A POEM FOR ALL THOSE DOG LOVERS

( sent to me from a friend in San Francisco)

  

DOGS AT LIVE OAK BEACH SANTA CRUZ

BY ALICIA OSTRIKER 

As if there could be a world

Of absolute innocence

In which we forgot ourselves.

 

The owners throw sticks

And half-bald tennis balls

Toward the surf

And the happy dogs leap after them

As if catapulted-

 

Black dogs, tan dogs,

Tubes of glorious muscle-

 

Pursuing pleasure

More than obedience

They race, skid to a halt in the wet sand,

Sometimes they’ll plunge straight into

The foaming breakers.

 

Like diving birds, letting the green turbulence

Toss them, until they snap and sink

 

Teeth into floating wood

Then bound back to their owners

Shins wet, with passionate speed

For nothing,

For absolutely nothing, but joy.

 

From Peter Woodgate

Abbalar Tales ~ 28

 Abbalar Tales ~ 28 Captivity 1 

By Len Morgan

'After all this time I will finally get to meet Kaffeit and settle unfinished business from nine years ago,’ Aldor thought.     He smiled inwardly, he would also get to avenge Ghorik his old swordmaster and teacher, whose advice on combat was 'fight to win'.    He lay on a hard horsehair mattress in a detention cell at the guards’ blockhouse.   He was alone and allowed his mind to wander.

.-…-. 

He gazed deeply into two hard flinty eyes.   He was seven again and could hear the yells of encouragement from his peers.   They were baying for blood.   His, or his opponents, it didn't much matter to them.   Since receiving the challenge from Kaffeit, he had trained diligently and hard for a month.   The older boy was nine; he was not only bigger and stronger but fast and agile too.   If he was caught by Kaffeit's heavy stave he would certainly know it.   He had no illusions; boys and men had died from injuries sustained in such, so-called, friendly contests.   His opponent had weight and age advantage, he was the school bully, he delighted in calling out boys younger and weaker than himself; relentlessly humiliating them in single combat.

   They knelt facing each other, engaged in the ritual of combat, each breathing deeply and easily, one eye on games marshal Ghorik, who would signal the start of the contest, one eye on the opponent.   Ghorik glanced at Caliph Endrochine without moving his head.   Their eyes engaged.   Endrochine nodded once.   The flag dropped.

   The elder boy charged in twirling his stave about his head yelling confidently like a bear with a toothache.   The younger boy stood his ground until his opponent was almost upon him.   As the stave flew towards his head he ducked beneath it sliding between the other boy’s legs, slapping his testicles with the flat of his hand as he did so.    Momentum carried the bigger boy on a few paces before he crumpled up in a heap.   His battle roar changed to a howl of pain, as he dropped his stave, clasping his hands to his groin.

"Bastard!" he screamed in anger as uncharacteristic tears flooded his eyes.

Little Ahle loved the applause.   He paused to take a bow. Several of them, as the crowd went wild.   He should have been pressing home his advantage by beating his opponent senseless.   Instead, he had underestimated the older boys’ recuperative powers.

Kaffeit rose quickly and rushed Ahle from behind.   Only at the last moment did the cries of alarm register, warning him of imminent disaster.   He ducked instinctively a moment before the stave scythed his legs from under him.   He gazed up in surprise into those hard murderous eyes.   The lead tipped stave smashed into his solar plexus, a textbook move, his stomach was afire.   He curled instinctively into a foetal position folding his arms around his head and rolled but, a glancing blow to his throat collapsed his windpipe.   As he struggled to draw breath another solid blow hit him firmly between the eyes.   He never felt the subsequent tirade of blows and kicks that incapacitated him for three months.   For a further three, he walked with a limp, aided by crutches, at one time it was thought he would never walk again.

By the time he recovered sufficiently to return to his training Kaffeit had moved on.   He accepted a junior commission in the Border Rangers, fighting on the disputed border with Bycroft, to gain valuable combat experience.

.-…-. 

He awoke, hours before dawn.   He exercised his limbs, and when he was warm and glowing he exercised his mind.   He sat meditating while the sun came up.   He felt relaxed and eager to renew his acquaintance with Kaffeit and settle that old score, once and for all.

The tradition was for matters of honour to be settled at dawn.   So, as the sun rose he sat facing the cell door, concentrating his energy, on a single purpose.   Then, as the sun rose higher and nobody came, his impatience got the better of him.   He cast his mind about to discover what was happening.   He tried to contact Captain Vascelli but without success.   He entered the minds of a series of guards, none of whom had any knowledge of a duel, only that a murder had been committed the previous evening.

