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2025 -26
I'm steeped in ghostly goings-on this year
I'm currently editing my new collection of supernatural stories for publication later this year.
Spirit of the Age is a collection of new unpublished stories in mostly contemporary settings.
Autumn 2026
I'm thrilled to have been selected for the Arts Council's 'Library Presents' autumn programme this year.
I will be hosting ghost-story writing workshops in libraries in Cambridgeshire and look forward to seeing some of you there.
We'll be exploring the techniques employed the classic writers of the genre, together with tips
and tricks for creating perfectly chilling stories!
In A Dark Place: October 2025
Performances: Immersive ghost story telling with my great friend Richard Spaul of insitu: theatre company.
Performances:
The Signal Man, No Country for Old Women,
The Classroom Casanova, and
A Word to the Wise.
CONTACT
thefieldtheatregroup@hotmail.co.uk
FaceBook:
Deborah Curtis Writer
Field Theatre Group
Littleport Riot 200
Poetry
A hideous fenne of huge bignesse, that extends in a vast tract,
even unto the sea .....
Ghostly Title
Flat as water on a plate ….
Flat as a map of itself …
The land unrolls and flows outwards,
from under your feet to meet the sky.
The horizon - a distant field border …
a smudged line ... under the marching cloud banks.
There are no edges here.
Field .... flows into hedge line …
Flows into sedge and reed bed …
Flows into ditch and drain …
Flows into river .... and on ....
into the peat-brown northern sea.
The longer you look at this landscape,
the more you can feel it looking back at you.
Joint winner. Cambridgeshire County Council. A Sense of Place.
The Dead Garden
Shadow houses …. ghost houses … sunken houses.
So many buildings left empty.
Deserted droves, empty yards.
A way of life …. abandoned …. and yet still here.
Only the spiders are busy now … and the rats.
Houses … farms …. churches …. chapels …. and barns.
Left to the ministry of wind and dust.
Time has scattered them.
Windows …. blank as stones …. stare out over the ruined years.
Cracked glass …… wood …… and brick …..
Sinking into earth, under the crushing weight of sky.
The Fen is a dead garden.
Memory … thin as a blown thread.
Thin as the reed song.
The whisper of bird-bones crunched underfoot.
Where ditch flowers twine through the rust.
Fool’s parsley …. nettles …. and bindweed.
A sheet of plastic rises, like a pale ghost to meet you.
Land Lines. 2014.
