The Wednesday Writers
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Through face to face sessions under the auspices of the W.E.A., through online courses during the pandemic and general involvement in the literary arts in and around West Yorkshire, the Wednesday Writers have formed. Renowned for their generosity of spirit and determination to support each other, the Writers are intent upon furthering their craft. The latest venture is an independent online course to run through January, February and March of 2022. A small charge is payable via the PayPal button below.
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WEA Short Stories |
Here are some extracts from stories which have emerged from the WEA short stories creative writing course 2021.
From the start, the odds were stacked against these writers as they were thrust into each other's company in the midst of a pandemic; thrust into an online course where, thanks to the magic of the internet and Zoom pictures, some people met each other for the first time. And yet, they succeeded in considering their own prose writing skills, in critically engaging with the work of their peers and in searching for the next step forwards.
That they were successful is much to their credit. The evidence follows but it would not have emerged had they not been top writers and top people. Currock Press is very pleased to be able to present the following writers and their work.
From the start, the odds were stacked against these writers as they were thrust into each other's company in the midst of a pandemic; thrust into an online course where, thanks to the magic of the internet and Zoom pictures, some people met each other for the first time. And yet, they succeeded in considering their own prose writing skills, in critically engaging with the work of their peers and in searching for the next step forwards.
That they were successful is much to their credit. The evidence follows but it would not have emerged had they not been top writers and top people. Currock Press is very pleased to be able to present the following writers and their work.
A Parting Glass
by Karl Riordan
The days spent with Arthur had been an education in many ways. He’d tried his best to offload his ideas on revolutionary socialism. We both signed the petitions he brought to defend asylum seekers or support the latest strike. We read the left-wing papers on the dashboard unlike The Sun you often see in builders’ vans of other scrappers we passed at weigh-ins. The racing tips were good in The Morning Star as well. I looked forward to the regular Wednesdays when Arth would be tightly zipped up in numerous layers of clothing pacing up and down his garden path. It must be difficult at his age and having nobody. He spoke of a nephew that would come and visit now and then but he was on his own other than his comrades. He had us now and I reckoned that if I ever get to his age then I’d like to find something similar. I admit he’d often repeat himself but kept us entertained with his tales of his days in Australia as one of the ten-pound Poms. He talked about the Rubby-Dubs that would gather round a brazier taking the sip of liniment to keep warm. He claimed that he never partook in a swally, but he’d often have a bottle inside his coat when we were out –never passed it around. “Medicinal for the joints,” he claimed. We were charmed by his Newport accent.
by Karl Riordan
The days spent with Arthur had been an education in many ways. He’d tried his best to offload his ideas on revolutionary socialism. We both signed the petitions he brought to defend asylum seekers or support the latest strike. We read the left-wing papers on the dashboard unlike The Sun you often see in builders’ vans of other scrappers we passed at weigh-ins. The racing tips were good in The Morning Star as well. I looked forward to the regular Wednesdays when Arth would be tightly zipped up in numerous layers of clothing pacing up and down his garden path. It must be difficult at his age and having nobody. He spoke of a nephew that would come and visit now and then but he was on his own other than his comrades. He had us now and I reckoned that if I ever get to his age then I’d like to find something similar. I admit he’d often repeat himself but kept us entertained with his tales of his days in Australia as one of the ten-pound Poms. He talked about the Rubby-Dubs that would gather round a brazier taking the sip of liniment to keep warm. He claimed that he never partook in a swally, but he’d often have a bottle inside his coat when we were out –never passed it around. “Medicinal for the joints,” he claimed. We were charmed by his Newport accent.
Karl Riordan is a working writer based in Sheffield after stints around the UK & Ireland and considering his next move.
'The Tattooist's Chair' is his first poetry collection from Smokestack Press. He has an M.A. in Creative Writing from the University of Sheffield. Daljit Nagra said, he writes of ‘[a]n ordinary world illuminated by a seeing-eye that persistently finds understated wonder.’
By day, he’s worked underage on building sites, was a barber, scrap-collector, teacher, a postal worker - and lasted a week. He currently works as a Disability Support Worker at Sheffield Hallam University and Library Assistant for the Rotherham Library Service. He’s working on a second collection of poems and a book of short stories.
