WORDS TO
SHARE….
ISSUE 3
AUGUST 2015
U3A East Renfrewshire Creative Writing Group
Fantasycrimeromanceimaginaryopinionschildhood
travelinspirationbeliefnaturehistorycomedynatur
erelationshipsmysteryrecordsproverbsFantasycri
meromanceimaginationsciencefictionhorror
PREFACE
Words to Share is an anthology of work by members of
East Renfrewshire U3A Creative Writing Group which
reflects the disparate interests and styles of the group's
members. With content that encompasses a wide
variety of poetic and prose forms, its scope ranges from
a novel extract to limericks.
All the pieces have been written for the writers'
own enjoyment, mostly without ambitions for wider
publication or reward. There has of course been some
editing and rewriting of submissions to make them as
good as they can be, but it is recognised that they all fall
short of perfection to a greater or lesser degree.
Notwithstanding the limitations of these works, it is
hoped they will be accepted for what they are - the
honest endeavours of a group of enthusiasts - and that
some, at least, may amuse or entertain.
From June 2015 24 pieces will be split into six
issues. Each issue will appear monthly on the East
Renfrewshire U3A website.
http://u3asites.org.uk/eastrenfrewshire/
Copyright U3A East Renfrewshire – Writing Group © 2015
CONTENTS
I’M NOT SUPERSTITIOUS ........... 2
BY BRIDIE STEVENSON
A SLIP OF THE TONGUE ............. 7
BY ISABEL FINDLAY
BRILLIANT CUT........................... 9
BY J D HAMILTON
BOUNDARIES ............................. 14
BY ROBINA FISHER
THE SPRING ............................... 16
BY VINCENT CYGAN
I’M NOT
SUPERSTITIOUS
BY BRIDIE STEVENSON
Are you superstitious? I’m not. Superstition has been
around for thousands of years and the dictionary
defines it as ‘irrational beliefs especially with regard to
the unknown’. Our ancestors’ lives were often ruled by
their beliefs and fears. It was firmly believed that the
gods had to be appeased and one way of doing this,
commonly practiced, was to offer up sacrifices which
were sometimes human. Thankfully, we have moved on
from the more extreme forms of superstition although
related practices and beliefs still exist today
Are you superstitious? Many of us are but refuse
to admit it. However, when faced with a ladder do we
avoid walking under it? Do we worry we’ll have seven
years bad luck if we break a mirror? If we spill salt do we
pinch a few grains and throw them over the left
shoulder. Actually, I do all of these things even though
I’m not superstitious. Why do I do it? Well, just in case
there’s some truth in it – I don’t like to tempt fate. You
wouldn’t, for example, get me opening an umbrella
indoors or putting shoes on a table - but, no, I’m not
superstitious, just cautious.
I don’t really believe that Friday the thirteenth is
an unlucky day but if I have to, for example, travel on
that day I’m always just a wee bit apprehensive. The
number 13 is always considered unlucky. Most high rise
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flats don’t have a floor 13 and airports don’t usually
have a Gate 13. The origins of this particular
superstition are biblical as Jesus was said to have been
crucified on Friday the thirteenth and Adam and Eve
were banished from the Garden of Eden on a Friday–
but, really, I’m only just a little bit apprehensive about
travelling on Friday the thirteenth - I’m not
superstitious.
Ancient British superstitions were often related
to birds or animals. For example, long ago , coming
across 2 or 3 Ravens together was considered very bad
luck. Yet, another ongoing superstition, related to a
whole colony of Ravens, is that if they ever leave the
Tower of London then the British Monarchy will be lost.
Another bird with a bad press is the magpie. Do
you greet a single magpie if you see one? Do you
enquire as to the whereabouts of his partner? You see,
myth has it that, one magpie is unlucky, it’s lucky to see
two and so on but if you greet the magpie and ask after
its spouse then you’ll be ok. All of these bad luck beliefs
and fears seem ridiculous so I don’t worry about them
because as I’ve said before, I’m not superstitious
Now, on the other hand, I might be just a tiny bit
convinced when it comes to accepting the good luck
beliefs which have also been handed down through the
generations.
Rabbits are considered lucky. Carrying a rabbit’s
foot about with you is said to bring good luck - though I
doubt if the rabbit would see it that way. I do feel
thrilled when a black cat crosses my path because that
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is now considered lucky. Way back in time, black cats
were considered unlucky as they were thought to be the
mediums of witches and that witches could actually turn
themselves into black cats.
