A TRICK OF TREATS

By Peter Woodgate 

It’s Halloween oh what a bore

Bloody kids knock on my door,

Trick or Treat” they shout with glee,

Their silly costumes don’t fool me.

“You’re no ghosts,” I tell them straight,

“I know that you’re from number eight.

“Come on mister, play the game,

Give us a treat or feel the pain.”

“OK,” I say, “I’ve got a treat,

Come inside but wipe your feet.”

I’ll show them I am no ones fool,

I have a plan I think is cool.

“Are you hungry?” “not arf mate,”

“Then help your self, just grab a plate.”

I chuckle as I read their minds

Anticipating what they’ll find.

Chicken nuggets, burgers, chips

Doughnuts, ice cream, Mcflurry whips.

Each lid they lift, reveals a sight,

That makes them heave and turns them white,

Boiled cabbage, swede, parsnips too,

Brussels sprouts and rabbit stew.

They turn and flee the house in fear,

I don’t think they’ll be back next year.

I smile as I walk to the kitchen, where,

My wife has prepared a sumptuous fare

Of treats for the kids and which I like a hog,

Devour with great haste, then feed mine to the dog.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

The World’s Speediest Couch Potatoes

By Janet Baldey

‘Mummy, why hasn’t that doggie got a tail?’

The voice of a little girl rose above the clamour of noise marking the annual village fete.  Its clarity cut through the cheers of proud parents and put the metallic whingeing of the tannoy to shame as it ascended into a sky heavily stippled by cloud.

 Monica couldn’t fail to hear it as she stood in the arena holding her dog’s lead.  She’d entered Hermes into the Dog Show on a whim, when the judge had picked up a megaphone and announced the next class to be ‘The Best Rescue Dog,’ She felt confident that Hermes qualified.  The other classes she wasn’t so sure about.  He certainly couldn’t be described as ‘The Happiest Dog’ for greyhound’s faces aren’t designed with humour in mind.  

Nor, although she loved him deeply, could he truthfully be called ‘The Most handsome,’ unless one’s definition of handsome included a gaunt, ribby body and strongly muscled limbs. Furthermore, as had been pointed out by an unknown child, ‘The Dog with the Waggiest Tail’ class was completely ruled out.

‘Why Mummy?’ the shrill voice persisted.

Monica could have told her but it wasn’t a story fit for children.

Brutal men with hearts made of the same material as their wallets, cut off the tails of greyhounds past their prime to ensure they were never raced again.   If the dogs had been earmarked, they cut off those as well. Then the mutilated animals would be dumped; often by the side of motorways, leaving them to take their chances with the traffic.

         Monica had learned all this, and more, when she approached a greyhound sanctuary searching for a docile companion to accompany her into old age.  As she sat in a functional room, decorated only by pictures of greyhounds, the re-homing secretary told her all she wanted to know about the breed.

‘Greyhounds have a long and aristocratic lineage. They are the only dog mentioned in the Bible and throughout history they’ve been prized for their speed and agility.  Flat out, they can reach speeds of 45 mph.  In ancient Egypt, the birth of a litter of hounds was second only in importance to the birth of a son and the whole household went into mourning if a dog died.  When they were first brought over to England, commoners were not thought worthy of owning such an animal.’ 

The lady drew in a deep breath and looked at Monica.

‘And maybe, that was right.  Because the moment common man learned they could make money out of them, greyhounds were in deep trouble.  They were taken over by the gaming industry and became commodities. Unscrupulous owners and breeders flooded the market with surplus animals, searching for the perfect winning machine.  Every year the rejects, thousands of faithful, intelligent animals with not a mean bone in their bodies, were abandoned, shot or drowned. The rest were sold for vivisection, ground up and used in the pet food industry, or sent across to the seas to places like China or Spain.  And if you think China has a bad record when it comes to human rights, their animals fare even worse. And, as for Spain!’  

Monica gasped as she learned what happened to greyhounds in Spain.   She saw her anger reflected in the other’s eyes and warmed to her. How dare people treat animals like that?

