A preview of our cover...

The design goes all around the book, past the spine onto the back cover...

Update - It won't be long...

It's been a long, old process, editing and producing the book  but we are almost there...as soon as the cover has been finalised and finessed sometime this week, I will post it.
It is a great cover.

The launches of the book are all scheduled for one week in October:
26th October, Watton
27th October, Gorleston
28th October, Swaffham

all at 6.30 start (but feel free to come earlier and if you are reading please be there at 6 pm).

I think the launches should be happy, informal affairs and anyone who wants to read their work, please get in touch with me...Words and Women have a tradition of short readings - so nothing above 5 minutes. Invite your friends and families! There will be an invitation that can be sent out - that too, is in production.

I hope you have all had a wonderful summer and that your groups have met or are in this good old month - I will be in touch to schedule your masterclasses soon - poet Julia Webb is going to take you all on a poetic journey, our prose writer is yet to be confirmed.

I hope too, that you are still writing - and if you have takena  summer break, you get pretty busy now the autumn is standing just outside the back door...

Clouds over Norwich Market

A sudden grey sky 

turns noon to dusk.

Rain plunges down,

people swarm

to reach the cover

of brightly painted

striped roofs.

Murmurs and groans

smother the air.

Squawks and wails 

from unhappy tots

pierce through the 

fast, heavy pitter-patter

as water pounds

the metallic canopies.

Herded through a maze

of darkened alleys,

jackets rub

elbows and shoulders. 

Toes kick heels.

Squish, push, 

bump and poke.

Feet shuffle,

side-swiped 

by rolling wheels.

Wet handbags

smack into chests.

Stray droplets, 

from soaked hair 

and saturated hoods,

splash faces.

Aromas of 

chilled brine

pungent copper 

sweet malt 

dewy-botanical 

saccharine citrus 

bitter sulfur 

salt and vinegar,

swirl and waft out 

behind a sea of backs.

Steam rises 

as kettles boil,

bacon sizzles,

sausages spit. 

Scarves and baskets 

hang on hooks 

up high, 

a wicker coffin?  

Could it be?

Search for a pocket 

of space to breathe. 

© Nichola Lovell 

I Am West Runton

I am West Runton

I am the old nag that your father lifted up placing you high on my back, flies buzzing all around.

I am the fossil found by your children, as they wander in and out of my cold wet puddles, with coarse sand sticking to their feet.

I am the cold flint that you turn over to reveal the pattern and smooth bottom of a 2 million year old sea urchin.

I am the cold east wind that blows, lifting the sand and blasting your face, in your eyes, and up your nose.

I am the sea with my waves rushing and crashing onto the shore, retreating with a mouthful of pebbles only to throw them down in the next wave.  

I am the smell of hot chocolate that wafts down my shore, from the café half way up the hill, delivered in white china mugs, to warm your hand. 

I am where you can stand and watch the wind turbines turning slowly in the wind, waves crashing around them circled by gulls.

I am West Runton, I was here long before man walked upon my shores, and I will be here long after man stops walking upon these earthly shores.

Gill Ashton

In My Dream of Absolute

I am in a dream

I am a flame

I see my home

as the lawgiver’s lease

comes to an end.

I am confused

by buds and wild fungi

I can taste the leaves

in the blue arboretum.

I am an imprint…

I can hear his violin

in the baroque grassland

of imitation colours.

I am in a barouche

across the barley fields

under a riot of blue

I can smell summer –

I am with our dingo

I hover in the mirror

of my dream into the absolute -

And I fall.

By ©M.C. Gardner 08-06-2016

A CROWDED SHELF

Oh, that one's my favourite of Bert

Next to him, our youngest child, Eve.

Something to do with her heart -

They did all they could, but

 She went before him.

Tommy now, he was a lad,

Big and strong, and much taller than me,

He went off to learn farming,

And never came home

To Norfolk.

