Writing competition

Hi all,

This is a competition site as mentioned that some of you may be interested in;
https://www.st-christophers.co.uk/live-your-life/write-for-a-night

Hope this link works!

Denise

TENERIFE CHRISTMAS 2012

It was Christmas.  Martin sat on a rock and stared blankly at the sea.  He didn't notice the beauty of the scene, the warmth of the weather, the gentle breeze.  Seeing nothing and feeling nothing he sat insulated by gloom and inertia from the world around him. 

He was jerked into attentiveness by a shriek and a splash.  A little girl had fallen off the rocks into the sea.  Her mother, holding a baby, was screaming hysterically at him.

Martin had become passive since his wife died.  He was an old man.  Nobody asked for his advice or help any more - yet here was this woman screaming and looking at him as if he could do something.  What could he do?  He saw the blonde curls bobbing in the water - little hands being cut on the rocks.  he forced himself to think.  There was no lifebelt around.  No boats.  No lifeguard . . . only him.  He used to be a good swimmer her remembered - won a lifesavers badge sixty years ago.

Christmas Poem

We three kings of Orient are

We ditched the donkeys and hired a car

To find the wondrous Christmas baby

We listened to the voice of the Sat Nav lady

Needless to say we got very lost

Bearing gifts at incredible cost

So how do we find this Bethlehem

Hello, we’re supposed to be the three WISE men!

We had no choice but to follow the star

But refreshment beckoned, so we looked for a bar

We ended up in friendly Formby village

Me leading, still proceeding with our pilgrimage

But the Gold was burning a hole in our trousers

So we ended up drinking for hours and hours

Should have gone westwards, but Woodwards was nearer

We thought a few scoops would help us think clearer

The Myrrh wasn’t pleasant with its bitter perfume

So the girls all left when we entered a room

The Frankincense aroma nearly sent us to sleep

We fell in Formby Pool, lucky it wasn’t deep

We ditched the car and found a Bay Horse

Do we head for Sorrento, no the Left Bank of course

Needed something to eat, so we went for our tea

Not sure who to ask, Quo Vadis or Don Luigi?

Soon our gift of Gold was all spent

We missed Christmas completely, didn’t arrive until Lent

But the meaning of this story is still very clear

Christmas only comes but once a year

And there is a moral to this tale

It’s not just about presents, food or ale

Don’t forget Christmas should be all about giving

Think of loved ones lost and appreciate those living

Spend time with neighbours, friends and family

Celebrate the Nativity; what it means to you and me

Now will someone please point us in the right direction

We need to go home for our own protection!

Ould Vince and the painting of the Cafe

Ould Vince and the painting of the Café

I remember, back in the late 1800’s, when my ould pal Vince, some people called him Billy, Willem was his second name, and I used to club around together. Ould Vince was a bit dotty quite a character, full of strange ideas always liked to take the mick out of associates. Born in the Netherlands he worked for some time in Paris, always had a way with the pencil, and got a job with an art dealer in London. I was staying at lodgings in London and boy did we have some nights out. Quite a lad was old Vince with his beard and cute accent he was a wow with the girls. I was doing a line with the landlady’s daughter Eugenie Loyer. One summer we went on a trip to some of Vince’s old haunts in France. I was with Eugenie. Vince had teamed off with a French girl, I forget her name. Anyway touring around France in 1888 Vince started painting some pretty weird pictures, one of a bowl of sunflowers, another of his chair. We met a guy called Gauguin and Vince insisted on painting an armchair Gauguin had sat on. What a waste of time I thought. Never make any money on them. Landscapes like that English guy Constable did were the pictures making the money.

One place Eugeine loved was the ‘Café terrace at the Place du Forum’ in Aries. We sat out on the star lit evenings in the warm summer air. They were great times.

 Shortly after returning to the cold and smoke filled air of London, Vince, out of the blue mind you,  presented Eugeine with a painting of the café and professed his love for her. He couldn’t live without her.  I was aghast, my good friend Vince going behind my back. We parted with some strong words. Eugenie and I got married. Ould Vince went and got religion.

We have a couple of Vince’s paintings in the cellar the sunflowers one and that stupid one of his chair. Wonder if they would be worth anything?

David R McCabe  10/10/12

300 words from painting - By the sea.

By the Sea.

Fredrick was ecstatic, he had purchased a small café, with his divorce settlement and could realise his dream. Two weeks on the dream was becoming a nightmare as no one, except a passing tourist came into his café.

He had heard that the dark, foreboding Mayor of the village did not like Englishmen, and Fredrick came from Sussex. As the Mayor owned most of the businesses in the village, no one wanted to upset him, and so the citizens did as he dictated.

To Fredrick, the fact that he could stand and watch the sea, gave him great comfort from his worries, and it was as he was standing watching the waves curl their way up shore, he spotted a small arm frantically waving out at sea. Another arm lashed out at the now cruel waves and a small head was seen bobbing between the desperate movements.

No one noticed except Fredrick, who was seen hurtling himself across the beach into the sea. He swam fast, as fast as he possibly could, battling against the current, determined to reach the little one before it was too late.

He grasped one of the frail arms, scooped up the small, quivering head, and breathed life back into her.

