Monday 26 December 2022

Christmas Day by Judy Mitchell

Opposite the old church and at the top of High Street, was the park, its land generously purchased and developed by a local benefactor whose name it had borne for more than twenty years. It was a place livelier in summer when nurses with their large prams pushed well bundled babies under its leafy canopies and where families strolled along its serpentine paths, their feet unintentionally falling into step with the distant sound of a brass band playing on the solid, iron bandstand. Later, before returning to their villas on the main routes out of the town, these families would pause to admire the tinkling waters of the fountains and acknowledge those they knew with a tip of their gleaming hats or the slightest smile and incline of their pretty heads.

When the first frosts crisped the paths, the park gates were locked to keep out those they thought might seek shelter in its pavilions and so, until spring, only two gardeners were allowed entry. Only they saw the beauty of the snowdrops on the banks of the rill or the Christmas Lenten Rose’s first flowers, with its white blooms flushed with soft pink or with dusky, maroon flowers circling rich yellow stamens, all nodding coyly in borders rimed with ice. The job of the gardeners was to keep out vagrants and to turn over the rich, loamy soil and prune the selection of exotic shrubs and trees shipped at great expense from the furthest corners of the Empire.  

Every year, two days before Christmas, with their breath steaming in the early morning stillness, the gardeners clipped the holly and bay trees and the carefully cultivated spirals of ivy. As the winter light slipped away and with their barrows full, they delivered the green foliage to the home of the park’s creator to be transformed into wreaths and garlands and boughs to adorn the large front door and the stairs rising from the grand entrance hall. The second barrowful was taken to a very different place in the town; the Workhouse next to the inky, black canal which ran directly towards the smoky city where the benefactor’s chimneys gushed and rushed their foul outpourings of dye and bleach into the sooty, grey sky.

Then it was Christmas Day. In the wide hallway of the town’s largest house, a tall fir tree was lit by candles and decorated with sweeties wrapped in twists of fancy coloured paper. Soft-shoed servants stood silently waiting for guests to arrive before taking them to sit on rich crimson seats by a blazing fire. For each adult there was ruby wine in a sparkling glass through which the glow of the fire became golden beams of light as if angels danced on the warming and spiced nectar.

Children stood tall by their parents, eyes alight with festive brightness, marvelling at the magic in the very word Christmas. All was kindness and benevolence, smiles and warmth from young and old, the rich and the not-so-rich. Their voices hummed with pleasure, joyful in the warm cocoon that was this home.

At the appointed hour, the double doors opened and before them was a table groaning under the weight of a gold-rimmed dinner service, sparkling glasses and silver cutlery set out with precision. The candles in wall sconces made magical shadow pictures on the ceiling and on the table, silver candelabras lit the jewels on the slender necks of the ladies. Then came loud murmurs of approval at the arrival of the largest turkey they had ever seen. An hour later, a staggering servant struggled in with a gigantic steamed pudding, dark and rich and smelling of oranges, figs and fruit from the warmest climes.

Cheeks became rosy with the warmth of the fires and the mellow after-glow of excellent wines and food as they gathered together to listen to those family members who each year were called upon to sing the most tasteful of arias and ballads for the guests. What a joyous celebration!

Across town, in a tall, dark, jagged-edged building with a chimney and large yard, a long queue of inmates stood at midday with hunched shoulders, waiting to enter the dining hall.  Festoons of gaudy, coloured paper were suspended in swags from the damp, limewashed walls. The garlands of evergreens that had been collected from the park only two days earlier, were tied with brown string and interspersed with paper banners with seasonal mottoes. The Master and Matron looked on as the queue shuffled forward in clogs that rung out sharply on the hard stone floor.

When the Workhouse Guardians arrived with their ladies in furs and wraps, they each nodded with smug, self-satisfaction at the orderliness of the tables and the cleanliness of most of the diners. As always, there were one or two who fell under the gaze of one of the sternest do-gooders, who noticed their necks and fingernails seemed to have escaped the extra soap made available, at great expense, to support the Workhouse aims of cleanliness, order and discipline. 


For each man and woman, there was pork, parsnips and sprouts with large helpings of mashed potatoes. The sound of sunken lips smacking together marked the start of the meal and empty gums slapped and chafed against the slices of tough pork and slightly undercooked potatoes. If the pudding had been cooked for less time there may have been some moisture left in the dried fruit that was sprinkled sparingly throughout the round bomb-like dessert but all agreed it had been a veritable feast. There were oranges and apples to follow and each man got one ounce of tobacco with a pipe. By mid-afternoon the fug of smoke in the day rooms was worse than any London fog that had ever swathed the capital in its grey blanket-like embrace.

For the old ladies, there was an allowance of snuff. When dithering hands failed to lift the tawny dust to nostrils, the powdered mixture settled on the chairs and for days after, had the effect of inducing loud, wet sneezing episodes which echoed across the dining hall.

