Issue 320 24th January 2014

WEATHER REPORT 4 It‟s been raining. Lots of floods everywhere, but not in Stafford, and the wind has gone down. Above all, no cold weather and mostly mild with a bit of frost in the morning. Have we transported the awful weather expected by the tabloids before Christmas abroad? America has been suffering ex-treme cold – Ohio State at one point told citizens to stay outside for no more than 15 minutes or freeze – and part of Niagara falls froze solid. BUT THE HEAT! Not here, but in Australia, where the summer has seen temperatures up to 50 degrees Celcius. The Open Tennis in Melbourne saw one player – the Croation Dodig – withdraw after 2 hours and 20 minutes in extreme heat claiming he “feared he could die” - and still could not walk 30 minutes after coming off court. Monday say Andy Murray win in 41 de-gree temperatures, and was not happy, as his next match was local time 22.30 and still would be 35 degrees. Tuesday saw 42 Degrees Celcius (107.6 Fahrenheit) and you have to wonder how anyone would want to run around in that kind of heat. Indeed on Wednesday the umpire stopped play on the open outer courts after a player and a ball boy fainted and spectators left in droves. The um-pire had been using a system using humidity and wind direction. Looking at people suffering might have been more sensible – one player had to take a time out with ice rubbed on her body before continuing – for one more game before losing. Amazingly, some players still thought they could play in these conditions. But no matter how extreme the weather, some folk always look on the bright side. BBC breakfast time after showing America freezing with cars

abandoned and people suffering hypothermia then said “but it has pro-vided some pretty picture” and showed us frozen trees and rivers. It'll be all right on the night. However the extreme weather, however pretty it is, has not got here yet. The rest of the month looks still pretty mild. Monday 13th Jan BBC reported that we will be getting unsettled weather, with wind and gales on the coast and temperatures around the seasonal average. Rain falling on sodden ground means floods are likely especially where showers are heavy and blustery. Next week temperatures will be around the seasonal average and in the south drier and brighter weather. Cold nights and the following week similar with perhaps more dry weather. Colder but still not much different from the current pattern. From the 27th

there may be a dry spell, but the forecasters are still cautious. However, we are not out the woods yet for the extreme cold. In 1962 it did not start till the end of January and then went on for two months. Trevor Fisher (Chair RBW) 2

Random Words : joyful, beanstalk, Santa Fe, desert, busy, fatigued, quagmire, sewn, bright, teeth (150 words) Assignment : After Christmas (400 words)

4

It‟s Friday. As usual, I‟m on my way home from town, laden down as usual with shopping. Danny needed some socks for football. Kids! They‟re so expensive. It feels as though he always needs new somethings. It‟s a growth spurt. Trouble is, Dan has one every week. And I wanted to get

some of that special pate that Pete, my husband likes so much. I wanted to make a hair appointment, and needed to take Katie‟s library books back. Don‟t want to get a fine!

Phew! I‟m ready for a nice cup of coffee now. And these shoes are kill-ing me. Can‟t wait to kick them off and put on my slippers. Wish the bus would hurry up and come. It looks like rain. The service isn‟t what it used to be. But that‟s the same with everything, since we went into recession. Not that I‟m into politics. I‟m quite content to stay at home and be „mum‟. Never have really been much of a career girl. I remember the folk from the job centre coming to talk to us before we left secondary school. Eve-ryone but me had fancy ideas about being lawyers, or working in a bank or being some big wig‟s personal assistant. Not me.

„I want to get married and have kids; lots of them‟ I‟d told them. „That‟s very old-fashioned and remarkably unambitious of you!‟ they‟d

sneered. I didn‟t care. And I‟d done it. Well, I hadn‟t exactly had LOTS of kids,

but there‟s always time…! Besides, most of those other girls were working in Telco‟s, stacking shelves, or else have been made redundant and living on benefits. Several have got children who have been in trouble with the law; some are single mums. No. I don‟t think things have worked out too bad after all. Twelve years and counting.

Ah. Here‟s the bus at last! It looks pretty crowded. Hope I get a seat. Don‟t want to have to stand all the way home. I need to take the weight off my feet!

I think there might be a spare seat right at the back. „Excuse me‟. „Sorry!‟ I sit down by a girl. She has pink hair and a very short skirt.

About sixteen, I‟d say. If I‟d caught the earlier bus, it wouldn‟t have been so packed. The

schools have come out by this time. But I wanted to get all my errands done, and it took longer than I thought. It was nice to meet up with Erica for coffee too. She‟s a good pal. We can say anything to each other, and I suppose it‟s not really surprising when you think that we met at ante-natal clinic and went through all of that baby stuff together. Yes, we hit it off right from day one. And Erica has never made me feel a failure. She just accepts me as I am, even though she is a high-flyer, holding down a

prestigious job and being a wife and mum. Frankly, I don‟t know how she manages it. Keeps all the balls in the air at once, I mean. But hopefully, I do the same for her, by respecting her for herself.

