The Written Word Group

  I must have become desensitised to the despair around me. For the past three days we had walked in and around the center of Birmingham and looked on in disbelief at a society that was broken, that was struggling to get through the day, moving within a system that was not just cracked, but shattered into millions of brittle, jagged pieces. We came upon people lying horizontal on the pavement as if dead. We stepped over legs that were stretched out, the attached torso toppled sideways, eyes closed.  Young men lifted their clothing to reveal pale skin covered in red spots, others undid their waistbands and with both hands delved down into flesh that seldom saw daylight, ripping at the skin to try and get relief. Crowds of regular people who had no choice but to put themselves in the same air space, walked from here to there, trying to avoid eye contact, wearing an invisible sign that said ‘Don't look at me, don't talk to me’ All the while trying to avoid the addicts and the no h

  Mike could feel the pebbles and stones digging into his knees, calves and the tops of his feet, the spikes of the barbed wire, wrapped round a fence post, against the back of his knees.   The sun relentlessly beating down on his bare back, if he fell forward he would be impaled on bamboo spikes, and the barbs of some wire would tighten across his throat and round his wrists which were tied behind his back; if he went backwards, not only would the barbs on the wire dig into the backs of his legs, but there were more bamboo spikes to impale him.   The only thing he had done wrong was not to bow down to one of the guards. Why was this happening to him, he thought , he wasn’t in the armed forces, he’d never even touched a rifle or gun.   He was on the islands to try and find new plant and insect species, then all this blew up around him and he was caught in the middle.   “Why me!” he called, “Why am…..”   His cry was cut short by a blow from a rifle butt which hit him on the right sid

 This just popped into my head as I walked home after the first meeting I attended. Jack went to a meeting for to read his poem, He’d writ it on the kitchen table at his home. It had taken him months and months, and months, He’d even writ some when he’d had the mumps. When it came to his turn he stood so straight and proud, But when he opened his gob, he uttered not a sound. Nought came out, though he tried and tried and tried, Nothing at all, not a squeak nor a cry He stood there all Embarrassed and wishing he were dead, Hoping that he’d wake up still at home in bed. He ran as fast as he could and as he ran he did cry When he got home his mum hugged him, Said never mind Jack thy’s only five.

            Janie was bundled roughly into the back of the car and thrown to the floor, the next thing she knew was that the car was speeding off down the street away from the bank.   She heard thuds as bullets hit the trunk and back of the car, the rear window shattered; and whoever was in the back seat, she couldn’t see because of the blindfold, opened fire with a Thompson machine gun, the hot empty shell cases falling onto her back and arms. “Thought you said that this car was bullet proof.” “That’s what Vinny told me, just keep firing and keep those bastards away from us.” She didn’t know just what the robbers intended to do with her and was frightened to move in case they decided to simply shoot her and throw her out onto the street. “Strike one cop car,” the man on the back seat shouted elatedly.   The robbers were talking loudly about how well the robbery had gone and they were free and clear, and it was only a matter of time before they reached the hideout and could s

Desperation makes a man do terrible things. I knew I had to pay the $50K back on time. Plus, the Vig. But what could I do. We needed the money to keep the Nite Club afloat. And the bank told me to fuck off. The punters were starting to come back. I could see the greenback stash of light at the end of the tunnel. Zippo would come looking for the cash. I knew Zippo. Was best man at his wedding. OK, the hooker he married wasn’t exactly voted Miss Spreadable 1985, in her college yearbook, for nothing. I knew her from the Club. She had her regulars. Some paid over the odds. She was that type of gal. Went all the way and a bit more. If you get my drift. Said she loved them. Which is what most of them lonely sad-sack losers wanted to hear. She spread more than her favours around. And yes, I indulged. Caught a dose of the clap for my troubles. But she was a nice gal, and they suited each other. Zippo wasn’t the smartest guy on the block. Stacked like a linebacker. He dressed as tho

