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The tragedy of war ©
by
Hazel Gooderson
Dusk was beginning to descend on the wasteland. Sasha shouted across to his pal, ‘Gotta go, Mama will be
expecting me. Meet you for school in the morning.’ He scooped up the football and waved as he ran towards the
flats. Taking the stairs two at a time, round and round the floors until he
burst through the front door. He was assailed by the aroma from four
steaming bowls of stew set out on the table and one empty place. Gathered
around the table was Babouska, his Dad’s mother who had shared their home
forever, Mama and his little baby sister Anna, banging her spoon on the high
chair tray. After washing his hands as quickly as most eight year old boys
do, he sidled onto a cushioned seat. Sasha waited hungrily for the statutory
short thanks of prayer before raising his spoon. His mouth opened to accept the food his nostrils had prepared
him for when a tremendous explosion stopped him followed by the air raid
sirens. ‘Quick, under the table!’ Anna was whisked from her baby seat, Babouska encouraged to
move. The time under the table felt interminable for Sasha, the
noise horrendous. When eventually the outside elements went silent, Mama
said they could emerge and get ready. ‘Get ready for bed Mama?’ enquired Sasha. ‘No son, we are leaving.’ ‘But...’ tears began to appear, ‘what about Papa; where are we
going?’ ‘Ssh child, too many questions. Go and fill your school back
pack.’ Sasha didn’t want to go anywhere. He liked school and his
friends. This flat was the only home he’d ever known and what about his dad?
Dad tried to stay in contact by mobile phone but transmission was very
erratic. They’d not seen nor shared a meal with him for a long time. Ever
since he’d packed his bag and gone away ‘to defend his country.’ It was difficult for Sasha to choose what to put in such a
small bag, would he look silly with a teddy? Where were they going? Babouska
had said a word like sanctuary – he had no idea what that meant. Mama turned
the key in the lock. Would this small family ever see the familiar walls of
home or could it be blown up and crumble? They had no vehicle and only the possessions they could carry
and load around Anna’s push chair. Mama said they were going to walk. It
grew colder. Anna wanted to suck her thumb but her mittened hands made her
grumpy. By moonlight Sasha dribbled his beloved football. The street lights
were not functioning. Moving out of his home city a line of like-minded
people appeared to be ahead of them. Slowly the outer streets became edged
with snow. Four days later, they arrived at the border to be welcomed by
the sight of rows of coaches being loaded with families like themselves.
Uncle Ben ©
by
Iris Welford
He never spoke about the war Sometimes he’d rub his leg Wasted muscle ripped by shrapnel He often paused in conversation To shake uncontrollably As pink tongue lolled from his mouth Not through stroke, or illness But post-traumatic stress Shell-shock it was called At night his tin arm with its evil hook Hung over the bedside chair When the terrors in his dreams woke him He was drenched in sweat and smelled of fear
He asked God what the purpose was Surviving when his mates fell Hollow victory so many gone Why did he live through that hell?
For Ben Bates
Serial or Cereal ©
by
Ali Davis
Warm and soft. Much like the scent
of the old rose which was weaving across the bedroom window. Also much like
Mrs Popover next door. Craig smirked. Privately he thought of her as Mrs
Pushover. Still she served his needs nicely. Now his sights were trained on young
Julie in the typing pool. In his role as HR manager Craig often wandered
into the gloomy basement which housed the young typists. His boss, old Mr
Manners, thought he was keeping a fatherly eye on the young fledglings as he
liked to think of them. Craig though had less than fatherly leanings. Craig’s wife, Sandra, had a busy
social life so they were seldom in the house together. As Mr Manner’s PA her
job was quite stressful, so in the evenings she liked to let her hair down
with her girlfriends. As a serial
cheater, Craig had few qualms when selecting his next conquest. He reasoned
that it was genetic as his father had left behind a string of broken hearts
and not a few bastards too. That Craig lacked his father’s charm didn’t hold
him back. Little did Craig realise that,
behind his back, the typists referred to him as Craig the Creep and were
under no illusion as to his motives. The others cautioned Julie to be ultra
careful. The Christmas bash was looming but
Craig’s antics would hopefully be curtailed as Sandra would be with her
husband. Should he prove unavoidable though, the typists had devised a
cunning plan involving the stationery cupboard. The boss’ generosity proved
unstinting in providing a tasty buffet and unlimited alcohol. Although
slightly tipsy the typists had stuck together. Safety in numbers they
reasoned. Across the room Craig was swaying and red-faced, Sandra looking
thunderous. Julie mumbled to the others that she
was going to the ladies. ‘Will you be ok on your own?’ she was asked. ‘Oh
fine,’ she answered. Despite his obvious intoxicated
state, Craig wove across the room and stood outside the ladies’ toilet.
Poised to enter, Craig was surrounded by the typists who en masse manoeuvred
him further down the corridor and bundled him into the stationery cupboard. Despite the noises emanating from
the cupboard which included falling objects and much swearing Craig wasn’t
missed for over two hours. Sandra, in the meantime, was doing her thing on
the dance floor enjoying the attention from half the sales force. Mistaking it for the gents, old Mr
Manners opened the door to the stationery cupboard. He was astonished,
though greatly amused, when Craig fell out covered in bits of cereal and
caked in flour. Craig never lived it down and was
divorced by Sandra who had been looking for a reason for years.
Hole In The Ground ©
by
Yvonne Jones
The rain it fell so soft and gentle
The birds they gathered their feathers to clean
To this rippling puddle in the hole in the ground
From the rain that had filled the hole in the ground
The birds they flew over no drink for them there
Finding the right level ©
by
Ron Brewer
The director was getting worried
Who am I? ©
by
Sheila Charles
From my earliest memories I was
always intrigued by the insides of squished animals. The colour of newly
spilt blood tantalised my taste buds and the way it soon formed a skin
intrigued me. When I looked a little closer, to my amazement there were
perfectly formed objects contained within the damaged shells and split
skins. I loved the fragility and frailty of flesh but was often pulled away
from my discoveries hearing the adult mutterings of ‘Disgusting, revolting,
so smelly, very distasteful.’ At the tender age of five, I wondered how they
knew what it tasted like, longing to try tasting it for myself! My hunger
for the insides of dead creatures continued into my teens. The library had
always been a place the family visited on a Saturday morning. Here I was
allowed to choose three books for the coming week. As my reading skills
became more accomplished, I developed a voracious appetite for both science
fiction, crimes and mystery stories. My favourite subjects during secondary
school were the biological sciences and I would spend all my free time in
the science labs, examining the insides of earthworms, snails and frogs.
Then came the dog fish and rabbits. The workings of all the major organs and
systems within the animal body intrigued my curiosity. I was just sorry that
we were never provided with a human body to dissect! Only a skeleton was
found in the laboratory. With some careers’ advice it became obvious that I
was destined for a career in the sciences. So I worked hard to gain good A
level results and trotted off to University in the1950’s. Here I spent much of my time
investigating and examining a wide range of species. It was fascinating to
concoct and mix substances to stain and produce slides to view under the
microscope. Comparing the cellular structure of different organisms
increased my knowledge and developed my appetite for all living things.
University also introduced me to a lively social life with like minded
students and I developed many lasting friendships that had begun in the
laboratory. After graduation I continued my
studies, gaining my PhD which led to an invitation to take part in a
research project abroad. I am forever grateful for the friendships and
interests I gained that have flourished along with a life-time career
working in many different ways with the wide-ranging and fascinating life
that exists on earth. I am also proud to think I have introduced so many
others to see life in the wild through the wonders of filming and
technology. I’m amused to think now that my commitment to life first started when I saw death. My early obsessions with dead things led me to discover the importance of life… … and my dearest wish is that it can
continue in all its variety and splendour for many, many generations to
come.
