Two Haiku
By Robert Kingston
dusk
above the
verge
a kestrel
fantasy
space flight
tooth fairies
hover
in the forever
zone
Copyright Robert Kingston
Both first published on the
We are a diverse group from all walks of life. Our passion is to write; to the best of our ability and sometimes beyond. We meet on the 2nd and 4th Thursday each month, to read and critique our work in friendly, open discussion. However, the Group is not solely about entertaining ourselves. We support THE ESSEX AND HERTS AIR AMBULANCE by producing and selling anthologies of our work. So far we have raised in excess of £9,700, by selling our books at venues throughout Essex.
By Robert Kingston
dusk
above the
verge
a kestrel
fantasy
space flight
tooth fairies
hover
in the forever
zone
Copyright Robert Kingston
Both first published on the
by Richard Banks
Farming’s
never been this good, or this easy, even if we just sit on the land and do
nothing we’re still in the black. Then Parry calls and life’s not as good as we
thought. He’s Penrose’s man.
“Any problems?” he asks, “no awkward
questions.?”
“No,” we say, but he wants more than a
no. He needs to have the names and addresses of everyone who has spoken to us
about the excavation, what they said, what we said to them. We tell him as best
we remember.
“Has anyone mentioned the skeleton?”
“No,” I say, “the only person to see it
apart from the diggers was me.”
“And have the diggers been talking?”
“Not to anyone around here.”
“Are you sure?” he says, and of course
I’m not.
Parry gazes thoughtfully into the cup
of tea I have given him. Like Penrose, he’s a smart dresser, pin-striped suit,
collar and tie, but he’s no pen pushing Ministry man. If Penrose makes the
rules Parry enforces them. He is civil but never friendly, he speaks only to
ask questions or to say what must be done. When we speak he considers every
word in long brooding silences, his grey eyes constantly looking into ours.
This is a man who knows both the sound and look of a lie.
For now, his only concern is that the
information we are giving him is imprecise or insufficient, that we do not
remember all the things he says we should remember. He will make it easy for
us. There is a device he wants us to wear that records what people say. It’s
the size of a cigarette packet and fits into a band we are to wear around our
chests. We don’t even have to turn it on, it does that itself on hearing one of
six keywords. All we have to do is turn it off at the end of every
conversation and identify the person or persons we have been speaking to by the
occasional use of their name. There is also a form to fill in, a sort of diary
in which the time and place of each conversation is to be written.
I tell him I won’t do it. “This is
“Did you not read the small print?” He
looks angry and tells us there will be fines to pay, that we will be ruined and
have to sell the farm. And when I continue to protest he allows his jacket to
fall open so I can see the holster that’s strapped to his shoulder.
Dad’s looking more scared than I have
ever seen him and although I can’t see my face it’s probably much the same.
Parry’s expression has also changed, the anger is gone, replaced by a look of
cruel satisfaction; this is a man who is enjoying our fear and wants to prolong
it. He’s playing us along like a cat with a mouse. “We have stumbled on a
secret,” he says. “a secret that if it escapes will spread like a contagion.
Things have been said that should not have been said. Now is the time for
responsible authority to protect the people from themselves. The normal rules
no longer apply, innocence can not be presumed, it must be proven. Without
those prepared to listen and bear witness no one can be free.” Parry is not
only dangerous to know, he’s giving every impression of being one step away
from the asylum. This is not a man to get on the wrong side off; to make
matters worse he has the Government on his side.
We start our new work the next day. Dad
gets all stressed and, remembering he must clearly identify who he is talking
to, starts calling everyone by both their given and family names. On one
occasion he gets out the form he has been given and starts filling it in in
full sight of the person he’s been talking to. I take him home and come out by
myself in the evening to the Bull. If anyone knows more than they should about
the dig this is where I’m going to hear it. I pretend it’s my birthday and buy
everyone a round of drinks and a whisky chaser; if that doesn’t loosen a few
tongues nothing will. As I thought no one knows more than they have read in the
papers. Only one person has spoken to the diggers and that was to give
directions to the guy driving their mini-bus.
I go out the next day and the day after
that visiting most of the shops and talking to everyone I meet. It’s the same
story no one knows a darn thing and, what’s more, it’s yesterday’s news,
they couldn’t care less. Then I meet
Jones. Normally we don’t have much to say to each other but today he’s more
than ready to pass the time of day with me.
