Diverse Voices

By Bulkington Writers

It is said that if you put an infinite number of monkeys in front of an infinite number of typewriters, eventually you will end up with The Bulkington Writers. And here to prove that theory is a sampling of their output.

Produced by published authors, prize winners and writers who just like to write for the sheer pleasure of it, we present a series of stories, essays, poems, shopping lists (no wait, that shouldn’t be in there) ranging from ghostly encounters to the burning down of London (and let’s face it who hasn’t wanted to do that at one time or another). This book has them all. There’s even some good spelling too!

So settle back and enjoy as the Bulkington Writers speak to you in their Diverse Voices.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bulkington Writers
• Release date: Jun 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311064035

Bulkington Writers

Bulkington Writers is partway between a class and a writer’s circle and meets on Wednesdays at 7- 9.30 in Bulkington Village Centre’s Garden Room. All levels of expertise are welcome and the first taster session is free. Tea, coffee and biscuits are inclusive, as are the handouts and any one to one reading and advice. There is an email group and lots of support and encouragement for newcomers, plus positive and helpful criticism for more experienced writers. For more information about the class email [e-mail]

Book preview

Introduction

Bulkington Writers grew into the vibrant and creative self-help circle it is today from a group of creative writers dispossessed by the rise in course fees and the subsequent death of the evening class as a social and cultural entity. To be honest, they had outgrown bureaucracy that had started to smack too much of school and courses designed solely to guide them into work they either didn’t need, already had, or which never would exist. (Dear Sir, I am applying for the post of poet ...)

I have had the privilege of guiding, inspiring, annoying and feeding weekly chocolate biscuits to this disparate and wonderful collection of poets, storytellers, humorists, commentators, essayists and ranters, some of who have been with the group for more years than we care to discuss, others who move in and out as the fancy takes them or life allows and some relatively new, but no less enthusiastic members.

Experienced writers and beginners alike, Bulkington Writers have had considerable success in competitions and local arts festivals and feel the time is right to showcase our skills to a wider audience. There is a varied body of work in this, our first collection and we think there is something for every reader. Its strongest quality is that each and every writer has found his or her own style and from the shortest poem to the longest short story, what shines through is originality, polished professionalism and sheer talent, underpinned by powerful voices and a love of the art and craft of writing.

I claim no credit for this marvellous group of writers, because I’ve learned as much as I’ve taught and I’m proud myself to be a Bulkington Writer. I have however kept the group in order, (mostly) nagged and dragged the talent out of some and sat back and in awe at the exceptional writing that still keeps coming even after all these years. I hope you enjoy this selection as much as I have done editing it.

Diane Lindsay

Contents

Introduction

The Good, The Bad And The Illiterate

The Ballad of London Town

The Unexpected Gent

Alpha, Beta...

At Home with Mr. Pym

2OCD

Woman on a Bench

Mayhem

Mametz Wood, The Somme

Daughter of Dr. Freckle

Rakes Landing

Already

A Relative Experience

Tarn Hows

Bruised Hearts in Boxing Glove Park

A Snowball in Hell’s Chance

Misalignment in Time

Ramsey Island – Not Just for the Birds

To Iambic Octameter

The Art of Pooh Sticks

The Quite Old Curiosity Shop

Old Bill

The Yellow Mercedes

The Very Thirsty Tourist

Oblation

Forty Years in Heaven

Widows Without Weeds

Laika

Falling Leaves

Afternoon Performance at Farlands Cottage

The Year in Haiku

Death on the Cards

About the Authors

Bulkington Writers

The Good, The Bad And The Illiterate

Richard Doron

The traveller hitched his horse to the rail, stretched his weary muscles and batted the desert dust from his tweeds. Producing a small mirror he adjusted his cravat and twisted his moustaches; after all one had to maintain standards while in foreign lands. Squinting against the late afternoon sun he looked up at the peeling sign…

HOTEL AND LIBRARY SALOON

Perfect.

‘Hey meester,’ rasped a voice from beneath a huge sombrero atop a long poncho shrouding a figure leaning against the clap board wall. ‘Your horse, she ees lame; I weel feex eet for you.’

The traveller shrugged. ‘Not that it’s any of your concern, but the animal is hired and the rental company will take care of it.’ Damned nuisance, he thought, those crooks at Rent-a-Nag had pulled a flanker on him and no mistake. He pulled out the rental agreement and studied the outline drawing of the horse showing existing wear and tear. Some scars around the spurs area and worn teeth but no indications of a lameness. Now there would be a surcharge. And it was supposed to be a top of the range model. It even came with a therapeutic wooden bead saddle cover and a front nose-bag. A little heavy on grass perhaps but then luxury didn’t come cheap.

However, reliability apparently wasn’t part of the deal. He would have choice words with that outfit on the way back.

He was aroused from his musings by the rasping voice.

‘I said I weel feex eet for you gringo.’ Poking out of the poncho, was the pointy end of a blade the width of which implied a considerable length hidden from view but readily available. The traveller cleared his throat, spat onto the dust, nonchalantly folded his arms and declared…

‘Is this a dagger which I see before me,

the blade toward my hand?’

The blade trembled slightly.

‘Avaunt! And quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee!

Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold.’

The knife fell to the floor and the Mexican sank to his knees.

‘Forgeev me señor, I am a seemple man, I was not expecting a Word-slinger.’

