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Thursday, 30 April 2020

Haiku published 2017


Haiku first published in “A Haze of Infinity” - The London Haiku Group Anthology 2017.


By Robert Kingston
    
afternoon sun
an oarsman breaks
another cloud

the blackbird 
his mouth already full
going in for more

empty platform
the train light
in all corners

after sun
the spread of her fingers
stopped in their tracks

between jobs
the lapse moments
of a rooster


Copyright Robert Kingston


THE SPIDER’S WEB Ch 3


CHAPTER THREE – MOSCOW, RUSSIA

By Bob French

Bramavitch, a cypher clerk in the SVR, The Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, stood, then read the message pad again.  “Tell Nikoli I have an urgent message for the Comrade Director,” and with that, he left the basement of the Kremlin and hurried upstairs.
            Nikki, the PA to the Director of the Cyber Intelligence Unit, smiled at him as he hurried into her office.
            “I must speak to Comrade Director straight away.”  
            Nikki looked up at him.  “And what is so important that it will interrupt Comrade Director’s first cup of coffee of the day?” 
            “Intercepted telex from the CIA.”  Seeing the seriousness on his face, she stood, straightened her skirt and moved towards the Director’s solid oak door.  Bramavitch felt his heart pound as his eye followed the curves of her skirt as she vanished through the door. Seconds later the door eased open and he heard the gruff voice of the Director.  “Come”
            “Sorry to bother you Sir, but we intercepted an exchange of messages from the CIA cell in Beijing to Langley.”  The Director put out his hand and snatched them away from Bramavitch.
            “Mmm.  You have done well.  If you have any other messages relating to this in future, please let me have them immediately.  On the way out tell Nikki I want to see her.”
            An hour later Nikki had convened a meeting in the conference room next door between the Economics unit, the men from Odinstovo, the Military Chemical Research unit, west of Moscow, the Director of the State Medical Authorities, the Deputy Director of the SVR and the Section Chief of Section 7, the liquidators.
            As the Director sat down, Bramavitch hurried into the conference room and handed his Director a couple more messages.  He spent a minute reading them out, then looked up.
            “These comrades.”  He waived the handful of messages in his hand.  “Could be just the thing we have been waiting for to bring down the West for good. The first message is from the CIA in Beijing informing Langley that they are aware of a new virus that look like it is out of control.  It would seem that the Chinese have failed to clean up after themselves again. The second, is from our operative in Beijing explaining that they have traced the source of this virus.”  He paused to re-read the telex.  “It would appear that a Triad War Lord claims that during the transportation of the contaminated ‘wet meats’, his men took control of it.  It goes onto say that, using scientists he has created a virus that will wipe out half the world.”  The room was filled with laughter until the Director held up his hand.  “And, that his scientists have also created a vaccine for it.”  The room fell silent as he took out the last message.
             “Lastly, an intercepted message passed to us from Bern.  A French agent of the DGSE states that he attended a covert meeting of the Climate Change Initiative, a gathering of well-doers trying to save the world from destruction.  At this meeting, he witnessed the Chinese and Korean delegates negotiating something.  He followed them to a restaurant in the evening and taped their conversation.  During this meeting, the restaurant was attacked and an assassin killed the Chinese delegate and stole the tape machine.”  The Director glanced at the Section Chief of Section 7.
            “No Director, it was not one of our missions.”  The Director nodded and glanced back at the telex.
            “It goes on that the French agent chased down the assassin, killed her and recovered the tape.   Copies of it are probable in every European Intelligence Headquarters by now.”
            The Section Chief caught the Director’s eye.  “Does it say anything about the assassin’s nationality, description, any form of ID?”
            The Director shook his head in silence, then stood.  “I want you all to work together on this.  I want to know what that meeting was about, what was discussed at this restaurant, who these Triad scum are and where their scientists are working from.  I want to know if there are any weaknesses of the west that we can use this virus to bring them down, politically, militarily or economically… everything, and more importantly I want to know the effectiveness of this virus and can it be controlled.  I want a coordinated brief on my desk by one o’clock on Friday.”  He paused.  “Gentlemen, this is a once in a lifetime opportunity to destroy the west, so do not let me down.”  As he went to leave, the man from the Economics Unit stood and discretely moved towards him.
            “Sir.  The meeting at Le Richemond Hotel in Geneva which the French agent talks about.  It was the first gathering of those countries who asked us to ensure that their parties got into power by fixing their voting system.”  The Director stopped and stared down at the man.
            “Go on.”