It‟s noisy on here today. „You going to the school disco? „Don‟t know yet‟. „My arthritis is bad‟. „It‟s the weather‟. „Mm‟.

„I had to fetch her from school.‟ „Virus, I expect‟. A young woman is texting someone on her phone. Very flashy. Not like my old thing.‟ „You tried these pills? Wonderful they are‟. „He‟s a dweeb!‟ The boys are laughing. „A head case, you mean!‟ Everyone seems to be talking at once. I‟m not really listening in to peoples‟ conversa-

tions. I can‟t help overhearing. „Such a shame!‟ „I know. Butter wouldn‟t melt‟. „I feel sorry for those children‟ „Kids are

always the victims‟. „I know‟. „He always …..roving eye‟. „Good-looking‟. „And a big head!‟ „Two children isn‟t it?‟ „Yes. And they‟ll be doing exams soon. Not ... distraction they need.‟

I know I shouldn‟t. I hate gossip, but I can‟t help myself. I strain to hear more. Who are they discussing? And what exactly has happened to them?

„…on that new estate‟. Other folk are talking so loud that I can‟t make out…‟Tongues are beginning to wag!‟ „She‟s taken her eye off the ball‟. „While the cat‟s away...‟ ‟Where do they live?‟‟Top of the hill. Executive homes. Wonder if she knows he‟s playing away‟.

Oh no! It can‟t be! Not Erica and James! Damn! The bus is stopping and one of them is getting off. I feel sick. I thought she did-

n‟t look her usual bubbly self today. She said she was tired. Always on the go. Snatching

fifteen minutes for a quick coffee in her busy schedule.But what if it‟s more than that? What if she suspects James of having an affair? It would kill her. And poor Daisy and Henry! I KNEW it! I knew there was more to it than she was letting on. But then again, she surely would have told me if she was worried about her marriage. We have no se-crets. She‟s my best friend, for heaven‟s sake! No. I‟m certain she has no idea.

„Can I get out, please?‟ Huh? Oh, the girl sitting by me wants to get off. I was miles away. I stand up to let her out. My head‟s in a whirl. What to do. Do I keep quiet and say nothing? Or do I try to warn her? Maybe if she‟s made aware, she can… what? Put on more perfume, get her hair done, plan a romantic weekend away? Or employ a private de-tective, confront the other woman and warn her off. Or at least consider all her options, should the worst come to the worst. Oh I don‟t know! I wish I‟d never heard that conver-sation. That‟ll teach me to earwig.

Maybe I‟ll just pretend it never happened. Yes, but it did. And I‟m supposed to be her best friend. What if the situation was reversed? Would I want Erica to tell me? I think she has a right to know. I‟ll ring her and arrange a meeting.

Oh, here we are; my stop. I haven‟t even noticed that the bus is now almost empty. I‟m one of the last to leave it. Now then, where‟s my phone?

„Hi Erica. Any chance of a quick word with you tonight? You‟re going out to a works do with James. I see. Is it important? No. Well, yes. Will it keep? Yes, I suppose so, but…..Give you an idea what it‟s about. It‟s not something I can say on the phone. It‟s sensitive. Now you‟re worried. Oh I‟m sorry. Honestly Erica, the last thing I wanted to do was to upset you, and I‟d rather speak to you face to face.Is someone dead? No, no-one‟s dead. No. It‟s nothing like that. But you have been saying for some time now that the magic has gone out of your relationship that you‟re both so busy with work… What am I

trying to say? Please, won‟t you wait until I can come round? It‟s just that I overheard something and I didn‟t know whether to tell you or not… Oh heavens. I have reason to believe that James may be having an affair. There now, I‟ve said it. I‟m so sorry. Am I sure? Well, yes… why did I tell you?... well because we are friends, that‟s why. Erica… don‟t be like that. No, I‟m not gloating. How could you even think that? I told you be-cause…You can‟t talk now. Yes, I know that. I tried to tell you that I‟d prefer to wait till I

could see you in person, didn‟t I?‟ Oh no! She‟s put the phone down. Oh no. Why did I open my big mouth? What a

day! My shoes have rubbed a blister on my heel, my back is aching from carrying this shopping all the way up the hill. Home at last. I must be getting old. That hill gets steeper with each passing year. Let‟s get in, so I can get out of these shoes. Get the

kettle on. I‟m tired and now I‟ve jeopardised my closest friendship. How am I going to make it right with Erica? She‟s going to need me in the weeks to come, yet she seemed so angry. I wish I‟d kept quiet. She misread my motives. And I thought I knew her! Perhaps it‟s for the best after all. Maybe I don‟t really know her at all.

What‟s the time? 4.25. I must get this shopping away and make a start on the evening meal. Let‟s put the frozen stuff in the freezer, before it makes wet patches all over the kitchen table. Hey, what‟s this? A note. It‟s Pete‟s writing. Where are my specs? Let‟s see. Hope he‟s not having to work late again.

