The Returned Book by Anna Kingston

 The back door burst open and the bitter East wind blew in Uncle Harry, wrapped in umpteen layers, with only his twinkly brown eyes visible over the huge pile of books he carried. He kicked the door shut with one foot, Mum wincing at the careless treatment, and let the books tumble onto the kitchen table.

“Golly, these are heavy, in more ways than one!” Uncle Harry laughed. “I’m so glad to be shut of them!”

My cousin, Thomas, was a year behind me at uni and I’d lent him some of my text books for his dissertation project, with the proviso that I needed them back for my Masters - hence Uncle Harry’s visit today. 

He and Mum sat at the table with coffee and slices of freshly baked cake, whilst I staggered upstairs under the weight of the art history books.  Took me two trips to take them to my room - Uncle Harry was stronger than he looked!

I peeled off Thomas’ sticky notes that he’d used as bookmarks and replaced the books on my bookcase. As I picked up the last few, one seemed fatter than it should, so I flicked through it wondering if Thomas had left some of his notes inside. Instead, there was another book nestled almost deliberately in the middle of my well-thumbed copy of ‘Yorkshire Art Deco Artists’. Not recognising it, I took it downstairs intending to ask Uncle Harry to return it to Thomas, but Harry had gone whilst I was sorting out my books.

“Take it back on Sunday when we go for lunch,” Mum suggested, so I sat down to have a nosey read of Thomas’ book. We used to swap books often as children, but not in the last ten years or so, and I was curious about what he read as an adult.

The book - ‘Wormhole Vectors for Astrophysics Beginners’ - was miles away from the art world that Thomas and I inhabited. A small, black, nondescript book, crammed with scientific jargon and complicated formulae and notations, it held my interest for less than the thirty seconds it took to flick through it. I chucked it onto the table a bit too hard, and it slid off and landed on the floor with a slap.

Sighing, I heaved myself up and went to find it. The book had landed splayed out flat on the floor and, as I picked it up, a photograph fluttered to the floor. Curious, I turned it over and was struck hard by the two faces that smiled out at me.

“Gotta be Photoshopped,” I thought, feeling admiration for Thomas as I looked at the photo of him and Adelaide Jebson, Huddersfield’s answer to Charles Rennie McIntosh. As Thomas’ pranks went, this was right up there - he knew of my passion for Yorkshire artists and also of my suspicion of sci-fi novels and films.  What better prank than the suggestion of time travel and meeting one of our art heroines?!

I texted Thomas, with a photo of his book and the photo, asking him how his visit with the artist had gone - I do have a sense of humour, despite his opinion that I do not - and thought no more about it. 

Over Sunday lunch, I returned the book and photo, saying how impressed I was with his digital photography skills. With an odd little smile, he asked how closely I’d looked at the photo, at the entire thing and not just the faces, and passed it back to me.

I looked again, not getting his point. There it was, him and Adelaide, around 1930 judging by her age, alone in her studio together apart from the photographer - I was still mystified.

“You still don’t see?” Thomas queried.  “The photo is a Polaroid. Even now, with all the tech we’ve got, we can’t fake a Polaroid…” and left the table, still wearing that odd little smile…

A.M. Kingston © 2021

The Journey by Chris Lloyd

I’d like to get hold of the person who decreed that a Census was needed. Why? We know who we are and it’s not like we are trying to hide where we come from. To top it all, we have to go back to where we were born in order to be declared “citizens” of that place. It’s a three-day journey for me and the wife and she’s a bit peaky at the moment; not sure what’s wrong with her. Nightmare it is. Still, we’re all in the same boat so I suppose we’ll have to grin and bear it so we can get on with our lives. Why don’t they do these things when the weather is less cold of a night?

There’s nothing wrong with Bethlehem, (that’s where we are originally from), but we moved for a better life and so that I could be a proper carpenter, you know making nice furniture instead of house bashing all the time; anybody can do that, well not anybody per se but the reality is that they don’t have to have the skills I have. On the other hand, the shekels are good.

Anyway, we set off with our donkey and a few chattels, home comfort items if you like, and started the three-day trek from Jerusalem. It was ok at first but gradually the roads became really busy with camels, donkeys, shepherds and sheep and people shouting. There were even three posh gents looking very regal riding along on their equally posh camels each one appearing to carry a meticulously wrapped parcel. But from our point of view, it was noisy, dusty with nothing much to guide us, although there was a bright star in the east so basically, we followed that as we knew we had to head eastwards.

By this time, we had camped out two nights, the traffic was horrendous and there was dust everywhere. I was beginning to wonder if we would find a hotel in Bethlehem but there must be people going the other way so maybe it would be ok. We didn’t think we’d have to book a room but I had a sneaky feeling that would prove to be a mistake. But never say never, that’s my motto.