   ‘Even if they were chosen, their careers were short.  At the age of between three and five years they were judged ‘over the hill’ and suffered the same fate as the others.  Eventually, people like us stepped in. We drew people’s attention to their plight and lobbied for more regulation but it’s still an uphill fight.  One of our main jobs is to find good homes for them when they’re retired. And they do make excellent pets. They’re quiet, clean and need surprisingly little exercise.  They’re nicknamed speedy couch potatoes, with good reason, so they’re ideal for the elderly and….disabled.’ 

She’d glanced at Monica’s walking stick, and a faint bloom had flushed her cheeks.

         In fact, Monica had needed little persuasion.  As soon as she clapped eyes on Hermes she’d felt an instant affinity. They were both ex-athletes, albeit they didn’t have the same number of legs. Her joints were now shackled by arthritis and she’d also recently retired from running.  She and Hermes had things in common.  Each was pinioned now and never again would either of them feel the joy of flying round the track on feet attached to wings.

Now, as Monica stroked the dog’s snakelike head, Hermes gazed up at her with eyes luminous with devotion.  His hindquarters shimmied as he wagged his non-existent tail. He’d been one of the lucky ones. He’d been found minus his tail, rigid with shock but otherwise intact, chained to a gate outside the Rescue Society.

Often, in the evenings when a melancholy wind crooned down the chimney, Monica would watch the rise and fall of Hermes’s chest as he lay flat out on the sofa, and never failed to thank her lucky stars that, against the odds, she’d found him. Her companion for life.

         The judge, still working the circle, was looking for a sob story and when she reached Monica that was what she got.  But it was also one that Monica was determined to bring to a fairytale ending.

         ‘I don’t think that doggie deserves to win if he hasn’t got a tail.’  

         It was the little girl again.  A sudden burst of sunshine illuminated the onlookers and Monica could see her now, a strawberry pink blob with flaxen hair.

         Her hand, creeping over the dog’s head, caressed a velvety triangle and Hermes’s ears twitched.

         ‘Oh yes.’ She thought, watching as the judge walked towards them, holding a bright yellow rosette.

         ‘Oh yes, he does.’

Copyright Janet Baldey

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

What could go wrong? 

By Len Morgan

She was a staff nurse, so taking his life was easy, she slipped him a mild sedative at breakfast. Sat him in his favourite chair, with a glass of fine whisky. When he succumbed she injected 25cc of potassium chloride into a melanoma, on his neck, using a fine 'double awt' needle. 
She watched him convulse, checked his pulse, then went to visit her sister for the weekend.
Monday morning the doctor would pronounce him dead of a heart attack, the potassium chloride would be undetectable after 72 hours. She would discard the needle and syringe in the cloakroom at Victoria station, and continue on to her sisters as planned and, she would be free...

It was a good plan, what could go wrong?

                                            .-…-.

She entered the restroom, took the syringe and vial of Potassium from her purse and heading straight for the overflowing rubbish bin.

"What's yer poison Missus?"

She turned, a reflex action, "What the fuck..."

"Come on Missus, you can spare some of yer stash for a fellow user, watcha got, snow, smack, hash, stardust, pills?"

She looked closer at the filthy young man with dust in his straw-coloured hair sitting on a threadbare pile of grey blankets. He rose and looked down at her menacingly. He held out his hand. She handed him the syringe and vial. "And the Bag!" he said.

She looked into his swarthy face, mesmerized by his dark brown eyes. She turned to run but he grabbed her bag, pulling her off balance. "Help me!" she yelled. "Help, heeelp!" She could hear passers' by, but nobody came to her aid.

"Watcha got in ere then?" He put the syringe and vial beside a half-empty bottle of vodka, opened her bag and tipped the contents out on the ground. He brushed things aside lippy, compact, lighter, ID card, mobile phone... He opened her purse and put her cash and credit cards in his pocket. She tried to run again but he grabbed her coat and dragged her roughly to the ground, "Yer lookin for a bit of rough ain't yer? Give us a kiss." He grabbed her hair and drew her face towards him.

"Leave me alone she screamed," hitting out, headbutting him in the face. His blood sprayed her clothes her face and her shoes.

"Bitch!" he screamed pummelling her with blows to her head and torso continuing his frenzied attack long after she'd lost consciousness.
                                          

                                                   .-…-.

A crowd gathered at the restroom door, attracted by the presence of railway police.  One officer surveyed the scene and took charge, he called out "Is there a doctor here?"

