THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN

 

 THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN 

 By John Abbott

Note to reader:

Regular readers will recall the short flash entitled ‘S’.  But I did not post the full story so, for those who read ‘S’ it is repeated in pink, you can glance over it to refresh your memory or ignore it as you please…  ENJOY!

 

S

The old man was dressed in a dark, threadbare suit, which, like it's owner, had seen better days. He was standing, trying not to look too dis-spirited about his plight. His battered, old cap was upturned on the ground with numerous shiny coins within.

London's pedestrians passed to and fro, some cast only glances, whilst others, on occasion stopped.

The little girl was dragging slightly behind her mother, who was gently tugging her left arm to persuade her into more ardent forward motion.

“ Mummy, mummy, can we give the man some money ? “ The mother accepted the inevitable without repining.

“ O.K., O.K., yes. “ as she delved into her handbag.

Releasing her young off-springs hand for a moment, she dipped into her purse. “ Stay there, Trudi. “

She found a small golden coin and passed it to her daughter.

“ Give the man the pound, Trudi. “ she said as she bent her knees to move closer to young Trudi.

Trudi carefully placed the pound coin into the old man's cap. The old man gave his usual response.

“ Thank you and may God bless you. “

 

He smiled at the little girl, knowing that this universal gesture would achieve the necessary effect. The girl with her blonde pony-tail smiled a friendly, toothy grin back. This old man had seen it all. Hell and heaven, life and death ... and still he found the gift of a smile.

 

 

    THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN 

A huge tapestry of past events flooded his mind. When he had been very young, his dreams seemed very straightforward. His original choice of vocation turned out to be an unfortunate one.

 

He had always wanted to be a soldier, and when the opportunity arose in his late teens, he had jumped at the chance. It all seemed a long time ago, when as a fledgling soldier, he was to visit a small group of islands, not greatly dissimilar to Dartmoor or Wales. After a few weeks of hard, damp warfare, he came to realise what life was really about. On a chill, May morning, cloaked in mist, he had carried a wounded friend out of a firefight, and down the side of a wet, grassy hill. His burden was treated by a medical team and managed to survive the war. So did he, but not without another traumatic experience. Two days later, a small band of his comrades were blown to pieces in an enemy mortar attack. Luckily, John was only to receive minor shrapnel wounds. Minor they might have been, but, they effectively ended his career within the military.

 

His last real job was as a financial assistant for the BBC. He couldn't quite remember where the roller-coaster really began, but his memory somehow sucked the details together. A renowned television presenter had got involved with a child-abuse case on her live TV show, resulting in a small group being formed to find some way to help the victims of these heinous crimes. He submitted the idea of a free telephone helpline, with sympathetic listeners on the other end, who could offer helpful advice whilst maintaining confidentiality. He involved himself heavily in the setup of the service and managed to make it a national helpline service. Alas, all this detracted enormously from his normal employment. His employers, with all their usual benevolent wisdom, decided that they could not financially support a man who no longer carried out the duties for which he was originally employed.

Hence, the joys of unemployment were to follow.

Some weeks later, he was employed to do some relatively ordinary tasks for the local council. One particular occurrence from a sunny morning last July, sprang to mind.

 

The road-sweeper, in his gaudy costume of green trousers and yellow polo-shirt was vigorously pushing his large, wide broom along the litter-strewn gutter. Approaching him, a young mother and her very young son walked happily in the opposite direction along the pavement. The young boy, who was certainly not more than four or five years old, relinquished his grip on his mothers hand, and facing the road-sweeper, stopped. He began to grin and wave wildly at him, whilst calling out, “ Hello! Hello!"

The road-sweeper glanced up and instead of simply ignoring the boy and continuing with his mundane duties, he also stopped. He returned the boy's waves with his own exaggerated and extravagant hand gesticulations. His deep voice raised itself a couple of octaves and he cheerfully said “Hello” as well. This appeared to delight the young lad immensely, and the mother’s reaction was a gleeful smile. She thought it wonderful that someone should take the trouble simply to give joy where it was possible. In fact, to her, at that moment and for a couple of hours afterwards, the whole world seemed a much more cheerful place as the sun's rays warmed her heart. It had renewed her faith in the goodness of humanity.