The Queen's Green Canopy ©
by
Pauline Parnell Hopkinson
My
roots are probing the deep dark earth and I drink the water to sustain my
growth. I am the tree that Her Majesty planted to begin her celebration of
seventy years on the throne. I am a noble
Verdun Oak, named for the battle of the First World War. Acorns were brought
back from that dreadful field of conflict and grown in memory. I stand in
the park at Windsor and I shall be here for many centuries. I wonder how
many more kings and queens I will see? I am
told by my brother and sister trees through our network of root
communication that our Queen has planted over fifteen hundred trees during
her reign. She must be an expert by now. So
why don’t
you
‘plant a tree for the Jubilee?’
The Church v The Circus ©
by
Myra Oakenfold
Two characters have arrived in Goldacre Square, a busy area on the outskirts
of a large city. They are both trying to persuade the individuals passing
through to part with some cash. One is a clergyman, dressed in black plus a
dog collar. The other is a clown wearing a vibrant outfit with a painted
face and an orange wig. They begin to shout their message as people stop and
look at their placards.
Clown:
Tickets for sale! Your
chance to see the greatest circus show in the country. Acrobats, clowns and
daring acts to amaze and impress. Tickets today at reduced prices. Ringside
seats only eight pounds.
Clergyman:
Listen everyone! The
churches in this area are helping needy people, the homeless, anyone less
fortunate than ourselves. Please give us whatever you can, however small, so
that we can help them.
Several people stop and buy tickets or donate money to help the poor. During
a quiet period the clown moves across to speak to the minister. She swaggers
around haughtily and instigates a conversation.
Clown:
Where’s your church
then?
Clergyman:
Oh, um, I belong to a
group of churches in the city. Where’s your circus sited?
Clown:
We’re not in the area
yet. I’m selling tickets in advance. We set up the big top in a month’s
time.
Clergyman:
The tickets seem
expensive. What about the families who can’t afford to go?
Clown:
Come on vicar, we always
get a full house. Bet you can’t fill your churches. Where’s the fun in
prayers and long faces? Lots of laughter in the circus, it’s good fun for
everyone.
She starts to inflate animal shaped balloons and soon attracts another
customer.
Clergyman:
We do have fun, there’s
something called messy church for the kids. Our message is love – not only
towards your friends but also your enemies and God loves everyone.
Clown:
Just like us then. The
clowns play nasty tricks and whack the hell out of each other but then they
make it up.
Clergyman:
You don’t do anything
for others, you just fleece your own pockets.
Clown:
We have a charity box at
the exit to the big top and we visit the kids in hospital.
Clergyman:
Time to go. I’m getting
cold. The people round here have been very generous, they always feel sorry
when the kids are having a rough time. I might come to one of your shows and
have some fun.
Clown:
I can let you have a
half-price ticket.
Clergyman:
No thanks, I’ll wait
‘til I see the posters. Bye.
He hurries out of the square whistling while she counts her money and
smiles.
There are toilets just around the corner where the clown’s outfit and wig
are quickly removed. The face paint is a bit more stubborn but soon the girl
is heading towards the shops to spend her earnings. Meanwhile the ‘man of
the cloth’ is sitting in his car having detached his dog collar and put on a
hoodie. It’s time to meet his mates at the pub.
The Ticking of the Clock ©
by
Jo Carr
Katherine paced the narrow room. Dawn
was just breaking and the light from the window cast shadows onto the stone
floor. Six o’clock struck from the tall tower and she shivered with
presentiment. Surely she would receive a reprieve? Henry loved her, of that
she was sure. Then her mind wandered again and for a full hour she thought
of her lover, Percy, remembering the touch of his hands and the delicious
feeling in her body which stayed with her long after he had left. Seven o’clock struck and the heavy door
opened. A platter of food was passed into her before the door shut again
with a bang. She glanced at the simple fare she had been given, bread and
cheese with a flagon of wine. She had no appetite for the food but quickly
quaffed the drink, wiping her mouth with her sleeve as the wine hit the
mark. She allowed herself a little smile as she daydreamed about her lost
lover, losing track of time. Eight o’clock struck and the sounds of
the tower came to life. Eddies of laughter floated up as she heard the
banging of nails and the raucous shouts of workmen. She lay her head down
briefly onto the trestle bed, seeking sleep which would not come. Nine o’clock and she could hear the
shrill shouts of women and the deeper tones of men who had come to watch the
spectacle. She shivered again from cold and fear. She heard the key turn in
the lock and a brief conversation between male voices. Surely it was Henry,
her saviour! A priest entered, his black garbed
figure looking sternly at her as her heart beat faster. He silently
admonished her to kneel at the prie dieu before solemnly asking, ‘Do you
confess your sins, my child?’ She shook her head, wishing her heart
would still its beating. ‘I have nothing to confess, Father. I am innocent.’
He glanced at her telltale hands which shook as she touched the proffered
Bible. He spoke a prayer in Latin, making the
sign of the cross above her and then left the room with a silent shake of
his head. She heard his footsteps and the swish of his robes, followed by
the clang as the door shut. Ten o’clock came and went. Her whole
body shook with fear. Surely he would come for her? Surely he loved her?
Surely he would change his mind and save her? Eleven o’clock. The ravens were cawing
outside and the crowd of people outside must have grown, their noise
unabating. A chill wind came through the slits and the air was full of a
damp mist which permeated her gown. Twelve o’clock struck. It was time. Katherine heard the sound of the key again and shivered. Two black garbed figures entered the room and took her by either arm. She walked, trembling, down the narrow steps, through the corridors and outside onto the grass. She saw the scaffold and the tumultuous crowd waiting. A few yards away she saw a head impaled on a stake and recognised the grisly apparition as her lover. She knew there was no hope for her, Katherine Howard, as she knelt, awaiting the axe to fall.
The Foundling ©
by
Iris Welford
The
sedan chair was hot and stuffy causing Sir Thomas to mop his brow with his
handkerchief. He was glad that it was merely 4 miles to London from his
mansion In Mayflower Road, Rotherhithe and did not necessitate using his
coach and horses along this overcrowded road; the sedan was faster with the
carriers weaving in and out of the traffic. Today Thomas was raising more
funds for his project amongst the ladies of consequence including the
Duchess of Sussex. If he could persuade these ladies that this was a good
cause, the next step would be to approach the king. He
looked out of the window when the chair stopped momentarily. A wagon had
spilled its load of barrels, probably full of wine newly arrived from the
docks and bound for the cellars of the wealthy merchants. Thomas mused it
was probably destined for Berry Brothers and Rudd in St James’s, a merchant
whom he had dealt with many times. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a
bundle of rags in the arms of a child. This was his reason for raising
money. These children needed proper homes, proper care. In his eyes it was
disgraceful that children be left to die in the street, unwanted like
kittens and left to fend for themselves. The older child clutching the
bundle was obviously a sibling. Thomas beckoned the child to his window and
asked the whereabouts of their mother. The boy, aged about five, told a sad
tale of how his mother was sick and the father had disappeared but to Thomas
this was a familiar story. From his pocket he withdrew his silk purse and
gave the boy a shilling making him swear not to give it to his mother for
gin but to feed himself and get a nurse to feed the infant. The boy was
overwhelmed and cried. By this
time the wagon had been reloaded with its wares and the sedan progressed to
London. Sir Thomas reflected that he had seen many sights as a sea captain
but that the sight of children trying to live in such dire circumstances
tore at the fabric of his being. The day was fulfilling for Thomas. He raised the awareness of many of the titled ladies whom he addressed and within months he had sufficient funds to build his Foundling Hospital in Bloomsbury. There was sufficient land in the surrounding fields but he had to present the proposal to the king to receive the charter for the hospital. The king agreed for, as Thomas pointed out, these children would become useful citizens if looked after properly. Thomas had achieved his vision for a better future for these poor wretches and the hospital was built.
The Superior Project ©
by
Hazel Gooderson
The teenage boy, Abdul Ahad, stared across the sparsely
furnished living room at the swollen belly of his pregnant mother. How had
Papa been allowed to do that disgusting act again to his Mustana? Papa, with
his leg missing below the knee after a round of shelling six months back,
struggled to put food on the table for the existing mouths. There was barely
enough of anything for the family.