"I'm a doctor, let me through." The small crowd parted to let him into the restroom.

"Hello Doctor, I'm John Carpenter, railway police. I was the first responder. He's dead I'm afraid, it could be murder or an OD. Looks as if he gave her quite a beating, she's been unconscious since we arrived about five minutes ago."

"Well she's still alive, have you called an ambulance John?"

"They're on the way."

"Your right, he's dead, there's a syringe in his arm, whatever he took knocked him out cold. There's a vial of something under his arm," he produced gloves and a plastic bag, and carefully lifted the bottle, "There are some letters on the base 'KCl' could just be the manufacturers mark or it could..." The penny dropped, "Potassium chloride! Harmless if taken orally, fatal if injected."

"The ambulance has arrived! Let them through," the crowd parted and two green-clad paramedics entered,

"Are they alive Doctor?"

"She is pretty beaten up but alive, he's gone I'm afraid, tell them to check for potassium specifically."

"Her purse is empty, ah there's an ID card on the floor here." John picked it up carefully, by its edges. "Name: Margaret Graham, Address: 11 Watery Lane, Hullbridge, Essex. NOK: Harry Graham husband."

"Does she have a mobile?" John cast around careful not to disturb the scene. "No luck. I'll try his pockets. Yes, he has a pink iPhone, not his style I would guess." So, all we can do now is wait for the Crime scene investigator,"

A man dressed in white coveralls carrying a white case came in.

"Winston Dawes, CSI, what have we got John?" He knelt to check Margaret's vitals,

"I'll call her husband, Doc. She'll need his support when she regains consciousness."

John dialled, he tried several times, "there's no reply on the home number or from his mobile. I'd say he's either asleep or at work.  I'll get on to the nearest station; Rayleigh I think. Get a PC round to roust him out, or maybe speak to a neighbour, we need to know his place of work."

WPC Jackie Martin knocked and rang several times before peeking through a side window. She saw him slumped in his armchair. "Hello? Mr Graham," she rapped on the window "Hello! Mr Graham, come to the door please." No reply, he didn't move but a whisky tumbler fell from his hand and smashed on the tiled floor. He still didn't move. "Mister Graham!" she yelled and rapped on the window with her knuckles. She checked all the windows and doors, they were all secured.

"Yoo hoo constable, I'm their neighbour, can I help?"

"Yes, I need to get into the house, do you have something I could use to break a window?"

"I can do better than that I've got a spare key.  For emergencies you understand."

"Well, I would definitely call this an emergency."

"I'll get it for you right away."

"Can you also call an ambulance please?"

The neighbour returned in minutes. "Here's the key, and an ambulance is on its way."

Jackie went directly to Harry and checked his pulse, there was none, and he wasn't breathing. He was pale and cold to the touch, he was dead.

Jackie accompanied his body in the ambulance.  At the hospital, the cause of death was confirmed to be poisoning. 

One week later, still in her hospital bed, Margaret Graham was formally charged with premeditated murder, procuring and supplying a lethal injection to a second party.

Copyright Len Morgan

Books I've read 03

Books I've read  No. 3

By Jane Scoggins

Cosmic & Natural Events

 

Cosmic & Natural Events (a bedtime story)

 

By Len Morgan

 

On 16th May 1996 an asteroid the size of the millennium dome was heading for an impact with the Earth.  Not science fiction, we were just 6 hours away from mass extinction.  World governments watched powerless to change what was coming.  The scientific community were impotent; all watching with bated breath.

No warning was given, where could we have gone anyway?  We were lucky; humanity survived that 'chance in a million' close encounter.  Chance in a million?  In fact, close encounters (near earth events) are more common than most people know.

Impacts on a smaller scale are not as rare as you might think, but every 60,000 years or so, a significant extinction takes place.  There have been five major extinctions as a result of these:

 1) The Ordovician extinction of 440 Mya (million years ago) resulted in 80% extinction, that means only 20% of species survived.

 2) The Devonian extinction 365 Mya saw 85% extinction.

 3) The Permian extinction 245 Mya resulted in the death of 95% of species including two-thirds of the insects; the nearest yet to complete obliteration.   This was the big one that heralded the age of the Dinosaurs.

