A sunny day in Rayleigh?

By Len Morgan

Well, here we all are in sunny Rayleigh. The rain is pelting down, there are no clouds in the sky, just a uniform grey blanket, as usual.

I sit beside the window of the street side café eating pies, mash, & liquor, sipping strong hot sweet tea out of a large china mug.

I watch the shoppers rushing by in their heavy raincoats, waterproof fleeces and fashion jackets. Umbrella's catch the wind, dragging and pushing their owners this way and t'other. I smile as a bus drives by, spraying puddles from the gutter in all directions. Pedestrians scattering in all directions, in vain.

The waitress collects my empty plate and delivers my pudding: jam roly-poly and custard. I order a second mug of tea; hopefully, there will be a break in the weather by the time I've finished it.

I look down at my ‘T-shirt’, shorts and flip-flops; the weather was fine when I left home, but wait what's this? The rain seems to be easing. Yes, I spy a sunbeam peeking shyly from between the clouds. I gulp down my last malingering, mouthful of tea and ask for the bill.

As I leave the café I look around me at all the rain-soaked shoppers and smile. The clouds have drifted away now and I'm bathed in sunshine. Can I believe my luck?

It's a sunny day in Rayleigh, "YES!" So, what did I come into town for? Ah, I know... "A bottle of factor30 sunscreen."


They call me a cockeyed Octopus. (As my Granddaughter would sing Ah South Pacific.)

 SNOW WHITE - THE WAY IT WAS 

 by Richard Banks

‘Let’s get one thing straight from the start, the Snow White story is fiction, the stuff of legend, forget it. If you want the truth, this is it, the way it really was. Believe me, I’m her mother.

      You look surprised, Mr Reporter. Well, don’t. Write this in your notebook:  I’m alive, there never was a wicked stepmother. As for Snow White, well, I mean, what kind of a name is that? Even in this crazy world who would call a kid Snow White? Well, it wasn’t me. Her name, her real name, is Flo White. If you want her full title it’s Florence Veronica White. Here’s her birth certificate. No, the father ain’t around; took off in 1931 after she set fire to the kitchen. No, I don’t blame him, should have taken off myself and let him raise the little hellcat. Who knows, he might have done a better job. Even so, things would never have happened the way they did but for that idiot photographer from the Southend Mirror. That was the start of it - saw Flo pulling up tulips in the park and took her picture.

      “What the hell are you doing?” I say. “Shouldn’t you be asking me first?” I thought if I made a big deal of it I could touch him for a few quid.

      “Calm down dear,” he replies. I nearly hit him. “Don’t you want your young lady to be in the Mirror?” I say she already has for breaking her probation order and I don’t want no more publicity, no thank you. But the man won’t take no for an answer, keeps rattling on about a competition the Mirror’s running called Teen Queen of Southend. “Fill out this form,” he says, “and she could win £100.”

      “For doing what?” I say. I give him one of my don’t mess with me looks and get ready to knee him in the breadbasket.

       “Look,” he says, “It’s all on the level. We publish her picture, along with all the other girls, and the cutest one wins.”  

      What is this man on, I thought? Flo doesn’t do cute. Can’t he see that? Well, whatever he saw, he certainly took a decent picture, and what do you know, Flo wins. Overnight she becomes a local celebrity. 1,000 people turn out to see her crowned and ten times that number watch her parade of honour go up and down the prom. People can’t get enough of her and the Mirror milks it for all it’s worth. ‘A NEW STAR IS BORN’ is one of their headlines. ‘ESSEX GIRL DESTINED FOR GREATNESS’ is another. Sales of the paper hit an all time high and now everyone in town wants a piece of the action. Scarcely a day goes by without her being asked to open a shop or appear in some club or other. It’s manic, but they’re paying big bucks, so why not, I think, after all she don’t get paid for turning up at school. The little minx loves every moment and, to my surprise, Flo does cute like she invented it, takes it to a whole new level. There’ll never be another one like her, that’s for sure.

      You’re looking puzzled Mr Reporter. What has all this got to do with Snow White? Is that what’s bothering you? Okay, let's cut to the chase, as they say. It’s a nickname, something the Mirror invented when they entered her for the Eastern Counties Belle of the Year contest. First of all, it was Snow Flo. Didn’t mind that too much, but when they change it to Snow White I phone up the Editor to complain.            