Eventually, we walked in to Bethlehem and started to look for some accommodation but after hearing “there’s no room at the inn” for the twentieth time, we were ready to spend yet another night sleeping under the stars. However, someone from the last hotel feeling sorry for the wife, offered us their stable for the night. What could we say, certainly not no, so we thanked them and moved in. It was ok too and with a few sheep, cattle and oxen already settled down and snoring. It was reasonably warm.

I must have dozed off for a while because the next thing I knew, Mary, my wife, was giving birth to a baby boy. To say I was shocked was an understatement and then about thirty minutes later as if on cue, the three posh gents I saw on the way to Bethlehem turned up. They bowed down to our baby and gave him the gifts I saw them carrying on the way. It turned out that they’d given him Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh which was a bit weird to be honest given they didn’t know him or us. Then they called our baby The Messiah, Lord of all. I didn’t get it as we’d called him Jesus. We laid him in one of the hay mangers and made him warm with a few layers of cloth. Then, the Word must have got out because loads of people came with gifts for him and to a man, or woman, they bowed and called him Little Lord Jesus. He wouldn’t have heard them though because he was spark out in the manger.

As I was looking down at our son, I heard some kind of choir singing, they were very good, almost angelic in fact. Mary stirred, held my hand and said, “This is like being in a dream. What on earth, or in heaven, have we started?”

The rest, as they…

On the Way to Bethlem by Judy Mitchell

‘It was about 3 o’clock when he knocked on my door. Decked out in clothes I had never seen him in before and I would not have known him if I had passed him in the street. Believe me Sir, he was all smiles and nods and made such loud exclamations of the season’s good wishes that my wife and I were quite lost for words.

He insisted on joining in all our games and when they were over, he bade us start again and there was no denying him. Each winner of our parlour games was rewarded with coins and his generosity became almost embarrassing. When someone suggested singing carols around the hearth, he joined in with such gusto. His tapping feet, tripping around the piano, and his fingers drumming on its lid, meant that our attempts at singing in harmony at which, even if I do say so myself, we have become quite accomplished, were quite drowned out by his excessive enthusiasm.

I have given him the same chance each year, Mr Cratchit. Every year I have tried to persuade him to join us on Christmas Day and, despite his rudeness and rebuffs, I have not been put off. I tried again only yesterday. You were there and may have heard me.  I would never have thought he would turn up on my doorstep today in such spirits. His last words to us were his promise to drop in to see us in the New Year. Can you believe it?  Such a change in character!  It has left me worrying that he has lost his senses. My wife suggested I should come here without delay to check if you had seen something of this sudden change in him? What could have possibly brought on this excessive frivolity in the space of only one day? Yesterday he was telling me that I should be boiled alive with my own Christmas Pudding!  Times many I have listened to his response of “Bah Humbug” to my Christmas greetings. I am quite at a loss and fear that some dreadful disease has entered his brain. I have nowhere else to go, Mr Cratchit. There are no relations I can turn to. As you know, Marley, his partner, has been dead these seven years. What am I to do?  Is it to be Bedlam for my poor, old uncle and a strait waistcoat to contain his exuberance, perhaps?’ 

The nephew shook his head in disbelief and the clerk’s eyes grew wider at each sentence describing his employer’s transformation. But it was the implications for the business and his own livelihood that made poor Cratchit share with the young man, the strange events of earlier in the day and his own suspicions about the mystery benefactor.

‘Sir, I feel it only right to acquaint you with an equally bizarre tale of receiving a gift this very morning when I was at church with my son, Tim. It seems that in my absence, the Poulterer’s man, Joe Miller, came here by cab, in which was stuffed the largest prize turkey you ever did see. Poor Mr Miller was forced to hire a cab to see it safely delivered. There was no one to help carry the monster and he had been about to close the shop to go home for his dinner when a boy came from your uncle with the instruction that the prize bird was to go immediately to Camden Town to this house.

Well, you can imagine my poor wife’s surprise! She thought it must be a practical joke knowing that making any such gift would be quite beyond the habits of my employer, your uncle. Besides Sir, we had a goose cooked and steaming in the parlour - a little on the small side, I grant you, but quite sufficient for our needs. It seemed that the Poulterer’s man was under instruction to not divulge the name of the purchaser but he let slip the name in his haste to convince my wife that she was not to be accused of theft or foul play.

There was no turning the turkey back and it has squatted in our parlour since this morning like some monstrous potentate ready to gobble up my children who are terrified that it will squash them to death. I am sure it could never have stood on its own legs and it is too plump to be cooked at our house and possibly too big to enter the ovens at the bakery without some serious butchery. 