To bring the day to an end, the Master introduced members of the local church choir. They urged the inmates to join them in the singing of carols and along the stark, whitewashed passageways and up the stairs, the stuttering words of ‘I saw three ships’ and later ‘Hark the Herald Angels,’ lifted into the cold air. Just for a short while, some forgot their poverty and the sad and lonely forgot their misery. Some even believed, as they went to their beds, that there really was peace on earth and that God and sinners had been reconciled.  

Monday 19 December 2022

The Boy and the Travelling Circus by Chris Lloyd


Benjamin Witherbread, age 6 and a half, was staring at a rather strange sight from his bedroom window. The room, hence the window, was on the highest and oldest part of his parent’s rickety, rackety house. The house, as any sensible living thing would surmise, looked as if it would fall down if someone or something blew on it with even a small puff of air. However, it had stood at the end of a large wood near a muddy track which seemed to be going nowhere other than to circle the wood, for probably two or maybe sixteen hundreds of days or months or possible years. Nobody knew. Not even Benjamin’s Father or Mother come to that. His grandfather Silas however knew to the day.

            The “Strange Sight” that filled the young Benjamin’s good eye looked very colourful and he was reasonably sure that flags were fluttering although it could be something else. He patiently waited for it to come nearer so that he could see it properly with his good eye. It stopped. Benjamin waited and was willing the “thing” to move again. It did not. This was a quandary for the boy because his parents were not at home and at such times, he was to remain in the house, pointedly, in his bedroom which was …. as you know. He kept willing whatever it was to come nearer but no matter how hard he tried, it stayed where it was. After what seemed like a century to the boy, he noticed something very colourful coming towards him. It was a big yellow bird making a noise. It landed on the wooden window ledge flapping his wings as it tried to get purchase on it. Much to Benjamin’s surprise it started to speak.

 

“Benjamin, Benjamin come to the circus,” it squawked, “we await your presence.”

“I cannot Mr Bird. I am to stay in my bedroom when my mother and father are not at home.”

“Not even to go to the circus, the best place in the whole wide world? You could see all the

animals, jugglers, tightrope walkers, amazing Lions and Tigers. Yet you do not want to.”

“I want to more than anything but I cannot.”

“I could fly you there, it would take just a jiffy.”

“I must not, I must not.”

“What if I could make your wonky eye better, Benjamin – would you like that?”

“How do you know I have a wonky eye, Mr Bird?”

“I know all things, Benjamin,” said the bird, “ask me anything you like and I shall give you the correct answer, anything. But if I somehow fail you will never see me again.”

“I don’t know questiony things, Mr Bird,” said Benjamin, “except one.”

“I know the answer; ask me it.”

“What is my…?”

“Silas,” said the bird.

“How did you know that?” Benjamin asked, feeling slightly wobbly.

“I told you I did. Now Benjamin let’s go to the circus, everyone is waiting to see you.”

“Will you really make my wonky eye better to see through Mr Bird?”

“Yes, I promise I will, come rook or by brook or readable book, that is my promise to you.”

“I will have to be back by teatime, Mr Bird.”

“Splendid – we shall have a grand day out.”

 

The big yellow bird scooped the boy up and sat him between his feathery ears and as they swooped, twisted and turned over houses and woodland, fields and rivers, the wind in their faces. Benjamin held on tight to the bird’s ears as they made their way to the where the circus tents were pitched in a large yellow and red circle of tents, flags, sideshows and cages where animals were pacing around and making their individual noises. To Benjamin, this was his dream come true.

The big yellow bird descended slowly and landed on a large humpy camel who did not seem mind being used as a landy sort of place. Benjamin slid off the big yellow bird and onto one of the camel’s humps. It was wibbly as well as wobbly but very warm. It was a bit smelly too but Benjamin didn’t mind that – he was at the circus, after all. He slid to the floor down the camel’s tail, very smelly, and looked all around. There was movement everywhere and noises that he had never heard in his old house. These were exciting noises, a cacophony of many noises. He walked and poked his head in any gaps he could see through. Lions roaring on top of huge barrels with a man with a long stick tickling their tummies. Acrobats swinging and spinning high in the tent and sliding down ropes. He was astounded. How could all this be going on so near to his bedroom? He looked to where his old house should be but it was nowhere to be seen. The big yellow bird had disappeared too.

He decided to look in two more tents before getting worried. It must surely be teatime because his tummy was feeling awfully empty.

The first tent he looked into was full of costumes for clowns. There were even some big red noses. He put one on. All of a sudden, he could hear music and see people in funny clothes. They seemed to be having a good time and they waved to him as they passed by. He took the nose off and they disappeared.

He went to the second tent and popped his head through a gap. What he saw astounded him. The Big Yellow Bird was perched on a large stick talking to his mother, father and his grandad Silas. And they were talking about his wonky eye. He tried to make them see him but somehow, they could not. Benjamin did not know what to do and was now very hungry indeed.

He decided to make his way back to the place where the big yellow bird landed, on the smelly camel’s back. But first he had to remember where that was. He stood still and thought. As he did an idea occurred to him. If he kept walking round all the tents, he would eventually find the camel. He started but quite soon he realised how big the circus must be – it was like seeing the same tent over and over. He kept walking but was beginning to get very tired. He decided to stop for a sleep, just a few minutes.

