The Road To Recovery.

By Jane Scoggins     

     Living in London had not been easy. Drugs were readily available. Particularly so around the Jamaica Road area where Jackie, homeless and desperate, had ended up in a run down bedsit. She hadn’t cared at the time where she lived, or about anything else. She was in too much of a state, and her drug abuse was out of control. A boyfriend had introduced her to drugs at seventeen. She had left home to be with him. Home was a very unhappy place at the time so she had jumped at the opportunity to leave. When she started to show serious signs of dependency and asked him for more and more money to feed her growing habit he had wanted out, and dumped her. Subsequent partners had not been any good for her either, and she had regularly been abused in one way or another. Reaching rock bottom she had accepted support from the street doctor working at The Elephant and Castle. She had been lucky to have been offered rehabilitation.

    She met Ray in rehab, and both struggled to come clean from heroin. It had been really hard. Anyone not addicted to drink or drugs could not possibly know how hard.

    Ray was a plasterer and carpenter, making good money in and around Notting Hill where wealthy young bankers were buying up property. He had mates he went to the pub with, but he was bored and ambitious and looked around for different company, more exciting than his usual mates. He aspired to a lifestyle more like the rich young bankers. He accepted invitations, however casual, to casinos and the better clubs in London. He found he was a natural at the gaming tables. So, Monday to Friday he was a plasterer and carpenter, and at weekends he was a gambler. At first, he had nothing to do with drugs, he didn’t need them. He got his highs from the thrill of the roll of a dice, or the turn of a card. But as time went by, he started to take the pills and snort the cocaine on offer at private parties, or in the gents' cloakrooms. The sensation achieved made him feel more self-assured in conversation with some of his new more articulate city acquaintances, and around the gambling tables. He liked the girls he met there too. They were easy to pick up and put down. One night stands who would do almost anything for an evening of cocktails and a few of his blackjack chips. Ray became more confident in his looks and charm and played to these strengths. At home, his divorced mother Julie was very happy with the increase in money coming her way and began to rely on the additional spending money for herself. She overlooked any concerns she may have had about his possible drug use. She had her own social life to think about.

    Ray's downfall came, when on three separate occasions, he was in clubs when they were raided by the police, and he was found in possession of, and supplying, heroin and crack cocaine. He was also charged for driving under the influence of drink and drugs on another occasion, and being in possession of heroin. To avoid a prison sentence, and with the encouragement of his mother who worried about the long term loss of income from her son, Ray accepted a fine, a referral to a drug rehabilitation centre and a suspended jail sentence.

   When Ray met Jackie in rehab he was immediately attracted to her. She was pretty, vulnerable, and compliant. They became a couple. With the help of Methadone, they hoped to get back to a normal life, away from the cramps, cravings, and desperation of their lives as addicts. 

     Drawing strength from one another over time they felt confident they were winning the battle and following rehab they moved into a flat together. .But once an addict always an addict they say, and it takes more than medication, to resist the cravings that rise up and demand attention on a daily basis. It also takes willpower and determination. Unfortunately, an opportunity for temptation came Ray’s way that he could not resist, and he accepted a wrap of cocaine. He then could not resist a second and a third, a fourth and a fifth. He returned to the gaming tables to fuel his habit. Earning good money, he reassured Jackie he was in control of his drug use, that it was purely recreational. Over time he became more unpredictable in his behaviour. Jackie knew it was the drugs doing it to him, not the real Ray, and stuck by him. Their history in rehab kept her emotionally bound to him.

 

She really loved him and was as addicted to him as she had been on drugs, and just as dependant. She was determined not to give up on him however difficult, and by whatever means. But Ray's drug use and sometimes losses at the casino fuelled arguments and led to his more frequent aggression. As a result, they eventually parted, very badly. Jackie's heart was broken.

      She got part-time work at a large supermarket which improved her confidence and reunited her with the real world again. She was an equal, no longer a degenerate druggie on the streets, sleeping in the park and smelling like shit. As part of her rehabilitation and return to work, she was also a volunteer at the food bank in Tooley Street. Jackie found the other volunteers friendly and good company and was grateful for their support. They had a good laugh. Because of their individual difficult pasts, she felt tied by an invisible piece of string linking them together. A bit like the invisible string she felt had tied her to Ray, but from which she had been painfully cut free. Jackie stacked the shelves from the boxes and carrier bags of foodstuffs dropped off throughout the week by church groups, shoppers, and charitable organisations. She and the other volunteers acknowledged these acts of human kindness. It helped them put a better perspective on their own lives and a belief in the kindness of strangers.

