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Those who were present at the writers meeting last Wednesday night were treated to a series of quite extraordinary performances.
It was the Savage Club Script Night, and the members were asked to submit scripts of 1000 words to be performed on the night by the Savages themselves. There was a good turn out on the night that was happily bolstered by a visit from a few of our wonderful artists, and the atmosphere felt slightly more electric than usual, more excited.
The long table was littered with sheaves of paper and pint pots, and in a jumble of organised chaos we decided who would read what and which parts we preferred to play. I had presumed we would need half an hour to try the scripts out, but no. The Savages were keener than the gee-gees at this year’s Grand National! We just steamed in.
What followed was nothing short of brilliant. The dazzling writing was only matched by the quality of the reading as script after script was performed with a skill that took me by surprise. Each performance was compelling and convincing, and the readers squeezed every last nuance from scripts they had only seen for the first time moments earlier.
In those few short hours there was fear, laughter, sadness, excitement and even a bit of sex! Aside from it being a brilliant display of our small group’s great talent, it was a first class entertainment.
It also gave me food for thought.
I realised that as a writer it is very difficult, perhaps even impossible, to be objective about our own writing. Our view can be skewed by the knowledge of the effort that has gone into creating a piece, perhaps causing us to be rather precious about our work, or sometimes, because we know how a piece was constructed – how it ticks, so to speak – we don’t really recognise the piece’s true worth. As such, when we read our own work out in the meetings we are doing so with that weight of knowledge on our shoulders, presenting something that we might perceive as being too fragile, too precious, not good enough, perhaps even amateurish.
Last Wednesday’s meeting blew all these thoughts out of the water.
The unbiased delivery of the scripts by impartial readers gave the work an incredible freshness and vitality, allowing us to be objective about our own writing at last.
As such, I can honestly say that every single script was first rate, of a quality I would gladly pay to see on a stage. In my opinion, these performances allowed us to recognise our writing’s true qualities and future potential, while also shedding new light on the work of our fellow members, offering a fresh perspective that a writer might not be able put into his or her own work by reading it out themselves.
This isn’t the last we’ll see of Savage Scripts on a Wednesday night – I hope they will become a regular feature on our writing calendar. Well done everyone!

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On the 17th of March around 18 Savages descended on the bar of The Pack Horse in Leeds to celebrate the first ever Savage Club HOOT! The Hoot is an irregular meeting of both facets of the Savage Club (artists and writers) with the aim of  sharing knowledge about local arts events, competitions, performances and exhibitions. It’s also a great excuse for a cracking bunch of like minded individuals to get together with the aim of guzzling curry and quaffing beer!
We left the pub and strolled across town in the unusually balmy Spring evening air, meandering over roads without looking to left or right, taking wrong turns and following people who didn’t know where they were going!
How we got to the Aagrah restaurant without losing anyone I’ll never know, but there was a warm welcome and a huge table awaiting us. Drinks orders were taken between stories and banter, food orders were delivered between hilariously phallic foliage, and damn fine the food was too. During dinner we passed around pictures for the next writer’s meet, photographs taken by Daniel Meadows during the 1970′s showing ordinary folk in Northern towns. The resulting stories were interesting to say the least!
I can’t say how much constructive Savage ‘networking’ was accomplished during the HOOT, but I’ve come to the conclusion that it doesn’t really matter. It was a fantastic evening with some really lovely people, and I’m already looking forward to the next one.

Keep your peepers peeled for notifications for the next HOOT, on this website, on Facebook and on Twitter!

Continue reading »]]> Last month we had a very good turn out at our monthly drawing session, the Sozzled Sketch. The theme was computer/video games which included us drawing Resident Evil in which Sonic had got lost in, what Mario would look like if he ate a Power Up of your choosing, and creating pixel characters of ourselves!

We played some great games including picking random words out of tubs to create interesting titles of games…like Rockin’ Sniper Cronicles….which created some very interest game covers!  To see more pics from the night and past events, please go to our FB page http://www.facebook.com/LeedsSavage

If you like what you see, come along to our next event on the 10th April, theme to be confirmed

More details can be found under the Sozzled Sketch tab, or you can join or Facebook page

Continue reading »]]> In the weeks leading up to December, the Harrogate Advertiser and the Friends of Harrogate Library (FOHL) ran a

Happy to be selected by FOHL

ghost story competition. The brief was to write a ghostly tale, preferably set in Yorkshire, with an 800 word limit.

