About us

 

ABOUT RAYLEIGH WRITERS

The idea to start a writers’ group in Rayleigh came about as a result of a questionnaire circulated to residents asking for ideas to improve their local library. Our first meeting was held in 2001, and we have continued to meet at the Library ever since. From the start, it became clear that our writers were a lively, friendly bunch who enjoyed each other’s company, so much so that our regular gatherings were soon augmented by additional activities that have recently included a writing workshop and summer social.

         An early initiative was the decision in 2003 to publish an anthology of short stories and poems under the title ‘Writers Reign’. The following year, hot off the press, it won a First Prize Certificate in a national competition organised by the David St John Thomas Trust and Writing Magazine.  Astonished rather than surprised we sold the book in support of a local hospital charity, and having done so promptly began a second book. The publication and sale of anthologies has since been a core activity of the Group.

         We not only write and produce our anthologies but sell them at craft fairs and other events throughout the county. In 2010 the Writers took to the stage for an evening of readings and recitations as part of the Essex Book Festival, an activity that later featured in some of our launch evenings for published books.

         Three years later, we were awarded a ‘Special Certificate of Recognition for Services in Rayleigh’ by Rayleigh Town Council and, at the request of the Council, adjudicated a children’s illustrated poem competition, funding one of the prizes.

         During the first Covid lockdown, the Group banished social isolation among its membership by setting up a blog on which members were able to communicate with each other and showcase their work. In the three years it has been running hundreds of stories and poems have been posted and viewed by many people in the UK and abroad:

http://RLWG2020.blogspot.com

               Recently, in June 2023, the Group presented the Air Ambulance with a cheque for £1,200 bringing its charitable giving to £9,700. And we’re not through yet! Another anthology, our seventh, has recently been published and is presently on sale at various events and venues, including Rayleigh Museum. Now bearing the title ‘Essex Tales’ it will, yet again, be sold in support of the Air Ambulance.

         Apart from its charitable endeavours the Group exists to encourage a regular writing habit among its members, a number of whom have pushed ahead with their own projects that have resulted in the publication of novels, the winning of prizes in literary competitions and the publication of poems and prose in national magazines.

         New members, whether they be established or aspiring writers, are welcome to attend our monthly meetings at Rayleigh Library beginning at 2.30pm on the second Thursday of each month. Membership costs the exorbitant sum of £1 per meeting attended. We look forward to seeing you.

November 2023

*  FURTHER INFORMATION ON THE GROUP IS TO BE FOUND ON THE GROUP’S NOTICE BOARD AT THE LIBRARY. 

Four from Rob

 A monoku

mood swings the light on my dark side

A tanka

at mother’s home

first smelling the irises

then hydrangeas

I’m left searching

for her own scent

A split sequence haibun

Break point

Waking in the outback is somewhat stilling for some

            tempest weather

be it a tundra, a mountain, a desert or a deep forest

          a storm in a teacup

the first thought generally is to look to the stars and ask why me

            lips out

A haiga

• 
  

 Riddles 04

 

Two more from the Riddler

 

No1

A bus driver goes the wrong way down a one way street.

he passes 2 cops but they don't stop him why?

 

No2

 Turn me on my side I am everything, cut me in half I am nothing

What am I?

 

You aint seen nothing yet!  The Riddler

 

 Northern Reaches ~ 02  Wizomi’s Quest

BY Len Morgan 

They touched down 30 yards from a rocky outcrop.  Wings were efficiently collapsed and ported towards the bare rock face where he recognised the, now familiar, hand print incised at shoulder height.  They, each in turn, pressed a hand into the print and walked into the darkness.  He was pushed forward by Ariel and entered the void.  The wings were laid on racks at either side of the entranceway.  Further in there was a locker room where they removed their flight suits and donned soft synthetic clothing. 

“You can stow your gear in 111,” he was told, “Use your palm print to open it.”  The clothing provided was a warm figure hugging light material as were the shoes.  They headed down a 1 in 2 gradient ramp into a bunker lit by the now familiar ceiling tiles.  The bottom of the ramp opened into a high roofed area two hundred feet long half that wide, and to either hand there were rows of doors.