      “What are you doing to my girl’s name?” I say. “What’s wrong with Flo?”

      He didn’t pull his punches. “It ain’t showbiz,” he growls. “Think about it. Do you know any celebrities called Flo?”

      I had to admit, I didn’t.

      “Look,” he says, “trust me, it’s for the best, Snow White suits her. Haven’t you noticed how her skin is as delicate and white as snow?”

      “Of course it is,” I say, “yours would be too if you stayed up all night drinking vodka and pernod.” Why did I bother? Nothing I said was going to change things. They were in charge now, him and the Mirror, and didn’t they make the most of their little money spinner. On the day after she wins the Eastern Counties, they go into overdrive. ‘WHO’S THE FAIREST GIRL IN ALL THE LAND?’ asks the Mirror’s placards and the newspaper provides the answer, with blanket coverage down to page five.

      Life is now one big party for Flo and one she didn’t have to pay for. No wonder it got too much for her. I mean, she shipped enough booze to sink a battleship. With the Miss UK final coming up, the paper decides to book her into this place where she can dry out. No, it wasn’t me who arranged it. If it had been down to me I would have tied her to her bed and locked the door. On the day she’s due to be admitted I’m on holiday with Vince, my latest, so the Mirror has one of their reporters escort her to the Retreat, as they call it. The silly man didn’t have a clue, decides to change buses in Harold Wood and while he’s studying the timetable she does a runner into the local housing estate. By the time I get back, the paper’s going ballistic, the Miss UK contest is only two weeks away and their golden goose is nowhere to be seen.

      “Help us find her,” they demand.

      “Why should I?” I say. “You got yourself into this mess, you sort it out.”

      Eventually, we strike a deal and they agree to reimburse me for my not inconsiderable expenses should I find her. Two days later, the telephone rings and surprise, surprise it’s my little princess, all run out of money and asking for more. It turns out that she’s living in some dive with a guy she met in an off-licence and, what’s more, they’re in love and she’s not going back to Southend, no matter what. I pretend to go along with all this mush and arrange to meet her in The Wood. Yes, The Wood. No, I don’t mean Harold Wood, I mean The Wood in Harold Wood. It’s a pub. Yes I know it’s confusing, but that’s the way it was. Now do you want to hear the end of this story or don’t you? Okay then.

      Well I get there about midday and two Bloody Mary’s later in she comes with lover boy, who turns out to be a vertically restricted layabout by the name of Billy, except that she has all these pet names for him. One minute he’s Sleepy, the next Bashful and when he’s blowing his nose, he’s Sneezy. Were Happy and Dopey mentioned? Yes, them too, along with some others you’re probably not allowed to print. Anyway, I now have a problem. Billy’s mates are outside the pub and any hope I have of bundling Flo into a taxi and getting her back to Southend are dead and buried. So, it’s on to plan B. Has she, I say, tried an Apple Explosion?

      “What’s that?” she asks.

      “It’s the latest cocktail,” I say. “It’s all the rage; four parts cider, two of brandy and one each of rum and vodka.”    

      “Bring it on,” she squeals, so I go to the bar, order the wretched concoction and slip in a few pills for good measure. Figure that once she passes out I can get her into an ambulance and from there to Southend hospital.

      No, it wasn’t attempted murder! I don’t care what people think. Why should I try and kill my own daughter, when the newspaper’s paying me to find her alive? Of course, it makes sense. Now, where was I? Oh yes. Flo keels over, just like I thought she would, the ambulance arrives and off we go to the hospital, except that it’s Brentwood Hospital and not Southend. However, that’s not a problem because once she’s there I can phone the Mirror and they can come over and take charge like they always do. Even better, lover boy is clearly the worse for wear and hasn’t been allowed in the ambulance. So it’s all win-win and I’m on a nice little earner. Should have known it was too good to be true. Once she’s in the hospital she pukes over everything in sight and then goes limp, like a rag doll.

      “Give her a slap,” I yell, “that will bring her round,” but oh no, they rush her off to intensive care and inside five minutes she’s attached to more tubes and leads than you’ll find under the bonnet of a Mercedes Benz. By the time the newspaper guys arrive, she’s in a coma and no one knows when she will wake up again.