"Guard!" he shouted through the bars of his cell.   "I would speak with your captain if you please."   He called every quarter, without remit, until finally, a captain tapped impatiently on the bars.

"What is it you want!" he asked.

"I should like something to eat and drink and some news of my pending duel with Kaffeit.   I also need to speak with captain Vascelli."

"The good captain is now well on his way to the disputed territories with Bycroft.   He is apparently in disgrace for not killing you last-eve instead of wasting the headsman's time.   There is no duel planned, not for a man of foreign extraction, especially after such a heinous murder, done in this very palace.   You’re to be beheaded at sundown as prescribed by law, neither food nor water will pass your lips in this life…"

"There are witnesses who will attest that I went to the rescue of my employer who sustained an unprovoked attack from the guard who died.   My master Asba Dylon will so attest.   The man attacked me after the challenge was issued.   I avoided his attack and he fell awkwardly, his death was accidental…"

"Asba?   That puts a different complexion on things.    He was my guarantor when I enlisted in the army.   I'll see what I can find out," he said in a more sympathetic tone.   "Guard, get this man some sustenance immediately."

.-…-. 

"I insist you let me pass, I need to speak with my clerk, who is being detained wrongfully for murder.   I am Asba Dylon chief counsellor of this city."

"I know who you are sir, but this is a military matter," the sergeant began…

"I need to know what is happening to him, he saved my life!   I want answers and quickly and if I do not get them I shall convene a council meeting.   Neither the city or the Regent can survive long without funds…"

"Are you threatening the Regent of Corvalen sir?"

"Of course not, quite the contrary, I am concerned that nothing should happen to impede the flow of funds that have been promised for the upkeep and administration of this city.   Instability of any kind has a tendency to tighten purse strings."   He looked into the sergeant's uncomprehending face, "when were you last paid sergeant?"

A look of understanding transformed his face.

"I need to speak with somebody in authority who can advise me.   Captain Vascelli assured me no harm would befall that fine young man who is even now languishing in your prison.   For the sin of protecting his master against an armed brute twice his size.  He saved me from a terrible beating and, almost certain death, at the hands of that animal.   The guardsman launched a completely unprovoked attack on my person yestereve, a giant of a man.   Yes, my clerk attacked him, with words to shame him into relenting, and was in turn attacked for his troubles.   He avoided the giant's lunge and the man fell badly and broke his neck, and that was that.   The boy did not launch a single blow."

"One moment counsellor," the sergeant disappeared for a few moments, returning with a list which he consulted critically, "name of Aldor?"

"That is correct," he nodded.

"To be beheaded at sunset."

.-…-. 

For as long as he could recall his father had stood tall, flanked by his three eldest sons.   Fazeil was the elder, Jervez the soldier, Paveil the administrator and diplomat.   He was the third son.   Jervez had died the same evening their father Endrochine, returned to the wheel of life.   He recalled the pact, made between the three brothers at their father’s insistence.   So that when the inevitable happened the two younger brothers would support Fazeil who, they all agreed, should rule in their father’s stead.   Jervez was a fool, his men made a clumsy bungled attempt to assassinate Fazeil, judging by the look on his face as he was dragged away he would have made a better actor than an assassin.   Paveil had almost felt sorry for him, but he also found himself imprisoned, as a result just as a precaution.   According to Fazeil it was unavoidable; now six months had passed.  

  "My sons, your resolve is good and honourable, and in the best interest of the state; may you be granted the courage to carry it through.   I shall depart this world momentarily, knowing a blood bath has been averted; together you have the experience and strength to control the others and impose this revolutionary new regime on them all.   They will all of course be under house arrest for the duration until your affirmation a year from today.   All those, high born, and in positions of authority, are required to swear fealty to you, Fazeil.   Both your brothers will provide you with the support required to ensure a stable regime.  

 "It is important that our enemies do not perceive weakness.   Swear to this, on your honour," Endrochine commanded, producing strength from somewhere, raising his arm to be clasped firmly by each in turn.   He died shortly afterwards, peacefully, with an unaccustomed smile on his face.

(to be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

  

Witches and Warlocks

 Witches and Warlocks from the Glen 

Peter Woodgate 

I am hypnotized as I watch them,

on breezy summer days,

witnessing a frantic dance

their hands held high,

to grip the cord that links

the group’s manic displays.

Round and round, they go,

whirling and twirling

as garments flap,

to the tune of the wind.

Souls released from human frames

reach for the sun,

and it’s healing powers,

to drive away

unwanted showers.

A ritual of freedom,

for those witches,

and the warlocks,

from the glen.

but, their freedom

will soon be over

this I ken.

