Group Challenge !

 Scatterbrain 01

By Len Morgan 

On a Sunday morning In the 1950s I heard a crazy song on the ‘Billy Cotton Band show’ (the Light Program).  It had a catchy tune & memorable words; I was 7 or 8 at the time.  I sang that song to myself for a couple of weeks then promptly forgot it as kids do. 

Fast forward to 2026.  Then on YouTube I chanced upon a song by the same name recorded in 1939 by Frankie Masters ‘Scatterbrain’

https://youtu.be/Dywstp_uLhQ?si=pah8a6I87CZs6n1r   

If it doesn't work, just go to YouTube and type: Scatterbrain & press enter…

He is a long forgotten Band leader. I listened to about one & a half minutes of music from the band and was about to go to something more recent, when Frankie began to sing…  Then it all came back to me and I sang along!

 

Something so memorable after 73 years had to be a sign. 

.-…-. 

My brain was hooked. I picture a young schoolgirl between 8 & 10, in a girls boarding school her name is Catherine Sherrat, Cat to her friends.

Her parents have passed on, and she is being brought up by her aunt Dorothea (Dot), who works for MI6 in a clandestine role. Dorothea trains her to think like a Agent, and teaches her skills she would be able to use in later life. 

Cat takes on the persona of a crazy ‘Scatterbrain’.  She wears thick rimmed spectacles with plain glass (despite having 20/20 vision), she has unruly hair and a false stammer that gets her dismissed by her classmates as of no consequence. Yet with an IQ of 160; Cat is the measure of them all.  When a problem arises she will solve it by calling a fictitious cousin ‘Frankie’ who is always able to solve the problem.  She seems clumsy but in fact is at black~belt level in several martial arts.  She has no fear of heights and is in fact quite the gymnast. 

During her school holidays she often takes advance lessons with her Aunts colleagues, and on occasions takes part in assignments. 

.-…-.

Thought I might offer it as a piece of Collaborative writing to spice up the groups output.  If you are interested let me know…

 

Pick an area that best suits your style and write a story in 500 to 1000 words:

 

• There is Cats early school days at lower school.
• Then as she progresses through to middle school 13 to 15.
• Finally upper school 16 to 18.
• When Cat leaves school she goes to University where she meets Frankie (Her actual cousin).
• Both Cat and Frankie are recruited by the security services and engage in many clandestine adventures.

Have I gone too far?

 

Have fun!

 

Len

 

 

Who is this Man? 4

 Rebuttal

By Jane Goodhew

Who is this man, Peter Marchant?  That was your question, was it not?  If I told you that everything you wrote about him was a lie!  That you really did not know what you were saying or should I say writing?  For the man I knew was the exact opposite of all the heinous, negative adjectives you used to describe the love of my life.  I can almost hear your response that he was manipulative and charming and I was weak to fall for his lies.  

If anyone is a con it is you and your lies and as for being a psychopath I would suggest you look in a mirror!   The charm and smile are correct but it was not to draw a person in to use them for ill-gotten gain but to put them at ease. It warmed my heart every time I saw the broad grin that led up to his eyes that sparkled and radiated with warmth and love.

For he was just that, a warm, kind and generous loving man who would do all he could to make others feel relaxed and comfortable in his company.   He dedicated his life to helping others in any way he could whether it was practical or monetary.  He was generous perhaps to a fault because it was that that caused his demise.

The man you met was not the Peter or Gerald that you wrote about so please do not hold your breath for another meeting unless you are going to a séance.   For the man you called Gerald died pushing a stranger out of the way of a speeding car.  Perhaps you already know that as perhaps the driver was you so that the truth of your sordid life could not be told?