    Jackie had been split up from Ray for nearly a year when one day he walked into the food bank. She was in the back unloading boxes, and out of sight of the customer counter, when she heard his voice. Her heart skipped a beat. She peeped out around the shelving. He looked ill and unkempt. She was not prepared when one of the volunteers called her name and put her on the spot. She stepped out from behind the shelving without thinking and walked to the counter to help serve. Ray’s face lit up when he saw her, all memories of their last difficult encounter when he had punched her, clearly forgotten. Looking at his disheveled state she felt sorry for him. At his best, he could charm the birds from the trees. He persuaded her to go for a walk through the park after her shift. The inevitable happened; he walked her home and asked if he could stay a few days whilst he sorted himself out and got a job and flat. Jackie decided not to question what had happened to him. He said he had been ill coming off drugs. After a meal, a shower, and a clean shirt from his bag, he looked more like the handsome charismatic Ray she had fallen for and missed so much. He stayed on and she began to feel whole again. That had been three months ago.

    As Jackie lay quietly on the sofa half awake, she dreamt of a happy life with Ray and a reunion with her mother. She had spoken of having a child, maybe moving away and starting again. She had dreamed of marriage but did not think Ray was ready for that, although he constantly told her he loved her and never wanted her to look at another man. He was quite a jealous lover, and Jackie was careful that she did not get into conversation with other men when she was with him. But she didn't mind. No other man had ever been so interested in her, or so protective. It was wonderful to feel loved even if it wasn't always consistent. She slipped further into her pleasant dream. She could hear voices but could not be bothered to wonder if they were real or part of her half dream. She saw Ray smiling at her but it didn’t sound like his voice. No doubt he had come back to apologise, like he always did. She wished now that she hadn't told him she thought she was pregnant. She had hoped he would have been happy. Instead, he had accused her of making a decision without him. She had tried to tell him it was not that way. Realising she had said the wrong thing she back-pedaled and told him she was joking. Men were funny weren’t they, she thought. You never knew if you are saying or doing the right thing. She had misjudged it this time. He was more angry than she could have anticipated.

 Feeling too tired to open her eyes or get up, Jackie wondered what she would do if she actually was pregnant and had a baby, and then slipped into a deep sleep.

   The ambulance crew found Jackie's lifeless body slumped on the sofa, the carpet, and her clothes soaked in dark red sticky blood. A thin rivulet of blood still ebbing from a deep wound. A kitchen knife lay on the floor beside her.

    Ray was picked up by the police the same night, wandering aimlessly and in a distressed state.

 He told the police they had had a row about Jackie being pregnant. He didn’t want a baby, she did. He said if she didn’t get rid of it he was leaving her. She got hysterical and said she would kill herself and the baby. She said she could not bear to lose him again. Yes, he had a temper and he had shouted at her, and remembers slapping her. But the knife was not him. She had waved it over her stomach, he had reached for it. They had stumbled. She fell. He panicked. He could not think straight.

    The post mortem revealed that Jackie was pregnant. There was old and recent bruising on her body. The GP records showed that Jackie had received medical attention, and been prescribed anti-depressants after the previous traumatic break up from Ray. Neighbours said Jackie had been a nice girl. Since Ray's arrival, they had not seen so much of her but had not noticed anything untoward.

    Tesco staff who worked with Jackie were horrified by the news. Her work record had been good and there had been no sign of behaviour that would indicate drug abuse.

    The volunteers at the food bank were genuinely dismayed and upset about Jackie's death and the nature of it. They knew she had had a troubled past. They did notice that Jackie had been quieter and not herself in recent weeks, and wondered if it had had anything to do with the boyfriend she had taken up with again.

    The trial for murder is set for eight weeks time. Ray denies the charges against him. It will be up to the jury to decide whether Jackie died accidentally, or whether Ray caused, or at least contributed to, her death. Not least because he did not call an ambulance. Those that knew Jackie since her stay in rehab said it was a terrible shame. A waste of the life of a young woman who had been determined to battle her addiction, and to turn her life around. A tragic thing to have happened to someone who had apparently been well on the road to recovery.

Copyright Jane Scoggins 

Abbalar Tales ~ 34

 Abbalar Tales ~ 34 The Hunt

By Len Morgan

"You never married Asba, that is regrettable, you should be passing on all the good qualities you possess to future generations, but there is still time." She added.