I check my watch

yes, it is time,

to take the washing

off the line.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

   

 Intergalactic Travellers…

by Len Morgan

 Humanity colonize the moon in 2050.  Both Mars and Venus are eventually Terra-formed and colonies established by 2235. 

.-...-.

When astrophysicists and cosmologists learned that the sun would run out of fuel within two million years we began, in earnest, to explore ways that would ensure humanities survival.

 We realized that colonizing the galaxy was a pipe dream.  Carboxy life forms like us are not equipped to survive the speeds required to reach even the nearest stars. We could not survive a journey that would last for centuries, and if it were possible would we survive the boredom of deep space travel?  We would need to carry so much food, oxygen, water, and fuel for such a trip.  Just one interstellar ship would require all the resources of planet Earth with no guarantee of success.  Half our time would be spent accelerating and decelerating in order not to overshoot the target.     

  No!  Humans are much too fragile for that, and too short-lived.  We are built to be stop-at-home bodies destined to forever remain within our solar system until the sun runs out of fuel and ends its life, and ours, in a fireball; taking the earth and all the planets with it.  If we have ambitions to expand beyond our solar system it will have to be done by other means.

 The best chance of carrying fauna & flora from Earth to the stars would be in the modern equivalent of Noah’s Ark, as seeds, to be reborn at some far off destination, under the guidance of machines.  For our future, AI (Artificial Intelligence) would provide the best chance of survival for Humanity and all living things on Earth.

.-…-. 

  In 2150, our initial investment in the project was to send small ‘pathfinder’ drones towards Proxima Centauri, Alpha Centauri A & B, Barnard's star, Luhman 16, Wolf 359, and several dozen other neighbouring stars in our galaxy.

 Given the right conditions, they would seed them with oxygenating plants, sending back word of their success or failure.  The earliest messages would take hundreds of years to arrive back on Earth.  By then the ships would be on their way to their secondary targets.

In the intervening period, humanity would be working hard to improve propulsion methods and increase the versatility of existing AI units.

Biologists would be working to bring down gestation periods and improve methods of in-vitro fertilization. Improving and miniaturizing artificial wombs.  There were no adverse effects when smaller creatures such as mice, cats, and dogs were created, in the initial trials.  Larger animals are the logical next step to be accomplished by the end of the 23^rd century. 

The second tranche, of small ships, would be sent to the prime planets, identified by the ‘pathfinders’ as having water and being situated within the Goldilocks zone of their star.

There were of course protests & riots by religious and fringe organizations.  So much so, that for a while the plans were publicly put on hold; but, in private they continued apace.  Intelligent miniaturized devices were developed small enough to travel, yet large enough to build and upscale to larger machines that could create a liveable Earth-type environment.  All the knowledge from the homeworld would be stored in teaching units so that even in their artificial wombs children could be schooled for their new environment.  Thus humanity and other earth life forms could be transplanted to other worlds.

 .-...-.

The plan would be:

AI – would advance into the Universe claiming resources to improve, modify, advance, and justify their own existence.

Each Ark, containing the seeds from its creator’s world would be sent with the latest technology currently available to them.

These small sub-light crafts would carry with them the unique creativity of their carboxy creators, and their AI nanobots, Partners, working together on reaching journeys end.  

  The original Ark’s left the homeworld at 1 tenth light speed.  Traveling in all directions for tens of thousands of years and in that time their AI & nanobot components would be working tirelessly to increase their speed 0.2, 0.3, 0.4, times the speed of light. 

  When they reach a suitable planet they go into orbit and commence Terra-forming in earnest.  They seed the planet with flora & microorganisms, to bring the planet to life.  Many species will fail to survive, but many more will thrive.

Centuries may pass before trees grasses and other oxygenating plants create a viable ecosystem.  Then, higher life forms, grazers and carnivores would be created in artificial wombs under a vastly accelerated growth program, creating mature creatures able to successfully breed and multiply within the year of conception.  Finally, when a stable ecosystem has been established, humans would be raised in those same artificial wombs. 

Their education would begin prior to birth, from the collective knowledge of the homeworld.  Fully formed pubescent’s would complete their training and be given free rein to populate and establish communities.  The AI’s would have previously created rudimentary habitations and factory units ready for their use.  The humans would be left to run things from then on, while the AI’s concentrated on re-equipping and stocking the Ark for their journey onwards to the next suitable planet. 

Agriculture and mining would be the AI’s initial objectives.   Seeds & eggs taken from the fittest would be used to replenish the Arks stores.  Raw materials, metals, chemicals, mined for future research, all stored and loaded into the Ark. 