He live s up in Yorkshire now,

Selling animal feed in the Dales,

He’s married with sons of his own,

I don’t like to push,

He’s so busy.

Bert and me on our wedding day,

‘Course no frills, it was war time.

He was my soldier boy, and

 I was his sunshine girl.

Tommy was on the way.

My friend Dot on an outing to Cromer,

Such a wind! It blew up our skirts,

We had ice cream and I broke a heel.

Me and her were really close,

But she’s gone now.

Here’s one of my brother Reg,

Came to me when wife Ivy died,

But he was already quite poorly,

We buried him near Bert,

For the company.

That’s my niece June, lovely girl,

Came over a few months ago.

Said I should get a computer,

To stay in touch – I said June,

In touch with who?

She said, with the world Aunty May,

I said June, that’s a wonderful thing,

But I talk to my pictures each morning,

And what’s more,

They don’t go away.

©Lyn McKinney 20^th July, 2016

Santa

I stormed in through the back door to find my mom in the kitchen.  Steam was rising from boiling pans on the stove.  She bent down to check whatever was in the oven.  Absently, without turning around, she said, “Dinner will be about 10 minutes, go and wash up.”

In a tone that demanded attention, I said, “First, I need to ask you something.”

My mom turned to look at me, as I leaned my kite up against the wall near the door.  

“Uh oh, have you and Gabe had a fight?”

I swung around to meet her gaze.  “No!  Well ... sort of.  We were talking about Santa and he said Santa wasn’t real.  I told him he was, and he told me that everyone in the second grade knew Santa wasn’t real.  And he was laughing at me!” 

My mom made a sort of humming sound, bit her lip as she pulled out a dining chair and turned it to sit down in front of me.  I had a bad feeling, especially when she leaned forward and grabbed one of my hands in hers. 

“Nikki, we’ve been wondering when to tell you, we should have told you before anyone else could, uh, how can I put this ...” 

She took a deep breath and my mouth flew open. 

“Oh my gosh!  Santa Isn’t real?”  The words came out barely a whisper. 

My mom shook her head. “No, I’m sorry, he isn’t.”

“What!  Why say that he is then?  Why are there stories about him, movies and presents and cookies?”

Her arm came up and snaked around my waist and pulled me closer to her. 

“Santa is for little kids, Nik.  You’re growing up and sooner or later you were going to have to be told the truth and I guess today’s the day.”

The shock horror forgotten for the moment, pain and anger welled up inside me. “Why lie in the first place?  Why make kids think that Santa’s real when he’s not?  I don’t understand that!”

“It’s a shock when you find out, I know.  Everyone goes through this.  I believed in Santa when I was little too, but I had to find out, when I was old enough, that he wasn’t real.”

“That’s mean!”  Tears started to fill my eyes, and my throat tightened. 

I couldn’t believe I’d been lied to by my parents and ... well, everyone!

“Oh Nik, you’re growing so fast.  I wish I didn’t have to tell you this.  But, Santa is a way to explain to small children about Christmas and to get them excited about Christmas.  Just because Santa isn’t real, doesn’t mean you stop getting presents.”  Her eyebrows lifted, a soft smile touched her lips and she wiggled my hand as she tried to coax a smile out of me.  

I didn’t feel much like smiling.  I was devastated.  

Then another thought occurred to me.  “Is the tooth fairy real?”

She grimaced, “No, sweetheart, I’m afraid not.” 

“So ... Tinkerbell and ... the forest fairies?”

She shook her head, with a sadness in her eyes.

A shuttering gasp escaped me as tears started to fall down my cheeks.  I stepped back and pulled my hand from my mothers and slunk off to my room.  Feeling bewildered and betrayed by everyone I knew.  I could hear Gabe’s voice echoing in my head, Everyone in the second grade knows that Santa isn’t real, moron!

I was so upset my insides hurt.  No Santa Claus, no Tooth Fairy or Tinkerbell ... what was there left to dream about?

© Nichola Lovell  July 17th 2016