if Joan has been telephoning her family about a trip to the Isle of Wight with these confusing results.
By the way, you'll know the old joke about 'what comes out of Cowes, all steaming?'

MALICE AFORETHOUGHT by Barbara

2009-03-18T09:11:00.000-07:00

She resisted the impulse to push him down the flight of hard stone steps. It probably wouldn't kill him. He might just break a leg or worse still, his back, and then she would have to nurse him in a wheelchair. He turned and said, "mind how you go on these steps. They are a bit slippery." "Yes," she said, "be careful yourself."

The holiday was not proving to be a big success. It had been cloudy and overcast for the first few days, which was unusual in the Canary Islands, and the apartment was at the top of a hill up a rough track, and then they had to climb two flights of stairs. Still the sunsets were superb now that the weather had settled, and after a glass or two of red wine on the balcony she felt rather less tense.

She looked across at him sprawled on a sun-bed, downing his fourth bottle of San Miguel and wondered when it was that she had started to hate him. He had been a very handsome youth, golden-haired, and in the summer golden-tanned. She had been full of romantic notions, and eager to escape the fraught atmosphere of the parental home.

Now she couldn't think of a single thing about him that she liked. She didn't like his eyes, his smile, the way he walked, his hands, she especially didn't like his hands. They were large and square and thick-fingered and discoloured with hard work. He was a hard worker, she would grant him that, but he was so boring she could scream.

She could just leave him of course, but how would she manage financially. Besides she was the one who had kept the home going, paying for furniture and fittings etc; to him it was just a place to hang his hat. No, she was not going to give up her home. Maybe she could somehow encourage him to run off with another woman, although he never seemed to have any inclinations that way. He belched loudly and she glared at his unsuspecting back.

He turned round and looked at her and said, "well lass where are we going to eat tonight?" That was another thing about him that she didn't like, being called 'Lass'; and why did she always have to choose where they were going to eat. He never had an original thought in his head.

"I would like to go to that Indian restaurant," she said, knowing he wasn't all that keen on Indian food, "and tomorrow I would like to go on that trip up into the mountains." "All right," he said, "I will go to Reception and get two tickets." She felt a momentary twinge of compunction. He was always so amenable to anything she suggested. She could have married a bossy domineering chauvinist pig.

She went for a shower and a change of clothing, wondering balefully if he would bother to have a shower himself. He was even more of a slob on holiday than he was at home. Still he had been in the swimming pool.

The Indian meal was delicious. He even said he enjoyed it. It was a beautiful night, an almost full moon shone down from a velvety dark sky on to the gently lapping waves. The bars and restaurants were alive with music and laughter and she thought wistfully how nice it would be to be here with somebody she cared about.

On the way back they stopped at a bar and she had one Bacardi and Coke too many. They staggered up the hill and she was asleep almost before her head hit the pillow.

The next morning they had to be ready for the coach to take them on the trip at eight-thirty, and she woke at eight o'clock with a throbbing head and a deep sense of depression. He was his usual self, idiotically cheerful in spite of the frantic rush to get ready in time.

The coach filled up with a mixture of English, German, and Spanish couples and families, and the driver began his skilful journey up to the mountains, negotiating impossible-looking hairpin bends with nonchalant ease.

They stopped at a little restaurant for a typically Canarian meal, vegetable soup, chicken and potatoes and creme caramel with plenty of local wine and beer. She began to enjoy the day in spite of herself. Their fellow travellers were pleasant and the different nationalities made valiant efforts to understand each other with laughter ensuing.

He was talking loudly and slowly with a lot of arm waving, as he usually did when talking to foreigners. She looked at him and sighed inwardly and thought again how much happier she would be on her own.

The coach reached the high point of their journey in the early afternoon. The view was superb. Mountain ridges stretched in all directions, some covered with pine-forest, others with sweet-smelling shrubs, and here and there bare rocks gleamed in the sunshine. In the distance the sea sparkled and one or two small boats moved purposefully through the water.

Everybody got off the coach to take photographs and to breathe in the sweet mountain air. "All right everybody, we will have fifteen minutes here," the guide said. "There is a viewing platform off to the right there, but be careful. The safety barrier isn't really long enough." He then repeated the instructions in German and Spanish.

