WriteNight meeting 8th July

On Monday night, WriteNight met for our fortnightly meeting.

As regular readers will know, WriteNight is a group for writers, from the Colchester area, who love writing and want to spend time with like minded, writerly people.

This time, we met at the Castle Pub and we spent about an hour working on a writing exercise.

Using the WriteNight anthology (available in paperback or ebook here), we took 15 of the stories, went to the seventh line and noted down the seventh word. We then shared the list of words with each other and selected an opening and closing line at random. 

The results were interesting! We ended up with a random selection of topics, many of which seemed to focus on the current difficulties people are suffering, under austerity. It was interesting, as always, to see the different ideas everyone came up with.

If you want to have a go at the exercise yourself, here are the words.

sweet, paradox, dicks, riding, rustle, master, look, washing, mumps, instrument, research, general, mind, away, I.

Opening line: "Eventually we went from village to town, throughout our homeland but the war was everywhere."

Closing line: "Death would come quietly."

Below is what I came up with, which links in with the novel I am working on, about my family, during World War II ('Midnight'), which you can find out more about if you look back through this blog.

If you love writing and would like the company of those who love it as well, then come and see us! We meet on the 2nd Monday of the month at the Castle Pub, Colchester and at 15 Queen Street Colchester on the 4th Monday of the month.

Grandad

by Annie Bell

"Eventually, we went from village to town, throughout our homeland but the war was everywhere." Grandad paused for breath, his ruddy cheeks glowing with exertion. "Do you want a cup of tea?" he grinned, shaking my leg brusquely, eager for refreshment.

"Love one, Grandad," I grinned, scribbling notes in my book, along with the date - 3rd February 2013 - and pausing my dictaphone. Grandad groaned, as he hauled his tubby frame from his seat, staggering a little, as he gained his balance, before shuffling off into the kitchen.

I was so loving having the opportunity to research my family's role in World War II. Prior to this, Grandad had never spoken of his role in the war. I had only discovered it, after a chance conversation with Grandad's brother - my Uncle Cecil - had led me to the graveside of my Uncle Ken in Northern Germany. I had decided to write the book and Grandad had suddenly opened up, sharing tales of army cameraderie. No longer remembering the names of the other men, they were all Toms, Dicks and Harries, trying to master bridge building with the complex instruments involved; washing in ditches, whilst thinking back to the sweet ladies that awaited them at home.

I had shared in Grandad's heartbreak, as he revealed the darker side of the war; the bloated corpses of horses, formerly the riding horses of German soldiers, killed and dumped at the roadside, to prevent them becoming the tools of the Nazis. Jerry, he called them. He remembered the rustle of leaves in the bushes, as they broke their cover; the look in the enemy soldiers' eyes, as they breathed their last; the horrible paradox of knowing they were no different really - just pawns of their respective governments. Generals had sent them out to kill indiscriminately. The Germans, fighting in the name of a flawed and dangerous regime; the British in the name of a freedom, which now, in the time in which we now live, is being eroded away by our own representatives.

"Course, I caught mumps, whilst I was out there, Darling," Grandad's voice broke my reverie, as he shuffled in, with two mugs of steaming tea in his hands. 

As he sat, I noticed gravy stains down the front of his shirt - signs of his increasing frailty; he was 92, after all.

*   *   * 

I awoke, tears streaming down my face. It was all too real but it was all in my mind.

Poor Grandad. He never got to tell me his tales, as his brothers did.  Aged 73, on February 3rd 1996, as he carried his laundry through the car park of the Silver Oyster pub, a heart attack had ended his days. For this war hero, there was no Remembrance Day parade and no big commemoration. For him, death would come quietly. 

© Annie Bell 2013

WriteNight the Anthology - The launch

Do you feel the need for an injection of culture in your life?  Then come along to the launch of WriteNight the Anthology - Colchester.

Yesterday, I posted about the WriteNight anthology about Colchester, which is now available to purchase here.

The exciting news is that WriteNight will be launching the anthology, officially, on Friday 28th June 2013 at 15 Queen Street, Colchester from 7.30pm. Come along, to hear extracts from the anthology, read by the authors, who penned them.  You will even be able to get your hands on a copy of the book itself! 

 

We look forward to seeing you there!

