The Way It Is by Chris Lloyd (a look at life from another angle)

The Way It Is.

A hot tin roof with a cat asleep on it

A plumber saying “it’s easy this bit”

A banker saying “we don’t talk shit”

A miner giving Maggie Thatcher a bit

Andy Pipkin saying, “I like it.”

You won’t hear of any of these.

Cameras getting your speed wrong

Politicians singing the same song

Summer sun that is three months long
Christmas number one’s that don’t drone on

A Eurovision song that’s not too long.

All things that will never happen.

Asking a cop with a taser to think twice

Asking a drunk for drinking advice

Telling your cat not to kill mice

Not seeing MP’s involved in vice

Thinking Lidl sells that special spice.

Dream on.

Thinking your dog won’t jump in a river

Hoping you can actually touch liver

Reading Steven King without a shiver

Having chocolate but eating a sliver

Hearing someone say hither and thither.

All impossible (almost)

Selling a car for what you think it’s worth

Not getting squeamish at your first child’s birth

Buying bit coins to increase your net worth

Staying at your in-laws and being full of mirth

Not liking that actor, what’s his name Firth.

Ninety nine percent not happening.

Looking all day for a four leaf clover

Knowing someone who’s called Ben Dover

Giving your garage a massive makeover

Trying to climb the white cliffs of Dover

Having fond memories of Austin Rover.

Unlikely at best.

Being vegetarian, going to a meat fest

Arguing that the sun rises in the West

Lighting a fart to make a girl impressed

Loving the posh guy who says “I speak in jest”

Going to a gig wearing a string vest.

Nope not at all.

A bookie giving a sure tip for a bet
Thinking you could own a Lear jet
Smoking a very healthy cigarette

A Geordie who never says hello pet
A day in Whitby finding loads of Jet.
You’ll be lucky.

©Christopher Lloyd

The Ditchwater Report by Owen Townend

Judge Pebble Presiding

The Defendant: Mud Speck (representing himself)

The Prosecutor: Paper Scrap

The Charge: Trespass of the puddle beside the lamppost on the other side of the road.

The Plea: Not Guilty.

PAPER SCRAP - Mr Speck, you float accused of a serious offence here. You are aware that the puddle in question is only an inch deep, are you not?

MUD SPECK - I am. I refuse to further comment on such a shallow charge.

PAPER SCRAP - Mr Speck, this is a cross examination. You are expected to comment.

MUD SPECK - I refer back to my alibi.

PAPER SCRAP - Yes. Your alibi. I would like to clarify some detail.

MUD SPECK - If you must.

PAPER SCRAP - You claim that on the night in question you had...sunk? Is that correct?

MUD SPECK - Yes. To my usual crack in the pavement.

PAPER SCRAP - And the purpose of your visit?

MUD SPECK - I have relatives down there.

PAPER SCRAP - They can confirm this?

MUD SPECK - Yes.

PAPER SCRAP- Yet they remain unavailable for comment.

MUD SPECK - I am the only one of our family who rises.

PAPER SCRAP - Let the record show that Mr Speck is the only active member of his family.

MUD SPECK - Why is that worthy of note?

PEBBLE - Every word you say today is worthy of note, Mr Speck.

PAPER SCRAP - Thank you, Your Honour.

PEBBLE - That being said, do get to your point, Ms Scrap.

PAPER SCRAP - Of course. Mr Speck are you aware of the effects on our road by the winter just passed?

MUD SPECK - Objection! This seems very tenuous.

PEBBLE - Sustained. Ms Scrap, the point please.

PAPER SCRAP - Local ditchwater was frozen including the crack in which you and your family reside. Mr Speck, do you know what happens when a crack is filled with water and then frozen?

MUD SPECK - It depends on the size of the crack.

PAPER SCRAP - Not so. A crack always expands. I present to the court an official Ditchwater Report of the size of Mr Speck's residential crack before winter and after it.

Document is presented.

PAPER SCRAP - Please note how the crack has spread both ways by an inch.

MUD SPECK - Objection! I fail to see the relevance here.

PEBBLE - Overruled. I have looked over the report in my chambers. The new evidence is admissible. Please continue, Ms Scrap.

PAPER SCRAP - Thank you.

MUD SPECK - Just how is my crack relevant to this case?

