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