 4) Triassic extinction 210 Mya 70% of life on Earth disappeared.

 5) Cretaceous extinction 65 Mya a 20-kilometre rock hit the Yucatan, resulting in 70-75% extinctions bringing the Cretaceous to an end, and with it the reign of the Dinosaurs.  But, it's not all bad news, it was this event that enabled mammals to inherit the Earth, enabling our ancestors to become the dominant species; without it, dinosaurs would still be ruling the Earth.

In between the big extinction episodes, there have been at least twenty other smaller extinctions episodes that we know of.  For example grazing animals, including horses, were almost wiped out in one that happened about 5 Mya, can you imagine human history without horses, cows and sheep?  Bear in mind these are just geologists estimates, based on the fossil record.  At the end of the Permian for instance, there were reckoned to be between 45,000 and 240,000 species (species not individuals) inhabiting the planet 95% were wiped out.  The survivors from each species may have been just a few scarred and limping individuals teetering on the brink of oblivion.

The tally, for conservationists, is: (as far as educated guesses go) total number of species that have existed since life on earth began between 30 and 4,000 Billion of which 99.99% are no longer with us (according to Bill Bryson’s book ~ A Short History of Nearly Everything [p415-418]).

When a major Cosmic extinction takes place, life is never the same again.  If you're still harbouring a belief that it couldn't happen take note, we are well past time for the next big one.  Maybe the warning provided by the comet (Shoemaker-Levy 9), which had a close encounter with Jupiter in 1992, fragmented and returned like a string of pearls in July 1994. The string crashed into Jupiter leaving a scar the size of Earth, (watch it on YouTube), It’s a wakeup call!

Through history, comets have been viewed as omens of doom.  As recently as 1908 a 50-meter rock landed in the forests of Siberia devastating a vast area and producing shock waves recorded in Paris, Vienna, London, New York and Montreal.

A close encounter inevitably changes the orbit of an asteroid (imperceptibly), modifying its approach vector on its next orbit.  

So, let’s imagine a major impact close to the coast of the UK, and look at a likely time-line and the events as they unfold in the first hour:

8 seconds after the Impact:

Millions of tonnes of debris and superheated steam would be hurled into space.  By its speed alone the ejected material would be heated to 3,000 degrees Fahrenheit.

Impact +43 seconds:

Shock-waves devastate the UK Europe, and Ireland would sink into the sea.   The UK and European Cities would be flattened.

Impact +10 minutes:

The debris hurled into space would re-enter the atmosphere.  Firestorms would ravage Europe, Asia, and the Americas.  All communication with Europe would cease.

Impact +15 minutes:

Earthquakes and tidal waves would engulf Europe and the USA, Africa, Mexico and much of South America

Impact +20 minutes:

Shock-waves kill most of the survivors in the USA, Canada and Greenland.

Impact +60 minutes:

Dust-clouds occlude the sun, the beginning of a long dark winter that would last for decades.  Survivors in the Southern hemisphere might survive for a while, but all semblance of civilization would soon disappear.

If the space menace is worrying we still have to contend with natural disasters on Earth: Tsunamis, tornadoes, and earthquakes.   But, of course, none of those happen here, do they!?

 In the 1960's Bob Christiansen of the US Geological Survey was puzzling about the absence of a volcano in Yellowstone National Park, despite its obvious volcanic nature, curiously nobody had ever asked that question before.  Most of us think of the classic shape of Mt Fuji, there are some ten thousand of these intrusive volcanoes in the world.  But, there are others that don't build mountains.  They burst open in an explosive rupture leaving behind vast subsidence into a pit called a Caldera.  But, Christiansen couldn't find a Caldera anywhere in Yellowstone.  Coincidentally, at the same time, NASA was testing high altitude cameras by taking photo's of the area, a thoughtful official passed on copies to the park authorities, suggesting they might make a nice display at the visitor centre.  At first glance, Christiansen understood why he couldn't locate a caldera.  Virtually the whole park -- 9,000 square kilometres -- was the Caldera.  The explosion had left a crater 65 kilometres across; much too large to be seen at ground level.  At some time in the past Yellowstone must have blown with violence far exceeding anything in recorded history.  