"Do you want to go and have a look?" her husband said. "Yes, we might as well," she answered. Several other people had the same idea so they waited in a small queue while two or three at a time looked down, but it was such a sheer drop nobody stayed for long and some changed their minds before getting to the edge.

He stood in front of her with his back to her, at the edge of the safety barrier and something snapped in her brain. Before the message to push had transmitted itself from brain to arms he suddenly stepped to one side and turned round to say something to her. But it was too late. Her own momentum carried her on through the gap and out into thin air. He made a frantic useless attempt to save her, but she carried on falling and bouncing, down and down. The last thing she ever heard was his anguished cry of "Elizabeth, Elizabeth, don't leave me!"

PAMPHLET by Marc

2009-02-19T05:15:00.000-08:00

The first day there were two. They stood out from the myriad of bills and important documents like two desperate flags, drowning in a sea of paper. One referred to holidays, adorned with images of sun, sea and sand. The second was an official looking piece, adorned with symbols and abbreviations. For the rest of the day they sat there, undisturbed, unwanted. The next day a third joined them. This one was simple; little more than a pair of stapled sheets, one white, the other blue. It floated down and settled on top of the small pile, perching like a small bird at the top of a tree. Each day the pile would grow, a molehill becoming a mountain as the days rolled into weeks, the weeks into months. Dust gathered slowly across the pile, like a secret stash long forgotten in some ancient ruins. Eventually a fourth joined its long-entrenched comrades; a flashy glossy article, full of busy colours and fancy fonts. For a time it stuck out like a lighthouse braving stormy seas; sitting high and proud. The reign lasted but a few days, when a deluge of more envelopes drowned it; an angel fallen from grace. The mountain became a range, spreading out across the front doormat like an invading army. Time stretched on once more. A spider made its way delicately over the mound, picking its way over jagged ridges and deepening valleys. Seasons changed, the wheel of time turning slowly. The plants in the hall, once green and verdant, bright and gay, were withering and drooping, frail and delicate. Nothing stirred, save the almost regular addition of paper to the ever-growing stack. Autumn passed to winter, but the joy and light of Christmas was absent. All remained still past New Year, past the snow and ice, wind and rain. There was no smell of pancakes, now chocolate eggs. Cobwebs were formed; transparent gossamer strings like a delicate weaving, only to be crushed by yet another fall of paper.

Eventually the summer came, the sun beaming down through the small pane of glass in the door. It alighted on a peak that extended a third of the way up the door, and spread out across the floor like a contamination. However, now there were finally signs of life. A car door shutting, the sound of footsteps. A key turned in the lock, voices called to one another. The door was pushed, and was stopped dead by the mass of paper. A pause. It was shoved again, and still would not move. Twice more it was forced forwards, and twice more the mountain resisted. A voice called again.

"The damn door's jammed," was the reply, "I told you we should have cancelled the post..."

