The Written Word Group

           She vanished just as the year ended.   That was New Year’s Eve nineteen nighty nine, Judy was a party animal and was dancing her legs off in the city centre celebrations, she was high on the excitement for the coming year, the new millennium and all that would bring.   She was looking forward to a new job in a new city with the promise of more money and an apartment thrown in.   Her life only going one way and that was up.   She didn’t drink or take drugs of any sort, hers was a holistic way to care for everything.           Judy was tall, blonde hair, blue eyes and was slightly Asian looking and very attractive; the life and soul of the normal party, but this night she was just one of the throng of people in the city centre enjoying the celebrations for the coming New Year.   She danced with anyone who wanted to dance, but no more than that, if they got too close then she wo...

  I Remember: a poem by Jeremy Patton I remember I remember “I remember, I remember the house where I was born”, a poem I heard in the sixth form, which I thought was rather good I even had it in a book The Collected Verse of Thomas Hood And the final line held a trick which cuts you like a knife A message I’ve forgotten now but tells a sad truth about human life.   I remember I remember I have an appointment later today So sadly we only have so long I never forget an appointment, my memory is strong That’s because I flex it, exercise and use it And if someone gives you their time, it’s vital to not abuse it.  So let’s have some tea and the nurse will bring some chocolate cake And though it’s time for my nap, I promise I’ll stay awake.  I remember I remember Samson Agonistes, by Milton. I remember  “O dark dark dark, amidst the blaze of noon Irrecoverably dark,” erm oh could you fetch a spoon, and a paper napkin and another cup of tea, a...

I remember, oh yes, I remember. I remember the warm sun on my face, the blue sky, the birds singing in the green trees. I remember the sound of the Ocean crashing on the shore, the smell of ozone in the air. I remember the aroma of baking bread, of freshly brewed coffee, of onions sizzling in the pan. Yeah, I remember.  I remember the softness of her hair on my face, her perfume, the warmth of her mouth on mine, her body pressed against me. I remember every curve of her, every line, every secret place as my lips scorched across her skin, kissing, tasting, exploring. I remember her whispering my name, and her cry of passion as she clung to me. How I remember my secret love, forbidden love.  I remember the betrayal and how it ended. I remember the confrontation, the struggle, the red mist descending, the madness which overtook me. I remember the glint of the blade, the feel of the knife in my hand and the look on his face as I plunged it into him again and again and the blood an...

  When you’re writing and something, or someone, takes control of your hands and fingers, the words just flow onto the page, seemingly without you even thinking about what you are writing.   It may be for only a page, or it could be a hundred pages and you stop and look at what you have written and think, did I write all that, I don’t remember writing so much, then you go back and read it wondering where it all came from.           Finding that the story flows like water in a mountain stream.   That’s what makes me happy, it doesn’t happen often, but when it does it feels fantastic.   Oh you feel drained at the end, at least I do, but also elated because it is the best thing you’ve ever written, until the next time it happens and the feeling is just the same.

I was stationed on a base where they carried out top secret aircraft development, it was out in the middle of nowhere and most of the personnel were civvies.   My job, if you could call it that, was to patrol the airfield side of two hanger, walking back and forth from one side to the other carrying a rifle, always at the ready.   Although the local police had been informed and did a good job of keeping sightseers away, they were backed up by the RAF police and a platoon of army, all dressed in civvies.   My orders were to shoot anyone who crossed the wire no matter who. When they were to carry out a test flight I would get a message in my ear piece, then stand aside until the doors started to open, at which point I would climb onto the towing vehicle and ride out to the pad.   All the inspections had been carried out in the hanger and the aircrew were aboard.   The towing bar would then be disconnected and I would either ride back to the hanger or stand by ...

  Stark naked, I shivered. Outside from where I waited, armed soldiers simulated warfare.   They scurried around a network of excavated practice trenches. It was almost my turn for a three-hour physical examination in a dungeon like, military tent at Higher Barracks, Exeter which boasted one single antique stove down its far end. ‘You’re next, Drake,’ an officer instructed a recruit, who was close enough in front of me that I enjoyed his body warmth and could reach around his torso for extra, if needed.   Drake dutifully peeled off the line, as more men behind me shuffled forward. I was at the front.   ‘Open wide,’ the medic said. ‘Ahhhh,’ said Drake as the medic peered into his mouth.   I made a mental note of this as it was a sensible response. I took his place, then was told, ‘Up on the scales.’ I stood as tall as my five foot seven could reach.   The medic dropped a measurement bar to my crown and extended a tape measure from the floor...

     I remember my drive south.  I remember my elation, my anxiety, my hopes and my doubts.   It was 1983 and we were returning to live in London, now a family of five distinctly different from the excited, carefree newly-weds who made the same journey northward 13 years previously. We loved the North;  my husband, a Londoner borne and bred, especially so.  He loved the openness of the people, and their  genuine interest in others,he loved the easy access to beautiful countryside, and, inevitably,  the low cost of living, especially of housing.  But this was the early eighties and the recession that was to devastate so many the length and breadth of the country, was already wreaking havoc with companies, jobs and livelihoods in the North East. It seemed to happen overnight.  One day our company was doing so well, life was good, then quite suddenly no-one had money for home improvements, our company went to the wall and tough decisio...

 The Club Card The broadleaf  trees I love so much are stark and bare, their naked branches reaching upwards to a grey sky, the air is  chilly and the atmosphere over all would be decidedly bleak but for the warmth of the Christmas lights,  the excitement and anticipation of the crowds filling the shops, and the unmistakable and distinct character of the welcoming British pub. However, a visit to the supermarket is unavoidable, we must make our contribution to the festivities. What seems like many years ago when we resided here in good old Blighty, we had a Club Card, a Tesco Club Card, I remember it well.  It didn’t seem to be an enormous advantage back then, but a quick journey through the crowded aisles of this local branch, reveals a totally different story now. Just on wine alone, already an exorbitant price to our Spanish eyes, the difference is huge.  My husband is on a mission.  We need to find and reinstate our Club Card.  I look at him a...

            The robbery had gone well, they’d left all the jewellery, that was harder to get rid of, and just taken the money, Johnny estimated that there was about two million in used notes all neatly bundled into thousands.   The gang had returned to the disused warehouse, they used as a base to split the money up, then go their separate ways.           They had split the money up five ways and the other four had gone into another room to eat and get a drink, Johnny stayed with the money, not because he didn’t trust any of the others, he just wasn’t hungry or thirsty, besides they could see each other through the open door.   The shortest of the four stood and walked to the open door looking at Johnny suspiciously though half closed eyes. “Who sent you?   Who do you work for?” the man asked as he walked into the room where Johnny leant against a large table covered in neat piles of bankn...