“Benjamin it’s school time. Come for breakfast, Grandad is here too.”

He jumped awake, got dressed and went downstairs; he felt very hungry and there was something different today. He could not immediately think what it was. Then he knew. His wonky eye! It wasn’t wonky anymore!

“Benjamin, why have you got a bright yellow feather in your hair?” asked his father.

His Grandad Silas chuckled to himself as he heard the question.

 

The End.

Monday 12 December 2022

A New Home for Christmas by Juliet Thomas


 

Home is where the heart is, a phrase that is constantly proving to be true, and since we moved, this old house from the 1850s, has many stories to tell within its thick stone walls. From the sturdy servant bells in the kitchen, and grand focal-point fireplaces to the vast array of different period windows, there’ a tale unfolding in every corner.


This house has been a tug of war, since we fell in love with it this time last year, it took eight of the longest months to finally call it our own and cross the threshold in August. Our emotions raged from excitement to hope, frustration to panic, before finally our veins were flooded with sheer relief. We’d invested our hearts at an early stage, myself especially and I simply couldn’t imagine losing it after all these months of back-and-forth negotiations and being stuck in a chain, but it came dangerously close!


But wow was it worth it, when we originally viewed it, it was Winter, and dark. The trees in the garden were stripped and stark, the outside paving areas full of moss, it needed some serious TLC, but we knew that its soul was special, and there was magic buried in the bones of this house.


The history of the house would create a book at least, we have a huge file on Roseleigh, but in a nutshell, it was built as an old weaver’s mill, that’s combined with its Georgian period owner’s house, creating a mixture or styles and sizes of rooms, nooks and crannies, and later extensions to create a quirky, eclectic mix of living areas.


It’s position, just out of the main Holmfirth centre, is set back from the main road, and beyond the large back garden is the flowing River Holme. This was a big plus point for me, I’m a water baby, and always feel drawn to the water. When we first moved in, after long days of lifting, shifting, sorting and storing, we would spend the Summer evenings sat on the bench under the tree canopy just taking in the view of the house and the garden with our aching backs to the river, and letting the powerful, yet soothing sound of the river wash over us.


And I’ve loved getting to know the river’s inhabitants! From the not so shy herons – they really like to pose, to the flash of turquoise and orange seen fleetingly as the stunning kingfishers do a fly-by, to the more sedate dippers, often camouflaged on rocks, happily bobbing away, it’s lovely to see all these new river-dwelling birds on my walks.


The different reception areas each have their own style, the kitchen is a fairly modern country kitchen with an aga and a bespoke colourful tiled splashback, it’s high up and looks over the sprawling garden at the back and is level with the treetops - it was a stunning view in Autumn.


The Sitting Room, Lounge and Dining Room, all have their own William Morris elegant themes, deeper and richer patterns than I‘m used to, and I’ve enjoyed making them cosy for Christmas.


And we’ve already started making memories here, Bonfire night was a particular pinch-me moment as we stood on the terrace with friends and family, in bobble hats and gloves, watching The Sands Park firework display from our own perfect personal viewpoint! Literally, the best seat in the house.


But it’s not all rose-tinted glasses here at Roseleigh, being in its elder years, there is always work to do, and trying to keep it warm in Winter, in the current climate, well that’s another story! Plus, it’s a physically demanding house, with multiple stairs and four floors in one half of the house, it’s certainly requiring better fitness levels!


The garden is going to be a big project, but I kind of like its current untamed beauty of all sort of unusual flowers, bushes, and trees, interweaving in a sea of green, golds, snow-white or red berries, and unusual shapes I’ve never seen before. The resident squirrel often scurries to the lawn and has even fought with the crows for apples or acorns. I’m no gardener, yet, but I’m looking forward to learning more about what we have here. It also has the most prolific apple tree I’ve ever known, apples have been donated to cafes, friends, and donkey sanctuaries, as well as making many apple crumbles for us of course!  


It's going to be a long-standing labour of love, but sitting here now with the fire glowing, the lights twinkling on the tree, and watching a Christmas movie, the story of this house will continue to be written and evolve with new memories and a growing family tree. We hope to be here for a long time because the possibilities for grandchildren playing hide and seek in this house are endless!



Merry Christmas everyone…

Monday 5 December 2022

Chimera - Part 2 by Vivien Teasdale

 


Alicia, when she returned from her holiday, was naturally upset at the loss of her pet, but soon settled back into her work routine and shortly afterwards the pair found they were expecting their first child.  Gideon was ecstatic.  He took the greatest care of his wife throughout the pregnancy and willingly agreed to his father-in-law’s suggestion that the girl should return once again to their country estate, where the baby would be born.  Gideon and William visited as often as they could.’ Holmes glanced across at his friend, who was listening intently to the tale. ‘As a doctor, you might not have agreed with keeping the girl in the middle of the jungle, but it seems she thrived. And her father had studied medicine for a while, so it was felt that he could cope. However, it was during one of William’s visits that the tragedy happened.’ 

