Coastal Crimes & Stories

When I stepped through the door, it felt as though I had entered another world.

It was dark. The walls were covered in graffiti and, through the gloom, I could make out a crowd already gathered. In my nervous imagination they weren’t writers and performers at an open-mic night. They were peasants. A restless mob who had come to witness the arrival of an impostor foolish enough to enter their arena.

Me.

A serving wench thrust a mug of mead into my hand and I stood there clutching it, staring into the room that, for the next couple of hours, appeared likely to decide my fate.

Whether I lived or died tonight was entirely in their hands.

Somewhere beyond the crowd, I could almost see the gallows. The rope hanging patiently from its beam. Waiting.

I felt very small.

What on earth was I doing here?

Nobody had forced me through that door. I had come entirely of my own volition, which somehow made the situation worse. How big a mistake could one person make? How utterly foolish could a grown man be?

And why did I feel the need to sacrifice myself in front of these people?

These weren’t ordinary villagers. Oh no. These were wordsmiths. Intellectuals. Poets, storytellers and performers. People who knew what they were doing.

And I had brought a few sheets of paper.

Presiding over this unruly spectacle was the executioner himself — the master of ceremonies — who occasionally appeared to speak in a foreign tongue understood only by those who had been here before.

One by one, names were called.

One by one, the wordsmiths made their way to the front to sing for their supper — and possibly their survival.

Each time, the room fell strangely silent.

Then they began.

Poetry. Prose. Stories. Words delivered with confidence and skill.

And when each performance ended, the crowd erupted into applause. Another condemned soul had been spared the gallows and allowed to return, smiling and relieved, to the safety of the crowd.

I began to wonder how long I had left.

Then the executioner looked around the room.

He saw me.

And called my name.

There are moments when you realise that every decision you have made has brought you to one particular point in your life.

This was one of them.

I drained the last of my mead, gathered my feeble scribblings and began the long walk through the crowd towards the gallows.

Nobody could save me now.

At the front, I stepped into position with my back to the room. I swallowed, took a deep breath and slowly turned.

And that was when something changed.

There was no gallows.

No hangman’s rope.

No baying mob.

There was a microphone.

Just a microphone, standing patiently in front of me, waiting to share my words.

My words.

Words I had written. Words I had chosen to bring here tonight.

I looked beyond it at the sea of faces.

And suddenly the darkness didn’t seem quite so dark.

A warmth rose from somewhere inside me and wrapped itself around my shoulders like a favourite blanket. The faces looking back weren’t hostile. Nobody was waiting for me to fail.

They were simply waiting for me to begin.

The room fell silent.

This was my moment.

A moment I had secretly wanted for a long time but had never truly believed would come.

Eventually, I spoke.

The first few words were tentative. I could hear the uncertainty in my own voice.

But they were listening.

So I carried on.

Another sentence. Then another.

Gradually the words began to flow and something extraordinary happened.

I relaxed.

More than that.

I was enjoying myself.

A murmur of appreciation drifted towards me. Then another. Gentle sounds of encouragement, washing over me like small waves breaking onto a Pembrokeshire shore.

Then came laughter.

Exactly where I had hoped it would.

I dared to lift my eyes from the page.

Instead of executioners and hostile peasants, I saw smiles. Nods. Encouraging eyes.

The gallows had disappeared completely.

These people weren’t judging me.

They were with me.

I reached the final line.

Stopped.

For the briefest moment there was silence.

Then came the applause.

Not polite applause. Not the sort people offer because somebody has finally finished and they can get on with the evening.

Proper applause.

Warm, enthusiastic applause.

I could see people nodding their approval.

My heart was thumping. Adrenaline surged through me.

And one thought appeared above all the others.

I want to do that again.

The MC — no longer an executioner, but suddenly a thoroughly decent human being — thanked me and presented me with a badge.

To anybody else, it was just a badge.

To me, it was a medal of honour.

I returned to my seat considerably differently from the way I had left it.

I didn’t walk.

I floated.

Every part of me wanted to punch the air.

I had done it.

Me.

After years of writing quietly for myself, keeping my words safely on the page where nobody could judge them, I had finally stood in front of a room full of people and shared them aloud.

And the strangest thing of all?

The intimidating crowd I had seen when I first stepped through that dark doorway had disappeared.

In their place was a room full of writers, storytellers and listeners who had laughed with me, encouraged me and welcomed me.

People who, by the end of the evening, no longer felt like strangers.

They were my new friends.

I had arrived expecting the gallows.

Instead, I found the light.