Have I heard anything about the dig? He
asks. This sounds like what I should be saying to him and when I say “no” and
he won’t let the subject drop I know he’s on the same mission as myself. He’s
even more nervous than I am which in its way is reassuring. For once we’re on
the same side and I need all the friends I can get. He walks towards the park
carrying a briefcase which, I’m guessing, contains his lunch. After a few
minutes, I follow him in and sure enough, he’s sitting on a bench eating a
sandwich. I stand on the grass in front of him and when he looks up and sees me
I put a finger to my lips. He nods and watches me take the listener out of the
band that’s around my chest. He does the same and puts it in his briefcase. He
holds it open so I can add mine to his. When I do he snaps it shut. But will that
be enough? I’m not too sure and neither is Jones; without any prompting from me, he takes the briefcase and pushes it into bushes a yard or two back from where
I was standing. When he returns to the bench he is breathing heavily, and
perspiring more than anyone should on a lukewarm September day.
“I take it you have had a visit from
friend Parry,” I say.
He replies in a voice that’s little
more than a whisper. “No friend of mine. The man’s a monster. He put a gun to
Copyright Richard Banks
TO SEE OR NOT TO SEE
By Peter Woodgate
I
woke up this morning in one of my “what the Hell am I doing here on this God
forsaken Earth,” moods.
I mention God but I am not really sure if
He, Her, Gender-neutral being, actually exists.
I
suppose that I am what’s known as an Agnostic (that’s rather a posh name for
someone who can’t make up their mind). I mean, I could actually call myself a
sales director as I try to sell all my rubbish at a boot fair. I could also
claim to be a chief accountant when I break open my piggy bank, count the
pennies and come to the conclusion that I am bankrupt.
Yes, there are lots of ego-boosting
titles in this world today with God being the supreme one.
This
is where I get confused when I look at the Ten Commandments we have been given
as our goal to perfection.
Take jealousy, for instance, It’s known
as a sin, but, these are His words not mine, “I am a jealous God and do not
want you Worshipping any other idol, like Boris Johnson or Donald Trump.”
Another is, “thou shalt not kill,” ever since our first ancestor took a chunk
out of the fruit of knowledge, mankind was doomed to the Adamantine fate, in
short, we all “pop our clogs.”
So, God, made Eve, knowing that she
would tempt poor Adam into doing something he didn’t ought. However, God also
gave us a free mind knowing that a Man would always be tempted by The Fairer
sex, well three out of four times so I have heard. Anyway, If I were a lawyer,
I would say that this outcome would be known to God and therefore could be
deemed as premeditated murder.
I, have been told, that we have been
made in his image, surely this means that God sins too.
A
bit like Boris, “one rule for some and one for the rest of us.
So, is it any wonder that I am unable to
make up my mind, and it is at times like this that I am reminded of the last
line of a poem by the famous Jewish poet Isaac Rosenberg.
“Oh, this miasma of a rotting God”
Confused, well so am I, especially when viewing the abundance of both beauty and horror that surrounds us each day.
It is enough to drive us insane, well me, anyway.
Copyright Peter Woodgate
By Janet Baldey
A coughing roar echoed through the trees and the myriad sounds of the forest ceased as nocturnal animals froze in mid scuttle. The tigress stepped into the clearing and stood motionless as the moonlight turned her into an etching. She roared again but there was no answering call. Frustrated, she twitched her tail. For the third season in a row, she had not mated and there was an ache deep in her loins. She lapped at the brackish water of the waterhole, turned and padded back into the dark, pulsating heart of the jungle.
***
Ashera Khan, Goddess of all tigers,
looked down as the serene, pot bellied moon floated over the inky vastness of
the land. She had kept watch for countless eons but never with such a feeling
of foreboding. She had seen the
persecution of her tribe and beheld their shrinking numbers. Now, there was a
greater threat. Her glowing orbs expanded until they encompassed the whole
world. She saw pillars of flame devouring great tracts of forest and countless
industrial landscapes pumping out noxious smoke. Glaciers groaned as they
toppled into seas, themselves choked by plastic. She heard the screaming of
countless beasts and she mourned. Anger
consumed her. She hated Man, that ugly, stunted creature with its crafty brain
and grasping hands. She knew it was only a matter of time before its greed
annihilated her breed but now the whole of the natural world was threatened. She sensed it was almost too late; the earth
was tired and more fragile than Man realised. Her talons extended, gleaming
like scimitars. She rose and felt the
stiffness in her bones. Another must bear the flame.