  Good morning Mrs Harrison. I’m Neville your instructor. How are you today? Nervous well that’s good.   Can I ask you why you want to learn to swim? Your husband has just had a pool built.   Well that’s a good reason and you don’t want to see it unused. Yes that’s another…… And the grandchildren swim like fish so you don’t want to be left out.     Well Mrs Harrison….. Pardon! You have a slight problem. And what’s that Mrs Harrison?   You’re afraid of water. There’s no need Mrs… In fact you’re terrified of water….. Well Mrs Harrison you drink tea yes? ..No you only drink coffee.    Well that’s made with….made with milk!   Cow’s milk is……only goat’s milk.     Why’s that…..You’re allergic to cow’s milk…… OK. Fine but you take a bath don’t you?   You just shower!     Well Mrs Harrison you know when you’re standing in the shower tray and you put your heel in the plug hole; the tray starts to fill up.    You can’t lie down in a shower tray!    Well no

 "Death is the greatest leveller" so sayeth Roman poet Claudius Claudianus. Whether it be a King, Queen, World leader, Billionaire, or just plain old me, at the end of the day, we do all go the same way. Ok, each mode of exit might be different but when Father Time catches up with us and the Grim Reaper stretches out his bony finger, the end is the same for all, and in that moment, we join the other hundreds of thousands other souls who have passed that day. Many of them die believing in an After Life, many will not and many live in hope but perhaps, fearful of how it might be. But suppose, just suppose there is one. I don't mean the kind where we sit on a fluffy cloud in a white robe all day, plucking a harp with Cherubims and Seraphims fluttering around us. But suppose we can really meet up again with relatives and friends who have  passed before. Mother's, Fathers, Grandparents, Aunts and Uncles, old school friends. What would we say to them? What would our convers

  I will ask you to cast your mind back a few years, to 2008 in fact.  To the market in Arboleas village.  How full it was of stalls and people; well, it was the only decent market in the area on a Saturday.  You could of course go to the car boot behind the Bar International, but the village market was usually packed with people shopping, calling in one of the three bars for a coffee and a natter to friends they only saw down there to catch up on the gossip and news.  Of course, that was all before you had to sit outside to smoke. There was a burger van who used to park in front of Café Maloan, he’d set his tables and chairs up on the street for folks to sit and talk whilst they ate their bacon butties, burgers, or hot dogs and drink tea.  Do you remember the pot-hole in the road in front of Café Maloan, the burger van used to park and set his tables up just passed that? One market day in August, it was hot, about forty-five degrees, and dry.  I was curled up in that pot-hole and the

LIMBO.        By Aileen Cleave The smell was the worst thing.  The pungent, fetid smell of death, death on a scale unprecedented in those narrow, filthy plague-ridden streets of London in the year 1348. The baby’s screams were fading now.  Martha said another frantic prayer but it was clear no priest was coming to these doomed parts of town.  Soon the cryer would pass with his death cart.  “Bring out your dead” would be cue for Martha to part with her tiny, new-born love. But a far greater terror was chilling her mind.  The child had not been baptised. It would die bearing the universal stain of Original Sin which could only be removed by the grace of God’s blessed sacrament of Baptism.  Her child would spend eternity in Limbo, deprived for ever of the sight of God. Uneducated but well versed in the rites of her religion, she brought forth a small jug of precious water.  She could spare a little for this vital act.  She caused a few drops to fall on the tiny head and made the sign of t

                                                           I’ve told my husband to cremate me in my Chanel suit I want to look half decent when I get to the gates of heaven. Isn’t that a waste of a good suit, and is anyone going to care what you’re  wearing? What a ridiculous question. Of course people will care,  HE will care.  He’ll see that I’ve done something with my life. I’ve gone out there, I have made money. Ah, so you sound as if you are saying that money makes you a better person? Is that it? Well, if someone had a choice of having coffee and cake with me, or with that homeless looking person over there, there’s no choice is there? I mean, what's the point in even discussing it. So having money will give you the golden ticket will it? Are you even a believer?  Do you pray?  Do you talk to your God? Now you’re being pernickety. It’s just when you reach my age you start thinking about these things.  What about this guy walking towards us? Would he be judged for what he is w