Abdul had unfurled his prayer mat and faced Mecca. The
mullah’s reasoning had made complete sense to Abdul as he knelt amongst the
men at prayers the previous month.
His name meant servant of the only one, so what better way to serve.
The offer was a good one – cash and land for his family. ‘Praise be to Allah.’ Finishing a hurried breakfast of rice, Abdul Ahad ran
out of his home dust flying with each step he took in his donated Western
shoes. He darted past the recently collapsed bridge and piles of rubble from
buildings once fine and monumental towards the mosque. A bundle of clothes
rolled up under his arm. He washed his body, dressed in the clean trousers and
jalabiyyah, and covered his dark hair. He allowed the straps of the suicide
vest to be tightened securely around his young slender body and added the
pristine shirt. He did not question his assistant on what was in the
packages. The time clock began to tick. He stepped outside and walked the short distance
towards the target. As agreed, the university. He mumbled to himself on the
journey. ‘I believe that with my death I shall do all that it is my duty to do.’ Every ticking step gave Abdul the confidence he was
doing the right thing. There had been many martyrs before him and his family
would gain from this act. The ticks appeared to get louder. Sweat began to form
on his brow beneath the midday sun. Abdul was tempted to peep at the timer,
but precision timing had been calculated into the walk. His final thought was blown up into the wind.
A Village Christmas ©
by
Deborah Dunseith
A gingerbread cottage all covered with snow
A Mirror Image ©
by
Ali Davis
Seated in front of her computer
Alex gave the command ‘Open Erised’. The computer intoned: ‘Password please
Alex.’ Alex tutted impatiently, even though she had coded the random
password request herself. ‘Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of
them all?’ she responded with more than a trace of sarcasm. The program
opened to reveal a mirror. She sat back looking pensive. ‘What shall we
try today?’ she wondered. From early adolescence Alex had
demonstrated a prodigious flair for coding. She had never been interested in
gaming tending to favour programs of ultimate benefit to society as a whole.
Erised however was a personal project. Now a respected computer
scientist, despite only being in her early 20s, Alex had developed Erised at
home as it wasn’t a program she was willing to share - at least not just
yet. The mirror was reflecting a not
unattractive face - green eyes with sandy lashes, a snub nose with a
smattering of freckles and a mop of auburn curls. ‘Erised, age me by 50
years,’ she commanded. The mirror revealed a deeply lined forehead, crinkled
eyes and grooves either side of her mouth. Thank God I can have
injections later, Alex thought, I look
just like my mother! ‘Erised, make me a man!’ She
blinked rapidly trying to clear the vision before her. The image was rather
shocking. He was undoubtedly in his early 20s with cropped hair and a
slightly flattened nose but there was a scar running from the outer edge of
his right eye in a puckered curve to his mouth. The overall effect was a
twisted one. Alex shuddered involuntarily. ‘Close Erised,’ she ordered. In a bid to clear her head, Alex
rang her best friend Chloe. ‘Do you fancy going out tonight?’ she asked. ‘Are you ok? You sound rather
stressed,’ Chloe responded. ‘Just work stuff,’ Alex replied,
adding ‘Let’s go somewhere new!’ They arranged to meet at 8.30. Chloe did a double take when she
saw Alex. ‘What have you had done to your hair? Not that it doesn’t suit
you!’ she added hastily. Alex put her hand to her head,
somewhat shocked to realise that it felt really short. What on earth is
going on? she thought. ‘Oh, I just fancied a change that’s all,’ Alex
recovered quickly, adding ‘I did it myself actually.’ Chloe bumped her friend on the
shoulder. ‘Well it makes you look rather androgynous. Very cool.’ The new club was heaving and the
two friends quickly lost each other as the dancing became more and more
frenzied. Neither was concerned, reasoning that they would catch up sooner
or later. Just after midnight, and after
failing to find Chloe, Alex decided to walk home. She was aware of footsteps
behind her. She looked in the shop window to see if someone was following
her but she couldn’t be sure. Entering a side street plunged
her into darkness and she felt a hand on her shoulder. ‘Give me your bag,’
hissed a voice. Alex was having none of it and clutched her slim bag still
tighter. She gasped in shock as she felt a blade touch her face.
The Dilemma ©
by
Alan Hewison
A lot of the time he had to look after
his sister, and it was a terrible chore for a boy of ten years old. All he
wanted to do during the summer holidays was play footy, cricket or go
swimming, but always he had to look after his younger sister.
His mother said, ‘ You can go out to play if you take your sister.’
He never really wanted to, although sometimes she could be useful. She could
stand behind the goal when playing footy and collect and return the ball,
sometimes she was used as a goal post but she didn't like this very much. On
other occasions she sat on the boundary and made daisy chains. He took her
everywhere, to the shop, the school, everywhere.
The dilemma happened one Sunday morning when he and his sister were
walking to church. A local lout from the school ran alongside them and began
teasing his sister, running around pestering her and mocking her shouting,
‘all dressed up in your Sunday best are you?’ His sister’s face told him she
was not keen on the intrusion and he quietly told her to ignore him, in the
hope he would go away.
Unfortunately the lout persisted and began pulling his sister’s long
blond hair, which had been carefully tied with a colourful red ribbon. As
they walked further along the road, the lout must have thought he wasn’t
chastising the sister enough for he began attacking the ribbon. Eventually
he managed to remove it and in doing so made his sister cry.
Now, at this stage, he h a dilemma. Should he allow this lout to go
on making his sister cry, or should he do something about it? This was a
very difficult situation for him because he was not a violent boy
but on the other hand he knew he could stand his corner.
In the end the lout became too demonstrative, and he stepped
alongside him and grasped hold of the ribbon now gripped firmly in the
lout's hand. He tussled with him for a while but the lout wouldn't let go.
He then thought his only hope was to bash him, so he did this and made his
nose bleed. Immediately, the lout let go of the ribbon, and after a few
yelps, ran off holding his nose. His sister stopped crying, replaced the
ribbon, and they went on their way.
The ten-year-old boy thought he might get into trouble but he didn't.
Often he wondered if there had been an alternative to bashing him.
Fred and Lilly ©
by
Sheila Charles
“Here’s something, ducks!” shouted Fred from his armchair. “This would suit
you.” Lilly came scuttling through from the kitchen and leaned over Fred’s shoulder as he read out the advertisement from the Evening News
Cleaning help required
in a family house.
Will suit mature person.
Contact Mrs Matthews,
91, Newmarket Road.
“Ooh Fred, sounds just right,” murmured Lilly as she sat down in the arm
chair opposite him.
“Well you said you need a little job and there it is. Probably just a
morning a week or something. You can do it, Ducks. Look, it’s nice and
local.” he said pointing to the address.
Next morning Fred winked at Lilly, when she handed him his flask and
sandwich tin as he left for work. Patting her on the bottom he said “See you
at tea time, Ducks” and wheeled his bike through the gate into the alley at
the back of the row of terraced houses.
As Lilly rang the doorbell, she hoped the lady of the house would be as
friendly as the house looked. She didn’t have to wait long find out.
Mrs Matthews wearing an apron over her day dress opened the door and smiled.
“How can I help?” she enquired
“Oh g - good morning. I’ve .. I’ve come about the job?” Lilly spluttered. “Oh Goodness - I didn’t think it would be answered that quickly.
Er … Do come in but you’ll have to excuse the mess. You’ll soon see
why I’m advertising for help.” and Mrs M showed Lilly into the kitchen,
where the table was littered with half-eaten bowls of porridge, sticky
marmalade jars, half drawn pictures, wax crayons and a small cloth book. A
baby girl sat in a blue buffer chair while another little girl sat
cross-legged on the floor in front of her reading a story.
Offering Lilly a cup of tea Mrs Matthews explained they had just moved to
the area and it was taking a while to get sorted. After discussing the work,
the hours and the pay, Lilly immediately felt confident about how she could
help and knew she would be only too glad to be hindered by the two
delightful little girls.
