Many writers have shared their thoughts with the public:

"There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they'll take you." - Beatrix Potter

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." - Anaïs Nin

"Sharing your writing, being enlarged by others' writing, is what makes you feel famous." - Gretchen Bernabei

"Writing is not an amusing occupation. It is a combination of ditch-digging, mountain-climbing, treadmill and childbirth." - Edna Ferber

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." - Ben Franklin

"One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones to form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment." - Hart Crane

"There are three rules for writing. Unfortunately, no one can agree what they are." - W. Somerset Maugham

The Murder Club

In the old hall next to the town cemetery three elderly ladies sat on metal fold-up chairs around a table idly discussing murder. Their self-appointed Chair of The Murder Club, Janet, suddenly banged the table with her hand making the other two jump nervously. “It’s gone 7.00 pm. Where are the others?” she demanded in her loudest retired headmistress voice.

“Lucy is doing the Hip Hop and Henry said he wasn’t putting up with your insults about his short story writing anymore. So sorry, Janet, his words not mine,” Joy said. She found Janet intimidating and apologized frequently throughout their monthly Thursday night writing club meetings.

“Hip Hop? She’s 76. She’s dancing?” asked Kate.

“Oh no, I mean she’s only just starting to hop around after her hip operation.”

“Really, so where is...” Janet trailed off as she caught sight of Sandy in the doorway triumphantly waving two bottles of wine unsteadily overhead.

“Hi everyone, sorry I’m late but I’ve brought the wine so we’re good to go. Bring on the dead, girls.”

“You make us sound homicidal. Put the wine on the table. Joy get glasses out of the kitchen cupboard.”

A flustered Joy hurrying to do Janet’s bidding returned with a tray of mismatched glasses while Sandy struggled to open the wine.

“Give them to me, you’ll never get the lid off with your arthritis,” Janet wrestled the tops off the bottles, poured out four glasses of wine and handed them around.

Kate took a sip and said, “Ugh, it’s Riesling. Who drinks Riesling these days? It looks like a glass of cat’s pee.”

“I don’t want to know how you know what cat’s pee looks like in a glass,” said Janet. “Personally, I prefer Pinot Noir."

“Pinny Naw? What’s Pinny Naw when it’s at home?”

“Well the story I’ve written this month is, if I say so myself, one of my very best….” began Janet, ignoring Sandy.

“I heard the police found a dead body in the cemetery,” interrupted Sandy.

“Well, that’s not surprising,” Janet snapped, “there’s a lot of them there.”

“A freshly murdered body.”

“How did you hear of a murder? I know nothing about it.”

Janet’s world was ordered and controlled, she read the news daily, while feigning disinterest in gossip avidly hoovered it up and generally felt she had her ear to the ground, Miss Marple fashion.

“The Butcher told me when I was buying mince for the cat,” said Sandy.

“You don’t have a cat. It died last year.”

“Well, of course I know that Janet, I’m not daft, but the butcher likes cats and he always adds a handful extra 'for the cat' for free.”

“You never told him you backed over the cat in your car?”

“Um, no. Anyway, he was a very old cat and the Vet had said he didn’t have long to go. I put Puddy in the freezer.”

“You put your dead cat in the freezer?” Janet almost choked on her wine.

“Well, he was already dead and it’s not as though he’d feel the cold.”

“Why didn’t you bury the poor thing?”

“I will, Janet, but I’m waiting for Bunnings to reduce the price.”

“What in heaven’s name for, they sell Cat Coffins now?”

“A plant pot of course. They do quite nice large fibreglass pots these days, not too heavy to lift. I’ve got my eye on a nice one in Aegean Blue. I think Puddy would like that.”

“Can’t you just bury the poor thing in the ground?” Janet was starting to go red in the face, a danger sign to the others that her temper was on an unusually short leash tonight.

“Not since I had the backyard cemented. I just garden in pots now. Or we could tuck him in at my hubby’s feet in his grave next door, he always had cold feet and liked the cat sleeping on them,” Sandy looked thoughtful.

“That’s appalling, we can’t do that, people would see us. A bunch of old ladies and a dead cat in a cemetery at night. They’d call someone.”

“Ghostbusters?” Kate suggested. Joy and Sandy sniggered.

“We’re right off the subject now,” Janet snapped.

“Sorry, what was the subject?” Joy asked timidly.

“Cat pee? Dead cats? Grave robbing?” Sandy offered.

“It’s not grave robbing if you’re making a deposit surely?” mused Kate.

“How the Butcher knew about the murder,” Janet said trying to bring the meeting back under control.

“His nephew.”

“His nephew killed that man in the cemetery? And you haven’t relayed this vital information to the Police yet, Sandy?”

“No, Janet, his nephew is the Police, one of them anyway. He’s gay.”