He says, 'The WEA is an invaluable resource providing a wealth of activity that is accessible to working-class people. I have followed a number of courses and always been richly rewarded creatively and socially. I have this image of Cuban cigar workers being read literature during their shift. The WEA goes further and allows the student to explore, experiment, and exchange ideas.'
'The Tattooist's Chair' is his first poetry collection from Smokestack Press. He has an M.A. in Creative Writing from the University of Sheffield. Daljit Nagra said, he writes of ‘[a]n ordinary world illuminated by a seeing-eye that persistently finds understated wonder.’
By day, he’s worked underage on building sites, was a barber, scrap-collector, teacher, a postal worker - and lasted a week. He currently works as a Disability Support Worker at Sheffield Hallam University and Library Assistant for the Rotherham Library Service. He’s working on a second collection of poems and a book of short stories.
He says, 'The WEA is an invaluable resource providing a wealth of activity that is accessible to working-class people. I have followed a number of courses and always been richly rewarded creatively and socially. I have this image of Cuban cigar workers being read literature during their shift. The WEA goes further and allows the student to explore, experiment, and exchange ideas.'
Der Formschneider *
Linda Hibbin
I study the wood block, my eyes drawn to an undefined darkness in the field behind the characters I have carved.
Ernst, Katrin and me, Dieter the Dreamer, and there I am, dreaming. I remember listening to Ernst tease Katrin. ‘Come on, take them off,’ as he tickled her ankles. ‘Have a paddle.’
‘Leave her alone, Ernst.’ He was disturbing my wool-gathering.
Katrin sat clutching her skirt tightly afraid Ernst might offer to help rid her of her footwear. ‘Ma will clobber me if she finds out,’ she muttered moving up the bank. ‘You’ll get into trouble,’ pointing to Ernst’s wet shoes.
The sun slid behind dark clouds; the wind began to whip the trees. I didn’t give much thought to a sense of disquiet as I listened to Ernst and Katrin. We were young, and like the brook, bubbling along, oblivious to obstacles that might slow life’s flow. Unprepared for an impending life-changing event. If that was what it was.
I struggle. Those moments are a blur. Years ago, yes. Blurred even then.
Now, I am meandering sluggishly across the flood plain of old age, toward the open sea. But not with them alongside me.
I am ‘der Formschneider’. The block cutter. Held in high regard by Kaiser Wilhelm for whom I have fulfilled several commissions. Prints of my work have been praised and displayed, but this carving – this has taken a lifetime. It is unfinished. Will probably remain so because I cannot remember the final detail.
There was something in the field behind us.
A particle of consciousness from that day took root deep inside me. It has slowly matured. At times it flickers at the edge of my mind’s eye then flutters away with butterfly wings before it has substance.
A vague shape teases me. I feverishly start to gouge but the tool, as always, works under its own volition. To a point where it scrapes and digs, creating a hole which gets bigger, blacker. I imagine the blackness swallowing the beechwood and something intangible, clinging to my fingertips, seeping into my pores, leaching through my body, consuming my soul.
I am absorbed in my work. I sense a desire to surrender to …
Stop! Enough! No! God, NO!
That was the day Ernst and Katrin disappeared.
Leave it in Limbo!
*The woodcarver
Linda Hibbin
I study the wood block, my eyes drawn to an undefined darkness in the field behind the characters I have carved.
Ernst, Katrin and me, Dieter the Dreamer, and there I am, dreaming. I remember listening to Ernst tease Katrin. ‘Come on, take them off,’ as he tickled her ankles. ‘Have a paddle.’
‘Leave her alone, Ernst.’ He was disturbing my wool-gathering.
Katrin sat clutching her skirt tightly afraid Ernst might offer to help rid her of her footwear. ‘Ma will clobber me if she finds out,’ she muttered moving up the bank. ‘You’ll get into trouble,’ pointing to Ernst’s wet shoes.
The sun slid behind dark clouds; the wind began to whip the trees. I didn’t give much thought to a sense of disquiet as I listened to Ernst and Katrin. We were young, and like the brook, bubbling along, oblivious to obstacles that might slow life’s flow. Unprepared for an impending life-changing event. If that was what it was.