            As far as I can understand Sir, nearly all the delegates were from nations that have a bent towards CCI, Climate Change Initiative; France, the Europe Ecology, Germany the Alliance 90 Party, Greece the Ecologist Green Party….”
            “Yes, I get it. But what does it mean?”
            “Well Sir, If I was attending this CCI convention, and I wanted to balance the power between nature and mankind in a bid to save the world, this virus would be the perfect weapon.”  The Director stood staring down at the man from the Economics Unit for a silent minute, then nodded slowly.  “Come with me.”
            As the Director moved towards his office, he turned to the Deputy Director of the SVR and invited him to join them.  Nikki had already prepared coffee and vodka for them as they came through the door.
            Before they touched their coffee the Deputy Director of the SVR spoke.  “This is good news, Petrovich.”  He had known Petrovich Malenkov since they were fledgeling KGB officers in East Berlin back in the old days. “If you can use this virus to bring down the west, it will give us an advantage we badly need.”  The three men talked for over an hour, then parted.  The man from the Economic Units was left in no doubt that if he got this right, he would gain promotion.
            Director Petrovich Malenkov studied the coordinated brief for several hours, then asked Nikki to arrange a meeting with the Comrade Director of the SVR.
            He was met by a short, serious-looking grey-haired woman, and told to sit in the chair and wait until the Director of the SVR was ready for him.  She reminded him of Colonel Clegg, a KGB operative in a western spy film a long time ago, and smiled.
            The buzzer on Colonel Clegg’s desk shattered the silence and he was ushered into a huge office.  The Director nodded him to the conference table.
            “So Petrovich, what brings you to the top floor this late hour on a Friday night?”
            Malenkov went through his brief, passing the various messages to the Director as he spoke.
            “It is my considered opinion that if we can take control of this latest virus and control its release Comrade Director, we can bring down all aspects of the west.”
            He watched as the Director’s mind started to analyse what he’d just heard, then nodded. 
            “Explain.”
            “If we can take control of this virus and its vaccine we can hold any nation to ransom.  Those who do not show an interest will suffer.  There will be mass unemployment, the economy of these countries will spiral out of control as governments try to keep control, all imports and exports throughout the world will cease, compounding the hardship. Travel by ship and aircraft will stop in an attempt to stop the spread, causing these large companies to crumble, and, more importantly, when the world’s stock markets tumble and sellers unload their worthless stock, we shall buy them up.”  He paused to take a sip of his coffee.
            “Most importantly Comrade, our oil pipelines to Europe must remain open whilst those of America and Saudi Arabian oil producers will either stop or if they can’t, then they will want to store their oil.  We must be prepared to offer our oil, through a third party, or to store it for them.  This will give us more power over their economies and manufacturing capabilities in the future.”
            The Director looked at Petrovich Malenkov and smiled.  Have you set in motion any plans yet?
            “As we speak, a senior operative from Section 7, is on her way to Beijing to join a small team already in place.  They will let us know exactly the state of things there and who this Triad War Lord is and secure the vaccine.  My Economics Unit is already setting up ghost buyers in the Caribbean who will start to buy up stocks that have bottomed out.”
            “How do you plan to control these nations once we have control over the virus and the vaccine?”
            “The expected plan is that those nations who purchased our Cyber Unit’s services during their 2019 and 20 election season now form part of this new Climate Change Initiative.  We will, through our contacts in the WHO and the UN, bring it to their attention that they can actually control the population of the world, thus seeking a balance between nature and mankind on certain conditions.”
            “And these conditions?”
            “That will be up to Stephan and the members of the Politburo.”
            The Director of the SVR grinned.  “Then let it begin.”

Copyright Bob French

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, 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.


Wednesday, 29 April 2020

How we used to be


Dancing in the rain

 By Robert Kingston

Come see in the rain as high streets bustle whilst reflections move and disappear underfoot. Once mirrored images lost forever as people scurry, looking, searching, lurching, for items in sales for what they need or just have not got

Come see in the rain where dust is forced to settle, fresh air returning as rain drops in forms of stair rods cleanse from bottom through top, water draining away in gulley’s, gutters or slots

Come see in the rain as distant noise from public houses turns to laughter as wine flows, people now oblivious to the rain created pictures disappearing outside, muted, misted windows. A shame they care a little and not a lot.