 

Unfortunately, spending cuts in the Council's budgetary plans were soon announced, and everyone knew the old rule ... ‘Last in, first out.'

He also remembered an occurrence on a rain-soaked Monday morning. It was early, sometime before six. The stark, rain-filled outlook from the bridge was heightened only by the splash of obscene, reflective colour on the young man's rainwear. The shabby-looking, stubblefaced youngster was standing on the thin wall of the bridge, blankly looking out east across the dismal grey sky towards the dome of St Paul's. He was hurting bad, despairing of this short span that most would refer to as his life. The rain was not heavy, but its damp crawl still gripped his consciousness. His wish was very simple, he wanted to end the misery, all the mental anguish, and most of all, he wanted to stop the hatred, with which he had tainted so much. All that was now required was that final act of courage, to condemn himself to a dank and watery grave.

“Matthew, do not do it." A voice said suddenly from behind him.

He turned his head and looked behind him to the right. He saw a well-dressed man in a dark suit and tie, his hair cropped short and slowly getting wet, yet the man was smiling.

“ Matthew. What a waste, don't do it,” he pleaded.

Matthew was perturbed by two things. The first was, why on earth would this gent want to spare any thought for me? The second came as a shock; how on earth did he know my name?

“ Who are you? Leave me alone, will ya!" shouted Matthew.

The gently smiling man ignored this request and approached Matthew calmly. Matthew became agitated and shouted again.

“Look! Sod off! Leave me alone!"

The man in the suit simply leant on the wall, next to Matthew.

“ Matthew, why do this? Nothing is quite this bad, surely?“  He introduced himself as he offered his hand in a gesture of friendship. “My name is John. “

 

Matthew suddenly, without thinking, made a show of attempting to throw himself off the bridge, but instead found himself sitting bestride the wall facing John. He gazed at the sombre suit and began to explain.

“ Well ... “ He never got the opportunity to even get into the first sentence, when the man called John interrupted him.

“ Matthew ... I care not for your problems, I only want you to live, maybe even to smile occasionally, that might help. “ John continued on, “ I will not preach to you. I feel certain that your problems are many and have an infinite variety, but think of how those problems will be multiplied if you were to thrust yourself into this venerable, old river. You would hurt a lot of people ... In fact, all who know you would feel the weight of the burden, regardless of their feelings for you. So do not commit this act. Come down, what do you say? “

Laugh if you will, but Matthew felt cleansed, he swung his left leg over to the pavement and stood on the bridge itself.

“ Come Matthew, let me buy you a cup of tea. “ said John. “ Who knows, the sun may even come out later? “

The two men, distinctly different, one shabby, one smart, one old, one young, strolled off south down the bridge, chatting happily, leaving the bleakness of the Thames behind them.

*                                            *                                            *

With her small hand still firmly pressed in her mothers grip, Trudi looked up and appealed to her mother.

“ Mummy, mummy, look. That nice man is floating on air. “

 

“ Yes, yes dear. C'mon, hurry up, we've got to get home.“ replied her mother, inattentively.

 

Carefully he shrouded the brilliance of his light that he might not blind her; and calmly placing his feet upon the ground, entered once more, for a little while, into the habitation of man again.

Copyright John Abbo

Time Warp

 

Time Warp

By Robert Kingston

 

The bang came after the hammer, followed by tiny taps and the scrape of raw metal over pointed steel. Again! This time though the clang of a dead spot, and somewhere an unintended split lets loose a ray of light.

blow torch
over a flambé 
the two of us
still celebrating 
after forty years

Published; Contemporary haibun online - 22.1 spring 2026

Marilyn

 Marilyn 

Peter Woodgate

You were a perfect bastard

until the world’s impurities

tainted your soul.

 

Insecurity and exploitation

tore virgin flesh from your bones

and exhibited dreams to the world.

 

They moulded you into a celebrity,

your face peering from every magazine,

you were a star!

 

Shining in the heavens of Hollywood

your light pierced the gloom

of shadowy streets

illuminating a public, eager

to sample the image you had become,

exuberance personified.

 

But, tragedy lay behind the facade of fame

your beauty, disguised by the cosmetics of life.

 

Did you feel sadness as cameras laid you bare

your smile stolen by a million hearts?

 

Was the absence of love a bitter pill to swallow?

Did you find comfort in the arms of sleep?

