Now - East Lothian Council

Scrivens
The quarterly magazine of Tyne and Esk Writers
Spring 2015
Scrivens is the newsletter of
Dear members and friends
As we head into Spring we have a bumper edition of Scrivens, thanks to a
great response from our ‘first-timers’ – members of Tyne and Esk writers
groups who have never submitted their work to Scrivens before. Thank you for
your thoughtful pieces and congratulations to all whose work has been selected
this time. There wasn’t room for all the submissions even though we have
extended Scrivens by an additional TWO pages. Enjoy a feast of new writers!
I hope that you will take the opportunity to participate in the free workshops
which we are offering across the region - see below for details. Our Creative
Writing Fellow, Tom Murray, is also running four workshops for young writers,
in Haddington and Penicuik. See the Tyne & Esk Writers web site for details Tom and his team are also working hard on the Write On Festival in June in
Haddington. See page 5.
We are changing the ‘Writer of the Year’ competition this year to boost the
number of entries and to provide an exciting awards ceremony. Get your entry
forms from libraries at the end of March. Deadline for entries is 10 July, and
winners are announced at the awards ceremony on 14 September. This year’s
judges are Kate Hendry for prose and Drew Campbell for poetry. Don’t miss
WOTY 2015.
With best wishes,
Brenda Thomson Convener Tyne and Esk Writers
This year’s CoastWord festival in Dunbar is on 22-24
May and is a celebration of written, spoken word and
song writing. Get your entry in for the writing
competition - poems or short stories - with the theme
The Hotel - deadline 5pm March 6th.
For you - THREE FREE WORKSHOPS FOR 2015
In prose, poetry and writing in your ‘Mither Tongue’
28 February HADDINGTON Buffet Room, Town House, 10.00 – noon. A Donny
O’Rourke Masterclass. What makes a poem work? How does it move hearts?
21 March TRANENT George Johnstone Centre, 10.00 – noon. Rab Wilson. The theme
is ‘finding your voice and writing in it!’
25 April DALKEITH Arts Centre 10.00 – noon. Kate Hendry. Kate teaches creative
writing in poetry and fiction including, recently, in Shotts and Barlinnie prisons.
Scottish Charity no. SC044575
the Tyne & Esk writing groups in
Midlothian and East Lothian.
Submit your stories, articles and
poems to us by email.
[email protected]
Please write and tell us what you
think of Scrivens.
In this issue
Only Most Things Change by Stella
Birrell
Storm by Elspeth Brown
Spring by Peter and Ruth Gilchrist
Write like a Grrrl workshops
David’s Insomnia by Pat Dickson
Adventure by Samantha Godley
Banshee by Angie Townsend
Dust in the Wind by Lorna Dixon
She loves me by Stuart Blair
Good News Bad News by Harry
Owens
Write On Festival in June
Gorging on Larkin by Lyn
Livingstone
Braveheart Re-incarnated by Jassen
Wishart
Start of a New Season by Keith
Saunders
The Betrayal of Rochus Misch by
George Cunningham
Rebecca McKinney launches debut
novel, Blast Radius
Invitation to the Dance by Paul
Milne
www.http://tyne-esk-writers.com
Page 1
Only Most Things Change by Stella Birrell
Then, cigarettes and inch-thick sunflower oil billowing and
mingling in steamed window fug,
whining over own-brand flavours, cheese and onion languishing in
the bottom of the tin bread bin.
The slap dash of a mother, dividing two tomatoes into seven
perfectly equal pieces.
Longed for brightly coloured sweet rewards from the special jar in
the top cupboard;
yours after wiping the table, clearing the plates, cleaning the wash
hand basin in the bathroom.
Upstairs, dolls, and play people, and toy cars, give way to a stereo
and scattered tapes;
paintings of creation, replaced by posters of pop, replaced by
favourite poems, littering the walls.
Fiercely played card games end in physical fights, gentle cards with
mum on a school sick day,
constant wariness of the self portrait: monstrous when coupled
with a high temperature.