I have never had anything from your uncle before, Sir, indeed he is loath to even grant me today as a holiday. We have been most concerned that there is some unfathomable reason for such generosity.  Now, listening to your account of his time with you, I fear we must mark him well and you may wish to secure the services of the doctor if these symptoms persist. Shall I call on you tomorrow evening, Sir, to report on how I have found him?’

The two men parted, each reassuring the other that there was no cause for alarm and that there would be some perfectly rational explanation for Ebenezer Scrooge’s change in habits.

 

The clock had already struck the hour when Bob Cratchit woke on the following morning and threw the blanket off his feet and rushed to wash in the cold water. Even by running all the way, it was quarter past the hour before he could see his workplace across the Court in the distance. He tried to dart across the road but was halted by the rapid approach of a Hackney, travelling at some speed in the direction of Southwark. As the cab drew level, he gasped as he saw ten, bony fingers gripping the cold metal bars and above them, a familiar, white, gaunt face stared out from the carriage window, its wild expression that of a lunatic.

It was more than eighteen minutes after his appointed starting time that the clerk hastily sat on his stool and picked up his pen, not daring to look up and fearing the worst. Then, as he paused to dip the pen in the ink on his desk, he turned towards the Counting House. 

On the stool where Ebenezer, the grasping, covetous, old miser had sat for decades, was Fred, the nephew. A look of smug satisfaction spread slowly across the young man’s face. With a sense of horror, the clerk realised that the ghostly features of the tormented man in the cab told a story of deceit, wickedness and incarceration, perpetrated by the nephew on his uncle who, at that very moment, was hurtling along the London streets on a journey to Bedlam from where there would be no return.

Twenty Hand-crafted Xmas Cards by Owen Townend

- This year I'm making my own Christmas cards.

- Good for you! Not fully making them though?

- Yes, fully making. I do have the materials, Angela. I'm going to give it a whirl.

- Don't take this the wrong way, Harold, but I think you might just be a little mad.

- Pish-posh! I know what I'm doing. I'm a craftsman.

- You make jewellery and sell it at market.

- Well then. Cards should be a doddle by comparison.

- All right, maybe. What sort of card will you use?

- Green. Thick. Possibly red.

- But not so thick that you can't cut it?

- Of course not. Dozy mare.

- What designs will you cut?

- Intricate. Christmas tree. Maybe mistletoe or holly.

- Really? That'll be a very prickly card. You won't get much more than 'Merry Xmas' on it.

- So? The name of the recipient will be on the envelope.

- That envelope should probably be made of some sturdy paper or else the card will cut it to ribbons.

- Oh, shush.

- And what about decoration?

- Bits of tinsel probably.

- The envelope will have to be quite wide as well then. Sorry, dear.

- How about some actual holly then? Just a sprig, mind.

- That would definitely get squished in transit.

- Fabrics then. A little red felt flap to open on the inside? Does that suit madam?

- That might work. It'd have to be a very thin piece of fabric though.

- Obviously.

- How are you for glue?

- Oh, I have plenty of adhesive. For all kinds of material.

- A glue stick should do it. My Maddy did something similar last week, in class.

- They've got her onto that sort of thing already?

- Yes. Christmas begins on the first of December at her school.

- Oh.

- I could ask her for tips if you like.

- Funny, Angela. Very funny.

- Well, it's a bit of a laugh.

- Not when I need to get twenty out in a week.

- That many?

- Give or take.

- You're not thinking of taking my name off that list, are you?

- Well, if I’m honest…

- Ooh. You are cruel, you are.

- I suppose I have my moments.

- Twenty hand-crafted Christmas cards.

- Yes.

- Twenty cards, Harold. You're definitely mad.

- Well, I do have to be something when I'm not cruel. Apparently.

- Mark won't help you?

- Can't. He's at the town hall. Rehearsals started on the weekend.

- What's he this time?

- The Angel Gabriel.

- Typical.

- Yes. He’s been tooting his own horn all bloody week.

- And you haven't?

- Right. That's you off the list.

- Whatever makes things easier...

Neglect of Instructions by Dave Rigby

 

At school, they’d give you a blue monthly report if you had credits and no debits. In other words – good behaviour and good work.

If you had any of those pesky debits, it was a white report!

But they’d sneak in the debits. Neglect of instructions was the sneakiest – and for me, the commonest. At the age of twelve I wasn’t really sure what the phrase meant, but it kept recurring.

You’d think I’d have learnt my lesson.

