Friday 10th October 2025
This event was for up-and-coming writers and those who had been honing their skills through New Writing North workshops.
On this first night of the Durham Literary Festival five selected writers, attendees of the workshops, prepared to present their short works. In addition, the names of five further writers who submitted their names on the night were randomly selected to present their work. Everyone was given five minutes to tell their story or poem or a combination.
The audience buzzed with anticipation before the host Adam Sharp gained their attention, told some terrible ‘chicken’ jokes and shamelessly plugged his own book. Those already selected to present sat quietly at the front, some trying to calm their nerves, others holding down an adrenaline rush of excited anticipation. They had brought their own supporters who were quietly rooting for them.
At the back of the room were those who were prepared to get up and have their five minutes on the podium but were/weren’t sure if they were going to put their name in the hat. They and their supporters vibrated with nervous energy which swept wave-like over the whole audience. All the presentations were lively and engaging, creating inner worlds that drew the audience in.
Charlotte Robinson started with ‘Eggs a Ghost Story’, which made me decide I was never going to put alphabet fridge magnets on my fridge, just in case.
Ellie Scorah tapped into family and personal memories to deliver a short poem about her grandad and black holes – who knew, and a flash fiction story inspired by a 1989 photo of diving off the pier to retrieve a child’s lost penny, which when returned had become mysteriously heavier. Had it become more valuable or imparted more wisdom about the world?
Our own Martyn Radcliffe told the story of ‘The Rise of the Glassmurf’. He conjured up a dystopian world set in a monastery where the Prior valued only duty, not empathy for a foundling child. It was named after St Oswald, the day it was found and was nurtured by a wetnurse. Oswald, starved of human affection over time became unable to understand or give affection himself, in fact he began to see himself as superior to his brother monks. Shunned by them he was assigned the role of librarian which over the years he relished increasingly and in which he developed systems and knowledge which he believed enhanced his superiority. He found meaning and solace in travel books and at first began to live vicariously in different worlds and places through them. Over time he realized that he wasn’t aging at the same pace as his peers. This proved that he had been given a special gift from God. He hungered for and delved deeper into travel books until he disappeared from the monastery to faraway places with the ability to regenerate himself every 70 years. Not satisfied, he is still searching for the book that will make him immortal.
Rachel Faulkner’s tale ‘Luke in my home’ conjures up a cosey picture of sitting in her armchair with a warm mug in her hand. That is until Luke arrives and settles in taking naps with the cat, telling her is 21years, but looks like a teenager. He explains he tries on other people’s home because they are better than being alone in his own home. She knows he needs to leave and eventually when a friend calls one day when she turns back into her home he has vanished, taking his shoes with him. Maybe when he realized that she didn’t need him anymore he went to a home that did.
Tracy Forth utilized notes she found in old exercise books to inspire her work ‘The Gravediggers Notebook’. In November 1916 a young man on sentry duty whose whole body had been penetrated by the biting cold, especially his hands. His expected relief didn’t come although he had sent a message up the line. The shelling started again, and he had to hold fast even though by then he could barely feel his hands. When the barrage stopped, he ventured to look out and saw all the horrors of fighting in trench warfare dead bodies of men and horses. He was confronted by a young enemy sniper and was forced to shoot him. This act caused him to vomit and even though he was lauded by his comrades he never saw himself as a hero.
I know I am biased, but Martyn’s work received the most applause, and deservedly so.
During the interval the audience was asked to submit a curse, and the best one would get a stack of books donated by the main festival authors. The winner’s curse was that AI would steal your words for its own purposes. It hit the spot and was greeted by a knowing murmur from the crowd.
After the interval in the open mike session five more writers performed their works. There was an amusing yellow and red card system aimed at keeping everyone to their allotted five minutes. What can I say. There are those who stick to the rules and those who don’t.
They ranged from an interview with an emerald dragon on the desk between the interviewer and the interviewee. This was followed by a performance about three ladies in blue: Agatha, Abigail and Agnes who concluded the ALL MEN TURN INTO FROGS. This was followed by a rather lovely description of a previous time and memories of the sea, colliers, life in the village and meeting down the club and then their own childhood memories of the seaside. This was followed by a performance of two poems about feeling low. The first was about how love had saved the performer when they had suicidal feelings. The second was about how a child managed their fear of the dark. The final work described a pilgrimage of 2000 miles through Arkansas during the storm season.
The energy in the room remained high, the audience attentive and engaged, and I believe that nearly everyone there could have contributed to the night.
Linda Bird
Below is the recording of Martyn’s reading at the event
Barnard Castle Writing Group 