The centrality of telephone, our link with the outside, dissecting
the day, head on patterned carpet.
Now, a hallway fills tidally: coats, self-perpetuating shoes; mud,
from scooters, and buggies.
Mornings: safe in haven kitchen, closed to the world, smudged
with sleep, toast, cereal and hugs.
Idiosyncrasies of family and appliances, ‘mind out for the washing
machine’, ‘he needs a snack;’
the dull clatter of the fan oven, batch after batch of cupcakes, the
prized rising smell of dough,
A key turning in the door: a endless mess list of jobs that could be
done or should be done,
but sunlight is slanting into the kitchen, so my friends and I eat
cupcake and set the world to rights,
beating paths through the parent maze, lifting a finger for quiet, a
child is crying: but which one?
Later, amped guitar swamps the house, battling Radio Four,
CBeebies, and the percussion box,
My darling, concocting a dish I will love and children won’t even
consider, fixing that blind again,
my darling, turning to me, smiling, our legs and hearts entangled
under a blanket in the evening.
Home is, and has been, much like love: a quiet exasperation, the
repetition of security.
Storm, Port Douglas,
Australia
by Elspeth Brown
Tropical wind soughs through the
palms,
Green tree frogs hide from green tree
snakes,
Baby crocs, and storm rocked python.
The coral sea breaks in grey waves,
Debris of the rainforest swirls to the
sea edge
Like seaweed. Golden box jelly fish
Blow across the bay. Bark strips from
native trees.
The holiday beach umbrellas are gone,
Rushed away by lifeguard taking
cover.
The place is reclaimed apart from
Hastily covered restaurants awnings
Flapping like sails head on in the wind
With a few bemused tourists and
sheltering birds.
All my day clothes drip on the line,
Rain so rare here, not foreseen,
I dress up in my pyjamas, scarf,
necklace, heels
And tack through the wind to reach a
bar.
Scottish Book Trust
Write Like A Grrrl!
Accomplished poet and performance writer, Claire Askew
has a PhD in Creative Writing from Edinburgh University
and has won more awards than most people achieve in a
lifetime. Her first six-week writing course for women only
in Edinburgh is just ended and it was certainly two hours a
week very well spent. My writing skills made real progress.
HIGHLY RECOMMENDED Shirley Muir
2|Page
Spring by Peter & Ruth Gilchrist
This Tree`s new season
reflects April`s yellow light
in sequins of dew.
DAVID’S INSOMNIA by Pat Dickson
David had always been an insomniac. Even as a little boy, when the milk bottles and the cat had been put out for the night, when
the toilet had been flushed for the last time, and when the snoring of his father began in the room across the landing, David
would still be lying wide awake under the covers. He used to take a torch to bed with him and read comics by its feeble light, but
then his mother had found it and taken it away. She said it would ruin his eyes, and anyway, he had school in the morning. He
would lie and wonder how many other people in the world were awake at the same time as him. There would be nurses, doctors,
policemen, and the people who worked night shift at the bottle plant on the other side of town. And, of course, all the people on
the other side of the world.
Now he was 53 and still an insomniac. He had never married, maybe because he thought insomnia was too
great a burden to inflict on a wife. Instead he lived alone in his neat, but bare,1930s bungalow, with a cat
called Fidget for company. Saturday nights were the worst. The whole of Sunday stretched ahead with no
company except the Good Morning of Mr Patel when he went to collect his papers. He had bought a
computer, and its bright little screen shone out in the lonely night and comforted him. He looked up ‘insomnia’
on the net. Over a hundred entries, mostly adverts for new and proven, best-selling, world-beating sleeping
pills. He didn’t want pills, he’s tried them and they usually didn’t work or they left him feeling as if he’d drunk
a whole bottle of gin at one go. There was another entry, ‘Helpful Hints for Insomniacs’. The usual rubbish
about getting up, doing something, and sleep would come.