And did you leap into that final abyss?

 

Or, were you pushed?

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

Judy’s Present?

 Judy’s Present?  

John Abbott 

I accelerated away from the drive and almost immediately concluded that my senses were not exactly what I'd call bloody perfect at the moment. I'd had a few pints already, I didn't really want to climb into the car, but I didn't have much choice, did I?

 

Judy had phoned about ten minutes ago. All she'd said was that her Dad was in hospital and that he'd been hurt in a car accident. I always had thought he was a soppy bastard; now I was certain. He'd probably had too many beers, climbed in the motor and half-way up the road realised that he couldn't handle it. And ironically enough, here was I, Mister hypocrite himself, slagging off her Dad for driving under the sodding influence whilst I continued the festive trend. Still, as I told myself before, didn't have much choice, did I?

 

The lights of London's East-End sparkled and twinkled outside as I sped up the Barking road. I glanced at my watch; twenty past eight, good job it was a pretty straight run, eh? I reminded myself to concentrate harder. I realised that I'd had a drink but, at the same time, I didn't want to over-compensate. Five minutes more and I should be at the Hospital, down to the Greengate, turn left at the lights, then up and over the hill, down Prince Regents lane and I'd be there. Christ knows whether Judy meant that George would actually still be in Casualty. I'd just have to hunt around for him, wouldn't I?

 

As I began to dip over the hill in Prince Regents lane, I suddenly realised. Shit !, I still hadn't got Judy's Christmas present and only one more day left. Sod that !, shopping for her present on Christmas Eve, and I was hoping to go and have a drink with the lads at work. Oh well, " C'est la vie", as they say.

  

I slowed down rapidly, changed down into second and turned left up to Newham General Hospital. Fortunately I knew I wouldn't be allowed to park right outside Casualty, so I swerved gently left again into the car park, silently hoping for a clear parking spot not too far from Casualty. Some chance! Twenty-third of December and the hospital car park was chokka! A couple of minutes later I found a spot a good five to six hundred yards from Casualty. Sod it ! I pulled up, parked and jumped out into the cold night air. Christ ! its harry and willy out here I thought, as I jogged towards Casualty. I slowed to a walk as I approached the automatic doors. Swish - I stepped inside. The warm interior was a big contrast to the cold outside. I went to the admission window and enquired after George.

 

" George Mansfield ?, car accident ? I don't know much else luv. Sorry."

" Yes, sorry, er, who are you ? " was the response." Son-in-law luv."

"Oh, I see. Turn left, then right and ask one of the nurses - O.K? "

 

"Cheers, luv." and I strolled off to find Judy and her Dad. Left, right and I was just about to ask a nurse when I heard Judy's voice. I took three steps forwards and poked my head around the cubicles edge.

 

" John!!" was her tearful word.

 

"Hello, love. How is he?" Stupid question, I thought - she was crying. Can't be good, can it?

 

" Its bad John," she said, "They don't think he's going to make it."

Christ, I thought, that's a bastard, at Christmas as well. I hugged her, as she cried gently on my shoulder. I couldn't believe it. We sat down, and whilst I held her hands to calm her, she looked deeply at me and began to tell me what she knew about the accident.

"John, all Dad kept saying was - I had to swerve, I had to swerve."

Slowly, ever so slowly, she recounted what her father had told her. Apparently, there had been a group of people crossing the road, following a man holding a lantern. This was what George had had to swerve around and he had ploughed head first into the stream of oncoming traffic. It all seemed a little odd... Fanciful, almost. Alcohol? Who knows.

 

A nurse arrived with bad news. George was dead. Judy cried but seemed in control - I mean she wasn't hysterical or anything like that. Me?... I was just sad. Sad for her, sad for George. I hadn't known him that well but he seemed a good enough old soul.

Judy said she wanted to see her Dad once more. I felt she needed to be alone, so we decided she would stay at the hospital and pick up George's personal effects while I tried to get the copper's name, and a bit more info. I said I would drive home, make a few calls, then come and pick Judy up when she was ready.