Holmes stopped, staring for a while into the flames of the fire, but after a few minutes he shrugged, leaned forward and continued. ‘I will finish what I’ve started, Watson, but you may not wish to write all this down.’  He sat back in his chair, and pressed his fingers together against his lips whilst he considered his next words.

‘The baby was born prematurely. All the servants had been given the evening off to attend a wedding in a nearby village and only William was there to help. He did his best but was unable to save its life. Afterwards, he told Gideon that it had been deformed which was why he thought it best to have it buried immediately in the family plot on the estate, before Alicia could ask to see it. Distraught, Gideon returned to his work and Alicia stayed at the country house, unable to drag herself away from the little grave. Gradually they drifted apart, Gideon only going up into the hills perhaps once a month or so, Alicia never leaving to visit him or working in the laboratory again.

The visits grew less until they almost ceased. About five years later, when Gideon hadn’t seen his wife for almost a year, he suddenly decided to go up into the hills. Arriving unexpectedly, he walked, unannounced, into the house, to where he could hear voices in the parlour. Gideon recognised his wife’s rather high-pitched voice and also his father-in-law’s deeper tones. There was another voice, too, giggling and squealing in the way young children do. Gideon pushed open the parlour door, stepped inside and was transfixed in horror.’

‘But, Holmes, are you saying it was his own child? Was she so deformed, then?’

‘Listen. A five-year-old girl stood there, staring back at him with eyes that matched his own bright blue. The child’s hair was the same dark, shining colour that had first attracted him to Alicia. Though small, with delicate limbs, she was obviously healthy. There was a mischievous laughter in her eyes. Everything admirable about a child, you might say. But, Watson, around her nose and mouth grew long whiskers that were twitching as she sniffed inquisitively at the newcomer.  She stretched out a hand, its long, narrow fingers and sharp little nails beckoning to Gideon.’

Watson’s eyes grew round, horror forming in their centre. ‘Holmes, are you saying ..?’

            ‘Yes. It was, so Gideon said, his father-in-law who moved first. “Come in, Gideon,” he said, “I see we need to talk.”. Gideon couldn’t move. He stayed by the door, staring at his daughter. “What have you done?” he asked.

William’s excuse was that his wife had died of Dengue fever, just as Gideon’s mother had. “We have been trying to find a cure.  We didn’t realise it might have this effect.” was his explanation, pleading with his son-in-law for understanding.

But Gideon didn’t see it that way. “You were playing God. We were playing God.  What have we done!” he cried. Then his wife jumped to her feet and pushed past her father. “Stop it!’ she shouted. “It was my decision, my right…”.

Gideon thrust her away and she fell, clutching her stomach in pain.  A dark shape sprang forwards from behind the couch, biting at Gideon’s arm and scrabbling to reach his throat, before Gideon managed wrench it from his shoulder and flung it across the room where it tumbled onto an armchair, falling over against the oil lamp, which crashed to the floor.  Flames spread across the rug and flickered up the side of the chair.

Gideon turned, ran out of the house, leapt to his horse and galloped away.  Behind him the flames spread throughout the wooden building and black smoke thickened the air.’

‘But, Holmes, why has none of this been reported?’

‘Gideon returned to the coast.  It was night by the time he got back.  He went aboard the Matilda Brigg and destroyed all the work. Every paper, every animal. Then he set fire to the ship. It sank within minutes. He was lucky to escape himself. The fire at the country house destroyed everything there. Only the bodies of his father-in-law and his little girl were ever found. William had obviously carried the girl out into the garden then gone back for his daughter. He was found in the doorway, with the body of a giant rat at his throat.  But there was no trace of anyone else.’

‘And what happened to Gideon?’

‘He inherited all his wife’s wealth, which he used to set up a hospital near Medan. As far as I know he is still there.’

‘So that’s the end of the story, Holmes.’

‘I think you have missed the point, Watson.  Two bodies were recovered from the country house.  What happened to Alicia?’

‘But surely, the fire obliterated her body.  If she had survived, wouldn’t have she come forward, claimed her inheritance?’

‘It is her inheritance that Gideon believed kept her away. Away somewhere that he cannot find her.  Her inheritance from her father.’

‘Which is?’

Her father’s work. You see, the reason Gideon rejected her so forcefully was not just his shock at understanding what his daughter had been. It was not just that Kim, the giant rat was there, protecting his beloved mistress. It was the fact that Alicia was pregnant again. And Gideon knew he had played no part in that.

Monday 28 November 2022

Chimera - Part 1 by Vivien Teasdale

 


Holmes eyed his friend warily.  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will tell you the story. It was told to me by a very close friend, whom I shall call Gideon.’ Holmes leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in thought before he began.

            ‘Gideon had been brought up in Sumatra, where his father was a missionary.  However, the eldest son, Gideon’s brother, David, died of Dengue fever, as later did his mother and a younger sister. Another child died in a fire and eventually the father went mad with grief.  Gideon was the only member of the family left. He returned to England to study medicine in London, which is where I met him. He put his life in Sumatra behind him and, in fact, never mentioned it for many years.’

            ‘But surely he must have talked about his childhood? Or where he grew up?’ Watson asked. ‘Didn’t you ask?’