Yellowstone is a Supervolcano sitting atop of a hot spot, a reservoir of molten rock some 200 kilometres below ground, rising to near the surface and forming what is called a superplume.  The heat from this hotspot is what powers all the vents, geysers, popping mud pots and hot springs.  The magma chamber is 72 kilometres across slightly larger than the park.  Imagine a pile of TNT the size of New Jersey 10 Kilometres high, reaching up into the clouds.  This is what visitors to Yellowstone are walking on.  If it blew the cataclysm could not be imagined.  Such plumes are not all that rare; there are about 30 known and active.  They are responsible for many of the worlds best-known island chains -- Iceland, Hawaii, the Azores, the Canaries, and the Galapagos archipelagos.  Apart from Yellowstone, they are all oceanic.  They bubble away benignly whereas Yellowstone explodes.  It doesn't happen often, but stand back when it does.  Its first known eruption was 16.5 Mya, it has blown about a hundred times since each was between 280 and 2,500 times as large as the Mount St Helens eruption, but 8,000 times as devastating.

And, so to bed; sleep well!

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 

INSPIRATION

By Peter Woodgate

The mind is blank,

so too the page,

a mental block

transferring rage.

Why is it that I can’t,

produce a thought,

to place,

within a document,

to face,

the scrutiny of all that read,

a piece of work created,

for the need,

to occupy, their minds,

with someone else’s thoughts?

 

The ink lies dormant

in the pen,

waiting for a surge,

an inspiration, then;

“Eureka”

I have found,

within a recess of my brain,

a notion that,

might seem insane.

 

A poem that ignores the rules

although, it seems,

there are the tools,

within the piece,

to guide the voices

of the readers

who make choices

as they read,

like, when to slow,

and, when to speed.

 

 

Just let it flow

and read aloud,

by yourself

or in a crowd.

Don’t be afraid

to shout, if need,

and treat the essence,

as if, “freed”

from those restrictions

fools apply;

 

just let it out,

reach for the sky

 

 Copyright Peter Woodgate 

 

The Mount (Westward)

By Robert Kingston

From below the tiny acorn, grown!

Upon the dewy green mount, wildly sown

Pupils set afar through blue, where…

Clouds like pillows wretched and twisted drift

Whilst bright gives by day its rising glow,

Encouraging the fields of gold and yellow far beyond below.

 

The spread of domiciles are as far as eye

Pitted paths of mother’s pride

Bustling commonality in different strides

Who meet each day in nature’s guise

Beheld within each, the focus of one’s expectant rise.

 

Vertical skeletons are stood dead in array

Muscle bound through though their power they convey

Charged to warm in days of wintery bold 

Harnessed and vented through machines at play.

They toil to create new visions each and every day.

 

Starlings sighted in the hues above

Choreographing for due days dusk

Weaving in out a tepid breathing sky

Black like their earthly shadows, prancing,

Etching out the autumn sun’s goodbye.

 

The cooling wind blows around the rise

The tall grass and leaves they are tilting a toned surprise

Green to rust upon their crisping lips

As winter’s winds crease and fold through autumn, as seasons eclipse

 

Bolder now the land around

Leaves have fallen to the ground

Trees are bare, bushes stark

Winds they softly howl through day and dark.

 

It’s different now,

Things slow and shuffle around

The smell of scents barely found

Gone asleep until springtime rise,

 Seeing any bird is a pleasant surprise

Many have flown to warmer climes,

Where warm winds let them climb and dance, dip and rise

Exposing their beauty as they sing their songs within the skies.

Missed this day, I suppose no surprise.

 

With the bold cold comes the white

Pitted skies throughout the night

Reflecting bright like diamonds smiling

Giving pleasured sight throughout natures churning delights

 

Crunched prints in dab filled snow

History passing toe by toe

Frozen there, their foraging traces

Etched an image of the many smiling faces

 

Angel prints and great big boulders

Snowmen, sculptures sledges slides

People of many shapes and sizes

Having fun in natures snowy guise

Reddened are their hands and faces

Chapped in softer silken places

Still you see their smiling creases

The flake through warm it rests

Seeping into natures hollowed crests

 

The pond welcomes the waning thaw

Roofs are dripping outside the door

The winter sun glows lowly in the sky

Peoples shadows appearing short as if they are shy

Springtime arrives to witness winters goodbye cry

 

The sky lark sings its springtime tune

Crocus, daffodils have been waking beneath the moon

Colours of yellows, blues, lilacs and mauves

All around spring has yawned as dawn presents its rising glow

The warming sun encouraging nature throughout its expanding groves

 

Smells and scents are licking lips,

Butterflies and bees fluttering through time eclipse,

Birds are scavenging to build their nests for next year’s rise

 As the wonders of nature reveals its wholesome surprise.