As time passes their speed would continue to increase 0.6, 0.7, even 0.8, times the speed of light.

  The grand project to populate the galaxy would continue apace, aided by the AI’s and new currently unimagined Nanotech devices. 

There will be exceptions to this plan; so a caveat is required, to cover such eventualities.  Should there be failures in the AI chain; soft tissue creatures such as humans may not be created.  In which case they may produce a pure machine society but, they would still be our progeny.

.-...-.

Year 1,982,076 ~ Leaving Home

I gaze up at the unchanging sky, maybe for the last time.  The sun a red fiery disc covers a third of the heavens.  There are hundreds of ships, like giant mushrooms silhouetted against the ruddy backdrop. Once there was ‘day and night’, you could view other stars in the sky, now only shades of red are visible.  Over the last two hundred years, the flotilla of ships has been assembling in orbit. Ready to take us away. 

We all know the sun has become unstable and is entering its end phase.

 Eventually, it will expand and swallow up the solar system.  So, soon we will be leaving.  We need to clear the Oort clouds outer zone before that happens and need to be as close to light speed as possible, at the endgame, to take advantage of a 'once in star time' acceleration boost from the solar explosion that should propel us towards our destinations which we may or may not reach alive, who knows?

The recently invented inertia pods will, in theory, cushion soft tissue, and enable the ships to accelerate for most of the journey halving the travel time.  So, the 'stop-at–homebodies' will finally be embracing their greatest and final adventure…  

Even so many opted to stay and briefly watch the end of the world; believing in divine deliverance.

We know there are now colonies established on most of the worlds around nearby stars, prepared to take in refugees from the homeworld if we can reach them.

So, with months remaining, we wait patiently for the telltale signal to GO…

 Copyright Len Morgan

 FREE

By Janet Baldey

MONDAY

Ah, here it comes. 

Narrowing my eyes, I focus on the pink blob as it materialises out of the Big House and winds its way down the narrow path towards us.  At last, I’m starving.   Oh, no – now it’s gone. I breathe a sigh of relief as the shape emerges from out of a stand of trees and bursts back into the sunlight.  As it grows nearer my mouth begins to water.   I wonder what it’s brought today.  I’m glad it’s the pink thing and not the thin brown one. That one’s nasty.  The lettuce it brings us is limp and sometimes slimy and the carrots are stale.  In the vain hope of being given something tasty, Flossie – that’s my cage mate - used to flutter her long lashes and look pathetic but it never worked.   The brown thing barely looks at us, just bungs the food into our cage and goes, sometimes without even remembering to fill our water bottles. The round pink thing is different.  Softer somehow, but what’s more important the lettuce it brings is freshly picked and the carrots are crisp.  Even thinking about them makes me drool.  Sometimes it gives us something special – cucumber!  I love cucumber.  Or maybe it will be something even better - celery.  My imagination runs riot and I must stop, my fur is getting wet.

 Of course, it’ll feed Flossie first.  Flossie is its favourite.  Can’t think why. I’ve shared my cage with Flossie for months now and she bores me stiff.  She’s got no conversation.   God knows I’ve tried to communicate but she just stares at me from out of those big doe eyes of hers, then they go all milky and she starts to groom her fur.  Only good for one thing really and as it’s so dreary, being stuck here all day, I do a lot of that. Sometimes, little things that look just like Flossie, appear. Goodness knows where they come from.  Anyway, they only stay for a little while then they go and Flossie is sad but I must say I’m pleased. They’re so tiresome when they start hopping all over me just as I’m trying to catch a bit of shut-eye.

Oh-oh.  It’s here now. And wouldn’t you know it?   Flossie gets picked up and stroked and the pink thing starts making cooing noises.  Of course, Flossie is milking it like mad, fluttering her eyelashes and twitching her nose in that irritating way she has.  Oh, get over it for Heaven’s sake – just give us the grub. 

TUESDAY

         I’ve just had a very nasty shock.  In fact, it’s put me right off my food.   Flossie can have my share, I couldn’t eat a thing.   It happened this morning.  Both the pink and the brown thing came to feed us which was strange.  Even stranger, it was my turn to get picked up and stroked.  I was so surprised; I just laid my ears back and let them do it – both of them.  But what’s really bothering me is what I heard them say.   Bear with me and I’ll try and remember their exact words.

         ‘Nearly ready for the pot Bert.

         ‘Yeah.  Another few days.’  I felt my tummy being pinched.  ‘Nice and fat.  Get a good meal out of this one.’