The satnav just told me to turn right. I didn’t. Ignore satnav, engage brain. Haven’t been in this town for years, but I still know best.

The road is completely unfamiliar. It feels like one of those dreams where you start off knowing where you are. Then the familiarity dissolves and you’re in a strange land.

I contemplate a U-turn, but as that would be admitting defeat, I press on. The rain starts again, wipers follow suit, street lights come on, twilight. The edge of town already? How can that be? Fields and trees begin to push their way forward. Thin trunks and spidery limbs silhouetted against the night sky.  

At the delimit sign, the lights are left behind. The woods encroach, a beware deer sign flashes past. The radio crackles, fades in and out and then drifts away altogether. I really should turn back, but there’s this want to know feeling. How can I have got it so wrong? Me, a geographer, with a built-in sense of direction.

The car begins to stutter. A glance at the gauge. Another instruction neglected. Don’t forget to fill up I was told just before setting off. I manage to coast onto the grass verge, brambles scratching against the bodywork. Feeling foolish, I get out, spread my arms on the roof of the car, exhale and try to calm down. Staring into the leafless trees, I wonder what to do next.

This back road is deserted. Ignoring the internal instruction to walk back to town, I begin to amble further on into the evening gloom – petrol can in one hand, torch in the other – thinking that there’s bound to be a house, a farm or maybe even a village up ahead. At least the rain has stopped.

After ten minutes of slow progress, my hunch proves right. There’s a farmhouse set back, maybe a quarter of a mile from the road, a light just visible. The track is muddy and potholed. My black lace-ups are not keen on this choice of route. An owl flits by. There’s a bare, freshly-ploughed field to my left. To my right, sheep are grazing and snuffling. In the torchlight I watch their breath curling away.

Close to, the house is bigger and more tumbledown than I’d thought. The light I’d spotted from the road is shining from an upstairs window. The front door is ajar, but I use the heavy ornate metal knocker and wait. No response. I try again. Pushing the door further open, I shout hello. Still no response. I walk inside, a large hallway, threadbare rugs on the floor, paintings on the wall hung at odd angles. One of them, of a Flemish fair, seems familiar. Climbing the stairs, I keep shouting out. At the top I hold my breath. There’s a light under the door of the second room to my left. A faint sound. When I knock, the noise stops.

The doorknob turns.

An old man, with long grey hair and a straggly beard, peers at me, seemingly unsurprised by my presence.

    “You came! I wasn’t sure that you would. How are you?”

How should I respond? He’s either mistaken me for somebody else or his memory has gone. His eyes focus on the petrol can I’m still carrying.

    “Run out, have we? Happens a lot around here. Not to worry. We can syphon some from the old Rover. That’s as soon as you’ve helped me with my little problem, Gerald.”

The can clatters as it hits the bare boards. Was that a truly inspired guess or is this someone I’m supposed to know?

Slowly, starting with the Flemish painting, small pieces of a forgotten mental jigsaw begin to fall in place. Underneath the hair and the beard, it’s Jonas. The black sheep of the family. How old was I the last time we met? Six … seven …?

    “Uncle Jonas? How are you?” is all I can manage.

    “Fair to middling, young Gerry. Fair to middling. Now come on we’ve got some sheep to sort out. Can’t do it on my own any longer. Then we’ll get some fuel into that tank of yours. Unless, that is, you want to stay the night.”

Something about the way he talks draws me in and I find myself saying yes, that would be very nice.

The questions race into my head, all jostling for pole position. But maybe it’s better not to know.

Maybe I should neglect instructions more often.

My Name is Holly, and I Have a Secret by Juliet Thomas

 

My name is Holly and I have a secret, don’t tell anyone, but I don’t LOVE Christmas. 

I realise I am in a very small minority, but it started out with my parents being very inconsiderate, and choosing to have their first child around December. I popped out 12 days late, on Christmas Eve.

And who the hell cares about a birthday on the Eve of the most anticipated day of the year?

I particularly don’t like it this year, my 50^th birthday. I know that celebrating my 50th will be at the very end of my family and friend’s Christmas list, if on there at all.

But it’s not just that, it’s the fact that Christmas was getting earlier each year anyway, and then in 2020, whilst looking for any kind of cheer in the middle of a pandemic, many people in their wisdom decided to start decorating trees and homes as soon as possible, like that would make it all better?

This year, Christmas trees have been outside the Co-op for weeks, along with carefully constructed towers of mince pies inside. Huge neon reindeers blink at me already on my drive home, looking as startled as me that it’s that time of year, AGAIN. The kids emailed lists were sent to me in September, with all the links copied ‘helpfully’ and pasted from Amazon or Boohoo.

