The Written Word Group

Some time ago I decried the poor state of my handwriting since pretty much everything I write these days is tapped out on a keyboard. I also mentioned the embarrassment of finding myself standing in the middle of Mercadona, scrap of paper in hand, trying to decipher my hastily scribbled shopping list.  I am sure it isn´t really my handwriting at fault, it is the cheapo ball-point pen I use. (At least, that´s my excuse). When I was contemplating this, my thoughts drifted back to my childhood and the horrible pens we were expected to use at school. It was like something out of Dickens.  A hard wooden desk, the lid of which was scored and scarred by countless numbers of children who had left their mark on it. At the top was a groove for the pen and next to it, inset in the wood, was a small glass phial, containing this dark blue, gelatinous liquid which passed for ink.  The pen itself was wood too, as far as I can recall, a thin tapered shaft at the head of which was a metal nib which was

  We sat across the room as you settled yourselves with a couple of pints and chasers. Straight away your debate began. You, with the walking stick and a permanent smile playing around your mouth. Him, leaning in, as if closeness would give his words more impact. Your combined words were thrown into the air. I could see them and hear them, floating in front of me. Your postures and mannerisms spoke volumes. The energy of your dialogue rose up from the dirty floor and high across the din of the crowded bar. You batted your opinions across the table like ping pong. Flowing, diving, back and forth. Disagreements resulted in an unspoken consensus, as though neither had the will to cross the line victorious.  Your words and accents, reached out and took hold of a feeling deep within me.  The deep calling of my bloodline. We invited you to join our table and the hours went too fast. ‘Him’ was the person I sat across from and spoke to mostly. We fell into the rhythm of familiarity, of  knowin

                                                                        The subject of music came up recently in a conversation we were having with friends over an early supper.   I was struck by the differing connotations it had to different people, especially with regard to reminiscences. So often I’ve wished I were musical.  So often I have broken into song, firmly believing I am pitch perfect  only to be silenced by the  anguish on the faces of those around me.   My mother had a beautiful voice, and she sang throughout the day, turning the most mundane of household chores into happy, joyful events.  I grew up with the glorious arias of Puccini, Verde and Bizet ringin g in my ears, along with the songs from the many popular musicals of the forties and fifties.  My inability to bring forth one true note was not my fault, apparently . It was down to my favouring my father’s side of the family, all philistines where music was concerned, according to my mother. Family gatherings at Chri

I was brought up in a family with old fashion convictions, one of those convictions was that girls be virgins when they marry. We had no guidance with regards to sex, we only knew sex was a taboo. My parents did overprotect us about the real world. But then, in 1973-75 so much happened to us in that short time that we had to grow up quickly and our poor parents were also overwhelmed with that pace of life, they didn't know how to handle us growing up so fast. Besides, in those days we didn't have the access to information as we have it now to guide new parents. When we lived in Buenos Aires as refugees, we met boys of all ages. This was something unfamiliar for us as we never had daily contact with the opposite sex, I'm afraid our naivety got the best out of us sisters. My middle sister was 15 and I was 17 then. We met boys, went out and had fun. We had no idea what looking after ourselves meant, if you get my meaning. Boys being boys had other intentions,

Maria was born in a remote place called Quintero, a commune of Valparaiso. The family home was a humble abode in the middle of the campo, with no electricity and no gas but they got by. Her father, an alcoholic,  believed that the only reason girls wanted to go to school was to learn to read and   write so they could write letters and  get together with boys. Consequently, her parents didn't send Maria or her siblings to school.  Maria was just fifteen when she made the brave decision to run away from home. She came to this decision one evening, when her father once again came home drunk.  He was being violent,  verbally and physically, abusive towards her. This behaviour was becoming more of a norm whenever her father went out on a drinking spree which was getting to be nearly every night. Although Maria was illiterate, she knew she wanted a better life than the one she had.  She  was a hardworking girl, always helping mum to do any job around the house, no job was too

 The symbolism eluded her at first:  a blood red rose lying on the white stone step.   How had it come to be there?  Was it significant or simply happen chance? She stooped slowly, painfully to pick it up, taking great care to avoid the vicious-looking thorns protruding from the stem.  The flower was fully open, and the sudden movement caused several of the outer petals to fall, drifting stubbornly down to the stone step as though returning home. “Elinor, Elinor!”  An uncanny silence was the only response.  Irritation started to rise, followed immediately by a foreboding.  Elinor was always to hand, always within earshot.  Much younger than her usual housemaids, Elinor had appeared almost out of the blue, but with impeccable timing and similarly impeccable references. She had proved to be quite a find, hardworking, diligent and discreet, and with no family within 25 miles, she wasn’t always “popping” into the village to visit various friends or relatives. But where was she now?   She m