Come see in the rain as bright colours appear and change like a kaleidoscope   moving to and fro against plate glass windows, glistening of reflective hues, as images move past, content their own image will not last, will be forgot

Come see in the rain where bright coloured wellie boots filled with mischievous young minds smiling, create explosions of puddle filled flagstones, water ebbing to and fro, laughter and glee belching out as quiet mill pools are blasted to extinction, water displaced, magic released, a child’s face a glow

Come see in the rain as poetic pictures are generated from parading umbrellas and mackintosh’s, pictures filled with bright colour, faces of mood, shapes devoid of body form, well some will conclude

Come see in the rain as clouds above change and create vast art pieces rarely copied in true form. With bright and dull colours, none uniform as they constantly rotate, disperse, reform

Come dance in the rain for life is far from dull when the sun does not shine but instead casts a rainbow for all smiles to follow

© Robert Kingston 30.8.14



STATUS QUO


STATUS QUO 

By Rosemary Clarke

EXT: Day. A Churchyard.

NIGEL a man in his thirties sits atop a lawnmower in a churchyard. ELDERLY MAN in a cap toddles over leaning on his stick.

E.M. "You can't do that."
NIGEL (takes off earphones)"Why not?"
E.M. " The vicar likes his grass a certain way."
NIGEL " I'm doing it a certain way, up and down and round the graves with a small mower."
E.M. "That bits, not the same; vicar won't like it."
NIGEL "What!"
E.M. "It's not level."
NIGEL "Well I think it is!"
E.M. "Don't look level to me; you need glasses."
NIGEL (tapping his spectacles) "In case you haven't noticed.."
E.M."Vicar won't like it."
NIGEL "Look, will you just let me get on with my work?"
E.M. "Only offering you my advice; used to be a landscape gardener."
NIGEL (to himself) Shame you're not under the landscape... "Yes, I'm sure you were now, just go away!"
E.M. "No need to be like that I'm a parishioner."
NIGEL (under breath) I know what you are...
E.M. "And all I'm saying is..."
NIGEL "I know the vicar won't like it! I'll cut the whole of it wrong if you don't shut up!"
E.M. "That's what's wrong with the youth of today..no manners."
NIGEL "Look, I'm sorry.  I didn't ask you to come here and have a go at me; I just want to get on with my work."
E.M."My dad used to be a landscape gardener; runs in the family..."
NIGEL(to himself) So does insanity.."Yes, and I'm sure you all did a brilliant job, now let me get on with mine!"
E.M. (standing in front of mower) "Yes, my whole family have been gardeners; could teach that Alan Richmarsh a thing or two."
NIGEL "Look I'm being paid for this, I want my money, I want to finish and I want to go home so go away and annoy someone else!"
E.M. "That's the trouble with the youth of today; don't know how to have a decent conversation..."
E.M toddles off muttering to himself. "When I was a lad we would talk to each other over the gate.. ah, those were the days..."
NIGEL flops over mower his head in his hands.

Copyright  Rosemary Clarke

Visions of childhood


Visions of childhood 


By Sis Unsworth

Those childhood days, experiences we had so long ago,
Like the sea, with summer tides they ebb and flow.
The celebration, such a joy, a rare and welcome feast,
When we heard the happy news that told us we had peace.
The end of all the bombing, and the nights of fear,
No more wailing sirens for all of us to hear.
Austerity and rationing with us still did stay,
But blackouts went and in the street, we all did safely play.
The first day I went to school I really felt so grand,
But did hang on so tightly to my mother’s hand.
One happy thought I now recall and always will remember,
They let us have a day off school, the following November
The young princess Elizabeth, her prince she then did wed,
We listened on the wireless as she made her solemn pledge,
We had no television to watch the wedding scene,
And see this girl get married, who one day would be our queen.
Then I recall one day in class, the headmistress did arrive,
To tell us the sad news, that our king George had died.
United in respect and grief, we all joined as one nation,
And later faced the future, to plan a coronation.
Some of these memories are still so fresh today,
All can still inspire me, in their own and special way.
But one is much more vivid, and always can recall,
When we broke up for summer, and six weeks off from school.

