Write Club (1)

I first met Terrence Oblong in Salubrious Passage, a dark, narrow, dingy, twisty alley that led to the church, hence its name.  

In the middle of the alley was the stair to the basement bar of the No Sign Wine Bar. This is where the poets congregate, with Bass beer, echoey accoustics and the bare minimum of light. 

It was Wednesday night, poetry night, with a guest poet – there was never a shortage, this was Wales after all, followed by an open stage, where anyone with sufficient dare could get up and read. 

I noticed Terrence as soon as I walked in. He was at the bar, Bass in hand, surrounded by a throng of young women, dressed in black leather, with black shirt and black jeans. He nodded a smile as I walked down the steps, as if he knew me. 

I had my collected works scribbled on scraps of paper and thrust shyly into my jacket pocked. I was here to watch, listen and learn, but I was armed with words if I needed them. 

He introduced himself while I  waited to be served. "Are you reading?" He asked me. 

"Not this time," I said. 

"Next time then," he said. "I'll put your name down. What is your name?" 

Terrence was the first to read after the professional poet had left the stage. The first piece I heard him read was entitled Thumbnail Sketches, in which he told a scene  purely through descriptions of the character's thumbnails. It wasn't even a poem, it was a  story, told through thumbnails. 

From the very first, Terrence was there to break rules.