I struggle. Those moments are a blur. Years ago, yes. Blurred even then.
Now, I am meandering sluggishly across the flood plain of old age, toward the open sea. But not with them alongside me.
I am ‘der Formschneider’. The block cutter. Held in high regard by Kaiser Wilhelm for whom I have fulfilled several commissions. Prints of my work have been praised and displayed, but this carving – this has taken a lifetime. It is unfinished. Will probably remain so because I cannot remember the final detail.
There was something in the field behind us.
A particle of consciousness from that day took root deep inside me. It has slowly matured. At times it flickers at the edge of my mind’s eye then flutters away with butterfly wings before it has substance.
A vague shape teases me. I feverishly start to gouge but the tool, as always, works under its own volition. To a point where it scrapes and digs, creating a hole which gets bigger, blacker. I imagine the blackness swallowing the beechwood and something intangible, clinging to my fingertips, seeping into my pores, leaching through my body, consuming my soul.
I am absorbed in my work. I sense a desire to surrender to …
Stop! Enough! No! God, NO!
That was the day Ernst and Katrin disappeared.
Leave it in Limbo!
*The woodcarver
Linda Hibbin is a mosaic artist living near the Essex coast. She has
squiggled a few light-hearted lines over the years, usually to let off
steam as a housewife and mother. She became hooked on writing flash
fiction and short stories during online WEA creative writing courses in 2020
and has had several accepted for publication.
The WEA opened a door at a difficult time for which she will always
be grateful. Linda has been able to lose herself, and take pleasure in
words as she has with her art work. The Short Story Writing course
has enriched her life, given her confidence, and allowed her to find
her 'voice.'
squiggled a few light-hearted lines over the years, usually to let off
steam as a housewife and mother. She became hooked on writing flash
fiction and short stories during online WEA creative writing courses in 2020
and has had several accepted for publication.
The WEA opened a door at a difficult time for which she will always
be grateful. Linda has been able to lose herself, and take pleasure in
words as she has with her art work. The Short Story Writing course
has enriched her life, given her confidence, and allowed her to find
her 'voice.'
The Daughter
She was definitely a pink girl. The woman had noticed the daughter a couple of years before, riding around the turning circle at the top of the cul de sac outside her house. She was sitting on her little pink bike with streamers trailing from the handle bars. A white cardigan over a pink cotton dress and pink tights pushed into little pink trainers that flashed when they touched the ground. Her father was proudly walking behind her making sure the stabilisers were doing their job. After a few days, it seemed she could ride the little bike so he sat down on the pavement and watched, she full of confidence and laughter, he full of love.
Judith Nash
She was definitely a pink girl. The woman had noticed the daughter a couple of years before, riding around the turning circle at the top of the cul de sac outside her house. She was sitting on her little pink bike with streamers trailing from the handle bars. A white cardigan over a pink cotton dress and pink tights pushed into little pink trainers that flashed when they touched the ground. Her father was proudly walking behind her making sure the stabilisers were doing their job. After a few days, it seemed she could ride the little bike so he sat down on the pavement and watched, she full of confidence and laughter, he full of love.
Judith Nash
Judith Nash writes for pleasure. She enjoys creating a story and then editing the life out of it until what remains is well constructed and hopefully engaging. She has completed several Creative Writing courses with the WEA and enjoys the variety of content and the tuition.
Blackbird
Those birds are back again. They think we don't notice, and we do our best not to react. I wait a few moments at the window, gathering myself and taking slow, calm breaths. Still, I can feel my heart fluttering in my chest, thrashing its wings against the bars of its cage. I pray that they can't hear it. Then slowly, I turn and take the newly rinsed knife and return to the chopping board and a mound of carrots, ready for sacrifice. My husband is there, busying himself with the onions. Slowly, deliberately, I put my hand on his arm. I keep my eyes on the carrots, yet I can feel his gaze as it settles on me, and I will him silently look out the window. It works... he has clocked the birds too. With a slow nod, I see his breathing deepen as he too tries to calm himself in preparation of what is to come.
