Bridlington Library Writers Group
Showcase of works created by Bridlington Library Writers Group
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Bridlington Library Writers Group
Welcome to Bridlington Library Writers Group.
Bridlington Library Writers Group meets the first Friday of each month at 2pm in the meeting room at the library. Admission is free and no writing experience is required, but, it is a very "active" group, where attendees will be required to produce work.
Each month we will be showcasing the works created in the monthly tasks.
LEAP YEAR PROPOSAL
Ah’ve made mi New Year Resolution,
There seeams ti be but yan solution
If ah’m ti ivver be a wife
Nut stop a spinster all mi life.
So listen wahle Ah ‘ave mi say
Ah think it’s tahme we named the day,
There’s been plenty o’ tahme ti think it oot,
We’ve coourted three year An’ thoo’s said nowt.
Seeah if Ah’s nut ti be left on t’shelf
Ah shall ev ti deeah the job miself,
An’ this is t’year wen wimmin can
Mak’ a proposal ti onny man,
An’ you’re the yan that is mi choice,
An’ soah Ah ask wi ‘umble voice
Dear Albert wilt tha marry me ?
Ah want ti share mi life wi’ thee.
Fact, fiction or faction; write about one day in your life be it good, bad, one that changed your life, one that you wish would happen or even a journey or outing that still remains memorable.
500 words as usual or 40 lines if waxing poetic.(leading the session = Ken Joul).
And here is my contribution...
One day, last week, I went into Garland's bookshop - and there in the window was a book written by Ken Joul.
One day, in the not too distant future, I would like to see the window full of all your books.
Wouldn't that be wonderful.
(hope you don't mind that it's not quite 500 words)
For those of you not able to be with us today, we discussed the fact that the April meeting should be 6th April - Good Friday. The library will be closed for that day, so it was agreed that the April meeting would be held in March - Friday, 30th March, to be precise.
Author Linda Acaster (who Anne has contact with) has agreed to come to talk to us in May. Many thanks to Anne for arranging this for us.
SUZANNE – MY OWN VALENTINE
14 FEBRUARY 1971
You rushed into this world
couldn’t wait, ever bold.
Go home, it’s not tonight!
Your father had been told.
Took us all by surprise
that snowy night so cold.
Image of your sister
beautiful to behold.
You arrived just in time
Suzanne, my own Valentine,
more precious to me than gold.
Valentines by David Hawkins
At the age of seventeen I began my first job as a library assistant in the East End of London. The branch librarian showed me round and I quickly learnt the colour coding for the non-fiction, fiction and children’s book tickets. Under the branch librarian was a senior assistant and three female library assistants of whom one would be off duty (and also myself) for part or whole of a day.
I saw several assistants come and go during my time there: the first was a man called Dennis who soon emigrated to America. He was followed by Barry and then a very pleasant lady called Jean. She was transferred to the central library and after her came a man called Larry who, at times when the branch librarian was off duty would ‘entertain’ a nurse from the nearby hospital – of course these were not their real names.
A senior assistant whom I will call Reg replaced Jean and the moment he and I met we took an instant dislike to each other: why? I cannot say – it must have been one of those chemistry things.
It came to St Valentine’s Day and I was about to leave home to catch my bus to work. I heard the postman rattle the letter – box. I picked up the envelope and saw it was addressed to me. I hurriedly pushed it into my pocket, shouted ‘goodbye’ to mother and ran to the bus stop. When on the bus I opened the envelope and pulled out a Valentine card. Of course my name and address were printed so I couldn’t tell who it was from – I quickly pushed it back into my pocket and was very excited because it was the first Valentine card I had ever received.
When I got to work I called out ‘I got a Valentine card’. The three who were on duty with me, which included Reg, gathered round the entrance and exit gates with great anticipation. I showed them what I had received and they then said things like, ‘Do you think you know who its from?’ and ‘Who would you like it to be from?: and among them was Reg. I said, ‘I hope its from Pam one of the Youth Club girls’. I had a crush on her and could think of nobody else all day.
That evening happened to be a Youth Club evening so directly I spotted Pam I showed her the card and said ‘Thanks for this Pam’. She replied, ‘I haven’t sent it’. ‘You would say that I replied’. ‘No honest, not me’ she said and all the other girls denied it as well.
A couple of days later Reg casually said, as we were having our usual early cup of tea, ‘By the way David, did you ever discover who sent you that Valentine?’ and directly he had said it the others burst out laughing and one of them pointed to Reg and said, ‘it was him’. He admitted it immediately and I disliked him even more.
A valentine but from whom can it be?
Unsigned and perhaps sent to intrigue
Not from my wife, she would not send two
That would be a waste of her money
A friend perhaps or even a neighbour
No way to know by whom it was penned
A secret admirer, that would be something
But at my age just wishful thinking
With fingerprints and other such stuff
Forensics could possibly help me
But then, as no crime has been committed
I am not going to get far there
An illegible franking but if clear
With regional post centres, no good
A printed label from a computer
Most of my acquaintances have one
Is someone trying to discord our house?
