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 

 

The Aether

The Aether

By Len Morgan

It seems cruel, that in the twilight of my years, I should be beset by so many great story ideas, that I’m unable to write down. Even if I could put down the basic plot, it would not be written the same way by another author.

However, the same ideas would still be out there, ready to be harvested by others more able than me.  

I could drop idea’s, down like bread crumbs, hoping that they would be taken up by another, but that’s not the way of things.

The thing about stories is that they are in the air all around us, waiting to be picked out by the receptive author. They exist in the ‘aether’ like living things all around us, but we have to be receptive to them.  It must be the same for songwriters, inventors, playwrights and other creatives. 

I honestly do believe in the existence of the aether.

People go to sleep & dream, then wake up with an idea fully formed in their mind.  The difference is; they are more receptive than others.

 On reading the qualities of Aether, do they not sound remarkably like Dark Matter?

The Aether:

A very rarefied and highly elastic substance formerly believed to permeate all space, including the interstices between the particles of matter, and to be the medium whose vibrations constituted light and all living things.

 

Copyright Len Morgan.

 

CLAIREX

 CLAIREX

By John Abbott

Briiing... Briiing, Briiing... Briiing, Briiing... Briiing,

“Damn !”  The phone downstairs was ringing. Briiing... Briiing. God knows what the time was.

Briiing... Briiing.

I rolled right and yawned as I dragged myself out of my slumber and rushed my body into action. The phone was ringing again. 

I rapidly descended the stairs in the dark; fortunately, I knew the house well enough. The landline was on the wall.

Briiing... Briiing. I slapped my right hand on the telephone and lifted the receiver. A voice spoke out from the other end.

"Hello. Is James there?"

The voice was soft and female.

" No, sorry. You must have the wrong number. " I responded.” My mouth was very, very dry.

" Are you sure ? It sounds like the right number to me” Her voice was pleasant.

" No, I'm afraid not. " I replied.

" Are you on your own ? " She asked.

" Er ... Yes. " I replied with a quick thought. " What a waste ... eh ? "

" Yeah, I suppose so. "

" What are you doing ? " she questioned. " Uh ? ... I was in bed. "

" Really ? "

" Yes. "

" Do you want to know what colour underwear I'm wearing ? " she asked. I was mildly shocked. I found the question a little perturbing, but I must admit that a tiny tingle of excitement ran through my body.

" Erm ... Yeah ... Whatever. " I replied, unconvincingly.

“ White. I'm wearing white. " she stated, unequivocally.

“ White ... why white ? " I queried.

" Because I'm pure. " she purred back.

I swallowed hard, feeling excited and intrigued, but still somehow subdued. She asked me another question.

" What have you got on ? "

" Nothing ... naked. " I answered.

" Really ? Hmmmmh ... That's nice, " purred the voice. I decided to find out what was going down here.

" So, how come you're ringing me up at this time of night ? " I said, realising almost immediately that it must have, in fact, been early morning.

" I was bored. " she answered. " Sorry... ?

" I was bored. " she repeated. " Bored ? "

" Yeah ... I was bored sitting here. "

" Do you often ring up strange men at odd times of night ? " I queried, again not registering that it was morning. Her soft response sounded honest, although repetitive. " Only when I'm bored. "

My dry throat attempted to splutter out the next sentence. " Strange habush ? " Uh ... " Hobit ... "

She interrupted, " Hobbit even. "

I laughed, " Yeah ... even Hobbit. " I continued, " Isn't it an expensive habit ? " " Hmmm ... " She murmured back.

It felt very eerie talking to someone I didn't know in the dark at this time of the morning. By now, I was really curious, so I asked her a more general question.

" Well ... Tell me something about yourself ? "

" What do you want to know ? " she answered, happily. " What's your name ?”

" Claire. "

" Nice ... My names John." I questioned her again. " How tall are you ? "

" Five-foot-five. "

" What colour hair have you got ? " " Blonde ... Short. "

" How short ? "

" Erm ... Down to my neck. " she said, as I imagined her face.

" Are you attractive, unattractive, or somewhere in-between ? “

" Well ... I think somewhere in-between, but I leave that to other people. "

" I can't quite believe this. "

" You mean you can't believe your luck ? "

" Ummm ... It could be a wind-up of some sort. "

" Well, it isn't. "

I decided to ask a few more questions.

" I know you're not supposed to ask women this question, but how old are you ? " " I'm twenty-nine. " she answered.

" And ... How old are you ? " 

" Guess. "

" You sound young ... "

" Yeah ... Thank you, " I retorted, " Well, guess then ? “ 

" I'd say you were ... Twenty-six. "

" Ha ! ... I wish ! "

She laughed. It sounded really sweet. " I'm thirty-three. "

She hesitated, then asked me a more personal question. " Are you slim ? "

" Yes ... very slim. " I checked my own answer, " I mean, not skinny, but still slim. "

"Are you muscly ? "

I quipped back quickly,

" Yeah ... I've been to the gym-every day this week. " As she quietly purred approvingly, I said,

" Well, I don't suppose you can believe your luck this time can you ? "

" Mmmmmh ... " came back her wonderful murmur.