Colchester WriteNight - The Anthology

Ever wondered what Colchester might have been like, had Boudicca not attacked? Could there be a secret underground room of treasures still concealed beneath Colchester Castle? Are you intrigued by the ghosts, which haunt the streets of this ancient town? Are you hungry for a slice of everyday life in Colchester?

Whether you want to know more about the Witchfinder General and his victims or explore time travel, 'WriteNight, the Anthology - Colchester' contains something for everyone.

Regular readers will already know that Colchester WriteNight is a group of local writers, who meet twice a month to discuss writing and to write together. I am a member of this amazing group and I love being a part of it.

The brainchild of Emma Kittle, this group began with Colchester people meeting for NaNoWriMo write-ins in November 2011 and we have been meeting regularly for eighteen months now, completing writing exercises; discussing writing; encouraging each other through NaNoWriMo, during the month of November and writing in general the rest of the time. All in all, it is a really supportive and fun group of people to spend time writing with.

Last year, we embarked upon the somewhat daunting task of putting together our first anthology of short stories, on the subject of the town we meet in – Colchester.

The end result is a really interesting and diverse anthology of work by sixteen writers, showcasing the broad range of styles, ideas and imaginations, which make up WriteNight.  To read and enjoy all the stories we had so much fun writing, plese click on the link below.

To purchase a copy of the anthology, 

click here or scan the barcode.

If you love writing and would be interested in coming along to WriteNight, we meet regularly at 15 Queen Street, Colchester.  For more information, click on the links below.  We welcome writers of all abilities ... you just need to enjoy writing!

www.facebook.com/groups/writenight  

Twitter: @ColWriteNight

The Soldier's Return - a poem.

Following on from yesterday's post about Wilfred Owen, I thought I would share a poem I wrote, which is inspired by the second half of his poem 'The Send Off'  It explores what might happen to the soldiers, who are lucky enough to make it home.  I hope you like it.

A Soldier's Return  

by Annie Bell

A soldier came home from the battle,

War weary, wild and worn right out.

He walked the familiar homeward road.

His pack weighed heavy;

His heart weighed heavier.

Expectation loomed,

Rearing its ugly head;

Demanding that he just return

And rejoin that old life, from before.

He no longer knew the old him.

A ghost of a whisper;

A memory – just a trace – flickered weakly

But he knew that version of him

Had died in the battle.

It had drowned 'neath swathes of

Khaki, spattered with sticky patterns of deepest red.

Approaching the town of his birth,

His queerly quiet return

Qualified his invalidity.

There were no parades.

No church bells rang to announce him.

No crowds cheered his safe return.

No-one had even mustered a protest

To jeer his flawed mission.

Instead, a blank normality

Stared blankly back at him

With soulless, indifferent eyes.

She stood on the doorstep,

Just as he remembered her.

Her eyes lit at the sight of his own.

She had waited, longing for this moment.

He had stared at her image

In the darkest, muddy depths.

The fantasy of the memory of her

Had kept him alive.

They were the lucky ones;

Reunited, against the odds

But all would not be as it seemed.

In this façade of normality,

A bitter edge browned the petals of their love.

He wouldn't want to burden her.

She wouldn't understand

How he had changed;

How his exuberance was no more;

How love now seemed so transient.

His naivete and optimism

Replaced with harshest cynicism;

Replaced with a worn out soul,

Who no longer embraced profanities;

Who saw life as the fleeting heartbeat that it was.

His children would berate him.

His wife would make half meant excuses.

“Oh, he's just a cantankerous old bugger.”

He would raise a lonely eyebrow.

His pain would remain concealed within.

They would never,

Could never

Understand his pain.

His future children

And his children's children

Would never know him.

The war had killed their father.

All they would know was the implosive shell that remained.

© Annie Bell 2013

Wilfred Owen - Inspiration

What do you think of when you hear the name Wilfred Owen? What crosses your mind? School?  English lessons?  World War One? 

As a general rule, I think it would be fair to say that the majority of people first come across Owen's poetry in English lessons in secondary school.  All too often, students are subjected to a dry discussion and analysis of one of his poems, along with a dull PowerPoint presentation about the First World War and are expected to regurgitate the information to form an appropriate answer to an examination question or piece of coursework. I am sure too many of you can relate to this.

The sad result of this is that all too many students end up seeming to feel disenchanted with Owen's work, complaining on Facebook and Twitter about their studies and longing for their exams to be over, so that they can forget about Wilfred Owen and his wordy poetry for the rest of their lives. This is a real shame and I hope that, having read this, you will begin to love Owen, and his poetry, as much as I do.

