The Written Word Group

  Gratitude. Where have you been all my life?  You feel like a friend who has been with me forever and yet I have only known you  intimately this last few years.    I talk with you every day.   Yes I know I can be repetitive but you see, I truly am grateful for my life and everything in it. Okay so I probably don't have to tell you every day how much I love my mountain home and the landscape. Nor do I have to tell you how wonderful my marriage is, or how much I love my dogs, or how grateful I am to know great people, some who have become true friends.  Do you hear me each time I thank you aloud for the sight and sound of the wildlife around me? I imagine you might get a tiny bit fed up of  how many times I thank the universe for a thought

A Rose Lay on the Cold Stone Step – Keith Steventon-Green     There had been a light dusting of snow overnight, nothing severe, just enough to turn even the most drab and dreary of places into an area of sparkling diamante. There had been a full moon, as the moon was being replaced by the weak summer sun the back door to that led from the service area was opened by Hannah. Hannah had opened this door for more years than she could remember from when as a young girl her mother had dragged her screaming up the big drive to be placed into service, Hannah was of age and as a girl had nothing to offer her starving family and Hannah’s mouth was just another mouth to feed from a food supply that was never enough. As she opened the door, she looked down. She knew it would be there. A single rose, the thorns removed so as not to prick her aged arthritic fingers. She bent down to pick the rose and as she did a single tear slid down her face and dropped into the glistening snow disappearing foreve

  September 1890, Whitby, Yorkshire. Dear reader my name is Elizabeth Clayborne, although everyone calls me Lizzy. I was born in Whitby, Yorkshire and had just turned fifteen in the year of our Lord 1890 when the events I am about to relate unfold. I first saw the gentleman in question, when he arrived at Mrs Veazey’s, 6 Royal Crescent in Whitby in late July 1890. I never knew his name, and only saw him in very dim light. I was given to understand he was well to do, but had spent several years abroad. He’d arrived mysteriously in Whitby aboard a ship, The Demeter, following a terrible storm. No one else aboard had survived. Rumours circulated the ship was cursed, its  name being that of the Greek Goddess who had power over Life and Death. At this time I was sweet on a lad, George. I’d known George for about a year and he wanted to marry me. George got me work at the lodgings house down by the harbour where he worked, run by a widow woman, Mrs Oldroyd, and for whom, I then cleaned and r

  It was a round tower type of design. Popular for that area. A large metal garage was attached to it. There was a whining piercing sound coming from within the house.  Jarvik scoped the roof platform with his eyes. Absorbing the data flow coming back. “What do you see.” He didn’t answer. But turned to look at the blond girl beside him. Petra was wearing the uniform of a State Trooper. “There is something odd about this whole callout.” “Jarvik, we got a callout for a rogue domestico. Owner said it attacked his dog. And then attempted to attack him and his family.” “And we believe the owner, Mort Islef?” said Jarvik. “What difference does it make?” “He’s a Mech-Tinker.” “Look, they called you in, they said you’re the best at what you do.” Petra studied Marshall Jarvik. Black Stetson on his metal head. A long brown duster coat flowing down to his metal ankles. His Marshall badge welded to his chest. He had a converted Blaster Colt in a hipster holster. In his hands, i

  Almanzora.  The word has the sound of beauty , especially when pronounced the Castilian way - Alman th ora.  I first heard the name 22 years ago whilst holidaying in our tiny, sea front apartment in Torrevieja.  Retirement was only a few years away and spending much of it in Spain was definitely in our plans.  However our tiny flat, while great for two or three weeks  twice a year, was not a comfortable longer term prospect.   There was talk on the complex of a place further south where building plots were selling relatively cheaply.   The year was 2001 and Torrevieja,  which had been  a tiny fishing village when we bought in 1989 was now a buzzing, sky scraper metropolis with matching sky high prices.  The famous British antenna for a bargain was alerted seemingly all over the province and cavalcades of holidaying Brits could be  witnessed on the N332 heading south to Andalucia. This migration was further propelled by an art