 

 Copyright Jane Goodhew      

                                                             

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A Halloween Story

By Jane Scoggins

We had had a good night out at the Travellers Joy pub in Rayleigh, me and the girls. Six of us, old friends. It had been ages since we had had a night out together, before the Covid pandemic struck, in fact. We had all had Covid at some point over the last 18 months or so. Jenny and I had been really poorly and Jenny still didn't feel 100%, but apart from a lingering cough for a month after, the other girls hadn't been too badly affected. Anyway, we were all glad to have survived intact. Both Ann and Clare had lost a loved one during the lockdowns. Ann, her Nan, and Clare her Granddad, who had been in a nursing home. Neither had been able to visit and say goodbye. A horrible time it had been. We were all triple vaxed up and ready to celebrate all the missed birthday celebrations and Christmas get-togethers. We all arranged to get a taxi home or have our partners pick us up by11pm. At11 pm I was the only one left to be picked up. My partner Tony had texted to say there had been a bit of a hold-up on the A127 but was on his way. The pub was ready to close so I was waiting outside on the little terraced balcony. We had had a scorching summer, and although it was the end of October, it was quite mild. There was virtually no traffic passing at that time of night and not a soul about. It was quite nice waiting in the quiet gloom. We had all had quite a lot to drink, me included, which was unusual, but I felt mellow rather than inebriated. After 10 minutes or so, I thought I would walk around the car park a bit to avoid starting to get cold. It was getting a bit misty and the Halloween pumpkins dotted about were looking a bit spooky with their funny cut-out eyes and mouths. One of the flats across the road had one lit up in the window which looked more cheerful than scary.

After a while I stood nearer the road to look out for Tony as the pub lights were now turned off. All was silent, and then I heard a muffled voice somewhere near, but no actual person to be seen. I thought it must be my imagination until I distinctly heard a young voice say

‘Miss, Miss’. I looked around, but there was no one. And then I saw a most extraordinary thing that so shocked me I was rooted to the spot. Looking down, I saw what looked like a hand appearing out of the ground. Impossible I thought. Then it moved and stretched its fingers. It looked like the hand of a young male. I looked closer; yes, I guessed, a young man’s weather-beaten hand. The air was beginning to feel cooler and a bit damp. Whatever I had drank that evening had definitely gone to my head. The voice came again. ‘Miss Miss’. The voice seemed to be coming from below the ground, and then, with a swirl of mist, it rose above the ground and was very close. I waited, still rooted to the spot. The voice came again, nearer to me.

‘Miss, my name is James. James Cook. I died a very long time ago.

‘How long ago?’ I heard myself ask. As if it mattered at all.

‘In 1829, Miss’, came the disembodied reply.

‘It was wrong, Miss, a miscarriage of justice Miss; I never done what they said I had. Mr Green the farmer I worked for said I set fire to his property Miss, and they believed him and took me off to prison. It broke my Mam’s heart it did. I had to go to court. There had been a few arsons about that time what with all the dissatisfaction with farm workers conditions. Everyone working on the land were frustrated. They had taken our contracts away and we only got what we worked for ,so during the winter if there was nothing much to do ‘cept feed the animal no one got paid until planting time in Spring.It was hard to survive, and some didnt. I was 15 at the time and although headstrong didn't have any evidence,so it was my word against Mr Green’s. He didn't like me one bit. He had a nasty temper and worked me to the bone. He beat me once too. He was a horrible man. His wife was scared of him. When his daughter Molly even dared look in my direction he would shout and ball at me and reduce my dinner ration. I would of left if I could but my Mum was a widow and couldn't really afford to keep me in food. In fact I used to scrump apples and plums for her and a handful of corn for her 3 chickens now and again to help her out. It was the only way. But I did hate him and he knew it. I don't know who did torch his barn, he was not liked by anyone, but it weren't me. But he was determined to punish me for anything he could and apart from being asleep in another barn, I had no alibi. He was an influential man was farmer Green. I stood no chance. I'm sure my Ma believed me but what good was that to her? I couldn't help her out any more. I never thought for me it would come to the gallows, but with all the unrest with farm workers and labourers and he arson attacks the judges were coming down hard to try and frighten folk and stop it happening.’

There was a pause while I digested this information as best as my fuddled brain could. He carried on with what sounded like a little sob in his voice.

I was shocked to hear the judge say

‘The sentence of the court upon you is that you be taken from this place to a lawful prison and thence to a place of execution, and that you be hanged by the neck until you are dead. And may the Lord have mercy on your soul’

‘Where you are standing now, Miss, is where the gallows stood, and where I was hanged. Walking up those steps with townsfolk standing watching was horrible. I dared look up at them standing there. I told my Mother not to come, and I was glad not to see her face. But I did see my brother. He was crying so pitifully I had to look away. I never knew who burnt down farmer green’s barn. It could have been anyone with a grudge, or it could have been an accident. But I was blamed and had my life ended cruelly and wrongly. I was barely 16 years of age. I can never settle. I am troubled and restless. Tonight is Halloween, when many spirits are abroad. Most living folk do not have the spiritual power to believe in the spirit world, and so do not hear or see us. You have heard me, though, and it has helped me that you have listened. Do you believe me?’