A Voice from the Past by Roberta Twentyman

2009-01-23T14:12:00.000-08:00

Dear Penny,
I know it's not my turn to write but believe me you will want to know about this little incident toot sweet! (I know, I know - I should have kept up the French).
Anyway, you know how every now and again life throws you a googly, and your equilibrium is shot to hell for a few days. That's what happened to me the other day...a real bolt from the blue.
As you know, shopping has never been high on my list of enjoyable experiences...any kind of shopping. I've always been one of those 'know-what-I-want-buy-it-and-get-home-asap' sort of shoppers, (much to your constant dismay), but when in the supermarket I do try and create a menu as I go along...what food for each day of the week and...(you can stop sniggering Penelope...it keeps me from slitting my wrists), however, at times my mind is inclined to wander. Inevitably I tend not to see people unless they give me a prod.
So I got quite a fright, when, all of a sudden, I was jolted from my dream-like state and back to reality by a voice from the past. A voice that jarred every nerve ending in my body, a voice with the same buttock-clenching effect of chalk screeching on a blackboard.
My attention not only focused, but honed in on a face deep in concentration over the purple broccoli, and 'the voice' arguing the merits of organic versus cost with anyone who happened to be passing by.
I knew that voice and I knew that face. It took me a few minutes of racking my brain to remember from where. She wasn't a relative, or a friend, or an acquaintance I hadn't seen for a while. I couldn't place her at work either. I trolled through a mental list of people I knew from various committees and groups - no - no one came to mind.
The purple broccoli was discarded and she headed for the cheese counter. I had to follow. (It drives me crazy when menopausal mania keeps me from remembering even the most trivial of things...doesn't it you?) I had to get to the bottom of it.
At first I thought perhaps she was the mother of one of Jessica's friends...again no one sprung to mind. (By the way you'll be pleased to hear she's got over her Goth fetish - at least now she doesn't look gangrenous!)
Had I worked with her in the past? I thought I'd cracked it - she was that awful wife of my boss when I worked at Harpers, (you know the one who always called her husband Mr...), but no she was much too tall.
All of a sudden she doubled back and was heading straight towards me. Not wanting to be caught staring I lowered my eyes as she passed by, that's when it clicked. It was her ankles...I knew those ankles...Those ankles haunted me from school days. Now I knew why that scary voice had struck such a persistent chord.
Memories came flooding back. You'll remember her, she was my worst enemy at school! (only after she'd made a play for Reg., and I naturally sought revenge).
Do you remember him, Reg., my first love? He married Babs Daugherty eventually, you know the one with the elastoplast over one lens! OK - OK, I'll get on with it. I can hear you huffing from here! But not yet...I'll give you another clue. Picture this: Saturday morning on the school hockey field, middle of November, freezing our tushes off in a practice match, (you were goalie that day 'cause Rene Baxter was off with period pains - again - and you were livid), anyway, I was swinging full welt at a cross ball when my stick 'somehow' connected with her ankle. There was an enormous crack, a piercing scream, and she dropped like a stone.
I didn't stop to commiserate, we were one down with only a few minutes to go. You know what it was like...that sort of thing happened practically every match, we all had battle scars. Another clue, she was well-known as a bit of a wuss when it came to a tackle.
Next thing we knew, play had been stopped, the P.E.teacher, (remember Dipsy Mottram?) was called on, and the rest of the girls gathered round to assess the damage. All except us that is, you and I took the opportunity to have a quick fag behind the goals.
Turned out I'd broken her ankle, well actually it was only a hairline fracture. God, the fuss she made was incredible. Even old Mottram told her to put a sock in it. (Dipsy's dead now by the way, just before Christmas...had a strokeand fell off her bike - or vice versa). Where was I? Oh yes...remember you laughed like a drain when her mother complained to mine about my less than sportsmanlike conduct - which I vehemently denied of course...As if...well, from that day on there was no love lost, I can tell you.
And here she was - in Tesco's - by now buying deodorant, (I'm glad she found a use for that at last!); hadn't clapped eyes on her for - what - must be 30 years.
As I roamed the aisles after her I couldn't help but wonder...as you do...You know...How has her life mapped out? What sort of a career did she have? Had she married and if so - who? Was it someone we'd know from school? Did she have kids? How was her ankle?
I toyed with the idea of tapping her on the shoulder and, you know, say - 'Hi Marion, remember me?Liz Martin that was?'
Yeah...that's right...you've got her...of course it was...it was Marion Bissett...'Russet Bisset'...all red hair and halitosis...with a voice box carved out of granite.
Well, in the end, I decided perhaps not tapping her on the shoulder was best. Leave well alone. My equilibrium is almost back to normal. Yeah, I reckon now and again it's wise to bite your tongue and just keep wondering, don't you?
How's Ted's knee, by the way? Had his cartilage op. yet? I thought living in Hong Kong, he'd be into Tai Chi - not still trying to relive his glory days in the Sunday league. They never grow up do they!
Until the next time,
love 'n stuff,
Liz.