With a cool stare at the ruffian the traveller pulled at his shirt cuffs, moved towards the bat wing doors and entered the saloon. His nostrils flared at the mixed aromas of sweat, smoke and musty manuscripts.

Conversation, already muted as appropriate for a library saloon, died away completely as heads turned in his direction. At least the piano player kept going, that was a good sign. The pianist was wearing woollen mittens in a misguided attempt at keeping down the volume. They did nothing to improve his technique.

There were tables and chairs occupied by the usual assortment of cowhands, riff-raff and writers, drinking and reading. Some were gambling their wages on stud scrabble. An open doorway to the right revealed a reading room furnished with shelves of books and comfy chairs. A large sign within ordered…

Hush Yo’ Mouth, Pilgrim

Ignoring the gawping throng he sauntered to the bar, his boots clunking on the bare boards of the floor.

The piano player stopped.

That was a bad sign.

‘Didn’t you read the notice mister?’ asked the barman pointing back towards the entrance. ‘This is a library saloon, there are people reading here. You must put a pair of slippers on over your boots to keep the noise down.’ Sure enough there were some shelves by the door bearing large slippers of assorted styles. All the feet under the tables were similarly shod, a number of which were pointedly being waggled to emphasise the admonishment.

The traveller sniffed. ‘I neither need nor desire such sartorial horrors. I intend to retire immediately. I am travelling to the book festival at Hay-on-Wyoming on the morrow and would like a bath and a room for the night.’

‘BALDERDASH!’ A shout from the reading room.

Before the barman could respond a hulking figure approached, wiped its moustache with the back of a grimy hand and grinned a grin of blackened stumps. ‘You want I should read you a story honey?’ she said.

The traveller shook his head and murmured,

‘To make a sweet lady sad is a sour offence… but in your case, madam, I suspect it would be of no great consequence. In other words, not just now, thank you.’

It paid to be wary of library floosies. He had heard of travellers being tucked into bed by such women, lulled into sleep by their stories then finding their library tickets missing in the morning. The woman frowned, unsure if the line from Troilus and Cressida had been an insult or a compliment and went back to shelving the returns, her flip-flops flapping lightly on the floor.

‘Excuse me mister,’ said the barman, ‘my name’s Ned, I’m your barman. Now I hope you ain’t gonna cause no trouble with those fancy words of yours.’

‘PIFFLE!’

‘They ain’t as fancy as those clothes he’s wearin’!’ scoffed a red-eyed regular. He had been reading since lunchtime and the words had gone to his head.

The traveller stared. They obviously didn’t see many Englishmen wearing three-piece Harris tweed suits with knickerbockers in these parts but then his profession as a Word-slinger required a certain flamboyance. He maintained a level gaze at the heckler and struck a pose …

‘Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,

The dear repose for limbs with travel tir’d;

But then begins a journey in my head.

To work my mind when body’s work’s expir’d.’

The stricken man blanched and fell unconscious. Nearby tables jerked as legs twitched in shock. Hands slipped off books and places were lost as readers suffered from the effects of passive poetry.

‘What in the name of Davy Crockett was that?’ queried a whey faced Ned.

The traveller snorted, ‘What’s the matter, have you illiterati never heard of iambic pentameter…?’

‘POPPYCOCK!’

‘… Right! That is enough! Barman, I demand you tell me who is shouting those expletives I keep hearing?’

‘Don’t mind him, mister, that’s just the librarian in the reading room. He’s afflicted with Tourette’s. Put one over on us at his interview, didn’t so much as a fiddlesticks. He don’t mean nothin’ though. Anyways, about your powerful poetry… we’re simple folk out here, we read Bible stories and pioneer tales ‘specially those about our glorious forebears seeing off the redcoats and claiming independence from the foreign tyranny of … of…’ His voice faded away as his brain caught up with his mouth and he realised what he was talking about and to whom.

‘Glorious forebears? Ignorant dullards more like,’ sneered the traveller scanning the sea of slack mouthed faces. ‘I would wager that none of their misbegotten descendants in this hovel can recite a verse worthy of my ears. It would amuse me to quote any of you under the table. Any takers?’ The silence was profound. Except, of course, for the tiny squishy sounds that eyeballs make when they are rolling in their sockets, looking at nothing in particular on the ceiling or floor; anywhere but in the direction of the traveller.

‘Ah’ve gert wern,’ drawled a voice from the murky shadows near the piano.

The stranger peered into the gloom and commanded…

‘Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil himself

Upon thy wicked dam, come forth!’

Some readers near the front who bore the brunt of the quote fainted. Even those at the rear felt queasy but nevertheless a moose-sized piece of shadow rose and waddled into the light, resolving itself into the shape of a very tall, very wide youth. Cackles of encouragement followed him as he waded through the tables, his hat knocking the hanging paraffin lamps and setting the shadows dodging and leaping.

‘Go git him Jethro,’ chortled Ned as he approached the bar. Jethro was wearing canvas trousers like tepees, above which bulged his flannel combinations. Originally pink, they were now so begrimed, begreased and besweated to various shades of brown, grey and dinge, that their wearer resembled a flayed side of condemned beef hanging in a slaughterhouse. The entire ensemble was set off by a pair of fluffy bunnies on his feet. He shambled closer, his beardless face greasy, pink and smirking. His personal miasma parted the throng before him as people gagged at his malodorous proximity and quickly moved aside. Flies detoured around him or fell