PAPER SCRAP - It is not directly. Its lengthening, however, has led to a connecting secondary crack that runs much deeper and further out. More precisely this crack leads across the road to the lamppost and consequently the puddle that was illegally entered.

MUD SPECK - Objection! Your Honour, surely this is conjecture!

PEBBLE - Overruled. As you can see, Mr Speck, photos of this were included in the report.

MUD SPECK - This is ridiculous. Just what do you believe I did at this other puddle? There are no recent reports of damage or erosion, at least as far as I've seen.

PAPER SCRAP - Not damage. However the mud speck population has been significantly reduced recently. It is my belief through absorption.

MUD SPECK - Ludicrous! That is a ludicrous accusation! How could you even back it up?

PAPER SCRAP - Further measurement.

MUD SPECK - Of cracks?

PAPER SCRAP - Of you. Your Honour?

PEBBLE - Bring forth the ruler shard.

A shard of a ruler is brought into the courtroom by Ripples.

PAPER SCRAP - Mr Speck, you were last measured as being half a millimetre tall, were you not?

MUD SPECK - Yes.

The ruler shard is stood beside the accused.

PAPER SCRAP - Officer, please state the current height of Mr Speck.

RIPPLE - A millimetre exactly, ma'am.

The jury are audibly shocked. The accused quivers.

MUD SPECK - All right! I absorbed one little clod! Are you satisfied?

PEBBLE - Seize the defendant.

Multiple Ripples move in to hold the accused in place.

MUD SPECK - One little clod! It was nothing! I could have done much worse!

PEBBLE - The charges have changed. Mr Speck, I would advise you to watch what you say from now on. (to Ripples) Take him to the holding crevice.

The accused is led away. He struggles.

MUD SPECK - How dare you! Absorption is my right! My absolute right!

PAPER SCRAP - The prosecution rests.

Dusty Western Track by Dave Rigby

A man wearing a hat is up ahead, holsters strapped to left and right thigh, each holding a six-shooter. He’s running.

The first thing that strikes you is the horse. There isn’t one. Why is the man running?

The second thing that strikes you is the feeling you’re in danger.

You look down at dust-covered boots. They feel solid and comfortable. But they’re not your boots. The trousers are worn and frayed at the ends. They’re not yours either. But the nightshirt tucked into the trousers is yours.

Your head is throbbing. Reaching up you touch a bandage. When you examine your fingers, there are smears of blood.

You’ve no memory of the clothes, the head wound, or how you got here.

The man is still running, getting further and further away.

A sudden squall blows dust in your face, your eyes water, you spit and spit, breathing is difficult. By the time you’re finally able to open your eyes, the man has disappeared.

You keep walking hoping to clear your mind, hoping for some clue or some memory to fall into place.

A huge cactus stands by the side of the dusty track its spines threatening. A merciless orange sun beats down on you. In the distance there’s a derelict house, its roof half-collapsed, window and door frames missing.

Maybe he’s in there. Something drives you forward, despite the obvious risks. You need to find out. Your pace quickens. When you reach the barn, you duck inside without thinking, instant relief from the sun as you shelter under an undamaged section of roof.

He could have been there in front of you, guns levelled but there’s no sign of him. You sit on the bare floor, back against the wall. Despite everything and all that you don’t know, you fall asleep.

You dream of your mistakes, real ones and imagined ones. You dream of a man running down the road a man who turns into a horse. You dream of talking to the law, of a betrayal as it will be seen.

By the time you wake, you’re gazing up at stars and you’re cold, so cold.

He’s standing over you. A broken nose, scrawny beard, missing teeth, eyes narrowed. Your time has come, but all you can think about is those missing teeth, more gaps than teeth and the smell of his breath, too close to your face.

A sudden vision of a broken window, flames licking around the drapes, the panic. How could you have forgotten? A figure outside in the dawn half-light watching you, a tiny pinprick of red, a puff of smoke. They’d promised revenge. He was there to deliver, the man with the six-shooters.

The nightmare unfolds in your head.

You remember running hell for leather in your night clothes, just wanting to survive. In your panic you’d fallen, hit you head on the rocky ground, blood everywhere, jagged pain. The neighbour you’d barely spoken to for years, an old feud, had helped with a makeshift bandage. Borrowed boots and borrowed trousers. There was no going back. Not really a decision – just instinctive self-preservation.