‘Yes, I do’, I hear myself say, almost in a whisper.

Just then I am alerted to Tony’s car lights as he swings into the pub car park.

He stops the car and leans over to open the passenger car door. Before I get in I look all around me in a slow 360-degree movement. Nothing to see or hear. Tony calls me to get in. Giving me a peck on the cheek as a welcome, he says, laughing,

‘Good Lord, love. Good night with the girls then? You look like you are three sheets to the wind, or have you just seen a ghost? Well, it is Halloween. Let’s get you home; you definitely don’t look quite right.

I am silent as we drive home. Was that real or just my imagination?.

Copyright, Jane Scoggins October 2026

Who is this Man? 03

 Peter Marchant

By Len Morgan

He is a quiet man, unassuming, keeping his own company. He’s the type of man who would pass unnoticed in a crowd.  Not one in a hundred could reliably describe him, or pick him out in a line-up.

That’s of course is by design, that is his intent! 

He’s a con man and a psychopath! He plies his trade with impunity the world owes him a living. He is highly intelligent, quick witted, and shows little empathy or remorse for his marks.  He gives shallow emotional responses, and displays a willingness to manipulate others without feeling any guilt. He is a technician who can work the emotions of the gullible, and even those with their wits about them.  His smile and charm can be turned on at the drop of the hat.  

“Hi Peter, So good to see you again after all these years…”

“I’m sorry, you are mistaken, my name is Gerald, and I don’t think we’ve ever met before?” 

“Then it’s my mistake Gerald.  It’s just that you bare a startling resemblance to my good friend Peter Marchant. I’m so sorry! I must apologise. You’re not a relation of his are you?” 

“No! My name is Gerald Moffat…”

“Then Gerald, allow me to buy you a drink.” 

“I don’t drink.”

“Then a meal sometime perhaps? Do you work close bye?”

“Yes, but I’ve just eaten. Now I realty must dash, I have a prior appointment to keep back at the office.” 

“Do you normally dine between 1 & 2?  I could meet you here tomorrow at 1pm, and we could dine at Wheelers; at my expense of course…”

The mark could decline and walk away, but be sure they would meet again in the near future anyway; at his design.

 

Copyright Len Morgan

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

 

MOGGIE POLITICIANS

 MOGGIE POLITICIANS

By Peter Woodgate

I have read, with great interest, on numerous occasions

The debate concerning dogs, their owners and more to the

Point, the mess they leave behind.

Being a dog owner and a responsible one at that, I agree

wholeheartedly with the disgust one has when being confronted by one of these abandoned faeces. 

Having picked up hundreds of my own, aptly named Shih Tzu’s packages, I have become somewhat of an expert on dog faeces and, in particular, what they tell me on the health of my dog. On viewing some of the many alien deposits encountered I am fearful that the perpetrators may not have long to live and, on occasions, simply could not believe the entire package was deposited by just one animal. 

All this being said I feel the poor dog and the owner get an

unfair and over-publicised slating concerning their misdemeanours. I, for one, would like to see more done Concerning cats. Don’t get me wrong I like cats but it does appear they, and their owners are allowed, literally, to get away with murder.

You know, it happens all the time; a sweet grey- haired old lady calls her pussykins in for dinner. He slinks in looking up at her, putting on his best “come and give me a stroke” look.

Gives his bowl a cursory sniff before jumping up on his favourite chair, which just happens to be next to the fire, and used by, yes you’ve guessed it, the grey haired old lady. She then puts him on her lap and pussykins squirms

backwards and forwards between her hands whilst

purring ecstatically. “And what’s up with you today?”

she asks as he looks longingly into her eyes. “not hungry?”

She is, of course, completely unaware that a mere 30 minutes previously dear pussykins had been dismembering a blackbird whose newly-hatched chicks would now be left to die. Shortly prior to that pussykins had dug up most of my newly planted pansies before choosing to deposit his faeces in an area not previously excavated. This is bad enough but it seems his games know no boundaries as sometimes he aggravates my dog to the point where he has a nervous breakdown. The cat can then return home where he is treated like a celebrity.

