Musings on a Wet Afternoon by Virginia Hainsworth

Transition

Transition excites me.  It means development or growth.  Enhancement.  Improvement.  I want to exist in a state of transition.  To set off on a journey and arrive back in the same place but to have developed en route.  That is a good journey.

Love

A word used too often.  ‘I love Asian food’.  ‘I love Oxford.’  We should only be allowed to utter the word a maximum of 100 times in our whole lifetime.  Then we would use it wisely.  I love that idea.  Oops!

Oddballs.

I like people who are oddballs. Unless they sit next to me on a bus.  Then I feel intimidated by them.

Intensity

I wish I had a magic wand and could conjure up intensity when I required it – focus, concentration, passion, expression – at the drop of a hat.  How wonderful that would be.

Place

Everyone should have a place of their own.  A small space where they can be themselves.  Be safe, be warm, be content. If only for a moment.  It troubles me to think that many people do not have such a place, not even inside their own mind.

Adventure

Adventure is the spice of life.  Even for those who are cautious. What would the world be without adventurers?  Scott of the Antarctic.  Ranulph Fiennes.  But you can go on an adventure inside your own head.  In fact, that is the greatest adventure of all.  You are capable of anything.  Can become anything.  

The biggest and most exciting adventure of all is the one from who you are now, to who you can become.

A Happy New Year to all readers and contributors.

Elf Trouble by Holly Berry (aka Clair Wright)

Jane was starting to wish she had never given in to the Elf on the Shelf.

   Emily had started her campaign in September. “You want an elf, don’t you Thomas?” she asked her little brother.

  “What does it do?”
  “It watches you, and it tells Santa if you’ve been good,” said Emily.

   Thomas looked doubtful. “And it’s funny! It does lots of really fun things!” said Emily. “Everyone else had one last year.” She looked reproachfully at Jane.

   It was true. Jane’s Facebook feed had been full of cute, clever photos of little red elves getting up to “mischief” in the homes of other school mums. It all looked like a lot of effort.

   By the end of November,  Jane had been worn down. If the elf could get the kids to do their chores, then it was worth a try.  

   On the first day of December, she played it safe with the elf sitting in a plant pot, watching over the dinner table.

   “I don’t like him watching me,” pronounced Thomas, as he tried to hide his broccoli stalks under his fork.

   “He’s cute!’ said Emily. “You’ll just have to be good, won’t you?”  She finished off her peas. “I wonder what he’ll be up to tomorrow?”

   Jane was quite proud of her efforts in the first week. On Monday,  the elf was writing his tiny Christmas cards, on Tuesday, he was cleaning his teeth (to promote good oral hygiene).   On Wednesday, he was revising his spellings (it might be Christmas but education is still important). On Friday, he was tangled in the fairy lights, to show his fun side. Thomas was still not convinced.

   “Does he really report back to Santa?” he asked Emily, keeping a close eye on the elf as he set the table.

   “Oh yes,” said Emily. “He goes back to the North Pole every night, doesn’t he Mum?”

   “That’s right!” nodded Jane.  “Don’t forget the coasters.” She was starting to like this elf thing.

   On Saturday, the elf was tidying the Lego. On Sunday, he was pairing socks. Thomas rolled his eyes. “This elf is such a goody-goody!” he said.

   “He’s setting a good example!” said Jane. “You don’t want him to tell Santa to put you on the naughty list.”

   On Monday, Jane woke at six with a start. She had forgotten to move the elf! She pulled on her dressing down and ran downstairs. 

   The elf was no longer sitting on the paired socks in the corner of the kitchen.  She rummaged amongst the clean laundry, but the elf wasn’t there. Jane hurried into the living room, listening for sounds of the children waking.

   There was the elf, lying on top the bookcase. He had made a perfect snow angel in the film of dust. Jane gave him a quick shake and flicked off the dust with her sleeve.  She propped the elf between the books (to promote reading).

   “Why is the elf all dusty?” asked Emily.         
   “No idea!” replied Jane. “Go and tidy your rooms!” Thomas scowled and slouched upstairs.

   On Monday evening, Jane remembered the elf. She wasn’t going to get caught out again. But the bookcase was empty – the elf was gone.

    This time, she found him in the pantry, peering out of the empty biscuit tin. Jane had finished the last hobnob while the children did their homework.  She brushed crumbs off his red suit. “I’m allowed a hobnob!” she retorted as the elf frowned at her.  Jane popped the elf in the fruit bowl (to encourage health eating) and went to bed.

   On Tuesday morning, Thomas rubbed his eyes over the breakfast table. “Where’s that elf?” he asked, warily.  

   Jane glanced at the fruit bowl, sitting on the kitchen table. The elf wasn’t there.

   “He’s there!” shouted Thomas, jumping out of his chair.  He pointed to the oven.

   Through the grease-spotted glass, Jane could indeed see a little red figure, staring accusingly at her. “What’s he doing in the oven?” Emily pulled open the oven door. She snatched up the elf. “Look at him! He’s filthy!”

   Jane peered into the oven, which was indeed overdue a clean.  Thomas looked anxious. “Are you on the naughty list now, mum?

   She held out her hand to Emily. “Give that Elf to me,” she said. “I’ll take care of him.” She glowered at the smug expression on his grubby face. 

   Jane had a feeling the elf would be delayed on his trip to the North Pole tonight. Very delayed indeed.

