The Written Word Group

I was born in  Chile,  bred  in the UK, and retired to Spain. But to understand who I am today, you have to go back, all the way back to where the itch began. In September 1973 Salvador Allende was overthrown by the Chilean military financed and  supported by the USA. Overnight our world collapsed.  Mum, my two sisters and I fled to Argentina leaving  our house, our  belongings, our relatives, and our friends  behind us, in search of our father who had crossed the Andes by foot to Argentina a few months before.  Dad was on the military's hit list for being an active supporter of Allende. He would've been killed if found, as was the fate of many. My middle sister and I had no option but to live in the shadows moving from one safe house to another, while  mum contacted friends to borrow money for the train tickets to cross the border to Argentina. We were NOT living, we were hiding. We settled in San Juan, Argentina for about a...

  Next Meeting: 10 July 2026 Location: Hostal Meson Time 10.30-1pm 500 word subject: “Scratch the Itch” Everybody who has an interest in writing or the written word is welcome to our meetup at:  Hostal Meson Arboleas.

  The Written Word Group where at the latest Luuvies Open Day. We had booked a big table and where ready to take part in the celebrations. Jeremy turned up like the good trooper he is to fill in for Aileen. Who had to give the day a miss due to unforseen circunstances. Jeremy read some of his favorite poems. Mike read some very funny word play verses Tom spun the wild tale of El Dia Del Libro, or What Did the Romans Ever Do For Us.? And Mongolita gave us the touching tale of Floppy Ears.  Which dovetailed nicely into the Charity that was collecting money for abandoned dogs. So well done everybody. It looked like we were well received by the big crowd on the day.  And it  gave us a lot to ponder, into how we may run an event like this.  It all went like clockwork and the music segements (well done Steve) and the Quiz where fabulous. It was a great way to spend a day in the sun. Drinking cold beers getting entertained by some very talented people. Whats not to lik...

  The Flash is peak Season on the mining planet Arthur Scargill. In the Antares System, 500 Million light-years from our home base.  Arthur Scargill swings dangerously close to the sun. The intense solar gravity stretches the planet's crust, triggering massive global volcanic eruptions. The air fills with Flerovium (element 114) and Copernicium (element 112) gases. The essential building blocks of our spacefaring civilization. Our harvesters run at 100% capacity, skimming the atmosphere. Collecting our priceless cargo. Big bonus credits on the way for everybody. Happy days. Then the season changes to, The Deep freeze: The planet swings far away into the freezing dark of space. Mining stops, and we await the return of, The Flash season. If the harvesters haven’t suffered to much degradation or need to be replaced, we can move them to either of the other Flash mining planets, Herbert Hoover or George Hearst. We ship the collected and extremely volatile Flerovium and Copernicium ...

For a long time, I thought and I thought about what my story would  be about. All kinds of ideas came to mind. Maybe I could  write  about the four seasons:  autumn, winter, spring and  summer. Though my two favourite seasons are Autumn when the leaves on the trees change to different shades,  from green to deep red and then yellow before they fall to the floor;  and Spring when it bursts into full colour of whites, pinks, reds, oranges as the plants come into full bloom.  But then, late one night something incredible happened.   My brain pinged and I was wide awake, my mind racing. The image of Dad playing one of his favourite pieces of classical music, ‘The Four Seasons’ by Vivaldi - was so vivid it felt almost real. Was  I dreaming or was I awake? I reached for my mobile and began to make notes before the idea vanished like the smoke into thin air. Dad had been practicing  modern ballet since  his early twenties ...

  No Regrets A Story by Jeremy Patton ( Edith Piaf was born in December 1915 on, according to her autobiography, a gendarme’s cape. This is his story .) I love Babette, of course I do, we are married after all, and I have no regrets about that.  And she loves me too, but sometimes she shocks me. Where did she learn to swear like that? She isn’t a fish wife, her father was a well respected policeman, but when she’s angry, nothing holds her back.  Last night is a fine example.  I got in from my shift at midnight, an hour later than I should have, and before she could start, I handed her my cape and told her to wash it. Yes “told”. Why would I “ask” her? She’s my wife for goodness sake, I don’t walk the streets of Paris to do my own washing. The guys at the gendarmerie would have a good laugh at that.  Anyway, it wasn’t being told what to do that set her off, it was the state of my cape. It was slimy, bloody and shitty. I didn’t help matters, she couldn...

Mary Carter Langtree was sitting with her eyes closed against the penetrating glare of the October sun. But for a nip in the easterly breeze, she had considered it to be a perfect day for the time of year. She had dressed in a light weight, floral summer dress for the unseasonable warmth but to be on the safe side, had wrapped a pink woollen cardigan around her shoulders. Her greying hair was cut short and displayed a pair of small, but nonetheless attractive, ruby earrings which perfectly matched the pendant necklace that rested below her chin.  It had not been her intention to fall into slumber but, slumber she did with her mouth slightly ajar and emitting a faint snore. Had she been able to witness herself as passers by did, she would’ve been mortified. Her legs crossed at the ankles, she sat reclined against the wooden backrest of the bench which, when she opened her eyes, afforded a view of the English Channel, busy with the comings and goings of ferry boats and leisure craf...

  At sixty-five, Claire stood alone by the seashore gazing at the horizon, the red sun rose to greet a new day. In her coat pocket was a letter addressed to someone dear who had not spoken for many years. She wanted to rebuild the bridges that had been broken, before it was too late.  Claire heard through the grape vine that her friend of many years was unwell. Determined to let bygones be bygones, she decided to make one final attempt to re-establish their friendship.  The night before, she had picked up her mobile phone, opened her contacts and searched for the name Caroline, and dialled the number.    “Hello Caroline, it's me, Claire?”  On the other end of the line, she heard heavy breathing. Then silence dropped like a guillotine. The line went dead. The misunderstanding that had torn them apart was over something that could've been discussed and resolved long ago. But both women were stubborn and proud individuals and after their fa...

I'd been thinking of her, even dreamt of her, that's what's weird about it. I was walking by the harbour when someone came up behind and overtook me. I thought it was a young girl, but as she passed, I caught a glimpse and knew it was her. Anita. Tight black jeans on thin skinny legs lead to a pert gate. Time, gravity and estrogen had been kind on her arse too. It'd been seven years since I'd gazed upon it, but it was exactly the same, she was the same, or at least looked it...My back was killing me, that's me main excuse, and she was wearing large headphones so I couldn't call out. I might've tried to get her attention but part of me wondered if she'd already recognised me and decided not to say anything, so I thought fuck it, and buried me resentment in anger. This trail of thought cemented and my bitterness grew. Hate is not a strong enough word for what me heart-mind felt, but fuck it, it'll have to do... Hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate......

  He was chained to the death chair. Labelled a violent man.  A convicted terrorist. Waiting to die. Waiting for the poison to be injected into his system. There had been no jury, just a hanging judge. He’d unsuccessfully defended himself. Been warned against it. It never goes well. But Avian Gronk had committed to defend himself against all the bullshit charges of terrorism. ‘The Southern Wetlands Cooperative Terrorist Attack,’ it had been called in all the tabloids. The Judge read out the charges he had been convicted on before his execution. “On the night of the 15 th of August at approximately midnight, you took part in a raid against the offices of, 'The Southern Wetlands Cooperative.' Herein you murdered the president and vice president and destroyed their IT network. By blowing up their offices with explosives. You left a manifesto from the, Avian Action Group on site. Then you posted the action via TikTok and YouTube.” Avian Gronk had denied all charges. He wa...