„I can‟t go on … sorry… wanted to break it to you… hadn‟t got the words… not your fault ... must have known something was wrong… met someone

else… for the best‟. The words jump off the page at me. My heart thumps in my chest. I can‟t breathe. The best for whom? No of course I didn‟t know something was wrong. If I had, I would have… what? How dare he? How will I tell the kids? They‟ve got their exams coming up in the next few weeks. I need to talk. Erica. ERICA. Were those women talking about Erica… Heavens … was it me?

Penny Wheat

COMPETITION:

Enquiry: I hope you don't mind me emailing you with news of a writ-ing competition. I launched the charity Words for the Wounded

www.wordsforthewounded.co.uk last year which raises money to help in the recovery of wounded service personnel. This year we are supporting the Creative Arts Unit at Tedworth House Recovery Cen-

tre. Every penny from the entry fees and donations goes to the wounded. We raise money for the prizes in other ways. My son and son in law have been noble and done various Ironman marathons

and Triathlons for us but this year my colleague and old school friend, Jan Speedie, and I are giving them a break and doing a sky dive. Yes, I know. My grandchildren say the same, 'You're mad.' But

needs must. Words for the Wounded's 2nd writing prize is launched

(www.wordsforthewounded.co.uk - raising money to help in the recovery of wounded service personnel). It has a 1st prize of £250, 2nd £100 and 3rd £50, and publication in Writers' Forum magazine.

Entry fee is £4.50. We ask for poetry, non-fiction or fiction up to a maximum of 400 words on the subject of The Journey. It can be physical, emotional or both. The closing date is 11 March. Have a

look at our website and you can get all the details there. I also do a W4W blog which includes writing tips which may be of interest (www.wordsforthewounded.blogspot.co.uk) Our guest poets have

been busy with their own work but are putting together posts any day now. I'd love it if your group felt able to enter the writing prize and even spread the word. Margaret

www.margaret-graham.com

Robert Burns was born near Ayr, Scotland, 25th of Janu-

ary, 1759 the son of William Burnes, or Burness, a

nurseryman on the banks of the Doon in Ayrshire. His fa-

ther, though always poor, attempted to give his children

a fair education, and Robert, the eldest, went to school

for three years in a neighbouring village, and later to

three other schools in the vicinity. But it was his fa-

ther and his own reading that he owed the most of his

education; and by the time he reached manhood he had a

good knowledge of English, a reading of French, and a

fairly wide acquaintance with English literature from

Shakespeare to his own contemporaries. In 1766 William

Burness rented, on borrowed money, the farm of Mount Ol-

iphant, the future poet seriously overstrained his

slight physique. In 1771 the family move to Lochlea, and Burns went to Irvine

to learn flax-dressing. The only result however, was forming an acquaintance

with a dissipated sailor, whom he blamed as the prompter of his first adven-

tures. His father died in 1784, and with his brother Gilbert the poet rented

the farm of Mossgiel; but this was unsuccessful. He had meantime formed an in-

timacy with Jean Armour, for which he was censured by the Kirk-session. As a

result of his farming misfortunes, and the attempts of his father-in-law to

overthrow his irregular marriage with Jean, he resolved to emigrate; and to

raise money for passage he published (Kilmarnock, 1786) a volume of poems. This

volume was unexpectedly successful, so that, instead of sailing for the West

Indies, he went to Edinburgh, and during that winter he was the literary celeb-

rity of the season. An enlarged edition of his poems was published there in

1787, and the money derived from this enabled him to aid his brother in Moss-

giel, and to stock the farm of Ellisland in Dumfriesshire. His fame as poet had

reconciled the Armours to the connection, and having now regularly married

Jean, he brought her to Ellisland, and tried farming again. Continued poor suc-

cess, led him, in 1791, to moved to Dumfries, where he had obtained a position

in the Excise. But he was thoroughly discouraged; his work was drudgery; his

tendency to take relaxation in debauchery increased the weakness of a constitu-

tion early undermined; he died at Dumfries aged thirty-eight.

Source Project Gutenberg (above text slightly abridged)

http://www.gutenberg.org/catalog/world/readfile?fk_files=3274460&pageno=11

Song--I Dream'd I Lay

I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing

Gaily in the sunny beam;

List'ning to the wild birds singing,

By a falling crystal stream:

Straight the sky grew black and daring;

Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave;

Tress with aged arms were warring,

O'er the swelling drumlie wave.

Such was my life's deceitful morning,

Such the pleasures I enjoyed:

But lang or noon, loud tempests storming

A' my flowery bliss destroy'd.

Tho' fickle fortune has deceiv'd me--

She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill,

Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me--

I bear a heart shall support me still.