Faerie Queen by Charles Penrose (aka Chris Lloyd)

In a time long ago, before mountains were fully grown and the cold, harsh, rocky land was covered with snow and ice and the nights were as black as the inside of a black cat, (or an old oven) and wolves and other, unknown animals, (Hmmm), roamed with impunity, a Faerie Queen ruled over her people with a kind, beatific sense of peace and calm.  The Faerie Queen had been on her noble throne, (in reality a so-called magic rock), for many eons and she was thinking that it was time to hand over the wand to a younger queen and besides her bum was numb from sitting on the damned cold stone. So, one bright sunny day, the first for a while, she called a meeting of her sub rulers and their customer-facing drones. (Drones were mainly males but most did not have the parts that definitely meant they were males in the Faerie Queen’s eyes, well not eyes, you get the drift.) Her desired meeting was a call for the election of a new Queen and her most trusted Sentinels. This was the first time for two eons that such an election was called during the time immediately before the faerie’s most joyous time of the year, Getting Pissed and Fat Day, (that is a loose translation but near enough.)  All the faeries would visit each other, let their wings down and the younger ones would generally slag each other off by sending images of themselves in various state of undress, to the faerie media companies. It was such fun until someone sent an image of you with a Sentinel when you were at a Faerie Party, then it was tears, denials, resignations, recriminations. Thankfully, the Faerie Queen didn’t have any Princes being silly.

But I digress. The Election call was met with much shouting, waving of bits of paper and pointing. The head Sentinel had to visit the Faerie Queen to formally ask her to suspend the powers of all concerned so they could all have a jolly good time wandering around schools, hospitals, Faeries’ doors, and other places where they were not welcome. Now I think it fair to say at this juncture that there were no chickens in Faerie Land in those days so the shouting and strutting could go on without fear of having an egg collide with your clothes, or your face which was a shame. The Faerie Queen was putting a great deal of trust in the Election Committee, which was a semi-power house of old Sentinels who were deaf, incontinent or blind drunk. When they got out of hand, the ruling Sentinels ignored them and did their own law making anyway. It is termed “democracy.”

There was to be a short time to complete the election as Getting Pissed and Fat Day period was usually devoted to rushing around with bags of useless tat purchased from the Ezelek shops, (Faerie Land currency), which was all broken by the end of the celebration. However the fact that the date of the election was near that time, it could be said that the result would favour those people of Faerie Land who were, shall we say, less likely to be chasing around the Ezelek shops for gifts, as they had “Faeries” bring presents to them in order that they could select in the comfort of their own well-appointed underground maisonettes.

The day of the Election dawned and the time of seeing Sentinels that you had never seen before passed. This was met with great relief by the general Faerie population; all that remained was the vote and all over Faerie Land little houses were erected in case it rained and so that the voting Faeries could go in and stab a hole in a spot next to their candidate. Easy, you would think. No; simply because if the bits of paper of the stabbed ballot paper, (called chad, after the Chad Hole Punch Company), did not cleanly fall out, that vote could not be counted by the notoriously unreliable counting machines. This was clearly a dilemma, (had there been tampering, or other nefarious deeds to make less chad?) Anyway, they would never be used again.

The head Sentinel summoned senior sentinels and discussed whether to hold a referendum to determine if the “Chad Votes” as they were known, should be in the vote or out. The Sentinels, except Jimmy K from Northern parts, refused a referendum as they were worried Jimmy K might turn it into a different referendum.

At last, ten days before Getting Pissed and Fat Day the result of the election, minus Chad, was announced. 

The ruling group would remain in power with enough seats to ensure that fairness among the populace would remain firmly in the south. The second main group with the beardy Sentinel gave up. The Faerie Queen decided that actually she could have sat on the rock, sorry throne, for a bit longer so all in all a complete waste of time and all the high street shops, or what was left of them, complained for weeks after Getting Pissed and Fat Day that they had lost stacks of money because the interference of the election diverted faeries’ minds just before the biggest shopping period of the year. It makes you feel sorry for their highly paid Directors!


And on that bombshell, things in Faerie Land did not change one iota! Except that the beardy one sort of disappeared from the scene with a lot of his friends. Happy Getting Pissed and Fat day!

Charles Penrose

Snapshot by Dave Rigby

With the girlfriend gone, I can’t afford this place, so it’s downsizing time.

   Going through box after box in the attic, I come across my old camera. There’s an unfinished film inside. With the camera pensioned off when I got my first smart phone, the film must be all of ten years old.

   In town the next day I find a feller down in the arcade who still does developing. The age of the film shouldn’t be a problem. But it turns out the price tag includes having to listen to an endless story about his dog.

   When I collect the prints the following day, I’m suddenly quite excited. No idea what they’ll show. I escape the storyteller and grab a coffee. Most of the snaps are either under or over-exposed. There’s one or two where I’ve tried and failed to be arty. But the final one stuns me.

   I’ve no memory of it being taken. Perhaps the barman took the shot.

   Four of us, arms over shoulders, like first row forwards, grinning like idiots. Me and my old school pal Jonno and two Aussie’s we’d just met in a club.

   A down-at-heel place, above one or other of the rivers, on the edge of the old town. I can still hear the deafening music, taste the cheap, greasy pizza and feel the stifling heat – and my thumping head. We’d all had more than a few.

   A summer night, warm as hell, t-shirts, shorts and flip-flops. We walked along the bank to where the two rivers joined. Right at the end of the spit, there was a grassy patch and two ancient tram rails leading nowhere, apart from into the river.

   We lay on our backs star-gazing. Jonno and Luc fell asleep. Their snoring set me and Mads off giggling. When she kissed me – well I couldn’t believe it.