            ‘My dear Watson, Gideon simply clammed up if anyone asked him. We knew he’d lived abroad, but not exactly where.’ He paused, taking a sip of the fine whisky Watson had provided and savoured the taste, then continued, ‘Gideon had a special interest in tropical diseases, not surprising considering his background. One day he met a scientist, William, for want of a better pseudonym, who had a similar interest. William was a very wealthy man who was determined to find a cure for Dengue fever, he said, and persuaded Gideon to return to the Sumatra with him. There, Gideon found a laboratory equipped with all the latest developments.  He found medical advances you cannot possibly imagine. There was only one problem. The scientist needed secrecy for his work.’

‘I should have thought the Sumatrans would have been grateful for his work?’

‘As we would expect, of course, but William was working with rats and the Sumatrans were superstitious.  To ensure the safety of his work, the laboratory was housed in the hold of a ship, anchored just outside the port of Belawan.’

‘The Matilda Brigg!’

‘Exactly, my dear Watson.  Gideon was always a bit sea sick, but he controlled it and immersed himself in his work.  It appears that Sumatran rats can carry Dengue fever but do not appear to suffer from its effects themselves.  But instead of just looking for a vaccine, William was taking genes from rats and injecting them into chimp embryos in an attempt to breed fever resistant animals.’

‘Holmes, that’s what they call … genetic engineering.’

Holmes paused while he lit his pipe, tamping down the tobacco until he was satisfied, before looking up at his friend. ‘Yes, indeed, Watson, Gideon too was perturbed at first.  But he had an inquiring mind and became fascinated with the possibilities.  Besides, he had an assistant for his work.’

‘Ah, competition from a younger man, eh?’

‘Competition, definitely, but the person in question was William’s daughter.  Alicia, as I shall call her, was a beautiful girl. Dark hair, bright, dark eyes and a daring inquisitiveness that Gideon felt he had to match.  She knew her father’s work well and had often helped with experiments. She seemed to have a particular rapport with the rats.  I should say these were not ordinary rats, but the giant rat of Sumatra which is almost twice as big as our own rat.’

Watson shuddered and Holmes laughed.

‘Yes, most people seem to react that way with rats, though I believe they are very intelligent creatures. Alicia devised mazes, which they learned to negotiate remarkably quickly and passed the knowledge on to their offspring.  One rat, Kim, she called him, seemed especially responsive.  Alicia was very fond of Kim and trained it as you would a puppy. It seemed to guard her, keeping snakes, mice, cats, even dogs at bay.’

‘And it attacked your friend?’

‘Not then.  But he was wary of it.  As was bound to happen, he fell in love with Alicia and, surprisingly, she fell in love with him.’

‘Why surprisingly, Holmes?  There was nothing wrong with him, was there?’

‘Not at all.  He was an admirable man, but he was considerably older than Alicia and he worried that she had seen so little of the world and of other men.  But she insisted she wanted no one else, her father agreed to the match and the pair were married in William’s country house in the hills above Medan. Life was idyllic for Gideon.  He had his work, which, once he had settled his qualms about the ethics of it, he found fascinating.  He had a beautiful wife who was capable of sharing his work in all its aspects.’

‘But what was she like, Holmes?  Did he tell you that?’

‘Oh, yes. I’ve said she was inquisitive. She was into everything. Everything that happened on board the ship, in the laboratory, on the island, she had to know about.  She loved people, loved talking to them, finding out about their lives and seemed to be involved with half the families on the island. Where Gideon’s father, as missionary, had visited families, Alicia had the ability to become part of the family. She had a mischievous sense of humour but everyone loved her.’

‘Hm, and so she found someone else? A younger man?’

‘Not so, Watson.  She and Gideon were very happy together.  Their only sadness was that they seemed unable to have a child.  All Alicia’s gentle love began to be directed to the animals, and Gideon would often catch her cradling the young chimps or even her pet rat, as if it were a baby.  In fact, the girl kept Kim with her so much that Gideon eventually insisted that it had to be shut out of their rooms.  That was the first time they argued.’

‘I think I should have got rid of it much earlier. Not keen on my wife’s cat in the house, let alone upstairs.’

‘Gideon felt the same, but I think it was jealousy rather than hygiene that worried him.  The rat used to sit on Alicia’s lap and glare at Gideon with evil little eyes and bare its teeth at him. Then, so he told me, it would run up Alicia’s arm, sit on her shoulder and snuggle up against her cheek, all the while watching Gideon, as if to say, ‘Look, she loves me more than you.’ No wonder he began to be both angry and afraid. William eventually decided to intervene, insisted that Alicia stay with him at their country house for a rest and banished the rat back to the laboratory, where it continuously flung itself against the bars of its cage in frustration and became more and more vicious, until one day it attacked the young man who was feeding it, snapping off his little finger and inflicting numerous wounds along his arms and face. The rat escaped, leapt over the side of the ship and disappeared. Everyone assumed it had died.


Part 2 coming Monday 5th December

Monday 21 November 2022

Smokeless Coal & Dry Kiln Logs by Owen Townend

 


She was cold. I knew a lodge

full of

smokeless coal and dry kiln logs.