And, of course, I do always touch wood when I
want something to come true. This practice dates back
to the Druids, who worshipped wood. They believed
that the spirits resided within the wood so knocking on
the tree expressed homage to those spirits, alongside a
belief that they would make wishes come true.
Similarly a horseshoe placed above a door is
supposed to bring good luck providing it is placed the
right way up. Apparently the luck will run out if it is
placed upside down. In my own house I have a St
Brigid’s cross above the front door as this is supposed to
bring good health to all who pass under it – not that I’m
superstitious, you understand.
Do you ever wonder about all these
superstitious beliefs, I know I do. We all know people
who firmly believe them.
My two Irish grannies were very superstitious.
One granny would warn you never to turn back once
you went out the door- that would bring bad luck . This
bad luck was only overturned if she threw the fire poker
out the door, which she always did if she caught you
coming back in. She also went mad if you had put a
jumper or cardigan on inside out and made to take it off
to put it on correctly. That too was bad luck apparently.
Another strange belief of hers was that if a pregnant
woman came into the house when the family were
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eating then she had to join the family at the table and
be given a share of the meal.
My other granny firmly believed in the little
people, leprechauns, fairy circles and such like. She
would tell tales of people who had gone missing after
stepping accidentally into a fairy circle. She talked about
hearing and seeing the little people laughing and
dancing about. Listening to these stories as children
frightened the life out of us. We were terrified to go
outside in the dark in case any of these leprechauns
were nearby. During the day, we always walked very
warily through the fields, eyes peeled, anxious to avoid
any fairy circles which might be lurking about in the
undergrowth.
Scottish people also have their own deep rooted
superstitions. My mother in law would not allow hair or
nails to be cut on a Sunday. She also, every Hogmanay,
at about five minutes to Midnight, would empty all the
bins in the house, take the rubbish outside after which
she would scrub the front and back steps. This was
apparently to cleanse away all the badness from the
past to start afresh in the New Year. First footing friends
and neighbours at New Year is traditional as is bringing
a lump of coal and some black bun. The coal (hard to
find nowadays) is so you will always have warmth and
the black bun so you will have food and, of course,
everyone wants their first foot to be tall, dark and
handsome - again regarded as bringing good luck.
Another Scottish custom when buying someone
a new purse, wallet or bag the giver is supposed to put
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some money into it so that the recipient will never be
short of money. Similarly when you first see a new born
baby you should put silver into the pram or cot to bring
the child luck.
I’ve really only scraped the surface of the many,
many superstitions that abound today. Some of them
bring comfort and maybe expectations of good things to
come, but a greater number promote feelings of fear
and foreboding - - so I am really so glad that I’m not
superstitious?
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A SLIP OF THE
TONGUE
BY ISABEL FINDLAY
On the very first day when the world was new
The creator said, "I've a lot to do,
to bring some order here on Earth
and turn this chaos to a place of worth.
A man I'll make, a creature of grace.
I'll make a garden of this place.
I'll call it Eden and later on
I'll make a woman he can depend upon."
So Adam and Eve as they were called,
in the Garden of Eden were soon installed
where trees and shrubs and flowers abound
and bees and butterflies fly around.
And yet amid this wondrous scheme,
there soon crept another theme.
A destructive serpent in his wily way
had invited weeds and snails to stay.
Says Adam, "It occurs to me,
the Designer would be pleased to see
these lowly creatures given some sense
to achieve a measure of intelligence!"
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His I.Q. plan was well received
and pleased the Master who then decreed
that all approach and form a queue
to find what each would have to do.
"Your idea's good," the Master said,
and smiled upon the man He'd made.
"You can start this education.
Go 1st and learn enumeration!"
To Eve, the helpmate to His lad,
He said," you go 2nd and learn to add!"
He told the serpent who caught His gaze,
"Go 3rd and learn your take-aways!"
Next crept the snails and weeds a-pace
a lowly smile upon each face.
They offered themselves - came His reply,
"You can go 4th and multiply!"
Remember gardeners, your troubles have sprung
by the merest chance - from a slip of the tongue.
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BRILLIANT CUT
BY J D HAMILTON
Pamela had made a plan of sorts while she showered.
She'd have to move fast and she'd need cash; she
couldn't risk being traced through her credit card. After
struggling to take down the heavily-framed portrait of
President Mwambeko, she reached for the keypad on
the wall safe and entered the number she wasn’t
supposed to know. She opened the thick steel door to
reveal a shiny black jewel case on top of a stack of
papers. They were mostly share certificates, valuable
about twenty years ago but virtually worthless now.
