We are a diverse group from all walks of life. Our passion is to write; to the best of our ability and sometimes beyond. We meet on the 2nd and 4th Thursday each month, to read and critique our work in friendly, open discussion. However, the Group is not solely about entertaining ourselves. We support THE ESSEX AND HERTS AIR AMBULANCE by producing and selling anthologies of our work. So far we have raised in excess of £9,700, by selling our books at venues throughout Essex.
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Saturday 23 September 2023
Monday 18 September 2023
Flash Improvisations
Flash Improvisations: 1. A Stone
By Len Morgan
As he walked along the river bank, he idly picked up a handful of stones selecting ideal shapes for scudding across the stream. He was aiming for six bounces, but the best he’d accomplished so far was five.
He spied an ideal stone half buried in a patch of blue-green soil. He washed it in the stream, the water dripped off as if it were oil, leaving the stone completely dry. He took a closer look, it was smooth round, milky blue-white. It was the perfect shape but felt a little light for a skimming stone. So, he dropped it in his pocket and selected another that skimmed two three four times then sank. He realised it wasn’t his day; he wasn’t going to achieve six today.
On his way home he was stopped and searched by the Kimberley Security Police. They took him into custody despite his protests
“But, it’s a stone! Just a stone…”
Flash Improvisations: 2. A Leaf
By Len Morgan
On Father's Day, I view a leaf pressed between the pages of my Concise English Dictionary 4th edition.
It was gathered by my daughter on her seventh birthday.
It was one of her most treasured possessions; she gave it to me in her thirty-seventh year; on one of her more lucid days.
“Happy Father's
Day Dad.”
She’d framed the golden leaf on a pale rough linen swatch, on which she’d embroidered: ‘With all my love on Father's Day’.
She is sadly
no longer here, but the memory of her love returns every ‘Father's Day’. Just a leaf in time.
Copyright
Len Morgan
Saturday 16 September 2023
The Appointment 2
The Appointment
By Sis Unsworth
George was feeling quite poorly, and not sure what he should do.
So he rang for a doctor's appointment, and was told he was now in a queue.
At first he was quietly patient, just waiting for his turn
but after half an hour, he was showing some concern.
A voice told him they were busy, but would answer him real soon,
so frequently they said it, that it filled poor George with gloom.
He heard the postman knocking, but wouldn’t leave the phone
iIt surely must be his turn soon, he silently bemoaned.
George was feeling hungry, his breakfast had gone cold
he wanted that appointment, so still continued to hold
He noticed through the window, it had begun to rain.
He’d put his washing out earlier, it would now be wet again.
The dog was rubbing round his legs, impatient to go out,
why don’t you get the washing in, he heard his wife then shout
George was feeling so irate, when the voice did say,
“All
appointments have now gone, please call another day!”
Copyright Sis Unsworth
Thursday 14 September 2023
The Scream (Flash Fiction)…
The Scream…
By Len Morgan
“AH OOH AAAH…” he cried.
“Oh my god Pete! Are you alright!”
He lay still, unmoving beside her. She moved to the opposite side of the bed creating as wide a distance between them as possible.
He lay still and silent…
“Shreeeek!…” The sound woke their neighbours on either side, the couple opposite, as well as those above and below. Lights came on all over the student dorm.“Was it that good?” asked Pete.
“A-a-uh?” She said, falling silent, feeling foolish, allowing the urgent knocking on their door to be heard. “Oh my god, why did you lay like that? So still…?”
“Just savouring the
moment, you were great,” he smiled “Guess I’ll have no trouble getting layed
from here on in…”
Copyright
Len Morgan
Monday 11 September 2023
MARISA
MARISA
By Janet Baldey
She was sitting in the window-seat, her silhouette framed by an
aureole of gold. As he crossed the room
towards her, he saw her eyes were misty and far-away as she gazed into the
garden and Harry thought he had never seen anyone more beautiful. He felt a rush of tenderness as he thought of
how much he loved her.
“I’m
off now love.” He planted a kiss on her
forehead. She started and an almost
imperceptible frown marred the perfection of her face before she lifted her
head to acknowledge his embrace.
As she heard the slam of the door, she felt a rush of
relief. Rising, she ran up the stairs
and into her bedroom; standing in front of a full-length mirror, she stretched
voluptuously, relishing the way her kimono clung to her figure. Heat flooded through her; she wished Steve was
with her now and she looked towards the bed feeling a tingle of delicious
anticipation. She couldn’t wait to see
him again, last evening had been so perfect.
She stood in the shower
feeling the spray hard against her body.