Then he saw it. Start a club for other insomniacs in your area. Invite them round. Well, why not? He lived alone, it wouldn’t
bother anyone else, and it would pass the time on Saturday nights. He drafted a little note, wrote it out neatly, and next day
pinned it on Mr Patel’s notice board. It said, ‘If you have sleepless nights and would like to join others for games and pastimes
on Saturday nights, contact me on Reading 897786.
During the week he had six phone calls from interested people. Some sounded very excited,
one or two asked if they could bring their wife or husband, and one woman said she was very
shy, but would like to give it a go. David cleaned and polished his little house, hoovered the
cat hairs from the faded brown and cream striped settee and chairs, put carnations in the cut
glass vase on the sideboard, and decided he would offer tea or coffee, sandwiches and biscuits.
He looked out three packs of cards, the chess set, the Monopoly and the Cluedo.
He had his hair cut and thought, incidentally, how well he was sleeping. On Saturday evening,
he put on a clean white shirt, his good grey cardigan, and waited.
Adventure by Samantha Godley
A mix of nervousness, trepidation and excitement; that’s what spurred me on to my first Tyne & Esk Writers meeting at
Musselburgh. I had an idea for a piece of work I wanted to do but no idea where to start. Having never written anything other
than letters and the imaginings of a child when I was at school, I was a bit daunted by the prospect.
I went along to the meeting one Tuesday night after work. Entering the room, I was greeted by friendly hi’s and hello’s and within
10 minutes I knew everyone’s names and writing interests. There was such a variety. The meeting progressed to members
reading their work. I listened intently, it was all so good. I thought I would never be able to write like they do; all those plots and
twists and characters that are so believable. I felt totally inadequate with my feeble scribblings. However, the group soon
reminded me that I am just starting out on my writing adventure and that it will take time and practice. Going home I was so
motivated, I couldn’t wait to get writing.
The first piece I wrote was a scene for a script. I had no idea what I was doing but I knew what I wanted to write about. The more
I thought about it the more the story revealed itself, usually in dreams. Then I would rush to scribble it all down when I woke up.
Reading my work out loud was so nerve-wracking and I could feel my face get redder and redder. It was well received, though,
with some feedback recommending a few changes - and I was encouraged to finish the script. I left that night feeling so pleased
with myself.
Six months on I am still nowhere near the calibre of the group but I don’t mind. I love
listening to their works, and getting their feedback on my writing is so helpful. I have
received a lot of encouragement and motivation. I am still working on that script, never quite
happy with it, but I will be one day. The members are really friendly and supportive of each
other. Who knows where my adventure will take me? But I am loving the journey.
3|Page
Dust in the Wind by Lorna Dixon
“Don’ get sore. I didn’t mean nothin’!”
“Sure you did. And don’ you stare at me like that!”
“Like what?”
“Like youse staring at me! Ain’t you never seen a girl before?”
“Sure I have.”
Luke dropped his eyes to the dust and stared at her feet. Dirty, dusty feet, bare
like his own. His were bony, the toes flat and ugly. Hers were slim, each toe like a
tiny twig budding at the end. She glared at his hanging head.
“That your folks over there?” she asked with a toss of her curls in the direction of
the wagon now stopped ahead.
“Yeah, my old lady made Joe stop. She guessed youse in trouble.”
“Only a wheel came loose. Jed’ll have it fixed soon.”
Luke stood on one leg to scratch his calf. Then he asked her again. “Why you goin’
back that way?”
“Why you goin’ on?” She flung the question at him like it was a stick for a dog.
“I dunno,” Joe says, “we have to go this way. Have to find work. What’s along there
anyroad? You been far?”
“Far enough. Enough to know it ain’t no use.”
“Ain’t no use goin’ back neither, not to where we come from.”
A tricky wind was rising, lifting the dust into the air, choking the light out of the
sun, bowling a ball of sage brush along the track until it was a speck in the
distance. The girl turned away and gazed across the flat landscape. A flock of
birds rose from a distant tree and they listened to them squawking. One of birds
wheeled towards them then flew back to join the others as though realising it
didn’t matter which way it went in this barren land.