There was no sign of the half-million US dollars she’d
seen only a month before. With a growing feeling of
panic she opened the jewel case.
The elegant shop on Constitution Street was
shut, but Pamela could see spots of light through chinks
in the steel shuttering. She held her thumb on the
doorbell until she heard the familiar voice of Victor
Kalambezi.
‘What’s all this racket?’ he demanded. ‘Can’t
you see we’re closed?’
‘I need to talk to you,’ she said, pulling up the
edge of her tightly wrapped black silk scarf.
‘Mrs Ojubwe?’
Pamela heard many keys turning and bolts being
drawn before the old man pulled open the door and
raised the grille. His left palm gestured welcome. ‘You
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were lucky to find me here; I was just about to leave.
But of course a valued client such as yourself is always
welcome. Please, take a seat.’
She sat down on a small armchair facing a
leather topped table. As soon as Victor had settled into
his place opposite, she took the case from her handbag,
opened it and placed it on the table. Inside, a huge
diamond pendant glistened. ‘For reasons I can’t discuss
I need to raise a lot of cash quickly. I’m willing to offer
you the Malambia Star on very favourable terms if we
can strike a deal now.’
Victor sat back and stroked his grey beard. ‘Ah,
the Malambia Star.'
'As you know better than I, it's the world’s
biggest brilliant cut diamond. I read that a smaller
stone – eighty-odd carats I think – made over fourteen
million dollars in New York recently. For a quick sale I’d
settle for quite a bit less than that.’
‘I dare say you would, Mrs Ojubwe, but in our
trade size isn’t everything. Unfortunately, since the Star
doesn’t have Kimberley Process Certification, it has to
be regarded as a blood diamond and priced
accordingly.’
‘Okay, how much?’
‘For that?’ he said, glancing down at the
pendant. ‘For that I could offer maybe a couple of
hundred – dollars.’
‘What!’
‘You see, that is not the Star. It’s paste.’
‘Paste?’
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‘A pastiche. It’s glass – very nicely cut glass, I
should add.’
Pamela saw alarm creep into Victor’s expression.
She must look like a mad woman. ‘That’s impossible!
This is the Malambia Star; it must be. What makes you
so sure it’s not?’
‘Well, for one thing, I’ve been in this business
long enough to know the difference between a diamond
and a chunk of glass.’
‘And you can tell, even though you’ve scarcely
looked at it?’
Victor sat back, frowning and steepling his
fingers. ‘I know what it is,’ he said eventually, ‘because
I made it.’
Pamela raised her right hand to her face; her jaw
really had dropped. ‘You’re mad. Are you telling me
you've conned the Minister of the Interior? Did you
decide to give up on living?’
Again the old man paused before responding.
‘Mrs Ojubwe, this is a very delicate matter. The truth is
I was acting on your husband’s instructions. He needed
to raise quite a lot of cash quickly but discreetly, so he
approached me with this scheme to replace the jewel
with a convincing copy.’
Outside the shop Pamela wondered why this
new revelation about the extent of Michael’s gambling
addiction should have surprised her. Now, despite the
risk of a card trace, she'd have to withdraw some cash.
However, she could perhaps lay a false trail by using one
of the ATMs at Victoria Station.
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Forty minutes later she opened the apartment
door. As soon as she stepped inside she cursed the
president’s idiot brother George who, as Energy
Minister, had yet again failed to keep the power
flowing, even here in the capital. As well as rising heat
and humidity, she detected something else in the air something putrid. Within a few minutes she had a small
case packed, and was ready to go. Pausing at the door
with her right hand lightly grasping the handle, she
made a quick mental inventory. All that mattered was
the British passport in the name of Pamela Wilson,
which should get her to the border on one of the tourist
excursions to Malacabanza Falls. Suddenly she let go
the handle as if it was red hot and stepped back; the
door bell had begun ringing. Through the spy-hole she
saw Nelson Limpodo.
‘Open up please, Mrs Ojubwe,’ he said as soon
as the ringing stopped.
Limpodo’s voice was familiar, and yet somehow
unfamiliar. This wasn’t the soft mellifluous voice of the
regular dinner guest who’d always called her Pamela.
This time the Head of the State Security Bureau had
come on business.