Fastest bin man in the East ©
by
Ron Brewer
“This bloody mower” cursed Jim out aloud as it
came to a halt once more. “The motor starts on the first pull but the
cutting blades are always crunching up. I’ll just have to get rid of it and
dispose of it somehow. They collect all sorts of waste around here –
household rubbish, all the recyclable stuff and virtually all the green
material like these grass cuttings that I need to clear from the garden but
heavy old bits of metal have to be taken to the council site miles away.” “So what’s upsetting you now?” came a voice from over the fence. “You
don’t seem to be in the best of moods.” It was Eric, his friendly next door
neighbour, who must have heard the cursing coming from the neighbouring
garden. “Why not pop around now and we’ll share a beer or two and sort out
this big problem of yours.” Several beers later and with lots of sheets of paper covered in rough
sketches, everything was sorted. Eric knew lots about cars and could do a
bit of welding while Jim was not bad at most do-it-yourself jobs. They were
both inveterate collectors of ‘things that might come in useful one day’, in
this case an old office chair, that pneumatic wheel from a large rusty
wheelbarrow and their new acquisition of a small but powerful ex-lawnmower
engine. How they got hold of an old wheelie bin is still a mystery but work
started on their project under the cover of Jim’s big shed. A few weekends
later, after much drilling, banging and occasional swearing, everything was
ready for the great reveal to the awaiting world. There it stood in all its glory, the Mark 1 version of the WFMWB (World’s
Fastest Motorised Wheelie Bin), resplendent with the gold ‘go-faster’
stripes down both sides. The motor was situated at the base of the bin with
little doors to get to the pull starter and the fuel tank. The lid was fixed
up vertically with a Perspex-covered hole cut in it to provide a windscreen
and the office chair snugly fitted inside to provide seating for the driver.
The wheelbarrow wheel was on a longish arm out the back and chain-driven.
Some of the old lawnmower controls were installed in the ‘cab’ to control
the engine speed but there was no braking system. “OK then, let’s wheel her down to the lane for a trial run.” Eric was
keen to get going, “You can be the test pilot Jim as you are only five foot
nothing and there’s not much room inside. And don’t forget that cycle
helmet, best take precautions.” The motor started first time. Jim gently turned on the power and WFMBW
slowly moved forward. Steering was rather primitive but Jim felt confident
so he increased speed slightly. “Guinness Book of Records here we come” he
shouted, “the fastest wheelie bin in the world!” “More revs” urged Eric as
their machine sped down the track. So they got their place in the record books, not for speed but as the
first wheelie bin to do a wheelie as WFMBW reared up and gently deposited
Jim in the muddy ditch beside the lane. Mission completed.
Toms's discovery ©
by
Pauline Parnell Hopkinson
Joyce left her bungalow, number twenty one, for her permitted ‘daily exercise’ walk to the post box. She knew it was only a few hundred yards but it gave her a bit of fresh air and that was what she desperately needed at present. This lockdown was beginning to get on everyone’s nerves. Living alone didn’t help. She only had the television and radio to talk to.
A Different Kind of Court ©
by
Myra Oakenfold
“Will the court please
stand.” The clerk’s voice never wavered. My heart was thumping inside my
chest and I clutched the dock to avoid falling. The members of the jury
averted their eyes, the silence was tangible whilst the atmosphere in the
room was stifling. So different to the courts I was used to. I had barely been able
to hold a racket when I first patted a ball back and forth to my parents.
They had been determined that I should share their love of tennis. The local
club was in walking distance and I was soon enrolled into the junior
section. The first years were about having fun but it soon became training
to compete and win. I can’t complain that I was forced to play because,
after I had learnt the fundamental skills, my own motivation was high.
Bizarrely I had the killer instinct even then. I remember clearly the
first time I met Libby who joined the club when she was about ten. She
strolled confidently through the door and introduced herself. Members often
mixed us up with our long blond hair and quick reflexes. We were soon part
of the elite squad and qualified for personalised training. I recognised a
fellow player who was as resolute as I was and we became good friends. Our
coach entered us into many competitions and, as the years progressed, we
both won cups but we achieved our best results when we played in doubles
matches. Libby could anticipate my moves and we developed a range of
strategies. In our teens we found time for boyfriends, usually club members,
and Libby was great at sharing intimate moments. Ian and Greg were brothers
who were also doubles partners and we travelled to tournaments together. Ian
spent time with me and Libby and Greg were a couple. Life was terrific. We practised endlessly
and were both ambitious but we still had a good time. Libby was keen to
become professional. We were both in our twenties and tennis controlled our
lives. Fortunately we gained a sponsor and joined the privileged few.
Travelling became important as did endless hours in the gym between games
and practice. Relationships with members of the opposite sex had become a
thing of the past as we were exhausted and never in one place for long. My
ambition was to gain positive recognition and win a major tournament but
Libby seemed to have lost her focus. She became introverted and seemed to
grumble about everyone and everything. Then Libby met Oliver.
He was certainly appealing from his good looks and charm to his smart sports
car and inheritance. He wandered onto the court in Paris while we were
practising. “I didn’t expect to find such a couple of attractive and
talented young ladies here today,” he simpered. Libby stopped suddenly and
their eyes met. I knew the die was cast. We began to lose
matches as Libby and her lover spent every free moment together. I hadn’t
achieved my dream to play in a doubles final at Wimbledon and I needed my
partner. My plans were methodical. When Oliver was involved in a fatal
accident I naively thought tennis would be our focus again, but a heart
broken Libby abandoned the game and started an investigation into Oliver’s
death. The silence in court
finally ceased and the foreman of the jury announced its verdict. There was
a shrill cry from the public gallery!
A Nice Cup of Tea ©
by
Jo Carr
“Nice
cup of tea, Marjorie dear?” said Dottie, bustling into the drawing room. She
was still in her apron but had cleared lunch away, done the washing up and
made a start on her other chores. She rested her hand briefly on the arm of
a chair; her arthritis had been playing up this morning and she was already
fagged out. However, as ladies companion, she knew her place and her
arthritis had little of importance in the life of her employer.
Marjorie peered at her over the crossword page of The Times and tut-tutted
at being disturbed. She was on the point of asking Dottie if she knew the
answer to a clue but refrained. Dottie was not blessed with much intellect,
something which used to have Marjorie in despair. However, she was
nevertheless a good house-keeper which was a sop to Marjorie. She pursed her
lips disdainfully. “Tea
would be nice, Dottie,” she said, looking at the clock. It was 2 o clock and
she turned on the television to watch the racing. “After that, would you go
to William Hill and put ten pounds on ‘Philanthropy’, for me,” she said. Dottie
sighed inwardly, a headache beginning at her temples. Why did Marjorie need
the sound on maximum, she always wondered? She made tea and delivered it to
her boss, put on her coat and shoes and exited the house.
Marjorie waited until she heard the front door shut and foraged in the large
compartment of her chair. This was one place she didn’t let Dottie dust.
Hah, success, her bottle of gin was still there! She poured a generous
double into her porcelain cup, settling down to watch the afternoon’s
racing. She had studied the form and thought she was onto a winner. Half an
hour later, Dottie returned, betting slip in hand. Marjorie was ready for
more tea and she served her, noting that her employer was flushed and a
little vague. Probably the racing, Dottie thought to herself, hoping
Marjorie wasn’t going gaga. If her relatives put her into a home, Dottie
would be out of a job!
Marjorie poured another generous tot of gin into her tea, after swivelling
her neck around to check Dottie had left the room. She felt pleasantly
euphoric and turned the television up to maximum, cheering on Philanthropy
when he won. The afternoon was when
Dottie managed to get a little rest from the demands of Marjorie. She sat in
the kitchen, feasting on a piece of fruit cake, unlaced her shoes and
listened. No. All was quiet. Marjorie was probably asleep in her chair. Dottie reached up into the highest cupboard and carefully pulled out a bottle of gin. It was still half full and she poured a generous tot into her tea. ‘A nice cup of tea, indeed!’
Changing Times ©
by
Iris Welford
Childhood, at home in Norwich, was a fleeting memory for Patricia because the day she was taken to live with Gran and Grandad was the day when the six-year-old was expected to act like a grown up.