“So Ariel, this is your lair?”

“No this is our main storage facility, the top floor, there are other floors below.  The sector committee wishes to meet with you first, so follow me.”  She led him to a wall space without a door, indicating that he should activate the palm panel on the wall.  He found himself in a lounge area, in the presence of five others, Ariel did not follow him. A tall slender grey-haired woman greeted him and ushered him to a seating area. 

 

“Greetings Mr Wizomi, My name is Cherrie these are Petter, Fred, Shane & Jeenie.  We brought you here by a circuitous route for security reasons.  We do have, on occasion, uninvited guests.  They tend to follow our fliers but, as 'Standards', are unable to enter our sector lodge they eventually give up and leave.”

“Do you maintain contact with them?” 

“No, but they are human and curious.  There have been a few sensitive minds, capable of gaining access.  We tend to plant doubt in their minds…” 

“Could you not let them in, and educate them?  We are going to need as many as possible to repel the Blutlander’s and later when the Karaxen return.”

“I’m afraid you’re getting ahead of yourself,” said Cherrie.  “We haven’t even agreed to help you, and to put it indelicately, we need to know what is in it for us?”

“The Bluttlander’s intend to dominate and take over our world of Abbalar.  They may not be your immediate concern but if we do not stop them and change their philosophy they will eventually reach you.  It would be better for us to combat them now, together.  Because, In roughly 500 years the Karaxen will be released to reclaim the world they consider to be theirs…” 

“Wizomi, we do not live that long, so that is a problem for the future.  We know of the Karaxen, we have met them before…” 

“You have?  You know what they look like?  You know they will exterminate we Abbalons like vermine…” 

“Look,” a picture of an alien-scaled creature filled a wall of the room. “this is our enemy, we can defeat it.”

“What a monstrosity…” 

“They would be a problem, but we have improved our technology, and our numbers are increasing rapidly.  There were pockets of the Karaxen that did not die out or go underground.  We now know their weaknesses and could combat the others on an equal footing.  We are prepared for them.” Cherrie said. 

“So, you would abandon the ‘standards’ of Abbalar?” 

“Why should we be concerned with them, they’ve persecuted us for years, they are no better than the Bluttlander’s, they deserve each other!” said Petter. 

“We were briefed by the Oracle. We were given all this information.  The Oracle was left behind when the others left to bring us back together again,” said Jeenie.

“We need to discuss this!” said Shane. 

‘Ariel, collect Mr Wizomi and take him to the canteen…”  

“Please go out the way you came in.  Ariel will be your guide while you are here. We will call you back when we’ve discussed your request and reached a decision.”

“Wiz, you’ve had a long journey.  You need to eat and unwind,  Follow me,” Ariel said.

“Where are we going?”

“First we shower, change into fresh clothing, then eat and drink with friends.  Do you have a talent; Musician, Dancer, Conjurer?”

“I’m known as Wizomi the Story Teller, If the opportunity presents, I will ply my trade for your enjoyment.” 

“Good!  We, not of the council, are starved of news from the outside world.  Will you tell us about it?”

Wizomi ate a sumptuous meal with the rest of the flight.  During the meal, he told them of his time with the various peoples inhabiting the Southern regions of Abbalar.  They ate, drank, sang, and danced until even Wiz became tired. 

'Follow,' said Ariel, 'tonight you sleep with me …'

.-...-.

They were breaking-fast in the canteen the following morning when they were accosted by four stern-faced men in uniform.

"Visitor Wizomi, the Committee has reached a decision with regard to your plight. please come with us."

"Who are you?" Wiz demanded.

'They are Inquisitors, and they have weapons,' Ariel explained. 'You'd better go with them...'

Ariel rose to accompany him.

"Not you!" the leader said pushing her unceremoniously into her seat.

'This does not bode well,' Wiz thought as They led him away. 

(To be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 

 

 Riddles 03

The Riddler

No 1.  I sound like one letter but I'm written with three.

I show you things when you look through me.

What am I?

 

No 2.  In a clothing store in Rowayton USA, 

socks cost 25 dollars,

a vest cost 20 dollars

a blouse cost 30 dollars

a tie cost 15 dollars

with this method, how much does underwear cost?