      “What the hell do we do now?” says the Editor, “it’s a week ’til Miss UK.” So they try everything they can think of to bring her back to life; they play her favourite music, have her visited by crooners, film stars and a faith healer from Clapham, but nothing they do makes any difference. The Miss UK contest comes and goes and the newspaper guys are in deep despair. Then one of them has an idea and they all cheer up.

      “What’s going on?” I ask. At first, they don’t want to tell me, but the next day the Editor says they’re going to set up this special clinic in Southend, just to make it easy for me to visit her. So like a fool I fill out the discharge form and a private ambulance takes her off to Southend, while I’m left to get the bus. By the time I catch up with them, Flo’s in this pavilion on the pier, and the Mirror’s charging everyone to come and gawp at her.

      At first, I’m hopping mad, but after they cut me in for ten per cent I see their point of view, maybe Flo does need sea air and a constant stream of well wishers. Anyway, that’s what we tell everyone and when visitor numbers increase to thirty thousand a day we all feel that the right decision has been made. Come August the queue to see her is two miles long, and, what with merchandising, we’re pulling in over twenty grand a week. Parenthood is a demanding business, Mr Reporter, but don’t let anyone tell you it’s over-rated. 

      For the first time in my life, I’m living the dream and when Disney sends a telegram saying he’s interested in buying the film rights to Flo’s story it seems that things can only get better. Then, overnight, it all goes bums up. Loverboy, Billy, appears on the scene and demands to see her, but we get Security to throw him off the end of the pier. Problem over, we think; unfortunately, it’s low tide. The same day, after we shut down for the night, the devious little ratbag breaks into the pavilion and, by morning, Flo is not only awake but grinning like a Cheshire Cat whose had more than cream for breakfast. When Billy’s solicitors arrive we decide that maybe he’s not quite so dumb after all, and we cut them both a piece of the action, providing he keeps his mouth shut and she acts like she’s still in a coma. But, oh no, I forgot, they’re in love. Not only that, but they’ve seen this film about Shangri-La, and think it’s a real place. All they want to do is go there and live forever in paradise, so if we give them a suitcase full of money, they’ll be on their way and won’t press the lawsuit they’re planning on taking.

      Well, what can we do? Not much, so we have them sign a legal agreement, with a confidentiality clause and smuggle them out of town in the back of a van. Disaster! total disaster! but not quite. The newspaper guys have another bright idea. “Okay,” they say, “we’ve lost the freak show but we still have the film company. If we can give them a happy ending they’re bound to buy the film rights.” So that’s what happens. The Mirror prints a special edition, with the sensational news that a love-smitten Prince, from a part of the world where they don’t have telephones, has woken up Snow White with a single kiss. It’s the whirlwind romance to end all whirlwind romances: he’s proposed, she’s accepted and they’ve gone off to this foreign place, where they’re bound to live happily ever after. The news is greeted with national rejoicing. Everyone and I mean everyone, is out on the street, waving flags and organising street parties, church bells are ringing and the Government, not to be left out of it, gives everyone a day off work. Best of all, the film company makes an offer for the film rights and after a negotiation or two, the deal is done. Two years later the film’s showing in the States and Disney’s first full length cartoon becomes a smash hit. Even after all these years, it’s still pulling in the punters. But then, if you’ve done your research you’ll know all that better than me.

      You’re quite right, Mr Reporter, the film isn’t much like the real story, but that’s Hollywood for you - who’s complaining? not me. Seventy-six years on, I’m the oldest millionaire in the country. Hooray for Hollywood, that’s what I say, who needs reality when you’ve got Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

      What did you say? What happened to Flo? Did I ever see her again? Well, that’s another story, an even longer one. Come back tomorrow and we’ll talk some more.’

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 

 BOMB SITE

 Peter Woodgate

Dust settles over the bones of buildings

as plimsoll’d feet pick their way

over the playground of mangled mortar,

scrambling over the shattered shells

of bomb-blasted homes.

 

Fingers fumble with the flotsam

found floating on the sea of destruction,

as vermin vanish down holes,

avoiding brick missiles,

hurled with energetic innocence,

from carefree youthfulness.

 

Laughter fills the air!

It is the sound of the future,

for the past lies silent,

buried by the bugs,

that fell, like whispers in the night.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate 

 Uncle Bills Special Smile 

By Sis Unsworth

The days before the NHS, all those years ago,

it was difficult for many, that much we now know,

Dentists were expensive, not then used by the poor,

loose teeth or the toothache meant string tied to the door.