It was 1942. Patricia’s father had joined the army and her mother was
working full time at Boulton and Paul who were producing a variety of war
equipment on Riverside in Norwich. Her mother had explained to Patricia that
staying at Gran’s would be safer but she would still come to see her
whenever she could. Patricia had cried the day her mother left her in Caston
but Gran told her to wipe away her tears as she was a ‘big girl’ now.
Patricia felt nothing like a big girl and later that night cried herself to
sleep under the covers of the truckle bed. It was spring and on Grandad’s small holding, chickens
were laying profusely. He had given Patricia the job of feeding them,
usually mashed potato and greens, and collecting the eggs with the dire
warning of trouble if an egg was broken. This was apart from a multitude of
other chores like raking the soil in preparation for planting vegetables.
Grandad, a taciturn man, did not speak to the lonely child as she worked
along side of him. In the house Gran had her cleaning the brass, sweeping
the floors, polishing, plus any amount of fetching and carrying. Sundays
were a day of ritual. Dressed in their best clothes they all went to church.
The vicar would pat Patricia’s head and tell her how lucky she was to have
kind grandparents looking after her. Mr Wise, the school teacher, always
smiled saying “Hope to see you in school next week Patricia,” but she knew
Grandad would never agree to that no matter how much she wanted to go. Six or seven weeks later Patricia’s mother visited.
Patricia was excited and hugged her mother tightly when she arrived. “Oh my, you do feel like a skinny girl” her mother
said. “Here, I’ve bought you a book I expect you are doing reading at school
so I hope you enjoy reading this story,” she said. “I haven’t been to school” Patricia replied. Her mother exploded.
“Mum, Dad, why hasn’t she been to school?” Instantly she was reminded
of the reason she had left home all those years ago to live with her
boyfriend who eventually became her husband. Her mother coughed a little. “The teacher’s been ill.” Grandad, who had been pretending to snooze in the
chair, opened his eyes. “Girls don’t need reading and educating, they need
learning how to keep house and cook and how to keep a man happy” he growled. Pat’s mum felt her anger rise up. “I’m working making
parts for aircraft so that we can win a war. I’m doing a man’s job.” The old man shrugged his shoulders. “That’s it Trish, home we go. No more of being a
skivvy. You can learn to read and write. Get your things.” Patricia was delighted. She hadn’t enjoyed living with the old folk but she did give Gran a hug and said politely, “Thank you for having me Gran,” as she skipped along the garden path .
Stranded ©
by
Hazel Gooderson
Lying face down on moist sand, I lifted my wet head,
prised my eyes open and looked to left and right – where was I? It was
eerily silent but for the lapping of seawater over my feet. Rolling over
into a sitting position, I could see no people or buildings, sun beds,
parasols. I stared beyond my bare ruby-painted toes to a horizon with a tiny
speck of land. What could I remember? Zak and I had ventured out on a day fishing trip from
the hotel; that’s right, but where was he and the boat? My mouth was
parched, lips cracked, arms sore and heavy from swimming. I tentatively felt
my body for blood and stretched out to check broken bones - matted hair with
pieces of slime trailed through my fingers. I stood, legs shaking, feet
bare. Had we capsized? I certainly had no possessions and only a bikini
under shorts and t-shirt. My phone that could have been a lifeline was not
in either pocket. I felt so alone and scared. Possibly I was on the
uninhabited island we had seen and enquired about from our hotel. It must be about midday as the heat from the sun was
directly over my head and beating down causing it to thump with pain. I
scanned the sea for any signs of Zak or the vessel. My fascination for survival programmes on television
and my old scouting skills made me aware that I needed to find some fresh
water. I looked towards the greenery of the island which suggested there may
well be a water course. The sand on this beach was soft underfoot, but I
didn’t know what it would be like inland without footwear. I walked a short
distance along the coastline and picked up a stranded empty plastic bottle,
waded out to knee depth and rinsed it. I continued along the beach for a few
more yards and found a thin trickle of water had channelled a course through
the sand from inland. But, if I left the shoreline, anyone out looking for me
would glide past; however, I would just have to cut my losses and presume I
hadn’t been missed yet and a search party not on its way. I traced the water course back into the vegetation.
Whereas the beach had been quiet, under this canopy was a cacophony of
noise. Not manmade but natural, and I couldn’t not notice the vibrant
colours despite my heart pounding with fear. It’s one thing listening to
Radio Four’s Desert Island discs from the comfort of your home on sleepless
nights and imagining what you would take but sleep always overcame me after
the first two or three. When and if I felt more cheerful I could hum for
music, but I wouldn’t be reading any favourite book today! My feet felt cool
and clean walking upstream and fortunately it wasn’t long before I could
hear a small and gentle waterfall. I managed to safely balance and fill the
bottle. I returned to the beach to attend to the next stage of my survival. Would I be able to light a fire of driftwood or gather stones to write Help to passing aeroplanes?
Busted ©
by
Ali Davis
Her room was a mess. Discarded
clothes, discarded mugs and discarded towels covered every surface. Her mum
had given up. She was, after all, 23 now and not some teenager she could
attempt to threaten. Chelsea couldn’t see the point. It wasn’t as if her
boyfriend was going to see her room. Her dad had made that perfectly clear.
But Chelsea had a plan and it was Friday night. Her phone rang. ‘Hi, Chels, are
we going out tonight?’ It was Tiff, her best friend. The pair had palled up
at primary school and had been inseparable since. ‘Yea, I figured we could try that
new bar. Remember it was buzzing last week when we went past?’ ‘OK, I’ll pick you up at 9. Make
sure you eat something first though. We don’t want a repeat performance of
last week!’ Tiff reminded Chelsea. Chelsea had rather hoped to
forget last week when she’d blacked out as a result of too many shots on an
empty stomach. The rest of that night was still hazy. ‘Have you seen Callum this week?’
Tiff asked, somewhat tentatively. ‘Actually no I haven’t,’ Chelsea
admitted. ‘Expect he’s been really busy at work,’ she added. ‘Yes, probably,’ Tiff responded
sounding unconvinced. ‘Anyway, catch up later,’ she said as she rang off. Chelsea had been seeing Callum
for six months now and she had great hopes that it wouldn’t be long until
he’d ask her to move in. He had a good job in IT and Chelsea knew his
flatmate was moving out soon. It’d be great to have the place to themselves
instead of tip-toeing around nerdy Nigel. She flicked through her messages
but realised with a start that she hadn’t heard from Callum since last week.
She scanned through her messages to him. With mounting horror she read the
increasingly desperate and frankly smutty texts she had sent him last
Friday. She had no recollection of sending them. What to do? Text or ring?
If only she’d looked earlier she could have asked Tiff who always was the
more sensible of the pair. Swallowing nervously, she jabbed
at his number on her phone. It rang a few times, then stopped. ‘He’s
probably still at work,’ she reasoned. She texted ‘Hi, busy week? Sorry
about all the texts, was a bit wasted! Wanna do something tomorrow? Can’t
wait to see you.’ Ten minutes later and there was
no response from Callum. She checked out his Facebook page. Callum’s profile
had changed. Ominously it had changed from ‘in a relationship’ to ‘single’.
Heart in her mouth she clicked on his photos. Every one of them as a couple
had vanished. She ran downstairs and burst into
the sitting room where her mum was watching TV. Sobbing, Chelsea threw
herself onto the sofa next to her mum. ‘Oh mum,’ she wailed, ‘Callum’s
ghosted me!’ Her mum pulled her close. ‘I’ve no idea what you mean, darling,
but whatever he’s done I’m sure you two can sort it out.’
Hopefully ©
by
Alan Hewison
We are not allowed to sing, it is a shame.
We are not allowed to sing, who is to blame?
We are not allowed to sing, even in the home.
We are not allowed to sing, ‘You’ll never walk alone.’
We are not allowed to meet, and gently shake the hand.
We are not allowed to meet, and listen to the band.
We are not allowed to meet, and graciously hug and kiss.
