The Written Word Group

                                                The Christmas tradition in Chile is to celebrate Christmas on Christmas Eve. We carried on with this tradition till the children were teenagers.   The Christmas tree would be decorated  a couple of weeks before Christmas and the "Pan de Pascua" (Chilean Christmas Bread)  would be baked. The presents wrapped and hidden away to be opened on Christmas Eve by the children. Our young children went to bed earlier than usual to let "El Viejito Pascuero" (Father Christmas) deliver the presents by the front door.  One specific year which I can remember so clearly today,  my oldest child woke up before the time, full of  excitement to see what "Viejito Pascuero" had left them, just as my husband was leaving the presents outside the door. We were in a predicament but we persuaded her to go back to bed. We explained that her daddy went outside to check out the noises we heard but he couldn't see anything.  Perhaps it

I stood up, staring at the page. My head in a whirl, my heart racing. Was it her, listed as one of the survivors? Elsie Bowerman, age 22. The age was right. I sat down heavily again, my hands shaking. If she was my Elsie, what was she doing on the Titanic? Where had she been for the last two years?  It had taken me a long time to move on after she left me. I threw myself into my work, travelled and tried to get her out of my thoughts, out of my heart....I had a new companion, Alice, who I was very fond of but there was always something missing, she wasn't Elsie. Elsie and I met at a cocktail party flung by a friend of a friend. I stood alone, glass in hand, knowing no one and wondering what I was doing there when, suddenly, I knew. Our eyes literally met across a crowded room, in true Jane Austin fashion. We gravitated towards each other and from then on, we were almost inseparable, until that fateful night when she disappeared into the darkness.  I called a Steward and ordered a l

  Sean's Uncle sat at his usual corner table.   He stood, arms open and pulled Sean to him. “Good to see you. Terrible news about your Mum”  “ Yep. Bloody horrible, even though we knew it was coming. How have you been?”  “Well. you know. I still can't get used to the fact that my Joyce is dead. It's been a year already” “I’m sorry I haven't been around much. Mum never got over Joyce dying. She kept saying that she should have gone first”  “I know Sean, they stayed close all their lives” “Let me go get some drinks” Walking back to the table Sean noticed an envelope with his Mums’ handwriting on it.  “It’s a letter from your Mum. She asked me to give it to you once she was gone” “Do you want me to read it now, here?” “I think it would be best Sean”   Sean caught a faint trace of lavender as he opened the envelope. “Mum.” He whispered. He stared at her handwriting.  My Darling Sean. I know you will be sitting with Uncle Dan as you read this. I asked him to meet you at the

 My great Aunt was a Prima Ballerina with the Bolshoi Ballet Company, based in London rather than Moscow. I always believed she thought it would be too cold for her pirouettes. In her time, she danced with all the greats, Nijinsky, Neuryev, Kalashnikov....no, that's a gun isn't it..... Baryshnikov.  Unfortunately, like my musician Uncle, her career was bought to a somewhat premature end.  She was dancing Swan Lake at Sandler's Wells in Covent Garden with the Principal Male dancer and the performance was going really well, the audience was enthralled, the atmosphere magical as they enjoyed watching one of the World's best in one of the most famous of ballets. They arrived at the Dying Swan scene and she was supposed to swoon, gracefully, into his arms. Well, swoon she did but unfortunately, he dropped her, straight on her Arabesque. It wasn't pretty and was hardly her fault, but the worst part was, as she fell, she reached out with her hand to stop herself, grabbed t

  The Written Word Group was created by  Berni Albrighton  & David Holman-Hill Waters 01/12/2023. Based out of Albox, the group of writers meet up once a month to chat and listen to each other’s written work. Some of the writers are in the process of completing a novel, whilst others have varied projects on the go.  This Blog is used to further the aim of the Written Word Group and showcase the wide ranging talent that exists in this small group. We support writers in creating work, be that poetry, short stories, flash fiction.  We currently have 7 permanent members, The Magnificent Seven, and we are delighted to be celebrating our one-year anniversary. The time felt right to launch an OPEN MIC EVENT for writers of all genre. We aim for this to be a regular monthly event with the first one being held on:                                   Wednesday 7 th  February 2024 at 1.30pm to 4pm                                        at Hostal Meson, Arboleas. (see location details bel

  My Uncle was a musician, a Maestro who performed all over Europe and the UK back in the 50s. He was a virtuoso of the Japanese Nose Flute, which as you know is a very difficult instrument to learn and master let alone play and perform.  He was booked to play a concert at the Royal Albert Hall in London, with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra and guest conductor Sir John Barbarolli. Rehearsals had gone very well but, unfortunately, on the morning of the concert, my uncle developed a heavy head cold. There was no way the concert could be cancelled as it was a sell out, so my uncle decided the show must go on. Anyway, everything was set, he walked on to the stage to thunderous applause, the orchestra began the first few bars, he lifted the flute to his nose and proceeded to spray the first three rows of the audience with mucus...... The last anyone heard of him, he was busking outside Leicester Square Underground station....

