We meet at 7:30pm on
the first Thursday of
each month at
The Biffa Room,
St. Mark’s Church,
(off Avon Drive),
Bedford, MK41 7UY
Visitors (18 and older) and prospective members are VERY welcome, whether experienced writers, beginners, or just curious. Simply turn up on the night or contact us by clicking on the 'Get in Touch' icon for an interesting, enjoyable, and possibly instructive evening.
Setting Sail by Laura Richards
‘Hospitals make me feel ill’, Rosemary muttered to her husband Joseph. ‘Sick people, breathing out germs, shedding viruses.’
‘We don’t have to stay long but I need to say goodbye to Irene. She was my favourite aunt. She lived abroad but when she visited, I loved her tales of life as a pirate on the high seas. We’d sail on the lake and look for buried gold on the island.’
‘Mr and Mrs Bailey?’ The nurse approached. ‘You may visit your aunt now but please be aware she may be confused. She spends much of her time resting peacefully. She’s not in any pain.’
Rosemary and Joseph edged into the clean, sparsely decorated side room dominated by the metal framework bed. Lying under the covers was a frail elderly woman with fluffy white hair. At their approach, she opened her blue eyes and, giving them a sweet smile, whispered ‘Ahoy, Joseph. All shipshape and ready to launch?’
Joseph patted Irene’s liver-spotted hand gently and agreed it was time to set sail. ‘Aunty, there’s a vacant seat in the ship’s cockpit waiting for an adventurous captain just like you. There are new realms to explore. I’ll catch up later.’
Boat by Liz Scott
I looked out across a dark and raging sea
Streaked with angled fingers to infinity,
Each foam flecked comber raced upon us
Sliding away to distance beyond us.
We held to our course by compass and starlight
With a strong arm at the tiller through the night.
In my bunk I listened to a climax of sound
My woman`s hands now of little use I found.
As each giant`s clasp clutched our fragile boat
I swallowed hard the tears that swelled my throat
And prayed to a long forgotten God in vain
For courage, safety, hope to ease my pain
And then I heard the helmsman out there singing
His strong voice rising in crescendo winging away
Away with the wind through reefed sail and rigging.
His blithe acceptance of cold and fear bringing
A flood of warmth to my chilled heart`s core.
A sense of security and something more
Boat by Andrew Stock
“It has to go.” Shelley was standing before him with her hands on her hips, he knew the signs, this was not an argument he was going to win easily.
“Do not honey me, we have spent a small fortune on this boat, its not the biggest or the best, but we have tried to keep it tidy, and that chair has to go!” She said again, folding her arms for emphasis.
“But it was Nana’s chair, she left it for me.” Shelley, made the “Hurumph” sound, the one that cut straight through him.
“Nana, left it for me.” She said it with the whine of a small child. “I don’t care if chippendale himself left it for you, it is not staying here!” Stanly watched as she left the cabin and began scrubbing the planking on the deck. He had to admit, the chair was old and did smell, musty, but Nana had left it for him. Sadly he knew Shelley was right, the chair would have to go, but at least he had made a token effort to keep it.
“Sorry Nanna.” He said to the chair, as he began the struggle to remove it from the cabin, finally leaving the chair on the dock, before casting off and heading out into open water.
Harry Evans, had lived rough for 15 years, nothing good had ever come his way, not until he found the old chair, a chair that contained 40 gold sovereigns, stilll finders keepers eh?
Boat by Sue Barton
That’s Old Pete’s place right on the harbour with just enough space out front to put a table and a bench or two, or in Pete’s case, the cabin of the ‘Gull’. You may have seen it.
When Pete, nearly eighty-five, had finally given up taking trippers round the bay, he’d left the Gull at the mercy of the weather. He wished he was strong enough to fix her many problems and sell her.
Imagine his surprise when, after being away visiting his daughter, he came home to find the cabin of the ‘Gull’ refurbished and cemented to his drive.
His lads had removed all the rotten wood, just saving the cabin which they’d fixed up and furnished with Pete’s favourite books, his Budda that propped up an old photo of the Gull when she’d been a fishing boat, and hung the brass lamp from the handrail. They’d also retrieved, from his shed, Pete’s ancient padded chair with the yellow foam showing through the red plush.
‘Happy Birthday Dad.’
His family watched as Pete climbed slowly aboard. They showed him where they’d put the heater and left him to find the bottle of Morgan’s stowed in the locker.
For one of our writing exercises we collaborated with Houghton Conquest art society. They kindly provided paintings which Writers' Circle used as inspiration to create stories or poems using a maximum of 200 words. This is a great way to see how the same image stimulates different ideas.
Picture reproduced by the kind permission of Dave Williams who retains all rights. Do not copy without consent of the owner.