6

Clearing The Rubbish. I have had my new plot for some weeks now and at first I thought that I had bitten off more than I could

chew as it was in such a state and it was so hard going, but I have almost got there now. Without any exaggeration there must have been literally a couple of tons of weeds come off it that have all gone into my loose brick built compost heap that is piled high at the moment. However, with a little rain on it to start the composting process, I am confident that it will soon start to shrink as the bacteria and worms get busy. My main objective was to dig the bulk of the plot so that I could get some planting done as soon as possible, because the greenhouse was full of little vegetable plants desperate to be planted out. To this end I left the edges of the plot untidy and also left a weedy strip dividing my plot and the neighbouring one. However, a week ago I made a start on the border strip and soon found that my neighbours came and helped. In fact they finished the last half of it off for me! It was in their interests I suppose as the nettles and other weeds were starting to grow and spread quickly into their plot, but the help was still much appreciated! All I have got to do now is just tidy up round the edges of the paths. Apart from the masses of weeds that came off the plot there was a lot of other assorted rubbish. There were two bags of bits of rotten wood from a rickety bench that the previous tenants had tried to make for themselves to sit on round their barbecue pit. There was also a sack full of rotten clothing that had been used to dress their homemade scare-crow. From the barbecue pit came a few good bricks and a lot of rubble that had been used to make paths round the plot. These cobble stone paths had made the digging even harder as the weeds had tangled their roots round the stones making it difficult to actually get the fork in, in places. It also meant that a lot of stones came up with every fork full of weeds making every fork full weigh even more. On the plus side, a load of manure had been dumped on the plot several months previously that I have now dug in to improve the soil, but even this had a downside be-cause it had fed the Nettles very well. In fact there weren‟t many pluses from my new allotment as the bulk of the barbecue bricks had already been removed before I actually took possession. There were 2 perfectly good tarpaulins though and a small box of hand tools on the plot that I handed over to the site secretary to be returned to the owners if possi-ble. There was also a cheap, broken, plastic chair that could be used if you were careful, which I decided to keep for a while, at least. Many allotment sites have a skip for tenants to dump their rubbish in, but we haven‟t. What we do have is a tractor bucket that is periodically

left on the car park for people to put the stones in that they dig up from their plots. Occasionally the farmer empties the bucket and takes the stones away to recycle. Also, recently, the committee have decided to install a communal compost heap on an ex-perimental basis. It is going to be made using old wooden pallets and turned by the plot-holders on occasional “workdays,” that the committee have decided to instigate to encourage people to keep the site well maintained and looking good. On a personal level, I have decided that when the big, com-munal compost heap is set up, I will do away with the brick built one on my own plot and replace it with a smaller, purpose made one, that was in my greenhouse being used as a growing tub, to deal with the waste from my garden and kitchen peelings, at home. We might be going to have a communal compost heap for the allotments, but I don‟t think they would welcome all the plot-holders taking all of their “Green” waste from home and dumping it in the heap!

COUNTRYMAN : OWD FRED

We were set this title "There once was a cow with

some gas", in a Farmers‟ Weekly competition a

few years ago, and the verse below was my entry.

Preamble to the verse.

We come across all sorts of problems with cattle,

but fortunately not too often bloat. This is usually

brought on when grazing young wet new grass and

clover. It ferments in the stomach instead of the

large intestines, and cannot escape. The gas builds

up as a foam and they cannot burp it up, however

if you catch them soon enough and pour/drench a

litre of corn oil or any cooking oil out of the

kitchen down its throat, that has the effect of dis-

pelling the foam and she will burp the gas/wind

back up.

In the extreme case where she is down and blown

up round like a football, and cannot breathe, the

emergency deed to do is stab her with a carving

knife on the right hand side equal distance

between her loin, hip bone and last rib then twist

the knife to release the foam.

It saves her life, or else in another half hour she

could be dead whilst you are waiting for the vet.

There once was a cow with some gas,

There once was a cow with some gas,

She had eaten far too much grass, To lift off she tried, Near skinned her hide,

And landed off down the bypass. With her belly still too full of gas,

Her milk was too foamy to pass, Udder too full,

It was so painful, And produced whipped cream by the glass.

The vet came to release all the gas, A knife to release the morass,

From her hip did he measure? To her rib with much pleasure, And stabbed it right in the poor lass.

With her belly gone hollow with no gas, She was hungry and wanted more grass,

Straw she was offered, Too much was proffered,

So she lift her tail then lay down in the morass. Owd Fred

8

Year 1589 : The Cast : The Queen‟s Men : a group of strolling players thrown out of London where the theatres have been closed due to an outbreak of plague. Elizabeth I was on the throne. Kit Marlowe (wordsmith/detective), Harry Swann (the murderer of the-first victim who first found the chal-ice) Samuel Burball (Owner), Peter Pecksniff, Daniel Alleynes, young Hal who plays a girl‟s role very badly. Vesta Swann, Rosie Ripp-sheet. The Boar‟s Head Tavern, Trentby: Bertha landlady, Molly Golightly, Martha Goodnight wenches. Ned the bear keeper. The Trentby Abbey of St Jude : Abbot Ranulf knows something about the missing Roman hoard of silver plate/chalice etc The Manor of Bluddschott : sodden Squire Darnley Bluddschott, wife Mis-tress Anne, daughter Penelope about to be sold off into matrimony, Mis-tress Hood seamstress, sister to Penny, Mistress Tatanya