         They put me back in the cage and I lie there quivering.  What did they mean?  I knew it wouldn’t bother some rabbits.  Some rabbits are – to put it bluntly – thick.  But I’m not like that.   I’ve got a brain beneath my furry skull.  In fact, if there was such a thing as a rabbit MENSA I reckon I would be up there with the best of them.  Given that fact, their conversation troubled me.  It troubled me a lot.  I have a nasty feeling that I need to get out of here and fast.  But how and where can I go?  I shall have to have a serious think.

         I lie staring through the wire netting of the cage.  There are some wild rabbits hopping in and out of the trees.  They have brown fur just like me; perhaps I could go and live with them.  I look closer.  It’s clear they’re a lot slimmer and much more active than me.  This cage life has played havoc with my waistline although I deny most strongly that I am fat - just a trifle portly maybe. However, I shall have to get into shape.  I do a few experimental hops around my cage.  This wears me out and so I have a little snooze.

         Bingo!  I’ve just woken up with a plan.  It’s rather violent and I fear will involve blood but needs must….

WEDNESDAY

         It’s the pink thing again and I’m so glad.  Clearly, it’s fond of Flossie so that will make my plan of action much easier.   I wait until it’s unlatched the cage before I strike.  Just as it’s loading in the lettuce, I give a blood curdling scream and launch myself at Flossie burying my incisors deep into her neck.  Even I have to admit her squeals are heartrending, but I hang on and sure enough, taste blood for the first time.  It’s revolting – no wonder I’m a vegetarian.   No matter, it’s done the trick.  With a look of horror, the pink thing drops the lettuce and turns to rescue Flossie, quite forgetting the cage door is wide open.  With one bound I’m out and hopping down the path.  It’s exhilarating.   I’ve just one thought in my mind as I hop along as fast as I can.  Free.  I’m free at last!

         Phew!  This is hard work.  Those woods are further off than I thought.  My hops begin to slow down, and I stop to look around for a second.  Hello, what’s that?  I’ve never seen a creature like that before.  It’s not a cat; it’s bigger than a cat.  I’m glad, I don’t like cats.  You can never trust a cat.  It’s not a dog; it’s smaller than a dog.  I’m glad, I don’t like dogs.  They’re too noisy and they rush at you.  This thing’s got reddish fur and a big bushy tail; it’s not slinky or bouncy but is just standing there, looking at me.  It doesn’t seem fierce; in fact, it seems quite friendly.  It also looks intelligent.  Perhaps it would like a conversation.  Of course, that must be it!  It recognises me for the rabbit I am – a bright rabbit that can discuss the state of the planet.  I start to hop towards it…..

copyright Janet Baldey

A Photograph

 

A Photograph

By Len Morgan

Just something to raise a wistful smile to your face, even on the dullest of days in lockdown.  A fond memory of times past, a promise of better times to come.

 

Look at that thin gangly young girl in gingham & pigtails with her jammy face and a mischievous grin.  Who’d have thought she would blossom into the loving caring mother of our three grandchildren?

 

Look at that photo of a young man and woman optimistically embarking on a lifetime of adventure, of discovery, laughter and tears; that was you and that was me.  Look at us now the same smiles but a little wiser.

 

What a three-dimensional thing is a photograph; it covers time & space; drawing memories and emotions from your mind; long-forgotten ghosts from the past.

 

 

 SALVATION 

by Richard Banks    

                              

If I had one wish it would be to declare all other wishes null and void. Call me cynical, a spoilsport, anything you want but if you had my job you'd be thinking the same. Right now you're thinking about all the good I'm doing, how I transform people's lives, lives full of hardship that without me would be as grey and cheerless as the never-changing sky. What can I say? With four million viewers I must be doing something right; if I don't bring them pleasure then why do they watch? For thirty minutes every month they get to hope that they will be chosen, one of ten people randomly selected by computer to have their wishes made reality. The real winners are the ones who lose. For them there is always hope. OK, they say, so I didn't win this time but there's always next week and, if that doesn't happen, there's the week after and the week after that. Someone's got to win, why not me? In a world where deaths outnumber live births by five to one their chances of winning are constantly increasing.

         My sympathy goes to the chosen ones, the poor mutts who think that all their troubles are over, then they find out about the rules, the unpublished small print that no one thought to tell them about. Cash prizes are limited to 50,000 credits, enough to buy an apartment in a domed village but nothing left to pay the bills; and if you don't live in a domed village there's no shortage of desperadoes who will cut your throat for what you have got and they want. Happy days! Then there are the crazy people who think miracles can be done. Cure me of the sickness they say, I want to live in a warm place where the sun still shines, take me back in time, I know you can do it!

