THOSE talented scribes at the Wokingham Writers Group have kept scribbling away this summer.
And they held a members contest based on the theme of Stormy Weather.
All entries were sent to Miranda Lloyd for judging.
She is a freelance writer, editor and proofreader who says that she specialises in helping authors tell the best possible stories. She knows what she’s doing – Miranda has been writing since she was a child.
The winner was Tom Williams, a psychologist who has been published in the past on a variety of subjects including special needs and mental health, and is now looking to become known as a fiction writer.
His entry is below. Over the next two weeks, we’ll print the highly commended entries.
Wokingham Writers says they are a friendly group of individuals with a common interest in creative writing. Members range from keen hobbyists to aspiring novelists and published authors. The group supports and encourages members with their writing projects, large or small.
Meetings are held on the third Saturday of each month. In happier days, meetings were in Wokingham Library but are currently being held via Zoom.
Anyone interested should contact the chairman, Keith Sheppard by emailing keith@writerman.org.uk or asking in Wokingham Library.
Stormy Weather by Tom Williams
I had been here before, a lifetime ago. The summer before I went up for my third year. Six idyllic weeks walking the Normandy countryside, drinking cider out of cups in tiny cafés, trying out my French. Mont Saint-Michel in the dawn or squinting in the moonlight at my battered copy of Proust until I fell asleep under the stars.
A lifetime and a war away.
In the darkness of the night sky there was a liminal band of warm orange above the horizon. It would be dawn in an hour or so. The German groaned in his sleep. I had found him in the shell-hole and fired first.
I didn’t want to know his name, I didn’t want to make it personal, but he told me anyway. He wanted to talk. His English was rather good. We talked about literature, art and jazz, mainly jazz. He had seen Cab Calloway play in Berlin and the Hot Club play in Paris. ‘They were wonderful.’
I said I had seen Elisabeth Welch just before the invasion.
‘Elisabeth Welch, very good, Richard, but Ethel Waters’ version of Stormy Weather is so much better.’
I begged to differ. I knew both versions well but he was stubborn. I noticed that he was blowing little bloody bubbles when he spoke. I had thought he would die in the night.
I was leaving him my water bottle and the last few cigarettes, when he woke. His eyes were clear but his complexion was deadly pale. I said some guff about meeting in better times, maybe going to listen to some jazz. He laughed painfully, more bloody bubbles.
‘Isn’t life strange, Richard. You can kill me, ja, but you cannot make me change my mind about Stormy Weather.’
I couldn’t say anything. I left.