How did it come to this? We are prisoners in our own home. We think it has been six weeks since they first came, though I try not to think back to that day. Torturing myself with thoughts of what I might have done differently if only I'd realised... but how could I have known? We were young newlyweds, caught up in the fog of our own happiness, blissfully unaware of what lay outside the film of our hazy bubble.
Fiona Milway
Crow
These days I like to spend my mornings at my desk in the front room reading or writing and looking out over my lawn and the street beyond where, on weekdays, there is a parade of buggies on their way to the nursery. If I open my window a little, bubbles of the children's chatter drift in. I often see a young couple on their way to work. They were shy and hesitant at first, back in the Autumn, but now seem to be in the springtime of their love; completely involved with one another. Crows come too, in numbers, with their boot-black plumage and they strut about on my lawn like dark robed scholars in a quad, disputing with one another over some academic conundrum in a raucous undecipherable language. It's then that my crow comes back, a memory engraved somewhere in my mind, dead long ago,beneath a sundial in the overgrown garden.
John Webb
These days I like to spend my mornings at my desk in the front room reading or writing and looking out over my lawn and the street beyond where, on weekdays, there is a parade of buggies on their way to the nursery. If I open my window a little, bubbles of the children's chatter drift in. I often see a young couple on their way to work. They were shy and hesitant at first, back in the Autumn, but now seem to be in the springtime of their love; completely involved with one another. Crows come too, in numbers, with their boot-black plumage and they strut about on my lawn like dark robed scholars in a quad, disputing with one another over some academic conundrum in a raucous undecipherable language. It's then that my crow comes back, a memory engraved somewhere in my mind, dead long ago,beneath a sundial in the overgrown garden.
John Webb
John Webb has attended a number of Creative Writing courses since he retired fully from teaching. Learning with the WEA has extended his writing skills and has given him confidence to write . As a teacher he always enjoyed reading to, and sometimes creating stories for children. They quite often make an appearance in his work. He writes short stories in several genres, including ghost stories and others in which uses the settings of is boyhood.
Whiter Whites
Mid-morning and two bundles are left just inside the shop. Two bedsheets had been used to wrap the washing and knotted with the four corners. A small safety pin held a scrap of paper with the name 'Clarkson'. Floyd is having a good morning; he's managed breakfast and was five minutes ahead with work at the laundry. He clicks on the radio and then hits the bright lights.
On the radio, The Platters sing 'The Great Pretender' and Floyd reaches to turn up the dial. His coffee is lukewarm but he swallows the dregs, winces and spits groundings on his tongue. He heaves a batch of soiled washing and harmonises with the doo-wop.
“I've played the game but to my real shame
You've left me to grieve all alone.”
The bundle sighs as he places it on the scrubbed wooden sorting table. The bed-sheet is tied together like rabbit-ears and he has to fiddle with the tight knot. It's like stretching a massive pizza dough, separating the coloreds from the whites.
The system is to sort the laundry, putting items into separate baskets, checking the pockets for keys, loose change or notes. Any belongings were put into a tin box and placed in the back room cupboard for the customers to collect. It was a firing offence if old Mr. Henderson found anything untoward happening. Floyd couldn't afford that to happen as he was trying to put money away for his son's college education.
The first batch is all clear apart from a bus ticket that is out of date but he still puts it in the tin. He wonders if Henderson sometimes plants things to test if they are doing their work thoroughly. That's how he got this job eight months ago, the previous fella was trying to enhance his bonus. That system has now been stopped. “No bonus – take or leave it,” Floyd was told at interview.
Karl Riordan
Twelfth Night
(or the Queen of Misrule)
A torch along the corridor guttered and then flared, sending shadows dancing along the fine hangings lining the stone walls. Squirt was standing below a huge branch of mistletoe in a doorway at the top of the stairs leading down from the Great Hall. Occasionally, villagers would squeeze past her “Excuse me, Milady, we ha’nt got all neet – ev’n if thoo has”. Once or twice a man, sozzled with ale, would squeeze a little too close and she would deftly move out of his way, batting him with her hands, just as she had earlier in the evening when she’d led the dances as Queen of Misrule.