 

Through blinding snow, we ran on

towards

smokeless coal and dry kiln logs.

 

Wrapped in folds, we came upon

scents of

smokeless coal and dry kiln logs.

 

Through the door and past hall clocks

to the

smokeless coal and dry kiln logs.

 

Brass hearth glowing halo hot

with the

smokeless coal and dry kiln logs.

 

She dropped her stole and I coughed

full of

smokeless coal and dry kiln logs.

 

We both bowed at this phoenix cot

praising

smokeless coal and dry kiln logs.

 

Embracing gold and taking stock

of the

smokeless coal and dry kiln logs.

Monday 14 November 2022

Virtually Me by Chris Lloyd

 

I have become an app. app-arently.
Presumably because I popped my clogs;
no other reason makes any sense.
I think I’m alive, virtually at least,
somewhere in the “ether” I’m told.
Not quite grasped that bit yet.
Other than that it’s sort of a different normal
once people get used to it.
I have to be downloaded in order for people
to interact with me; connect with me as it were.
Unlike most apps it’s free plus no ads – cool eh?

Sue! so you downloaded me…..How you doing?
Did you go on the holiday without me?
Yes, I did actually, a good time – Gerald went too
What? Gerald oh my g …
Well you weren’t here – it was platonic
But you went anyway? Before or after I …. you know my funeral
Why do you want to know that
Right so before then; thanks a lot, wife.
I had to or lose the money.
What? We were insured.
I thought so too but apparently you didn’t pay it…..
Yes I did, on my card… oh damn I remember….
I was out of credit.
Good job you had death insurance then, one thing
you got right. By the way, your car is a total write off.
Screw the car, what about Gerry boy, are you sha….
How childish, as usual, but since you ask….
You’ve always fancied him – what’s he got that I hadn’t?
Be careful what you say.
Well for one thing not an obsession for driving at ridiculous speeds
in ridiculous cars and for another, I’ll let you imagine!
Well his wife’s here too and we’re an item. How does that grab you?
Plus, you already know what she’s got that you haven’t, very nice they are too.
How can you be “an item” if you’re an app, it’s stupid. Is she an app too?
Yes, she is. Wait I’ll get her. Jenny, Sue has shacked up with Gerry, did you know?
No I didn’t but no problem for me.
Hello Sue. Hope you and Gerry are ok, which house are you in?
We’re selling each one and going to live in Spain.
Sunny retirement here we come! I bet you wish you hadn’t got in
his car, Jenny. Wait, wait this app chat is too weird, I’m deleting you both now – bye.
Oh well that’s that then – I think I’ll go and get the upgrade to the latest
version – it can’t be deleted, coming?
No I’m going to wait until the bugs have been fixed. I think
you should too, don’t forget what happened last time.
Yeah, as always, I wanted the latest and fastest available, look how that turned out.
Erm can I come to yours, I’m feeling virtually very sexy!
Mmmm me too, see you in a … wow that was fast!
Nice algorithms!

©Christopher Lloyd

Monday 7 November 2022

You Are Still On the Fastest Route by Chris Dance

 


J22

Stiff scrubby stubble erupts

Bristling below cornflower skies

And piercing crumpled honey-dew blankets

Which fall, billow and rise.

 

J23

Sludgy muddy Roman squalls

Whip up waves which spit and lap.

Western winds assail walls

While crumbling concrete spans the gap.

 

J24

But my home is Victorian:

Soot-settled, smooth and warm

Black velvet, solid stone

Soft to touch, seen-it-all.

 

J25

Soggy-sewage-winter leaves

Cake crumpled steel skeletons

And summer trout in Lincoln Green

Brave the roaring river’s decibels.

 

J26

Shoppers and commuters congregate

In this tight commuter belt.

Commercial traffic coagulates

In arteries caked in salt.

Monday 31 October 2022

Guardian of the Graveyard by Judy Mitchell


‘He’ll not go down there. They’ve got a plot at St Mary’s. Had it for ages. His mam and dad were from there and have been keeping a space warm for him these last ten years.’

The three men fell silent, finished their drinks and then shouted the landlord for a last round.

‘That one was your last. Time to go home.’

On the following night they had news. The crackling, wet cough that had slid Jack Priestley into semi-consciousness on the previous day, had taken their neighbour to his Maker that morning. When they went to pay their respects, gone was the tell-tale bloom of pink on his cadaverous cheeks: gone the eerie, ruckling sound bubbling up from his exhausted chest. His eyes that had bulged and stared, had finally closed. A peculiar, suffering look he had for almost a year, had left his features in peace.  He was silent.

As they had thought, he was to be laid to rest at St Mary’s with his father and mother, both gone long before him but patiently saving his place.

It had all started as a drunken conversation between the three old miners slumped across the bar. Those who overheard their beer-fuelled deliberations urged them to change their tune, to talk about something more joyful than speculating who would be the first burial at the new parish church and become, according to legend, the Guardian of the Graveyard. But more than eight months after its consecration, the new burial place remained empty with grey, bare earth lapping the new church’s stone walls. It had been months since the builders’ carts had taken away the last of the stone, the sand and the lime and the tools used to bring the sacred place to life. A sexton had been appointed, a man from the village, slow and quiet. Each day, he turned over in his calloused hands, his recently acquired spade and fork and then restacked the wooden coffin boards against the wall by the vestry, ready for the day when there would be a call for his services. But there was no call.

