tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38557447202629382552011-12-07T03:22:36.230ZThe Butchers Writers Group was founded in late 2004 at The Butchers Hook and Cleaver, West Smithfield and meets monthly. Current members are Tom Scruton, Tristan Rogers, Kate Smurthwaite, Benedict Sheth, Sam Mills and David Mulholland.Cruellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03446805038957924958noreply@blogger.comBlogger151100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855744720262938255.post-6398715298022807742007-01-28T17:09:00.000Z2007-01-28T17:11:00.736Z

If you are wondering – I killed a woman. It was wrong and I accept that and the punishment which goes with it. She will never again experience the thrill of life. And I may not, but I am allowed to hope. What I long for is not a particular face or voice, arms that have waited all these years for me. I know that no such thing is possible. I crave instead the bustle of public transports,

Cruellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03446805038957924958noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855744720262938255.post-19875701348615105542006-12-21T12:53:00.000Z2006-12-24T01:32:04.669Z

By David MulhollandThe find was important, nearly as important as the Dead Sea Scrolls, and for Greek scholars, such as myself, it was much more important, since the language is primarily Greek. The new find, you probably heard about it several months back, was in the papers. The cache of scrolls that was found in Turkey by a shepherd? Why is it always shepherds?For me, it has been wonderful. I

The Yank Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10497122867373379246noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855744720262938255.post-28002551997289052202006-12-19T18:09:00.000Z2006-12-19T18:16:25.765Z

This secret-space, between theBeams across the lights belowAnd birds' nests, roof-tiles, stars:Monsters stalk the insulating foam.Maps, spread out like a jigsawIn chaotic non-tesselation,A tucked-away means ofStoring mental rations.How to make the whole world newWhen tracks revolve like volesIn wheels that thieves keepTo slither back with keys?Lakes pour into other lakes,Roads caress each other's

Tristan Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14343260164807738376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855744720262938255.post-83853841826507423352006-12-18T13:14:00.000Z2006-12-24T01:30:36.957Z

“A map is a simplified depiction of a space, a navigational aid which highlights relations between objects within that space.” Wikipedia.orgANGIE That was it! That was the turning.KEV What that little dirt track down there?ANGIE It wasn’t a dirt track, it was a road.KEV Too late now, is there another turning?ANGIE Lets see, err, nope. So I guess that’s it then. We’ll just have to spend Christmas

Cruellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03446805038957924958noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855744720262938255.post-72985634428505450952006-09-30T15:05:00.000Z2006-12-21T15:14:14.659Z

The End of the Sweet LifePeter searched through the category list on eBay’s ‘Sell your Stuff’ page to find the right one for their three piece suite. Or rather, he corrected himself, his suite, since he was quite sure that he had paid for it with some money his parents had given him in lieu of a present, to help the couple establish a household. Now that married life was coming to an end, the

Ben Shethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02174094050872185457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855744720262938255.post-22843413978663300522006-08-21T14:53:00.000Z2006-12-21T15:12:38.567Z

With what delight could I have walked thee round,If I could joy in aught, sweet interchangeOf hill, and valley, rivers, woods and plains,Now land, now sea, and shores with forest crowned,Rocks, dens, and caves; but I in none of these Find place or refuge; and the more I see Pleasures about me, so much more I feelTorment within me, as from the hateful siege Of contraries… (PL, IX 114-122)Karel and

Ben Shethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02174094050872185457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855744720262938255.post-64081587530465953072006-04-08T18:43:00.000Z2006-12-26T18:44:37.952Z

Queen Bee Our eyes first met across an array of specimen jars. Part of the furniture in the evolutionary biology labs – every available surface seemed to be filled with tightly packed jars. Each one was filled with it’s own feotus-like life form, preserved in gooey brown gunk. She was mousy to the point that there had to be more to her. No-one would dress that frumpily unless they really

Cruellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03446805038957924958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855744720262938255.post-56358857059713546192006-01-21T14:47:00.000Z2006-12-21T15:13:46.095Z