***
As the limousine slid through the rain-swept
streets, Cleeton sat, cushioned in leather, looking at the waterfall of paper
spiralling from the towering buildings. A grin expanded his lips.
“Holy shit, I’ve done it!”
Cleeton Powell, was on his way to take
the Oath of Allegiance to the most prestigious office in the world. He glanced at his companion, seated as
impassive as an oriental carving.
She had singled him out from the score
of Presidential hopefuls. Although not strictly handsome, his face was open and
honest and when he smiled the sun broke through the clouds. Most telling, he
had a voice both mellow and carrying.
When he spoke, people listened.
Having made her choice, she stalked him
and it wasn’t long before her sinuous figure and mane of hair caught his
attention. Soon, his eyes searched for
her and she knew he was hers.
Cleeton’s eyes lingered on
“My God. It’s that woman again. I see
her everywhere. Who is she?”
Ignoring his friend’s puzzlement, he’d weaved his way
towards her and when he looked into her tawny eyes, he realised his life had
changed.
As they grew closer, she never failed to amaze him with
her wisdom. With unerring insight, she guided him through the pitfalls of
public life. Her intuition was uncanny,
she instinctively knew who to cultivate and who to avoid.
“Arrange a
meeting” or “No, he’ll be trouble.”
Eventually, he’d just raise an eyebrow and she’d nod,
or shake, her head. In that way, he
swiftly climbed the ladder.
The first night they slept together was after he’d
been selected as the presidential nominee. Afterwards, as they lay staring into
darkness punctuated by flashing neon, she started to talk.
“You realise Cleeton, the world must change.”
Surprised, he shifted his head to look at her.
“To survive, mankind must be prepared to make great
sacrifices. Our planet’s resources are finite and can no longer sustain our
demands.”
“Sure,” he said. “I know that. We’re all becoming
uneasy about the increasing number of natural disasters. We can pull in our
belts a little and live off our fat for a while.”
“Pulling in our belts a little is not enough! For too long man has plundered the earth.
This must stop. Draconian measures are needed. People are selfish and greedy, cushioned by
soft living; they close their eyes to the catastrophe ahead. Think, Cleeton. Two
thirds of earth’s creatures will perish. No more tigers, no more elephants, no
more bears. And Man won’t escape. Melting ice caps will swell the oceans, some
countries will drown. Others will fry. There will be famine and billions will
perish. This will be the future. But you
can break the cycle. You have the power if you dare to be unpopular. Cleeton,
will you risk your career for the sake of the planet?”
She lowered her body until he felt the hard points of
her nipples pressing into his chest. For
the next hour, her breath brushed against his cheek as she whispered into his
ear outlining her plans. As he held her throbbing body close to his, he knew
that she was right; it was the only way.
After the inauguration, Cleeton was swept into a
maelstrom. It seemed the entire world clamoured for his attention. His days were crammed with meetings and in
the evenings he mingled with the glitterati. The constant attention was
suffocating but as the weeks passed, his old life faded. Soon, it seemed
natural that whenever he lifted a hand, a pen was placed within it and he grew
used to the fawning adulation of the grey suited young men who flitted about
him. Soon it seemed natural. He was
adored but he’d worked hard for it.
Now, he was so busy he barely remembered her. Whenever thoughts of her did creep into his
mind, he locked away the promise he’d made and turned the key. His advisors
would be appalled at her proposals. The populace would not countenance such
radical policies. She’d obviously misread the situation and over-reacted. Pessimism
had always been a barrier to progress. All too soon, he even forgot her name.
***
As she watched from her lofty pediment, Ashera Khan’s
anger grew. She growled the sound echoing like a thousand thunderclaps and her
breath sent a mass of clouds boiling across the skies. She thrashed her tail and tornadoes swept the
land. The fury in her eyes scorched towards the earth and the sea boiled,
shooting sulphurous, yellow tipped waves high into the air.