Another torch guttered and flared in the draught as the door at the foot of the staircase was opened and let bang shut; a wraith of smoke rose from the torch, sweeping over Edric’s face, making his eyes smart. There were layers of smells around him – the acrid burnt pitch of the torch, the scarcely noticed unwashed winter bodies of people pushing past; once in a while, a faint smell from the dried rushes and strewing herbs, trampled and ground to dust, and every time someone came through the curtain from the Hall a lingering smell of roast meats and delicate pastries and gingerbreads.
* * * * *
This girl that he’d helped hide as a boy for the last four years, had played the part of the Queen of Misrule for the Twelfth Night feast; masked, gowned and her skinny 13-year-old frame padded out with bags of sawdust from the carpenter’s workshop, nipping out from the feast where she’d sat with Molly the local innkeeper, dressed as Squirt, the stray lad whom Molly had taken in, returning to play the Queen of Misrule. A girl, disguised as a boy, now playing a young woman.
Catherine Rawnsley Pemberton
(or the Queen of Misrule)
A torch along the corridor guttered and then flared, sending shadows dancing along the fine hangings lining the stone walls. Squirt was standing below a huge branch of mistletoe in a doorway at the top of the stairs leading down from the Great Hall. Occasionally, villagers would squeeze past her “Excuse me, Milady, we ha’nt got all neet – ev’n if thoo has”. Once or twice a man, sozzled with ale, would squeeze a little too close and she would deftly move out of his way, batting him with her hands, just as she had earlier in the evening when she’d led the dances as Queen of Misrule.
Another torch guttered and flared in the draught as the door at the foot of the staircase was opened and let bang shut; a wraith of smoke rose from the torch, sweeping over Edric’s face, making his eyes smart. There were layers of smells around him – the acrid burnt pitch of the torch, the scarcely noticed unwashed winter bodies of people pushing past; once in a while, a faint smell from the dried rushes and strewing herbs, trampled and ground to dust, and every time someone came through the curtain from the Hall a lingering smell of roast meats and delicate pastries and gingerbreads.
* * * * *
This girl that he’d helped hide as a boy for the last four years, had played the part of the Queen of Misrule for the Twelfth Night feast; masked, gowned and her skinny 13-year-old frame padded out with bags of sawdust from the carpenter’s workshop, nipping out from the feast where she’d sat with Molly the local innkeeper, dressed as Squirt, the stray lad whom Molly had taken in, returning to play the Queen of Misrule. A girl, disguised as a boy, now playing a young woman.
Catherine Rawnsley Pemberton
Miyuki the Crow Woman
Her Nana had told her she was beautiful, but then Nana saw things no one else could. Miyuki had no age, no past. Her story began one crisp November day, Nana had found her sat on her doorstep, sobbing, dabbing her pale violet eyes with the edge of her raggedy dress.
That night, Miyuki slept curled up in Nana's bed. As the old woman picked up Miyuki's clothes a handful of pebbles fell out of a pocket, tumbling noisily onto the wooden floor. She held them up to the candle and found they had strange markings, runes, ancient foretelling device. She knew them well. Deeper in the pocket a handkerchief, delicately embroidered and bearing Miyuki's name. This was no ordinary child; this child had found her way to her and she would be everything the old woman had ever wanted.
Nana claimed her as her granddaughter and the villagers accepted this, for they needed the old woman's Wicken craft. It was a long way to travel to the nearest apothecary and besides Nana knew more than any doctor or shaman.
In school, Miyuki would scratch away on her slate marking it with strange symbols and lines. When teacher asked what they meant, Miyuki fell silent, a puzzled look on her face. Then she would tell such stories that made the children beg for more and the teacher shake her head in disbelief.
Her schoolfriends grew up and became more like strangers than companions. The men grew beards, the women, made homes, bore children, grew old along with them. But Miyuki, ah Miyuki, smooth skin and hair the colour of summer clouds hardly aged at all.
Lynda Flint
Lynda Flint started writing poetry about five years ago and has subsequently taken up the challenge of short stories too. The WEA has been inspirational with collective like-minded people gathered to share their work. During the lock-down period She has continued to enjoy the creative atmosphere of online tutorials.