A waste of time, we both had a laugh
Maybe it’s a wind up but who can tell
I’ll watch friends to look for a snigger
I don’t recall winding anyone up
At least not intentionally
I wonder if its a round robin
Just passed on by someone from last year
Methinks there is nothing to do but the same
Providing that I can remember
I’ll put it somewhere safe but not too such
That I’ll never find it when needed
There’ll be a spare envelope from somewhere
And someone else can have the surprise
Pity I don’t live in the USA
From Loveland I’d be able to post it
That really would make it a statement
To the next lucky recipient
But then who is this person, Valentine
That is causing so much of a stir
Only a martyred saint from Roman times
After whom this day has now been named
In olden times love tokens were given
In Wales it was the spoons that were carved
But now everything is commercialised
With manufacturers holding sway
Really enjoyed that, Ken - and learnt there is a place in America (and could only be in America!) called "Loveland" . Sarah
January's task was to bring something you have written on the theme of ‘New Beginnings’ - this may take any form, including a poem, a non-fiction article or a short story. It was agreed that a maximum limit of 500 words would allow everyone to have the opportunity to share their work at the meeting. The theme can be interpreted in any way you like. Perhaps New Year Resolutions and your hopes, dreams and plans for 2012. Or do you want to write about a new relationship, a new job/redundancy or even a change in the way you or a character thinks about something? Perhaps someone is emigrating, buying a new home or starting a family. Whatever you decide to write about we look forward to hearing it.
Here are some of the pieces of writing produced by members of the group:-
By Ken Joul - "A NEW YEAR; A NEW BEGINNING?"
For a start, I must write out a hundred lines. These will be-
I will be in charge of time this year.
In this way, maybe it will become ingrained in the brain and I will not be at the behest of time as pertained last year.
New Year’s resolutions, what can I do?
I cannot give up smoking as I do not smoke. If I were to reduce my alcohol intake I would end up tea total. Perish the thought! More exercise? Well my osteoarthritis restricts what I can do anyway. There is no reason for me to go on any diet as my wife ensures already that we eat sensibly and I am not overweight.
Maybe I should look to something more off the wall
I could vow to climb Mount Kilimanjaro or even walk the Inca Trail in Peru for charity but then we are back to the limitations of the arthritis.
Something a little less strenuous perhaps, like learning more about the computer rather than it ruling what I can do. But it does what I want; besides which, the more screens I pull up the more confused I become.
To do more charity work could be a resolution but I am already an officer of one local group, which constrains what I can do at certain times of the month. I do not want to have all my time regimented; enough is enough.
Perhaps I should widen my horizons and join more organisations. There are certainly enough organisations here in Bridlington that would allow me to attend one every morning, afternoon and evening. Unfortunately I do not like having my life organised into compartments. Spontaneity is what I like to be able to do at any time of the day.
To become a better person, now that would be nice; except I know I am already the best – well I have mugs that say I am the best Dad and Granddad.
Maybe I should do more about the house and help my lady. However, whatever I do would not be to my lady’s satisfaction but then she would have to find something to do with the spare time she should have available. That could cost me if more time for shopping was involved. Well I am a Yorkshireman.
A promise not to pinch all the bedclothes overnight might not go amiss but they have a life of their own when we are asleep and someone keeps giving them away. Again we have a no, no.
A good thing would be to psyche myself up to worry less but then I would worry if I had nothing to worry about.
Could be the best thing to do is let things just happen as usual. No resolutions to break and take life as it comes.
By Anne Mullender "MOVING ON"
The moving finger writes, and, having writ, moves on. Omar Khayyam’s words reflect on how the chapters of my own book of life have enfolded since that fateful New Years’ Day, 1993.
In order to throw off the frustrations endured through a Christmas spent with four octogenarians, my husband Colin and I came to Bridlington for a walk by the sea. Strolling leisurely back to the Harbour Car Park on this bright crisp day, we noticed an apartment block with the Show Flat open for viewing. Curious to inspect this, the latest venture, of our local builder from Cherry Burton, we found ourselves in Number 11….. The end result being that on St Patrick’s Day we moved to our new home, Apartment Number 3, overlooking the sea
A year later I gave up my part-time job at the Solicitors in Beverley, where I was the morning secretary for the Litigation Partner, intending to find work in Bridlington. On duty one evening as Relief Librarian at Bridlington Library, I was surprised to see my former afternoon colleague, Linda Acaster, coming in for a meeting.
‘Have you written your Father’s book, then? She asked knowing that this was my aim in life. ‘Why not come to my class at the College?’