And then there’s the thrill of now being middle-aged / ancient. 

I'm currently;

• carer and taxi-driver for my elderly parents, in-laws and Aunty Betty, 
• Wife to Ash the workaholic 
• Mum to twin teenagers, Olive and Rowan, 
• volunteering at the local hospice and 
• Chief cuddler to Stanley, the Heinz 57 rescue dog, who spends most of his time staring at me to take him for a walk.

And so, Christmas is just another thing on my long suffering ‘To Do’ list, isn’t it? And I absolutely refuse to sort out my own birthday, again, this year.

Christmas Day itself takes a lot of managing; you cannot let Aunty Betty and Ash’s Dad, Bob sit together for example, or there will be hell to pay.

Sandra, my Mum will fuss to help and get under my feet and Ash will be three sheets to the wind by 11am just to get through it. The last few years I’ve joined him, things seem a little smoother with a protective layer of prosecco taking the edge off.

I can see Olive hitting the wine too, at 17 she’s now into the swing of swigging mine, maybe she can be the entertainment? Then there’s the fun game of who’s got the wrong plate this year? And now that Rowan, his girlfriend and Ash’s mum, Antonia, are vegan, it throws a whole other level of complexity into proceedings. I add a mental note to sit them together to help me remember.

'Worldly wise' Aunty Betty will declare plenty of inappropriate sexual advice to the kids, check that they are not talking with their mouths full and will give a detailed explanation of what ‘Woke’ means whilst they role their eyes.

Bob, who doesn’t do manners, will have picked up his turkey leg, gravy dripping down his chin and chomped through it like a hyena, but with any luck, and half a bottle of whisky down him, will be asleep in the corner chair by the time of the Queen's Speech.

I sigh, today is November 25^th, one month to go… I really should get on with ordering some things, but instead I find myself daydreaming, of what the Perfect Christmas Day could be like. I decide to make a list, and doodle holly leaves around it.

I start with Dear Santa; this is what I would love for my birthday if you can extend your powers for just one day:

I write quickly, my thoughts and words streaming across the page, a release from must dos, lists, planning, prepping dinner, life on a timed schedule but then before I know it, the alarm on my phone goes off, telling me I need to pick up Dad for his doctors appointment.

I push aside the list and wearily grab my keys.

Weeks later, on the 23^rd of December, my family are acting strangely, Christmas has not been mentioned now for several days, and I worry that my less positive view on the festive season has had an effect. I don’t want to spoil it for everyone else.

At 6pm on the dot, Ash tells me I need to get dressed into something nice, a dress preferably. I look at him quizzically and turn to see the kids standing at the doorway grinning like idiots. In Olive’s hand is a gold frame, and inside is a familiar piece of paper, decorated with a border of Holly leaves.

She hands it to me and gives me a hug, ’50 is special Mum, you deserve everything on this list.’

Rowan steps forward and kisses me on the cheek, ‘Yep this year Dad is looking after your Birthday, and then you’ll come back to a Christmas to remember, cos me and Olive are sorting it!’

I’m speechless, and tears are threatening, ‘I don’t know what to say.’ I turn to Ash, ‘Is this true, is this happening?!’

‘It is! Now go get ready, that list is going to take some getting through!’

I turn and head to the stairs but pause at the glowing Father Christmas in the hallway, smiling, I nod to the jolly decoration, and whisper; ‘Cheers, Santa.'

* * * * *

Spi-Garoo by Anna Kingston

 

The teenage witch was filled with rage

Her emerald eyes shimmering fire.

How DARE they say she was under age!

The entire clan would feel her ire.

 

She stormed and slammed the whole day through,

Magical lightning in her wake.

“You can’t do this, you can’t, not YOU!”

And through her tears the idea did break.

 

Her eyes had fallen on the books

Belonging to the baby witch.

She picked on out, and on some hooks

She held it firm, began to stitch…

 

Random pages, muddled beasts,

Now permanently joined with thread.

What fearful schemes and wicked feasts

Would follow soon with this dreams of dread!

 

She muttered curses, fumbled spells,

Waggled fingers and poured her dust.

She didn’t hear the laughs, the bells,

“I’m going to do this, I must, I MUST!”

 

She falls asleep, in deep despair,

And dreams of chaos, dark and sweet -

She must be free, life’s so unfair,

There’s ALWAYS a baby under her feet!

 

The morning comes, blue skies and sun,

Bringing with it sounds anew

Of puff-tross, liz-pillar, and cater-non,

Of lob-hopper and spi-garoo.

 

And with those sounds are others, too,

But sounding strange to our teenage witch.

She creeps, in dread, what shall she do?!

