The Written Word Group

  Almanzora Every morning, Alma and her friend Idi carefully walked the four miles to school, picking their way along the dusty track, pockmarked with deep ruts after the recent heavy rains. Sunlight filtered through the branches of an ancient Baobab tree and the tall grasses on either side swaved in the gentle breeze. It was going to be another hot day.  They chatted as they walked, their backpacks seeming to get heavier with books as each week went by.  Suddenly, a flock of Collard Sunbirds flew into the air,  in panic, disturbed, squawking and screeching and creating a kaleidoscope of colour in the sky with their bright plumage as they twisted and turned. Something was on the move in the bush. Alma halted, took Idi´s arm and stood, listening. A low grumble, a deep rumble came from a few metres away, something hidden by the vegetation. Dry twigs and leaves and bushes were being pushed aside and crunched underfoot. No more than ten metres in front of them, between two thorn bushes, a

  The rose lay on the cold stone step and I almost stepped on it in my haste. I picked it up, it was the same one. I cursed as a thorn pricked my thumb and a bead of blood welled up, its colour matching that of the petals which were beginning to wither and curl. I sat down heavily on the stair, the rose in my hand. We had stood on the terrace of the old country house, me in my white tie and tails, she in a shimmering midnight blue ball gown and white gloves.  A Viennese waltz drifted out from the ballroom behind us, light spilling out from the chandeliers. We were bathed in Moonlight, its silver rays deepening the shadows in the garden below.  I turned to her and she lifted her face, her eyes, dark and liquid. I produced the rose from behind my back, having picked it that afternoon, managing to keep it moist, and offered it to her. She gave me that enigmatic smile and little tilt of her head which I´d come to know and love so well over the

  Blood As I lay in the darkness, I let myself imagine what might happen. My bed is the top bunk and is level with the open window. He can come straight onto the bed while I pretend to be asleep. I practice how I should lie. Perhaps with both arms bent, hands to the side of my head on the pillow. That feels right. Would he would find me more enticing if I laid my head to the right or the left. Should I spread my hair across the pillow like the women on TV, or tuck it  underneath out of the way. I spread it out, it feels right. I read that he likes the smell of lavender, I have put some under my pillow.  What about my lack of breasts? The women in films have big breasts with a life  of their own, heaving with passion and anticipation. I could pad my bra, but if he feels for them he would find out. So no, I wont do that. I chew a piece of lavender to tempt him to kiss me. What will his breath smell of?  Blood? Would I feel sick?  When the moon is full and bright like now, he comes out, b

  The solicitor ruffled through the papers. Then he commenced the reading of old Uncle Henrys will. Henry had been an odd ball all of his life. Wandered the world. Never married and had finally come to rest, in a room at my parents’ house. He had been very sick and bedridden, for a least a year before he died. I sat with him as he regaled me with stories from his youth. Fighting pirates off the coast of Somalia. Searching for lost Japanese gold in the Philippines. Living with the aboriginals in the outback. Yes, the man had lived a long and adventurous life. He had an old leather flying jacket that my brother Ivan loved wearing. So, it was no surprise it was left to Ivan in the will. He had a great collection of old books, that was left to my sister. There was a few thousand pounds left in his bank account. Which went to my parents. So far, I had not been mentioned. I had sat a lot with him and read articles from the financial papers. He told a story of how he was scammed by so

  Honeycutt stood in front of the library and studied the plaque. His Spanish, and totally baffled companion, General de Brigada Diego Gutiérrez, was standing beside him. They had secured Albox, as a matter of national security. It was now hermetically sealed off from the rest of Spain. Nothing was moving in or out. All mobile and Internet communication had been blocked from around a 100Km radius. Spanish fighter jets and US E-3 AWACS where flying top-cover. Nothing was being left to chance. “OK,” said Honeycutt, “Let’s get in, and get to the bottom of this mess.” Honeycutt’s security team entered the library and swept the building. “What’s upstairs?” barked Honeycutt. “I’ve been told it’s an empty room used by some crazy writers’ group,” replied Gutiérrez.   Honeycutt pushed through the doors into the library proper. To be met by a group of very frightened elderly people. “Who are these,” “These are the people you wanted rounded up General. They run the library.”

                                        Margaret noticed old Mrs Cronin tending to her garden. She waved and      crossed the road.  “ Hello Mrs Cronin. How are you? Isn’t it a bit cold to be gardening?” “ And who are you?” Mrs Cronin asked. “ Sure I’m Margaret Moon from over the way” “ Jesus girl I would never have recognised you. Come in to the garden and talk    to me. Hows your Mother?”  “ Ah she’s grand thanks. Me Dads not too good, something to do with his back, he cant get out much”  “ Jesus girl that must be terrible for your Mother having him there every day.  Mind you my Dan Cronin is the same. His bad back is the reason he cant do anything. He forgot all about it when that woman came knocking last week. Practically fell to his knees he did. Stupid sod” “ Mrs O Connell? She came to us. Me Dads back made a miraculous recovery while he was standing talking to her. Mam called him a stupid eejit” Mrs Cronin stood with her heels dug in to the soil, arms crossed. “ That woman’s hus

                                                                                                                                                                           Almanzora I had planned a mini road trip to Almanzora thinking it would do us good  to spend time together, away from his Mother. She had moved in 5 months ago and our home was no longer  our sanctuary. Instead it felt like a war zone.  A carer was staying while we were away and Mother complained so  much we almost cancelled the trip. Now, as the carer waved us off  with assurances that everything would be fine, I relaxed a little. Conversation between us was strained, it had been for some weeks.  Martin insisted on driving, probably so he didn’t have to make small talk. I sat back, taking in the scenery.  We were stopping at Fines for a late breakfast. As we entered the  town the powerful image of Freedom rose in front of us.  The towering marble woman, created in homage to female victims  of violence, stood skyward,