The Sheriff‟s Castle : Magistrate Squire Humphrey Pettigrew, Black Knight, the Sherriff Burrowmere Lord Haywood, man-at-arms Richard of Hyde Leigh, a constable Daniel Smithers and a scribe Modern Day: Rick Fallon and Tommy Tip-Tip McGee** Private eyes in Trentby on case for Sir Kipling Aloysius Bluddschott (Sister Christobel) to locate silver chalice and Roman hoard of Trentby Abbey + corpse Jago Swann DI Pete Ferret PLEASE NOTE: It is imperative that those writing for the storyline read what other writers have already written before they add a new piece. AND the year has been changed and Moll Rippsheet has become Rosie. More on this project will follow shortly as writers return to workshop. New contributors warmly welcomed.

Weekend Break

Amidst tall trees and by the rippling lake, Deep pools reflect the sky and billowing clouds.

A willow world, cold senses to awake, Eliminate the crush of city crowds.

A tranquil place, with beauty unsurpassed, Feel gentle waves of peace flow through the mind,

From dawn to dusk, from first until the last, Moments of joy, replenish and unwind.

View glorious scenes once caught in picture book, As nature plays a symphony of sound.

From squeak of mouse to caterwauling rook, With badger safe and snoring underground! A silky steam where dancing fish can play So spirits rise and cobwebs blow away.

Lin Priest

Anne Picken Byeways

'Feast tonight,' sang Migsie as she bowled home in her lorry with Candy, her lurcher pup, sprung to attention beside her. Birch trees tingled gold and the smell of a skipping sea flew in on the breeze.

It had been a wicked day, right from the amazing pink start. If the rain stops in Glenbaffin you get out there quick, so she'd leapt straight into her wellies and jumped. Candy was already plunging through the bracken, lanky legs lost from view and body weaving like a glossy black otter. To-gether they'd raced past Ellie and Pog's caravan, past Matt's new purple rig, and right to the top of the hill just for the glee of it. Then back to grab Doggy-Chunks and a marmalade sandwich and then all of them had gone to pick winkles on the shining yellow shore.

Seagulls yiped from a cloudless sky and the sun was so warm on Migsie's

back that she'd had to strip off to her crop-top. By one o'clock everyone's winkle- sack was filled and she offered to take them along to the depot while the others started on dinner. She sold them for a price that made her whoop, and danced all the way down to Parker's for the best Arbroath Smokies on offer.

In short, Migsie and Candy, Ellie, Pog and Matt, had taken full advantage of the morning, as one always should, for who knows what the rest of a day might bring? The sky could darken, the sunlight turn brittle and make leaves stand out in strangely metallic relief, then splattering spikes might start to rush one, as in Migsie's case they did ten minutes after she climbed back into her cab.

At the same moment, 20 miles ahead of Migsie's trundling lorry, a scowling Derek Armitage, was battling to carry six books of carpet samples from the Highlander Hotel to his Jaguar. The Highlander, presently being refurbished, loomed desolate from a headland of scrubby gorse, and as its car-park was filled by several skips, Derek had had to leave his Jag on the road. He'd thought he could reach it before the storm broke but the wind from the sea suddenly gathered speed, spewed out a squall of freezing rain and swung the sample books about so wildly that he could hardly hold on. He cursed. Why hadn't he sent Bastable? But Bastable would never have brought off a deal to re-carpet a hotel that size. If only that stupid Highlander manager's wife… He made the car at last, fell into the driving seat, mopped himself with tissues and peered at the road before him. It skirted the cliff - so nar-

row, so near the edge and practically obscured by the frenzied rain. His an-ger trembled, rocked and broke in a mighty bellow. 'Bloody woman!' He'd have had a cheque in his pocket an hour ago, got away before this weather made the place impossible, if it hadn't been for her whining away behind that dolt of a so- called manager...

'We need to match the carpets to the paint and the charts haven't arrived

yet…' What sort of man allows himself to be pushed around by a hag like that? Hag- rid-

den. Like any fool who shackles himself. All the same, wives, daughters ... He dragged his hair over the bald patch, tightened his tie. He knew that most peo-

ple would have waited for the weather to ease, but he couldn't. Get moving, get away. Get back to civilisation.

Slowly he released the handbrake, let in the clutch and began to move off, hugging the nearside edge. He told himself he was a good driver, that he held the Advanced Driving certificate, that the police had congratulated him specially. And he put his foot down as hard as he dared.

Eventually the road veered inland and the trees began. The few scrawny ones at first, then a mass of brown, and then – was it a cottage in the middle of all that? He didn't remember a cottage... Oh God, it wasn't the right road. He was lost. Where could...? As he drew nearer he saw it was not a cottage at all, but a shabby caravan next to a rusty purple van. Also a couple of clothes lines hung with sodden rags. His nose wrinkled in disgust. New Age Travellers!