   The next moment, she was up and away, standing on the edge of the water, waking Luc with a shout and telling him to follow her. They waded out between the rails.

   Then in a flash they disappeared.

   I thought they’d resurface further downstream, laughing their heads off. But they didn’t.

Jonno was still out of it. Besides he couldn’t swim, so it was all down to me.

   The water wasn’t as cold as I’d feared, but just as murky as I’d imagined. Submerged, I had to feel around for any sign of them. But there was only water and mud – and those rails, sloping away.

   Coming up for air, I called to Jonno. Had he seen anything? No reply.

   My search continued, but as exhaustion set in, it dawned on me that I had to save myself.     With no chance of getting back to the spit, against the current, my only option was to drift further downstream and hope.

   A few metres to the left and the boat would have hit me. But I was in luck. It saved me. Breathless, I managed a few garbled sentences and listened as they put out a search and rescue message. The incoming was an incomprehensible squawk.

   No trace was found of Luc and Mads.

   Jonno refused to believe they’d perished. Hard to understand, but he felt sort of responsible for their disappearance, the way he’d been out of it that night. Over the years he’s made enquiries, but with so little to go on – no surnames, no addresses and only our own hazy descriptions – he’s got nowhere.

   But now we have a snapshot. They’ll have changed after all this time, but still, there’s a chance someone will recognise them.

   I scan and email the pic to Jonno. Message back – he’ll be on to it straight away. ‘Mr Social Media’, him – a foreign language to me.

   Nothing, until two months later, an email from ‘Melbourne Mads’.  

   How did you get that photo?

   I reply, explaining about the long-undeveloped film, asking what had happened after she and Luc disappeared into the darkness of the river, telling her of my rescue attempt.

   She phones me.

   The two of them had just drifted off downstream, too high to be worried, never a thought that I’d try and follow them. I’d seemed far too sensible for that. And where is Luc now, I ask. She doesn’t know. They’d drifted apart. And that kiss. Does she remember. Sure, she does!     How about a repeat performance, she asks?

   That would be great, I tell her, but it would take a while to save up the air fare to Oz.

   No need, she says.

   She’s in London and has been for nearly ten years.

The Letter by Virginia Hainsworth

He sat down at the carved antique desk and looked out of the window at the long drive ahead.  On the desk before him lay smooth vellum writing paper, coloured inks and an array of beautiful writing implements.  A familiar sight and one which normally centred him and made him feel calm.  But not this time.  He looked out at the carefully manicured lawns and the rows of poplar trees standing to attention in the warm sun.  What would it be like to lose all of this?

His hands shook as he lifted his favourite fountain pen and began to fill it with purple ink.  He gripped the chunky barrel of the pen and held it, poised over the paper, as he considered how to start what might be the most important letter of his life.

Suddenly, the door opened so violently that it made him jump and a tiny blob of purple ink escaped from the pen and fell onto the paper.

'Damn,' he uttered as the ink slowly spread outwards, as if it were acid, eroding the paper.

'How can you even think of writing at a time like this, when we need to talk?' spluttered the woman at the door. 'I've been looking for you all over the house but should have known that I'd find you here.'

He remained silent as the ink blot grew in size.

'Well?' she continued.  'What excuse do you have this time?'

No answer.

She persevered.  'How did you get hold of the whiskey?  I told Clarkson to remove it all to the cellar.  He said the cellar key has not left his sight since last night.'

Silence.

'I guess you must have smuggled it in.' She continued the conversation with herself.  'Although God knows how.  You promised.....'

Her words seeped into his ears.  The ink seeped further into the paper.

'Aren't you at least going to apologise?'

He looked up at her and could see beyond, where Clarkson was hovering with a tray of coffee, about to turn away, so as not to intrude.

'It's OK, Clarkson,' he called across.  'Coffee would be great, thanks.'

She stepped aside to let Clarkson through and then disappeared from his view altogether.  He could just about hear the sound of her heels on the wooden floor as she tip-tapped away down the corridor.

He breathed a sigh of relief and returned to his letter - thankfully, the ink blot had not soaked through to the leather inlay beneath the paper.

Remembering Abu Simbel by Andrew Shephard

Remembering Abu Simbel

Twice yearly at the equinox

a golden spear pierces early vapour

(sometimes setting clouds on fire)

arrows along the Grimescar Valley until,

encountering an obstacle to its interstellar path

(my house, my cave, my temple)

it rips through a curtain crevice

to slay my dream-bound sleep with blood-red light,

changing me in a single strike

from sleeping animal to waking god.

The Economy of Excaliburs by Owen Townend

Excalibur washed up at Hollingworth Lake. I was down by the shore, feeding ducks at the time. All of a sudden, the sword bobbed up and sent them squawking away. 

           I could tell what it was on sight, ancient and grandiose. The hilt was very plain considering the legend; bronze rather than gold. At least the quartz in its pommel had retained some lustre, if not any real colour. There were quite a few noticeable rust marks along the blade itself too. Considering coastal erosion, I would say Excalibur did well to look so good.

It took me a minute to realise that I could raise it. Did that mean I was King of England now? Arthur's rightful successor? Not too likely. I had glanced at my Auntie's copy of the family tree. She insisted our roots began sometime during the Jacobean era.

Nevertheless, I felt like an absolute badass. I swung the sword around a bit: “Take that, Morgan le Fey! And that, Mordred!” Did Arthur have another enemy with a name beginning with ‘Mor’? I didn’t let that stop me, just kept stabbing and slashing at imaginary invaders. Realising that the sun was finally setting, I sheathed the sword in a Sainsburys bag and rushed on home.