Should she run?  She starts to twitch…

 

“Come in, come in, you marvellous girl!”

The clan crowds round and give a cheer.

Then from the babe they all unfurl

And the teen witch loses all her fear.

 

Her blinding rage, in last night’s dark,

Had hidden from her the choice of book -

A children’s classic, Noah’s Ark -

The teenage witch felt SO much luck!

 

They hugged and kissed, and marvelled anew

At the tiny ele-ger and kanga-fish.

She thanked the stars for the spi-garoo

And the perfect spell that granted her wish!

 

Anna M. Kingston © 2021

Thi Dorty Bottles by Owen Townend

Another late night at Ye Old Cross Inn,

the innkeeper's wife turfed out the crowd

while he took stock of the ale left within

and rattled the necks of bottles of stout. 

 

Together they watched their patrons stagger

up the slope from Alnwick's Narrowgate,

following lamps with glints thin as daggers

to cold doorsteps where angry wives wait. 

 

And as the innkeeper reached for three bottles

that sat by the window on a blackening wall, 

his wife glanced up, clearing pipes of their dottle

and saw him land hard from an unlikely fall. 

 

Clutching his body, the wife felt a chill:

those three dirty bottles were frightfully still...

This poem was inspired by Ye Olde Cross Inn of Alnwick, Northumberland. The mythic bottles can be found inside. 

For more details: https://www.thedirtybottles.co.uk/about/

Eleventh Hour by Vivien Teasdale

She walked past the grey-white memorial, draped now with flags. Soon it would be surrounded by a field of poppy wreaths. The cenotaph, the empty tomb for lost boys who have no known burial place, nowhere for their family to tend over the lonely years. Millions of red poppies laid only to be swept up in the rubbish and discarded like the lives they represented.

Then on down Parliament Street, turning left towards Big Ben and Westminster Bridge. It was cold, now, clouds gathering together in mourning colours, throwing shadows onto the surrounding buildings.

She looked down into the dark swirling waters, where someone had already thrown a wreath. It swept past like a strange sea creature riding the waves, bumping into the arches and twisting onwards.

Dad had often talked of Uncle Will. ‘On the minesweepers, he was. Dangerous job. He’d had three ships went down with him on board. He never could understand why he’d survived so many times, when so many were lost. And then the last time, there was just Will and one youngster, Arthur, his first posting. Uncle Will held the boy, clung to him as if the lad himself was a life raft, held his head above the freezing waves until a little fishing boat had spotted them, hauled them on board. They’d both made it to land, though Arthur died later of pneumonia.’

‘And Uncle Will got a medal. He was upset the lad had died,’ Mum had chimed in. ‘Arthur’s mother summed it up, though. Wept on Will’s shoulder, she did. He used to say she made it wetter than it had been in the North Sea. But when he said about Arthur dying, she told him, “At least you made sure I know where he is. I can still put flowers on my son’s grave, can’t I?’

The bridge was packed, she could hardly push her way through. Everyone was facing the cenotaph. Service men and women standing to attention, veterans in wheelchairs remembering old comrades, tears in their eyes.

She reached the far end of the bridge and stopped, clutching the cold iron parapet. No one took any notice of her, too busy, too interested in the spectacle taking place behind her. Below was the Thames, its muddy waters now blackened by the storm clouds above.

The bands ceased playing. A collective sigh, some shuffling and then silence. Everyone listening, ready for the first chime.

She took her phone out, staring at the screen. A deep note rang out across London, echoing in the cold air. She dialled the number.

The second chime sounded. The phone rang out: brr, brr; brr, brr.

The third, fourth, fifth chimes. Why was she bothering? No one cared. Not now. Just another lost soul.

Six, seven, eight. All around her heads were bowed, eyes closed, minds thinking of the dead, of relatives, ancestors, all the unknown soldiers. She leaned over the parapet, wondering what it would be like if …

Nine, ten. No one would know her. She had nothing, no papers to show who she was. She’d just be another body, known unto God.

Eleven. The sound seemed to deafen her. She couldn’t hear. What was that? A click, a distant sound.

‘Penny? Penny, is that you, love?’

‘Mum,’ she cried, ‘Mum. I’m coming home.'

