Dry Stone Wall by Vivien Teasdale

 This may not be quite up to Keat's view of Autumn, but I hope it evokes a positive feeling as we head towards winter and whatever that may bring us. 

“It serves no useful purpose now,” he told them.

“Once it marked a boundary, built in local stone,

the easiest to hand, stretching out across the land,

showing how man divided up his world.

But now, it serves no useful purpose.”

Fallen into disrepair: decayed, dishevelled,

ivy creeping over the coppice stones. And briars,

bowed with luscious fruits bursting in the autumn sun,

or ripped apart by urgent beaks.

Blackbird whistles a warning to the world,

alerting all, freezing the moment.

Scarlet rose hips glisten, polished bags bulging, 

spilling the last pieces onto the dark earth,

and a mouse scurries to snatch the bounty

into the safe haven of the crumbling courses.

The people move on, picking their way over sharp, white stones

fresh laid on the worn-out car park.

They scurry to the tea rooms,

as a wren scolds. A robin sings, drowned out

in the chatter and clatter of distant cups.

On the far side, the sheep snuggle up, sheltering from the coming

storm, safe against the black and weathered stones of the old wall.

Christmas Memories by Anna Kingston

When I was a child, my dad worked away from home and probably missed half of my childhood Christmases (he was in the Merchant Navy and spent his Christmases in many far-flung places).  Money was always very tight, but especially at this time of year, and my mum was used to making it stretch - dad used to joke that mum could make the Family Allowance (now Child Benefit) stretch indefinitely!

One year, things were even tighter than usual, but we children were never aware just how poor we were, thanks to mum’s fantastic creativity with everything she touched.  This particular year, mum not only cooked everything from scratch as usual, but made every single part of our Christmas - no mean feat when you have three little girls!

She sewed dressing up clothes for us from old sheets and fabric she already had, even making a scaled-down version for our favourite dolls. Mum created a peg doll for each of us, drilling holes to poke pipe cleaners through for arms, and raiding her scraps basket to create Edwardian ladies for us.  She painted and printed ferns onto thick paper to make cards for us, and even got some unprinted newspaper from the chippy to print designs on with potatoes to make wrapping paper.

Prior to Christmas, we celebrated St Nicholas’ Day on 6th December and there was always a mysterious delivery of chocolate coins to be found in our shoes that morning.  We never believed in Father Christmas or Santa Claus, but for years she kept up the mystery about St Nicholas, without any outright lying!

In the run-up to Christmas, we’d put up decorations around the room, but the tree itself was bare, but always mysteriously twinkly and dripping with decorations, with beautifully wrapped gifts underneath, by the time we got up in the morning.  We girls would leave out mince pies and sherry for St Nicholas and carrots for the reindeer, and they were all half eaten by the morning - mum always said, quite truthfully, that it was a real mystery how they’d been eaten, and we fell for it!!

I still have my peg doll, and part of my dressing up outfit, and every time I make my mince pies I’m transported straight back to those 1970s Christmases, which were the richest I’ve ever known.

Outside to Inside By Judy Mitchell

Spring. Days of gentle optimism unfurled and grew steadily longer.  Bright lime shoots pushed from the soil and nest builders, eager and bold, darted into hidden places, their beaks full of wriggling food.  The restless wren flew to her new orb of woven grasses, twigs and moss through a tiny door facing away from the chill wind that shook the dry clematis tangled over the arch. In May, bees rushed to the pendulous branches of the apple tree and swooped to trampoline inside the white blossom.  Fat, orange rosebuds swelled in the sun and pots squatted under the open kitchen window, full of crimson blooms like harlots’ petulant mouths. Propped flower spires reached into strangely quiet skies and netted fruit plumped and blushed as the earth grew warm.   Twelve weeks of waiting and watching as the sun climbed higher and the numbers started to fall.            