When I got in the door, I called out to my Auntie: "Are you sure we're the Pendergrasses and not the Pendragons?"

She was bolt upright in her paisley lounge chair; fingernails digging into the armrests. Her glasses were perched precariously at the end of her nose as she watched the TV. She glanced at me. "Have you seen this?" She pointed at the evening news.

I saw footage of a little old Jamaican lady talking about the Lord's message whilst waggling around her own sword. Same bronze hilt, same quartz pommel. "That can't be..."

"It is though!" Auntie spoke with a flutter in her voice. "Excali-" At last she turned to me fully and saw the sword in my hands. Her mouth dropped. "You too?"

"Apparently so," I muttered. I read the banner at the bottom of the screen as it scrolled left to right with more Excalibur discoveries in Loch Lomond, Tardebigge Lake, Bala Lake and Lough Ree. Of course, the BBC trained their cameras on the Excalibur that rose from The Serpentine in London.

"What the hell is happening?" Auntie said.

"Some kind of joke, I wouldn't wonder," I said. "Unless the Lady of the Lake made a  surplus supply of swords."

"Who knew she even existed?"

I stopped speaking, too angry to even speculate. It's like when you’re really little and discover something special only to go out on the playground the next day to find everyone else has it too. No big deal.

While Auntie stayed up late to watch Arthurian documentary after Arthurian documentary on BBC4, I went to bed early. I already had my fill of all that and just wanted time to sleep and recover from the emotional rollercoaster of the past few hours.

Before I switched off the light, I propped Excalibur up against my nightstand. It’s not a round table but the top is oval. The bastard sword slid off almost immediately.

Next morning at the dining table, I startled Auntie by finally speaking up. Her grape fruit squirted all over my Weetabix.

"Either we're all the rightful heirs to a mythical king or these swords are worthless."

Auntie watched as I drummed my fingers on the quartz pommel. She winced at the blade that was scuffing her sheepskin rug. "Has it done anything magical?"

"No."

"Does it feel magical?"

I sighed. "Not anymore." 

Auntie tried to be solemn, looking down at the red juice stain on her table mat. Still she came up giggling.

"You say worthless like you've had a big loss in the stock market." She winked. "You have a sword, love, not a share."

It took me a moment but I did give up my scowl. "Bang goes the economy of Excaliburs, I suppose."

We chuckled a bit then checked the news. All in all, only ten Excaliburs were found. At least I was part of an exclusive club.

Since then the press has called. We're all to gather at Arthur's tomb in Glastonbury for a special national news feature. We'll raise our swords and pose for the cameras. Who knows: maybe something significant will happen. If not, at least the day will rule…

The Day the World Changed by Annabel Howarth

The day the world changed, the sun was shining.  

It was long after the party, when all the street was covered with flags made from old clothes and bed sheets, and we’d stayed up late, and I saw my mother smile with her eyes for the first time.  The women were always chattering, but the chattering had taken on a different air, as they prepared for the big celebration.  The factory was closed for the day.  Everyone was happy that day, eating, drinking and smoking, dancing even, into the night.  And mother was full of bumptiousness, as Aunty Sarah called it.  Although mother wasn’t sure that was the right word at all. 

After that we waited “for the men to come home” but the waiting went on.  Mother lost her smile again, but after a while of staring at the door, everything went back to as it was.  Mother went to the mill and I stayed home with Auntie Sarah, until the day I was dressed in new shoes from Aunty Nancy’s shop, and we had our picture taken at the photographer shop.  Me, mother and Ruby,  in a pretty dress with her hair in long plaits and bows.  Then I went to the school each day, like our Ruby.  Mother was still waiting for the men to come home, but months went by.  

The day the world changed, I was sat on the step waiting for mother to come home, pushing my little blue car along by my feet.  A shadow fell across the road, but it wasn’t the shape of my mother.  I looked up, the sun was low behind the dark figure, so I couldn’t see his face at first, but the voice, like a low bell, frightened me.  Apart from old man Joe at number 10, I’d not really met a man before, and he barely said a word.  He just seemed to listen and roll his eyes a lot, whilst sat at his chair outside, puffing on his pipe.

            “You must be Lawrence.  I’m your Dad.”

I banged on the door with my fists until Ruby let me in, burying my face in her dress.

            “It’s all right,” the voice said, and I turned to see the tall figure in the doorway, with red wavy hair and watery eyes, smile. 

Ruby’s face lit up and she gently pushed me aside to run into his outstretched arms.

            When mother came home, she screamed, “Law-rence!” through the door, “Where were you? I’ve had to struggle all the way up the…”

            The man stood up from the kitchen chair, where he was sat, with our Ruby.  I was sat in the corner on the floor with my blue car.  The shopping bags crashed to the floor.

            “Where the bloody ‘ell ‘ave you bin, Kenty,” she shouted.  “You’re late.”

            “Ooh, you’ve not changed one bit, Lizzie,” he laughed, and picked her up off the ground.

            “Put me down you daft bugger,” she said, but she laughed, and she didn’t seem to worry about the waste of the smashed eggs that night.  She opened a bottle of her homemade wine, and laughed as the man (my Dad) tap danced on the floor, and I could still hear their loud voices as I lay in my bed, trying to sleep.  