Copyright Sis Unsworth

Tuesday, 28 April 2020

Romany Galactica ~ Part 2 of 4


Romany Galactica ~ Part 2 of 4

By Len Morgan

Who was that?” She asked via remote comms link.
He touched the ‘comms’ button behind his left ear, and thought Anju Drax, 'the one I drink to forget'.
“That bad huh?”
Sympathy, he thought.
“Empathy,” she said.

I’ve ordered a full refit; just tell them what is needed.
“Gee Thanks.  It’s not as if the money will come out of your own pocket, it’s already been set aside for the purpose.  To be honest, I didn’t think you heard what I said about this maintenance.   Anyway, they’ve already started work, we’ll be ready to leave in about three days.”
Where the welfare of the ship is concerned I won’t cut corners, he thought.   And, it will take up a huge chunk of the 50% they want us to spend on this rock.
“Now that’s the Bonzo we know and love...”
"Boz... Bono!” he said.
“Huh!”   She laughed, and he felt the tickle behind his ear.  
"One to me, I think. Watch out for that dame Sonny, she's toxic.”

.-...-. 

Sonny dined with a consortium of Casino owners.   He wore a self-satisfied smile as he headed back towards the ship, having coaxed more credits from them than he would have hoped for.   His biggest problem, as he saw it, was deciding how he would spend their money and what outward-bound cargo would yield the highest return.   That was when the feeling came over him.  He was being followed.  He paused imperceptibly, to glance at the reflections from convenient surfaces, checking and rechecking.   When he stopped to read a menu outside the celebrated Ramsay hotel, he was certain.   
There was a mirrored sign:  
We create authentic dishes in the tradition of our celebrated twenty-first-century founder, Chef Ramsay.

Today’s Special:
     Cheese Burgers & French,
     Chinese pot noodle,
     Sticky tofu pudding,
     Vintage diet coke.

Would patrons kindly refrain from expressing profanity on these premised, show a little decorum, and respect for his genius.

 He saw the figure watching him from across the street.  Their eyes met.   The figure walked a further twenty yards then turned towards him and beckoned.   He turned and looked directly at her.   She was thirty-something, sporting blond shoulder-length hair and wide green eyes with a ‘come-hither’ gleam.   He was immediately on his guard.   As a drunk, he’d been rolled for change in more cities than he could name.
“If you follow, her partner will sap you from behind,” Cher warned.
He pressed his comms button.   What are you doing?   Get out of my head...

“Gotta protect my interests,” she said, “it took me forever to break you in, don’t want to start over again just yet.”
Is that how you think of me, as a spare part on the ship?
“Well, not a very efficient part but yes.  On reflection, go get yourself killed!   I couldn’t do much worse.”

A hand appeared out of nowhere and yanked him into the alley.  It was the blond but she was alone.
“Hope I didn’t startle you," she said, "You’ve been standing there looking into space for three minutes, drawing attention to yourself. This ‘privy-bubble’ only has a life of ten minutes, any more and the security police will get a fix on it.   Don’t talk," she said, "just listen." 
He touched his comms button but there was nothing; he felt naked without Cher's presence.  “Who are you and what do you want?”
“My name is Elise, my father is President John Price.    This planet was Terraformed a hundred and ninety-eight years ago.   Dad was elected president for life, but his term ends in about two months when his second synthetic body is expected to expire.”   Sonny’s face held a blank ‘so what’ expression.  
“Our synths live for fifty years, and we are only allowed two, incarnations.”
“Is that my problem?” he asked.
“Shut up and listen!  It made sense initially, encouraging the return to natural birth after centuries of synthesis.   Most of the colonists became irradiated during their journey, and many were sterile.”
“Now times have changed but the old tradition lingers."
"Why doesn’t Daddy just change the rules, that’s his job, isn’t it?   What’s the point in having power if you don’t use it?”
“It’s not that simple, we need a referendum from the whole populace.  We are just shy of the two-thirds majority required to call it but, the opposition is blocking.”
“I appreciate the history lesson but I’m just a stranger passing through, what do you expect me to do about it?   It’s your planet, Elise.”
“You’ve ordered fifty-six virgin synth bodies with blank Crystal Memory cubes.”
“Not me,” he answered. 
“On the outer fringes of this system, in the asteroid belt, they will be worth three times what they cost here.   You can add a couple of zero’s to that by returning with a cargo of refined deutridium, you won’t even need to leave this system.”
“I thought synthetic deutridium was cheaper?”
“It is, but something in the sunlight of this system causes it to age prematurely, we are forced to use the natural ore,” she said.