 

I found our friend the policeman vainly trying to enjoy a cup of vending machine tea. I explained who I was and he told me the few facts he had. Indeed, George had an excess level of alcohol in his bloodstream when he died. Apparently, he claimed to have seen a group of people in fancy dress or similar holding mock pikes and muskets etc crossing the road ahead of him. One man dressed almost monk-like and carrying a lantern had suddenly appeared and tried to wave him down. George didn't have time to stop. He had swerved, to avoid him, hence the head-on collision with the oncoming traffic. The copper said that no witnesses had seen the group in fancy dress, and, as it had occurred less than a hundred yards from the Denmark Arms in East Ham, there would have been plenty of people about because the pub had opened only a few minutes before. Although I was obviously greatly saddened by George's death, I couldn't suppress a passing thought about drink-driving: We ought to be thankful that no-one else had been hurt badly. The fact that I'd been drinking earlier crossed my mind. The thought made me feel a little queasy.

I left the hospital, and feeling the cold night air again on my way to the car, I thought to myself, don't feel so bad now eh?

I climbed into the car, backed out of the car park, and headed home. Out onto Prince Regents lane, right at the Greengate and then a pretty straight run home down the Barking Road. The accident and George's vision struck me as a little strange as I approached East Ham. The Denmark Arms is a large pub. I passed it, on my left. 

" Oh my God !! " I couldn't believe my eyes.

I swerved left to avoid the man with the lantern and everything went black ...

 

EPILOGUE

"Mrs Austin, Judy Austin?, there's been an accident."

Judy replied "I know, I've been here for hours."

The nurse lowered her voice "No!, Judy, its your husband."

 

 

Copyright John Abbott  1,188 words   Circa 1980’s

THE FOX

 THE FOX

Peter Woodgate

 

I saw him again today

Head down and slow of pace

Against the rain, this was no race,

It was as if

This wasn’t relished

Something he just had to do

But, in his mind, hellish.

 

He would stop now and then

Look round at me

What does he see?

I thought.

 

Whatever it was

I’m certain that

He remained uncaring

His beady eyes staring

At a being that would not understand

The world that he lived in.

He shook his head

As if to indicate

This was his thought

But no,

It was simply to clear his head of rain

Before climbing the fence, again,

Then, he was gone.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

The Celebration!

 The Celebration! 

By Sis Unsworth

It was such a celebration, the like not seen for years,

they gave out the news in the morning, Mrs Jones burst into tears.

We never believed it would happen, the country celebrated as one.

Farmer Brown heard the news in his sickbed, jumped up & joined in the fun!

Mary turned on her gas oven, and cooked the whole family a meal.

“There’s plenty more where that came from,” the thought of it gave her a thrill.

Spontaneous party’s started up, the atmosphere lit up the sky’s.

When it sank in what had happened, many wiped tears from their eyes

but, why did it take years to happen, they asked all over town,

they could not believe in their wildest dreams, the price of petrol & gas had come down.

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 

Founding of the RNLI

 SIR WILLIAM HILLARY 

By Richard Banks                                               

‘Sir William loved the sea, knew how important it was to the Manx but knew also its cruelty, how it sunk ships, drowned brave men and made paupers of their wives and children. Us fishermen told him about the terrible storm that killed twenty-six of our fathers and grandfathers, said that when the waves were at their worse the sea would always have its way. He said no, that with courage nothing was impossible and on 6 October 1822 he showed how right he was.

  In the midst of yet another storm we watched from the quayside as a navy cutter floundered on the Conister Rock in Douglas Bay. Battered by the waves, rudder damaged beyond repair, its destruction was as sure as night after day. While others prayed, Sir William gathered us fisherman about him and promised a reward to every man who went to the rescue. So, we rowed out in two  boats through waves so high I thought each one would surely drown us. And he fearless, like the soldier he was, urging us on, shouting out his orders in a voice so loud that not even the shrieking wind could silence him. His plan was to put ropes aboard the vessel and tow her back to harbour, and this we did though Lord knows how we managed it. We felt like heroes but our work was not yet done; other vessels were in trouble so back we went, finally saving ninety-seven lives.  

  In March 1824, at Sir William's urging, a national lifeboat institution was founded. The first boat was at Douglas and he its coxswain. In the years that followed he helped save over 300 people, winning three gold medals for bravery. Not bad, I'm thinking, for a landsman who couldn't even swim.’

 

[The memoir of a Southend lifeboat man formerly of Douglas, Isle of Man. Dictated at his lodgings in the Ship Inn, 25^th of March 1848.]