The Written Word Group

      Wyatt Earp turned to his brothers sitting astride their make-believe horses that, in reality, was the ranch fence separating the garden from the wider Yorkshire dales and, trying his best to transform his pre-pubescent treble into the mid-west baritone drawl of the cowboy movies they all loved, told them his news. ‘Pardners’, he said, adopting the parlance of the west, ‘just so you know, I’m figuring to get hitched sometime soon’. He swung his left leg over the top spar of the fence and sat ‘side saddle’ whilst they digested his news. ‘You what’, exclaimed his siblings in unison, ‘who to’?, continued the middle brother of the three identical triplets. Wyatt, or in truth, Jimmy, puffed up his chest and said ‘I was figuring to ask Miss Obrian’. ‘Miss Obrian……’ an incredulous Josh exclaimed, ‘Pardner, your nine…., she must be about….., a hundred!’. ‘I don’t care pardner, I figure she loves me, and I reckon I love her’. ‘Pardner, Jimmy, your crazy! I m...

  Low grey clouds cling to the hill tops, the persistent rain and drizzle, drips from the hanging leaves of the trees and bushes and slowly soaks anything it comes into contact with.   It was the sort of day where the very atmosphere clings to you like a wet blanket seeping through your clothing and into your very bones.   The sun does not show herself on days like this as though she is ashamed and in hiding.   Bands of light and dark grey clouds move slowly across the sky and the drizzle turns to rain and back with the bands.   The angry dark slate greeny grey sea pounds against the concrete sea wall, which protects the small, former, fishing town, turns it back on itself in torments of a mixture of dirty white foam and sand.   The three or four small fishing boats, which are all that are left of the once bustling industry, are drawn up a slipway and are resting above and behind the concrete sea wall; draped with tarpaulins to try and keep the rain out. ...

        The county of Lincolnshire has a huge number of old airfields, hence it is known as ‘Bomber County,’ virtually every town or village had an airfield near or named after it. Most have now gone, either under the plough or a few being used as industrial sites, but their memory lives on, usually the last building, for some reason, to be demolished is the control tower, but these are the buildings where most of the strange happenings occur.   This is the story about one such disused airfield which is now an industrial estate.   The aircraft and personnel may have gone, but some things remain to remind us that people lived, worked, and, sometimes died there.           I remember my first day on a new job back in the sixties, it was as a security guard on an old airfield in the north of Lincolnshire.   The place had closed in nineteen forty seven and everything was left as it had been whe...

The blond was tied tight to the chair. Could not move her arms or legs. Eyes covered. Her face was red from the slapping. But still, she wouldn’t break.  Started talking back.Like we was fools or something. “When Jake gets back from Africa, he’s gonna kill you’s all. You hear me.” She didn’t know Jake aint coming back. His ticket home sank off the coast of Mozambique. Shark feed now, I hear. I was in contact with my two boys. They had knocked a hole through the wall and had entered the mansion. And headed for the vault. “Boss, aint no way we're getting into this mudder fucker. We need the code.” I told Harry to take off her blindfold. “But boss she’ll see us.” I nodded again. And she stared into my eyes with pure hate. “Well, Vito Cardini. The hole in the wall master mind.” Harry was pissed she could now identify him and me. I turned on the electric drill. “Listen you dumb hooker. We need the code. Like now. I know you know it. So, spill the beans and lessen your suffering. Jake is...

  There’s a hole in the wall to your heart I know it I have seen it in the moments where you are vulnerable Those rare times when you need me When you reach out and cling tightly Everything that blocked it from view suddenly comes tumbling down Torrents of memories, losses, painful relationships break open the bricks and mortar  Sandbags, ineffective reinforcements, bursting forth,  proving too difficult to sweep up, there are too many particles I look at you, fragile and childlike How can you carry so much?

            Paul my next door neighbour read my children’s books and liked them, in the July he handed me a small booklet entitled 'The Magic Mauve Mountain' and asked if I could do anything with it.   I read it and thought that it was good, but short and it needed a beginning.   Paul died of cancer in the October and I still hadn’t come up with a beginning.           The booklet sat on my computer desk for about three years, so that I would see it every-day and I would wrack my brains to try and come up with a beginning to the story.   This was the time when I would walk in the hills above El Rincon, I walked the same way every-day, so every-day I would see the same views, but different wildlife, Ibex, Wild Boar, Fox, Eagle, etc.           Then one day I was descending the hill between fields of Almond trees when my eyes spotte...

  “Lovely service" “Very moving, Bishop” “So glad we could attend” “How wonderful to hear your sermon” My jaw aches from the smiles and responses. When they are all gone, I walk back into the coolness of the church. What is wrong with me today? I felt doubtful, melancholy.  Leaning against the heavy carved door, I allow my fingers to linger on the smoothness of the handle,  I imagine the hands of countless others whose grasp has left an invisible mark. I turn, stepping back to admire the rich carved door. How was such a masterpiece achieved? Who was the visionary that turned the trunk of a chestnut tree into this? A tale that depicts leaping deer, rich woodland, a fox with the wisest face. How can I feel overwhelming disappointment in the face of such workmanship?  I feel a fraud. The choirboys are leaving. Their whispers echoing around the walls, rebounding off paintings and crucifixes.  The organist too has departed. I look around me. Particles of dust dance i...

  The music in my head when I go for a long walk, The company of a good friend when we talk. The Martins and Swallows as they fly and sing, Bringing with them the promise of spring. The warmth of a cat curled up on my knee, The sight of new buds upon a fruit tree. Finding a story which I thought that I’d lost, Seeing all the trees covered in frost. The smell of freshly baked bread, The different stories running in my head. The sight of the sun on a winter’s day, A call from a friend saying that they are okay. Listening to the stories read by the group, A bowl of freshly made soup. The sewing of seeds and having to wait,   And watching them grow as they germinate. The taste of tomatoes straight from the vine, Picking them and knowing that they are mine. The smell of frying bacon in the morning, A boat bobbing up and down on its mooring. The sound of gentle summer rain, As it patters on the window pane. The vegetable garden looking s...

  The Written Word Groups 2nd Anniversary and 4th 500 Word Open Mic Event The 14th February 2025 - Kubatin - Hostal Meson - Arboleas In this we get two fantastic poems for the price of one. The first is an original poem in Spanish by Jose Cavet. A faboulous poem to honour his son Elian, and his homeland Venezuela.  Followed by a beautiful a rtistic interpretation  of Jose's poem by Jeremy Patton.

The Written Word Groups 2nd Anniversary and 4th 500 Word Open Mic Event 14th February 2025 - Kubatin - Hostal Meson - Arboleas A story about the Earth getting hit with an Asteroid and our music selection