With dawning delight, she remembered that Harry was due to start night
shifts tomorrow. It was perfect timing;
she and Steve could spend the whole night together. She didn’t have his telephone number, he was
always forgetting to give it to her, but she knew where he lived, so she would
drop a discreet note through his door.
Impatient now, she switched off the shower and grabbed a towel.
Outside, the sun beat
down on her unprotected head like a bar of iron as she swung along the street,
her short skirt flirting against her thighs.
Clutched in her hand was a scribbled note and two letters for the
post. As she neared the familiar red post
box on the corner, she darted a quick glance left towards the road junction and
gasped as her heart started to pound.
She recognised the sleek, green Jaguar held by the lights – it was his
car and if she was quick, she could catch him.
She thrust the letters into the box and raced down the street.
The back of Harry’s shirt was dark with sweat and damp rings circled his armpits as he heaved himself out of the van into evening air heavy with humidity. Last box, thank God. He licked his lips; he could almost taste the ice-cold lager he’d treat himself to when he got home. As he unlocked the post box, an avalanche of letters flowed into his sack. With a grunt he stooped to pick it up and as he did, he noticed a slip of paper caught in the grill. Shopping list he thought, they were always being posted by mistake. Plucking it out, a name caught his attention. It was an unusual name and he’d always liked the exotic images it conjured when he whispered it in her ear. Marisa, his wife’s name. He looked closer and smiled cynically, not a shopping list it was obviously a lover’s tryst. He was about to screw it into a ball when he froze as he recognised something else, the telephone number. It was the one he dialled every time he was late home. For an instant he stood very still, then mechanically, he closed the post box. As if in a trance, he put his van into gear and drove to the sorting office, where, with a smile glued to his face, he responded to the banter of his colleagues until it was time to leave.
Several pubs and
several lagers later, he dragged himself home.
Inside, the house was in darkness except for a thin, yellow line
underneath the kitchen door. Without
turning on the lights, he turned into the living room and flung himself down in
an armchair and sat watching creeping shadows change familiar furniture into
hump-backed monsters.
Eventually, the door
opened and light flooded in. He heard
her give a little gasp then,
“Whatever are you
doing, sitting in the dark?” He didn’t
answer and she shrugged and went back into the kitchen. He heard her moving about, heard the clattering
of plates and the hiss of the kettle.
Still, he sat, dull-eyed, staring at nothing.
Impatiently, she swept
into the room again. “Are you coming, or
what?”
He sat at the table,
pushing food about his plate. Marisa sat
opposite, eating with quick, economical bites.
At last, she put down her knife and fork and looked at him, a brittle
smile stretching her mouth.
“So, what time are you
leaving for work tomorrow?”
“Not going to work.”
There was a pause; he
kept his eyes fixed on his plate.
“I thought you were
starting nights?”
“Change of plan. I’m taking a few days off. Thought we could go away for a break.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded thick
and unnatural. He waited as silence
deadened the room. Eventually, he looked
up and it felt as though someone had punched him. She was staring at him, disappointment etched
into the contours of her face. It was
all the proof he needed.
“What’s his name?”
Her eyes widened.
He flung the crumpled
note towards her. “His name?”
As she sat motionless,
he noticed a small pulse beating rapidly in the base of her neck.
Suddenly, he rose and
pounded upstairs to their bedroom where he began wrenching open drawers and
burrowing his thick hands into the froth of her lingerie. At last, he found what he was looking for.
“What are you
doing?” Behind him, her voice was high
and razor sharp.
Flicking through the
pages of her diary, he took no notice.
Suddenly, he stopped and his shoulders slumped. “Steve.”
Anger twisted his features. “You
whore.”
“Give me that.” She grabbed for the book.
His arm pistoned
towards her and she fell backwards onto the bed. His face reddened and veins knotted his
neck. “I trusted you and you creep
around like an alley cat. Why
Marisa? I’ve bought you everything you
ever wanted. I’ve worked my fingers to
the bone for you. I thought we were
happy.”
She scrambled off the
bed, her eyes blazing.
“You fool” she
sneered. “You thought you could buy me? Well, let me tell you, Postman Pat, you are
just a joke. An ugly, clumsy joke. I’ve never loved you. How could anyone love you? You say you’ve bought me things but I’ve paid
for them. I pay for them every time your
stinking body comes anywhere near me. I
lie there in the dark, with you on top of me, paying for them. Here, give me that!” She snatched the diary out of his hands and
riffled through its pages and held it out towards him. “Look.”
He stared in horror as
one scarlet nail traced a list of names.
He recognised most of them, some friends of his, others pillars of
society. Her voice rose, becoming
strident and ugly. He stared at her
contorted face; this was someone he didn’t know any more.