This Old House by Darren

2009-01-18T14:33:00.000-08:00

Homer strolled along the country road enjoying the hot summer day. He had just moved into the village and, as he had finished unpacking, he decided to make the most of the evening and go for a walk before nightfall. Exploring the road for the first time, Homer came upon a partially hidden gateway. In between two grey stonewalls was a pair of elaborately-fashioned iron gates. The paint had begun to peel through years of neglect, but two ornately designed letters were clearly visible, the letters M and H. Peering through the gates, Homer saw an overgrown garden and beyond this was a grand looking house. It was Georgian in style and, though it would have been magnificent in its day, the dull grey stone now looked weathered and worn. Suddenly realising that it would look odd if he were seen spying through the gates, Homer turned away and continued with his walk until his thoughts gradually left the house.
The following evening, Homer decided to go for a walk again. It was not quite as warm as the previous day and was a little cloudy. Freeing his mind of the day's events he again arrived at the gates to the old house. Wondering if the property was occupied or not, he began to inspect the house more closely through the gates. The columns that stood either side of the red door had plants growing up them and the garden seemed even more overgrown than it had yesterday. Having decided that the house must have been abandoned, Homer was suddenly shocked to see a figure waving from one of the first floor windows. Embarrassed, having been caught snooping at the house, he quickly continued with his walk.
That same evening, Homer decided to got to the village pub to meet some of the locals. He thought that he might also be able to shed some light on the mystery of the old house. He began talking to an old man perched on a stool by the bar. The old man advised Homer that the letters on the gate stood for Mandrake House and it had been owned by a Mr.Bran.
"Odd name," said the Old Man, "Welsh or somethin'. Anyway, place has been empty for years".
"Has it?", said Homer, suitably shocked, "I could have sworn I saw somebody waving from the window."
"No, no, you must've been mistaken. Ain't nobody lived there in over sixty years."
"Well that's a shame, it's such a wonderful house."
"It's not surprising after what happened. Terrible it was."
"Why, what happened?"
"I was only a boy at the time, but I remember it well. The family had lived there for years, dead 'appy they seemed. respectable lot they were an all. Didn't speak to the likes of us much, but they was nice enough in their own way. Then suddenly, one day, off Mrs.Bran went, taking the two boys with her. She left Mr.Bran and their youngest, only a baby it was, with the just the maid to look after 'em. Well you can imagine the rumours going round the village. Awful it was and the worst of it was yet to come. Something 'appened to the baby. I 'eard that the poor little bugger 'ad died and then the maid just disappeared. Some folks said she killed herself but no-one really knows."
The following day, even more intrigued after speaking to the old man, Homer walked by the old house again. The thick grey clouds mirrored the dullness of the house and, as spots of rain began to fall, he looked anxiously to decide if he really had seen a figure in the window. There was a figure! He could see it very clearly now waving, or was it beckoning? Prompted by the rain, Homer decided to satisfy his curiosity and go and look inside the house. Besides, if everyone thought it was empty, it wouldn't matter if he was seen snooping around. Walking through the overgrown and neglected garden, he noticed that the only colour was from a small patch of chrysanthemums. Once inside the house, he began to look around in what would have once been the grand entrance-hall of the house. The drooping wallpaper was a faded cyan and the woodwork a dull ivory. The ornate plasterwork crumbled with decay and the wrinkled curtains looked limp and lifeless. several flies circled the centre of the hall. He could hear talking, which became louder as he climbed the stairs. The talking was irrational and incessantly fearful. He opened a door off the landing, and there in front of him was a young woman. She was dressed oddly in a black blouse and black skirt with a white apron and a white bonnet on her head. She was very pale with silvery skin and appeared scared yet lifeless.
"Can you 'elp me please, Sir?"
"What's the matter?" asked Homer.
"I can't leave the house but I needs to get my baby."
"Do you live here?"
"Please Sir, the master buried my baby in the garden but there was no vicar to send 'im off to 'eaven," she began to cry from frustration, "and my soul can't rest until I knows he's safe with the Lord."
"What?" Homer turned in fear as realisation swept through him.
"The master killed the baby 'cos he couldn't bear the shame. Mrs.Bran had already left 'im
and taken their children with 'er. Please help, Sir," she continued with increasing desperation, "if you don't 'elp me the 'ouse will take you too."
As fear engulfed him, Homer ran for the stairs. He tripped over something and tumbled down them. Out cold, he gradually came round and picked himself up from the foot of the stairs. There was now a dense fog outside the house and all that could be seen were the thick vines climbing vertically, like bars, outside the window. Homer heard the sobs of the young woman as she drifted down the stairs. As he turned towards her, he saw a crooked body with a broken neck lying stiff at the foot of the stairs, gazing blankly at him. The face was oddly familiar.
"It's too late," said the maid through heavy sobs, "the 'ouse 'as taken you now Sir, the 'ouse has taken you too."