“Wait, I got somethin’ special. Boiled it in the kettle!”
Luke ran to his folks’ wagon. The girl stared after him, her eyes narrowing as she
tried not show her interest. Luke opened his hand to show one small brown
speckled egg. “You steal it?” she asked.
“No! Lady gave it me. Chased a rat off from her hen coop. At the house back there.”
She wrinkled her nose in disbelief.
“You goin’ back that way, you tell her you a friend of Luke’s. Maybe she give you
somethin’.”
She shook her head as he held it out to her. Her eyes glinted green and speckled
like the egg. Suddenly she grinned and snatched it from his hand, sitting down in
the dust, cracking and peeling it. She took a bite, then held it out to Luke. “Rest’s
yours.”
Banshee by Angie Townsend
Here I am,
hidden from her,
snuggled in your arms
while she, the drifting curse
encircles, my protector
Long bony fingers
Searching, finding
Whatever space she can
Then pressing lips to stone
She screams and screams and
screams
My ears, my heart
She senses fear
I snuggle lower
Willing my protector,
to keep me warm
Save my soul
and then...
she goes, at least
I think she goes
I dare to look
I dare to dream
I dare to move
But no...
The scream,
Of her, again
a last attempt
To pierce my fortress
Angry, hungry
Death of night
Even my protector waivers
Shudders, groans
But he stands firm
I snuggle down
Close my eyes
Till at last
She goes,
This time I know she goes
And I
I breathe again.
He sat down facing her, their toes touched, gritty and warm.
“Martha, Martha, wagon’s fixed. Come on now!”
Luke stared as her wagon passed him.
The figure jolting in the back gradually became
too small to make out. He bent and picked up
the egg shells from the dust. He fingered them
in his pocket as his wagon went on its way.
4|Page
She loves me; she loves
me not by Stuart Blair
Why is it
of all the flowers
in the world
so many have
even-numbered
petals?
GOOD NEWS BAD NEWS by Harry Owens
For some years, I coached an enthusiastic under-18 rugby team at
Musselburgh. As I needed a pool of 21 players most weeks some
players were surplus to requirements. At that time substitutes
were only allowed to replace injured players.
In the second half of a game against an Edinburgh team, still nip and tuck, one of the players
went down injured. When the referee brought play to a halt, I went on to check out my young
player. Although Gordon was younger than most of the team he was a key player. When I
reached him I saw that he had a cut on his forehead. It was about an inch and a half long but
was clean and tight so that, although it was bleeding, it wasn’t gushing blood.
“How bad is it?” asked Gordon as I arrived. “You’ve cut your head,” I said.
“I know, I know but, how bad is it?” With all the adrenalin flowing and the excitement of the
occasion, an injured player often feels no pain and is keen to continue. “I’ll be okay,” said
Gordon. I’ll just play on.”
With three lads standing on the touch-line there was no way I was going to allow an injured
player to play on whilst others got no game at all.
“You need to come off till I see what can be done with this,” I said.
“I’ll be fine, put a plaster on it, I want to play on.”
I said, “Gordon, your head’s cut. One tackle could do untold damage and although you might
feel you’re being brave your parents won’t appreciate you arriving home with a mighty gash
across your forehead.”
I turned and waved for one of the eager substitutes to take the field then led Gordon by the
arm to the touch-line. It was not a serious injury but it was bad enough. I took the team
sponge which had been new at the start of the season but over time had been used to bathe
many a cut or bruise. Some cold water was applied to the sponge and I wiped his wound. I
never cease to be amazed how damaged players survive the application of touch-line medical
attention without catching some infection.
“How does it look now?” asked Gordon as he watched his pals toiling away.
“It could be worse,” I said.
“So can I go on again?” asked Gordon eagerly.
“I don’t think so,” I said, as the noise from the gathered spectators rose. We both turned and
watched as Musselburgh scored. Nothing was said as the conversion was successfully taken.