  The crash at Presido destroyed our craft. Some sort of pulsating radar beam that the apes had developed. It was never meant to be used as a weapon. But it played havoc with our systems and brought us down. We were thrown out of our craft, and now lay broken in a heap, awaiting the arrival of the US Army. The beast came over, sniffing. Its nose touched our bare synthetic skin. Its handler was all excited. ‘We got one!!! We got one!! Over here. I think it's alive. We reached up and grabbed the beast’s throat. Then transferred to its mind. Panic and confusion resulted, as we strove to control it. We’d been trained to do this. It was called the lifeboat exchange. The last desperate escape move, to save the hive, and transfer from a broken synthetic. The beast went wild as we tried to supress and manage its simple mind. ‘Down boy, down boy.’   The handler said, struggling to regain mastery. Then a cold calm ensued, as we looked out through dumb eyes, and saw the small

 I come from a very eclectic family. Some might say weird, but admittedly, they are somewhat "unusual." For instance, my Grandfather nearly married an Egyptian Belly Dancer while my Great, Great Aunt Agatha was a nurse who worked with Florence Nightingale for a time and married a Zulu. My family was also very much into the arts, not the painting and sculpting, but music and dance and drama. I had an Uncle who was a musician, another great Aunt who was a Prima Ballerina and a Cousin who was an actor. Unfortunately all their careers came to a premature and unfortunate end, but their stories should be told for posterity...... My Grandfather was a young man in the mid 1920's. He was too young to fight in the Great War and in any case would have refused on religious grounds....he was a devout coward. Anyway, one evening he was in London with some friends and found himself in a Nightclub. He had led a very sheltered life and in those days Nightclubs were not like they are today

 A Christmas Memory by Aileen Cleave The first Christmas I remember was in 1951.  I would have been 4 and a half.  My father was away in Malaya (I learned later) with the Royal Navy and my two youngest siblings had yet to be born.  So it was just  my mother, my older sister and me who went to stay at my grandparent’s house that year.    I don’t recall a Christmas tree, but I do remember a festive atmosphere, so I think the living room was dressed with holly and laurel and mistletoe - this latter I recall because much fuss was made when visitors called and a great deal of laughter ensued from under it. My grandparent’s house was a two bedroom, mid terrace house built just after the First World War, following Lloyd George’s ‘homes fit for heroes’ pledge.   The one living room must have been quite large because there was by way of heating a large, black range,  in front of which was a sofa and an armchair at either side.  Behind the sofa was an  oak dining table and then against the wall

  I am a Trekkie, a massive Star Trek fan, have been since the Original series in the 60s and the Next Generation in the 90s. My partner Mary doesn't share my passion, or obsession as she calls it. She hates it, prefers the silly Rom.coms like Notting Hill and Pretty Woman...Yeuk! Mind you she does have a point. I collect memorabilia. Our spare bedroom looks like a Charity Shop. It's crammed with posters, photos, models and even life size cutouts of some of the characters. I go to Conventions too whenever I can so I can get up close and personal with my heroes, Picard, Number One. Data, Worff and of course, Troy. I have spent thousands on my hobby, but why not? Mary could tell you why not. I have tried and tried to get her interested,  but no joy, until...... Unbeknownst to her, I sent for a full Klingon costume. It was the real biz, the wig complete with the Cornish pasty forehead, the beard, the Federation uniform.....the works. One evening, I slipped into the bedroom while s

    The CIA train hundreds of their agents to speak various foreign languages. But they stress, that the agent must not get too proficient in their chosen language. The aim for the agent, is to reach a conversational, just about get by, level. What they don't want, is a perfect speaking agent, with a peculiar dialect from a certain section of whatever Town/City they are stationed in. It would raise too many awkward questions, so it is frowned upon.  What they do want, is an agent speaking a bland, everywhere, everyman, supermarket, restaurant, chit chat in a bar, level of linguistic ability. Enough to recruit local agents and start a network. In short, they want agents who do not stand out in a crowd. It reminded me of a TV show where this business guru was saying,  "Most businesses do not want specifically to succeed.  What they want desperately, is not to fail.  And he gave the example of the Zebras stripes, as a fantastic camouflage, to prove this theory. The