Like most people, I was introduced to Wilfred Owen's work when I was sixteen and preparing for my English Literature GCSE.  Like many young people, I was more interested in bands and boys than I was in the plight of soldiers who had lived long before I was born.  This is what makes it all the more amazing that Wilfred Owen managed to capture my attention in the way that he did.  

As you probably do, I vividly remember the day when, entrenched in my English classroom, I first heard the shocking opening lines of 'Dulce et Decorum Est'.  I remember my 16 year old self being shocked and sickened by the horrifying scenes, which were portrayed in that poem. The gruesome realism of the poetry inspired incredible pathos in me and I felt utterly inspired.  Much more than that though, I also remember being utterly humbled and impressed at the sheer skill and pure wordsmithing GENIUS, which had been drawn upon to sculpt that work of art (For Owen's poetry is pure art). This may seem pretentious but it is also the truth.  At that moment, 'Dulce et Decorum Est' became my favourite poem of all time and I have always remembered the profound effect it had on me. 

Recently, while taking an AS in English Literature (15 years after the lesson I referred to earlier,) I came to study Owen's work in more detail. I was immensely impressed by everything about his poetry. 

Moving on, I will now say a little bit about Owen's life. Wilfred Edward Salter Owen was born on March 18^th 1893 at Plas Wilmot in Oswestry, to Tom and Susan Owen. Plas Wilmot was a beautiful house, which had been in Wilfred's mother's family for generations. Unfortunately, due to circumstances beyond their control, the house had to be sold, when Wilfred was just four years old. During his childhood, the family moved from Oswestry to Shrewsbury, then to Birkenhead and back to Shrewsbury in various houses, as the years rolled on. Throughout his youth, Owen experimented with poetry in various forms. He was greatly inspired by the poetry of his heroes and particularly the poetry of John Keats. He even made a pilgrimage to the house where Keats lived and stood in awe, imagining his hero living and writing there.

As many young people do, Owen had a number of different jobs, before eventually moving to France in 1913, where he taught English, on a freelance basis. He was living in France, when war broke out in 1914. It was not long, before, inspired by some of his literary heroes, he made the fateful decision to return to the UK and join up in the Army, to do his bit for the war effort.

It was in late 1915, Owen joined up to the Artists' Rifles regiment; a regiment for men in the arts. Later on, he was commissioned into the Manchester Regiment. By the start of 1917, following extensive training and preparation, he found himself in France. He was horrified by the appalling and freezing conditions but he carried on regardless and did his duty to the best of his ability.

Like a lot of soldiers, In June 1917, Owen was evacuated from the battlefield, suffering with shell shock. He had seen some horrendous scenes, which I doubt we could ever imagine, even in our wildest dreams. While his poems give an insight into the harrowing experiences he undoubtedly gained, he affords his reader, in some poems, a sense of distance, which almost provides a layer of protection from the grisly truth, despite his graphic descriptions. In July, whilst receiving treatment for his shell shock, in Craiglockhart hospital, he met Siegfried Sassoon; a fellow soldier and poet. Sassoon believed there was much to be gained from telling the truth about the war, through poetry. He became firm friends with Owen and the two worked closely on their poetry. Assisted by this friendship, Owen's poetry went from strength to strength until he had created the body of poetic masterpieces, which have made him one of the greatest First World War poets.

A year after being evacuated from the battlefield, Owen returned to France. He was awarded the Military Cross for an assault on the Beaurevoir Fonsomme line. The decision, to return to active service, was to prove fatal. Owen was killed in action, on the bank of the Oise-Sambre Canal, near to Ors on 4^th November 1918; just a week before the war ended. 

Wilfred (as I am fond of calling him) now occupies a special place in my heart.  Reading about his life in Jon Stallworthy's biography, it is impossible to imagine how such a sensitive and artistic human being was able to become the war hero he was.  From a young age, Owen was fascinated by poetry and was determined to become a successful poet, like his hero John Keats, before him. Ironically, he was also obsessed with dying young; a strangely prophetic thought, considering he was to lose his life in the very war which would rob the world of – arguably - the best poet of his time. Who knows what literary gems he might have produced, had he survived.

I hope this has inspired you to think differently about your studies of Wilfred Owen. Remember, there is more to the study of literature than just learning the basic facts. Behind every poet, and author is a story; a person. 