The open door was then slammed shut, the patients they would shout,

and hopefully offending teeth, with luck would be pulled out.

So, when the NHS was formed, it was a great relief,

No more would people suffer, with bad or loosened teeth

Many were quite desperate, and had all their teeth pulled out

“get yourself some false teeth,” you could hear them shout.

“Your teeth will all fall out sometime, and then where will you be?”

“The NHS may fail you know, so get them while they’re free,”

My uncle Bill did just that, and proudly walked about,

But every time he came back in, he always took them out.

A glass of water you would see, with uncles teeth inside.

But when he went down to the pub, he put them in with pride

I still can see in my mind's eye, although the years do pass

Uncle Billy’s new false teeth, smiling from the glass.

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 The Earring

By Janet Baldey

It’s just a cheap enamel earring.   An orange flower on a thin chain, but it’s pretty and when it had its mate, it was her favourite.   The second her eyes open it’s the first things she sees, glowing like polished copper against the grey morning light and looking lonely, hanging on a hook all by itself.  A sole earring is no use to anyone of course, and she should throw it out but she can’t bring herself to do that.   To her, it’s a symbol.  It reminds her of the joy of love and the pain of loss but also of hope and when that goes perhaps despair will take its place.

         It was a leaden, late January Wednesday, outside, the clouds spat rain and the windows were decorated with pearly beads.   But it was cosy in his bed, where they’d spent most of the afternoon.  Underneath the duvet she’d melted into him, her troubles forgotten, lost in the release only he could give her.  At last, all passion spent, he’d lifted his body and kneeled beside her.  His face was flushed, his eyes were tender and her heart throbbed with happiness as he grinned and winked.

         ‘Tea Madam?’

 With one swift movement he jumped out of bed,  his pale buttocks gleaming as he padded out of the bedroom door and ran, stark naked, down the stairs.  With a sigh, she stretched like a cat, luxuriating as she listened to him talking to himself.  It was a habit of his and she knew he was already composing phrases inside his head.

 

         As she dressed, she wondered where they’d spend the evening.  It always varied. If he had a deadline, they’d both write, he, on his article and she, on her novel.   Separate but together, they would compare notes afterwards, reading their work out loud.   If feeling flush, he might take her out for a meal.  The White Horse was their favourite and maybe their special table would be free.   Tucked into an alcove it was both secluded and with a wide view of the restaurant so they could see without being seen.  Or maybe, they’d go to another pub where, upstairs in a room watched over by skeletons, they’d mingle with like minded friends.     

It was only later, back home and getting ready for bed that she noticed her earring was missing.   With a small hiss of annoyance she searched her clothes and then the floor but all she found was dust.   She cast her mind back, she couldn’t quite remember but was sure she’d been wearing both of them when they’d made love earlier on.    

The next day, she sent him a message.   ‘Lost my earring – is it with you?’   

‘Got it’ was the reply ‘It’s by the side of my bed.   You’re going to have to come and get it!’      

The bald type was no disguise and innuendo shone through the words.     

   But soon afterwards, her circumstances changed and their magic Wednesdays vanished like sun vaporised morning mist.  Now, they could manage only a few snatched meetings, unsatisfying to both and she sensed a rift widening. She knew his reputation.  He’d made no secret of it and on first counting up the numbers, she’d gasped.  

‘My god!  You go through women like a knife through butter – I didn’t realise you were such a love rat!’ 

‘I’m not.  Not really. I’m more of a love hamster.’  

 She’d laughed then, but at the time she hadn’t realised that hamsters have such very sharp teeth.   As the years passed she’d grown complacent, thinking that each one strengthened their bond, but ever so gradually, the text messages dwindled.   At last, goaded by insecurity, she asked the question. 

‘Do you want to end it?’   She was certain of the answer.  It would be, as it had been so many times before,     

‘Oh, God…no.’     

Instead, he sat slumped in his chair, staring at the floor and afterwards, she wished for a knife to cut out her tongue. 

‘You do, don’t you?’       

The brittle silence that followed was broken by a harsh sound coming from her own throat.     

‘Is there someone else?’ 

‘No’, he muttered, ‘no, there isn’t’.  Rising, he took her in his arms and held her as tears rained down her face. 

         Just before he left, she went into the bedroom and fished out a sweater from inside a drawer.