Except it hadn’t worked, because here he is, looming above you. You try to speak but your throat is parched and you’re unable to utter a word.

It’s almost a shock when he places a blanket around your shoulders. The man with the missing teeth smiles a crooked smile as he helps you to your feet and points to the corner of the barn. A hunched shape in the moonlight, the man with the six shooters, except he no longer has them.

Platform 3 - Part 5 by Vivien Teasdale

Pink lady was crying, almost as if she cared. But grown ups didn't care. They just moved you from place to place and never listened. They shouted, just like bald man had shouted at her when she saw what he was doing to her friend. He'd shouted in the loudest voice she'd ever heard and she'd known then that she had to run. Run and run and never stop. But then railway man had found her, given her hope and now it was all going wrong again.

   Sobbing, Sandra wrenched the gate open and ran. Ran away yet again, and this time she was never going back.

   She didn’t really see the blue car as it swerved across the road towards her. She didn’t really feel the bonnet crumple as she bounced across it and was flung up into the morning sun before she hit the verge and everything just disappeared.

   For a second, the driver seemed to hesitate and then the blue car screamed away from the scene, leaving Sandra lying in the road and Monica screaming as she ran towards the little girl.

  ‘Winwood,’ Eddie told Monica as they sat together in the hospital corridor. ‘We’ve been … disturbed about that place for a while but never had enough evidence to do anything about it. Now we have reason to investigate fully. The superintendent there is keen to root out any problems. Keen to be seen to be active in the inquiry. If anyone can sort things out, he can.’ He looked up as Tony came out of the side ward. ‘All ok?’

   Tony shrugged. ‘They don’t know. We can go in, in a minute, love. They’re just … tidying up.’

 
   They were interrupted by a young policewoman. ‘Before you do, could I have a word?’ she asked.

   ‘Have you got him?’ Monica glared at the girl in front of her.

   ‘Oh yes. He was in such a hurry, he took a bend too fast and skidded into a ditch. I’m glad to say he’ll have a colossal headache, if nothing else. And that will be the least of his worries. Prisoners have their own code of conduct, especially where children are concerned.’

   Monica smiled. ‘Good.’

   ‘I believe you knew him, Mrs Dawson. And you, Mr Langford. You worked with him, in your previous post, too.’

   They both gaped at the constable without uttering a word.

   ‘It was Peter Crosier,’ she said

   'But he’s ...’

   ‘Yes, Mr Langford. He’s superintendent at Winwood.’ For a moment the policewoman stared at Eddie, then turned to Monica. ‘Don’t worry, we will get things sorted. He’ll be charged with the attack on Sandra as well as whatever is uncovered in future. Please, you will let me know … if … when she comes round, won’t you?’

   ‘Of course, we will.’ Tony agreed. ‘We’ll invite you all to the celebrations, too.’

Eddie shook his head slightly and stood up, resting one hand on Tony’s shoulder, the other on Monica’s. ‘Look, I’m glad the fostering, the probable adoption has been agreed and all that, but … she’s a long way to go and … in view of … well, you know.’ He faltered to a stop under Monica’s hard glare.

   ‘She’ll be ok. She’ll be our little girl from now on. No-one is going to harm her ever again. We’ll take care of her. No matter what.’

   Tony put his arm protectively round his wife. ‘’Course we will, love. Now come on. Let’s go in and sit with our new daughter.’ Tony scowled at Eddie, nodded to the police woman, then he and Monica disappeared into the side ward where Sandra lay, a small figure on the large hospital bed.

   Wires and tubes surrounded her, and for a moment they were both back in another ward, watching their son losing his fight for life.

   Tony reached across and grasped Monica’s hand. ‘It’ll be alright, love. It can’t happen again.’

   ‘Can’t it? She looks so like Stevie sometimes. What if …?’

   ‘She’ll be alright. She will be alright!’ Tony said, as if repeating the words would make them come true.

   He took something from his pocket, gently placing the object in the centre of Sandra’s cold hand.

   Her tiny fingers lay unmoving in Tony’s calloused palm. Then they slowly closed over the little black and white shell. Her lips twitched slightly as she tried to smile.