For more information on Wilfred Owen, it is worth checking out the Wilfred Owen Association website - www.wilfredowen.org.uk

Charlotte's Pool - History and Legend

You may have heard the legend of Charlotte; the Lady in White of Berechurch Hall, in Colchester. Certainly, if you read my blog regularly, you will be aware of her story and my journey in investigating her history and her legend.

As I have examined in past posts, the paranormal database is a good place to start, when researching supernatural phenomena. This is especially useful, when the phenomenon in question is as well documented as that of Charlotte. Charlotte appears, as you might expect, on the database, named Charlotte with the White Robe. The sighting logged there is dated around 1930 and claims that she is to be found in the environs of her pool in Colchester.

Are you afraid of ghosts? Do you even believe in them? I'm certain there is a healthy sprinkling of cynics and believers amongst you, who would fight tooth and nail to have your point of view listened to but that is not the point of this exercise.

I am keen now, to move onto the historical aspect of this sad tale. After innumerable visits to the Local History Department of Colchester Library, trawling through microfilm editions of the Essex County Standard, parish records and so on, I was able to discover that Charlotte was, in fact, Charlotte Smyth, daughter of Sir George Henry Smyth. Does that name ring any bells with you? I'm guessing not but you will be fascinated to learn that Sir Smyth was, in fact, the MP for Colchester and a very popular and respected man, in his time. Charlotte – born in July 1813 – was a beauty with long, blonde hair, who grew to be well respected in Georgian society.

Charlotte was the apple of her father's eye. When she was a young teenager, her father had a pool built for her, along with a small changing room or grotto, where she could change, without compromising her modesty. The pool was ornately decorated with handmade red bricks and oyster and scallop shells. Nowadays, all that remains of the pool is a sunken hollow but if you scrabble about beneath the exposed roots of the enormous horse chestnut tree, which marks the site, you might be lucky enough to find a relic of what once stood there.

Eventually, as we all do, Charlotte grew up and, aged nineteen, she married Thomas White; a handsome young man, who came and lived with her at Berechurch Hall. I'm sure you can imagine how happy she was but how long could it last?

All fairy tales have happy endings, don't they? So did lovely Charlotte live happily ever after? What do you think? 

Sadly, this is no fairytale. Charlotte bore six children. It is clear from the historical evidence, that she was a well loved lady. As such, it is easy to imagine that she would have been a devoted mother. It is also written that Charlotte did her husband a wrong. Whilst the nature of the wrong she did him is unclear, it is said that he forgave her and purchased for her a white satin robe, trimmed with swansdown – a token of forgiveness? Unfortunately, Charlotte was unable to forgive herself. Not long after, the family moved to Wethersfield, near to Braintree, where she lived a few years before her tragic death in 1845. She contracted consumption - TB to you and me - and died, aged 32. As you might expect, her family were devastated by her loss and her father went to great pains to have a piece of sculpture made, to form part of her memorial stone. Wouldn't you, in his situation? The monument still stands in the Audley Chapel of St. Michael's Church. Charlotte's effigy in white marble lies in relief, beneath two hovering angels. Her epitaph tells of her sweet nature and Christian values. It is easy to read her family's profound grief, from the words written.

I hope this is not about to scare you too much but this was just the beginning of Charlotte's story, for this is where the ghost story begins.

At the risk of losing the attention of the sceptics among you, I must say that, throughout the 168 years since her death, there have been – wait for it – at least six – SIX - recorded sightings of Charlotte's ghost. I am going to tell you about a few of them.

In the 1930s, a lady called Mrs Chilvers, who, with her husband, was caretaker of Berechurch Hall, had a conversation with another lady. The lady asked her if she had encountered Charlotte yet. Can you imagine Mrs Chilvers' shock, when the lady went on to explain that Charlotte was the resident ghost. As the story goes, Mrs Chilvers took no notice of the lady, dismissing her comments.

A week later, Mrs Chilvers went to the front door, to let her cat in. As she stood, waiting, she saw a white figure, walking up the drive. I bet you're a bit scared now. As the figure approached, she realised the figure was transparent. As Mrs Chilvers stepped back in shock, the figure rose into the sky and vanished. Can you imagine how she felt? 