This Old House by John

2009-01-04T07:52:00.000-08:00

About one year ago a married couple of about the same age as my wife and myself started to attend our church. We'd known them slightly over the years through mutual friends. A few weeks ago we were invited to their home in Langwathby. I had heard that their home was near a railway line, which I found intriguing, but how near was to be a great surprise. As we approached the side road leading to their property it became clear that Ian and Sheila had a very large front garden. Entering the gate, we passed a number of fruit trees and an open area in which three Alvis cars stood, (Ian is a collector and renovator of these classic British cars). Passing further down the long drive, we approached a range of low, single-storey and sandstone buildings with slate roofs, refurbished windows and a very solid central door. This old house reminded me of railway property and my first question after greeting Ian and his wife was:
"Was this a stationmaster's house or that of some other railway employee?"
"No! This is, or rather was, Langwathby Station itself."
Ian and Sheila had bought the property in 1977 at a reasonable price. They had then modernised it in keeping with the character of the building and it served them well during the years their four children were at home with them. As we dined and relaxed together, I fear that my mind was constantly turning to the past. It struck me forcibly that we were sitting on a site of railway history. This station was on the scenic Settle to Carlisle Line and was last used in 1934. The 73 miles of this track crossed the Pennines and travelled down the Eden Valley. Leaving the back door on a guided tour of their property, we stepped immediately out onto the former platform and I was entranced.
During that late afternoon and evening only one train passed. This was a DMU carrying passengers from Leeds to Carlisle. It appears that there is also a regular goods service operated by EWS with their powerful diesel locomotives. But I was half-transported back into the age of steam and it fascinated me to hear that the previous day a charter train with 13 coaches had passed through, headed by the 'Pacific' locomotive named 'Oliver Cromwell', which had been rescued from the scrapyard in 1968, the last year of steam.
As an ex-trainspotter, I have always been happier travelling by rail. And this old house stirred in me memories of my home area in the North-East in the age of steam. Back then, I had a passion for the magnificent Gresley 'Pacifics' which speeded along the ECML. Now I was a little envious of Ian and Sheila's situation. I could imagine the surviving steam locomotives thundering by, engines such as Royal Scot, Jubilees and even Princess Coronation. Further back in a flight of fancy, I could picture the station master directing proceedings from this very spot. And then from somewhere in the recesses of my mind resurfaced a film scene of the actor Will Hay and his hapless assistant.
Here it was easy to be nostalgic for the golden age of the railway. And whilst we can be delighted that the Carlisle-Settle Line was saved from closure, many other lines have been permanently closed. Although greatly accelerated by Dr.Richard Beeching, (1963-5), at the behest of the Transport Minister, Ernest Marples, the reduction in the rail network began long before this. The maximum rail network was in the years preceding the First World War. The Carlisle-Settle Line was constructed over difficult terrain and fine structures like Ribblehead Viaduct remain as testament to the skill of engineers of that period.
Visiting Langwathby and looking back it is easy to condemn the inept transport policies of successive British Governments. We haven't managed to keep going even the rail network that existed in 1948, the year of Rail Nationalisation. At the same time, roads have been expected to deal with the exponential growth in traffic. It is small wonder that there are so many travel hold-ups due to road damage or extension. Regular road users, hauliers included, would probably welcome the trains taking more strain. Unfortunately Beeching economics have proved typical of a world obsessed with short-term expediency, (the dash for gas energy in the 1990s is beginning to appear similarly ill-advised, leaving us at the mercies of Russian and Middle Eastern Heads of State).
It was good to sit in this old house and be reminded of times when there was more than an adequate service for passengers and goods and when it seems that decisions were made after much reflection on long-term consequences. This old house still speaks volumes!