He knew all about them. So. They thought they'd come and infest these woods? Ruin the place for the local community? Well, not for long, not if he had anything to

do with it. He'd phone the council the minute he got back, make sure the dirty para-sites were given their come comeuppance, moved on, moved on until there was no-where left for them to go, until they got to hell out of this country. Decent hard work-ing men were being crippled paying taxes for the likes of...

Suddenly, coming straight at him, illuminating a million slanting needles, were two enormous headlamps. He spun the wheel furiously, then felt a thud.

The world went black. His head filled with banging, throbbing. He half opened his eyes to a big, dark shape, but he couldn't think what it could be. He turned his head slightly - Good God! He catapulted into consciousness. The thing at the window… rain was cascading from a shorn head and a face full of metal rings. They were through the nose, the mouth, the eyebrows. He gaped. It wasn't…? He looked back at the

shape. Yes, that could definitely be a lorry. So this must be… yes, it must be. This was one of them!

'Are you all right?' shouted Migsie. A girl! Derek took a deep breath. He wasn't all right. Neither was his car. And if this filthy bitch thought she was going to get away with it she was very much

mistaken. He sat up, slammed the door open and nodded in grim satisfaction as she leapt back and nearly fell. There was one of those half- starved dogs too, prancing and barking like something deranged.

'Are you all right?' asked the girl again, rubbing her arm. It was bare, glistening in his headlights, and the rest of her might as well have been bare too, the way that skimpy soaked top was clinging to her. He could see everything. He deepened his frown, jutted out his chin, unfastened his seat belt and hauled himself out.

'Are you blind?' he thundered. He took a step towards her and the dog went ber-serk. It hurtled up and ploughed an agonising furrow down his leg. He kicked out at it.

'Hey!' shouted Migsie. 'What do you mean, 'Hey'? You've just run me off the road, you stupid slut. Dangerous driving - you could get ten years for this. Don't suppose you've got any

insurance?' 'I'm perfectly legal,' said Migsie, cradling her pup. 'If you'd like to come over I'll show

you the documents.' 'You go and get them. And you can shut that bloody animal in.' 'Sorry. It's illegal to leave dogs unattended in lorries.'

His eyes narrowed. So, she thought she could make a fool of him? Well, he'd soon show her. A little slag like that needed to be taken in hand, taught a lesson she'd never forget.

Migsie squinted up at the trembling figure. 'You're in shock,' she said. 'You ought to get warm. I'll get you an ambulance. Come over to the lorry and I'll make you a cup of tea.'

'Right,' he said. 'I will.' The lorry was stuck into a dark mass of branches, but it was still vertical and there

was a door in the side. Dimly he watched the girl open it, pull out a step, nudge him on to it, and suddenly he was engulfed by a sharp, bitter smell.

Woodsmoke! And there he was, stuck in his stark childhood bedroom, gaping from its open win-

dow at an enormous bonfire down in the garden. He did not register that Migsie sat him carefully on her bed, gave him a towel and began to light candles until the place glowed. He did not see the bright mirror-work shawls, the golden suns and silver moons, the hanging crystals. He was not aware of her handing him a glass, saying 'Drink this while the kettle boils.' Only of shivering in his pyjamas while his father whirled in out of the fire's light, flinging the last dress on to the blazing pile screaming, 'Dirty, drunken whore!'

But as she handed him the drink, Migsie became aware of him. After the first gasp, the first gape, the first horrified swallow, she quickly turned away, hooked the top off the burner, and Derek saw the wild fire leap. He gave a muffled yelp, stuffed the towel into his mouth. Migsie threw in another piece of wood, imprisoned the flames again, sat down and stared at them.

Then Derek noticed the glass in his hand and raised it to his mouth. There was a new smell now, golden, penetrating, but laced with guilt. He swallowed, and a harsh liquid cut sharply into his tongue, shocked his throat, but then a glow began to unfold through his body like a fist slowly unclenching and turning into a warm, gentle per-fumed hand. He was snuggling against his mother, wrapped close in a cocoon of ten-derness as she murmured a song, exuded the perfume. He felt his breathing ease, his banging heart calm. A strange dreaminess began to seep through him and he watched the smooth slim figure at the sink gracefully reach down a tin, spoon something into a mug, pour steaming water. Mummy was making his bedtime cocoa. She turned and of-fered it to him, reached out with her other hand…

'Finished your whisky?' she asked. Whisky! Derek leapt upright. His father crashed into his head, eyes bulging, face

scarlet. Derek smashed the empty glass to the floor. What was this Traveller bitch trying to do? Get him drunk? Get him helpless in the grip of the Devil? Where on earth was he? There were flames everywhere, they were in the purple walls, the shrieking pink ceiling, there were flashing lights, glittering swathes - Oh God, he was at the mouth of Hell! He struggled up, lashed out at the harlot, caught her straight across the mouth and she thudded backwards into a cupboard and slid to the floor. The dog leapt and