I bet you're champing at the bit for some more. Well now, I will move forward about ten years. During World War II, Berechurch Hall was used as a camp for German prisoners of war. One of the commanding officers, on duty one night, was quite surprised, when he found two of the prisoners passed out in the yard. When they eventually came to – you guessed it – they described seeing a lady in a white dress, who appeared out of nowhere. How could two different people, ten years apart, have seen the same person?

As a child, I heard about the story of Charlotte, her ghost and her pool, from my primary school teacher. I bet you can imagine how terrified I was. When I decided to research this story, I can tell you, it was not without a good degree of trepidation.

As I researched, I came across a poem, which put my mind at rest. It described a young boy, who claimed to have seen Charlotte's ghost, near to the remnants of her pool, in 1980. He was in no doubt as to her nature. Did you imagine she would be malevolent? You would be wrong. The poet described her as peaceful and loving. On that basis, how could anyone really fear her?

There are numerous other tales of Charlotte's ghost, which are to be found in local books of ghost stories. I have even heard rumours of sightings of her in the new block of flats which has now replaced the great Berechurch Hall.

So to conclude, it is clear that you must make up your own mind as to the truth behind this story. Did Charlotte's ghost remain walking the Earth, after her death? Is the legend just a story, designed to intrigue and inspire ghost hunters? It's up to you.

To purchase a copy of 'Charlotte -The Lady in White' a novel based on the Life of Charlotte White, nee Smyth, please click the link below

https://www.etsy.com/uk/listing/704533011/charlotte-the-lady-in-white-by-annie?ref=shop_home_active_1&crt=1

WriteNight Meeting 27th May 2013

On Monday night, I attended WriteNight at 15 Queen Street. As always, it was a thoroughly enjoyable evening, filled with writing related fun.

We started off the session discussing the launch party for our recently published anthology of short stories, written by members of the group, on the theme of Colchester. It looks likely to happen late in June, so watch this space for more details.

Emma Kittle provided the writing activity this time. She had a set of first lines, which we had to pick from a hat, in order to produce a story. We then shared our work. As always, the exercise produced some diverse and brilliant pieces of writing. I always love the range of work our group produces. Last night, there was a vampire tale, a story of a reformed exhibitionist, a tale of unfaithful love, a fantasy saga and a touching story of some sweary teenagers, amongst others. I loved it.

Below is my offering – a take on the opening line “She'd have to hitch a ride home.”

High Class Hitch-hiker

by Annie Bell

She'd have to hitch a ride home. Hitch a ride home? This was unfathomable for Chardonnay-Rose. People with double barrelled forenames and daddies with fleets of rollers just didn't hitch-hike.

Chardonnay-Rose had always thought of herself as a philanthropic sort of girl. She donated her daddy's tax money to the poor little orphans at Great Ormond Street Hospital. She helped the environment by only using the finest organic, natural peroxides, mixed with juniper and jojoba to bleach her flaxen locks. She also ensured that her food was only purchased from proper fair trade companies so that the poor little African children that harvested the chocolate bars from the chocolate trees would have some pocket money. She was a true activist, no questions asked.

Bearing in mind the evident generosity and self-sacrifice at her moral core, Chardonnay-Rose could not understand why karma (bitch that it was) had done this to her.

The night had started well enough. She had deigned to attend the birthday celebrations of her woefully middle class chum Sarah in her humble five-bedroomed hovel and had been kind enough to be seen with her in public. Mummy had always insisted that Chardonnay-Rose should maintain this friendship, in order that she keep a connection with the “common people”. As if she needed it!

When she had arrived, Chardonnay-Rose had refrained from passing comment at Sarah and her friends' packet-dyed shiny locks or their mere 'Designers at Debenhams' attire.

As the group had sat, in Sarah's parents' Ikea kitchen, drinking sparkling wine – imagine the horror – from ordinary glass flutes, she had physically battled with her own gag reflex. She had even stooped so low as to laugh at Sarah's friends' crude jokes, thrown around in bawdy Essex accents, slathered with cheap slang and plastic fantastic charm. Her fragile tinkle of a chuckle had been scarcely audible, as they belly-laughed their way through their second bottle of fizzy ... urine.

As the night had worn on, a grotty taxi, driven by a Neanderthal named Darren, whose drawl she could scarcely understand, had driven them into town. Her companions had raised unkind eyebrows, as she held the door handle with a tissue. What was wrong with these people?

