Here are two stories from our members.

Trick or Treat - Derek Coleman There was no getting away from it; Stuart was mean. Not nasty mean, although he could be tight-fisted mean. He was also very wealthy but if he could avoid spending a penny, he would. That was why, on Halloween, his long-suffering wife, Margie, expected a fight when she told him that she wanted to give sweets away to the local kids.    She didn’t get one. Stuart merely grunted that he didn’t believe in Halloween and that the kids should be locked up for blackmailing taxpayers. Margie was surprised at his reaction; she expected to hear far more venom. She asked him if he was okay but Stuart just shrugged and said that he was fine. He didn’t care what she did because he had a business meeting and would be out anyway.    What he neglected to say was that his meeting involved a brief visit to an amateur art exhibition with his long-legged secretary followed by an intimate dinner for two. Stuart was confident that he would not be back till morning but he did not tell Margie that.    When it came to art, Stuart knew what he was talking about. He owned his own gallery and had a reputation as a hard dealer who could spot new talent that others might miss. He never kept his artists long, he screwed too much out of them for them to stay, but he could find them. Tonight’s soirée was an amateur show put on by the members of a local night school class and was being held in a couple of rooms adjacent to the local library. The moment he walked in Stuart’s heart sank. He had been hoping to find someone with talent here but one look around at the daubs adorning the walls showed him that these really were amateurs.    Even the free glass of wine he received at the door lacked any finesse and he wrinkled his nose in disgust after the first sip.    ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s get out of here.’    ‘Oh,’ Lynette, his secretary pouted. ‘Some of these look really pretty. Can’t I just have one tiny look around in case there’s something I like?’    Stuart grimaced, Lynette’s idea of ‘really pretty’ meant that he was expected to buy her some awful canvas that should be consigned to the rubbish bin. It would be a waste of money but one look at those sexy green eyes was enough to tell him that it was going to be worth every penny.    ‘Okay,’ he sighed. ‘But don’t expect me to come round with you, just pick the one you want and let’s get out of here.’ Lynette beamed and kissed his cheek. ‘Thanks, Stu,’ she said.    ‘And take this rubbish with you,’ Stuart told her, handing her his glass of wine.    Lynette clicked off in her high heels and after admiring the sway of her hips as she walked away he turned back to the monstrosities hanging on the wall. They really were bad; some of the artists could barely draw. Shaking his head, he wandered into the second room and gave the paintings there a cursory glance. He was about to turn away and dismiss them when one caught his eye.    It was not a spectacular subject, just a country scene. It showed an ancient looking cottage with white walls and thatched roof sitting alongside a lane that was lined by oak trees. It was not even very big, but among such garbage it shone out with a depth and vibrancy that grabbed his attention and held it.    Striding over Stuart looked at it closely. The detail was amazing and just for a second he wondered if he was looking at a photograph, but then he saw the delicate brushwork. It was superb, worthy of any of the masters.    The colours held warmth and a depth that truly reflected nature. Stuart knew instantly that he had found his next great talent. Pinned alongside each painting was a small card bearing the title of the picture, the artist’s details and a price. This one was called ‘The Witch’s Cottage’. Instead of details though it just bore the name ‘Annie’ and a note saying that it was not for sale. Stuart grimaced. Most of the paintings were priced between thirty and fifty pounds and he knew that he could get a least fifty times that for this one. He looked around, there was only one other person in the room. She was a short, pretty, blonde woman of about thirty-five.    ‘Hey,’ Stuart called to her, ‘are you anything to do with the people who did these?’    The girl frowned; ‘Yes’ she replied, ‘I’m a member of the group. Is there something I can help you with?’    ‘I want to buy this picture’ Stuart told her, gesturing at the painting. The girl leaned forward to look at it, frowned again and shook her head.    ‘I’m sorry, that’s Annie’s,’ she told him, ‘she’s very old and she never sells her stuff.’    ‘Oh, come on,’ Stuart protested. ‘Let me talk to her, I’ll treat the old girl, give her two hundred quid for it.’ He reached for his wallet but the girl was shaking her head again.    ‘Sorry, she’s not here,’ she said and then she smiled; ‘she told us an old witch like her had better things to do on Halloween.’    Stuart gave a sigh of exasperation. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Thanks anyway.’ ‘You’re welcome,’ the girl replied, turning away. Stuart’s brow furrowed and he stared at the painting once more. It really was excellent. It was almost as if there was a breeze stirring the leaves of the trees and a wisp of smoke eddying from the chimney. He took a small magnifying glass from his pocket and leaned closer. The detail was magnificent. There were no people but the cottage looked so real, it was almost as if he could reach out and touch it. One of the curtains even twitched as he looked at it. Stuart jerked back. He grinned and shook his head. It was so good that he had imagined something in the painting had moved. He had to have it. He looked round. For the moment he was alone in the room. Okay, he decided, if he could not treat the old woman, he would trick her. It was Halloween after all. There was no one around. The picture was small and would easily fit under a folded topcoat. Slipping his coat off, Stuart stepped forward and reached up to unhook the painting. Lynette came looking for him ten minutes later. She could not see any sign of him except for his topcoat lying on the floor. As she bent to pick it up her eyes came close to a small painting hanging above it. It was a country scene, with trees and a cottage. At one of the windows of the cottage was what appeared to be a screaming face.

The Dancer - Joan Johnson    The plaintive notes of the panpipes skirled up through the thin air to where the condor wheeled in icy vigil. Her skin burnished by the sun and wind of the high plains. Paquita, distaff and spindle in hand, followed the pack of llamas as they picked their way along the boulder-strewn track toward the valley.    As she walked, spinning the alpaca wool plucked during the summer, into the finest of threads, she sang. Her song was old, even before the bearded men had brought the Blessed Virgin and new songs to her valley.    Autumn had driven the flocks down from the highlands and now it was time to give thanks to Our Lady of Mercy for a good and fruitful year of dancing before her shrine. Paquita hurried down to join them. As the more strident tones of the rontando and charango began to weave a melody in counterpoint with the panpipes, the women moved tentatively into the pattern of long-remembered steps. Slowly, as the rhythm was augmented by the rasping beat of the rain-stick and the insistent beat of the bomba, the dance began to quicken. Black and scarlet skirts whirled above the ochre dust clouding up as their feet moved ever faster and faster and the women danced their gratitude. The music slid away into silence. Paquita smiled, for the Blessed Virgin must be well pleased with such a dance.    The north wind flung a spatter of hail against the window of a cramped, fire-lit room. Paquita had gone, but the old woman was still smiling when at last, she opened her eyes and leaned forward to turn off the tape. ‘That,’ she said appreciatively, to the cat curled on her lap, ‘was splendid. I enjoyed that even more than the czardas in Hungary last week. But next time it would be nice to go to Versailles for a gavotte or minuet.’    The cat yawned and stretched, she was quite happy to stay where she was.

These stories are extracted from our current anthology “A decade of writing 1997—2007 ”.

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