We are not allowed to meet, is not the only thing I miss.
We would like to have our freedom, and open up the door.
We would like to have our freedom, will we possibly value it more?
We would like to have our freedom, and say hello to all around.
We would like to have our freedom, and hear the human sound.
A Future Full of Bling ©
by
Sheila Charles
After a summer of collaboration,
fading leaves, once vibrant green, No longer rustle, party and sing. And branches reluctantly release
their coats of many colours, To rain and blustering winds. Fast falling foliage, the trees
clutch weather-worn cloaks, While fleshy fruits and hardened
cases, shiver motionless, Beneath beleaguered boughs, ready
to be transferred To a shallow grave. Red hips, crabby apples, and
aardvark-armoured nuts Bide their time guarding the next
generation, While dormant stands the tree in
silent contemplation, Believing in restoration. The season’s work complete,
content but not complacent, Trees dream of life anew, a
future full of bling, Awaiting ice-spiked nights and
howling gales Until the following Spring.
Just Floating Around ©
by
Ron Brewer
It was a comfortable life in the very
posh hotel. We were an exclusive group and we kept ourselves to ourselves.
Everyone knew that our lives were probably going to be rather short but we
never knew where we might end up. We could be very close to very important
people or we could just be ignored, ending up on the scrapheap. We had been carefully packaged by the
best people in the advertising and public relations industries. Designed to
give a very high class image without costing a fortune, we were considered
valuable items by those who took advantage of us each morning and evening. ***** It was a big up-market hotel in a
popular seaside location. Each morning the maids collected up their quota
before starting on their rounds. They took equal numbers of bath lotion,
shampoo and some fancy smelling soap which they would then display
appropriately in the rooms that they would be servicing. They were always
amazed when most of these items needed replacing each time they went round
even though there were hardly any of the wrappings in the waste bins. Did
people take them away as reminders of a lovely holiday or were they just so
hard up that it saved them a few pennies on their weekly shop? ***** I was one shampoo that actually got
used. My discarded plastic capsule had been dropped in the room’s waste bin.
The busy cleaners had then emptied out the bin’s contents into their big
waste bags ready to be put with all the rest of the hotel’s rubbish. The
hotel management didn’t bother to sort out what might be able to be recycled
so we were all off to landfill or, even worse, incineration. When the
council’s refuse vehicle arrived we would all be flung in the back of it and
driven off to our fate. This time it turned out to be the landfill site that
was way out of town near the river estuary. ***** As soon as we were all dumped on the
big heap, the resident gulls were screeching overhead and trying to find
something of interest that perhaps they could eat. At the same time a big
vehicle was driving back and forth over us to compact us down as much as
possible. Suddenly I was picked up along with a piece of ham sandwich and
was being flown out over the river estuary. Equally suddenly the gull found
that I was uneatable and so I was dropped from a considerable height into
the water below. So here I float, along with all the other plastic detritus
that may eventually be dumped on a nearby beach or discovered by some sea
creature that may also try to eat me.
Jack's Mountain ©
by
Pauline Parnell Hopkinson
‘Will it be tomorrow
Dad?’ Matt was putting the boys to bed after a fun packed day on Anglesey.
‘Well, I’ve looked at my weather App and it might be, if you get a good
night’s sleep.’ He turned out the light and went downstairs to the living
room of the cottage where Hannah sat with her Mum and Dad. They had hired
the holiday home with the idea of climbing Snowdon. ‘Are you up for it tomorrow Mum?’ Matt asked his
mother-in-law. ‘Jack and Henry are so keen, I think it has to be now or
never as the forecast is not so good later in the week.’ Margaret and John
looked at each other. ‘It won’t be easy but we’ll give it our best for the
boys.’ The cottage was set in a pretty little garden and
far enough away from the road to be safe for two energetic boys to explore
without danger. Henry, at nine, felt very superior to his seven year old
brother. They both went to after school clubs for gym and football so Matt
was not concerned about their fitness. Matt was a keen walker and had done all the research
but he had never climbed as high as the famous 3,560 ft mountain. He tried
to weigh up which would be the easiest route to take. Llanberis Path was
said to be the favourite but it was longer in miles than the Miner’s Track.
He put it to his father-in-law that they should go for the Miner’s Track as
it zig zagged around lakes and didn’t get steep till nearer the top. The
views would be better too. John agreed. Carrying knapsacks in which were their lunch,
bottles of water and chocolate and biscuits for energy boosters they all
left the Pen-y-Pass car park early the next morning. Hannah had explained to
the boys that there would be no café at the top due to the Corona virus and
the toilets were closed too. If they saw a group of people they would step
aside to let them pass at a safe distance. ‘We must all follow the rules.’
she said. Henry and Jack set off at a fast pace but soon
slowed down to stay close to Gran and Grandpa, remembering that they were
‘old people.’ The surrounding scenery was stunning and the bridleway was
quite easy to walk on. When they stopped for a snack Matt reminded the boys
that Sir Edmund Hillary had trained for his ascent to Everest on this very
mountain that they were climbing. Henry had learned about it at school, so
was very impressed. They continued upwards, the clear blue sky and warm
sunshine making the lakes below them glisten and shimmer. The footpath
became a harder challenge with loose scree making their feet slither and
slide on the unstable rocks. Margaret said to her daughter that she wouldn’t
like to live here in winter when the weather would be harsh. ‘Imagine the
cloud lowering around the mountain tops, you may not see the sun for days.
Snow can be picture postcard pretty but not if you have to go out in it.’ After a stop for lunch they eventually reached the
final ridge. There was only a few hundred feet to go. Jack was exultant,
he’d nearly made it to the top of his dream mountain. He ran across the
narrow path, the steep drop either side not bothering him at all. Henry and
Matt followed, then Margaret said to Hannah, ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t cross
that gap. My stomach is churning and the drop either side is terrifying me.’
John looked at her, he knew she had done well to get this far and with the
prospect of the descent still to be made he said gently, ’That’s okay
Margaret, we’ll wait for them here on this big rock. You have a rest and a
drink of water, they won’t be long.’ Two very excited boys slept
well that night and Gran, although disappointed not to have made the final
few feet, was nevertheless quite pleased to have made it nearly to the top
of Snowdon.
How the other half live! ©
by
Myra Oakenfold
Frankie knew the branch would hold his weight. He
was skinny and undernourished but very agile. His dirty, ragged clothing was
at odds with the neighbourhood, although this wasn’t a problem as he was
well hidden. He’d shinned up this particular tree many times before.
Escaping from Ma and the dreaded matchbox making, even for a short time, was
bliss. Watching the nobs fascinated Frankie. One day he
would wear a smart suit like the boy who lived at number 12. Frankie had
watched the young lad climb out of the hansom cab with a tall man who patted
him affectionately on the head and said, “Home at last Percy.” Frankie’s dad
often cuffed his ears, particularly when he was drunk, and muttered, “Get
out of my way, bloody kids!” Sometimes Percy was with a little girl. She had
a mass of blonde curls and pink cheeks. Frankie felt a bit sad when he heard
her giggling. His little sister Martha was just a baby when Ma woke up one
morning and found her dead. She had been jammed between her parents in their
small bed. Bet the kids of the toffs never suffocated he thought. They
didn’t have to live in one room. Percy didn’t have to share a bed with three
brothers. The family at 12 Digby Avenue kept the boy from the
slums captivated. Percy’s Mum wore beautiful frocks and was always smiling.
After peeking at the comings and goings at the grand house Frankie would run
quickly back home. He was soon at the sticky, slimy street where his family
lived in a squalid tenement block. His Ma would be waiting for him. Her
sunken, black rimmed eyes stood out from her pallid complexion and she was
always tired. If they had made a few hundred match boxes in a day Ma relaxed
a little and told stories. Frankie loved her tales about her time in service
with an upper-class family. “Cor, you should see how the other half live.” Life wasn’t all grim for Frankie. Sometimes Dad
bought home a pie from the stall down the street and they sang the old music
hall songs. Dad played his mouth organ and Ma danced, but usually fun days
were few and far between. One day Frankie was creeping down Digby Avenue
trying not to be conspicuous when he saw, on the opposite side of the road
at number 12, several people carrying furniture out of the house. Percy’s
Mum, with a child on either side, was sobbing. Frankie stepped back between
the trees and wondered what was happening. He turned quickly and walked
back. On the corner of the avenue he met Charlie clutching a basket of
kindling. The older boy was there selling his firewood most days. Today he
was keen to broadcast the news. “There’s been some right goings on at number 12!
They came for that posh man and carted him off to the debtors’ prison first
thing. Now they’re dragging out his furniture. People say he owed hundreds
and hundreds of pounds! Frankie had a great deal to ponder on his way home.
A Nice Cup of Tea ©
by
Jo Carr
“Nice cup of tea,
Marjorie dear?” said Dottie, bustling into the drawing room. She was still
in her apron but had cleared away lunch, done the washing up and made a
start on her other chores. She rested her hand briefly on the arm of a
chair; her arthritis had been playing up this morning and she was already
fagged out. However, as ladies companion, she knew her place and her
arthritis had little of importance in the life of her employer. Marjorie peered at her over the crossword page of
The Times and tut tutted at being disturbed. She was on the point of asking
Dottie if she knew the answer to a clue but refrained. Dottie was not
blessed with much intellect, something which used to have Marjorie in
despair. However, she was nevertheless a good house-keeper which was a sop
to Marjorie. She pursed her lips disdainfully. “Tea would be nice, Dottie,” she said, looking at
the clock. It was 2 o’clock and she turned on the television to watch the
racing. “After that, would you go to William Hill and put ten pounds on
‘Philanthropy’ for me,” she said. Dottie sighed inwardly, a headache beginning at her
temples. Why did Marjorie need the sound on maximum, she always wondered?
She made tea and delivered it to her boss, put on her coat and shoes and
exited the house. Marjorie waited until she heard the front door shut
and foraged in the large compartment of her chair. This was one place she
didn’t let Dottie dust. Hah, success, her bottle of gin was still there. She
poured a generous double into her porcelain cup, settling down to watch the
afternoon’s racing. She had studied the form and thought she was onto a
winner. Half an hour later, Dottie returned, betting slip in
hand. Marjorie was ready for more tea and she served her, noting that her
employer was flushed and a little vague. Probably the racing, Dottie thought
to herself, hoping Marjorie wasn’t going gaga. If her relatives put her into
a home, Dottie would be out of a job. After swivelling her neck around to check Dottie had
left the room, Marjorie poured another generous tot of gin into her tea. She
felt pleasantly euphoric and turned the television up to maximum, cheering
on Philanthropy when he won. The afternoon was when Dottie managed to get a
little rest from the demands of Marjorie. She sat in the kitchen, feasting
on a piece of fruit cake, unlaced her shoes and listened. No. All was quiet.
Marjorie was probably asleep in her chair. Dottie reached up into the highest cupboard and carefully pulled out a bottle of gin. It was still half full and she poured a generous tot into her tea. ‘A nice cup of tea, indeed!’
Last Train ©
by
Iris Welford
Eleanor pushed the waiting room door a little and
looked to see if anyone was in there. Satisfied she was the only person, she
went in and sat nearest to the dying embers of the coal fire. The room was
quite warm in comparison to the cold night air outside and had a lingering
smell of tobacco or was it cigar smoke, she was not sure. She looked at her
Timex, a gift from her grandmother the previous Christmas and realised she
had twenty minutes to wait before the train to London was due. She had not
meant to leave so late but Gran enjoyed her visits talking about the old
days and time had passed without her realising. The door suddenly opened, rousing Eleanor from her
reminiscences. A youngish man, came in. He looked at Eleanor and nodded his
head but did not say anything for which she was glad as she did not like
talking to strangers. She huddled nearer to the fire. The man was smoking,
the same smell that she had noticed before. Eleanor thought he must work on
the railway as he wore a grubby white shirt with sleeves rolled up. He had a
waistcoat with a watch and chain attached and wore dark baggy trousers all
of which seemed incongruous on such a cold October night. In the distance
she heard a bell ring. He coughed, “Next train soon” he stated. “Yes, thank you.” Eleanor replied and continued
looking at the fire. The man left and she breathed a sigh of relief. Seconds later the door opened once more. The station
master came in, a portly gentleman with rosy cheeks. “Two minutes, miss, and the last train will be
here.” “Yes, thank you, the other man just told me that.” “What man?” he asked. The man who seemed to have bad legs, he seemed to
shuffle. “Oh, you met our Thomas Port. He was a guard on this
line several years ago but he fell off the train as it started to leave and
was crushed. His legs were severed and he died later. He’s buried in Harrow
churchyard.” Eleanor shuddered. “You mean I’ve just seen a
ghost?” she gasped.
Adjusting ©
by
Hazel Gooderson
Not only was Matt missing his Friday quiz night, the
beers, and his mates but since the lockdown he had been struggling
twenty-four seven with his wife and the noise of her foot constantly on the
sewing machine pedal. Sylvie was saddened to see her husband imprisoned and
deprived of his television sport as she had found herself making scrubs for
the NHS. Matt a carpet fitter and Sylvie a hairdresser had been furloughed
and Matt was struggling to find purpose to his days in the small flat that
they had hoped to move out of. ‘I’ve been thinking Matt, why don’t you set up a virtual quiz on Zoom or
Google Hangouts or even House Party?’ Matt’s hand stopped halfway to his mouth, butter
slipping from the toast onto his lap. He cocked his head to one side, brain
cells whirring. Why hadn’t he thought of the idea? He jumped up, pecked
Sylvie on the cheek and rinsed his hands before grabbing his i-phone. He
could check if all the regular team and their opponents had broadband. ‘I’m doing a Pilates zoom tomorrow night Matt, I could ask B what to
do.’ ‘Don’t worry; I’ll Google it now you’ve given me the
idea.’ Sylvie smiled to herself, a happy hubby made her life
so much more pleasant. Yes, she adored him, but he was not very good at
change. The news ten days ago of being shut up for ten weeks had not been
accepted well by him. Matt retreated into the bedroom; in between machining,
Sylvie could hear his excited chatter and when she went to offer him a
coffee, his grinning face showed all was going well. The following day he
was up, shaved and showered standing beside the bed with a mug of steaming
tea proffered in his left hand, the wedding ring on his finger still
gleaming with newness. ‘I’ve got the team on board for Friday night love.
They’re all up for it, missing it as much as I have been. I’m going to be
the host and none of us has to bother with the drink driving rules.’ He
chuckled, the first she’d heard in a while. ‘Would you mind if I set the
laptop up in the lounge, as I need a plain wall behind with no light
reflecting? I thought our bookcase wall would be too distracting,’ he
winked. ‘I’ve started to prepare the questions on different slides, with a
picture round, sport and music using Spotify. I need to prepare and email a
numbered answer sheet.’ Oh, he was so animated his wife thought as she bit
into a juicy pear. ‘Cheers,’ they all waved beer mugs ‘and welcome to our
Zoom quiz night, the first of many if you all behave,’ the four teams
bantered together and the quiz began. Close to the allocated time ‘Now everyone, write your
score on the answer sheet and hold it up to the camera. Don’t worry; it is
backwards to you but not to us.’ It didn’t take Matt long to say: ‘And it’s a well done to The Three Must Get Beers, with
Bad Boys just one point behind. See you all same time next week and we’ll
see if they can hold the title. Bye.’ Many hands and beer mugs waved at the
screen.
Arrogance ©
by
Deborah Dunseith
Downstream from the big city
The Urban Immigrant ©
by
Ali Davis
It was eerily quiet. The light
levels low in that time between dusk and pitch black. The pale meniscus moon
lending nothing. The riverbank was deserted, no moorhen picking desultorily
at scant greenery. Even the water had a brackish air and probably not fit to
drink. But needs must for he was parched. He hunched down and gulped,
lapping like a dog and carelessly spraying droplets. Once sated his thoughts
turned urgently to food. Even moorhen was off the menu and the river was
long devoid of fish. He set off to the nearest farm.
Across the fields, skirting the barbed wire and the frozen cow pats. He
conjured the taste of chicken although it was a distant memory. The farm
though always had a large flock. He just had to avoid the aged collie who,
with any luck, might be deaf by now. His nose alerted him first. Then
the buzzing swarm of flies. A barely discernible single chicken carcass was
lying in the yard, largely picked clean. He checked the main barn but that
proved empty too. Still there was plenty of straw to bed down in. Reminded
that he was still hungry he peered into the farmhouse where a single light
pooled on the kitchen table. That too was bare. The back door was ajar so he
entered warily. No-one appeared to confront him and, joy of joys, the larder
was open. Joy soon turned to dismay as yet another cloud of flies had beaten
him to whatever had been edible. Deciding to cut his losses he
abandoned the farm and set off, again across the fields, to the next nearest
house. In fact these were a small string of terraces, built for the farm
workers but since sold off as the farm had diminished. Most recently these
had been populated by city folk with large flashy cars that whipped down
single track lanes with no thought for anybody. He despised everything they
stood for but had to admit their wastefulness with food had worked to his
advantage. Their bins were often overflowing with half-eaten takeaway
containers and food past its use by date. Finally his luck was in for the
very last bin he checked had its lid closed so that the flies had not beaten
him to it. He nudged the lid off very carefully, ever vigilant to eyes and
ears. He was rewarded by a chicken carcass with plenty of meat on its bones
and several containers with eye watering bits and pieces swimming around in
a viscous red sauce. Food fit for a king. With his tongue burning and his
belly full he sloped off back to the riverbed where he often slept. A mossy
hollow sheltered by ferns made for a comfortable pad for one urban fox who
had been forced out of the big city.
Mr Lighthouse Man ©
by
Alan Hewison
The phone rang. ‘Hello?’ I said, there was no one
there. I hung up. All the lights went out. I must have dozed off. I lay for a moment to collect myself, whilst doing so I
heard the generator start and saw all the lights come on again. A few thoughts struck me. One; that's only the second
time in a hundred years the lighthouse light has failed and two; the
emergency generator started automatically and temporarily restored the
electricity. This enabled the lights to return which was a really good thing
for a lighthouse. I rose from my slumber, stumbled into the room where
the electrical fuse box was situated and gently studied it. Suddenly a little voice said: ‘It was Brian who fused
all the lights. I think he’s had a terrible shock.’ I looked around but couldn’t see anything or anybody.
Then the same voice spoke again. ‘I’m down here,’ it said. I looked down and saw an elegant grey mouse raised up
on hind legs, with an expression on his face indicating a tear was about to
form in his eye. Again it spoke: ‘I think we’ve had an accident.’ ‘Have we?’ I said in a surprisingly calm voice. ‘Yes, Brian the explorer has explored a bit too far and
blown a fuse in more ways than one.’ ‘Hang on a second,’ I said, ‘who are you?’ He regained his composure, stood to attention, folded
his arms across his chest and lifted his head. ‘Ah yes, I’m George and I’m a lighthouse mouse, in
fact, I am the head of all the lighthouse mice.’ ‘Oh, are you? Well hello George, nice to meet you. Is
Brian inside the electrical fuse box?’ I asked. ‘Yes I think so, can you get him out and we’ll give him
a proper state burial?’ ‘Oh, is he royalty then?’ I politely enquired. ‘No, after what’s happened I think he’s just in a bit
of a state.’ I opened the fuse box and there was Brian, stuck behind
two fuses, stiff as a board. George gently asked, ‘Can you get him down? I’ll
arrange for the lads and Marilyn to carry him outside.’ ‘Err, Marilyn?’ ‘Yes, she’s the backbone of the team.’ I switched the fusebox off and removed Brian the
explorer. ‘Here he is; I’ll take him outside for you if you want me to?’ ‘No no, union rules, we’ll do the taking out thank you;
err, no offence.’ ‘No, no offence taken. By the way, why haven't I met
you before?’ ‘Ah, you weren't around the last time the big light
went out. It was long ago, before your time.’ A little troop of mice came in, took hold of Brian and
marched him out, as they went George shouted, ‘see you later.’ I stood slightly dazed and perplexed but outwardly
managed a rather satisfying smile. Slowly and thoughtfully I replaced the fuses, stopped
the generator, turned the switch and the main light came on. ‘Jolly good,’ I whispered.
The Loom ©
by
Iris Welford
Aunt Jane was my
godmother. My mother and I visited the large, rather untidy house
infrequently even though she and her husband Jack lived a mere two miles
away. Jack on the other hand, had a splendid garden filled with flowers and
immense hydrangeas which were his pride and joy. Jane was always pleased to
see us but in her eccentric way would not offer a cup of tea until we were
about to leave but that did not matter because I was intrigued with Aunt
Jane’s latest project. She
invited me into her world where an eight-foot-tall loom filled the front
room. She told me she was making cloth of many colours with patterns that
she had devised and, flicking a switch, the contraption sprang into action.
The constant clack, clack, clack as the shuttle sped backwards and forwards
was loud. Dust motes filled the air as the cloth grew. Aunt Jane’s face grew
redder in the heat. Finally, she stopped and asked if I would like to see
other cloth she had made. We
climbed to the top of the house to a room which was filled with rolls of
material, all carefully wound around cardboard cylinders. Every colour,
every variety of cloth seemed to be stacked orderly in contrast to the rest
of the house. I asked her what she did with these rolls of cloth and she
told me they were sold to famous fashion houses ready be made into stunning
clothes for the rich and famous. I was impressed. A few
years later, Jane died. After the funeral, Jack gave me a painting which was
a self-portrait of Jane working on her loom; at the time she had progressed
into her artistic phase. He told me she was thrilled I had taken an interest
in her cloth making. I took the painting home but had reservations about
hanging it in my minimalist loft apartment and relegated it to a cupboard in
my spare room. One
chilly evening, a few weeks later, the wind was howling around my building
blowing along the eaves, creaking the roof timbers. I had become indifferent
to the noises this old former warehouse made but I noticed a new peculiar
rattle that seemed to come from my spare room. I investigated but found
nothing untoward until I opened the cupboard. I had forgotten Jane’s
painting and took it out. It seemed different to the last time I saw it. Her
face seemed to be looking at me and the cloth on the loom appeared to have
grown. I pinched myself, shook my head and hastily put the painting back in
the cupboard. I
thought no more about the incident until a few weeks later when we had a
major storm. Again, the timbers groaned and I heard the clack, clack, clack
of the loom. I took the painting out of the cupboard and studied it. I was
sure the cloth on the loom had grown and Jane’s face was not only looking at
me but seemed more intent than before. I noticed her brow was furrowed and
her lips seemed more open as if she was talking to me. I shuddered but left
Aunt Jane propped by a window instead of the dark cupboard. It
seemed the winter would never end. Rain and wind had become the norm with
flooding all over the country. A calm evening a week or two later, the
clack, clack started again. I looked at Aunt Jane. Her mouth was definitely
open and seemed to be saying “Go”. I felt afraid, was Jane trying to tell me
something? I could not sleep that night and prowled around the living room.
The wind had increased and the street lights below began to flicker as rain
started. I heard an ominous creek from the spare room then an almighty
crash. Grabbing my coat, mobile and bag while jumping into boots I hurtled
towards the lift door and pressed the red button. Slowly the rickety lift
wound its way to the top of the building. I opened the gate, pressed ground
and felt myself shaking as I descended into darkness. In the
eerie morning light, I could see that the roof had collapsed. “You were
lucky to get out Miss, you could have been killed.” A young fireman put his
arm round my shoulder. “Guess you had a guardian angel.” I nodded and
noticed that in the rubble where some of my belongings lay, was the
painting. I picked it up and rubbed the dirt away. Aunt Jane was smiling
that little ‘pinched mouth’ smile that I remembered well.
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This site was last updated 01/15/23