 

Bring it on Riddler

 

 The man most likely to Succeed. 

By Len Morgan

  When I look back on my childhood, one person immediately springs to mind. Barry O’Donnell ~ was a handsome lad ~ and the one most likely to succeed in life.  Dough to his friends, was a charismatic guy, intelligent, witty, and inventive. His passions were modern & traditional Jazz, and Science fiction.   In 1960, at 15 years of age, he was a gifted artist who could paint incredible Sci-fi panoramas so vivid you could imagine you were there.   He idolised an artist, in Weird & Astounding Sci-fi comics, who simply signed his work as DITCO.   Dough was a poet and songwriter, who also wrote stories that could make you laugh or cry.    He would spend endless hours drinking brown ale, and listening to Elvis, Buddy Holly, Eddie Cochrane, Jerry Lee and other rock stars of that era.   But mostly he loved the Jazz of Chris Barber, Bix Beiderbek, the Dutch Swing College Band, Duke Ellington, Earl Bostic, Dizzie, Bird, and Ella Fitgerald.  

   At school, he was a gifted ‘A’ stream student, always top of the class.   It seemed that the world was his oyster.   If anybody from Eastbury Secondary School for Boys was going to make a name for himself it was Dough!   But, he had one enormous flaw.   An anarchic antisocial streak that left us, his friends, embarrassed and feeling obliged to apologise for his thoughtless words and actions.   You see we loved him, we appreciated his finer qualities, and wanted others to do likewise.   But Dough, predictable as the weather was guaranteed to do something offensive to alienate somebody - often violently.

“Sorry he behaved like that, he’s really a great guy but, when he drinks…”   Whilst we apologised Dough would wander off, doing his own thing, wreaking havoc, oblivious to the trouble he’d caused and the efforts we put in to make things right! 

   On a school trip, to France, he got drunk and rode off on the local gendarmes bike - there was a gun pointed at his back as we remonstrated with the officer.   We retrieved his bike and apologised, but Dough still spent a night in the cells learning gutter French, and how to drink cheap red wine, with the town drunk; skills he would make use of, in later years, as he travelled the continent as an itinerant grape picker in France, Italy, and Spain.

   Back home he continued to paint and write breathtaking stuff but refused to submit anything for publication.   I believe, that above all, he feared rejection.   But, we will never know, on 5^th Nov 1961 he burned everything, on a bonfire, in his parent's back garden.  

  When he left school he worked in a succession of menial jobs from which he was sacked for disrespect, verbal abuse, bad timekeeping, unreliability, turning up drunk, and fighting.   His longest employment lasted less than six weeks, he didn’t give a toss; he was unemployable. So finally I gave up on him.  I joined a rock group as their singer and saw less and less of Dough.   When we did meet I found myself repelled by his outlandish antisocial behaviour.

   In 1964, I joined the Army for 9 years, serving in Germany, Cyprus, and the Trucial Oman.   I was home on leave the last time I saw Dough, it was in 1969, at 2am in the morning, he was paralytic drunk, and urinating up the front doors of the Barking Town Hall; showing his regard for authority.   I didn’t stop to talk I just looked him straight in the eyes, thinking of all that wasted potential, he glared straight back at me without a glimmer of recognition, and I walked on by.

   In 1974 I read, in the Barking & Dagenham Post with regret, that Barry O’Donnell, aged 29 of no fixed abode, died on the streets of a drug overdose.  Should I, Could I have done anything to change the course of his life?  I think not.

  Some people are like moths.  Try as you will to keep them away from a candle flame, they will inevitably crash and burn.  Sadly, it is their nature.

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 Didn’t you hear me?

Janet Baldey
 

The heavy oak doors burst open and Leo fled down the curved white steps.  Without hesitation, he heeled to the left and strode down the street.  His mouth was raked into a thin line and furrows scarred his face.  There was just one thought in his mind, he had to get away from the grey faced men and their grey voices and away from the few friends who’d attended the hearing, knowing he couldn’t stomach their clumsy shoulder-pats and embarrassed sympathy.  His anger, simmering just below the surface ever since it happened, flared, and became white-hot.  How could she have done this to him?  He’d reached his car by now and stood thumping its roof with fury.