Workshop by Nick Pemberton, Subject Leader for Creative Writing at the University of Cumbria

2008-11-30T07:41:00.000-08:00

Carlisle Writers were very pleased to hand over proceedings for one evening (and hopefully others) to Nick Pemberton, author and organiser of creative writing courses. Nick was a refreshing change and was most encouraging to us would-be authors. He began by getting us all to draw around our hand on a sheet of A4 paper. In the middle of the palm we were to place our name and date of birth. Then on whichever of the digits we chose, we were to put 5 things that were important to us. Having completed that task we were to add 5 of the things we believed in. As we got busy with this he gently explained that what we were recording on our 'hands' were the "raw materials of something." We knew about hands and the phrase: 'He's got the whole world in his hands.' And we had probably seen images of prehistoric hand prints from the caves of El Castillo, Santander, in Spain, which are a kind of first 'signature' expressive of early men making their mark and saying that this is man? These, our 'hands' are indicative of the power that we each had in the world; the hands that hold or let slip. Finally we were asked to note one memory.
We were invited to share a little of what we had recorded on our 'hands'. It was most interesting to hear some of the common themes: 'my husband'; 'my wife'; 'my children'. Also there were more individual items as: 'Carlisle United'; 'Christianity'; 'books'; 'human perfectibility'. We agreed that "things happen to you" and that "stories will find themselves in you." We were not to be discouraged ever in our struggles to write. These hands represented our "well" our stock as writers and we were to trust Nick that, though it occasionally might not seem so, "wells do not run dry!"
Had we put down one memory on our palms? We had. And as we each in turn were gently and kindly interrogated about our selected memory, we were encouraged to notice the "fabric, the texture, the detail of our memories". We were quizzed about the grandfather we recalled. What clothes did he have? Had we any negative thoughts about him? Above all, we were not to be vague. That grandfather "turned his cap around when sitting at the farmhouse table, but did not remove it" was just the kind of memory that sticks as hear or read of it. These memories are our story lines, even before we write them! Helping people recover stuff is part of the writing process. It is remarkable that no matter how often we make lists of notions like 'fairness', 'kindness' and civility', yet how dark the world can be in memories.
What's important to you and your character will be invested in whatever writing you do. And part of creative writing is honouring all those who've gone before: the parents, the brothers and sisters you mentioned on your hands. Writing smooths the pain of life out a bit. But don't neglect to interrogate your memories for it is those details that are crucial: the rocking chair and the painted bricks.
And what else have you? You have these, your eyes, your nose, your mouth, your ears to aid you in your writing. How exactly did these things look, smell, taste, sound and feel? Please make notes as go. Engage in people-watching. Add to your stock and try to write every day! You must set aside the time.
On 5 December 2008 in the Lowther Arcade, Carlisle, has been organised a creative writing event at which some of these handprints will be shown and other examples of 'creative writing'. Nick ended his very useful and thought-provoking evening by very generously giving out copies of his writings as Art, Medicine, Life, Death, Work and the Whole Ball of Wax, which is a collection of his poems published by Selkirk Lapwing Press in 2006, ISBN 0 9554056 2 9.

This Old House by Marjorie

2008-11-26T13:19:00.000-08:00

In November 1978, my husband and I moved into West Woodside near Wigton. A truly old farmhouse, the carved date above the door was 6 . 11 . 1691.
On entering the stone flagged lobby, it led to a large kitchen on the left, which was a relatively new addition formed by utilising part of the attached stable. The rest of the lobby led to the original house, at first a large living room with beams and old inglenook fire. Then, at right angles to this room was another large living space forming the rear wing of the house.
At the end of the main living room was a flight of stone steps, boarded over, which led to the upper floor. Opposite these steps was a small back hallway, the original kitchen, with white stone basin and a huge larder with sandstone slabs for shelves. At the end of the house was a further living room.
Upstairs were five large bedrooms, one with a wooden ceiling, but no bath room. All the rooms had sash windows, but sadly, all the fireplaces had been replaced with 1950s style fire grates.
Outside were numerous outbuildings with thick sandstone roofing slabs, a huge barn and two old byres. The cobblestone yard was mostly overgrown with weeds, but it had a pretty front garden bounded with a low wall and wrought iron railings. There were also large gardens to the side and rear.
This was my dream home. I imagined restoring it to its former glory, but unfortunately it was not to be. It was re-roofed and a bathroom installed by others. I moved to an old cottage in Little Bampton with a tin roof, but that's another story.
The following is a little poem I wrote about West Woodside:

Old house, I knew you well
And you knew me too.
You were attuned to my feelings
You felt my point of view.
Those quiet times when we'd sit
In peace and harmony.
Just the two of us
And you'd talk to me.
You'd tell me of the days gone past
When life was not a chore
Of the different folk before me
Who had entered through your door.
You gave me comfort.
Your embrace was peace and light.
Your walls had always listened
And remembered every sight.
Your rooms kept the imprint
Of centuries of history.
But then I had to leave.
It was not meant to be.
But I miss you old house
With your beams and inglenook
That feeling of home
I wish I'd never forsook.

This Old House by Janette

2008-11-26T13:05:00.000-08:00

This house was part-founded by the nobles
Who counselled the monarchs of our land.
Then strengthened by the Magna Carta,
Sealed by King John's royal hand.

At first its foundations were rocky
As house and monarchs just couldn't agree
On decisions, and who had the final say.
From time to time, it would end violently.

As in the seventeenth century with civil unrest
Between the King's Cavaliers and the Roundheads.
The house, led by Cromwell, won the war.
King Charles, alas, ended up dead!

The clash between house and kings ceased
With the Glorious Revolution
And the passing of the 'Bill of Rights'.
Giving rise to our 'Constitution'.

The house since then has seen changes
At the passing of each new decade,
With the 'Constitution' amended
As each new Act has been made.

Today the house has elected officials,
The people's voices to represent.
Standing proud in the name of democracy
This old house that's our Parliament.

'To soothe one's self' by Trish

2008-11-09T11:01:00.000-08:00

Through my pan-pipes my mind can wander.
They take me high over the mountains yonder.
The tranquility of the most haunting music I've heard in this vicinity
fills me with a great serenity.
The hills, lakes, rivers, birds and sounds
are brought back in the music's pursuing leaps and bounds.
My body's turmoils are nowhere to be found,
as the melodies send them all to ground.

An example of our writing by Alfa

2008-11-07T07:20:00.000-08:00

The politically correct and health and safety brigades would be twitching and throwing their hands up in horror if they had access to the following information, but I am only grateful that I grew up in an age of innocence, acceptance and in a society that functioned above suspicion of anyone who was different and would not fit in a box.
As the old pram wheels rumbled over the rough tarmac of the humped stone bridge the sound of excited barking could be heard the length of Riverside, heralding the arrival of Ruddy Jim. It was like a reincarnation of Hamelin Town and the Pied Piper as children ran down paths or brought to a hasty close the cricket game and in a body, laughing and shouting, ran to meet him. Mothers in flowered aprons switched on ovens and scones, rock buns and cakes were quickly mixed and put in to cook.
Ruddy Jim, what can I say? He was a part of our lives and his simple philosophy of life, passed on to us around his fire, remains with me to this day.
He was a 'tramp' - a gentleman of the road - who travelled around the villages with his old Old English Sheepdog, 'Tramp'. They were two tramps together. He was of medium build and medium height, dressed in old worn brown boots, baggy trousers and an old mac with buttons missing and held together across his chest with string. He was a stereotype of a gentleman of the road, an ordinary fellow until you saw his face. Years of outdoor living had tanned his face and lined it like hide and from beneath two bushy eyebrows shone two sparkling sapphires which twinkled with kindness and sincerity. His brown curly hair hung down to his shoulders and was topped by a squashed trilby.
He pushed all his possessions around in an old pram. The well of the pram being full of the red rud he sold to the house-proud women who rudded their steps and vied with each other to acquire the highest shine. A multitude of pots, kettles, pans and other utensils dangled from the handle and sides of this mobile kitchen and guarding it alongside was Tramp.
We surrounded his pram and he spoke to us all by name. Like a royal escort we danced with him along the Row. Cakes, now ready, were provided for him and us in brown paper bags and his can filled up with loose tea, freely given. Rud blocks were handed over and we headed down in a body to the wood and the river where Jim built a fire with sticks we collected. He put his kettle filled with river water on the fire and made tea for us all. We drank and ate cakes listening with awe to his stories - at any moment we expected Brer Rabbit to pop up out of the bushes and the River Caldew became the Red Sea and Jim became Moses parting its waters!
We went home.
The next day we returned to the wood; the fire had gone out, but the embers were still warm in a blackened circle. Ruddy Jim had gone for now. We were left with a warm glow in our hearts as warm as embers. Sixty tears on I still remember him and realise he taught me to be who I am and left in me a love of freedom and independence.