Had Gordon been playing, he would have taken that conversion. Out of the corner of my eye I
saw him gently finger his wound.
“It’s not bleeding now, can I go back on?” he insisted.
“I’ll show you the damage that’s been done,” I said, picking up a rugby jersey that was lying at
our feet. I pressed the jersey on his wound for a few seconds then removed it to show a line
of blood. “That’s how big the cut is, you can’t go on again,” I repeated.
Just then, Musselburgh scored again. “Can you put a plaster on it and let me play on?” asked
Gordon desperately.
“Do you want the good news or the bad news, Gordon?”
“Give me the good news,” said Gordon eagerly.
GORGING ON
LARKIN
by Lyn Livingstone
Starved of poetry in a
forlorn year,
I picked up Larkin’s
collected poems
and gorged half before I
stopped for breath.
Such a binge, but only
part digested
in my hurry to eat the
verses made
of peopled landscapes in
a Midland town:
workers, lovers, wedders,
dreamers,
places of arrivals and
departures
their distinctive tastes
unsavoured, lost.
I will make another,
slower meal of the
poems,
discover again the
flavour of unhurried
words.
2015 WRITE ON FESTIVAL
IN JUNE
For the first time Tyne and Esk
Writers is planning and organising
the Write On Festival – in
conjunction with June’s Haddington
festival.
Tom Murray and his team have
planned some great events aimed
at new, experienced, and young and
old writers.
“The good news is that you’re going to Accident and Emergency to be stitched.”
DATES: June 1, 5 and 6
“What the hell is the bad news?”
For more details email
“The bad news is the team’s playing better without you.”
5|Page
[email protected]
Braveheart Re-incarnated
by Jassen Wishart
Gaerd this brig, he said. Whare the hell is it goin tae go like? Ah’ve
seen guid mates killt ur injuret dain crap duties like this. Ah’d like tae
see Saergent bloody McHendry stop a platoon o Natzis fae crossin
here!
Sorry, Ah tak that back. That’s the thing aboot this bloody madness,
a’bodies priorities get aw skewed. Shair enough, a brig is o strategic
importance, but shairly the thoosants that got killt gettin the bloody
thing are anaw.
God it’s cald. Stuck oot here in the back o beyond richt in the middle
o winter anaw gaerdin a few wee stains across a burn certainly isnae
ma idea o stickin it up Hitler whar it hurts.
Why am Ah writin this? Is it cos Ah think that Ah, Willie Wallace will
be some sort o famous writer? Or is it just cos if Ah dinnae dae
enythin then Ah’ll catch the flamin madness that’s goin roond.
Ah mean, Ah didnae really want tae come oot here tae freeze ma
boz aff dodgin bullets. Whay would? At the ripe ald age o twenty
three, Ah was deemed ald enough and fit enough tae get conscripted
intae Her Maijesties Aermy. Torn fae Kirkcaldy, an ugly toon, lit up
only by the smile ow Michelle Murray.
Ach Michelle, dae ye still long fur ma embrace as Ah dae yurs? Ah
can still smell the fragrance o yur hair and the perfume ye wore.
Even the smell o the linoleum factories couldnae compete wi yur
heavenly scents.
Ah wunder what yur dain noo? Are ye sittin wurried aboot me? Are
ye cuddellt up in somwan else’s airm, some lucky sod that didnae get
sent tae be killt on some stranger’s fairm.
Ah hae tae stop this maudlin, it’s dain ma heid in. Ah wish Ah wuz
hame though, wi ma maw’s hame-made broth and scones waftin
their scents throo the hoose. Ma old man wi his pipe and baffies, wi
an opinion on a’thin, whether he ken’t enythin or naw. And wee
Jimmy, ma best pal.
Ah hope tae God yur no o’wer here Jimmy. Ye were
never eny guid in a ficht. Thank Christ, here’s ma
relief. Ah can catch some kip noo and stop depressin
masel.