The three continued to ponder who would be the first and become the spirit who would protect the place and the departed from evil forces. For weeks, towards closing time, the talk would start again, always raised by the same three as they looked into their empty glasses. Then with their speech blurred, their eyes smeared with coaldust and rivulets of sweat that had coursed down their faces during the working day, they each took on a look of melancholic curiosity as they leaned on the bar.

When Benjamin and Sarah Chapel’s second born, a girl, arrived well before her time, they shook their heads in despair, never expecting her to see out her second day. Surely the Guardian was not to be a child?  Such a tiny, dark bundle with both fists clenched, her thumbs pointed upwards. By the third day her hungry cries were hiccoughing across the back-to-backs and down the black alleys, defying the naysayers. Years later, many of her family would remember that determination and defiance which she carried into her adult years and which served her well when she beat off an attack in Nair Woods by a drunken miner lodging with her family, intent on wicked pleasure.

And so, the nightly, macabre deliberations of these old men continued. They commented on the unusually hale and healthy state of the oldest men and women in the village and wondered if they each held some secret talisman that kept them away from death’s dark embrace.  

On the Sabbath and in their Sunday best, the three made their way to the church with their families down freshly tamped paths bordered by a soft, lime sheen of new grass shoots. Later, when the north wind blew harder up the hill, tall, dark green tussocks peppered the new grass, bent by the tumbling weather. Stubby, bare trees stood like angry circus dwarves around the perimeter of the graveyard, stunted horse chestnuts and beech trees planted to provide shelter from the wind, but not for many years.

At the Black Bull, the conversation again turned to the emptiness of the graveyard.

‘Our Billy says they should have buried a black dog under the cornerstone of the place so that its ghost would be Guardian. A Church Grim he said it was called.’

‘What happens if it turned on folk? It might never let us in.’

‘Well, I’m not over-keen on going in to stay. Don’t know about you?’

‘We’ve all got to go some time.’

‘Aye, but I don’t want to have to creep in to avoid getting bit.’

‘Take your missus with you, she’ll scare ‘owt off.’

They finished their beer and looked at the landlord in hopeless expectation of another round.

‘No.’ he stated, anticipating their question.

His single word was final and he was not prepared to argue. He watched them stagger out on to the road and heard the sharp ring of their clogs as they stumbled on the frost-rimed earth. He reached for the handle to lock the door and looked up at the full moon in the ruby sky and the sharp pinnacles and pediments of the new parish church silhouetted down the lane.

 

The explosion on the following afternoon shook the doors of every building for miles. A row of tiles on the school roof slid rhythmically down to the ground. Glasses in the Black Bull rocked and rattled on the shelves. The vicar, dressed in a long, dark cloak, came out of the vicarage, crossed the graveyard and made his way quickly towards the mine, a mile away. A stream of men and women hurtled from their doors and joined him in the rush to the pithead.

Two days later, all the bodies had been brought to the surface. Some so badly burned in the explosion and fire that had ripped through the workings, that their families could not be sure it was them. The Inn remained closed until the last of the dead was brought out and plans were made to hold the inquest.

The burials followed the day of the verdict. On that night, three pints were pulled and placed silently on the bar, the gaze of those in the inn, carefully avoiding the sight of the deep amber liquid untouched in the glasses.  

Monday 24 October 2022

Take a Deep Breath by Susie Field


I take a deep breath

The air is fresh, clean and pure

Free from pollution.

 

I’ve waited so long

To leave the city behind

The noise and chaos.

 

Alone with my thoughts

Cushioned by nature’s beauty

I now feel at peace.

Monday 17 October 2022

Fang Meets Scale by Owen Townend

 


At this stage ouroboros is practically a diamond-backed living tyre. The eternal snake is tireless in its rotation, rolling down the black road of existence.

            Surely somewhere down the dusty trail, Ouroboros would have spotted a more delectable snack than its scaly tail. Imagine if it had changed course and shape for a mouse. Of course this would have to be metaphorical too, an analogous mouse that pokes its head in on all that has ever been and ever will be, in search of some crumbs. Karma crumbs, probably.

            Ouroboros would spot the little chancer, extend its fangs and lash out with some existential venom. That poor mouse might be in the throws of perpetual agony, at least until the eternal snake decides to swallow the hapless interloper. Who knows what the digestion would be like, never-ending and bilious with angst?

             And what then? Would Ouroboros be able to revert to its primary instinct of rounding off infinity? Surely it would be past all that, lost to a more primal urge to devour and survive. Even immortal concepts have that drive to fill their belly.

            No. I’m not convinced Ouroboros would return to chasing its tail. What would be the meaning of it? Ouroboros would just be a snake, albeit one of the most famous. Then again, such drastic action would prove an embarrassment to the philosophers. An unanticipated failure in a tried and tested thought experiment. In that case, nothing lasts forever. There is no pattern.