“I don’t think we’re allowed to say what a person is these days, aren’t we supposed to use neutral gear?” asked Joy.

“That’s driving, Joy. God how do we get through this meeting every month? Give me another glass of cat wee. Make it a big wee.” Sandy waved her empty glass at Janet. “Oh, now I remember the nephew’s name, it couldn’t be Gay or he’d be a niece. No, it’s Grey.”

“I had a dog called Blue once.” Joy smiled sadly.

“This is degenerating into a country and western song. Back to the corpse.” Sandy took a long drink. “He was quite big. Otherwise you’d think they’d bury him.”

“But wasn’t he quite a small cat?” asked Joy clearly puzzled.

“Yes, that’s why I didn’t see him.”

Janet again tried to rein in the conversation. “Well, who’s big then if it’s not the cat and you’re apparently legally blind and a danger to us all on the road?”

“The cemetery person, Harley.”

“How do you know his name was Harley?”

“It was on his pullover. Harley Davidson.”

“Lord give me strength,” moaned Janet.

“Never mind divine intervention, hand over the Vino de Wee.” Kate leaned across the table and grabbed an open bottle.

“We could solve it. We’re good at writing murder stories.”

“Not quite the same thing as solving crime though is it, Sandy? Now this, ah, gay policeman?” Janet snapped.

“Grey,” Sandy corrected.

“You don’t think the Butcher said ‘Graham’ and you just missed the ‘ham’?” asked Kate.

“No, I never get ham from the Butcher. It’s cheaper at Aldi.”

“Dementia isn’t what it used to be,” Kate muttered. “Grey, Graham, who cares?"

“We can’t solve a murder,” insisted Janet.

“Of course we can, aren’t you always banging on about ‘Hook, Plot, Characters’ whenever you review someone else’s story Janet?”

“That’s all very well Sandy but we know nothing.”

“We do, the ‘Hook’ is ‘Dead Body in Cemetery’.”

“I suppose we know the setting,” said Kate. “We’re well acquainted with it, well Joy is. When I drive by the church, I keep seeing her following people to graves after a service or standing around peering into a hearse. How is it you know so many people who die? Should we be worried?”

“Oh, I don’t actually know the deceased or the family, Kate.”

“Why are you there then? Are you turning into a ghoul?”

“No, my daughter suggested ways to avoid dementia.”

“Going to funerals is one of them?”

“No, but she said exercise regularly, socialize and take up a new interest. It’s twenty minutes’ walk to the church so that’s exercise. There are always people standing around to talk to so that’s socializing. Some of the dead people have led interesting lives and the sandwiches in the hall afterwards are really quite good. I take a plastic container because there’s always cake left over.”

“So, you don’t know the person, you go for free food and no one knows who you are? Doesn’t anyone ever ask?” Janet’s outrage was evident.

“Not so far. They probably think I’m some distant cousin.”

“Ladies, fascinating though it is to hear about Joy’s foray into professional funeral going, we’re no closer to solving the crime. Where’s some paper to write on?” Kate rifled through the paper on the table.

“Hey, that’s my story you’re scribbling on.”

“Is it any good, Sandy?”

“No, actually it’s pretty boring, I hoped you’d forget to ask me to read it out.”

“Who knows exactly where the body was?” Kate asked.

“Ooh, ooh, me.”

“Don’t get too excited Sandy. We don’t want an accident after all that wine you’ve drunk.”

“Shush Kate, Harley was sitting on that seat in the middle of the cemetery.”

“The Butcher again?”

“Yes. He had a newspaper on his lap and was killed by a thin blade.”

“Well, that’s it,” Kate said. “Harley must’ve been a spy.”

“What? Why?”

“Obviously Harley was killed by a foreign spy, they have walking sticks that shoot out thin blades. It could have been a dead drop gone wrong.”

“What’s a dead drop?”

“I wonder when the funeral will be?”

“Shut up, Joy,” everyone chorused.

“A dead drop, Janet, is when one spy meets another in a public place, one passes a coded letter inside a newspaper to the other. That explains the newspaper. Spy One pretends to read it then leaves it on the seat and walks away. Spy Two sits down and casually picks it up.” Sandy took another gulp of wine.

“I knew that, of course, but I think reading a newspaper on a bench in the cemetery in the pitch-black dark would look obvious to anyone,” Janet said.

“But that’s just it, it’s dark so it’s doubly cunning as no one else would be there.”

“Then why do you need a newspaper, you could just hand over the letter in the dark?”

“Mmmm. That’s tricky. We need more evidence; this is just conjecture.”

“What’s conjecture?” Joy asked.

“We’re just making it up.”

“But that’s the point of our Murder Club. Making up stories about murder and putting together an anthology,” Joy said.

“Yes, but we’ve moved on from making up to solving. We need to examine the crime scene,” Sandy said.