Wedding People by Chris Lloyd

Quite a do

we are at
string quartet
groom in top hat
pretty people
nice ‘n’ neat
wedding people
flash not sweet

Stunning bride
smiles sweetly
looks around
leaves discreetly
calls a friend
coz she’s a cheat
wedding people
flash not sweet

Top table
champagne flows
boring speeches
everyone knows
she’s up the duff
by a guy in Crete
wedding people
flash not sweet

Food arrives
on silver trays
decanted wine
that will amaze
she don’t care
she took his meat
wedding people
flash not sweet

The DJ starts
plays some hits
guys dancing
looking like tits
bridesmaid off hers
sweat in the heat
wedding people
flash not sweet

New husband
looks for his bride
she ain’t there
she’s gone to hide
with that guy
the one from Crete
wedding people
flash not sweet

Him from Crete
steps into the room
all chat stops to
look at the groom
but he don’t know
the guy from Crete
wedding people
flash not sweet

She’s mine says
the guy from Crete
what the f*** is this says
the groom on his feet
she’s got my kid says
the guy from Crete
wedding people
flash not sweet 

They squared up
groom and Crete
bride on scene
white as a sheet
it’s true it’s true
sorry Pete
wedding people
flash not sweet

I love you though
is what Pete said
let’s go home
and go to bed
f*** that she said
I want Crete
wedding people
flash not sweet

Christopher Lloyd

A Kriminel's Debt by Nick Stead

Ricardo doused his sacrifice in petrol and the night erupted with the black rooster’s screams. It was almost like the animal knew what was coming. Wings beat against the bars of its crate, the rooster shrieking its protest for all the world to hear. Ricardo winced, his heart quickening as he glanced nervously at the surrounding shadows. The old church was as empty as ever, its congregation long dead and its location all but forgotten. No one would be running to the rooster’s rescue. No one would be interrupting this sacred rite.

Taking a deep breath, Ricardo struck a match and held it over the crate. He fought to steady the shake in his hand, part of him convinced he would be caught at any moment. What was the punishment for animal cruelty? A fine? A few years in jail? Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe he should try summoning one of the other, less malevolent loa first.

The match’s flame curled around his fingers and the decision was taken from him. With a string of curses, Ricardo dropped the match and the unfortunate rooster burst into flames. The heat was intense, the suddenness of it making him jump backwards. More shrieking filled the church but there was a new urgency to it, pain mixing with terror. The rooster thrashed so violently that the crate slid across the floor. Ricardo barely noticed. His eyes were on the symbol he’d drawn, the veve he’d outlined in ash. It glowed as brightly as the rooster.

A figure took shape within the veve. No more than a shadow at first, gradually it came into focus, until Ricardo could make out the features of Baron Kriminel, first man to commit murder in life and powerful loa in death. He was exactly as Ricardo’s grandpa had described him – a man in top hat and tails with a crimson shirt and skull-headed cane. Red eyes glinted with cruel amusement as they settled on the sacrifice.

Lightning flashed overhead and the Baron changed, from man to blood-spattered skeleton. Somehow Ricardo knew that wasn’t the Baron’s blood.

“Ba–” Ricardo was interrupted by a deep chuckle as the shadows rushed back in and the Baron resembled a man once more.

“I know you, Ricardo Germaine. I know your heart.” Kriminel’s eyes met Ricardo’s now, though they were no less malicious. “You desire power, yes?”

Ricardo’s heart pounded harder still. He swallowed, his head jerking into a nod.

“And do you understand the cost?”

The cost? Ricardo frowned and gestured at the dying rooster, its limbs still twitching as it succumbed to the flames.

Kriminel shook his head. “No. The rooster’s suffering bought you this meeting. My help is extra, and comes at a far greater debt than any rooster can settle.”

Doubt tugged at Ricardo’s mind. His grandpa had never mentioned sacrificing anything bigger than a rooster…

A lit cigar appeared in the loa’s right hand. He raised it to his lips and inhaled deeply, eyes closed as though savouring the moment. “For the good relationship I had with your grandpa, I will give you a free taste. Then you can decide if you’re willing to pay for more.”

Kriminel held out his left hand and an old, charred finger bone appeared in his palm. Ricardo reached out to take it. “What do I have to do?”

Another chuckle. “You will know.” Kriminel tipped his hat and with that, the rooster breathed its last, the flames went out and the glow in the ash faded. The Baron vanished, leaving Ricardo standing with the bone, gingerly turning it between his fingers.

***

Ricardo took the bone into work with him the next day. He was pleasantly surprised to find the business manager wasn’t in, but it didn’t last long. Ten minutes later she appeared, looking grumpier and more flustered than usual.

“Lots to do today, Ricardo. I need you to get straight on with finishing that printing, then we’ll see what else you can help with.”

That was it. No greetings, no pleasantries. She wasn’t even his line manager, yet she insisted on treating him like one of her underlings. Something in him snapped.

A taste…

Power pulsed through him, dark and burning like the anger boiling in his veins. He turned his gaze on Rachel and blood trickled from the corners of her eyes, her face paling as she fell forward, clutching the desk to keep from slipping all the way to the floor.