            Mind you, I have no proof that Ouroboros has done any such thing. The snake has set its mind to the task of circles and that’s no meagre undertaking. Life has to keep going.

            Only once fang meets scale can we truly talk about something new.

Monday 10 October 2022

A Tale of Two Seats by Dave Rigby

 

The station clock says ten to three.

Harold stands on his plinth,

Looking energetic.

Two lads kick a football across the square.

Accurate passes, a touch of ball juggling,

The sort of skill this solid full back never had.

The wind blows the spray from the fountains

Towards my bench, a light rain

In the sunshine.

Two ice cream cones melting faster than

Their owners can consume them,

Dripping.

Another five minutes and it’s

Time for the train.

Mask on,

Ticket through the barrier machine.

In my mind I’m dribbling that football through the subway to the platform.

 

A day later, along the canal, waterproofs dripping, the bench is welcome.

The downpour has stopped, the sun peeks through the grey.

A delve into the rucksack for flask and sausage roll,

Gazing out across the water, to abandoned buildings beyond.

Pipes, no longer carrying liquid or gas, trail ahead.

A duck swooshes down onto the canal, a perfect landing,

Making a racket as it cruises towards the sole barge in sight.

It ignores me, (I’ve not even crumbs left), but keeps up the noise until

The bargee emerges from the cabin, bag in hand,

And scatters the feed in the direction of his visitor.

Same time tomorrow I hear him say.

The duck concentrates on the food,

Understandably.

More movement on the water as a barge chugs by,

On the roof, solar panels are shiny in the brightening sun,

Tomato plants looking healthy,

The bike less so.

Coiled ropes, firewood in boxes, an inquisitive Jack Russell

Sniffing the canal breeze.

Two runners on the towpath, total concentration,

Devices strapped to their arms,

They don’t hear my greeting.

I relax in the warmth of midday,

With no particular place to go.

Monday 3 October 2022

The Island of Lost Things by Vivien Teasdale



‘What the hell are those umbrellas doing there?’ I spoke out loud, despite being alone. Sitting up, I banged into the nearest one. It lurched away, fell over and knocked into the brolly behind. That keeled over too and so on, ad infinitum, dropping one by one until they lay like a necklace, round the bay. A black necklace. Why are they always black? No-one ever leaves a bright colourful umbrella anywhere.

I got up, carefully this time. I thought back to the party, eventually recalling a woman offering me an unbelievable deal on this sunny island. Then everything went black and I woke up … somewhere in the Pacific, I think.

Staring round, I noted the beach, strewn with jackets, handbags, out-of-date sandwiches and a cockatoo staring forlornly at me from its rather cramped cage. The rocky shoreline made the place picturesque, with the tide splashing in a flurry of white horses against it. The tide coming in?

‘Move, you idiot,’ I thought and ran, grabbing the parrot on the way. Waves were hot on my heels, or rather, cold on my heels as I scurried up over the boulders to relative safety.

Trust me to get a bad deal. Stranded on the Island of Lost Things and it turns out to be cold and wet, not the tropical idyll I was expecting.

From the top of the rocks I could see … nothing. Up here, I was away from the menace of the tide, but now had to contend with mist and the drip, drip from the trees. I blundered on, straight into an overcoat. Handy, but already sodden.

Next was a fur coat. I had no doubt that had been left, not lost, given the state it was in. I also found a nice little lacy thing that was neither use nor ornament. So much for the millions I was going to earn by taking over this island. That’s what I’d been promised, I remembered. Well, maybe not millions, but a good return. Based on what I could sell. At this rate, it will be a wage of omission, instead of commission.

Then I fell, heavily, and tripped over a kid’s go-kart. Still clutching the cage, I now clutched the kart, too, as it slithered straight down the hill. Faster and faster, skidding round the corners. I had found the road, and every pothole, every speed bump. It was a cobbled road, which made it worse.

Go-karts, abandoned go-karts anyway, are not made for that sort of thing. The rear wheel bent and the kart wriggled sideways round the next bend. Then the wheel came off completely. It didn’t slow me down, just created sparks that arced over my shoulder. Over both shoulders when another wheel came off.

Somehow I dragged the front wheels round and zig-zagged into the bushes at the side. I noticed, as I sailed over them, that they were a pretty shade of pink. Then I hit the ground, not running but bleeding. The cage door flew open and the cockatoo flew off, perching on the nearest bush with an expression of startled sadness. Or perhaps it was just giving its opinion of my intelligence.

I noticed, as I licked off the pink juice running down my face and arms, that the bushes had thorns. Mixed with blood, it tasted ok. Rather nice in fact.

I licked off some more, before grabbing a fruit and eating it. That tasted even better, but the world was beginning to spin a bit. Concussion, I thought and ate some more. With nothing to prevent me, I went with the flow and spiralled down a rabbit hole for the rest of the morning.

That was how it started. They all come here now. It’s the only place in the world that the pink gin plant grows and I have a monopoly.

Oh, I do a nice little side line in selling lost property, too. Especially, black umbrellas.