Even in a dream, he found himself intoxicated by the scent of her skin, he was conscious of her closeness, even with his eyes closed, that was why he had always tried to keep his distance from her lest he swallow her up in his own ego and never let her develop as she should and obviously had.   In dream time, they were both teacher, and pupil, in the art of love.    Unencumbered by physical limitations of the flesh they lived a lifetime in each other's arms, making up for lost time, a matter of moments in real-time.

When finally they materialized beside Skaa, just beyond the portal, the future of Corvalen was assured.

 .-...-.

Even if it were possible, Aldor would not be happy Controlling Genna as a puppet.   That was the tactic employed by Jazim and Bedelacq.   If he did the same he would be no better than they.   He was aware of warm tracks of moisture tickling his cheeks, and a slight blurring of his vision.   He wiped his eyes angrily on the backs of his hands.   He could tell, from scanning her feelings for Asba, she had never really been his.   At best he'd had her on loan but, she was still a valued and trusted friend through fair and foul times.   She was a good companion and he would do nothing to jeopardize that.   It was all academic; he'd changed so much she wouldn't recognize him as the Aldor she knew.

 

   She had however demonstrated an ability to control her mind to a startling degree.   Such that it was suggested, with training, she could become a 'Revisionist' of exceptional talent.   He smiled, when he received grudging confirmation, from the machines, that humanity still retained the potential to communicate with them, lacking only the know-how and the practice.   He knew also there had to be many more who would be capable of learning the ancient knowledge and spreading it throughout Abbalar.    He knew Asba and Genna would build on that, commencing with Paveil and Lillefane.    So, essentially his work in Corvalen was done.   He was left with a little housekeeping, and general tidying up to do before he moved on.   There were plenty of people out there to be converted but, that was a job for the 'Revisionists' and they needed no encouragement from him.   What he needed to do first, for his own peace of mind, was to discover who killed Eldoriel and why.   Then of course there was still unfinished business with Bedelacq, Jazim, and others of their brood.   Skaa had also expressed a keen desire to be involved on both counts.   Both were grimly determined.   Both had experienced a unique bond with Eldoriel and, through their loss, with each other.

 Paveil put the trusted protectors - the Regents Guard - to the task of exploring the tunnels beneath the city.   A troop was sent to escort Aldor and Skaa to the palace, through those same secret tunnels.  As the guards entered the tunnels heading for the final showdown with Jazim and her supporters, Aldor and Skaa headed for the house of Baal.   They were even prepared to deal with Bedelacq if he chose to appear.   They threw themselves manfully against the double oak doors and were a little surprised they could not even bend them.

   They waited outside, for more than an hour, until the Regent's guard fought their way through the house and finally removed the three massive metal bars holding it firmly in place.   Just three of Skaa's old band were captured alive, amongst them Frek.  They begged continually for an unknown drug, an elixir Jazim had plied them with, highly addictive, it bound them to her.   Without a daily dose, their lives were unbearable.   She had returned to the house of Baal with them, after Fazeils death, and ordered it turned into a fortress.   She commanded them to fight to the death, then went into tunnels and, according to one of her aids, opened up a black hole in the solid wall.   She entered it and was gone in an instant.   Aldor quizzed the machines and received confirmation that she had entered the sanctuary and been sent on to a place where Bedelacq would not find her.   Without him, she would live out a normal, but somewhat accelerated life.

'She is a criminal, she has destroyed and ruined countless lives, how can you protect her?'  Aldor asked.

'She is more than 350 years old, and will live another ten, twenty if she is lucky.   Most of her life has been lived as a puppet a slave to Bedelacq doing his work.   She never did so by choice.   She was taken as an infant and was molded into the person you saw.   Only one in ten of those taken from their families survived his indoctrination.   The survivors considered themselves the unlucky ones.   She deserves to live a few years in peace and freedom.   She has always hated what she became, but he is always in their minds pushing them, like macabre living marionettes, denying them the luxury of choice and free will.   We have decided to grant her peace, and a time of contrition, to reflect and in some way make amends.   We know all that she knows about the enemy; we gleaned it from her mind as we did from you.   We know Bedelacq…'

'Did she know who killed Eldoriel?'  He asked.

Knowing the speed at which the machines could think the delay in replying was interminable, in reality, just a few seconds.

'Yes' was their reply.

Aldor waited, then realized no further information would be forthcoming.   He'd noticed that machines could at times be very informative, while at others give only the bare minimum information without elaborating.

'Can you tell me who carried out the act?'  He asked.

'His name is Frek.'

'Is that all?'  He asked.

'He was one of Skaa's men.'

Aldor called to Skaa with his mind.   'It was Frek.   Do you know where to find him?'