Although she well knew it was Man’s nature to be
devious, this man would send countless creatures to their doom. He must be punished. Again, she spoke to the wind and again her
words were swept across the land to where a lonely
“Cleeton’, she said.
‘I’m coming.”
***
The mystery of the President’s death was never
solved. His drained corpse was found,
with its throat torn out, lying on a blood-soaked tiger-skin rug, his lifeless
eyes staring into those of the long dead animal. The room was locked from the inside; there
were no fingerprints and DNA samples showed only matches belonging to the
President himself and those of a tiger, presumed by the experts to have come
from the rug on which he lay.
On the day of the funeral, the sidewalks were lined
four deep as the Presidential hearse rolled by. Heads bowed, people stood in silence under a
grey sky, matching the nations’ mood.
Hiram had driven hundreds of miles to witness the
spectacle. He turned towards his wife.
“Makes you proud, don’t it? Only the
His wife shivered as a thin wind funneled through the
cold stone towers of the skyscrapers and thought of her house, throbbing with
heat. She peered at her wristwatch wondering if they’d be home in time to watch
some TV. There was a new wildlife
program starting. She always liked those.
Copyright Janet Baldey
By Len Morgan
Aldor accompanied by a dozen experienced Tylywoch, could have travelled swiftly, unobserved, but that was not their current mission. They moved freely from one habitation to another, gathering intelligence in the guise of carnival entertainers. Each having acquired a multitude of skills in order to survive. They pay their way, bringing aid to struggling communities when needed while creating a carnival atmosphere. While passing on rumours and news gathered on their journey, to the community and freely dispersing their own propaganda. Aldor always found eager audiences at local inns, thirsting for news and stories told in his own inimitable style. His stories were both educative, informative, and gauged to win over the hearts and minds of the populace.
.-...-.
The journey from Sanctuary to the Eternal City took a month, but speed was not of the essence. So from a high vantage point, on the crest of the Parmenian hills his eyes traversed the central highway from his feet down to the gates of the famed city, still twenty miles distant. He gazed at the three green mushrooms sprouting from the center of the city and pinpointing the Emerald Palace. He smiled recalling a tale told by the Emperor himself, on a prior visit, explaining how those domes gained their unique colour.
The most striking features from outside the city are the domes, situated at the four corners of the building and the largest one central directly above the throne room. For the first few years they shone with metallic lustre in the sunlight, then the lacquer began to peel off and what was promised and paid for as gold was revealed to be brass when the weather began oxidising the metal.
Everyone then knew we had been cheated, but the architect had long since vanished without trace together with our gold. The domes have never been cleaned, maybe to remind the powers-that-be of an old folly, which was fortunate because in a short time, the bright emerald green made the palace look even more impressive than the gold domes ever had and it became known ever after, with pride, as the emerald palace. The colour was so striking it eclipsed its former gold countenance.
The highway was thirty yards wide constructed from blocks of fused granite magma. It ran as straight as a lance for a hundred and fifty miles. It was, he knew, a thousand times older than the city itself. Yet constant use by wagons, coaches, and carts, over eons had failed to leave a single mark on its crystalline surface which looked as if newly laid. Starting at the gates of the Emerald Palace, it stretched onward to end in a lake of turgid black fluid six miles in diameter. He had been told that torches dipped in the lake burned slowly giving off thick black smoke. The road was a testament to its builders, their ancestors, who had travelled to the stars in the dim distant past.
These thoughts were buried deep inside him hidden from, the probing minds of Orden and those beyond this world, known collectively as the Universal Network (UN).
Aldor knew men were short-lived creatures whose inventiveness and vitality were a direct result of their short lifespan. He knew also that there were machines and computers, located throughout Abbalar, all created by their ancestors, attesting to the levels men had achieved in the distant past. It would seem all that knowledge was now lost to mankind but, Aldor knew otherwise. There is a secret sect known as the 'Revisionists' who tend the machines, keeping them in good working order. Not only do they understand the technology of the past but, are involved in a training program to raise man to higher levels of ability.