A short walk later, Chardonnay-Rose and her companions had trudged into a smart wine bar. She had supposed it was smart – or, at least, smart themed. The shiny backlit perspex of the bar was covered in grimy fingerprints and sticky residue from spilled beverages. The vodka was vile, cheap and stored at room temperature. Her gag reflex was being tested again.

As Chardonnay-Rose had looked around, she had noticed that surrounding her were barely clad ladies, streaked with a marbled effect of orange peely, chicken white skin and poorly applied fake tan. Their fleshy folds were virtually exploding from skin tight tubes of denim, which scarcely covered their chubby bottoms. Hadn't they heard of personal trainers and spray tans?

The music had been ok, she supposed but as the group stood up to dance, Chardonnay-Rose had been forced to resist the urge to scream, as her £500 Jimmy Choos had stuck, step by step, to the carpet.

Having gone to all this trouble to please her impoverished friend, Chardonnay-Rose had been astounded, when she noticed Sarah's awful friends hurling disdainful looks at her! Sarah even looked embarrassed. This had been way beyond Chardonnay-Rose's comprehension. They should have been grateful that she had deigned to suffer like this for them. She had made them look good, adding a diamond sparkle to their dull sackcloth and ashes existence.

At that moment, an overweight, sweaty, balding man had put his pudgy arms around her, gripping her hips from behind and pulling them towards his own. She had turned and whacked him across the face with her Gucci purse, before marching for the door. Daddy wouldn't want her molested in this way. She was going home.

Leaving the bar without even bidding her companions farewell, Chardonnay-Rose had pulled her Prada designed Blackberry from her purse and speed-dialled Daddy's chauffeur. Just then, the phone had been wrenched from her hand by a rancid subhuman in a filthy hoody, who had sprinted off, with a spring in his step. Tears rolling down her perfectly sculpted cheeks, reached into her purse for her platinum card and attempted to hail a cab.

Three arguments later, Chardonnay-Rose had been forced to concede that the smelly men, who drove taxis required cash and she just didn't do cash.

At that moment, she had to accept that she was alone, lost and freezing, in Romford. She'd have to hitch a ride home.

 

© Annie Bell 2013

Town to Port Festival, Hythe Colchester 25th May 2013

Like many Colcestrians, I have many preconceived ideas about the Hythe area of town.  Despite ongoing attempts, by the council, to regenerate the area, viewing it from my trips past and through the new developments, I always feel that it looks unfinished; an imperfect juxtaposition of rusty, crusty relics of industrial times gone by and generic 'little boxes on the hillside' appartment blocks.  I hadn't been down to the quayside since before the regeneration started. 

On Saturday, I popped along to the Town to Port Festival.  I had been asked by Tess Gardener of SKOPT (Some Kind of Poetry Thing) and Colchester Poetry, to perform a ten minute poetry set as part of her poetry coffee morning, in the spoken word area.  This gave me a reason to make my way back into the place where I grew up as a small child.

As I walked along the Quayside, I felt a mixed bag of emotions.  Amid the strange contrast of decaying old fragments of industrial heritage, torn down to make way for the new but not quite consigned to history yet, I observed the interesting scenery of my childhood in the very process of being replaced by that which is so insipidly generic about all new riverside developments.  Whilst the new builds and modern walkways around the area look pleasant enough, I can't help but mourn the final death knell of Colchester's industrial past.  The old buildings were eyesores, no argument there, but they represented something much more than the crumbling rubble that they were.  An example, which is personal to me would be the Coldock building, with its smashed windows, stained concrete and faded flaking paint was the "naughty boys' home", where, according to my mum and dad, who wanted to encourage us to behave, children who were disobedient were sent to have their toes nibbled by rats, while spiders with legs like your index finger would stare menacing at you.  I never believed the stories but I remember them fondly.  That building is no more.  I can't imagine its replacement will inspire such storytelling. 

While my nostalgia about this little loved part of town might sound negative, I must say that, despite the tinge of sadness I felt, the enthusiasm and sense of fun behind the festival itself was wonderful.  From the live music up by the bridge, along the row of stalls selling truly diverse examples of original work by local artists, to the house boats, with music playing and people just enjoying the sunshine and cultural fare on offer, it was a truly pleasant experience.  

The spoken word area showed off the worsmithing skills of a great number of talented local poets, musicians and storytellers.  