She asked another question,

" Where do you live ? " I hesitated.

" C'mon ... Where do you live ? It must be nice, because you sound posh. "

" Posh ? ... Nah, not me. I think I'm relatively intelligent though. "

" C'mon ... We could meet ... Now. " She sounded like she wanted it to happen. I felt a mild shock of excitement zip up my spine, but I resisted.

I laughed and said, " No, I don't think so. "

" Wouldn't you like to meet me ? " she asked,

" We could go for a drink or something ? ... What do you think ? " She sounded genuine, but I avoided answering.

A brief pause, and I continued. " Where do you live ? "

" Plaistow. "

" That's close ! ... What street ? " 

" Balaam Street. "

" Christ ... That's just around the corner. "

" Are you sure you don't want to meet ? " she repeated.

I became a little cautious. I knew nothing about her, so I asked yet another question. " Are you married ? "

" Separated ... Almost divorced. "

"What about your husband ? "

" He's not around. He doesn't come around. "

" I'm divorced. " I stated.

" Yeah ... Well, I'm nearly divorced. I decided to wait for the ... er ... Two year bit. "

" Umm. " was my response.

I thought I heard a sound at her end. " Who are you whispering to ? "

" Uh ? "

I lowered my voice. " Who are you whispering to ? "

“ Whispering ? ... You, silly ! " she whispered back. I must have been wrong.

" Can I ring you again ... sometime ? " she asked.

" Yes. " I replied excitedly. " But you'll have to call me at a more reasonable hour. Not at this time of night. "

I made the mistake of mixing up night and morning again. " I'll ring you again then ... When ? ... What time ? "

" Erm ... Tomorrow ... Sometime tomorrow. "

" What time ? Are you in all day ? "

" Erm ... I dunno. Er ... Six O'clock. "

" What ? In the morning ? "

I laughed. " No ... Six O'clock in the evening. "

" Are you sure ? "

" Yeah ... I think so. "

" I'll ring you again tomorrow then. "

I thought on it for a few more seconds and decided that six wasn't actually convenient. " Nah, make it Nine O'clock. "

" What ? "

" Not in the evening. Nine O'clock in the morning. A.M. " 

" Alright ... I'll ring you again at Nine O'clock. "

" Good ... "

" I've got to go ... There's someone at the door. "

" Uh ? I muttered. " Someone at the door ... At this time ? "

" Yeah, I've got to go. It's been really nice talking to you. What's your name again ? "

" John. "

" Yeah ... I'll ring you again John. "

Click ... Burrrrrrrrr ... She hung up and I replaced the receiver. 

My heart was pumping hard and I felt elated, but I wasn't sure why. I slowly slinked back to my bed. I checked my digital clock; one-twenty-one, precisely. I didn't sleep much, I couldn't.

I continuously tossed and turned. Only one thing filled my mind. Claire ... I had a prolonged, delighted feeling.

By the time daylight arrived, I hadn't slept at all since I'd spoken to her. When I climbed out of my bed at around seven-thirty, I was still thinking about her. I hadn't even thought of taking her number ... Why not ?

I waited two days obsessively for her to ring. She didn't. I never thought to ask for her number nor did I have a method to identify this.

However, I was never to receive that call.

Copyright John Abbott

 

Guy Fawkes Remembered

 Guy Fawkes Remembered

By Sis Unsworth

The flames so high did light up the sky, so well I do remember,

Way back then in the old East End, every 5^th of November.

Families would meet in their own backyard, to savour the fun of the night.

Others would gather round a huge bonfire, they’d built on an old bombsite.

There was no health and safety then, and the fireworks gave such thrills,

from high flying rockets that went off bang, to the colourful Catherine wheels.

Children would build their own Guy Fawke’s, then ask a penny for the Guy,

That would help pay for fireworks, they would use to light up the sky.

But the best bit I loved for the old folks, was something I now understand,

It’s great to just sit by a bonfire, with a large glass of beer in your hand!

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

WHO IS THIS MAN?

     

The Temporal Displacement Machine

    “I know he’s a genius and all that, but did you understand anything he said in that lecture?” Two students descended the steps of the auditorium together towards the platform at the front, arms laden with books,.

    “Well, Jennings, what did you expect? Physics at this level was never going to be easy”.

    “I expect a teacher who can actually teach! Not a genius whose knowledge is locked away behind those tiny oval spectacles he wears. What’s more, I now have an hour's worth of tutorial with him, alone. Wish me luck, Bamford!”

    “Then do, try to stay awake, for heaven’s sake. I must admit it was rather dull; I almost dropped off myself. They say he can become quite animated when you get him alone and on a subject that he’s really passionate about. Some people are just not good in front of a large audience, too introverted, I expect”.

    “He didn’t look up from his notes once during the whole lecture”. The clock chimed the quarter hour. 

Bamford glanced at his watch and said, “You had better be off, Jennings; everyone knows he’s a stickler for timekeeping”.