Derek sprang forward. The girl was under his face, his hands, his body, squirming like the serpent she was. Then he felt stings down his cheek, a cacophony of noise, a sharp pain in his leg and he knew she was slipping out of his grasp. He must hold on, hold fast, imprison, destroy. But he simply could not. There was a riot of tearing, and she was free. He saw her reach the door, fling it wide, jump. And the Hound of Hell jumped

down into the pit after her. Then two green figures were there. 'What happened?' a voice said. Migsie, struggling for breath felt her banging heart gradually subside. When she

could speak, she said, 'He skidded, bumped his head. Keeps passing out.' The medics regarded the girl crouched in the soaking grass, the prancing dog, the

lacerations on the man's face. They looked at each other. 'Anything else?' one asked. 'No,' said Migsie. The medic glanced inside the lorry. 'Cosy,' he said. 'Lucky you were here. Not many

road accidents have such a cushy number while they wait.' Then Derek was being lifted into the ambulance, He stared straight ahead. One of the medics looked from him to Migsie. 'You OK hen?' he asked. 'Would you

like to come and be checked over...?' 'I'll be fine,' she said. 'My friends are parked just up the road. He nodded. 'OK. Thanks. You did a good job there.' He grinned, climbed in and

swung the ambulance doors shut behind him. And Migsie, stroking her pup, watched as they swept her father away.

IF I RULED THE WORLD If I ruled the world I would abolish rulers... there would be no government We would all be Birds of a Feather working together without resentment. If I ruled the world there would be no rules or laws everyone would co-operate in a common cause. If I ruled the world there would be no rich or poor For inequality there would be an effective cure.

If I ruled the world there would be no reality TV just good documentaries like there used to be. If I ruled the world Real Ale would be free to create a Happy world A new reality. If I ruled the world All People would be free I would abolish all rulers... That is except FOR ME!!! JANUARY 2014 Paul Pittam (Assignment)

16

Federico del Sagrado Corazón de Jesús

García Lorca

5 June 1898 – 19 August 1936) was a Spanish poet, drama-

tist and theatre director. García Lorca achieved interna-

tional recognition as an emblematic member of the Genera-

tion of '27. He was executed by Nationalist forces during

the Spanish Civil War. In 2008, a Spanish judge opened an

investigation into Lorca's death. The García Lorca family

dropped objections to the excavation of a gravesite near Al-

facar. However, no human remains were found.

Early years: García Lorca was born on 5 June 1898, in

Fuente Vaqueros, a small town a few miles west of Gra-

nada, southern Spain. His father, Federico García

Rodríguez, was a landowner with a farm in the fertile vega surrounding Granada and a comfort-

able villa in the the city. García Rodríguez saw his fortunes rise with a boom in the sugar indus-

try. García Lorca's mother, Vicenta Lorca Romero, was a teacher and gifted pianist. In 1909,

when the boy was 11, his family moved to Granada. For the rest of his life, he maintained the

importance of living close to the natural world, praising his upbringing in the country. In 1915,

after graduating from secondary school, García Lorca attended Sacred Heart University, his

studies included law, literature and composition, training fully as a classical pianist, his first ar-

tistic inspirations arising from the scores of Debussy, Chopin and Beethoven. Later, he became

friends with the composer Manuel de Falla and Spanish folklore became his muse. García Lorca

did not begin writing until his piano teacher died in 1916. His first prose works such as

"Nocturne", "Ballade" and "Sonata" drew on musical forms. A group of young artists gathered

in El Rinconcillo at the cafe Alameda in Granada. During 1916 and 1917, García Lorca trav-

elled throughout Castile, León, and Galicia, in northern Spain, with a professor of his university,

who encouraged him to write his first book, Impresiones y Paisajes (Impressions and Land-

scapes – published 1918). García Lorca's parents were persuaded to allow the boy to enrol at the

progressive, Oxbridge-inspired Residencia de estudiantes in Madrid in 1919.

In Madrid García Lorca befriended Manuel de Falla, Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dalí and many

other creative artists influential across Spain. Friends included the poet Juan Ramon Jimenez,

the playwright Eduardo Marquina and Gregorio Martínez Sierra, the Director of Madrid's Teatro

Eslava. In 1919–20, at Sierra's invitation, he wrote and staged his first play, El maleficio de la

mariposa (The Butterfly's Evil Spell). It was a play in verse dramatising the impossible love be-

tween a cockroach and a butterfly, with a supporting cast of insects; it was laughed off the stage

after only four performances. The experience influenced García Lorca's attitude to the theatre

audience for the rest of his career. During the time at the Residencia de estudiantes he pursued

degrees in law and philosophy.

García Lorca's first book of poems was published in 1921, concerning religious faith, isolation

and nature. Early in 1922 at Granada García Lorca joined with the composer Manuel de Falla to

promote the Concurso de Cante Jondo, a festival dedicated to flamenco performance. The year

before Lorca had begun to write his Poema del cante jondo ("Poem of the deep song", not pub-

lished until 1931), he wrote an essay on the art of flamenco, and began to speak publicly in sup-

port of the Concurso where he met the celebrated Manuel Torre, a flamenco cantador. The next

year in Granada he collaborated with Falla on the musical production of a play for children,

adapted by Lorca from an Andalucian story. His collection Suites (1923) was never finished and

not published until 1983.