Meeting Nights

2008-10-10T14:28:00.000-07:00

A typical Monday night meeting begins at 7:00 p.m. and ends at about 8:45 p.m. in the Fire Station, Warwick Street, Carlisle, Cumbria, Entrance is by way of a ground-floor door with a buzzer and speaker attached.
We begin with information for the group from Marjorie, our Chairperson, who gets most of our mailings from the National Association of Writers' Groups and elsewhere. But we take turns to add our own items of interest.
Next we read out our assignment, our 'homework'. This task is set by each of us in turn for the following meeting. The following have been tackled:
'a chequered past';
'many faces';
'a small box';
'a staircase described for someone who's never seen one';
'a story in 50 words'.
A five minute exercise follows based upon a word chosen at random from the dictionary or from a nearby text. This often amuses us in the range of our different responses.
Readings from our own current work are also given in turn and week by week. Some members of the group like criticism of their writing efforts, while others do not, so we strive to respect members' wishes.
Coffee or tea and biscuits, (if we remember them), are taken at the mid-point of the meeting.
The first meeting is free to new members. After you've tried us and want more, the fee is £15 per year, or a proportion thereof.
You'll be very welcome.
After this week's AGM we have 12 signed up members.

Oh, and some of the members linger and reconvene afterwards in the Howard Arms in Lowther Street for a warm-down chat with beer or wine or soft-drink, but this extra is entirely discretionary.

Announcement Number Two A Postscript and thank you!

2008-10-05T10:24:00.000-07:00

Howdo again,
we haven't won any Oscars yet, but still we must say thank-you!
Thank you to the Carlisle City Fire Brigade, who as part of a community programme, act as our generous hosts for our meetings.
Thank you also to Rob and Julia Walton who advised us about blogging and whose computer software WriteItNow has proved very useful to us in generating and managing our stories.

Announcement Number One, 5 October 2008

2008-10-05T09:14:00.000-07:00

Howdo,
It is high time that Carlisle Writers, who meet fortnightly on Monday evenings at 7:00 p.m. in the Fire Station, Warwick Street, Carlisle, had another regular presence on the worldwide web...so here goes with a statement and a welcome.
We are a friendly group of individuals who gather to share our own writings or listen to the work of others with a view to stimulating our own writing techniques.
Some of us are working towards publication, while others write only for the pleasure it brings. We write short stories, poetry, novels and prose and factual pieces for magazines in many genres.
The group has produced anthologies, held talks in bookshops and Carlisle Central Library and completed items on local radio and television. Recently we have enjoyed giving readings to the Women's Institute in Hethersgill and at Silloth.
The group has eleven regular attenders at present and is governed by the consensus of its members.
Annual subscription is £15. But you are encouraged to join us for a meeting or so for free, just to see what we get up to.
Our Chairperson is Marjorie Carr, 6 Cliff Road, Sandysyke, Longtown, Carlisle, Cumbria, UK, postcode CA6 5SU.
And tomorrow, Monday 6 October 2008 is the occasion of our Annual General Meeting. So what better time is there for us to become 'bloggers'?
Whether you live locally and wish to join us in the flesh, or live further afield and wish to contact us, here we go!
Ian C.Mason, (blog editor for the group) imason@talk21.com