'Frek?'   His surprise was obvious.   'He was the least affected by the drug Jazim administered.   He went into the cellars with Genna…' said Skaa.

"No!"   Asba transmitted his alarm.

.-…-. 

Genna sensed something different about Frek.   The fact he had not succumbed to Jazim's addictive potion as the others had.   There was something very chilling about him, a driving obsession, more powerful than any drug.

"What are we searching for," he asked.

"We need to discover where Jazim has gone to ground.   Any indication of her recent presence would be helpful in tracking her down." Genna replied, "You seem quite close to Skaa?"

"Known him a lot of years, he's like the big brother I never had as a child.   He keeps me out of trouble." Said Frek.

"Then why did you go off with Jazim." She asked.

"The others said it was a good idea and that Skaa would be joining us.   But when he arrived, he refused and they put him in the cells before I had a chance to speak up for him." Said Frek.

"Did you like her?   Jazim?" she asked.

"Nah!   She was too busy giving orders to everybody.   I wanted to get closer to her but her heavies were always around.   I knew she wanted me though, I could see that hungry look in her eyes when she looked at me."

"If that were so why did she not simply order the heavies away and tell you how she felt.   That is what I would have done," she said.

"No!"  he said with disdain, "that is not the way they do things."

"I don't understand that.   If I wanted a man I would simply tell him." She replied. 

"I know but you are a woman from the streets.   You most of all should know that it's just a test.   They are testing me and I have to prove that I want them enough.   Oh, they protest and say it isn't a good idea.   They try to humour me acting as if they don’t really want it.    That only makes me angry because I know they do.   They make me force them and punish them, then they go; depart and leave me alone," he said in a dead voice.

The hackles on her neck rose, her instincts were roused.

"When I met Asba, as a young girl, I knew exactly how I felt about him.   He was the only man for me but, when I told him he backed away and made excuses to avoid me.   Now, look at him." She said with a smile.

"That is because the man is the hunter.   Game doesn't chase the hunter, that would be wrong, that would cause him to lose his hunger." Said Frek.

"Why are you looking at me in that strange way?" she asked.

"I know why you came down here with me," he said, "You’re just like all the others."

"Others?   Am I?"  She said.

'Get away from him as fast as you can!' said a voice in her mind, 'He is dangerous, he was the one who killed Eldoriel, and many others.   It all fits.   Whenever Skaa's band was in an area young women were found dead.'   'Don't think about it, just get away from him.'   ‘That was Aldor's voice,’ she thought, ‘in my mind?'

"No Frek, you're wrong.   I'm not like the others.   I really want you to come to me," she said.   "Come here!"

The strange look on his face changed to uncertainty, he no longer felt he was in charge.

"Man may be the hunter but women can also hunt when they know what they are after, and when they want it enough!   Come to me." She repeated reaching out towards him with her arms, licking her lips lasciviously, she took a step towards him.

"N-no I-I" he stammered and took two backward steps, a look of fear in his eyes.   He turned and ran.

 

'The Regents guard is on their way to hunt him down, leave him to them, they will make him pay for what he has done,' said Aldor.

'But, how did he get away with it for so long?' she thought.

'It is not so difficult if everybody thinks your stupid and you do nothing to make them think otherwise.   But, he is not as dumb as he would have us believe' Aldor replied.  

'Aldor?   That is you isn't it' she asked.

He did not reply.

She started back towards the cellars of Baal house, just as the guardsmen were coming out of the cell that she and Wizomi had occupied just five days earlier.  

'I wonder what happened to Wiz,” she thought as she slid through the grate to the cell that had housed both Skaa and Aldor.

Genna stood up inside the cell, her eyes adjusting slowly to the gloom.   There was a rustling sound, a shadow moved just outside of her vision.   She turned and instinctively threw herself sideways.   He had been there waiting for her, his eyes already in tune with the low light level.

'Aldor, he's here!' she yelled inside her mind, already fearful for her life.

'Humour him, keep him occupied, we are on our way.'

"Frek is that you?   You can't get away from me that easily.   I waited for you but you failed to return, then the militia started to arrive outside."

"Do you know what they are looking for?" he asked, continuing before she could reply, "don't play games with me; I'm not the fool I choose to present to the world."

She started to roll back towards the broken grating, but he had anticipated that and got there before her.   She felt a heavy blow to her shoulder, and a sharp pain, "aaahh," she cried out, it killed her momentum.

"One more move like that and I will kill you where you lay," he said in a matter-of-fact tone.   About now those tunnels will be full to overflowing with the Regents guards, and militia, all looking for me," he said.

"Why should they be looking for you?" she asked.   His response was to kick her in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her.

"You talk when I say, otherwise keep silence" he warned.

"Genna?" it was Asba's voice.

"In here!" She yelled, taking another kick.

He grabbed her hair dragging her roughly to her feet.

"I said q-u-i-e-t!"  He hissed.

There was a rattling at the door, a key turned in the lock, and it opened.

He stood defiantly facing them, using Genna as a shield, as they entered.

One arm pinned both her arms to her sides, the other held a heavy knife to her throat.

"That's far enough," he warned them, tightening his grip.   "This is a Huren hunting knife.   I could decapitate her in an instant with very little pressure.   Tell them Skaa!"

"He's right; I've seen him cut a man’s legs off with a single stroke of that blade.   At this moment, Genna is in very real danger,” he whispered so that Frek would not hear.

"What happens to her depends entirely on what you do.   It would be best if you put down your arms as a gesture of goodwill," sensing hesitation he added, "that was not a request."   They all complied.   "It would really be better for all if you simply let me slip away; as soon as we are clear of the city I will release Genna…"

Skaa began to clap his hands slowly, "Same old Frek" he said, "still not thinking.   You will never be in the clear because wherever you go I will be hunting you, just one step behind.   I could never forgive what you did to Eldoriel.   I loved her and I don't know how long I can live without her.   You killed her out of jealousy,” Skaa accused, taking a step forward.

"Be still!" Frek warned.   "She was a whore, a doxy; she joined with any man who wanted her.   Everyone but me,” he said angrily, “she drove me crazy taunting and spurning.   I wanted, I hungered for her so badly it hurt but when I told her she laughed in my face.   Just one slash and the laughter stuck in her throat, the deed was done, my blade was decorated with her blood but I cannot remember killing her.   I wished it hadn't happened but, it could not be undone, so I arranged her on the bed and dowsed the lights.   Looking at her, you would never know…"   There were tears in his eyes now.

"The boy climbing in the window was a gift from the gods!" Skaa finished the sentence taking half a step more.

"Stay!   Where you are," his grip tightened on Genna and his eyes became hard and unyielding.

 "I intend to kill you Frek, and so long as there's breath in my body I will hunt you like the dog you are" he said in that intimidating gravely voice.   "You have one chance to get away free, and that is by killing me.   If you're man enough for it I challenge you; a duel to the death.   You have my word, if you win, no man will stop you."

"If I kill you they let me walk free?   I don't think so," he sneered.

"You know I stand by my word, these are honorable men, if you win the duel you will be judged blameless."

"Do you swear to honor this?"   Frek questioned them.  

One by one they recited the formal words - "I swear it."

He released his grip on Genna, turning his knife towards Skaa.

"You were always so sure you were better than the rest of us," Frek gloated, "It’s a pity so many of our former comrades are dead and unable to witness your demise.   It will be no pushover; I may even break sweat before you find yourself back on the wheel of life.     But, I will have the consolation of unearthing all the caches of coin you have hidden outside the city.   I will take your head back home with me and claim that reward as well," he grinned, "they will treat me like a hero then I will buy my fill of real women.   Not these bony black-haired rat-faced sluts, I shall buy me, real women, with meat on their bones.   Come on old man, defend yourself."

"You can choose the weapons, but I get to choose where we fight" Skaa replied.

"Sword and dagger,"   Frek answered at once.

"At dawn, on the palace plaza, where Aldor killed Fazeil's champion," said Skaa, his face a mask.

“So be it!” said Frek “I’ll miss you when your dead, old man...”   He slipped out of the door and was gone in an instant.

(to be Continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 REFLECTION

By Peter Woodgate 

On looking back across the years,

the excitement, the frowns, smiles, and tears,

you wonder where “Old Time” has gone

a mere swift heartbeat in life’s song.

Experiences, without the knowledge,

that aging brings us and the courage,

to make decisions for the good,

not selfish, just because we could.

For there’s a matter of concern,

life is short, yet we must learn

to pass this advice onto those

who carry the torch as wisdom grows,

and hopefully one-day mankind

will have reached a higher mind,

where love, and kindness, is the way

and thoughtfulness is here to stay.

I’d like to think it all worth-while

for those whose lives have been a trial

and man must reach out from this pyre

and like the phoenix soar much higher.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 NEW TIMES NOW

by Richard Banks          

                                

I was, my mother once told me, a reluctant baby in no hurry to leave the warmth and safety of her womb. That may explain why I have always preferred a bath to a shower. Why rush what should be a pleasure, a chance to savour again that untroubled time before the uncertain transition to a strange and unknown world.

         Thirty-six years on, the good times have far outweighed the bad. I have been fortunate, unaffected by war, disease, or famine. My life has been unremarkable, often dull, but the quiet certainty to which I have become accustomed is something I value above everything else.

         Jenny is in the kitchen, the engine room she calls it, cooking dinner, her still slim figure almost hidden by the steam rising from several saucepans on the hob. It’s pasta night, as it is every Friday. What could be better than bucatini or spaghetti with a glass or two of Chianti?  In our lounge/diner Lucy and Kate are examining the presents under the Christmas tree squeezing the ones with their names on, guessing what is hidden beneath the brightly coloured wrapping paper. When they were younger they would sometimes open a particularly intriguing parcel before attempting to reinstate its covering. Now they understand that the unwrapping of presents must wait until Christmas morning and never before the ringing of my alarm clock.

         They should be setting the table but as usual, they have forgotten, distracted by the lure of more interesting things. Jenny peers through the serving hatch and with feigned annoyance expresses surprise that nothing has been done. But within minutes everything is done, Lucy fetches the tablecloth from the linen cupboard and spreads it unevenly over the dining table while Kate takes spoons and forks from the cutlery drawer and, with studied concentration, places them on the tablecloth. She knows that the forks must always go on the left which is the same side as her writing hand. She is seven now, her sister six, babies no more. They sit up at the table as Jenny brings in their meals.

         Six o’clock tea is a good time, especially on a Friday, and this Friday is no ordinary Friday,  tomorrow is Christmas Day. Jenny raises her glass. “Bon Appetite,” she says and the girls do the same with their tumblers of lemonade. I smile but say nothing. Now is a time for eating, conversation is for later, but for once it is not long in coming.

         Kate clears her plate and discards her spoon with a clatter onto the center of her plate. “What is happening tomorrow?” she asks.

         Jenny explains for the seventh or the eighth time that Father Christmas will come, as he always does, and that once she and Lucy are washed and dressed they will be allowed to open all their presents.

         “And then,” Jenny continues, “as a special treat we are all going with Uncle Ben to a lovely restaurant for Christmas lunch.”

         Kate pushes out her lips in sullen displeasure. “Why can’t we have dinner here?”

         She looks towards me as though seeking my intervention but since the ending of our marriage there is nothing I can do or say. This is her mother’s call and for a while, at least, she will decide what is best for herself and the girls. I am sad but wish no sadness for them. No, I must not be sad. It is Christmas Eve and once again I am able to share the warmth of their company in a friendly familiar place.

         Jenny wards off further discussion on the subject of Christmas lunch by saying that it has been booked, so of course they are going. They should be pleased that Uncle Ben has invited them to such a posh restaurant. She adds, somewhat unconvincingly, that there is no more food in the house and that if they don’t go to the restaurant they will have nothing to eat all day.

         “Is there no ice cream?” asks Lucy, her face a picture of despair.

         Jenny concedes that there might still be some ice cream left and departs to the kitchen to find it. She returns with dessert bowls, spoons, and a tub of Caramel Swirl. It is their favourite dessert and thoughts of Christmas lunch are temporarily forgotten. As they finish, Jenny turns on the television; a distraction is needed and instantly provided by a Christmas edition of the Simpsons. I watch it with the girls while Jenny clears the table and loads the dishwasher in the kitchen. She peers through the serving hatch and seeing them absorbed in the adventures of Bart and Lisa quietly makes a phone call on her mobile. I resist the temptation to move closer to the serving hatch and eavesdrop on the conversation taking place. There is no point, I know who she is talking to, and the words they are speaking I should not be hearing; better to watch the Simpsons with the two little girls sitting in front of me on the carpet. The programme ends and Kate switches channels until she finds another cartoon. Jenny returns to the lounge and sits down beside me on the settee. She studies the TV guide and informs the girls that ‘Strictly’ will soon be starting and that once it is finished they must get ready for bed. Tonight is the final. For six weeks the various contestants have battled it out until only two couples remain. The presenter is not unlike Jenny; she is wearing a white dress. Automatically my eyes turn towards the photograph of our wedding on the wall above the fireplace, but it is gone replaced by one of her and the girls. The snapshot of me in the hall still remains but is seldom noticed. In time it too will disappear into the cupboard under the stairs, out of sight and largely out of mind.

         Am I angry? No. This is the way it has to be. What is done is done and can’t be undone. Memories that give no pleasure must be forgotten, discarded. Life is about today and tomorrow, never the past. Jenny knows this. Her future and that of the girls is uncertain but she is determined that through the choices she makes all will be well.

         Will one of those choices be Ben? Only time will tell. They have been dating for only three months, but if he were to propose what would she say? He is charming, reasonably good looking, and apparently not short of money. Let’s hope there is more to him than that.

         ‘Strictly’ comes to a triumphant end and Jenny switches off the TV. Having quelled the usual protests she ushers the girls upstairs into the bathroom where they clean their teeth and change into their pyjamas. Once they would run back to me for hugs and kisses but now they go straight to their beds. Jenny reads them a story and they settle down beneath their duvets determined to fall asleep before Santa calls. She returns to the lounge and pours herself another glass of wine. She is pensive, lost in thought, she tries to read but turns only two pages of a chic lit novel. We sit in silence not wanting to turn on the television lest it disturbs the girls.

         We have much to say to each other, but nothing that can be spoken. I want to tell her that it’s OK, that I understand, life changes, so must she. Would she say the same to me? I think she would. So why do I linger? Is it that we never said goodbye or am I, yet again, the reluctant baby? One year after the accident that ended my life I should be away, but the warmth and comfort of much-loved people in a familiar place has more attraction than the unknown place beyond.

         Jenny peers into the girls’ bedroom and finds them asleep. There are Christmas stockings to fill, clothes to be ironed, an extra present to wrap and label. At eleven-thirty she turns off the lounge light and departs for bed. Tomorrow she will be woken by the sound of my alarm clock and the excited cries of our children. By then I will be gone. Where I am bound I don’t know, only that it is a new beginning, that death, like birth, is a part of life and that in life I may be born again. On Christmas Eve I am filled with hope.

 

 Copyright Richard Banks

 THE CORONATION PENCIL CASE

By Peter Woodgate 

To celebrate the coronation

Of our presently reigning queen

I received a pretty pencil case

It showed that very scene.

The gold coach and the horses

Came alive on that box of tin

And when opened up, a three-penny bit

Was waiting there within.

My immediate thought was that odd-shaped coin

And the sweets that I could now buy

The pencil case, a novelty,

Very soon it said goodbye.

As years rolled on I, often wondered,

Where that case might be

I regretted not keeping it somewhere safe

As now it’s antiquity.

But I have a feeling, we’ll meet again,

Only a dream then, until,

We find each other at the “order of the boot”

The case, at “a fair,” and I, at “the hill”.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

The DNA Factory: 09

 Homo-sapiens ~ DNA Factories

By Barefoot Medic

I recently listened to the book “A short history of nearly everything” by Bill Bryson.

Belatedly, on Disks 13 & 14 of 15, he turned everything on its head by suggesting that we are DNA factories.   I’m still coming to terms with his assertion that we exist to create DNA.   We are in the service of our genes, not the other way round!?   The reality of this chills me…

This puts all those sudden & unexplained cravings into perspective.   An extreme example would be the strange illogical cravings experienced by women during pregnancy.   The body is undergoing changes that require different building materials so, cram in the pickled onions, and swallow Vaseline by the jarful or whatever else your genes demand in order to create a new DNA factory.   

 

We didn’t invent DNA!  DNA was created at the dawn of time it is the same in humans as in insects & cabbages and has never varied since the creation of life.   DNA is not alive and yet all our energies seem to be concentrated on perpetuating its continued existence.

 Convo with my trouble & strife: 

By Len Morgan

"You lazy bastard, you got up at 10:00am & what have you done other than writing for that stupid writer's group blog and play on that silly bloody computer."
"But, I got up, got dressed, did the washing up, made tea, fed the dogs, picked up and flushed away poop in the garden, washed shaved & put my teeth in. It's now 10:35am, but you're still in bed reading on your I-phone.  What have you done?"
"I do everything! I cook our meals..."
"If you like I could cook once in a while..."
"I don't want to eat the shit you would serve up!"
"I could..."
"I don't like spaghetti bolognese, or boiled eggs & soldiers, or eggs & chips, Chilli Con Carne, shepherds pie or sausage & mash..."
"But they are all the things that I like!"
"Well, you're not getting em cos I won't cook em!"
"Then I could..."
"I've told you before, keep out of my kitchen! Except for doing the washing up, I can't do everything. That's an end to it!"  Storms out.