I had invested in a Correspondence Course with the National Extension College, Cambridge, which I was finding immensely enjoyable. My Father was coming up to 90 and I needed to know where to start with his life story, most of which I thought I knew. In the end he wrote it himself telling me such as ‘It wasn’t young John Hannam that pinched the apples, it was Aloysius Hughes.’
Thus, the kick start of joining Linda’s class, where I began to learn the craft of writing, led to my becoming a member and Secretary of Bridlington Writers’ Group. Each chapter of my new found hobby moved me on to meeting and enjoying the company of like-minded people, and the making of so many dear friends along the way.
Writing weekends were spent under the tutorage of Pat Borthwick, Liz Cashdan, even Gervase Phinn, who was to become a celebrity throughout the next few years. So much pleasure for me in what became my mainstay amongst life changing circumstances with bouts of ill health and the breakdown of my marriage.
Omar Khayyam continues, Nor all thy tears wash out a word of it.
New beginnings have a way of creeping up on us, don’t they? In spite of everything that happened to me in the past 19 years, I have discovered the real me! I have now moved on from leading the Creative Writing Group for the U3A, which kept me busy for the past two and a half years, having published my poetry collection, Spreading My Wings (part of my bucket list). I now find myself at New Year 2012 looking forward to moving on with Sarah’s group, the Bridlington Library Writers.
Let’s keep the faith! Happy New Year!
This months task set our writers group the task of splitting into four groups and producing a 500 word piece on the theme of arriving in Bridlington.
Beckie kicked the driftwood as tears rolled down her face. It wasn’t fair! Why did she have to be in Brid when all her friends were back home?
It was never like this on the beach in summer when Mum and Dad helped her build sandcastles. Now even the gulls’ squawks sounded sad and the cold grey sea foamed angrily at her feet.
Granny had said Christmas would be great but how could it be when Mum was always crying and Dad wouldn’t be there. Dad could have made something wonderful out of this piece of driftwood, like the cat he carved for her last year. She longed to show him this new find.
Beckie stooped to pick up the driftwood. Maybe one day she’d see Dad again. She shivered as the wind whipped sand into her face.
Hailstones pelted from dark clouds, forcing her hurry back to the house.
As she crept through the back door she heard Granny’s voice. “We’ll have a great Christmas without him.”
“It’ll serve him right,” said Mum as she turned on the fairy lights.
Cradling her driftwood and in no mood to listen to another argument Beckie sought refuge in her bedroom. Dad’s voice echoed in her head, “I’m going, anyway!” She’d never heard Dad shout before. What had made him so angry? Christmas wouldn’t feel right without him. Was it her fault?
Just as Gran called, “Tea’s ready,” the doorbell rang. Beckie hid her treasured driftwood under the bed.
She heard the door opening, was that Dad’s voice saying, “Where’s my favourite girl?”
By the time Beckie got down stairs Mum and Dad were hugging.
“The business trip was cancelled,” Dad said. “There was a baggage strike at the airport.”
Beckie giggled as Dad swung her round and planted a kiss on her cheek. Her Christmas wish granted, Beckie ran back upstairs to collect her driftwood.
“I’ve got the perfect present for you, Dad. This piece already looks like a cat.”
Phew – squawk!
Where am I? This has been a long flap.
What’s this BBB fish, on a pole above the harbour?
How come I’m still moving when I’ve stopped? Round and round.
Ouch squawk! This fish definitely isn’t a fish.
Where am I? This ain’t Timbuktoo.
White cliffs, yellow sands, blue sea and a big orange dome.
Bobbing flags fluttering below.
Man-boys falling dead like stones into the basin of swirling water.
What are those golden oblongs those white wingy guys are swooping at?
Looks as if they’re eating them. Gonna get me some.
Yaaay slurp squawk! Dee-licious. They hit the spot! Salty, soggy, squashy.
‘Oi, that bloody bird’s nabbed me chips!’
Chill man, there’s enough for everybody!
Aa-ha squawk! What’s over there? Let’s go flap-about.
That stuff down there is nearly as bright as me.
Music but no-one dancing. Pink clouds on sticks.
Screeching squealing, swerving, mad drivers, sparks sparking. Don’t like this noise.
Head for the sand it reminds me of home.
Landing on a flat camel – Turpin on its headband.
‘Gerr’off. No free rides!’
Sob squawk! I was enjoying that.
Wow squawk! What’s that big yellow bird?
Dropping rope, whippy waves, whirry wind. Catching a man-fish on a wire.
Not eating him. Flopping him into an orange floaty-ma-jig.
Hey squawk! Slimy, stringy, sea-borne strands. Smelleeee! Slippy-slidy walk. Whoops!
Lots of smooth sleeping white egg-shapes soaking up the sun.
Shitty four-legs ploppy–dropping on the sand.
White box snake, toot-toot tootling along. Waving hands by the waves.
Clever squawk! Big white sides to keep the water from running out.
I like it here.
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