 

Clouds are drifting overhead,

 Trees are stretching out and flaunting in yellows greens and reds

People’s moods have now lifted from gruelling winters dread,

 The summer sun shows its glowing spread,

Painting the world with nature’s vibrant threads

Onto a canvass where lovers rest and caress.

 

© Robert Kingston   10.1.15

                                   

 THE EXCHANGE VISIT

by RICHARD BANKS 

“Good evening, Michael. How are you today?” His lean figure loomed over me as we shook hands.

         “I’m very well, Ganook,” I said, remembering to speak clearly and not too quickly. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long? I was held-up in traffic.”

         “Held-up,” he repeated. His face registering a mixture of puzzlement and alarm.

         “No, not that kind of hold-up.” I hastened to reassure him that my misfortune consisted only in being delayed by slow-moving traffic.

         “Oh yes, the cars. So many cars and people,” he said wistfully. The hustle and bustle of city life was clearly not to his liking.

         “Shall we go in,” I suggested.

         His attention shifted from the busy road to the main entrance and the neon sign above it depicting a greyhound in full flight. “So this is Walthamstow Stadium where Mr Johnstone lost his shirt last week, perhaps we will find it.”

         I was about to explain that Mr Johnstone had not literally lost his shirt when I noticed a twinkle in Ganook’s eyes; for once the joke was on me. We made our way through the turnstiles and into the floodlit interior. The parade for the first race was just beginning.

         Ganook studied each dog with keen interest. I explained that I would be backing the red and blue dogs throughout the evening, He looked surprised. “Not the white?” He asked.

         “No,” I said. “This track favours the red and blue dogs in the inside traps. Over the last three months, £1 win bets on them would have yielded an average return per race of £2.35 – that’s better than you get on the stock market these days. Money for old rope.

         He looked at me quizzically, possibly considering the ramifications of the old rope.

         “It will all become clear,” I said encouragingly. “We had better place our bets for the first race.”

         I took him down to one of the trackside bookies and showed him how it was done. The odds for both red and blue dogs were 10-1 against. “We’ll be off to a good start if either of these come in,” I said, and come in they did, last and second from last. Nonetheless, I was not unduly discouraged, the statistics were in my favour and there were still seven races to go.

         As soon as the bookies were open for business again I placed my bet for the second race. I returned to where Ganook was standing to find him looking intently at the pre-race parade.

         “The blue dog looks useful,” I observed.

         “Blue dog, Michael, are you sure?” He seemed unimpressed by my selection.

         “Which one do you fancy?” I asked.

         “The white dog,” he said as though no other choice was remotely feasible.

         I endeavoured to put him right. “The white dog has the disadvantage of racing in lane four. The win/start ratio for that lane is something in the region of 1 – 11, hardly worth bothering with. Best to stick with the reds and blues.”

         He politely thanked me for my advice and set-off to make his first bet of the evening. He looked a forlorn figure. It couldn’t have been easy for him, seven thousand miles from home and in an environment very different from what he used to. To be honest, he wasn’t what we were expecting. When the school signed-up to the Anglo-American Teacher Exchange Scheme we thought we would be paired with a school in California, at least that was our first choice. The fact that our three area preferences were disregarded in favour of Alaska came as a profound shock. Somehow the prospect of a six-month secondment to a small village only 200 km from the Arctic circle seemed less than appealing.

         Of course it wasn’t Ganook’s fault and when he arrived several weeks later, we did our best to make him welcome. However, it soon became evident that Ganook was as unsuited to north-east London as I would have been in the frozen wilderness of Alaska. For a start English was not his first language and his uncertain comprehension of the spoken word, especially the north London vernacular of the pupils, resulted in frequent misunderstandings. His inability to find his way about the urban landscape was another difficulty which once resulted in the school football team arriving in Southend when they were due to play a match in a neighbouring borough. All in all, he was the proverbial fish out of water, a ponderous, middle-aged Inuit who was clearly missing his family.