‘Before you go, you might as well take this. And don’t forget my earring?’
        

He looked at her and for a moment his face went blank.    

‘Do I have to?  I’ll miss it.  It looks good hanging beside my bed.  Let me keep it.  I’ll buy you another pair.’     

Her heart leaped but she didn’t let it show, instead she hardened her voice.

‘Why on earth would you want it?   As a trophy?’           

‘No…no.  Never…..  I promise.’        

She stared at him, not knowing whether to believe. She remembered occasions when she’d come across a necklace, a lipstick and yet another earring that she’d found down the side of his sofa.         

‘Must be my daughter’s.’ He’d said airily when she commented on them.      

She never got her earring back, or its replacement, and over the weeks felt comforted.   She liked to think of it hanging from his lampshade, light reflecting its tangerine shadow on his wall.   Most of all, she liked to think it was a part of her and if he wanted that, maybe he might want the rest one day.

But then summer came and heat shrivelled her hope.  She learned that he’d lied.  All along, there had been another woman, an acquaintance of hers.  One free to spend more time with him.  One who gloated of her conquest, not thinking to spare her feelings.  One who thought that her heartbreak at seven lost years as a stupid pettiness.  A widow, she said ‘I’ve suffered, so why shouldn’t you?’  That was her logic. A woman she used to like but now realises is as sweet as a snake hiding amongst bluebells. 

But this woman has a lot to learn.   She thinks she knows the truth but she has only scratched the surface.  It takes seven years to delve deep. Why, she probably believes it when he tells her she is the love of his life.             

People can only take so much.  Little by little fragile layers of dried tears are sealing the wound in her heart.  And as love creeps out of the window, realisation crawls through the door. In the days when they told each other everything, she learned of his childhood and suddenly everything is clear.   The fault doesn’t lie with her.  Its roots go deeper. All his life his affairs have been a quest for the love that should have been his birthright. 

Understanding that, she’s ready to ask for her earring again and when it arrives, not openly but pushed through her letterbox in stealth, she’ll marry it with its mate, lock it in a box and throw the past away.

        

Copyright Janet Baldey    

 My Town Lyrics

By Len Morgan

It's my town, I'm not leaving 
least not while I'm still grieving. 
Here we grew our hair, 
learned to laugh and swim, 
Here we fell in love, 
then fell out again.

Warm fit lasses and brave lads, 
watch them turn into Mums and Dads 
where's the corner shop, 
the beat cop we knew, 
Here so much has changed 
those ten years, just flew.

But I really don't know,
which way should I go,
and it's hurting me so,
my town aint my town, any more.

Can't see where it's all leading, 
looking back and remembering 
The dark winter years 
when we all caught cold. 
I can see it now, 
play by play unfold

But I really don't know,
which way should I go,
and it's hurting me so,
my town aint my town, any more.

Time's a thief and it's stealing, 
all of those things I believe in 
All the mills are gone, 
friends, I see not one, 
sure as night meets day, 
seasons go that way.

(Refrain): 
But I really don't know,
which way should I go,
and it's hurting me so,
my town aint my town, any more.

I'm not finished with the chorus, it still doesn't seem right to me. My story has a man looking around and realising that everything has changed; through time. It doesn't seem like his town any more, he wants to know where all the old familiar places and people have gone. I need to incorporate that sense of change/loss into the refrain. Still a work in progress...

 

 Pocket-Money

By Len Morgan

"In my experience, ‘spending money’ is a habit. I didn't get pocket money until I was eleven."

"That was in the old days pop... How much did you get?"
"I got a shilling a week. I spent 6 pence on sweets, and saved the rest."

"So how much was a shilling?"
"There were 12 pence in a shilling, and twenty shillings in a pound. A shilling was the equivalent of 5 new pence. When decimalisation happened in Feb 1971; for ages we would convert the new 'Mickey Mouse Money' back into real money. So, 35p was 7 shillings (84 old pence), 240 old pence = 100 new pence. So, (35x240)/100 = 84. Pretty soon we could do the conversion in our heads. Then after a while, we stopped converting altogether."

"Never mind the History & maths pop, will you increase my pocket-money to £10 or not? All my friends get a tenner, £8 is a joke they laugh at me when I tell them what you give me."

"Well kiddo, that is more than I can afford, I was thinking of reducing it to £5..."

"You can't do that! I'm your Granddaughter, your responsibility, Dad gives me £10, Mum gives me £10..."

"Then you're getting more pocket money than I am. Grandma only gives me £25 and I give you £8 leaving me £17 a week, so In future, I'll give you £5..."

"Tosser! I need £10!"

"Show a little respect, you ungrateful wretch! Why don’t you ask your other Grandfather?"

"He won't give me any; he says I get too much already."

"He may have a point there. Keep on and you'll talk yourself out of a fiver."

"That's unreal…  Dad!  Daaad?”

“He left when you called me a tosser!  Shame comes to mind.  He got £1:50 a week from the age of ten, and he never once demanded more.  I think you need to brush up on your negotiating skills.  You just lost at least £8 a week; maybe more...

 

Copyright Len Morgan

The Life Song (without a tune)

 Life Song.

By Bootsy & Len Morgan

(Slow refrain)

Life isn't always what it seems, black & white are shades of grey.

Things may turn out alright in dreams, but in life they go astray.

well I've been hurt myself I've known, Heartache pain n misery,

But you'll earn credit in your name, in the book of life you'll see.

 

(Body of the song ~ fast)

Cos life is just an endless game

over n over it's played the same.

For some it goes fast, others slow,

but Death; Is the final curtain call.

As time goes by, day by day,

we all exist as in a play.

the acts the motions n the scenes,

so fragile like crystal dreams.

 

But, when in a million pieces they break.

you find yourself alive and awake.

alone and naked on the stage,

only to die;  at the turn of a page.

 

When in a million pieces they fragmentate.

you find yourself alive and awake.

alone and naked on a stage,

only to die... at the turn of a page...

PTO!

Copyright Bootsy & Len Morgan

 (Song without a tune)

Abbalar tales ~ 30

 Abbalar tales ~ 30 Confrontation

By Len Morgan

'So little brother what have you been doing since our father returned to the wheel,' Paveil asked.

'Nothing of any moment' said Aldor.

'Do you mind if I look for myself,' he asked?

 'You're in my mind, so feel free...'

Paveil watched the climb to Eldoriel’s chambers, watched Genna rescue him, then his storytelling period in Mandrell, the chase to Ordens pillars, his fight with Skaa, and finally his return to Corvalen.

'Something is missing,' he accused.

'How I was changed?   I swore not to reveal that to a living soul, honour forbids me to speak of it or open my mind to the subject,' he said answering his own question.

'I must respect your oath, but that does not prevent me from speculating,' said Paveil, I'll warrant it has something to do with that strange mountain configuration, Orden's Pillars?   It's an area of volcanic activity don’t you know?  Yet, I've never met a single person who has been up there until now; doesn't that strike you as odd?   I think for that reason alone it will warrant further investigation at a later date.  One day, mayhap when time allows' he smiled.

'Does that mean you are going to become Regent?'

'I am by your leave, but first I need to establish contact with some people who can arrange matters and spread the good word.   I, we still have to make good our escape from this place.'

'Most of the guard, the sergeant and the captain included, are disquieted by Faziel's erratic and irrational behaviour of late.   But, they are loyal Corvalens and would not question the undisputed Regent.   If however, he should cease to be the only credible contender for the Caliphate, they would not be slow to re-appraise their allegiance.   Give me the names of those you would contact and I will ensure they are gathered for my execution.' 

.-…-. 

Asba Dylon and other revisionists within his cell worked tirelessly.   Each made contact with another cell not known to his or her fellows, and so the news spread like wildfire throughout the long day.   As the sun edged imperceptibly towards the horizon, the crowd gathered expectantly and the street vendors did brisk trade.  

The sergeant led out his hand-picked guard flanking the tall condemned man, dressed in the traditional black cape and cowl.   The silent crowd gathering in the square outside the palace was many times larger than would normally be expected for the death of a common felon.   The pageant would unfold in the open area immediately before the Porticoed palace, which separated the crowd from the dignitaries.  A flight of overlarge stone steps further distanced the crowd.   Even after countless centuries of use, incredibly, the steps still showed little sign of wear.   Close to the edge of the steps, and in full view of all, stood a large unadorned wooden block.

The Regents personal guard marched into view, from between the fluted columns, led by the Regents champion Kaffeit.   The square had been packed, far beyond its capacity, for an hour prior to the arrival of Fazeil, his retainers, wives and children.   On their right flank stood Jazim and her retinue.   Finally, Kattex, the axe of Corvalen was trooped out and ceremonially unsheathed, to the hushing murmurs of the crowd.   The mirror bright blade captured the oblique rays of the setting sun, spontaneously bursting into flame, burning with an inner fire.   A great collective cry escaped from the crowd, they would have blood.

The 'Supreme Arbiter' of Corvalen stepped forth.   He stood resplendent in his ceremonial robes topped off with the black skull cap and his staff of office.   He tapped the base of his six foot steel-tipped staff on a certain hollow stone, the only one showing any signs of wear and the sound reverberated around the square.  

"Silence!" he yelled.  

The crowd settled into a charged expectant hush.

"We are gathered, to carry out sentence duly passed on the felon know as Aldor – duly tried and convicted of murder - by a jury of Freemen residents of the city of Corvalen..."

The expectant crowd murmured.  As they quietened a voice from amongst them cried, "By whom?"

"Tried & convicted…" the arbiter continued, ignored the interruption and, attempted to continue.

"Name the Freemen who sat on the jury and the counsellor who acted in his defence!"  The voice in the crowd demanded.

"Tried & Con…" the supreme arbiter attempted a third time.

"I have the names and sworn testimony of twenty eyewitnesses, to the incident, all stating the soldier's death was an unfortunate and tragic accident."

"Who are you?   Step forth and be recognised, and if you be acceptable, present your statements."

Asba Dylon stepped out from the crowd, a thick bundle of papers and a heavy tome of law clutched to his chest.  

"These," he said, waving the thick bundle of papers at the crowd, "are all statements from Freemen, duly witnessed and notarised.   They all maintain the man Aldor is innocent of any crime."

“Shame, shame, shame…” a chant rose from the crowd.

"Silence!" the arbiter heeled his staff into the same worn spot four, five, six… times.   The sullen voice of the crowd lowered once more to a background hum.

"The young man was assisting me in my capacity as a counsellor of Corvalen, when a drunken oaf of a soldier launched an unprovoked attack on my person.   Aldor acted, as any responsible employee would, he came to my assistance.   When he arrived I was aground and taking a fearful beating; as my wounds will attest.  I honestly believe, had he not intervened, the lout would have killed me.   I do not for one minute believe the soldier was acting, in an official capacity, under the Regents instruction.   How could he justify beating to death the first counsellor of Corvalen?" Asba asked.   "Now as I understand it Aldor issued a challenge. It was accepted by the soldier, and according to the rules of chivalry should have been answered at dawn today, by the man himself, but for his fatal accident, so, as custom dictates he challenge should be answered by his superior.   Apparently his commander, a capt Vascelli has already been transferred to the Bycroft front.  A sudden transfer order was issued yestereve.   So according to law the challenge then passes up the chain to his commander who, because of the transfer, assumes the responsibility of answering the redress.   Do you know who that person would be sir?"

The supreme arbiter consulted briefly with his assistant.

"It seems the next in line would be the Regents’ champion, Kaffeit.   But I am given to understand this Aldor is not a native of Corvalen," he said, reading from a note handed to him by another assistant.   "Only native-born Corvalens are eligible to issue a challenge of this kind, therefore the challenge was invalid.    "It appears therefore that your man has had a lucky escape.   It seems there were indeed irregularities in his conviction, the Regent has made further enquiries and ordered that it be quashed.   He is free to go!"

"No sir!"  Said Aldor.   "I am a free-born man of Corvalen and I will not forego the challenge, or allow Kaffeit to wriggle out from under, let him present himself."

"What he says is true," Asba confirmed, would you like his credentials to be checked?"

"I was told he is from the north, an alien recent arrived.   But, if the first counsellor will confirm it, you surely do not intend this to go ahead,” the arbiter pleaded, "it would be suicide."

Neither Aldor nor Asba replied they continued to gaze at him stony-faced.

"You do realise that if you were to vanquish Kaffeit, the Regents office would be yours to proffer, so long as you nominate a brother, and not more than nine months have elapsed since the demise of their father the illustrious Caliph Endrochine. May he rest easy." He added.

"If you challenge my position as Regent, you must reveal the name of the man you champion," Fazeil said breaking his silence.

"I can name a brother, and then subsequently change my mind?" Aldor enquired.

"That is so," said the arbiter.   Asba nodded in confirmation.

"Then I name Ahlendore of Corvalen," he replied.   Even as he spoke the words he saw close advisers surreptitiously leaving the assembly, to seek out the nominee and put him to death.   They would seek in vain, but they would be out of the way for days mayhap weeks.   Which would suit Paveil’s cause?   He also liked the thought that for a few brief moments he would be the Regent designate that would be accomplishment enough.

"You fool!" Fazeil yelled triumphantly.   You do realise that if he is not already dead, you have signed his death warrant, and of course your own.   Kaffeit was able to best Ghorik, my father’s champion of some twenty years standing, with ease.   No scribbling clerk will best him.   Let the challenge stand arbiter, the scribe will die for nothing!"   He smirked in triumph.  

"I will schedule the duel for dawn tomorrow," the arbiter began...

"No sir!"  Aldor replied.   The crowd held its collective breath.   "The challenge was issued yestereve.   By the rules of combat, it must be settled before the sun sets today.   We have ten minutes of the day remaining."

"It is not possible; there are preparations to be made…"

"Do it!" Fazeil said angrily.

The crowd gasped.   The arbiter nodded silently, deprived of choice.

"Aldor pulled back his hood and, discarding the cape he, turned to face Kaffeit.   Two pairs of hard flint eyes locked in a battle of wills neither would look away until Kaffeit shook his head and drew his sword.

 

"Take your time Kaffeit's voice rasped, "ten minutes is an eternity when it's all the time you have left.   Hahaha!"

 "Make your peace with the devil, you'll soon be joining him!" Aldor answered.

"You will need this," Jazim called out to him.   Harby ran forward with Aldor’s blade.

"Kaffeit did not wait, "I don't need ten seconds to kill you, son of a whore." He yelled and came in swinging while Aldor was distracted.

"Aldor ducked easily under the flailing weapon and, for the second time in his life, he tapped his opponents most sensitive parts.

"Remember me?"  He taunted with a smile on his face and contempt in his voice, "Killer of old men and children.  Coward!" he yelled.   He would not use any enhanced powers in this battle, he knew they would not be necessary.

Kaffeit, humiliated, cried out in anger to mask his pain, his face already a prophetic rictus of death, as Aldor walked calmly over to take up his sword.   He blocked a powerful overhead cut nonchalantly producing a deep ringing knell and a shower of sparks.   Any other blade would have shattered; his instead illuminated the face of Fazeil's champion with the last dying rays of the sun.  Disengaging elegantly, he disembowelled the dazzled Kaffeit.   As the curtain of darkness descended he turned in silence and walked away.   The corpse he left kneeling on the top step, clutched its innards protectively, even in death.  

The crowd became silent, it was over...

(to be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

Everyone, Cheers!

 Everyone, Cheers! (‘Super Saturday’ approaching during Covid 19 )

By Carole Blackburn 

We cannot raise a glass or two,

I fear amidst our old friends, as I knew.

It is not granted my love, for fear,

The sprawl of this unseen,

stench less, hushed, viral killer.

As hosts it transforms us, it is no thriller.  

Ailing.

Descending.

Shifting us to stay away, until Friday.

 

In the past, oh, but the brave, dare to trudge,

One hour a day, it was, for our amusement.

This prolonged monotony was becoming translucent.

For a drought-like, brunch?

Through recreational park gates, 

For sure, with all our best mates!

To sit, to stare, to wait, for tavern times, to reinstate.

 

We all pray and yell, “This might be Heaven”

 In thought, please God finish, belay this, Hell.

Striding out, unlike week 7.

The gentle relaxing,

 of our enforced stay,

 we must try, and obey.

 

With no permission now, to ask,

to wander freely, about

is our task.

As this weekend, we are all let out!

To ‘App’ and sip and sway.

At a pub, just walk this way!

 

Now, happier hours are here.

We all need, again, in unison to hear,

“Cheers, my dear!”

 

But those others, we toast,

we wonder, are becoming, more hosts?

But bid, this killer.

Good riddance! For today,

as in the glowing brilliance,

of the taverns.

Intoxicated by our mid-year beers,

don’t approach me! For still in fear.

We guzzle, gulp and swig.

Boisterous proclamations, as we jig.

Pealing, chiming in our ears,

Cheers, everyone, Cheers!

 16^th July 2020

Copyright Carole Blackburn