Pauline Jones
The Cutting Room
The hallway had several rooms leading off it; I quickly checked each one, nothing apart from some old dustsheets that ghostly lay on the shabby floorboards, at the end of the hallway was a staircase, clinging to its steps were worn out pieces of carpet; I began to make my way up them, listening carefully for any sound of habitation. I reached the landing, here again, evidence of decay, from its well-worn stripe of carpet to jagged pieces of wallpaper hanging off the walls. I noticed there were three rooms; two of the rooms had doors ajar nothing inside apart from a mattress on the floor of one of the rooms and what seemed like paint splattered overall lying on the mattress. Before I could investigate further I heard a strange buzzing noise coming from the closed-door further down the landing, making my way cautiously along the landing towards the noise I started to smell a familiar scent, the heady sweet smell penetrated my nostrils and brushed my lips leaving a salty coppery taste, I stood frozen as realisation struck me as to what the smell was.
Suddenly the buzzing sound stopped and the stillness of the place seemed to come alive with anticipation. With my heart pounding, I checked my holster for my pistol and withdrew it, holding it tightly in my grasp I charged through the door.
I stopped dead, time seemed to stand still, as I looked at the carnage before me, blood ran down walls like a waterfall turning red in the sunset, limbs scattered everywhere, macabre heads with their dead eyes displayed on the wall. Suddenly from out of the shadows, a grotesque figure emerged, full of rage and with an animalistic cry it launched itself at me. I aimed my pistol and fired two shots in succession, the creature fell to the floor, writhing and screaming, aiming once more I fired a shot directly into the creature’s head.
Written by Elaine Ritchie
The Lakes in Winter
Trees bare of leaves, silhouetted against icy skies
Resting, waiting, sapless branches like bony hands reach
Fleshless fingers point and beg the sun for warmth and life.
Crusty, green grey lichen clings to damp winter wood.
Grey stone, big stones, small stones huddle together forming walls
Keeping in, keeping out. Joined by old grey weathered gates.
Stretch afar and cross each other, wooden stiles stepping over.
A patchwork of lifeless fields blanket the land on hold.
Earnest cattle, steam rising from close gathered bodies
Trampling spongy earth, wait to greet the gifted bale of hay.
No rich meadows of lush green grass in which to wander.
As the low pale sun slowly sinks to the horizon.
A far light on the distant mountains and a glimmer
On the still lake as the sun appears from slow grey clouds.
Gulls and geese, crows and swans patrol the narrow shingle shore.
Chiming masts of wintering sailboats break the silence.
A pair of woolly mittened hands wrap around a Bovril cup
Enjoying a break in this winter walk along lakes edge
On wooden seating, sitting watching, breathing, seeing
Life’s journey through the seasons giving meaning giving reasons.
Soon snow will come and cover this place in a magic.
Long haired grey Herdwick sheep will huddle against these walls
As the flakes blow down from the North and settle in drifts
A sunlit, virgin white, glistening crystal coating.
Joan Hallam
What can I say I still love you today.
We spent a lifetime together of which i will always treasure.
You brought a love so dear and now thinking of that love always brings a slight tear but dearest brother of my that love is divine I hold it close to my heart at the start of the day because deep inside you’ll always stay I remember the days with awesome wonder as I still hold you dear the memories appear and I can smile and feel at peace walk in the park and listen to the geese remembering the times when we were at peace I miss you
Lesley Slack
Patricia Murden’s ‘Another Music’ blog she writes for. A sample of her work can be found at:
As children our library was a mile walk away which we eagerly undertook with friends, books tucked under our arms. Just a small shop, most of the library was for adults and we were banned from to looking on those shelves. Tucked in a corner were the books for children. We ran eagerly to these shelves to be the first to spot any Enid Blyton books in stock. The Magic Faraway Tree, Secret Seven, Famous Five. What easy to read adventures they were. I was never interested in anything else.
Sitting here, memories flood back of the times we used to go, after school, into Manchester Central Library. University students were there studying, writing, researching. We had only taken our homework to do but we felt very mature as we revised for our GCE exams. A murmured silence, a book turned on a desk, a chair scuffed carelessly back from a desk. The dusty smell of information filled the room. Floor to ceiling shelves of books wrapped around the room. A wheel of learning reached out from the centre desk. Spokes of dark, polished wooden desks with head height centre lights focusing on your knowledge.
Grown up and excited about life. Too young to realise the potential. A dream untapped was lost.
Of late a curiosity for learning has come about me. I visited the updated Central Library whilst gleaning information on family and old Manchester. How modern, such an array of learning media, touch screen information, film archives to be viewed in your own little hub and a café so you needn’t leave the building all day. Up the echoing marble stairs, or in the swish glass lift, a large wooden door beckons you to enter paradise. Visiting the reading room once again a joy came over me. Only two or three people sat heads down over books this day. The same dark polished desks of my youth, the studying lights and the silence almost put their arms around me. Welcome back. You should have come sooner.
Joan Hallam