“Won’t there be guards?” Joy asked nervously.

“Not at night. They’ll have finished with the crime scene. Anyway, they lock the cemetery gates at 5.00 pm. We need to get a feel for the place.”

“It’s pitch-black Sandy.”

“We’ve got torch thingies on our phones Joy. Ladies, please. If we want to solve Harley’s murder we need to go now.” Sandy stood up, grabbed the table and hiccoughed.

“What’s so urgent?”

“The pub across the road will shut in an hour.”

“I’ve got a bottle of vodka here somewhere if you’re desperate.” Kate began rooting around in her bag.

“No, I don’t want to buy booze, people will be coming out. Some park in front of the cemetery. Get your phones out, turn your torches on.”

“I’m not sure I’ve got one on my phone, it’s not an iPhone, it’s a steroid,” Joy said fumbling in her bag.

“You mean Android. Steroids are for your rheumatism. Go out the back door, up the path to the cemetery, there’s an unlocked side-gate halfway up. Joy you go down to the front gate and be lookout. Whistle if anyone comes,” Janet ordered.

“I can’t whistle. New dentures.”

“Okay then hoot like an owl. Can you do that?”

“Oh yes. But what will I say if anyone asks me what I’m doing? Heavens, they may think I’m a Lady of the Night looking for business.”

“I think you’re pretty safe on that score, Joy,” Janet said. “Come on girls, up the hill, scout around, think like we’re writing a murder, How, What, Why etc.”

Janet and Kate followed Sandy up the steep path beside the cemetery, through the gate to where she thought the body had been found while Joy walked down to the front gate, softly practicing her owl hooting. Loud noise and chatter as Sandy and Kate poked into bushes made Janet snap, “Sshh. Quietly. You could wake the dead with the racket you’re making.”

“Hoot. HOOOOTT.”

“Is that Joy making that noise? That’s the worst impression of an owl I’ve heard. She must be walking up the main path, I see her torch. How did she get in? She’s supposed to be on guard, not wandering around communing with owls.” Kate peered down the hill towards the front gate.

“Good evening, ah, ladies. What are you doing here at this time of night?” Three shaky torch beams spotlighted a uniformed policeman.

“Oh. You must be Gay,” said Sandy in a relieved tone.

“Pardon?”

“Sorry, Grey…Graham? The Butcher’s nephew?”

“Sergeant Graham Thomas, yes and my Uncle is a Butcher. Now what are you all doing?”

“Umm, gardening?”

“Hoot. HOOT.”

“Yes Joy, we got that. Where are you?” Janet peered into the dark.

“You’re gardening, it’s gone 9.30 at night and you’re in a cemetery? You haven’t all broken out of some sort of Old Folks’ Home, have you?”

“Hoot, hoot.”

“Pay no attention, that’s another of our members. She’s, um, a night birdwatcher. Owls,” Kate said. “Joy come here, see I’m waving my torch, follow that,” Kate called. “Sshh, don’t say anything, this is the Butcher’s nephew.”

“No, Sergeant, we’re a gardening club and we meet in the church hall on the other side of the fence. Someone told us there was a rare, um, plant….” Sandy stuttered to a stop.

“Yes, a plant,” the other three chorused.

“And what is this rare plant called? “

“Um, Honeysuckle Rareifarius?” Sandy tried.

“Rareifarius?”

“Yes, while you’re here Sergeant, someone mentioned there was a spy assassinated, we don’t know where,” Sandy said.

“Or, maybe, ladies, you heard it was here since obviously at least one of you knows my Uncle and I know how he loves to gossip.”

Three voices protested with a variation of negatives. “…plantwatching…owls…I don’t shop at the Butcher’s; I go to Aldi.”

“Let me guess, you’re looking for a rare night singing Honeysuckle Owl? I’m going back to my car now; can I give you ladies a lift back to the Home?"

“Oh, no we need to finish up in the church hall.”

“Yes, we haven’t finished the second bottle of wine yet.”

“Sshh.”

Sandy, throwing caution to the wind and owls asked desperately, “So, Sergeant, any updates on the murder? Do you need help? We’re very good at murder. We have wine in the hall if you’d like a glass.”

“Murder? There’s been no murder. A chap got drunk and slept it off on a cemetery bench under a newspaper last night and got thrown out in the morning when they unlocked the place. You really don’t want to be listening to the stories my Uncle makes up. And thanks, no wine for me.”

“So, no murder then?” asked Sandy disappointedly. “Well, that’s a bust, ladies. Of course, you can’t drink on duty, Sergeant. Come on, ladies, back to the church hall, we can finish the wine. And there’s always Kate’s vodka. Maybe my story will sound better after we have a nightcap. Night, night Sergeant.”

Four ladies weaved unsteadily off into the night. A real owl hooted. The Butcher was woken by a phone call from his annoyed nephew.