BURIED IN OUR THOUGHTS

By Rosemary Clarke

Imagine you're a Wega person
Having to exist from day to day
While you all are raped and tortured
The smile on your face must stay.
No one's helping Wega people
They're all concerned with cash and wars
But..what if they all KNEW that person
Say he or she was ONE OF YOURS.
Would YOU, in all kinds of fairness
Let it happen every day
WRITE TO YOUR MP about them
TELL THEM THAT IT'S NOT OK!

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

  

Chance passing?

Chance passing?

By Len Morgan

I inhabited a park bench where few choose to sit, he occupied its opposite end.  A boy of eight or nine, grubby face, scuffed shoes with unkempt hair, and a threadbare coat, inappropriate for December.  He shivered and cried.

"What grief besets you boy?"

"My mother is...dying," he rubbed his reddened eyes.

"That is sad boy, what ails her?"

"Cholera sir."

"There is a vaccine..."

"Too late."

"Can I help in any way?"

"You are kind, but her die is cast."

"What is your name boy, and where will you go?"

"My name is Arthur.  Where I go should not overly concern you.  I am here to await her final demise and bear her up to heaven."

"If you are so certain of her salvation why do you weep?"

"I weep for another.  One who has strayed from the path and is endangering his immortal soul.  I seek to turn him to the right path before his end becomes inevitable.  He has lost his faith and is in dire need of guidance."

"Can I aid you in your quest?"

"You can sir."

"Then tell me what I must do; if it is within my power it shall be done!"

"Your word sir?"

"You have it!"

The boy smiled, "father, return home bury your wife and renew your faith."

I moved closer that I might better see his face, could it be?  "Arthur my son, how could I not recognize you?   I buried you just nine months past.  The Scarlett fever that stole you from me, stole all purpose from my life." 

"My two sisters have need of a father.  Take care of the living; let me attend to mothers passing soul."  He smiled, and paled becoming ethereal, "By your own word, we will meet again.  Farewell, father."

 Copyright Len Morgan

DAWN CHORUS

 DAWN CHORUS ~ (OVER SOUTH WOODHAM FERRERS)

By Peter Woodgate 

Oh no, not another “lovey-dovey” (excuse the pun) description of birdsong in the morning, I bet your thinking.

Well, you would be wrong. 

I am going to tell you about the awful cacophony emanating from those little feathered creatures that repeatedly defecate over my freshly cleaned car, and, by flying at an approach angle of exactly 45 degrees, manage to splatter my nice clean windows and frames. 

I set my alarm clock early these days so as not to miss a word they are tweeting.

Yes, that’s right, Words. Over the last two years I have managed to decipher all those tweets, trills, coos and chirps and, consequently, now understand exactly what they are planning. Only yesterday I heard them discussing the day’s strategy.

I remember, clearly, it was the Wood Pigeons that started the ball rolling closely followed by the Magpies and Starlings. The Collared Doves took a back perch whilst the Robins, Tits and Finches had no issues and went their separate ways.

I listened, carefully, as the following plan was agreed.

No 1 Ashman Row

Their car had just been cleaned at the manual car wash, this was considered a waste of water which could endanger the bird population.

The punishment would be two pass-overs with random splatter.

No 15 Ashman Row

3 cats residing at this address, they are called Mangler, Killer and Mugsy. “be careful here comrades,” one of the pigeons piped up, “when their keepers call them in for tea they become Ginger, Fluffy and tiddles.”

“Thanks for that,” the head pigeon went on, “but whatever their names it appears they have been terrorizing the chicks that have recently left the nest.”

“The punishment is to be a repeated flyover of the shed (their favourite sleeping place) this should ensure that they all take unwanted additives back to their Master and Mistress, (house proud, you know).”

No 16 Asman Row

The indiscriminate cutting down of two Leylandi, thus destroying five nests.

Capital punishment was requested here, or at least, the pecking out of eyes.

However, they settled for the lesser option of storing up with berries of a nice dark blue or black colouring. They would then pepper the new white car and recently installed double-glazed frames.

No 17 Ashman Row (oh that’s me)

Failure to refill the feeder with expensive wild bird food used some cheap old stuff from Asda’s.

The punishment, (I held my breath here)

Repeated flyover of freshly oiled wooden garden furniture.

I leapt out of bed, went out in the garden and covered it up. I made the mistake, however, of looking up as I gave them a V sign, haven’t been able to see out of that eye since.

So, there it is, I lay in bed in the mornings listening to the prophets of gloom.

I should, of course, look to get my own back on these foul fowls but I am a softy when it comes to our little feathered friends and would not wish to harm them in any way.

I struggle to suppress a smile however, as I pass my neighbour’s doorstep and spot a pile of freshly chewed feathers.

Copyright Peter Woodgate