Two members of the Savages writers’ group submitted entries, and both made it into the top ten – Greg Webster with ‘Undesirable Patron‘ and Peter Etherington with ‘Cold as Ice‘. The competition was judged by Harrogate authors Bernie Crosthwaite and Ruth Elwin Harris, FOHL’s Gill Callaghan and the Advertiser‘s chief reporter, Vicky Carr.

Both writers were invited to the Friends’ Christmas social on Thursday 8th December in Harrogate Library, where all ten shortlisted stories were read out to an audience. The variety of submissions was fantastic, ranging from a Roman soldier perpetually looking for his olive grove, to ghostly children returning to help loved ones. Some were funny, some were genuinely chilling, and all were read out superbly by the library staff.

Peter’s ‘Cold as Ice’ was printed in the 9th December edition of the Advertiser as one of the top three stories.

Continue reading »]]> Over the month of  December, a few of us drew a picture a day for advent….with some very cool results! From David Bowie to The Grinch…from Santa to a robin! If you’d like to see all the pics, please go to our Facebook Sozzled Sketch page http://www.facebook.com/groups/235752913126162/ Hope you all had a fabulous Christmas, and wishing you all a great New Year!

Please check out our Sozzled Sketch page for future meets, and don’t forget we are running a sketch at the end of this month too! Hope to see you at one of them

advent sozzled sketch

Continue reading »]]> If you fancy something festive to do please go to our Facebook page and post a pic a day for advent!!

http://www.facebook.com/groups/235752913126162/

If you can’t draw or have no time, just come & see everyone’s efforts  and make a comment or two.

If you’re a writer, join in with some seasonal scribblings to inspire us sketchers to keep the calendar going!

Continue reading »]]> This is a twisting tale by savage writer GJ Webster.  The topic was picked out of a pile of  writer’s ideas at a September savage meeting.   Check out Forum pages on this site for other savage writers’ topics or if you want to get an idea of how an antipodean brain works,  http://grailnotes.blogspot.com/ .  

The newspapers said he was the epitome of evil

BROCK MELES. 

The day had been warm and the laughter, shouts and obscenities echoing from the day-trippers had died off as the sun dipped below the harvested hills. An occasional clank of boat life drifted down the embankment along with cooking smells wafting on the autumn breeze.
In the fading light Brock shuffled down the burrow to the mouth of the sett to place his chin on the ground.

Feeling for vibrations through his whiskers he determined there were no more walkers on the towpath now. Out of habit born from caution he lifted his nose to sense what else was happening nearby.    There was the oily smell of the floating metal things nearby, a vixen and her kittens were on the prowl on the other side of the water. The beasts that fouled the meadow were all at the far end of the field. As he crouched beneath the brambles tonight he could still faintly smell the old scent of his father who had carved this home and left his marks. Catching his nose too, was a wisp from the marshland bog that had grown nearby and now attracted frogs and newts. The bog was a doubtful legacy of Bardo’s foolishness.

Although the growth of the bog worried Brock, it may encourage Millie and Lizzy to bring on their next lot of cubs. This had been a dry season and until the bog formed there had been little food nearby. Now there were worms and frogs aplenty and the berry bushes were providing good crop. More food meant more cubs and more cubs are a reason to dig a further den in the set.  Brock was worried about digging here, his father had taught him caution, never to dig too high in the embankment.
Subconsciously Brock licked at his wound and recalled the recent night when Bardo had returned to the set, smelling of clay.
Brock had guessed there was treachery afoot and went out that night looking for the site of Bardo’s industry. He found it not far away, Bardo had started a new burrow up the embankment where the loose soil was quick easy work . It was the confirmation Brock needed,  Bardo did want to steal Millie and Lizzy and den their new cubs.
This could never happen.
Bardo’s burrow was small but Brock’s fears were confirmed. He found Bardo had dug right up to the clay and water had begun to seep through. This was what Brock’s father had warned him about and Brock quickly began to back-fill the burrow and retreat to the entry intending to collapse it , scent mark the area, and to teach Bardo, once and for all time, who was head badger.
Bardo however had had other ideas, and following Brock out that night, had crept up and attacked from behind.  The young Bardo was no match for Brock’s 12 kilos and 5 years of fighting skill.  By launching the surprise attack though Bardo managed to tear a strip of flesh from Brock’s shoulder and rip open the sinew of his ear, but Brock was already angry and  was merciless enough to guarantee Bardo never returned to the sett again.