I live next door to three cats, an Abyssinian Blue, a Ginger Tom and a Tabby with a big red collar.

Unlike the Springer and Labrador who live the other side of me, these cats have never worked.

When they are not destroying wildlife and plants, they are either, crapping on everybody’s garden except there own or spitting and hissing at each other, mostly though, they just sleep.

I’ve Knick-named them

 

KEMI, ED AND ANDY

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

HALLOWEEN 01

 HALLOWEEN 

By Richard Banks 

Cold stirring in the ground below,

the yearly urge to rise and go,

 

to live again from dusk to dawn

and see the folk who once did mourn.

 

But little is that once there was.

Each change does add to sense of loss.

 

But in the churchyard all’s the same,

the ancient church, it’s weather vein,

 

the old yew tree, the heaped-up ground,

some markers stayed up, and some fell down.

 

But through the lychgate into town

the march of time is too oft’ found.

 

The shops in High Street once well known

are often gone or newly owned

 

by those who trade in strange new wares

or nail paint, tattoo, fashion hair.

 

Much has changed but people more.

The son who was is man by law.

 

And widowed wife is now new wed

and shares once more a double bed.

 

Brief holiday, this night is not

and anger flares in minds half rot.

 

To get back at the world that is

becomes their all consuming wish.

 

So haunting starts, the midnight game

of those despaired and racked by pain.

 

What good it does is none at all

for frightened folk or frenzied ghoul.

 

To make things worse black witches come

on broomstick steeds and far from dumb

 

recite foul spells that curse and blight

until the dawn when day brings light

 

and in the twilight off they go

as raised-up dead retreat in woe.

 

Back to churchyard there to spoil

to feed the worms beneath the soil.

 

Never again! they all do cry

will I return to life earth high.

 

But all do know that those once been

must always answer Halloween.

 

© Richard Banks  

Possey, my life together

 Possey, my life together

By Len Morgan

Ring Ring!

“Alexa said, “There’s somebody at the door!”

I didn’t answer her in my usual sardonic manner, because I knew what it would be, my weekly delivery of medication from the chemist in the high street. 

“Coming!” I yelled. Frequently he would drop it on the doorstep and let the rain dissolve the brown paper sack into paper mache. 

I opened the door…

It was a traditionally dressed middle aged woman with sun bleached skin dark hair and mesmerising green eyes.  She held a small basket filled with bunches of Lavender, posies tied up with string. 

She proffered one to me.  “For the one you love, pin it to her dress, and good luck will follow you and the wearer.” 

“I suppose you will expect payment for this?” 

“It is customary to accept a gypsies gift and give something in return.”

“Cross your palm with silver?  Well, I would need more than your luck, I need a miracle. So take it away…”

“You do not fear a Gypsy curse?" she said with vehemence, "I will pin it to your gate and send you a hex…”

“I don’t believe in Magic I said!”

A young waif no more than 13 had followed us in, dressed in a pale flimsy dress made for Summer wear not October winds. “Oh leave the poor man alone Gran your hex may be the blessing he seeks. Let me scan him and offer him a better future,” she said. She handed me the brown paper sack she’d retrieved from the doorstep, it was still dry. 

She placed a hand on my chest. Immediately I felt a shock of electricity coursing around my body, it felt hot exploring, invasive, seeking. I was rigid, couldn't move. After several minutes she removed her hand.  She took the medication sack from me and dumped it in the waste bin. 

“You won’t need that anymore,” She said. 

'Strangely I believed her.'

“The Cancer will leave you when next you defecate. When you take a run, your hardened arteries will improve and soon clear.”

I ran to the toilet, even as I ran I could feel my legs improving.  When I looked into the toilet bowl I could see a dark evil mass, I flushed it away, revolted by the sight. When I returned to the hall I found it empty. My visitors were gone but...

There on the mantel shelf beside my wife’s picture was a posy of lavender.

My wife died two years ago in late October. She told me she would visit through the aether, and protect me. I told her I didn’t believe in magic but thanked her anyway. I still don't believe in Magic but, Miracles are a whole other thing!

Copyright Len Morgan