“There has to be a ‘but’ in there somewhere.”
“My father has a following off-world.   He plans to leave and set up a government in absentia, to effect the necessary legislation.”
“You want me to get him out?   I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Think on it!   Events have a way of changing minds.”
“Are you threatening me?”   There was a fluid squish that squeezed his body, his ears popped and she was gone.

“Sonny, you crazy sonovabitch, I told you not to follow her...”
“S’allright, nothing happened.  He replayed the five minutes of conversation in his mind for her.  I don’t recall ordering a cargo of Synths...
 “Don’t accuse me,” she said, “they arrived shortly after I discovered the ‘Import Tax’ clause in your sales contract with the Casino consortium.”
Tax?
“S.O.B.   You didn’t even read the contracts before you signed them?”
That’s your department.
“Then try not to negotiate in a privy-bubble next time.   If we conserve fuel on the return trip we may just break even,” she said.
Shit!
"Yea, come on home Sonny."

.-...-. 

“We’ll have to cancel the refit to pay for those synth’s.”
“They’re already paid for.”
“By who?”  He asked.
She said nothing, and the silence lingered.
“You know you get nothin fer nothin,”  He said.
“The agreement is we deliver the synths and pocket the profit, no questions asked.”
“Plain sailing?  There has to be an angle in it somewhere.”
“We’ll have a passenger when we leave.”
“And, where will he bunk?   Don’t tell me--”
 “In your cabin Sonny.”
“So, where am I supposed to sleep?”
“Come on man, you can be a real 'seat of the pants navigator' for once and organize two watches or you can sleep in the cockpit.   It’s only a three-day trip fer cry-sake man, you’re a big boy, you can tough it out.”
“You know John Price is not just any passenger, he’s the president—”
“Wrong Price.   Our passenger will be Elise Price; she already has valid travel documents for the trip.”
“But, we agreed not to get involved in local politics—”
“We, we?”
“When does she plan on returning?”
“That’s not our pr...  Oh, Oh!   You might want to check the vidscreen, Sonny.”
“I’m not gonna like this am I?”
Two security vehicles just hauled up outside.”
“Sh...”
“Open up Bono, we have reason to believe you are harbouring an illegal migrant,” the metallic voice came from a tannoy mounted on an armoured hovercar.  Anju Drax stood in the passenger slot.
“Blight of my life!  Let them in,” he said.  


Copyright Len Morgan

(to be continued/…)

SUNGLASSES


SUNGLASSES 

By Peter Woodgate

I’d hoped the sun would hide it’s face today
and I could gaze into your naked eyes,
plunge into the blue-green depths revealed
and have me think that I had won a prize.

Each tiny line divulging secrets of your life,
each eyelash fluttered, setting you apart,
each glancing frown a sign of former strife,
each soft twinkle, tearing at my heart.

I could try and guess your inner thoughts,
each pupil playing games of hide and seek,
without the shelter of those stylish shades
perched on your lovely face above each cheek.

I would wonder at your beauty,
of your kindness and your wit,
I would be transfixed, held fast,
and would never mind a bit.

I may know a thousand things,
the uncertainty and danger,
but the sun it shines, the shades are worn
and you pass by, a stranger.

Copyright Peter Woodgate


Monday, 27 April 2020

ROSES ROUND THE DOOR

ROSES ROUND THE DOOR

By Janet Baldey
        
What do you say to the person who ruined your life?

         You stare down at the withered figure folded into the old-fashioned double bed and lick your lips.

         ‘Hello Mum.’

         Her lashless eyes flicker, so you know she’s heard but she doesn’t smile.   Instead, she stares from out of those lizard eyes as if everything’s your fault. Just like she always did.

         Out of habit, you reach out and mould your hand over one of the brass bedknobs.  Their pitted, dull gold surfaces have always puzzled you. How can things like that wear away unevenly?   They don’t have moving parts, not like people. The thought flashes through your mind that perhaps there are bits of Mum that work properly even now. Then, you look at her and the dry husk she’s become and know you’re wrong - again.