     A gentle movement now behind Brock broke into his victory reminiscences. With a final check of the air he grunted and let Millie and Lizzy past so they could forage, nosing both of them to check their condition.
He watched as they disappeared into the freshly turned field looking for fresh morsels.
Tonight Brock had decided to take the cubs to the new marsh and teach them how to catch some tasty frogs. With a growl he summonsed the cubs to the entrance and made them wait.  Smelling the air and feeling for movement through the earth Brock moved away to ensure the route to the marsh was safe. Other than the acrid smells from the distant village Brock was satisfied they were alone and with a soft grunt he called the cubs to him. With nips and squeals, tumbles and trips the cubs attacked the marshland with enough noise and vibration to scare everything but the slowest of worms into deep cover.
This frog catching lesson was going to take some time.

Brock flattened some reeds down for the cubs to start hunting. They jumped in with glee more at the prospect of the hunt than to stave off hunger as they were still being fed on milk and pre-chewed food.    
Despite all the fighting and digging going on at that moment Brock detected a worrying vibration and lifted his head to take a breath. He stood still and took another.  Yes,  the confirmation was there, that rancid grease and stale flesh smell, wafting around from a position up-wind. He had no idea how close they were and let out a low warning grumble. The cubs dropped to the ground and Millie and Lizzy arrived silently to huddle them all into a tight group. Brock stood tall and again smelt the air.
The sense was closer now although the vibrations had stopped.
He gave a bark to action.
Millie led the way and Lizzy herded the stragglers quickly back to the sett.
Brock followed, checking constantly.
He dashed through the fence as the ground vibrated from the hunter’s footfalls. Simultaneously the branches overhead splintered and the ground in front of him erupted in a spray of soil. A thud sounded and more twigs splintered, a sharp searing pain burnt into his flank and another boom filled the air. Brock dived down the mouth of the sett making sure the others were all deep inside. Immediately he twisted around to bite at the burning hole in his side and with his teeth he grabbed at and bit out a small hard thing. The burning subsided and with his whiskers brushing the wall of the burrow he felt the hunter’s foot vibrations approaching over the field outside.

Peter watched the quarry disappear into the brambles and laughed at Henry,  “Ya missed ‘im ya daft bugger!”
“ I hit ‘im but wi’ owt but rabbit shot.  Tha said nowt ‘bout badgers.”
“ Aw shit!” Fred swore as he sunk into the marsh.  “Fook the badgers, ‘Enry, t’ whole bloody canal’s goin’ t’  burst!”
                                         ~ ~~~~~~~~~~ ~

The repairs to the embankment took six months and the badger protection group lost their battle to prevent baiting. Hopefully, what with all the protesters picketing about Tuberculosis, the smelly, noisy machinery bought in to dam the canal and the workers sent to re-build the embankment, I really hope Brock and the girls moved out long before the baits were laid. I doubt Brock’s kind will ever again live around Gargrave since the newspapers said he was the epitome of evil, spreading disease and threatening to flood the village.

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In August we told you about a play written by Savage Peter Etherington. It had been selected for performance in GI60‘s One Minute Play Festival, an annual event held jointly by the Viaduct Theatre, Dean Clough, Halifax and Brooklyn College, New York.

GI60 is organised by Screaming Media. Each year they put on two sets of fifty plays in one night across the two venues, each play lasting just sixty seconds. It’s an opportunity for writers to send their work in and stand a good chance of having it staged.

All 100 plays performed at Halifax and Brooklyn for 2011 are now available on YouTube. There’s an incredible mix of styles ranging including comedy, dance, drama and musical. View them all at the GI60 Youtube Channel.

Here’s Peter’s play, Fork.

Continue reading »]]> This is a short story by Savage member GH MacDonald.  It was written for a recent Writers’ Meet where the task was ‘The Sky at Night’.  You can see lots more responses to this and other tasks on the Forum on this site.  Also check out ghmacdonald.co.uk.