    “Yes, I know, he was very insistent that I come exactly on time. ‘Do not be late, Jennings, even by one minute, do you hear?’ Softly spoken though he is, he almost barked at me. Very unlike him, I thought, a bit alarming actually. Oh well, I had better go; perhaps I can salvage something on temporal displacement theory from him after all, if I can keep awake. Where are his rooms?”

    “He lives alone in college, south-east staircase. Did you know he was the youngest don in the history of Trinity, so I read somewhere. Spends all his spare time playing with pointless inventions that don’t work!”

    At exactly five and twenty past eleven, Jennings knocked on the heavy door; a small brass label read, Professor Nicholas Butterworth BSc PhD.

    “Enter”. Came the reply in a clipped, precise English accent from somewhere deep within. As he pushed open the door, a blaze of morning sunlight caught his eyes. The aroma of old books, polished oak panelling and an assortment of dusty old leather chairs filled his nostrils. A familiar smell, which gave him a sense of foreboding. And, like the pipe tobacco which hung in a cloud, it made him feel slightly befuddled. A blackboard was covered in drawings and calculations, scribbled and crossed out as if in a frenzy of thought.

    “Ah, Jennings, please come in,” said Professor Butterworth from behind a large desk. There on the desk sat a whirring, quietly humming machine about the size of a large clock with all the mechanism exposed. The thing emitted a pale violet light and pulsated with what felt like barely contained electrical energy. The professor did not look up as he adjusted small brass dials, making meticulous notes in a thick leather-bound book. He wrote with an old fountain pen in a small, neat script without unnecessary flourish. The notes covered the whole page in precise lines of even lettering. Once he had finished, he sprang to his feet with surprising agility and said,

    “Sit yourself down, Jennings.” But the student was staring, open-mouthed at the fascinating machine.

    Butterworth surveyed his pupil, and slowly sat on the corner of the desk, removed his spectacles, placing one arm into his mouth absent-mindedly. A suppressed smile played across his face, as if he could barely contain a secret. The student sank into an armchair, mesmerised by the fascinating object. Wheels and cogs were spinning like a tiny model of the solar system.

    “Yes, it’s quite a marvellous thing to behold, if I say so myself”. As he spoke, his face lit up with boyish enthusiasm, very unlike the rather expressionless, dry and dusty delivery he gave in his lectures. “Have you guessed what it is yet, Jennings?”

    “No sir, I, I don’t think I...”

    “Come now, Jennings, you have attended my Lectures.” Pointing, he said, “That part is a Faraday Cage. It’s the containment field into which any object may be transmitted”. The young professor took out a half-hunter watch from his waistcoat pocket and began counting down. The clock in the Great Court outside began to chime. Pointing a long finger at the wire container at the base of the machine, he said, “Look.” A blaze of bright light, a small pop and a silver cigarette case appeared inside.

    “Why, that’s mine!” Jennings exclaimed, getting to his feet, “I lost it a month ago. It was a gift from my father for gaining a place at Trinity. I was rather reluctant to tell him I had lost it”.

    “Oh, you didn’t lose it, Jennings, I stole it!”

    “You, you stole it. But why, sir?”

    “Congratulate me, Jennings, I have finally succeeded in creating a Temporal Displacement Machine. After years of failure, I have at last refined the targeting mechanism to a precise instance in time.

    “Was it you then, behind all those thefts in college last month?”
    “Yes, yes!” he said dismissively. “It was all part of the experiment I have been conducting”. He then strode around his desk, picked up his book, scanned through his notes and said,

    “Here it is. I stole your cigarette case on the fifth of May nineteen hundred and twelve, placed it into this device and sent it to today at exactly half past eleven. As you can see, it has just reappeared. For a whole month it has existed, but outside of time.

    “Err, I, I don’t quite follow, err, existed where, sir. How can a thing be in space but not in time?”

    “Come now, Jennings, don’t you see, I have created what is commonly known as a time machine. The possibilities are endless. This, of course, is only a prototype. I am having a full-size working machine constructed in the basement of the physics laboratory, and soon it will be finished”.

    Several months later, a crowd of students waited outside the lecture hall, but Professor Butterworth did not show up. Rumours were rampant: had he drowned in the River Cam, had he run off to America with the Dean’s daughter. This was the favourite theory among students, but this seemed very unlikely for a timid man like Butterworth. Or perhaps he had been murdered. He was known to be conducting secret experiments for years; had one of these gone horribly wrong, was he lying dead somewhere in college?

    Only Jennings suspected the truth. Time travel takes its toll on the body; just ask Prof. Stephen Hawkins of Cambridge.

Copyright Christopher Mathews – October 2026

ADVICE

 ADVICE

By Peter Woodgate 

He said, chill out,

Go meditate

And take no notice,

Of the lunacy

That surrounds the world today.

 

My answer to him was:

 

That I could rid my mind of those

Damn thoughts of  blind hypocrisy

And meditate instead and choose

Each one with positivity

I would be one, with greater mind

And innocent philosophy

Who slept without the worlds harsh truth

But then, that one would not be me.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate