HWC AGM 2025

How quickly our writing year is up and running again! Our Annual General Meeting enjoyed not only many positive reports from its Committee, but also a number of exciting plans and adaptations for the coming year ahead. All thanks to everyone who brainstormed ideas during our summer blue-sky-meeting.

We are delighted that the following Committee Members have been re-appointed.

Chairperson – Corinne Harris

Treasurer – Nick Thomas

Competition Secretary – Margaret Blake

Social Media & Website Manager – Emma van Woerkom

A new appointment this year for the position of Secretary. We are happy to confirm that Michelle Pearce has kindly accepted this busy undertaking. Welcome aboard Michelle!

Bon Voyage!

It’s never goodbye from the Hay Writers’ Circle, just a “bon voyage” for the continuing journey of life. We understand that as writers develop and move away from Hay, they cannot always stay with our group, and so this year the following members have left our intimate circle for pastures further afield.
We thank them for their many years with us, plus the words and publications they have shared and we have loved. We all wish them the very best for the future, with resounding chants of good luck – ádh mór – guid luck! May their wonderful writings find large happy audiences, and willing rich publishers!

Richard Booth Prize 2025 – 3rd Place – Val Ormod

We are delighted to showcase the 3rd place entry of our most recent competition, The Richard Booth Prize for Non Fiction 2025. Val Ormrod is no stranger to this competition attaining 2nd place in 2024. She is back on the podium this year with her entry, “Knives”, achieving a well deserved third place.

Many congratulations Val for another stand-out piece of writing.

Knives

The morning shrieks awake. My body is the centre of the shrieking. I try a small movement and pain stabs my spine like a hot skewer. I need to empty my bladder and attempt to climb out of bed. Pain reclaims me, spins me in its jaws. A cry escapes my mouth, unbidden, refusing to be controlled. Defeated, I fall back to bed. I lie still, commanding my brain to bypass the pain. The ache in my bladder increases. I drift in and out of razor-lined sleep.

A slight breeze fidgets the curtains; a knife edge of sunlight chinks through the fabric, stabbing me into consciousness. The bladder keeps insisting too. Now it is impossible to ignore. I force myself to move. I ease one leg out of bed, force the scream back down my throat as I slide my body towards the edge, lower myself onto hands and knees. Each small movement is punctuated by gasps. Scorpions travel my leg. The cries leak out involuntarily.

I begin the marathon journey to the bathroom. From this close-up focus I observe every black speck on the carpet, every hair showing itself against the cream pile. I make myself concentrate, count every imperfection as I crawl with tortuous slowness, then study every tiny mark on the bathroom tiles until the white base of the loo looms in front of me. I grasp the side of the bath to pull myself up until I hover over the seat. Sitting is impossible but I manage to aim in the right direction. The relief is temporary: one pain quickly replaced by the other pain – the fireworks sparking in every nerve ending. I reverse the journey, my yelps piercing the room like the high-pitched cry of birds. What seems a lifetime later, I have hauled myself back into bed and lie exhausted.

I resign myself to another day inhabited by pain. It drags me down, any movement piercing my body like daggers. I struggle to do anything, move anywhere beyond this room. Seconds are leached from my minutes, minutes from my hours, and hours from my days. Life carries on around me while my own wasted days drain to despair. I vow to get through them somehow and get back to living.

At last, the day I have been waiting for arrives. I am wheeled on a trolley to a room of knives. I study the scalpels, the steel instruments that glint with menace, the syringes and tubes, the masks, the smell of chlorine and antiseptic. The deliverance man sharpens his weapons. Upside down faces hover above me. Mouths stretch taut over white teeth, my arm is stroked, soft as a cat. The one with the needle smiles and smiles and I silently urge him to hurry. The poison leaks into my blood. Smiles blur, voices recede, Picasso faces dissolve into mist. The tongues of fire grow quiet as I race to the end of the rainbow where there is no more pain.

I wake in a morphine maze of morning, my face drained and pale as chalk. The day hobbles by in grey flashes. Cocooned by night I surf the hours till dawn. This time a new morning light swallows the grey; the paintbox returns, colour unfurls. Blood red streaks melt to amber, to gold. Bright sun fills my world.

In that room of knives, a modern miracle has been performed. I pick up my bed and walk.

There are still a few places left at our Poetry Workshop on 21st October with Gareth Writer-Davies.

Please book your tickets via eventbrite
CLICK HERE FOR TICKETS

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