Closure

It has been the most perfect day imaginable.  After years of stifling gloom the world finally seems to have turned a corner, the official end of the economic crisis coinciding with the troops finally leaving Afghanistan.  That this global moment of hope and change has also coincided with many moments of personal happiness in people I know only adds to the sweetness.  Jane has finally found a new partner after years of loneliness.  Tom and Karon have given birth to their first.  James has finally walked out on his dead end job to start a new career and a new life.  All of Britain has basked in a late summer glow, warm breezes calming commuters, golden sunlight filtering through the treetops and telephone cables from Tottenham to Aberdeen.

And to cap it all now this sunset, the greatest anyone can remember seeing. We leave our homes, curious at the rich red light pouring through the windows as evening descends.  Streams of people take to the streets, climb the hillsides to watch the phenomena.  A giant boiling red sun, spreading its fingers across streamers of clouds in a blazing canopy of colour.  We nod and smile to each other as we climb the hill behind our village to look at the spectacle.  This is a once in a lifetime moment, like the end of the war.  A young lad holds out his hand to help an elderly lady over a rough bit of path and they keep holding hands as they ascend, with the rest of us, for a better vantage point.  No one speaks, everyone is choked with emotion.  Some of us sob quietly to ourselves, letting the tears run freely down our face, overcome with joy.

The sun sinks towards the dark horizon and metaphors, personal and political, stream from it.  I feel meaning and moment in this sunset.  It has been a tough time for us all but now things will be better.  I get the sense that the hundreds, thousands of people around me on the hillside feel the same thing.  For once we have put aside our cares and are able to simply watch a glorious sunset together as the community of humanity.

We watch the sun, half gone now, sinking quickly, then in a final blaze of colour it slips out of sight, leaving a perfect dark blue sky, tinged with its passing.  High in the sky the first stars are out, pure and twinkling.

Then, in a language no one has ever seen before, writing begins to rise from behind the horizon.  Vast letters written across the sky, scrolling upwards in horizontal lines.

We are lost, looking at this strange ancient poetry as it ascends, line after line, to the heavens.  People begin to look at each other to slyly check if everyone else can see this, incredulous smiles on their tear streaked faces.

Then some people give audible cries and start singing hymns, some shouting to the masses of people on the hillside that it is the word of God.

As I look at the script scrolling upwards from behind the horizon I feel a gnawing unease.  All around me people are hugging.  Some are on their knees with their arms outstretched to the heavens, or clasped before them in prayer.  I look at the words.  They remind me of something, something very familiar.  Then I have it.

End credits.

I push my way through the delirious crowd, down the hill to the empty streets and run to my house.  Turning on the television I see that the words are being seen all over the world, always rising from behind the horizon.  There are scenes of rejoicing but also discussion as to their meaning.  They are not hebrew, sanskrit, but some other ancient, alien language.  Then someone else says the words ‘credits’ and I feel a pang of horror in my gut.

I look out of the window at the night sky and see the words still rising from behind the houses opposite mine on the cul-de-sac.  I realise that the world is ending.  As soon as the last words pass from the horizon to the sky it will all be over.

Others across the world are experiencing the same revelation.  There are riots in New York, cars are on fire in London.  People are stripping naked and running through the streets in Paris.  Fights are breaking out between religious gangs who see this as the End of Days, and the broad mass of people are simply scared out of their minds.  Many are just hugging each other, their sobs of joy turning to clinging terror as the pitiless words rise inexorably to their conclusion.

I think about my friends, my family, the people that have shaped me and supported me, and I wish they could be here now so I could tell them what they already know, that I’m sorry for anything I’ve done that hurt them and that I love them.

Finally two words alone in the dark rise up through the night sky.  Two short words in a mysterious language, but everyone knows what they mean.  There is nothing following them.  A silence falls over the world, a sense of expectation and dread as these last words rise into the darkness.  People squint, desperate to keep them in sight.  Whilst they can be seen the world will continue, but they rise inevitably into the darkness and finally they disapp…

 
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ghmacdonald.co.uk

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thumberlina sketches

This month’s Sozzled Sketch took us into the world of fairy tales…Thumbelina took a trip to WeBuyAnyBug.com  (see everyones sketches) We met the 3 little pig’s cousins & their houses made of jelly, sweets & lego & we had a go at illustrating our very own short story! See our other creations on our Sozzled Sketch page http://www.facebook.com/groups/235752913126162/