Jeremy Cameron led a fringe meeting with a difference this year where members flexed their creative muscles and penned crime themed tales.
Judges had a hard time picking a clear winner, so three share the top spot. The others were also too good to get away without being published.
By Ruth Storey
Big Dessie M, as he was affectionately known to his peers in the criminal underworld, was released from HMP Armley on a wet Tuesday. He had served 25 years for a sophisticated crime. Having evaded the authorities for a number of years due to his cunning and, possibly, backhanders.
He was eventually banged up after caving in the head of his neighbour who had the audacity to grill some halloumi on the same BBQ as the chicken pieces.
Asked outside prison: “how did you find prison?” He replied: “well, they just fetched me there in a van?
By Fiona Lidstone
I steal office supplies. I can’t help it. Feeling frustrated with the lack of pay, poor working conditions: slip a pack of post-it notes in your bag. The thrill of going to the stationary cupboard and hoping no-one notices the stapler secreted in your pocket.
My home is full of probation pens, notepads and highlighters. The rush of getting a whole bottle of antibacterial gel under your coat is a reason to go to work. Instead of writing a PSR I will ponder on what my next item will be and how big do I dare to go. Bringing down the system from within.
By Su McConnel
Every evening that year, she passed them as she walked home from her fucking job. Every evening, the men gestured at their groins, and whistled, and shouted “smile!” at her; sometimes “smile! Things will get better”.
They did and as she smoothed the concrete over their cooling corpses, she smiled.
A Southport Murder
She twisted her spaghetti on her fork – pleased with her expertise. She checked the map of the conference centre and the timetable for when the man would be speaking. The poison capsules were nestled in her rather wonderful leather handbag.
The man was a self-satisfied objectionable piece of work. She had had enough of being patronised, of being expected to applaud all his bombastic rhetoric. She hoped her poison would not be quick.
She knew he always drank from a particular mug – the mug celebrated some famous working class struggle (of course). Next morning she would put the plan into action.
“How did I end up here?” That terrible day in 2013. It felt like my name was just drawn out of a hat. Now I’m in a room, a cellar with bars on the small window. I’m having sleepless nights because of having murderous thoughts about that decision. “How can I escape from here?”
Suddenly I hear a tannoy. “Can Cedric go up to room 1.” Now I hear the screaming. “I’m never coming back”. “I’m going to smash your fucking head”. That could be saying that. All because someone decided I should be in the CRC. “That’s why I ended up here”.
Feet set in concrete, Murdo felt the breeze on his face and tasted the salt on his lips. He threw his head back and laughed. The mania of a man facing the end with no hope of an out. Truth was, he’d never felt so alive.
As the light faded on the statues around him and the water started to lap at his knees, he slowly surrendered to the inevitability of his fate. All roads led here and he wasn’t quite sure how, but felt some peace in knowing he’d stuck it to the man, a giant two fingers.
As was usual, Marion was working late into the evening in the Probation office where she worked for many years. IT had been a constant struggle and with so many assessments overdue, she was busily tapping away on her keyboard when the system crashed. Frustrated, she brought her fist down onto the computer, not for one minute thinking it would smash; but smash it did.
Marion’s frustration turned to anger and she rampaged around the office smashing all of the computers. Marion left the office and for the first time in ages, she was looking forward to work the next day.
She sat alone eating her packet of crisps, when she felt something chewy and slightly grisly. She slowly took the offending item out her mouth. With mounting horror she realised it was a human finger; the nail was painted in a vivid red like blood from the severed limb in front of her. She recalled having seen the same finger nail (which she admitted to herself she had at the time admired) on the underground earlier that day, when a door had closed on a fellow commuter.