Hang aboot, these blokes look new tae me! They’re
crossin fae the bloody wrang side.
They’re bloody Natzis.
Ah hope tae God ye hae foond somwan else
Michelle, cause Ah’d be nae guid tae ye noo!
6|Page
Start of a New Season
by Keith Saunders
The gate creaks open and a spider’s web of
threaded dew shimmers in rising light. And
the dawn-damp grass, long and untrodden,
slicks my boots into a cherry blossom shine.
I catch my breath at those first slivers of
silver, those first glimpses of water through
the willows …. all those weeks of dreaming.
I stop for a moment and re-shoulder my
fishing bag. It helps to stop me rushing,
though I’m desperate to watch the red tip of
the quill float – like a still life – motionless in
the mirror of the lake.
Those weeks in school when blackboard
equations, French verbs, dates of kings,
maps of here and there, and diagrams of
stamens, hydrogen bottles, pulleys and
weights – had all faded into invisibility, to be
replaced a swan quill float, twitching, rising
and then sliding out of sight. Are the greengold tench feeding yet?
Are there any tell-tale bubbles?
Those strings of ‘beaded bubbles winking at
the brim’? I remember that from English –
it’s Keats.
I go slowly now. I’ve reached the reeds.
There’s a secret swim by those two gnarled
alders. Old Bill showed me – he’s not fishing
anymore.
I’m as quiet as a mouse, trying not to start a
chatter of reed warblers.
Nearly there … nearly.
I stop dead in my tracks. Damn! Damn,
there’s a rod out over the water! And that
ancient wax jacket of his – and his old
Labrador at his feet!
‘Bill?’
It’s, it’s … not ……
Her hair is a wild tangle, as black as coal …
like her eyes …
I stand transfixed, for what seems a lifetime,
and then back away ... without a word.
I fish another swim, and throughout the
morning the swan quill may have twitched
and risen, but all I can see are those dark,
dark eyes.
I hear the reeds rustle, and swing around.
She’s taken off the old jacket and her hair
glistens like a raven’s wing – she’d dipped
her fingers in the water to tame her
unbrushed curls.
‘Bill’s my granddad … I’m Laura.’
Her lips must have moved but I’m lost in her
eyes – those two deep pools … I’d fallen in.
‘Have you caught anything?’
… Ooh, yes …
The Betrayal of Rochus Misch by George Cunningham
The Russians are coming! Terror and fear are flowing through the corridors like a river in spate,
swirling around me: loyal Rochus Misch - in the bunker designed by Speer, built by Hochtief AG of
concrete and steel, below Berlin, for 1.35 million Reich marks, to hide the Fuhrer.
Heil Hitler! Where is he anyway? No, not Speer – the Fuhrer? In his study planning the final assault.
Good! He has a secret weapon to unleash, bringing final victory. Fantastic! The boys and the old
men of the Volkssturmann are ready to fight at Potsdamer bridge until the Fuhrer unleashes the new
weapon; saved at the eleventh hour! God bless the Fuhrer! He is our salvation.
Heil Hitler! What? The Fuhrer has broken off his deliberations to marry Eva Braun? Why, that is
good news. Bless them both!
Magda Goebbels passes. ‘It will soon be over, Misch,’ she says. She is grim of face. ‘Yes,’ I reply
excitedly. ‘The Fuhrer is planning the final assault and we have a secret weapon that will win the
war.’ She does not reply and heads towards her children’s bedroom. What is that small box she is
carrying? It looks like medicine. I hope the little ones are not sick. My small switchboard springs into
life. It is Jodl for Bormann, reporting from the front. ‘It is not good news,’ I overhear Jodl saying.
Terror and fear once again; I am drowning. But are we not safe in the bunker; it will withstand
everything and keep the Fuhrer safe. How did Speer know Berlin might one day fall? Steel and
concrete. Impregnable. Deep down below Berlin. Scheise! The Russians are pouring into Berlin,
reports Jodl. I must stop listening in on these calls - they submerge me.
