Writing
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A Taste of The Write Angle Mag
(Issue 6)
Coming soon...
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A Taste of The Write Angle Mag
(Issue 5)
Coming soon...
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A Taste of The Write Angle Mag
Good
Luck Charm
I didn’t know what it was at first, lying there damp and
matted in the grate covering the drain on the changing room floor. I gave it a
nudge with my big toe. It looked a bit
like a dead baby mouse. I wondered how a mouse could get into the Ladies’
changing room at the swimming pool. But then I remembered that I’d read in my
People’s Friend that a mouse can flatten its bones to squeeze through a hole
the same width as a pencil and can get anywhere they fancy.
The brown fur didn’t move when my toe flicked it over.
There was a wee flash of white but it wasn’t a mouse on its back. There was a silver key ring attached to the
pelt and it was stuck in the slats of the grate. I bent down and shoogled it
until it was free. I knew then what is was and I knew who it belonged to. I
can’t pretend. I’d seen Jean rub the rabbit’s foot many a time and she claimed
that the lucky charm had served her well over the years, she’d even won a
luxury hamper at the Christmas Fayre tombola. But it was a Friday and I’d be
going to the Bingo that night. I needed it more than she did.
I would’ve given Jean it back when I saw her again at the
swimming on Monday morning. I could’ve told her that I got a full house thanks
to the rabbit’s foot. But I never got the chance to return her lucky charm. She
stepped off the bus outside the swimming pool and caught her heel in the drain
in the gutter; she fell and cracked her skull wide open. Jean was dead on
arrival at
A & E.
-o--o--o-
Callant Boy
O callant boy, o callant boy,
The aik-nit shaw, aneath the tree,
O callant boy, o callant boy,
A peerie kiss twixt thou an me.
Thomas Clark
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A Taste of The Write Angle Mag
(Issue 3)
The
River
Lay
down your money
and
play your part?
I'm
anything but hungry tonight.
...The
album isn't hitting the spot
tonight
Bruce,
I
need something that rips the guts
right
out of out of me
and
makes me feel I'm with an old friend.
Usually you
understand
What's
wrong with you?
Gary
Mckenzie
-o--o--o-
Lily
(for
Barbara)
Elegance
In
every inch
Standing
tall
Above
them all
Reaching
up
She
feels the sun
And
is filled
With
Mother’s love.
Ian
Maxtone
-o--o--o-
A Sailor's
Recourse
Snorting
line after line of
poorly
crushed nutmeg
in
my parents’ bathroom
and
all to show
was
nausea headache mucus face
imploding
palette, nostrils
shattered,
and a knock
on
the door said ‘food’s up’
Made
me jump some
spill
the jar of moulding meg
running
like lost marbles
toward
the drain, gargling
hungry
for a high
as
rampart guttering swilled
full
of putrid storm water
making
the house creak,
though
I thought it was my skull
So
I foraged meekly about
dusty
white porcelain and stuffed
the
poison back in its vial
turned
on the tap to give
Dr
Drain a hit of chill
straight
to the mainline,
wash
away evidence of
my
evident failings in
the
process,
limped
head in hands
eye
drops mingling with snot-
encrusted
upper-lip
to
the table
and
ate my spaghetti in shame.
Calum
Bannerman
*******
A Taste of The Write Angle Mag
(Issue 2)
Birds
Birds cheep,
chirp, twitter:
sing songs and
search for worms
Birds build
to feather nest:
weave and weft
‘till home is won
Birds fly
kings of sky,
scouring land for
food for young
Birds migrate
in arrowheads
,
,
first class flight
to foreign lands
A bird's life
is a spirit, free
No containment,
unlike man.
Brian, Semi-skilled Poet
-o--o--o-
Overlord,
D-Day
Sailing
from Britain in 1944
An
Armada to a second front
That
will free Europe.
A
time to always remember.
The
invasion of Normandy,
Hitler's
fortress, high losses expected.
They
were killed in droves.
A
time to always remember.
Tanks
failing for lack of fuel,
Supply
problems fixed by Pluto
Delivering
oil under the sea.
A
time to always remember.
Fatal
gaps in German defences
And
Hitler's Atlantic Wall.
They
pushed forward to victory.
A
time to always remember.
James
Kirkwood
-o--o--o-
Bonfire Night
Bonfire
Night is here again
For
young and mature to enjoy.
Children
call 'Penny for the Guy',
And
scavenge for bonfire wood.
A
sizzling fire radiates
Bright
in a bleak night.
Hands
warm at the glowing brazier,
The
heat of history burning again.
Marshmallows
are toasted
Turning
the brown and gooey.
Potatoes
bake, charred outside
With
buttery creamy heart.
Rockets
shoot the dark sky
with
brilliant slashes of colour.
Creating
a designer display
For
us to remember, oh! Remember.
James Kirkwood
*******
A Taste of The Write Angle Mag
(Issue 1)
If…
If
I was a flower
I
would bend in the wind
and smile at the sun
I would shower
in the raindrops
and drink when I am thirsty
Fiona
Nairn
-o--o--o-
The
Gardeners
Hidden
in the darkest depths
there’s
something stirring inside
A
flower bud waiting to bloom;
petals
opened wide
Protected
from the elements
no
stoney ground for this seed
Mother
Nature’s larder.
nourishing
every need
Ripened
to perfection;
suddenly
no denying
The
fruit of two people’s love
and the joy of a child, crying.
Ian Maxtone
-o--o--o-
A
Voice From The Hills
She
could not imagine a bleaker spot. The ruined farmhouse stood on the
summit of a low rise. Behind, the moor stretched away in long grey
folds of dying scrubland and rotting stone. A twisted tree thrust up
from what had once been the kitchen and ivy clung to the remains of
the chimneys on the two end walls.
She
had set out on this walk to raise her spirits but unhappiness had
clung to her like slime. She was totally alone, her husband dead of
a wasting disease, a son who could not wait to leave home, friends
who only showed interest when they wanted something. Then she had
been made redundant and even her livelihood was gone. If she were
dead, who would miss her?
Then
she heard the sound, low, eerie and inexpressibly lonely. It shook
her for a moment before she thought about the cottage. Of course, it
was the wind hooting across the still solid chimney stacks. She
turned back towards the road. The cry came again, a living voice,
not from the hovel but far out on the bitter moorland.
She
plunged away down the valley, back towards the town and people. Two
hours later she was back in her home with every light in the house
burning. As she closed her curtains for the night she heard the
sound again; low, eerie and inexpressibly lonely.
Next
day, her telephone rang and rang but, the only reply was from the
electronic answerphone.
Barbara Hammond
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