Over the next few years García Lorca became increasingly involved in Spain's avant-garde. He

published poetry collections including Canciones (Songs) and Romancero Gitano (Gypsy Bal-

lads, 1928). It was a highly stylised imitation of the ballads and poems that were still being told

throughout the Spanish countryside. Ramón Menéndez Pidal worked with him to collect ver-

sions from the south, many from the Middle Ages. García Lorca describes the work as a "carved altar piece" of

Andalusia with "gypsies, horses, archangels, planets, its Jewish and Roman breezes, rivers, crimes, the every-

day touch of the smuggler and the celestial note of the naked children of Córdoba. A book that hardly expresses

visible Andalusia, but where the hidden Andalusia trembles". In 1928, the book brought him fame across Spain

and the Hispanic world. His play, Mariana Pineda, with stage settings by Salvador Dalí, opened to great ac-

claim in Barcelona in 1927. In 1926, García Lorca wrote the play The Shoemaker's Prodigious Wife, which

would not be shown until the early 1930s. It was a farce based on the relationship between a flirtatious wife and

a hen-pecked shoemaker.

From 1925 to 1928 his personal life in torment, he thought that he was being pigeon-holed as a "gypsy poet".

He wrote: "The gypsies are a theme. And nothing more. I could just as well be a poet of sewing needles or hy-

draulic landscapes. Besides, this gypsyism gives me the appearance of an uncultured, ignorant and primitive

poet that you know very well I’m not. I don't want to be typecast". Growing estrangement between García

Lorca and his closest friends reached its climax when surrealists Dalí and Luis Buñuel collaborated on their

1929 film Un Chien Andalou (An Andalusian Dog). García Lorca interpreted it as a vicious attack upon him-

self. García Lorca's family arranged for him to visit to the United States in 1929–30.

Read more of his achievements, assassination and hunt for his grave on Wikipedia ... Leonard Cohen video on Youtube “Take This Waltz” is

a translation of a Lorca poem.

Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Federico_Garc%C3%ADa_Lorca

Singing Cafè (From Flamenco Vignettes)

Lamps of crystal

and green mirrors.

On the dark stage

Parrala holds

a dialogue

with death.

Calls her,

she won’t come,

Calls her again.

The people

swallow their sobbing.

And in the green mirrors

long trails of silk

move.

The Guitar

It begins, the lament

of the guitar.

The wineglass of dawn

is broken.

It begins, the lament

of the guitar.

It’s useless to silence it.

Impossible

to silence it.

It cries monotonously

as the water cries,

as the wind cries

over the snow.

Impossible

to silence it.

It cries for

distant things.

Sands of the hot South

that demand white camellias.

It cries arrows with no targets,

evening with no morning,

and the first dead bird

on the branch.

Oh, the guitar!

Heart wounded deep

by five swords.

If you are a subscribing email recipient to leave RBW Online is easy just email and say ‘unsubscribe’ and you will be immediately removed from the list. If you have any suggestions for improvement to this service please let us know. You don't have to take an active part to receive this workshop bulletin you can just sit back and enjoy the ride, but if you could send feedback, it is greatly appreciated. RBW Privacy Promise: A few simple contact details are all that are required and they will only be used for this bulletin service. RBW promise to:

Only send you details via the newsletter.

To never pass on your details to anyone else.

To always allow recipients to opt-out and unsubscribe at any time.

www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk

To contact RBW please use the website contact box.

PATRON Ian McMillan www.ian-mcmillan.co.uk

Present and Previous Memberships and Funders.

Rising Brook Writers strives to be compliant with the requirements of the Data Protection Act. RBW strives for accu-

racy and fairness, however, can take no responsibility for any error, misinterpretation or inaccuracy in any message

sent by this mode of publishing. The opinions expressed are not necessarily in accordance with the policy of the char-

ity. E-mails and attachments sent out by RBW are believed to be free from viruses which might affect computer sys-

tems into which they are received or opened but it is the responsibility of the recipient to ensure that they are virus

free. Rising Brook Writers accepts no responsibility for any loss or damage arising in any way from their receipt, open-

ing or use. Environment/ Recycling: Please consider carefully if you need to print out any part or all of this message.

To the best of our knowledge and belief all the material included in this publication is free to use in the public domain,

or has been reproduced with permission, and/or source acknowledgement. RBW have researched rights where possible,

if anyone’s copyright is accidentally breached please inform us and we will remove the item with apologies. RBW is a

community organisation, whose aims are purely educational, and is entirely non-profit making. If using material from

this collection for educational purposes please be so kind as to acknowledge RBW as the source. Contributors retain the

copyright to their own work. Fiction: names, characters, places and incidents are imaginary or are being used in a ficti-

tious way. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead is entirely coincidental.

This bulletin is produced by volunteers. The editor’s decisions are final and not open to discussion.

© Rising Brook Writers 2014 — RCN 1117227 A voluntary charitable trust.