The city itself was constructed of large basalt blocks raised one on top of another, with a thin external veneer of carved pink marble, built to a scale that dwarfed men. It was almost certain that the Karaxen had built the city, and it was their imminent return that made the elevation of man necessary. They were potentially superior to the Karaxen but, because the latter would awake from their long sleep with full knowledge of their own technology, man would need to be prepared to take the offensive. It was Aldor's responsibility to ensure that the Abalon's would be equipped to deal with them when the time came. But, he was aware that time was running out.
The Tylywoch would separate and enter the city in ones and twos. Aldor would proceed alone afoot. He would be seen as just one more hopeful
traveller, coming to the big city to seek his fortune. This was how he wanted to appear yet he never ceased to marvel at the symmetry of
the place. Entering by the Triumphal
Arch at the Eastern Gate, he climbed steep stone steps to the walkway along the
outer wall. Then, he crossed the
fifty-yard killing zone between the outer and inner walls, climbing to the
walkway around the inner wall, considerably higher than the first. He stood above the Arch and gazed along the
central highway towards the distant hills.
He appreciated its perfection, which was taken for granted by those who
used it, day in day out. He turned his
back on the hills and gazed along the same highway passing below him
terminating at the hub of the city, the
Only from here could he view the city as, an enormous, three-dimensional map. The city was in effect an enormous wheel laid flat on the ground, Avenues forming its spokes, 20 Roads joining them in ever decreasing circles as they closed in on the hub. The final circle formed the outer perimeter of the palace grounds. He viewed the populace, going about their business, like ants far below, busy and purposeful, totally oblivious to his presence. The palace so completely dominated the scene it was hard to believe it was created over aeons by two disparate races. Half turning, he looked down between the inner and outer walls a hundred feet below. Filled now with market stalls and street performers and at the corner of his eye the coloured disks used for starting foot, horse, and chariot races during the sporting season.
Fortunes were gambled, won and lost, on those balmy spring and summer days. As the season progressed the whole populace would line the race route in order to be part of the spectacle, committing it to memory, ready to retell for the asking. Thus, a series would never be forgotten, living endlessly through the minds and tales of those who bore witness. The only rule being you had to be there to tell it. As the storytellers grow older, the stories become embellished and coloured with sentiment until the protagonists became nine feet tall spitting fire and brimstone. Tellers of some past classic and infamous races were renowned for their fanciful versions, and much sought after. The season was over now, but the bars and taverns would be awash with storytellers all eager to make a name for themselves. Aldor could always command an audience anywhere, and raise funds for charity, with his seemingly inexhaustible repertoire of tales. During the ten years, he had lived in Cheilin, he had listened to assimilated and retold hundreds of stories told and enjoyed by the peoples of this land. He had also told and retold others of his own and those gleaned from passing travellers.
He'd told stories in all the major cities of the empire and every town and hamlet. He observed the cities were all built on a similar design based on the wheel motif. The Empire itself was unique. Laid out in a circle, like a clock, the Eternal City at its center and all the clan cities surrounding it like the numbers on a clock dial the 1st Clan at one o'clock, and the others in numerical sequence around the hub of the Emerald City.
His mind returned to reality with a rush. He’d briefly glanced at a female in the crowd, espied her carriage, her mannerism, and bearing All of which brought Jazim to mind. If she is here he thought she will be up to no good.
‘You don’t know if it’s her, Sprout. Bedelacq has others, many of them, she is not by any means unique’ Orden’s voice warned. 'Follow her… at a distance and discover where she is lodging.’
He identified the woman, dressed distinctively
in green and gold, a full-length voluminous free-flowing garment with a wrap
over her head that partially masked her face, in the desert fashion. He cast his mind out and down to where she
stood holding a globe before a street vendor. But,
there were too many people about and the wider he spread his mind net the more
babble he picked out from shoppers and sellers in the market
place. He had to get closer to
her. He took the stairs, two at a time, whilst attempting to refine his reception. When he eventually reached the stall, he realised the man was a herbalist selling herbs and potions, but she had already moved on.
“Where did that young woman go?” he asked the herbalist.
He was answered by a blank uncomprehending stare. "Which woman?"
Though he had made his mind up not to intrude on the privacy of other's mind unless, in dire circumstances, he judged the situation indeed to be dire. He entered the man’s mind, intending to be
in and out before his presence was noticed.