Ricardo rose to his feet, glaring down at her and feeling the power flowing, the energy in him building. It was such a rush, like nothing he’d ever known before. Her life drained, while his burned hotter and wilder, and he started to laugh the same dark laugh as the loa he’d called on.

The blood was streaming from Rachel’s eyes now. She lost her grip on the desk and collapsed at Ricardo’s feet. Only then did their colleagues notice something was wrong, and they hurried over.

“I’m okay,” Rachel said, letting another woman help her to her feet. “I just felt faint for a moment – must be the stress getting to me.”

The colour was returning to her face. Ricardo clenched his fists but the power in him was fading. And suddenly he knew, just as Kriminel had promised.

The bone was in his hand with barely a conscious thought. He crushed it and was instantly rewarded with a fresh wave of energy, even greater than his first taste. Blood gushed forth from more than just Rachel now, the others falling to their knees and screaming in agony while patches of Ricardo’s skin turned chalky white, forming patterns to give the likeness of the bones beneath.

More colleagues came rushing into the office, and then the company owner himself appeared, and succumbed to the dark magic emanating from Ricardo. The company was his for the taking, but why stop there? Kriminel had given him the keys to the world. He could rule over them all if he wanted to. Ricardo laughed at the thought, and the Baron chuckled with him.

But first, he wanted to share this great gift with his fiancé. He left his former colleagues dying in pools of their own blood, utterly devoid of guilt or remorse. If the price for such power was a few meaningless lives, so be it. What had any of them ever done for him? Rachel had made him miserable and the others had merely watched. No one had jumped to his defence or sought to comfort him. They’d got what they deserved.

The power began to recede as he drove to Marie’s place. Ricardo wasn’t worried. In crushing the bone, he’d accepted Kriminel’s offer and now the debt was paid. The dark magic was his to call on as and when he pleased. It would return to him when he needed it.

He couldn’t help grinning to himself as he parked outside the house. There was a light in the window. It took him a moment to recognise the orange glow for what it was. His smile fell.

“Marie?” He threw open the car door and started towards the building. A ball of fire exploded outwards, the force knocking him back. The entrance gaped wide open now, and on the floor lay a figure, twitching like the rooster he’d sacrificed the night before. His beloved Marie.

Baron Kriminel chuckled louder. Now our debt is settled.

The Shadow Wood by Gareth Clegg

Let me tell you a tale of the Shadow Wood

A place of darkness, misunderstood

Legends, Myths and Stories told

Keep away all but the bold

A girl sat shaded by an ancient oak

Enveloped by it’s dappled cloak

But as she leaned into that trunk

From within came a deep… dark… thunk

She waited till the night drew near

With strangely not an ounce of fear

The wood stood silent as the grave

No signs of life at all it gave

No animal or bird or sound

Naught but silence all around

Nothing moved, the air was still

Just a sudden deathly chill

As darkness fell, another sound

And warm light spilled across the ground

Her shadows shifted as she stood

And turned to face the Shadow Wood

Oh foolish child can you not see

The danger of that ancient tree

From deep within a golden glow

Spread through its roots an eerie show

Dancing shadows light and dark

Shifting shapes on roots and bark

A silent carnival gold and black

The girl reached out but the roots… reached… back

Shrouded in their warm embrace

Tendrils gently cupped her face

Her blood runs cold, mind locked in fear

The roots so slowly draw… her… near 

Deeper, darker, down and down

They drag her underneath the ground

Forever falling through the night

No sense of sound, smell, taste or sight

Just the air that rushed on past

Her shivering limbs until at last

The noose constricts—end of the line

Suspended, hanging out of time

As light retreated from her eyes

All around her, mocking lies

Poking, prodding, truth or dare

You’ll never ever stay out there

Not when the sun has finally set

You wouldn’t dare, you’ll lose this bet

She would show them all, she said

And off to Shadow Wood she fled

She screamed and flung her arms about

But not a sound was coming out

And now what dreadful end was fated

Deep in the ancient tree she waited

The frantic antics of this child

Whose will was strong but mind ran wild

Did naught but entertain the wood

In which she now silently stood

Throughout the wood moans filled the air

from all the children standing there

They stretched, sap running red as blood

Welcome to the Shadow Wood 

So if you think the village low

In children, now you finally know

That though they warn them all when young

They never listen, there’s always one

The one and only who could lift

The Shadow Wood’s eternal gift

But if you’re smart, when daylight’s fled

You’ll stay at home safe in your bed

Stay at home throughout the night

Safe from branches grasping tight

Stay at home just like you should

Safe from ancient Shadow Wood