Write Away

The announcement was made on a Friday evening, which Lucy thought was particularly short-sighted since no one would be able to make any changes over the weekend anyway.   Why not just wait until Monday?   When the announcement was made, Lucy had been out walking so her husband informed her when she got home.   “At least the weather is still on our side”, he’d said optimistically.   Lucy had only nodded as she pulled off her fatigued walking boots and dusted the stray pine needles from her jumper.   “I didn’t see anyone in the forest today”, she added. That evening, she had changed into her favourite comfy trousers and sat with her husband in front of the fire.   “What are you reading?”. “Diary of a plague year”, she had giggled. The next announcement followed on Tuesday, which Lucy half-cursorily noticed before returning her focus to the tired late afternoon sunshine reflecting off the mirror.   Her gaze drifted to her resting wal...

Yvonne was quietly spoken.   It was hard to tell if she had always been that way or if her ten years in a library had somehow forced her voice into retreat.   From the other side of the desk, I could see her twiddling the chain of the glasses hung around her neck and biting her lip and she flitted through the pages of the catalogue that lay in front of her.   Her powder pink cardigan betrayed no sign of age although I know it had been worn every week for as long as I could remember.    As a man approached the service counter, Yvonne seemed to shrink somehow; her body becoming smaller.   She walked silently over to the desk and lifted her head to the man, but not her eyes. “Would you recommend this book?” Avoiding his gaze, she glanced at the front cover and smiled to herself.   The man didn’t seem to notice.   “Absolutely sir.   I believe it has been very well received.” Satisfied, he nodded, took the book from the counter and tur...

He is not tall.   His thick grey hair, once blonde, shows no sign of receding and although the colour has changed, he styles it in the same way he has for years. He still maintains that his mother gave him the best haircuts.   His eyes are bright blue, the wrinkles that surround them a testament to the years of pleasure and happiness he has enjoyed.   He has a deep dimple on one cheek, which sits determinedly there even when he is not smiling.   He wears his clothes well; well-fitting and well looked after.   He looks out over the lecturn at the students and wonders, as he does every year, how they could be so young.   As he unpacks his briefcase and prepares to begin, that familiar feeling of nervous excitement rushes through him.   He now thrives on it although it has taken him a long time to realise the difference between fear and anticipation. The lecture hall din turns to a subdued hush as he begins to speak.   His voice is clear an...