It’s always such a pleasure to begin this recent update with writing from members of Hay Writers’ Circle. This article contains work from both Lily Rose King and Nick Thomas.
Lily Rose King published her first poetry pamphlet, “Sweet Heart” last year. She is currently working on her next pamphlet which is due to be published shortly. Her piece, Small Comforts, attained 3rd place in Hay Writers’ Circle Frances Copping Prize for Fiction 2024.
Small comforts.
On Oxford Street the lights twinkle, illuminating tourists posing on the glistening wet slick of pavement for photos to adorn their Facebook albums, baiting attention from friends and acquaintances collected through the years. Impatient crowds bustle in the midwinter dusk like locusts devastating crops, swarming shops for last-minute gifts, ravaging contents and leaving staff in a constant tidying battle, which they mostly lose. Bright red buses remain locked in conflict with neighbouring black cabs and stubborn cars, fighting for space and reluctantly giving way to the sleuth of pedestrians who display little care for the drivers or passengers they obstruct. The steady fall of cold, grey sleet distorts the scene, almost worthy of a glitter-coated Christmas card, into one of chaos.
Layla is shoved to and fro, eventually giving into the swell of bodies and allowing herself to be carried, like a fish in a stream, until she is spat out into a side alley. With soft-gloved hands, she smooths herself out, tightens her scarf and folds into her faux fur-lined parka a little more, hooks her black purse back over her shoulder, then recalibrates her location in her head. On realising an alternative route to her destination, she begins to pursue her current path, limping slightly on her bad knee.
On passing an intersection back to the main road, a department store strewn ostentatiously with brassy decorations comes into view. Huge, shiny red and gold baubles cascade down the building’s exterior, juxtaposed with garish festive figures looming from the windows – satanic snowmen and rebarbative reindeer. Layla grimaces at a line of children queuing up around the corner to see Santa, wide-eyed with cheeks glowing red from the cold. Turning her face back to the dark pavement Layla inches on, fingers compulsively caressing a small object in the right pocket of her coat.
Eventually, blunt automatic doors open up to the glaring strip lights of the local supermarket. Layla hobbles through and, gently peeling off her gloves, collects a metal basket from the fresh pile stacked by the tobacco counter, mentally recollecting her shopping list. Having long given up on the place stocking genuine traditional foods – she would need to venture further into town for that – she seeks out a bag of giant cous cous and lays it down in the basket, as if tucking a baby into its cot. Hummus, falafel, olive oil, chicken, eggs, dates, are gradually loaded to build a precious cargo of small comforts. As she weaves delicately to the checkout, Layla dreams of how she used to cook from scratch. How she longs to taste the authentic dishes from her homeland. Remembers watching her mother and grandmother moulding maftoul, learning how to make it for her own family, teaching her daughter. How she had hoped to teach her granddaughter, Dalia. How she wishes her arthritis would take a hike.
A bubbly trainee slides the items across the scanner and into a shopping bag, smiling overbearingly and inquiring about Layla’s Christmas plans. When Layla’s stony face remains unchanged and her lips do not part from their solid line, the girl rolls her eyes and starts sharing her own: how she’s going home to her parents’ house in Oxford and can’t wait to play board games and eat copious amounts of cheese with her family, but how she is worried about the drama that might ensue when her sister brings back her inappropriate boyfriend. She pauses only to tell Layla how much money is owed.
After fishing out the right change from her wallet, Layla snaps her handbag shut and tsks. She picks up her load and mutters under her breath as she feels it drag her down towards the ground, like a weight grounding a helium balloon. The worker narrows her eyes and flicks her hair as she turns to serve the next customer, plastering her grin back on and hoping for a more reciprocal conversation.
Heat prickles Layla’s back, both anger and shame swallowing her as she shuffles around on her worn black boots to leave. She doesn’t mean to come across so cruelly, but her patience for ignorance and the ceaselessness of the holiday period has reached its limit.
Nearly half an hour later Layla approaches her flat, her knee on the verge of collapse, her hands red and sore, the burden leaving indentations in her skin. She sighs as the key wobbles in the lock until she manages to slide it in, giving the door a habitual kick so that it springs open and makes way for her to finally step inside.
The plastic grocery bags are dumped on the round, white table and her purse thumps down beside them. Pulling out a chair, she slumps into its weight. Inanimate objects have been the only thing to embrace her for some time now. Her small frame collapses in on itself as her shoulders round forward, palms enclose her leathery face, and she allows her wrinkled eyes to close. She knows no tears will fall today. After seventy-seven days, she has used them all up.