         At last, feeling dead inside, he got into the car.  For a long time, he sat, watching skeletal trees bowing under a freshening breeze. Slowly, he reached out his hand and switched on the ignition.  Immediately, the husky voice of his wife’s favourite singer, flooded the car.   His hand shot towards the ‘off’ switch but the damage had been done and his shoulders heaved as he lowered his head onto the steering wheel.

         “Why, Catherine. Why?”

         It was almost dark by the time he recovered.  He knew he couldn’t return to an empty house, so he headed in the opposite direction, threading his way through the evening rush hour, out of the city and onto the coast road.

         When he reached the boatyard, it was almost midnight.  Leo parked the car and stood looking out over the moorings.  The wind was blowing hard now, sending tattered clouds scudding over the moon.  All around him, he could hear the slap of the waves, the clinking of halyards and the creak of vessels being buffeted by the rolling swell.  He drew in a breath of salt-laden air and, despite everything, felt himself relax.  He’d always loved this place.  He’d bought Catherine a yacht, just after they’d lost their third child, thinking it might take her mind off her grief.  After, they had spent almost every weekend sailing.  The rougher the sea, the better Catherine liked it.  On his work desk, he kept a picture of her at the tiller.  Her hair was streaming in the wind and her face was beaded with spray.  He never tired of looking at it, when things were tough, it gave him strength.

         Suddenly, the words of her favourite song reverberated in his head….Didn’t I tell you, I’ll love you forever?  Didn’t you hear me?

         They were very young when they first met but he’d known, almost at first sight, that she was the one.  He remembered walking into the church youth club, intent on having a game of table tennis and a laugh with his mates. Then, he caught sight of a small, serious-faced girl with a cloud of black hair and big brown eyes.  She reminded him of a faun, so small, so dark, so silent.  He found himself wanting to protect her.  He squeezed his eyes shut and a fresh wave of guilt washed over him.  He’d meant to do his best but at the very time she’d needed him most, he’d failed her.

         At first, they were happy just to be together.  He remembered one sun-kissed afternoon when they’d ran along the sands at Rye, her slim, brown legs struggling to keep up with his and her protesting squeals as he brushed sand from her hair after they’d made love in the dunes.  She’d been so joyful then, her future stretched out before her, golden with promise like the sands they raced along.

         All Catherine had wanted from their marriage was to be a wife and mother.  She was not interested in a career; “a real home bird” his mother had called her.  But that was before; after losing three babies in a row, they’d started the soul-destroying round of specialist consultations.  With every visit, hope leached away and her happiness faded.  At first, he’d been supportive but as he became more and more caught up in his career, its distractions followed him home and he failed to notice how pale she was becoming.   All she wanted was to hold her baby; that was her tragedy and it was also his that he never fully realised how deep her longing was.  She sank into depression, her spirit languished and she spent long hours sitting alone in silence.  Then, the attacks of vertigo and dizziness began.  At first, their GP put it down to ‘nerves’ and offered antidepressants and it was only when she collapsed that she was taken seriously.  When MS was finally diagnosed, Leo was shocked into realising how far she had degenerated.  At long last, a surge of tenderness welled and he’d folded her slight figure in his arms. 

         “Don’t worry darling.  I’ll always be here to look after you,” he’d said.

         Didn’t you hear me?  Evidently, she hadn’t.  He’d come back from work one day, opened the front door and immediately felt the emptiness.  Pounding up the stairs, he burst into their bedroom only to find her limp body prostrate on the bed, her dark hair a curtain covering her face and an empty bottle of pills upended on the floor.

         Leo knew he couldn’t live without her.  Moving slowly, he raised the sail, heard the snap of the canvas as the wind took it and saw it billowing ghostly in the moonlight.  He nodded, bad weather was forecast and that would suit his purpose.  He cast off from the jetty and hauled on the tiller.  Without bothering to switch on his navigation lights, he set off and as he did, the first squall of icy rain slapped him full in the face.

Copyright Janet Baldey