Victor must have betrayed her and, she now
realised, he'd had no choice. By turning up at his shop
on a Sunday morning needing cash in a hurry she’d sent
a clear signal something was about to blow. Just one
call from a sharp-eyed citizen would have been enough
to implicate him, unless he made the call first. Oh shit,
she thought, pressing her palms to her head; if he’d
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reported me right away Limpodo would’ve been here
half an hour ago. He gave me a head start, and I wasted
it walking to the station.
‘Mrs Ojubwe, I know you’re in there. There are
things we need to talk about.’
Saying nothing, she backed into the living room
and turned to look at the scene of carnage. Flies were
now crawling over Michael’s eyes and into his gaping
mouth. Hearing a loud crash, she looked round to see a
door panel turned to a porcupine of splinters. She
reached for the shard of mirror glass still lodged in
Michael’s neck and, with blood dripping from her
lacerated hand, eased it from the already bloating flesh.
A louder crash signalled the final surrender of the door.
The face she saw reflected in the shard as she raised it
looked like a stranger's.
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BOUNDARIES
BY ROBINA FISHER
DNA strands weaving an invisible web
Spawning genetic pools
Y chromosome a boy
X chromosome a girl
Following nature’s prescription
Creating unique twisting designs
Multiplying cells within womb’s walls
Mortality hanging by an umbilical thread
Delivering life’s creation on a bed of no choice
Swaddling, restricting tiny limbs
Indoctrinating, branding, classifying
Knowing the boundaries at seven years
Nodding to the pecking order
Marching to the popular tune
Fitting in, no trouble at all
Protecting, accumulating cluttering things
Locking in, locking out
Building perimeters, fences and boundaries
Blocking in, blocking out
Craving release
Planning escape
Looking above the parapet
Standing up, going over
Demanding human rights
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Resisting re-capture
Fuming, raging they know defeat
Looking up and out
Feeling the sun’s warmth
Imagining and dreaming
Celebrating life’s diversity
Looking through an open door
Sheltering others on the run
Triumphant humanity
Unchained without boundaries
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THE SPRING
BY VINCENT CYGAN
David crouched down with cupped hands over the little
spring. He hesitated. “Go on then.” His friend Edith
insisted.
The boy pressed his cradled hands into the icecold flow of water, his fingers numbing instantly. He
looked back anxiously to Edith for a reprieve.
“Go on, now drink it, and hurry up.” She
demanded in her school missy voice.
Reluctantly David raised his cupped hands to his
probing lips. The crystal clear liquid ran along his wrists
and down his forearms sending a quivering cold shock
of shivers down his spine. David jumped to his feet
shaking both arms vigorously free of the icy liquid.
“Did you swallow any of it?” Edith probed in her
missy voice.
“A wee bit — a think.” He added.
“You had better do it again to be sure.” Edith
countered briskly.
“Hey your no ma boss, yer no a teacher, yer only
one class above me.” He protested.
David sighed heavily clutching his back with an
opened hand while moving it in circles to ease the pain.
“Come on this will be the last time, but make
sure you swallow some this time.” She counseled in a
more conciliatory voice.
David assumed the position and immediately felt
a pain pierce his back. He let out such a cry that it took
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Edith unawares and she lost her footing on the
embankment. Edith fell backwards on her bottom into
the pebble-strewn brook. At first she gulped with shock,
then let out with a scream.
“I hate you David Hughes, you can’t do anything
right; can you?”
David ran to her rescue raising her to her feet
with outstretched arms under her armpits.
“Are yae aw right hen, did yae hurt yer ‘self?”
David added.
“Don’t call me hen, I’m WET.” but you can kiss
me.” She said softly as her mood changed. “I swallowed
some water.” She announced triumphantly. “So there
won’t be any babies.” Edith concluded with some
authority.
David took a deep breath and pressed his pursed
lips against Edith’s. After a moment or so he broke loose
gasping for breath, his shoulders racing up and down his
neck.
“Its na use a canny kiss and breathe at the same
time.” He stated breathlessly stamping his feet in
frustration.
The sun dipped behind the huddle of pine trees
to the west on Rory hill. The temperature dropped. An
eerie silence engulfed the little cove where the children
stood in dappled sunlight. Rhododendron bushes
rippled and rustled as a gusty wind swept in whistling
and moaning as it skimmed the rocky surface. The
children stood riveted in fear as the whistling decibels
reached a crescendo akin to a woman screaming.