“Everyone was better
than you! They satisfy me more in one
hour than you have in the whole of our marriage…..” Her voice stopped abruptly as his hand knifed
towards her and caught her full in the throat.
Bunching his fists, he hit her again and again until she fell to the
floor. He loomed over her, breathing
heavily, sweat pouring down his face.
Gradually, he brought himself under control. She lay very still and he noticed that her
head was twisted to one side.
“Marisa?” Tentatively, touched her fallen body with his
foot. She never stirred. He dropped to one knee and tried to straighten
her head. Tenderly, he brushed back her
hair that had fallen over her face.
“Marisa?” he repeated, panic trembling his voice. Bitter bile erupted into his mouth and he
retched. He felt weak and dazed. Groggily, he got to his feet and went into the
bathroom where he turned the shower full on and thrust his head under its icy
spray. He perched on the edge of the
bath for a long time feeling so weary he could have slept for a week. He tried to think but thoughts buzzed around
inside his head like a swarm of angry bees.
Finally, he returned to the bedroom and looked down at his wife. She looked so young and vulnerable lying
where she’d fallen. Gently, he picked
her up, laid her on the bed and lay down beside her. As if an invisible hand had snapped off a
switch, he was instantly asleep.
Harry woke as the first
birds heralded the new day. At first, he
wondered why he was lying fully dressed on the bed. Then, he remembered and sat bolt
upright. Nothing had changed, the room
was still in turmoil and Marisa was still lying beside him, as stiff and white
as a marble statue. He gathered her into
his arms, and sat with his head bowed, a storm of sobs shaking his body.
Eventually, he became calmer and when he next looked up it was as if, along
with his tears, his soul had flooded out of his body. His eyes were dry and hard and his face was
grim.
He looked at his dead
wife and love disappeared as resentment took its place. He had never been a violent man but he could
only stand so much. She had brought
this on herself and he had no intention of paying the price for something that
was not his fault.
After a cup of hot,
black coffee, his head cleared. He
looked at his watch, he was already late for work. Over the phone, he had no trouble convincing
his supervisor that he was ill, his hoarse croak did that for him. He sat, deep in thought, a few months earlier
he had arrived back home to find Marisa watching one of her favourite
television programmes – Price Drop TV.
She had sat avidly watching he screen, her hand hovering over the
telephone. He’d sighed. Already the house groaned with the so-called
‘bargains’ she had accumulated. As she
put in a bid for a set of heavy-duty steel knives, including a cleaver, he had
jokingly asked if she was thinking of taking up butchery. Now, he grinned sardonically.
Three days later, he
went back to work. His colleagues were
shocked at his appearance, gone was the spruce, genial giant with twinkles in
his eyes, now his face was gaunt and morose and stubble clung to his chin.
“Are you alright,
mate? You look really rough. ‘Flu was it?”
“Wife’s done a bunk,”
he muttered, picking up a mailbag, he shuffled out of the door.
From then on, he
avoided his friends and sat alone in the canteen. Conversation at the adjoining tables grew
stilted as he ate his solitary meal, only picking up again when he left the
room.
“Poor bugger. He doted on that floozie…” the voice trailed
away as it was kicked into silence for fear of its carrying power.
As the days passed,
no-one took any particular notice of the little red post van as it buzzed
around the countryside, delivering letters, parcels, and packages. No-one noticed the number of times it was to
be seen parked near woods, copses and lonely fields. No-one noticed the mud that frequently
stained the bottom of his trousers and coated the soles of his shoes.
Summer had fled, autumn
was dwindling, soon it would be winter and the ground would freeze. Normally, winter is hard on wild animals, but
this year, they would feed well.
Copyright Janet
Baldey
Sunday 10 September 2023
Five monoku (single line haiku)
Five monoku capture the moment.
By Robert Kingston
foolish enough to miss
sticky fingers
a back of the hand view of
the licked clean spoon
even the shit shovelers see
it coming
crumbling concrete a
universe circles the paper trail
Copyight Robert
Friday 8 September 2023
The conclusion of a century
The conclusion of a century
By Peter Woodgate
Dawn breaks with breathtaking
beauty
A golden glow from mountain to
moorland
The sun’s rays settle on Earth’s
loveliness,
Illuminating superior
civilisations of the world.
City after city awakes,
To find affluence, squandered,
Veiled by exhausted pyrotechnics,
And urinated merriment.
Last night’s celebrations
Lie in the gutter,
Crushed and discarded,
Sunlight shimmering from twisted
shapes.
Deep into war-torn territories
The morning sun glistens,
On a child’s tearstained cheek
And the barrel of a gun,
With a magazine of death,
Contributing wealth,
To superior civilisations
Of the world.
Copyright Peter Woodgate