         But we can't. This is reality, it's all we have. Choose what you want but prepare to be disappointed. The lucky ones are those who make only moderate demands and having only moderate expectations are moderately satisfied. A man who wanted to see the sun was taken to a mountain top above the cloud bank. A woman who wanted to make love with Brad Pitt junior was granted half an hour of his time and went home more satisfied than most. The winner who came out best was the guy who wanted a litre of moonshine every day for the rest of his life.  As he was nearly forty this was considered a reasonable request. He's the happiest drunk you're ever likely to meet. For him the world is a great place, it exists at the bottom of a glass.

         Most of our winners aren't that fortunate. All suffer from the same disadvantage, that having won they are no longer eligible for further wishes. For most of them no wishes, no prospect of wishes, equals no hope. No wonder that the suicide rate for winners is three times higher than for the rest of us. By now you're thinking I don't get much job satisfaction. I don't, but at least I get to live in a domed village. Life in the bubble may not be normal but if normal is what we used to have, normal no longer exists. At least we're alive. In the combat zones, no one lives, twenty million deaths for every second of war. But not here, not on this sceptred isle. We were spared, no rockets, no bombs, not a single casualty, not a single building destroyed. Then the clouds rolled in. We thought they would pass over, it was just a matter of time, that one day we would wake up to a blue sky. Thirty years on we know that’s not going to happen, not for us, not for many generations to come. Our world, at best, is a twilight place where few crops grow and those that do are contaminated with the same sickness that's in all living things. We that were sixty million are now five but we cling on. Food is grown in factories, electricity generated, new buildings constructed. We have adapted, we continue to adapt. Every year some small progress is made but as yet there is no cure for the sickness. In the accountancy of human life if we do not balance the books in twenty years mankind will be extinct. We are on the edge, but not done yet. The newborns contain less radiation than their parents. For most the difference is not significant, in some it is. These fortunate few are nurtured within the benign environment of a dome. In time they will be paired with others of their kind. In them is our salvation.

         For now, we must take consolation in the few pleasures that remain. Our lives are short, fifty years for those in domes, thirty-seven for the rest. What would we do without wishes? On TV screens crackling with radiation those who watch dare to dream, believe in the possibility of better. For a short while behind drawn curtains, the world is out of sight and the things we have seen more precious than those we don't. It could be worse, they say. While there is life and wishes there is hope.

         Important people also get wishes. For them, there is no need for random selection. They are chosen as a reward for services rendered, members of the ruling council, district marshals and occasionally TV personalities like myself. Yes, I too have a wish. Having observed the shortcomings in other people's wishes I have been careful not to waste mine. I have chosen psycho-stasis, ten days in an induced coma where I can be in an ideal world of my own construction. I tell the therapist precisely what I want and she programmes my mind, like others programme computers. For ten days I can be anyone I want, do anything I want, in any place or time. It's a fantasy world in which the mind moves but the body doesn't. For some, it's more real than reality.

         Sometimes things go wrong, but not often. The nurse assures me that their success rate is 98%. She attaches electrodes to my head and chest, explains the procedure yet again and punctures my arm with a needle. Have a good trip she says. I close my eyes knowing that the next time I open them I will be in the south of France, circa 2001. The programme downloads and I slip into unconsciousness.

 

                                              *****

        

         I awake in a pleasant enough room that has floral wallpaper, a cupboard, and a radiator gurgling with hot water. It's morning, day one. I get out of bed and cross the room towards the window. My legs are unsteady but this is to be expected; it will, I'm told, soon pass. I draw back the curtains and stare out at a landscape that's definitely not the south of France. This is England, the way it used to me. It's a winter's day but the sun is shining. My disappointment is eclipsed by the sight of the sun and the blue sky that surrounds it. I wash, select some clothes from the cupboard and go exploring. The building I am in is a large one, evidently a hotel. There is food cooking, a full English breakfast. The smell of bacon mingles with that of sausage, mushrooms and coffee.

         At the end of a corridor is a staircase. I follow my nose and descend two flights to a dining room where the food is set out buffet style in metal bowls set within a long wooden cabinet that separates the kitchen from the dining area. I help myself. A jolly woman in white overalls asks me whether I want tea or coffee. I ask if I can have both. She laughs, says I will need a tray, finds one and, when my hands start shaking, she takes my breakfast to a table where the cutlery has already been set. Other people enter the room, little is said. They choose their meals, sit down and eat. There are no children. I wonder why, surely there should be some.