         After a protracted negotiation with Honest Joe, the betting man’s friend – his description not mine – Ganook returned and we watched the race together. For the second time that evening, the white dog romped home well ahead of the field. The third, fourth and fifth races came and went without any success for the red and blue dogs. I was now £50 down and feeling distinctly anxious. I might have been young, single and devil may care – at least I liked to think so – but I still had to pay the rent the next day. I decided that the only way I was likely to do so and continue eating for the rest of the week was to double-up on my bets – after all my system was statistically proven. The red and blue greyhounds in the sixth and seventh races seemed curiously unimpressed by statistics and finished no better than third. I was now a further £40 adrift. It was all too much and in a fit of pique, I hurled my betting slip and programme to the ground in disgust. “This is the last time I go racing!” I exclaimed bitterly. I aimed a kick at a passing pigeon and missed.

         Ganook looked at me with surprise, “what is wrong, Michael?”

         I explained my predicament with as much patience as I could muster.

         “Don’t worry, Michael,” he said, “have some of my money.” He pulled a thick wad of banknotes from the hip pocket of his jacket.

         “Where did you get that from?”

         Ganook again looked surprised, “from Honest Joe, the betting man’s friend.”

         “Oh!” I said, “so you won, then.”

         “Yes, Michael. I won £60 on the second race, £40 on the third, £50 on the fourth and fifth and £60 on the sixth.”

         “What about the seventh?” I asked.

         He frowned heavily. “Honest Joe say come here no more, five wins too much.”

         It was all rather too much for me. “But how on earth did you manage to pick five straight winners? that’s incredible.”

         He shrugged his broad shoulders. “It is not difficult. I grow up with dogs. On the tundra no dogs, no travel: no travel, no survive. When dogs are that important you know them better than your best friend. Look at the black dog.” The parade for the final race had just begun. “See how he walks, the angle of the head, the eager look in his eyes...”

         “So you think it’s going to win?” I interrupted.

         “Not just me, Michael. Look at the other dogs, they think so too.”

         “Ganook,” I said, “lend me a hundred pounds, I think it’s time I paid Honest Joe another visit.”

         I deposited Ganook’s money and the little that was left of my own with Honest Joe who seemed very pleased to see me. He was noticeably less pleased when ten minutes later I returned to collect the seven hundred pounds I had won. 

                                                  *****

         It would be no exaggeration to say that Ganook’s remaining five months at the school were an outstanding success. His popularity among the teaching staff was second to none and he was at the centre of our frequent social outings to various greyhound tracks in the south-east. Of course, he was still prone to the occasional gaff like the time he misdirected the school cross-country race through a local garden centre, but such things paled into insignificance when compared to the diverse wealth of expertise that he brought to the school. At least that’s what we told the organisers of the teacher exchange scheme when we tried to extend his period of secondment. Unfortunately, Ganook would have none of it and not even the offer of a Deputy Headship was enough to induce him to stay.

         On the day of his departure, I drove him to Heathrow in my new Porsche. We had wanted to charter a private jet to take him home but he insisted on using his economy class return ticket. I wished him well and said that I would miss him. I never spoke a truer word.

 

Copyright Richard Banks 

 

HALLWEEN.

By Sis Unsworth

The witches dancing through the night,

Their burning cauldrons flames are bright.

Eerie lights of Halloween,

complement the scary scene.

Pumpkins all with such strange faces,

Our inner fears it so embraces.

Children playing trick or treat,

 half afraid of who they meet.

Warlocks creeping up Crown hill,

Heading for the old windmill.

As you climb the twisted stair,

make sure a witch isn't there.

When you entered did you feel,

an atmosphere that brought a chill?

That shadow moving on the floor,

A scream you hear behind a door.

Spiders creeping through your hair,

you may not know that they are there.

Spooky shadows on a wall,

are you sure they're there at all?

So; beware forewarned you've been,

And you may survive, this HALLOWEEN.