Layla checks her answer machine in case, by some miracle, they have managed to leave her a message. When it beeps stagnantly, she stretches across the table to grasp the television controller, sliding it towards her, succumbing to the desperation of catching a glimpse of them on the news.
After five minutes the red button is pressed wearily to switch the screen off again. Every bombed building resembles her childhood home. Every mangled street could be where they have just walked.
The numbing pain of reality swells from within her chest. Every child she sees on the streets of London reminds her of her beautiful Dalia. Every happy couple, of her beloved son and his wife.
The irony is not beyond her – how the people here are settling down for their cosy, indulgent Christmas. How can they let this happen? How can they sit to eat their turkey dinner with all the trimmings when some people will never see their family again?
When the birthplace of Jesus, who they claim to celebrate, is reduced to nothing but rubble. Where the nativity scene is not one of joy and peace, but fear and destruction.
Layla withdraws from her pocket the small woven bracelet that Dalia had made for her when she last visited. Fondly recalls the child’s toothy grin when she had held it up to her, pointing out the matching one on her wrist. Layla had tried to ask them to move, to get away while they could, but they did not want to leave. Did not want to abandon their home like she had.
Layla groans as she pushes herself to her feet. She eats despite the bulge of nausea in her abdomen that has been gradually growing for the last few weeks. She manages half a falafel before giving up and distributing her purchases into their relevant storage compartments.
When there is nothing left to do but go to bed, Layla drags herself into the bathroom, brushes her teeth and washes her face. She stares into the mirror and, as always, is mildly surprised to see an old woman looking back. Her smooth, blue eyes shine out like beacons, as if to remind her that the feisty, adventurous, tenacious young lady is still in there somewhere.
In the bedroom, she sits on the bed to undress, before tugging on a nightshirt and shuffling under the covers. Her bedside table hosts a framed photograph, a pillbox and a stale glass of water, which she drains to wash down her tablets for the evening. Layla removes her thin black watch and places it on the nightstand, rubbing the slightly lighter strip it reveals amid her freckled olive skin. She brings the picture – a portrait of two couples, one elderly and the other middle-aged, sat with a young girl on the front steps of a house – to her lips and kisses it, then switches off her lamp. The darkness consumes her at last.
Nick Thomas is one of the newer members of Hay Writers’ Circle, being with us for a little over a year. His current work-in-progress is “Heartbreak“; an exciting collection of work from fellow writers. The aim is to publish an anthology and sell, with the proceeds raising money for a hunger charity. We will keep you posted on further updates.
His poem “The Lark”, is a tribute to a writer friend.
The Lark
Hark,
A lark.
We stop, look up
But don’t always see
Where these sweet sounds arise.
No matter, we hear
Those notes so clear and full of cheer.
Despite lark’s burden.
They always make you smile
And lift our hearts
Every time, over and over.
What do they mean?
Hope for the future, I think.
Composers all have different views,
None of them wrong.
Lark sings on.
Her song borne on the wind
To all who wish to listen.
Richard Booth Prize for Non-Fiction 2025 – Submissions Accepted!
Submissions are now invited for our annual Non-Fiction Competition, The Richard Booth Prize 2025, named after one of Hay-on-Wye’s most notable residents and it’s self proclaimed ‘King of Hay’. Richard was always a great supporter of books, Hay-on-Wye and of course, local writers.
Sadly, Richard passed away in 2019, but his name lives on everywhere in Hay, including this writing prize which he so graciously sponsored during his lifetime and we continue to honour in his memory.
This year we are thrilled to confirm that the judge for our Non-Fiction Competition is Alan Bilton.
Alan Bilton is the author of four novels, The Sleepwalkers’ Ball, The Known and Unknown Sea, The End of The Yellow House, and At Dawn, Two Nightingales, as well as a collection of surreal short stories, Anywhere Out of the World, and books on silent film comedy, the 1920s. and contemporary fiction. He is head of Creative Writing at Swansea University.
Richard Booth Prize Non-Fiction Competition 2025
This is an open competition meaning – ANYONE CAN ENTER
For full competition details, criteria and an entry form, please go to our COMPETITIONS page.
Closing date for entrees is Tuesday 12th August, 2025.
Time get writing! Good luck!
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