         I’m drinking the last of the coffee when a woman, a youngish sort of woman, asks if she might join me.  It sounds like an old joke. Am I falling apart is the standard response. Instead, I gesture politely towards an empty chair. Her name is Lyn. Lyn is pleasant, informal, but businesslike. She says I am her ten o'clock. I wonder if she is the escort I requested.

         “Why don't we go through to the conservatory,” she says, “it will be quiet there.”

         It is. We sit by the French windows in the full glow of the sun. Outside, in the garden, the rhododendrons are almost in bloom. It’s Spring.

         “How goes it?” she asks.

         I nearly say that it is not what I asked for, but this would be absurd. The woman exists only in my imagination. How can she explain the malfunction in my programming?

         “I'm fine.”

         She smiles. “How is your room?”

         “It has a nice view,” I say, “the sun shines in.”

         “Yes, we thought you would like that. It's east facing. There's nothing better than waking in a sunlit room. Don't you agree?”

         I do. She knows I do.

         She smiles, changes the subject. “Your publisher's been in touch. He sends his best wishes.”

         I suppress my annoyance. I speak quietly, but firmly. “I'm Gerry Wyngarde, the TV presenter, I don't have a publisher.”

         “What about the other Gerry?” she asks.

         “Which Gerry is that?”

         “This Gerry.” She hands me a book. “Give it a read. I'll be interested to know what you make of it. No hurry. We'll talk again tomorrow. Until then, make yourself at home.”

         She terminates our meeting with yet another smile. Her smile is irritating, affected. It seems to be saying that she knows things that I don't. I decide that if she wants me to read the book that's a good reason not to. I take a walk in the garden but it's cold so I come back inside. The book lies on the table where I left it. I pick it up. It's two hours until lunch and there's nothing else to do. I turn the pages to chapter one. I start reading, get to page fifteen and stop. This is a story I know only to well. It's about me, Gerry Wyngarde, a TV presenter in the year 2080 granting wishes to the poor wretches that have survived the apocalypse. Someone has been observing me, writing down the minutia of my life for an unsanctioned biography. It's an outrage! Who has done this? I turn back to the inside flap of the cover where there is a short biography of the author. His name is Gerry Warren. His life is summed up in three short paragraphs. Beneath the words is his picture; it is a picture of me.

Copyright Richard Banks

MY OLEANDER’S ORRIBLE

 MY OLEANDER’S ORRIBLE (For all those gardeners)

By Peter Woodgate 

My newsletter from Meadow Croft

Was neatly typed in rhyme

I sat and read with interest

Because I had the time.

A poem was the challenge

For all those budding bards

I thought, why not, give it a try

Instead of playing cards.

But what about the subject

How do I begin?

I looked out to the garden

And wrote this on a whim.

 

My Oleander’s orrible

The buds they won’t mature

I’ve fed it everything from tea

To good old horse manure.

The Acer has got acne

My Salix too has spots

The Corkscrew Willow’s looking weird

And tied itself in knots.

The Callistemon’s bottle, it has gone

The Roses all have rust

The Clematis has a mid-life crisis

And wilts at my disgust.

The Impatiens are not busy

The Jasmine’s looking tame

The Plumbago’s got lumbago

And the Lilac’s looking lame.

The Schrizophragma can’t make up its mind

It clings on to itself

The Skimmia has an option

Should it be left on the shelf?

The Hedera gives me a headache

The Campanula’s not ringing

The Cordyline’s been eaten

And the Strelitzia’s not singing.

The Sambucus, it is very old

But it can still look nice

All it needs is TLC

And lots of good advice

 

It seems a garden is a place

That can be full of woe

So I shall up and make my way

To a “Centre” that I know.

Where all the staff are friendly

And should I need a hand

In finding anything from seeds

To topsoil, bark or sand.

I know they’ll try their utmost

Everything within their power

And may even let me know just how

To make my Oleander flower.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 All The Fun Of The Fair

By Jane Scoggins

My Dad used to love telling me tales about the old days, and as a kid I loved to listen. When I was in my teens and taking more of an interest in history I became more engrossed. What I had previously thought had just been stories to keep me and my sister occupied, were actually real things that happened. I realised that Dad’s stories, handed down from his Dad and his Grandfather before him, were bound together by truth and historical fact.