For my own part, I shared five of my poems - 'Grecian Liar', 'My Past Existence', 'Wilfred Owen', 'Kenneth George Bell' and 'A Soldier's Return'.  (Click on the links to see the poems in previous posts) I thoroughly enjoyed the experience.  Tess Gardener did a great job of creating a relaxed and friendly environment, in which we were all able to share our ideas and scribblings.  I didn't get to see everyone perform but every performance I saw was interesting, entertaining and thought provoking.  I took my family along and I know they enjoyed it too.  I'm looking forward to the next meeting of SKOPT and Colchester Poetry, to listen to some more great poetry.  

I love how through organisations such as 15 Queen Street, First Site and Slack Space, the creative people of the Colchester area are finally being brought together and encouraged to collaborate, to add to the rich cultural tapestry of our town. 

As for the Hythe, I remain uncertain about the effect the regeneration of the area will have in the longer term.  What the festival provided was an opportunity to experience the potential the area has to offer.  The extent to which that potential will be fulfilled is in the hands of the Council.  Let's hope they manage to create something, which maintains something of the original spirit of the place.

Colchester WriteNight meeting 13th May 2013 - Strange Meeting

Last night, I went to the Castle Pub for the WriteNight meeting. 

I organised an activity for us to do.  We read the poem 'Strange Meeting' by Wilfred Owen, in which Owen describes a ghostly encounter with the ghost of a German soldier he killed.  We discussed it and then I set the task of writing a prose story, with the title 'Strange Meeting'.  

Between us, the stimulus inspired some very different stories, all of which were interesting to listen to.

My contribution is below.  I hope you enjoy it!  

 

Strange Meeting

I gaze down at my blood stained hands. Cracks of crimson gaze through scaly, raw skin, as my body pays the price for my inner demons.

Itching. Awful, insane itching irritates my hands, my mind, my soul.

Is it possible to be physically allergic to mental torment? I very much doubt any physician would define it as such but I definitely believe it.

Clawing at the backs of my hands, I shudder, as my nails graze along elephantine skin. Unwillingly, I restrain a groan of simultaneous relief and agony, as the itching temporarily gives way to the pain of flesh tearing from flesh, It has to end soon. One way or another, it just has to.

Pulling the gloves back down, I look for a distraction – something to break the spell of all consuming misery. I have to go out.

An hour later, attired in my darkest disguise; 'Disco Goth'; I head for the not-so cobbled streets of Colchester. My Doc Martens creak their way up the High Street, as the leather continues to mould itself to the curves of my calves. My lace sleeves dig into my skin; especially on my poor hands. In my disguise, I exude confidence, poise, balls. No-one would guess the truth.

Marching into the pub, I greet my friend. We exchange inane, profane stories for a moment, before acquiring a pint of cider each. Karaoke will be a triumph. I will belt out some depressing, angry man-metal, swing my hair about and go home knackered but full of hilarious, yet terrifying stories of strange meetings with the eclectic mix of drunken freaks that frequent the dark corners of the pub. It will be just the thing to drag me, kicking and screaming, out of my stressy stew.

Then I see her.

What is she doing here? She doesn't even live in Colchester.

Her. Blonde hair, the slim, curvy figure I know all too well. One glimpse of her and I can feel her steely gaze; hear her metallic, insipid voice, bleating out insidious niceties. One glimpse of her and I sense her tightening deathly grip on me heart.

I breathe in. My lungs have no capacity. I breathe out. They contain no air. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out … in an increasingly erratic, violent, pumping rhythm.

My pounding face can scarcely contain the intense heat burning my cheeks.

I slump to the ground; my legs concertinaed up beneath me, as I struggle for breath.

People crowd around me, asking me stupid questions, to which the answer is obvious.

“Are you alright?” a chorus repeats. “What's wrong?”

“Puff … puff ...” is all they hear but inside, I'm screaming at the top of my broken lungs. “Yep! I'm alright. Obviously. People, who are alright always crouch on floors, wheezing, turning purple and then draining to a deathly grey pallor all the time, you STUPID IDIOTS!”

I flick my helpless eyes back in her direction. She smirks, raising a washed out eyebrow. “Failure” her eyes scream. Hopeless drain on our resources, Drain. Drain. Drain. My helpless body, still puffing and panting, as the panic ensues, won't let me tell anyone that my kryptonite is jeering me voicelessly, from the bar.

The crowd fades, as my mental anaphylaxis consumes me. Then all is dark.

© Annie Bell 2013