Saline Sodom“Bugger!” said God, as he looked down from his cloud upon the smoking ruin of Sodom, which he had just condemned to destruction with armfuls of burning sulphur. He changed his exclamation to “Fiddlesticks!” when he spotted one angel blush with embarrassment and another smirk at the irony of the remark. “I really didn’t want to do that. But they left me no choice. I’d given so many

Ben Shethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02174094050872185457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855744720262938255.post-76658135561919073072006-01-20T13:35:00.000Z2006-12-24T01:31:05.035Z

Death of a (Good) SalesmanOne of those days I suppose I should sayPride first, then the fallUp one minute, down the nextOr to better explain it all:This morning I get the trophy: best sales record this yearAnother one for the shelvesI don’t need trophies for the gadgets we sellI always say: They sell themselvesI’m not like the other sales guys thoughTrying to make ends meet like every other

Cruellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03446805038957924958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855744720262938255.post-20285899312948095462005-10-28T18:35:00.000Z2006-12-26T18:36:38.100Z

“You can never go home again, but the truth is you can never leave home, so it's all right.” Maya Angelou “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, They have to take you in.” Robert Frost, The Death of the Hired Man “There is nothing like staying at home for real comfort.” Jane Austen There’s no escaping “home” I have to go there And I’m supposed to like it Him and his

Cruellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03446805038957924958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855744720262938255.post-76715702948046441272005-10-08T13:51:00.000Z2006-12-24T01:31:21.051Z

The Litter-PickerI hate the summer beachThey won’t let you wear trousersYou have to make the most of the weatherAnd so your jeans don’t get wet when you go paddling.Then they stare at meBecause I don’t look like themThere’s nowhere to hide thingsIn the little bag of navy lycra that’s all you can wear.If I want to go in the seaI have to wear big orange armbandsAs if I didn’t have enough funny

Cruellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03446805038957924958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855744720262938255.post-5744639158568046322005-10-07T15:03:00.000Z2006-12-21T15:16:04.149Z

A Holy DayThe grass was browning around the edges, and the buildings of the oldest quadrangle in the school seemed to be groaning in the heat. The dull glaze of the stone seemed to be suffering in the intensity of their re-baking. Their shimmer seemed to be a silent scream, the occasional cracking of bone-dry twigs the wretched climax of a torture session perpetrated by the climate on the ancient

Ben Shethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02174094050872185457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855744720262938255.post-58247285692564323012005-09-21T14:57:00.000Z2006-12-21T15:15:12.674Z

The Six Fifty-Seven; 21 July 2005An inescapable feeling of unease pervaded the air, as it had done for the past few months whenever Venkatesh Subramnian got on the train. He was dressed in standard business attire, though his respectable-looking soft work-bag had perhaps too big a bulge in it for the peace of mind of all aboard. It was full of slides of malignant brain tumours which he would that

Ben Shethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02174094050872185457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855744720262938255.post-54542463506050181482005-07-21T14:54:00.000Z2006-12-21T15:13:20.555Z

The Whole TruthDear Reader, there can be nothing higher to which we may aspire than the truth. Few of us reach it, but even the attempt is noble. It justifies our actions; adds moral lustre to our mundane pursuits. Hearken, then, to a fable, and tell me wherein the truth lies. It was a sunny day. The light bounded ecstatically through the faded, peeling window frames of the Church Hall. Sunday,

Ben Shethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02174094050872185457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855744720262938255.post-78480032035121907622005-07-16T13:42:00.000Z2006-12-24T01:31:40.064Z

CheatingIn my early twenties despite, or perhaps as a result of being a well-educated woman with a good job and all the customary trimmings I was frequently temped to be violent. Sometimes I was. It felt so good to land a punch, smack, in an eye-socket and see the surprise, the fear and the pain in the reeling face, to feel the hatred flowing out of me and the power in through my sore knuckles.

Cruellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03446805038957924958noreply@blogger.com0