  Whenever the Funfair came to town, which was twice a year, Easter and August Bank Holiday weekend, my Dad would take my sister and I, right from when we were quite small. He loved the Fair and at these times metamorphosed from a quiet man who worked somewhere in the city, to a jaunty animated man. On one of these occasions, I remember my sister saying

 'Have you noticed how Dad changes when the fairground comes to town? He turns into a fairground man himself, and walks like a cowboy?'  We had laughed at this, and I will always remember it, as it was true. He's gone now, my dear old Dad, but I remember him most when he came alive at the Fair. He was not a big man, but despite that, he was strong and amazed us with his strength as he wielded the big wooden mallet hitting the metal pad so hard that the bell rang and people turned to look and cheer as it didn’t happen all that often. The fairground man with the trilby hat tipped back on his head and spotted kerchief around his neck, always shook Dad's hand and congratulated him with a big grin. My Dad loved that. To our amusement he would swagger off to the rifle range this was another surprise. Dad was excellent at this too. We would watch as he picked up a rifle, examine it carefully, and slowly raise it before taking aim, just like a real cowboy. And then in his own time and with one eye squinting down the barrel, he would take aim at the row of moving plastic ducks. He always won at least once and walked away beaming with confidence, with a couple of cuddly toys for us, or a pack of cards for himself. At home, Dad sometimes got out old photographs. The one we liked most was the one from Rayleigh Trinity Fair in 1899, the year his father, my Grandfather was born. The year my Great grandfather travelled from south London, to help at the Fair. The Trinity Fair become quite famous and was very popular. It was held every year in the centre of Rayleigh on Trinity Monday and Tuesday, usually on or around May 29. Combined with the Horse Fair, it drew horse dealers with their carthorses, cobs, nags and ponies, agricultural workers and farmers, hawkers, stallholders, travellers and musicians from the surrounding area in Essex. 1899 was the year that the railway came to Rayleigh so the event was busier than ever that year. Hundreds of people came to the two-day event and the many public houses that had rooms to let such as The Crown The White Horse, The Half Moon, The Lion, and The Paul Pry were crammed to the rafters with paying guests.

  The story goes that Great grandfather, after the birth of his third child, Thomas, (my grandfather), had needed to seek additional work to supplement his job at the coir matting factory in Kingston upon Thames. The fibre came from the nearby Middle Mill on the Hogsmill River and was advertised in the Surrey Comet as ''The only coconut fibre manufacturer in Surrey''

It was from here that the enterprising Arthur Harris bought coconuts and set up a coconut shy as a side stall at a local fête. It became so popular that he made it his business and travelled around the country to the big fairs. By chance, my Great grandfather made his acquaintance and came to Rayleigh as his helper. Albert had tall metal spikes made with a cup at the top made of twisted metal. The coconut sat in the cup and for one penny, or seven balls for sixpence, a hard wooden ball could be thrown at the coconut. The object of the game of course was to knock the coconut from the cup to the floor and so win the coconut. It was not an easy thing to do and needed strength. Hence women and children were allowed to stand at a line nearer to the shy. The nuts, imported mainly from Ceylon at the time, by the fibre mills, were not primarily imported for the coconut itself, but for the fibre and the quality of the interiors was not the main concern. Hence there were sometimes, a few bad nuts, that once cracked open, the coconut flesh was brown and the milk dried up. The banner advertising the game came with the reassuring words ' Bad Nuts Exchanged. Most children, and indeed most adults at the time had never played such a game or toasted coconut. It was such a novelty it pulled in crowds of people all wanting to have a go. The children asked all sorts of questions about the coconuts and were sent off to ask their schoolmaster when they returned to the schoolroom by the church, to show them on the map of the world where Ceylon was. Great-grandfather laughed as children and adults cracked open the coconuts to see and taste, rather hesitantly the contents inside. Some folk held their prize as a trophy and took it home to show friends and neighbours. Albert and Great-grandfather were kept busy the two days making a good profit. Great-grandfather had marvelled at Albert’s costume and showmanship, all very elaborate and designed to pull in the crowds. In the late evening when everyone had gone home they would sit outside the Spread Eagle with their beer and pipes, chatting to the horse traders and stallholders. Unfortunately, such events attracted bad company as well as good.  Pickpockets and thieves mingled with the crowds. In fact, Great grandfather and Albert were witness to a robbery as they sat outside The Spread Eagle. A gang of rough men started a fight and causing a distraction, a man's purse and pipe were stolen. Great-grandfather and Albert were called as witnesses and the thieves taken to Rochford lock-up. That year and previous years too, there had been much drunken, rowdy behaviour and reports of theft and assault. So the man responsible for the fair, a Mr James Rogers, called a halt to the Trinity Fair and it ceased to be although the horse fair continued for some time.

 In 2017, the Trinity Fair was resurrected in a modern format with stalls and rides for the children. I got out Dad’s photo and showed it to my own family. Thinking about Dad, his father, and Grandfather, we went to the Fair and headed straight for the coconut shy.

Copyright Jane Scoggins 

Trinity Fair