I had a Cousin, twice removed, who was an Actor of some note but whose career came to an unexpected and premature end. He was into Drama from a young age, School productions, Pantomime etc. and he joined a local Amateur Dramatic group. After leaving school, he acted with a Repertory Company, performing everything from Panto to Ibsen, but his favourite was always Shakespeare. Anyway, he was recommended to RADA, auditioned for them and obtained a scholarship and after three years, graduated and was offered a job at The Old Vic in London. He just had bit parts to begin with but learned from the best, Gielgud, Olivier and Mills.  Then his chance came in a production of his beloved Shakespeare,  "A Midsummer Nights Dream" with Ralph Richardson. Audiences and Theatre Critics alike raved over his Bottom, one critic announcing he'd never seen a Bottom quite like it. Unfortunately his career was not to last. He was performing Hamlet for the RSC and it was the "Alas poor Yoric

It was one of those days Milly woke up feeling she was going to receive wonderful news. Little she knew that the news would change the dynamic in the family.  Midday the phone rang and  it was her daughter. She felt butterflies in her stomach when she heard Ayalén, her daughter's voice, with a different tone. As if Milly could read her mind and before Ayalén could say anything, ,"don't tell me, you are going to be a mummy, aren't you?" Ayalén responded "Yes mami!, and you are going to be a grandma". There was a second or so of complete silence on the phone as both couldn't speak  feeling overwhelmed with this wonderful news.  Milly thought to herself: "A new being developing inside my dear daughter and she is going to be a mummy, how wonderful nature is!"   Milly and Ayalén despite living a couple of hours away from each other they saw each other nearly every weekend.  They even went to see their relatives in Belgium by train. T

  I was born in  Chile,  lived  in the UK for over 40 years, but seven years ago we moved to Spain. In September 1973 Salvador Allende was overthrown by the Chilean militaries financed and  supported by the USA.  C onsequently  mum, my two siblings and I fled to Argentina leaving all our belongings behind in search of our father who crossed the Andes by foot.  My father was on the military's hit list for being Allende's supporter, he would've been killed if found as it was the fate of many people.  My middle sibling and I weren't safe either. We lived clandestinely staying  in dif ferent safe houses while our mum was finding the safest way for us to travel to Argentina. We lived in San Juan, Argentina for a year or so  until my mother came to the knowledge that some Chileans were seeking refuge and being accepted under the protection of the UN in the capital, Buenos Aires. So we went there as many other families did and applied to become refugees with the UN and we wer

 Roberto and Elena moved to Liverpool, before that he spent the summer in Norwich University learning English.  The University  ran crash courses for foreign students over the summer.   Elena and her  baby daughter went to live with her mother in Belgium whilst Roberto finished his English  course and looked for a place for his young family to live.  Liverpool’s weather was different from Norwich. It rained most of the time, though this particular day, it was cold but sunny with a blue sky, not a cloud in sight, unusual for Autumn. Elena could feel the warmth of the sun shining through the windows. She closed her eyes and her mind wandered off,  thinking about her mum, whom she missed terribly, her warmth, her love and her tenderness. Understandably Elena was a young mother, only 21 years of age.  Also she remembered the happy times spent  with her youngest sibling and her dad. Elena loved languages so the six months spent at her mum's she became almost fluent in French

    I was in a dark place. My natural habitat. The stink of death lay around me. That pungent stench of life extinguished in terror. They had heavily tasered me. But I was not dead. I knew who my lifeless Dwarf comrades where. Bar staff from the,  Khuzdul night club. We were packed tight in the big trunk of a smooth-running motor. It sounded like a Mercedes. On our way to some well-planned disposal station. The Serb, a soul-fucker by trade, had taken a beef to them and decided to remove the itch. I was burned by association. And a hit contract. I took no shit from nobody, and this was the result. The Army had sent me on anger management courses. Didn’t work. Just got angrier. The fire inside me began again. A white heat of pure hate. Against the Serb, the mob, the world, the bitches that turned me down, the universe. They’d made a mistake when they grabbed me. They hadn’t killed me. My hands were tied with duct tape behind my back. I squirmed to put my ear to the back seat. One of