         The heat is suffocating in that stuffy room and drops of sweat start to trickle down your back. The harsh sound of her breathing and the soft background wheeze of the oxygen cylinder are making your headache. You heard the noise as soon as you stepped through the front door. It scared you. You don’t know how your Sis can stand it, day after day and all through the night as well.

           Mum’s eyes are closing now and you back out of the room, sighing with relief.
         Sis is sitting downstairs surrounded by a blue haze of smoke. She was always the brainy one, you’d think she’d have learned.

         She leans forward and pours out a thin stream of khaki coloured tea from a round-bellied teapot.
  
         ‘Nice of you to spare the time.  How long has it been now?’

         She seems angry and you don’t know why. You used to visit, but they never seemed pleased to see you, just sat there staring at the telly as usual. You feel like telling her this but you didn’t come here for a row, there were enough of those when you were a kid. Instead, you take the tea with a grunt and sit down in an armchair facing her. It sags under your weight; it never did that the last time you were here.  You look around the room. Nothing much has changed, except for extra layers of grime. Faded forget-me-nots cling to the walls and high up in the corners cobwebs hang, clotted with dust. Shows how long Mum has been ill. If nothing else, she was always house-proud.

         Marge narrows her eyes and draws on her fag.  You wonder if she realises how like Mum she’s become. Except that Mum never dyed her hair or wore so much make-up. Her mouth is opening and closing, like a fish, but your mind is foggy and you can’t make out what she’s saying. So, you tilt your cup and watch your tea swirl and think about the time you were last here.

         It was some time after you’d first met Jenny. You’d always remember that day. You were late leaving the Centre; most of the others had already been collected but you didn’t live far away so you used to walk. Turning a corner, you almost tripped over her. She was crouched on the ground rubbing her ankle, her eyes shiny with tears.  She’d fallen down a kerb and her heavy bag lay, like a brown puddle, by her side. You’d never heard of love at first sight but when she lifted her pale, drenched face to yours, you felt something. Anyway, you hefted up her bag and let her lean on you as she hobbled through the narrow streets.

         The next day, she brought you a paper bag full of homemade cakes. A ‘thank-you’ from her Mum, she said. You blushed, but deep inside, you were pleased.

           After that, it became a habit. You always found her waiting outside the Centre, the angular planes of her body jack-knifed against a wall. She wasn’t pretty but you liked her. Shy at first, soon you were chatting easily. You began to leave her at the gate of her house and go home on a high. At last you’d found someone who understood and laughed at what you thought was funny. Magic!

   You began to notice the green depths in her eyes and the way the sun kissed the tips of her hair and it was then you changed your mind.  She was pretty, more than that, she was beautiful.

  You remember the first time you took her to the pictures. You’d saved up for ages. You sat in the stalls and let the film wrap itself around you while your arm crept along the back of her seat and settled around her shoulders like a dusty snake.

         As August burned into an Indian summer, you took long walks in the countryside, Jenny by your side. You felt so happy, you hardly noticed the corn stalks prickling your feet as you walked across the fields while the red gold disc of the sun rested against the horizon. You talked about the future. You knew that Jenny was the only one you’d ever want. She dreamed of two children, a dog and a cottage with roses round the door. You thought you could manage that. You couldn’t write very well but you’d always been good at sums, everyone said so. You’d even learned how to use a computer. You could become an accountant, like your Uncle Joe.       
        
Once or twice a year you’d come home and see his Jaguar parked outside your house. After you’d walked around it once or twice, admiring its shape and the way the sun bounced off the chrome, you went inside and found your uncle, as sleek as his car, being served tea from out of the best china.  You’d never been to his house but you knew he lived in the country; maybe he had roses round his door.

         Funny, how you can wake up full of hope and by the evening all your dreams are shattered. One day, you got back from the Centre put your key in the lock, turned it and walked into a nightmare. Jenny’s mother was standing in the sitting room facing Mum. Both of them were reared up like snakes spitting venom at each other.   They turned around as you entered and looked at you with such hatred that you cringed. What had you done?  You hadn’t hurt Jenny. You’d only kissed her.

         Afterwards Mum looked at you, her face drained of expression.