            The world changed, and mother didn’t go to the mill no more.  She said it was because the men came home.  She seemed happy at first, doing the jobs she never had time to do before.  But the days that Dad came home late, and his dinner was at the back of the fire, and I would sit on the top step of the stairs with our Ruby listening to them shouting and clattering about, I would have this black feeling in my tummy.

            Not long after the world changed, I felt a man’s fist for the first time, and I sometimes wondered if the world wasn’t a better place before it changed.  But on the nights when I could hear my Dad cry out in his sleep, I would feel so sad for him.  And mostly he had a shine in his eyes, when he told me long tales of his life when he was my age, swimming in the rivers and playing cricket with his friends, and then he’d look distant and sad when he told me about the time that they took away his horse Rosie for another war, and she didn’t come back.  He missed his friend, Jock, and there was a photo of the two of them when they first arrived in Africa.  My Dad would never talk about it.  He would get solemn and angry and say, “There is nothing good about war”.  Jock never got to go home to his family. 

            And not long after the world changed, it changed again.  My mother’s belly grew so fat and then one day, the baby came.  And that was the day that, for me, things really changed.

Remember, Remember by Juliet Thomas

Remember, Remember

She used to love Bonfire Night, it was the highlight of Autumn for her, she was never a huge fan of Halloween and the grotesque costumes that the other kids found hilarious. She’d shiver in the damp, windy nights, trying to keep up with the older kids on her street who squealed in delight, knocking on neighbours’ doors and running into the distance, before she lost sight of them in the darkness.

No, Bonfire Night was different; warm, magical and filled with ‘Ooos’ and ‘Ahhs’. Bonfire Night meant getting wrapped up in layer upon layer of woollen tights, jeans, fat socks and purple wellies, vests and polo necks, a big duffle coat and knitted scarf, thick mittens and an itchy bobble hat that covered her eyes.

By the time she tramped across the fields, holding her Mum and Dad’s hands, she’d walk stiffly like a robot, snug as a bug in a rug.

Once the fire was lit, she’d edge closer, the heat warming her eyeballs and spreading like warm water across her cheeks. Her mittens would come off, reaching out to feel the heat on bare fingers which she’d wiggle and make dance like the flames before her.

Eventually they’d pull away, dodging the sparks of amber raining down, to seek toffee apples from the white van with mud encrusted tyres and splatters like whipped chocolate up the sides.

The glazed apples on sticks would glow like a mirror-ball mimicking the flames as she’d take her first bite through, licking her lips free of sticky sweet coating and wiping the juice from her chin. The sour was always a surprise to the sweet, making her ears laugh as she shuddered.

Those were the memories that warmed her though to the core as a child but were now discoloured and damaged in adulthood. The significance of a date reserved for fun and laughter, excitement and wonder now darkens her heart in the long chillier nights until New Year.

Striking fireworks that made her heart soar as they exploded to light the inky skies, now stood as a dazzling reminder of dangerous arguments and an impossible situation branded into the calendar of their lives forever.

Life had moved on, as it had to for the sake of their other children, for some semblance of her sanity, for some small chance of healing but she can never forget, especially at this time of year.

Remember, remember the fifth of November. How can she not?

Of course, she can’t ruin the occasion for her children, they looked forward to this time of year and so she takes them, her smile painted on and she fights to not think about another year gone by, that Bonfire Night could have been even more special. More flames. More light. More laughter.

As she stares into the huge, threatening fire, spitting and cracking as crates burn turning them into charred, hollow entities, tears fall and she bitterly wipes them away, thankful she can blame the smoke tonight.

He turns, meeting her eye for a flicker of a second and takes their daughter off to collect hot chocolates and fresh doughnuts, weaving through the crowd, blending into bodies and occasional burst of laughter as children write their names with sparklers. She watches him disappear.

Does he remember too? Does he feel the missing piece at all, 6 years on? Or is it long gone, buried to hide the truth of that time, to pretend it never happened?

Her youngest looks up at her with a beaming grin and ruddy cheeks spotlighted by the flames, his angelic excitement and deepest blue eyes catching her breathe.

He takes her left hand and gives it a squeeze, the kind gesture almost breaking her. She squeezes it back and shoves her right hand deep into her pocket, curling it into a fist.

Where another, smaller hand should be intertwined with her fingers, sits a citrine ring, a gemstone of light, happiness and abundance…..and also the birthstone of November. 

One Last Job (Extract) by Ian F White

Winston Powel sat on the edge of the bed in the dark motel room, staring out through the grimy window at the low moon. The window was slightly open and a cold night breeze stirred the thin curtains and cooled his skin.

He refocused his vision and assessed his reflection. Black skin, white eyes, black suit, white shirt, and black tie. He smiled. White teeth too.

The night was not quiet; police sirens blared far off in the city, a dog barked and its owner cursed down in the parking lot, and the phone in the next room rang and rang. His smile faded.

He felt a vibration next to his chest and reached into his jacket pocket. Pulling out the phone, he pressed a key and read the words on the screen.

"INTERVIEW CONFIRMED. 2AM."

Putting away the phone, he stood up. Turning on one heel, he snatched up the car keys and overnight bag from the bed and headed for the door. Taking a quick look back into the room, he nodded in satisfaction, opened the door and walked out into the narrow corridor beyond, letting the door swing shut behind him.

The Motel owner's wife, Marilyn, sat behind the reception desk, her full figure held precariously in check beneath the flowery dress. Her horn-rimmed spectacles were pushed up high on her head, snared in the mass of lacquered hair.

She glanced up from her magazine as she heard a door open and her lips formed a wide smile as Winston entered the lobby. He returned the smile and approached her desk.

"Hello, Mister Powel. Is everything all right?" Marilyn asked in her sweetest voice as she smoothed down her dress.

"Uh yes... Thanks Missus Clayton... I'm checking out. How much do I owe?" Winston asked as he pulled out his wallet.

Her smile broadened if that was possible. She just loved his British accent–'East End', he'd called it. But he was checking out. Her smile slipped a little and she slid over the plain black register book. "Oh, okay. Well, let me see..."

She flipped over a page of the register, tapped a few numbers on a calculator, and quickly wrote out a receipt - all the while talking to herself. Then she looked up at him again and smiled. She found herself smiling a lot when Mister Powel was nearby. "Um, that will be... seventy five dollars all together please, Mister Powel."

Winston dug out the necessary bills handed them to her and took the proffered receipt in return. "Thanks."

"Will you be coming back this way?" Marilyn asked hopefully.

"Maybe… I'm not sure yet."

"Well, we can always find you a room at short notice if you do. I hope your business deal goes well."

"Me too," he smiled, tucking the paper into his inside pocket. He picked his bag up, nodded at Marilyn and turned to leave the reception.

He had only taken two steps when the plate glass door suddenly opened and Davey Clayton backed in, dragging his Doberman with him. The dog pulled on its restraint, barking repeatedly at something outside.

"Shut it, Jim, you god-dammed idiot!" Davey yelled and tugged hard on the leash. The dog cleared the doorway and the door slammed shut.

Cursing under his breath, Davey turned to see Winston and his wife looking at him. Jim stopped his barking when he saw Winston and sat down at his master's side, staring up at the black-suited Englishman.

"Oh, sorry about that, Mister Powel, Jim ain't too friendly with the locals," Davey shrugged and his whole flabby body shook in sympathy. "There was a guy with a guitar case hanging around in the car lot. Jim scared him off."

Davey dragged Jim aside. Winston nodded and reached for the door handle. In seconds he was out in the parking lot.

Jim began his barking again, so Davey slapped him hard with the loose end of the leash. ""Shut Up. You stupid mutt!" The dog yelped and went silent.

Marilyn regarded them both from the safety of her desk. "You ought to get a muzzle for the damn thing. Better still, get rid of it; it's scaring the customers away."

Flustered, Davey span around and shouted back. "You can stop your yapping too.". As soon as the words left his lips, he cringed inside.

She glared at him for a moment.

"Right well in that case, you can do your own god-damned reception work."

She closed the reception register, picked up her magazine and stomped towards a side door.

Never one to know when he'd gone too far, Davey dug a little deeper, "Yeah? Well, there's plenty people could do that. Might even set Matt on; give the lay-about son-of-a-bitch something to do"

Marilyn paused in the doorway and slowly turned to look at Davey. "Oh, so I'm a bitch now? You've blown it this time Davey!"

She barged through the door and slammed it shut behind her.

Realizing his predicament, Davey rushed towards the door, dragging Jim with him. "Aw hell, Marilyn! I'm sorry, I didn't mean nothing, I was just... Marilyn, honey, please..."

Winston opened the rear door of his Buick and swung his bag onto the seat. He closed the door, opened the driver's side door and slid in behind the wheel, pulling it closed behind him.

He looked around the car lot. Most of the spaces were occupied, but it was empty of pedestrians.

He fumbled around in the glove box for a few seconds, and found the pack of cigarettes. There was one left in it, so he tapped it out, popped it between his lips and lit it up with his Zippo. He wound down the window and breathed a plume of smoke into the night.

He started the engine, reversed out and drove around the lot towards the exit.

A dark blue car sped down the street, took the motel entrance with a squeal of tires, nearly sideswiping him in the process, and pulled up in the place Winston’s car had previously occupied.

"Wanker," Winston observed, the cigarette bobbing between his lips as he spoke.

A group of teenage lads jumped out and headed for the entrance doors. Winston recognized one of them as Matt, Marilyn's son.

Shaking his head, Winston pulled out into the night traffic.

Walter's Gun by Chris Lloyd

Walter Cooper had a hand gun

one with his name on it
if you ignored the fact that
an “aitch” was after the “tee”
on the stock.
Walter did ignore that fact.

Walter loved his Walther but
didn’t love anything else.
Except Hetty a long time ago;
he’d given up when she died.
Now it was his gun he adored

He couldn’t remember a day
that passed that he didn’t
fire it. One shot. One death.
Then a complete strip down
and clean. Like his mum did
to him every day. Scrub, scrub

until it was spotless. Scrub, scrub

He’d shot his mum on a Saturday
during the football results.
After he’d scrubbed her clean
with a wire brush he buried her
next to the goat.
He’d hated that fucking goat.
It was Hetty’s and she loved the
goat more than him. His love
for her was never returned.

Still he could say that he did
love someone. He was happy
with that. It was a shame she died
playing with his gun. But he had
told her not to. And he’d already
cleaned it that day. Fuck her.

Walter went through all this
in his head every day after he’d
killed the day’s victim. That
day it was a squirrel  that had
exploded into tiny bits.

Today was in the summer and

Walter and his Walther were

on a hunt. He'd spotted a man

with a big black dog walking

on his land. He'd never seen a 

person on his land before.

They were getting closer to the

man and his dog. Time to be

careful. Walter and his Walther

stopped dead still and watched.

Suddenly the man lifted a gun

to his shoulder and shot a bird.

Walter was shaken.

The man's gun was big and loud;

He knew he had to stop the man

leaving his land so he retreated and

made a plan. He had to get close enough

to stop him using the big gun but near

enough so that he could use his Walther.

They carefully circled round to be

in front of the man, picked a place

where the man and his dog would

have to walk. Walter and Walther waited.

The man and dog were close.

Very quietly he cocked the gun; as soon

as he had a big black dog came crashing

through the bushes, stopped dead at the 

sight of Walter. Then more crashing

and the man stood in front of his dog.

The dog looked up at the man, the 

man knelt down and stroked it.

The man looked at Walter's gun, scared.

Walter saw how much the man and

dog loved each other, like he did Hetty

today and every day and he sobbed. As he did

Walter put the Walther to his mouth and

went to find her.

The Forgotten by Nick Stead

And so here I stand on a bridge between worlds. I’d have been grounded if my parents had known I was even considering coming out here, but that’s not what causes me to hesitate.

The passion and defiance of my teenage years has brought me this far, hormones drowning out any thoughts of the consequences of my disobedience. What do they know anyway? I’m almost a man, almost an adult in the eyes of the law. I am my own person and no one can take that away, family or otherwise. My life is mine to lead, my choices mine to make, and they will just have to learn to accept that.

Strange sounds carry on the breeze, creatures of the night screaming both threats and warnings. If I had any sense I’d turn back. Everything about the woods seems uninviting, yet they also carry a forbidden allure tempting me onwards. One more step and I will cross from civilisation to wilderness. Why is that so hard? I remind myself of the prize within and my uncertainty is swept aside by fresh determination. I’ve come too far to give up now.

My torch beam seems out of place as it punches through the wall of blackness between the trees, hard tarmac giving way to soft earth infested with roots twisting and turning through the soil. Twigs grasp at my clothes as I plunge into this other world, the vegetation apparently come alive with the disapproval of my parents, trying to hold me back. It doesn’t work. Blood only surges faster through my veins, my heart beating stronger with excitement.

It’s not long before I reach the place I seek. The trickle of water over pebbles sounds unnaturally loud as I draw closer and sure enough I can just make out the ancient structure arching across the stream. I pause then. The stories surrounding it are as many as the stones that give it shape, the legends chilling. I know all about these cautionary tales meant to ward off young fools like myself. Yet I must cross this second bridge if I am to see her.

With a deep breath and a swig of vodka for my nerves, I take the next step. I’ve almost reached the old structure when the artificial beam of light dies in my hand, a dark veil settling over my eyes and rendering them useless. Panic rises and I shake the torch, bashing it against my palm in a desperate attempt to bring back its protective halo, a shield against the shadows and all the dangers of the night. At least, that’s what I would like to believe. The rational part of me knows I am in just as much danger with or without it, but it was a comfort nevertheless, until it ceased to be. Now I am very aware of the fact I am alone and vulnerable, and no one even knows I’m here. I have my mobile with me of course but there’s no signal in the woods. It is as if I have truly crossed from one world to another, and such things have no place in nature’s domain.

A ghostly shaft of moonlight shoots down from the clouds, piercing through a gap between the trees and illuminating the bridge once more. I know I should turn back but I find myself drawn forwards almost as if against my will, enchanted by some kind of magic that goes far beyond youth and lust. So I take another step, and another, until I reach the side of the stream.

A strange sensation of giddy excitement and nauseating exhilaration takes hold in my gut as my eyes pick out her silhouette on the other side. It’s enough to drive away my fears and push me on. I’m almost there now, the bridge all that separates us. But as I begin to cross the ancient stone, my eyes fall on a shape sticking out from under the man-made arch, proof that perhaps the legends are true after all. Icy fear returns, rooting me to the spot. For there is no mistaking that shape even in the darkness, and suddenly I wish I were back in the warmth and safety of my room.

The skeletal grin seems to mock me as I lock gazes with its one dead eye, the other socket gaping empty with the void of death. I think she might have been my age before her life was brought to a cruel and unnatural end, but decay makes it hard to tell. Should I run back towards civilisation and ring the police? I know that would be the right thing to do, yet the thought of my parents’ wrath holds me back. And if I run now my desires will go unfulfilled yet again, my body already aching with longing. I want her so badly it hurts.

My lust wins out. I tear my gaze from the corpse and continue across the bridge. But I can still feel her one eye following me as I push on, sending chills down my spine. I keep my gaze fixed on the feminine outline waiting up ahead and quicken my pace.

Something is wrong. The figure of my affections appears to vanish, melting into the shadows. Confusion brings me to another stop, and a cold breath slides over the skin at the base of my neck, raising the hairs in a tickly wave.

With a whimper, I turn to find myself fixed by that one terrible eye. Greying skin and chalky bone streaked with blood is made all the worse by the half light of the moon, bare jawbones leering with some private joke known only to the dead. Her stare seems accusatory from behind death’s milky shroud, a guttural sound reverberating deep within her throat but the flesh too rotten to form actual words.

I begin to back away, making my own wordless noises. Shock and disbelief numb my brain. I know I should run, but I can’t seem to tear my gaze from this horrific vision advancing towards me, gruesome and impossible.

Skeletal fingers reach for my throat. They wrap around my flesh before I have chance to react and a crazy revelation takes root in my brain. But how can this be? The corpse has clearly been rotting in these woods for weeks, maybe even months or years, and yet she was alive and well last time I saw her in daylight, just hours ago when we arranged this ill-fated meeting. Have I completely lost my mind? I will never know.

It should have been a night to remember, one to leave me feeling so alive and on the ultimate high life has to offer. Yet only the cold of the grave embraces me. The tales are true after all, the bridge cursed. My vision is fading, my heart growing weaker, and as the last of my thoughts begin to die, I briefly wonder if they will find me out here. Or perhaps I will join this forgotten beauty, decaying into obscurity.

Poppies by Vivien Teasdale

 As we are heading towards remembrance Sunday, I thought this might be appropriate. We're just dead heading the last of ours in the garden.

Poppies

An offering in his grubby hand,

scratched where he’d scrambled over stones

to pluck the scarlet flowers,

drinking their claret cup

of summer in the scorching sun;

Imagined joy comforts his lateness.

Going home, jubilant,

face raised for his mother’s kiss.

Her slap scratches where she marks her words

with meaning, scarlet anger brimming over.

Bouquet, drooping in the cruel glare,

cascades burning tears down his grubby fist.

The Doll by Sara Burgess

Another one is calling you, calling upon you. You describe it as an urge. It creeps underneath your skin. It gestates there. You can see it in your mind’s eye. You imagine holding it, placing it in your room, at the end of your bed, on a shelf. You think about the right way to make it real, what size it is, what colours to use. You can hardly wait to meet it.

   Then one day, you find the right stuff; vintage burlap with a fine weave, a fat quarter of ivory wedding dress silk or a square of peach coloured velvet. Sometimes they demand a deviant touch. Thighs or biceps in Victorian flowered cotton or striped mattress ticking, a secret feature for you to enjoy. You collect the ingredients, scour shops and tins for the buttons, a crocheted doily, a strip of ribbon.

   You draw the features in lightly, choosing the best angle for the eyes, the tilt of a brow and a rosebud mouth. But none of your cutesey faces. This is a proper character who fills your head. You catch an expression in strands of cotton, a French knot for an eye, and satin stitch lips.

    Now that the features are laid down the fine silver needle slips a stitch or two in place. A pale green wink and mulberry smile. The hint of a blush drawn on with a crayon. And then for the cutting. It’s best that the body, neck and head is in one piece. Arms and legs can be slipped into the spaces you left when you machined the outline. You can hardly wait now as the machine purrs on the last seam.

    You want to see what she will wear. She is plumped up with filling, elbows and knees flattened in with a seam, and there she sits. There is a tiny smile, a hint of a glint in her eye.

    She has no hair yet, but that doesn’t matter. You start with the lingerie, the silk, the lace, the layers she might reveal with a cock of the leg. Like a tiny harlot, she brazenly sits, waiting for you to construct a camisole, as if bearing her poitrine to the world is her destiny.

    It can take a good hour to make a dress, even for one so little. The puffed sleeves need gathering, all raw edges must be oversewn, before they are set in the bodice. Cuffs need to be ironed, hems and trimmings arranged, all in perfect miniature, no corners cut.

   There is always a mixture of wool that is just right. It has to be the correct blend, for now she is real, she has substance. A touch of grey mohair, purple alpaca and a tint of silver. As soon as the first strands are sewn in place, she looks pleased. She is proud to be here. She is becoming.

   There are more things she wants now she has burst forth. Albertine wanted a mohair shawl, a cat and a mate. Beatrice wanted an aran coat, Noah a silk shirt, Ceridwen a hat like mine, the hussy. And will she keep it on? Like the drop of a hat it’s gone. It’s here, it’s there, oh she is a handful, that Ceri.

   There are animals too. A tweed dachshund called Frederick, a felt dog, and of course there were the mermaids. How bewitched you can be by a doll who has not yet arrived. But here she is. Aunt Maud. As soon as they are ready they tell you their name. They always tell you their name.

   And now Aunt Maud sits proudly at the end of your bed. Watching you. Watching you while you sleep.

Blink by Clair Wright

Thousands of miles above, the satellite registered a smooth stretch of land, like a scar.

The previous day’s image showed a close tapestry of streets and buildings, each tiny square representing a building, a home.

Now, through the dust, it was flat and featureless as a desert. 

Hundreds of miles away, seismic monitors recorded a huge spike, followed by a series of peaks like a mountain range. Computers processed data on the tectonic shifts which had caused this once-in-a-generation geological event.

In distant towns, pictures fell off walls. Cups rattled in cupboards. Car alarms burst into a pointless, tuneless dawn chorus and sleepy people stumbled out of bed to find their keys.

On the morning news, over coffee and cornflakes, we watched grey figures poke amongst the flattened remains of their homes. Women with silent toddlers on their hips dragged out anything which might be useable – a dented pan, a grimy blanket, a single shoe.  

In the television studio, experts pointed to the satellite images, and the seismic spikes and peaks.  They marked the epi-centre on the map, and defined the areas of greatest impact. Across the bottom of the screen flashed a number to donate to the disaster appeal, between the football scores and the lottery numbers. 

The cameraman wiped the film of dust from his lens and turned back to the reporter, standing in front of a toppled apartment block. Curtains fluttered at gaping, lopsided windows. A group of rescue workers, caked in dirt and sweat, dug through heaps of rubble. The diesel engine of a JCB rumbled as it pushed at lumps of concrete and buckled girdlers. 

The reporter coughed to clear the dust from his throat.

A shout, and the rescue workers clambered towards a man crouched amongst the crumpled concrete, peering at a screen.  The reporter followed, the camera close behind. The men crowded around, the reporter leaned in closer; the camera focussed on the grainy image on the monitor.

Dust, darkness, silence.  Then a gasp, a sob, as the screen flickered with the slow, living blink of an eye.