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