         ‘You must never, ever, see that girl again.’ Her voice was flat and each word was a sentence.

         ‘Why?’ you shouted.

         She turned away, her lips fused into a tight line.

         Jenny wasn’t at the Centre the next day.  When it closed, you ran around to her house and banged on the door until your knuckles were sore. But, although you thought you saw the curtains twitch, there was no reply. Weeks later, the neighbours told you they‘d moved away.

            Afterwards, you didn’t bother to try any more. There didn’t seem to be any point. When you were eighteen, you left home.  Anything to get away from Mum and the trap door that had taken the place of her mouth. The Council found you a flat and Margaret looked after you. You liked Margaret. But she wasn’t Jenny.

           Gradually, you become aware of Marge. She’s poking you. Her fingers are sinking through the cloth of your jacket, deep into your flesh.

         ‘Wake up, you fool.’

Her voice is like iced water and opening your eyes, you see her face, inches from your own. Her cheeks are red and her eyes glitter.

         ‘Whassup?’

         Your tongue seems too big for your mouth and the word is slurred.

         You can see Sis’s lips working but the words don’t reach your brain. Then, as if by magic, her voice rings out, loud and clear, as if a wireless had suddenly been tuned to the right frequency.  

         ‘You always blamed Mum but she was only trying to do the right thing. She wanted to put a stop to things before they went too far.’

         You sit, goggling at her.

         Marge’s face tightens with impatience and her voice rises.

‘ You don’t understand do you? You’re not normal. People like you and Jenny, can’t cope on your own.  What would have happened if you’d had a baby?’

You sit, staring at her. Then anger builds up inside you until you feel like a volcano about to burst. What was so wrong with you and Jenny loving each other?   And if you’d had a baby you would have loved it more than Mum had ever loved you.  Suddenly, your eyes feel hot and you’re frightened you’re going to cry. Then Marge will laugh at you just like she did when you were little and things didn’t make sense.

         So, you bite your lips hard and stare at the dregs in your teacup.  It’s safer that you pretend to be more stupid than you are. Still, it hurts when you see the contempt in Marge’s eyes. You’d thought a lot of her when you were a kid.

         Suddenly, you are desperate to leave. You start to get up and then you freeze as a dull thump echoes from above. You hear a hoarse rattling sound and your neck jerks upwards. Without a word, Marge races towards the door. You follow, more slowly.

         ‘Goodbye Mum’ you think.

         She’s on her back and, for a change, not staring at you. Already glazing over, her eyes are angled towards the ceiling.   

         You stand looking down at her and feel so unhappy, your stomach hurts. With all your heart, you wish you’d been born different.  You wish you’d been the sort of son Mum could have been proud of. You squeeze your eyes hard to keep the tears in.   Then, all of a sudden, it dawns on you; your Mum has just died.  You can cry now -it’s allowed.
           
          

Copyright 2013 Janet Baldey


Ode to a Crow


                          Ode to a Crow


                                   By Dawn Van Win

Oh Mr Crow
We thank you so
‘Tho much maligned 

(which is unkind)

Once souls move on
To life anew
You flutter down
And take your due

Recycling discarded shells
                              You keep life’s cycle
                              Turning well


Sunday, 26 April 2020

My gang of girls


My gang of girls

By Sujata Narang

Inspiration and Motivation in life to me comes from my gang of girls.
Life is a celebration when they are around.

Happiness sparkles all around even in a dull street
Or, a laid afternoon in the back yard sitting on sheet.

If I had to hit the gym or dive into the pool,
My gang of girls must be around.

These women give me the vigour and strength to go along.
I keep motivated each day to run an extra mile.

She demonstrates me the patience to cook something novel in my own style.
Yes I have a partner a soul mate, but life without my friends would utterly shatter.

We celebrate the spirit of womanhood with each other.
Leaning on each other, learning from one another.

Sailing along in up and downs in our journey of life.
We are partners in crime. Creating memories, building blocks of lifelong friendship.

The world is our canvas; we are the women of the world.
We chat and tell tales of lands far beyond and travel places built on the ships of words.

My sisters, my cousins, and my friends any women I once meet, if we click, then they are in my gang.

A Gang forever - To love, to live, to chat and cling and clang.


Copyright  Sujata Narang