We came up for air for a few rushed, summer weeks of partial respite but it hadn’t gone away. It regrouped and skulked in corners, a technicolour conker ready to use its grappling hooks to dig into our soft beds of flesh.  Now, I’m inside, looking out, waiting for the rain to stop in these dark, shortening days.  The garden is shucking its wet, green layers down to spiky, bare branches silhouetted against the drab sky over a no man’s land of fallen leaves. A conical tree stands by the fence.  It has only one leaf.  The last remnant of its lush foliage of summer.  It flick-flacks in the irregular gusts.  An obstinate dried leftover, futilely resisting the scourge of the north wind.  I continue reading but am drawn back to the parallel branches until the light fades. I listen to the buffeting rain and wind against the glass and the shushing of the dishwasher full of hot pots.  It’s Sunday. The lingering smell is of lunch, roast meat, vegetables.

In the morning, the solitary leaf has gone. The tree is bare.

The Crowman by Gareth Clegg

A scream split the night. I bolted upright, grabbed my revolver from the bedside table and stumbled towards the door. I fumbled with the lock till the door clattered open onto the dim hallway running the length of the upper floor. The sound had come from the front of the building, and I made my way between the flickering lamps, casting dancing shadows across the hall.

A gunshot rang out, and a dark feeling grew in the pit of my stomach. Something evil was at work. I pushed on, hurrying over the ageing carpets, the once-vibrant reds now faded to brown, discoloured by all manner of spillages over the years. A few faces appeared at doorways ahead but soon retreated at the sight of some half-naked fool toting a pistol. “Get the hell back inside.”

Another gunshot from the main suite at the front of The Lucky Dollar, and I was at the door. I tried the handle, but it just shook in the frame. A single well-placed kick saw to the lock mechanism, and it swung inwards with a squeal.

Light streamed in through the glass doors to the balcony and silhouetted in the moonlight stood a tall shape. It had been leaving but turned at my entrance, sporting a ragged black coat and a battered top hat with a few rotting feathers stuck in the band. The dark sockets that caught my gaze held no compassion. Those black voids drank the light as they measured me, but I was no stranger to evil, and this stank of rancid meat left way too long in the sun.

“Hold it right there and keep your hands where I can see them.” I must have looked a sight there in nothing but my small-clothes. But hell, when you’re in a rush, you don’t always have time to don your best bib and tucker.

The thing watched, dead eyes following me, as a ghastly rushing of air issued from it, and I realised it was speaking in breathy gasps. “My business here is done. I have no quarrel with you, but do not cross me for I will destroy you if you interfere with my work.”

There were a lot of spirits in this accursed land, some natural like the playful coyote trickster, and then there were others, dark and twisted. I didn’t know precisely what it was, but the shivers running through my spine told me it sure-as-hell wouldn’t tip its hat and leave politely.

“Sorry, can’t let you just move on after what you did here,” I said, glancing at Kirby’s body. A pool of blood soaked the sheets at his waist, and a red stream trickled between his eyes from a single shot in his forehead, dripping onto the ruined bedsheets.

My gaze returned to the thing as it wheezed. It took a moment, but I realised it was trying to laugh. Shit, this was unlike anything I’d come up against before. It turned to face me, draped in shadow from the full moon. “You won’t allow me to leave?” More rasping signalled its amusement, but it was through with my petty threats, turning back towards the balcony. “I have things to do, mortal.”

“Don’t say I didn’t give you fair warning.”

The door burst open behind me, and the creature spun, pistol outstretched, already cocked and ready. Ruby stood there, scarlet dressing gown shifting in the night breeze, the revolver in her left hand barked as she fanned the hammer.

“No,” I tried to shout, but too late. Hell, she was fast. The rounds tore through the creature, glass shattering behind, and it stumbled. Each of the six shots struck in a tight group, pushing wisps of smoke through its chest to hang drifting in the cold night air.

The sound was like an old man coughing out his last, but it was just another wheezing attempt at laughter. Raising its baleful glare to Ruby, red glowed bright in those dark sockets like the rising sun. “You are quick, girl. I’ll give you that, but now it’s my turn.” Its pistol raised, slow and deliberate towards her heart.

A single gunshot exploded, deafening inside the room, but I was used to the sound of my weapon of choice. An unholy scream rent the air as the round struck the creature in the chest. It stumbled back through the remains of the glass doors, falling in a crumpled heap on the balcony.