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 

Hooked

By Janet Baldey

The sun was beating a tattoo right in the middle of Jack’s bald patch and reluctantly he shifted into the sparse shade of a young oak.  He closed his eyes, savouring the silence.  What a relief to be away from the constant nagging of his wife - what had she called him this morning?  A useless slug - that was it.   A warm breeze blew a waft of elderflower towards him and he relaxed.  This was the life!  Even better, it was a Sunday which meant no-bullying boss, obviously sharing his wife’s convictions, and no cocky workmates such as bloody Harry, forever bragging about his house, car, kids – you name it. Luckily, Harry was on holiday (shark fishing in South Africa) but Jack dreaded his return, him and his incessant raucous voice.  Here, there was nothing to listen to but the sighing of the wind and the buzz of insects going about their business.  There was absolutely nothing to worry about, not even the fish because he didn’t expect to catch anything.  He opened his eyes a trifle and peered at the oily expanse of pond lying passively at his feet, its grey-green surface inert except for an occasional burp of gas.   The pond had been fished out years ago, even before the water had been poisoned by the nearby chemical factory.  Jack’s rod and line were just for show.        

His mind drifted serenely until it reached a familiar road-block that not even the peace of the countryside could shift.  He wondered if his wife realised he’d sussed her shenanigans with Bill next door.   He’d first suspected it when she started tarting herself up just to mow the lawn.  To be honest, he didn’t really care.   Idly he wondered if there was some way he could turn the situation to his advantage.   There probably was, but an excess of sun had made his brain muzzy.  Anyway, she’d be bound to make a fuss and Jack decided it wasn’t worth the bother.  Plus, there was Joyce, Bill’s wife.   Jack liked Joyce and wouldn’t want to upset her. 

 He settled himself more comfortably and closed his eyes again.            Suddenly, there was a tug on his line.   Not just a little one either, quite a big tug.   A bite?  Couldn’t be - line must have got caught in something.  He got up to investigate and as he did, something reared up in front of him - something enormous, something green, something with scales that glittered as they caught the eye of the sun.   For the first time in his life, Jack felt real terror as he stared at the fish-like creature looming over him.   Particularly, he noticed its great gaping mouth that opened as it caught sight of him.   It was pure instinct that made Jack grab his rod, he heaved on it and obligingly the fish drew nearer.  Realising his mistake, Jack turned and tried to flee but his feet caught in the line and he fell.   Immediately, the fish gulped and swallowed Jack whole, along with his rod and line.    Round and round Jack plunged headfirst, spinning down the fish’s slimy gullet until at last, he landed with a squelch into what he imagined was its stomach.   

 He stood up and rubbed his head.   ‘This is a turn up’ he thought.   The cavernous space was dimly lit by an opalescent pink glow and as Jack’s eyes adjusted they started to roam.   Plastic straws, plastic cups, plastic carrier bags, its stomach was littered with the stuff and just as Jack was beginning to feel sorry for the fish, he saw something that totally astonished him.   A half-digested jacket was caught in the folds of mucosa and it was a jacket that Jack recognised, even though it was mostly covered in slime.  There was the faux leather along with the epaulettes and club badges that Harry was always boasting about.   After astonishment, Jack’s next feeling was one of outrage.   The liar!   He’d said he was going to South Africa!  Then, despondency blanked out both emotions as Jack realised that, if there was an afterlife, he was going to have to spend it with Harry.   Gloomily, he tugged a KFC box free from a loop of muscle and sat down   This obviously irritated the fish because it gave an enormous belch and a torrent of greasy water flooded down its oesophagus swirling around Jack, picking him up and swiftly ejecting him out of the creature’s mouth.     

Dazed, he lay sprawled on the bank and watched as the fish disappeared back into the oily depths.  It seemed there were advantages in being a slug, even fishes couldn’t stomach him.   He watched as the listless water settled.   Surely, it hadn’t been a dream.  He hadn’t fallen asleep, he was certain of it.   He tried to get up and failed.  Looking down, he saw that a gelatinous mess covered his shoes, anchoring him to the ground.  After an hour of scraping himself clean, Jack was certain - it had been no dream. 

 As he trudged homewards, Jack wondered if there were some way he could persuade his wife to visit the pond.   Perhaps it would be better to speak to Bill and, during the conversation, casually mention that it was her favourite place.   He perked up, that might work but then there was still the problem of his boss….. 

 

Copyright Janet Baldey