People cheered as he brought Francoise safely back to the beach, and her parents were beside themselves when they realised how close they had been to losing their little girl.

He laid her down on the safe, warm sand. She sighed, and smiled her thanks.

Fredrick became a hero that day, and everyone wanted to be in his café. But, it was too late, each time he looked at the sea he could see the little one almost drowning. He would sell up, buy another café…but this one would not be by the sea.

Heather G Davies

Story : 300 words.

TWO MEN SITTING ON A PARK BENCH

TWO MEN SITTING ON A PARK BENCH.

"I come here every Tuesday to watch the Bowls," the comment came from the little grey haired man sitting on the left hand side of the bench.
"I used to play Bowls,"said the man sitting on the right hand side of the bench.
"We can watch together."
And, they did, for three hours they sat and watched the bowls. They laughed when one of the bowls bounced into the rut, and they cheered when the home team won.
"We could meet up again next week," said the little grey haired man. "My name is John Conrad."
"That’s fine,"said the man from the right hand side of the bench. "My name is Albert Wright," and he stood up and walked into the gathering mist.
John Conrad watched the bowlers pack away, and stood ready to go home and make his tea. As he stood up he turned to read the remembrance plaque nailed to the bench.
"This bench has been placed here in remembrance of Albert Wright who sadly died in 2001"
John Conrad didn’t go back to watch the bowls the following week.


Heather Davies
October 2012.

The Last Shot

The camera was starting to feel heavy around my neck, it had been a long day and the light was starting to go. I would have to call it a day soon. I had a few shots left on the film and was desperate to get them used up before the light went completely. People were still milling round, ending their busy days shopping or working. One group over loaded with huge branded shopping bags, the other trudging towards the station appearing unsure of whether they would rather be going home or back to work.

I was just passing a small square park near the station when I saw him. The park was bordered by a low iron railing and was so small you could see clear across the park to the bustle of commuters barging past each other on the other side. Amidst all of this chaos the park seemed like an oasis of calm and sat on one of the two simple wooden benches was an old man. He was sat there with a large newspaper open in front of him, I couldn’t tell if he was reading it or just watching the stream of bodies flood around him, waiting for the waters to subside before embarking on his own journey home.

MAN SITTING ON BENCH READING A NEWSPAPER  by David McCabe Sep 2012

Most evenings, after work, I walk over to the city park and go for a jog or most likely a quick walk. Need to get the weight down. I’m also getting on in years sixty last birthday. The park is about four miles square, full of flowers, trees and benches. I sometimes come across courting couples having a snog behind the bushes or the odd tramp shuffling around.

One particular evening mid September with a clear sky, a light breeze blowing with birds singing everywhere, I walked into the park.  The ducks on the shallow pond were as usual being harassed by the aggressive seagulls -  something should be done about them-.  I sat on my usual bench to change my shoes. Proud of my shoes I am, all leather, cost a lot they did. There was a man, looking quite scruffy, relaxed on a bench across the path with his upper body hidden by the Financial Times. Strange, I thought, the Financial Times at this time of day.

As I stood up he crossed his legs, showing the sole of his shoe with a large hole in it and a piece of cardboard hiding the sole of his foot. Ever cautious I placed my leather shoes in a plastic bag and hid them in a bush behind the bench and  started my walk. Feeling quite lively I started to jog a bit, scattering a flock of aggressive seagulls - get back to the ocean you vermin -   and trotted around the park enjoying the wind in my face.  After a short while I settled into a fast walk. Wonder about that guy reading the paper, his shoes certainly needed a repair. He looked a bit scruffy - but reading the FT!

Walking briskly with arms pumping I rounded a large flower bed to find a man dressed in a well worn suit with a scraggy beard shuffling toward me. As we passed he gave me a smile, touched the rolled up pink newspaper to his forehead in greeting and exited from the park. Must be the guy on the bench I thought.  Panting a bit I reached my bench and gathered the plastic bag from the bushes. In the gathering dusk I sat down feeling very satisfied with my self, another long walk completed.

That’s strange, I thought, this shoe feels odd. What’s this bit of cardboard doing in it?

The City

Ten years ago I would have come here seeking fame and fortune. Back then I wanted to change the world, although back then I would never have had the vision I have now. My dreams then were very different, my aspirations somewhat more grounded, far too near focused for achieving fame and fortune. That's probably why I had never even aspired to visit this place in my youth, perhaps if I had it would have awoken me to the possibilities of life so much sooner and I would have wasted less of my life with such pedestrian pursuits. Now the world hand changed me and I had come here seeking oblivion and anonymity, I was still going to change the world but it was going to be in a big way and the was no way I wanted to be in the front line. I had arrived with one simple shoulder bag and little else. When I had left my old life there had been no time to pack anything more than a change of clothes and a hand full of mementos of people I probably wouldn't see again. The bag was light, the virtues of the digital age meant that the photographic record of my previous incarnation was only a little larger than a postage stamp tucked into my wallet. Apart from that and a huge sheaf of bank notes my wallet was empty, I had carefully stripped it bare of any identifying documents or cards. I would have to furnish my self with some new ones in due course but that was all part of the ordeal of reinvention.