Month: May 2019

Stories

THE DOOR

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At our last meeting the exercise was to pick a picture and write what ever comes into your mind about it. There were a good assortment to choose from, here are some of them.

The one I chose was the door.

Everybody walked passed the door in the old stone wall. It was made to fit the hole with three heavy old bolts keeping the world out. In fact it was so old the ivy was growing over the door now as well as the wall. Creeping into joints where the wood parted slightly in the summer as it dried out.

Sometimes the children tried to pull the locks so they could get through the door but they never moved. No child had ever been through the door in the old sandstone wall.

UNTIL….

Fred was showing off as usual, telling his friends that he could open the door. No one believed him and told him to just shut up. “Ok then,” Fred shouted. Lets see who is the chicken now and won’t go through the door. With that he got his friend Dick over to the door, “you pull the bottom lock Dick as soon as I say go. Then I will pull the other two locks all at the same time”.

“Yer Yer Yer” shouted the kids that had gathered to watch Fred make an idiot of himself.

ONE TWO THREE PULL

As they all pulled the locks the door creaked and groaned then there was an almighty BANG as the door flew open! Every single child ran as fast as their legs could carry them, they were terrified, of what no one knew but after all that no one was there to see what was being the door. Then it shut.

Stories

LIFE GOES ON

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I sat there, feeling ill, so ill, while all around me life moved on, as though I was still a part of it.  But I wasn’t. I could only observe.  Sitting in the over-60’s cafe sipping metallic tasting coffee and listening to some of the oldies hit songs being hammered out in the next room with frail and tuneless sounds emitting in an effort to make it all sound so happy.  Others shuffled past me with a sausage roll, scone, or piece of cake, placed on small paper plates bending in the middle, while drinks slurped into saucers. Others offered me a gappy grin on their way past, their walking sticks bashing into chairs.  I prayed they wouldn’t ask to join me at my small table. I wanted to be alone, invisible even, and take what life I could from their own feeble frames, but knowing that I could never give anything back.   

Another solitary observer across from me gave me a weak smile.  I gave one back.  I wondered what she was thinking about me.  Perhaps she was a regular and was curious to find a new person in the cafe. I didn’t want to extend the gaze though. I looked out of the window – young children on swings and slides, mothers chattering to friends on the bench. Dogs on leads.  Normal.  All so normal.  But I still felt so ill.  If only this normality could heal me.  Perhaps it will.

Someone strolled past whom I vaguely knew.  He didn’t catch my eye and I was pleased.  I wonder whether they can tell by my facial expressions that I’m so ill? I hope not.  I don’t want any fuss.   An elderly waitress stops at my table and asks whether I’d finished with the remains of a rather crumbly scone.  I looked up apologetically and nodded.  I couldn’t tell her that it fell to pieces on impact with the hard butter. I guess she thought, ‘what a waste’. Perhaps she’d got up at 6.00 that morning to cook them – out of the kindness of her heart.  Yes people do go beyond the call of duty and so I apologised again.

It’s Spring and I notice the blossom between the young green shoots.  Idle chatter in the background.  No one meaning any harm.  Just quiet mediocrity.  I so wanted to be a part of it.  But if I had not been so ill I might never have felt so comforted by the mundane and humdrum.  Instead I might have found the sounds around me too intrusive.  The coffee, foul, the out of tune communal singing irritating to the ear and the ‘listened in’ conversations  so banal.

But instead my illness showed me this mixture of life, this innocence, this slice of every day, so humbling, and it comforted me.  Life goes on, whatever and however I feel.

Mary Leadbetter: 16/04/19

COMPETITIONS

MIND WRITING COMPETITION

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As our charity this year is MIND I thought it would be good if we were to join and maybe enter the short story competition. We could always team up and write a story together if you are struggling to think of an idea. Myself and Tony will become members so we are supporting them in this as well.

News

COLD, RAINING WEATHER

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Got nothing to do then how about writing a poem about the weather for our shiny new website, not sure that it is shiny but you get what I mean. Or if you have a story bubbling away inside then get it down and send it in, I would love to hear from you and I am sure we would all like to read some new stories from our very talented members.

Rain Rain go away
come again another day

Poems

A FOLKESTONE VALENTINE

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Rare town of Radnor and Rotunda,
Rowland’s rock shop and remembrance;
Even on this cold February morning 
You have the power to enchant;
Strange Cargo’s Luckiest Place on Earth
Is not confined to the Central station.
Newly planted winter flowers, 
Primrose and snowdrop, cyclamen and crocus,
Defy the bitter wind and freezing hail
On stately Leas and Kingsnorth Gardens.


Mouldering Martello wall,
Bonaparte’s mighty adversary,
Squints out across the grey blue sea,
Searching for our Cap Griz Nezbour;
While the cliffs, slowly, surreptitiously
Slide into the stirring sea below,
Where foreign fossil hunters trip
Among the seaweed and precarious rocks,
Exposed by low tide’s obligatory return.


Opening Day still six weeks ahead, the
Harbour Arm remains a magical spot;
“Gormley” winks across the harbour entrance
At doughty mermaid on dog-filled Sunny Sands;
Cormorants, gulls and a solitary fisherman, 
Usurping the space where chairs and tables
For champagne drinkers will soon occupy,
Complete this noiseless, bracing scene. 


Pieces of art, products of a reimagined town,
Embellish our streets and promenades, 
Making honorary Folkestone folk of
Tuttofuoco, Coley and Tracey Emin,
Wallinger, Ruth Ewan and Yoko Ono.
The Living Advent Calendar and Pride,
Triennial, Charivari and Book Festival,
All further proof of energy and wit
That far exceeds its scale and reputation.


Food town no less than Art town,
Bridge breakfasts, Brew freakshakes, 
And Beano’s griddled sandwiches
Tantalise my morning tastebuds;
While Marley’s and the Cliffe, Rocksalt and Shayda’s,
Bloom’s, Luben’s, El Diamante and Conchita’s,
To name but just a tempting few,
Contend for my evening custom.


More than half a century your admirer,
Even through the tired, toiling times;
Recently reunited in joy and wonder,
I feel blessed to account you now my lover.


By Tony Quarrington