Achtung! Achtung! Fuhrer, unleash our secret weapon. NOW! Zhukov’s army is on Potsdamerplatz.
The stores have been raided and those who have lost faith are drunk, hiding from reality. Surely
Berlin will never fall? A Reich to last a thousand years, the Fuhrer promised – he would not lie or
deceive. Would he? Loyalty questioned. Disloyalty must be avoided. Drowning again.
Should I join the revellers? No! I am loyal Rochus Misch. The Fuhrer needs me. He will ring through
with orders to unleash the secret weapon - I must be here to connect that call.
Heil Hitler! Then the war will be won. Trudl Jung has left the Fuhrer’s study. So he is still giving her
dictation; that is a good sign. ‘Hi Trudl,’ I call out.
But she does not reply; she is crying.
The Fuhrer must ring through soon with the order.
Achtung, Fuhrer! Achtung! The Russians are here!
Dead? What do you mean? By his own hand? Impossible!
Not the Fuhrer! And Magda’s children! Oh God, not the little ones?
Heavy artillery fire.
Zhukov’s thugs are on the steps of the Chancellery with a red flag above the bunker.
Damn you Hitler!
7|Page
Invitation to the Dance
by Paul Milne
Why have you forsaken me?
Where now your fair summer form?
Where the soft kisses on my mouth,
And the swift invitation to the
dance?
Rebecca McKinney’s debut novel, Blast Radius, has just
been published by Sandstone Press (February 2015). It is the
story of Sean McNicol, whose best friend Mitch saved his life in
Afghanistan in an act of impulsive heroism. Now Mitch is dead
and Sean has left the Royal Marines with a head full of ghosts and
guilt. Mitch talks to Sean from beyond the grave, by turns
encouraging him, cursing, singing and leading him to question his
own sanity on a daily basis.
Blast Radius is set largely in Midlothian, with a significant
excursion to the West Highlands. It started life as a short story
about a returning soldier suffering the emotional wounds of his
experience in Afghanistan. Raised largely in Northern California
on a diet of Steinbeck, Rebecca believes the best fiction portrays
life in all of its gritty, sometimes ugly and sometimes beautiful
realities. She hopes she has achieved this - at least to a small
degree - with her novel.
Rebecca is a long-time member of Tyne and Esk Writers, and a
participant at the Dalkeith group where she read her work in
public for the first time in around 2003. She has been writing on
and off since her teens (she’d rather not say how long ago that
was!) but it was the encouragement of fellow Tyne and Esk
writers and insightful feedback from Writers in Residence Drew
Campbell and Deborah Miller which truly gave her the confidence
to complete a novel and seek publication. Dalkeith group
members will remember Rebecca sharing endless revisions of her
first unpublished novel, The Devil’s Box, before she disappeared
to immerse herself in Blast Radius. She occasionally writes short
stories, and has recently published two poems in Issue IV of The
Grind, but does not consider herself a poet.
Rebecca is keen to encourage and support fellow writers,
whether they aspire to publish or simply write for fun, and is
available for workshops and readings. Congratulations, Rebecca.
8|Page
You hide your face in darkness,
Sheets of rain discourage me.
A single candle lights my way,
A fragile flame cupped in my hands.
A season of sleep
A season of night
A season of cold
A season of death
A season alone
Summer mead in winter,
My only memory of you.
Bone-crunching cold without,
Light a bright fire within.
Laughter, mead, a merry tune,
While outside you prowl,
Rattling the window-panes with
sleet,
Crying to be heard.
I hear your voice
I feel your touch
I taste your tears
I smell your breath
I see your face
Your face is gentle and so sad,
Lines of pain are etched thereon;
Memory of light is in your eyes,
A deep spark down within your soul.
Come and dance with me again,
I hear you whisper in my heart I leave the mead and merry tunes
And spin into the swirling snow.
I dance with cold
I dance with dark
I dance with ice
I dance with night
I dance until I sleep