“What the fuck was that, a cannon?” Ruby had her hands clasped over her ears, her face pained from the unnatural volume.

“Sorry about that, Miss Diamond. I wasn’t expecting company or else I could have warned you.”

I headed over to inspect the remains but stopped. Despite a fist-sized hole punched through its chest, the damned thing was still there. My gut squirmed. The feeling you get after eating rotten food, when you know it’s riding south for the border at a gallop.

I rotated the barrel of the two-shot, locking the second round into place with a click.

The thing laughed at me. “Too late. You’ve shown your hand. Goodbye, Cheveyo.”

As I pulled the trigger, the creature exploded, an inky stream leaping into the air. It swirled then burst into cawing crows, hundreds of them, streaming into the night sky and disappearing, lost in the darkness.

Ruby appeared at my shoulder. “What the hell was that?”

“Trouble,” I said. Its outline lay scorched into the wooden balcony, and the stench of brimstone filled the night air. “A whole heap of trouble.”

***

The Crowman is the first novella in the Dark Fantasy Supernatural Western series Chronicles of the Fallen available on Amazon in both eBook and Paperback.

We Only Live Once by Yvonne Witter

 

COVID-19, yes that controversy, or global pandemic, does not seem to be abating anytime soon. I am sure that like me, you’ve heard about, nay seen the many mishaps during online virtual meetings. I am not even sure that they are mishaps, because leopards do not change spots. But I suppose that we can all agree that it is easy to forget that there is an embedded camera in play in the heat of the 'office shenanigans' moment though. But what about the current online dating fiasco taken to a new level now, because after you have swiped in the direction of preference, there remains the dilemma of social distancing on a date. So, pray tell when will that sought after first kiss actually happen?  Will it be after using a dodgy or perfectly well-working test kit? Asking for a friend. A woman posted on FaceBook that men have become more confident under lockdown conditions and a bloke replied in capitals that it was about ‘desperation’.

This situation is layered though isn’t it? What about all those couples my legal and psychotherapist mates tell me are filing for divorce, as they now have an enduring hatred of the other, after spending all day in the same house working from home. They say COVID simply shines a spotlight on that which was already present, like the inequities in society. But what about all those illicit affairs that were shrouded in ‘unfortunate late meetings’, ‘extra work’, and ‘a quick drink after work with colleagues’. Might it be those very same people fervently breaking Covid rules and popping out to get the shopping, walk the dog or get some exercise?  Well, you can’t measure how much time someone needs, to feel like they have had a good workout, even if it is a long walk if gyms are closed too.

Seems to me like I have gone all the way around the houses to tell you that although I don’t enjoy regular exercise, I have now found the near-perfect antidote to my love of being sedentary. I should say second love because aqua aerobics is my go-to activity to feel alive and full of beans and satisfy myself that I have done exercise. I mean COVID has unfortunately stripped me of the activities I would not have measured as exercise, like walking around the shopping centre window shopping, or just popping out to an event to network, enjoy the theatre or a lecture.

Have you heard of the Peloton bike? I know, me neither until I was discussing the temporary hire of gym equipment. The cheaper option of a trampoline, hula hoop or skipping rope would simply not have even got the first jump so why even pretend? It took me a month of reading blogs, downloading the Peloton app, and watching the sweating Peloton instructors while jigging around to the music lying in bed, to realise that I had found my second-best stimulating activity.  

I bought one, I should say invested in one, and decided to start saving again for my funeral plan, figured my life would be extended. I recall attending a couple of spin classes with a friend who ignored my protestations and bought me an extra padded seat to attach. I discovered that I really loved Spin classes when I connected with the instructor. If I felt an affinity and the music was to my liking, generally I had a great spin class. So now, in my own home with the aid of a screen, I have the sweaty bodies of gorgeous instructors smiling at me and egging me on, telling me how gorgeous I am and how capable I am. I feel like I am in a special relationship. I also now belong to a Peloton family and even though my own family is not allowed during tier three, I now have a global family of COVID belly carriers, who like me believe that we can ride our way to health and emerge from this pandemic without a middle bulge.

We only live once, so I must try to make it satisfying even under trying circumstances.