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Through the ear-piercing wind a bell rang out in the
distance. The children immediately recognized the
sound of Mr. Coopers hand-bell calling the children to
supper and bedtime prayers. The two raised their arms
simultaneously, and on clasping hands ran as fast as
their spindly little legs could carry them. Before long in
the distance, amidst a shifting mist the children’s home
‘Comfy Nooks” emerged on the horizon. The building’s
long crooked chimney tops pierced the billowing mist
engulfing the children’s home below. The mist lifted a
little as the children drew closer. Mr. Coopers tall
silhouette could clearly be seen, bell in hand, the other
dragging one of the huge twelve-foot high iron gates.
The children waved their hands and shouted to attract
his attention; but to no avail. The curling haze thickened
again as the children approached the gates immersing
all in a damp blinding fog. David heard Edith call out his
name.
“David, where are you?”
“Am By the gate, an its shut.” He shouted
rattling the chained gate. Edith’s voice seemed distant,
and yet all at once close.
“I can’t see you, where are you-where?” She
cried in alarm.
“Right here hen.” David assured her
affectionately.
Edith emerged from the murky haze, her plump
little face tearstained, her damp hair tangled and
hanging in irregular tails over her shoulder. A smile
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spread across her face as her hand made contact with
David’s shoulder
“I’m sorry for being a missy, you’re the boss.”
She conceded tearfully.
“We have to go back to the spring Edith, Mr.
Coopers locked us out, at least we can shelter in the
cove until morning.”
With frosty breathes the two set off hand in
hand uphill and into the drifting fog, they walked for
what seemed like an eternity in the thick night air.
“David, do you think Mr. Cooper locks us out
intentionally, after all he has done this before?”
“Naw he’s just old hen, he canny see proper, an
anyway, e’looses count in the dormitories, he dis’ny
know who’s in an whose oot.”
On approaching the spring the fog had lifted a
little. Shards of moonlight broke through drifting
bruised clouds. The kids settled down in a little cove on
the parched embankment of what had once been ‘Lake
Rory’ a local fishing and beauty spot. The river Rory,
which fed the lake, had long since been diverted to
another deeper valley about two miles away. Today the
area is renowned for its picturesque little spring where
magical waters trickle down from within the rocky north
embankment. The children quickly fell asleep.
David’s sleep was troubled. Throughout the
night he felt a great weight was bearing down on his
chest and was unable to breath. He awoke several times
to the fearful sound of a thunderous gale and people
calling out his and Edith’s name.
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The isolated Cooing and cawing of feathered
residents in the pinewoods heralded the dawning of a
new day. At first David drowsily disregarded the activity
of the woodland creatures, however before long the
rising chorus could not be ignored. Edith was asleep,
oblivious to the cawing melee. David sat up and inhaled
the heady scent of pine and wild woodland herbs
drifting on the breeze. The sun slowly rose above the
treetops. Edith stirred as the woodland shadow
retreated down the embankment and the sun bathed
the two in its warm glow. David picked a daffodil from
the sparse foliage around them and held it out for Edith
to smell. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply
inhaling the rich dew-ridden scent.
“Oh its beautiful David, how kind you are.”
A spike of sunlight glinted amongst the
rhododendron bushes just a few yards away above the
spring.
“Did you see that David?”
“No, What?”
“Up there, above the spring, something
glimmering and shining go and see what it is.” Edith
whispered excitedly.
David scrambled up the craggy rock face clinging
on to the rhododendron bushes for support. Reaching a
small ledge he pushed aside some overgrowth to reveal
a brass plaque. He studied the plaque wide-eyed, and
open-jawed. Edith inched her way up beside him.
“Come on David, what is it?” She inquired
breathlessly.
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“Edith, y’better read this, y’ll no believe it hen.”
Edith shuffled closer to the plaque and read out
its contents.
In memory of David Hughes and Edith McKay
Aged Eight and Nine years respectively
Drowned in an accident in Rory Lake
In the year 1858 May 3rd.
R.I.P.
The two stared at each other in shocked silence.
Edith broke the moment.
“Oh David, What silly nonsense.” She mocked,
offering her hand to David. He placed his hand in hers
and smiled.
“To the spring.” He yelled in devilish
abandonment. The children jaunted down hill frolicking
among the rhododendron bushes and delighting in the
colorful bluebells and daffodils. On reaching the spring…
David crouched down with cupped hands over
the little spring. He hesitated. “Go on then.” His friend
Edith insisted…
Find this and future issues on our U3A website -
WWW.U3ASITES.ORG.UK/EASTRENFREWSHIRE
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