All he wanted to know, after all, was the direction she had taken. He acted without subtlety, even so, he saw
immediately it had not been Jazim but somebody bearing a passing
resemblance. He felt guilty and tried
to leave the man’s mind immediately, but found himself unable to do so, he
realised with surprise, and some annoyance, he was caught in a mental cage. He had been told of such oddities by Orden
but had never expected to encounter one.
He had entered freely without hesitation and now he was trapped.
He watched through the man’s eyes as his
mindless shell of a body was led away by the same young woman and ironically, not for the first time, he was ushered into the back of a covered wagon.
‘Interesting, he
thought, what say you Orden?’ But for the first time in an age his friend
and mentor was silent. It was then he
realised he was totally alone. His
connection with the man’s senses had slowly and systematically been severed;
until all that was left to him was darkness.
How long he remained in that state he had no idea. He had been deprived of the means of gauging
the passage of time. He had become a
passenger in the mind of an elderly man, not in the best of health, who cared
more for money than for his country.
Bydrex was his chosen name. Aldor cast around; finding nothing then cast his
mind back to a time when he had entered the mind of his friend Skaa in order to
rescue him from himself. Skaa had
constructed an elaborate reality, in his own mind, the world of his youth; a
world that no longer existed if indeed it ever had. It was a world where he had once been happy
and felt secure. Aldor’s own childhood
had been more restrictive and regimented.
Security had been the key issue. His training had always been focused on survival.
His happiest times had been around the short period he had spent in the company of his friends Genna and Wizomi. Then, perhaps his time with Orden, whose cave dwelling in the mountains had provided so many opportunities to learn new skills and develop as a person. But all too soon it had ended in his conversion. Through it all, he retained his personality and the natural abilities he had been born with. He was a natural and enthusiastic storyteller. During his rest periods at Orden’s cave, he had escaped, in dreams, into the 'UN' where he was able to visit others enhancing and augmenting the lessons they and Orden taught him. He thought now of the people he had met and the things he had done out there amongst the stars. He revisited lessons he had learned and discussions he'd had, and discoveries he'd made. He knew there was yet more to be learned from his current situation. The knowledge that seemed unimportant in the past now seemed to have a whole new meaning. Realising, there was nothing in life that was unimportant or truly lacking in value. If he could not see this, it simply meant he had failed to grasp its worth at the time. The most trivial and mundane activity could have been adding a new meaning to his life, yet much of it had passed him by, because of his obsession with the big picture. Aldor began reviewing his life, reappraising...
So from memory, he selected a small insubstantial flower, the forget-me-not, which embodied all of life’s mysteries, condensing them into a simple philosophy ‘the will to survive’, he took it to heart. The tiny plant lived and thrived, changing its appearance when necessary, through time. Unnoticed yet always displaying beauty; in spite of everything the world could throw at it always staying true to form. This thought brought him finally to view his enforced imprisonment dispassionately...
(To be Continued)
Copyright
Len Morgan
By Rosemary Clarke
I want people to hug
I don't want them near me.
Want a room full of people
Want so much silence.
I want to live
Yet I think of death.
Want the sweetness of a grave
Yet bursting to break the surface.
Want to alter things
Yet can't move a muscle.
Want out of this Hell
Yet it's still with me.
Want the memories out of my head
But they won't go.
Copyright
Rosemary Clarke
THE RUNES ~ Episode 1
by Richard Banks
Of
all the disasters that can befall a farmer drought is the worse, for with the
drought come the men who dig for what used to be, the forgotten things that
would stay that way but for the marks on the parched ground that give them
away.
The museum men are the worse, trespass
means nothing to them that know the law and their so called rights. No telling
them to keep to the footpath when they have their papers from the court. Best
to be friendly, keep them sweet. “Anything of interest?” they say and we tell
them about something we noticed that’s well clear of whatever it is we think
them more likely to be interested in. Usually, it works and they go away and don’t
come back for a year, two if we’re lucky, but there’s no hiding what used to be
below water, and during the longest drought in over a hundred years, it slowly
showed itself in what was once the millpond.
Great-granddad Gedds was the last to
see it when he was a boy and the mill was not yet the ruin it became. His stories
concerning it were given little credence outside the family, and as he got older
there can be no denying that they owed more to imagination than memory. Nevertheless
from what he said both dad and grand-dad were convinced that the ‘fabled’
object not only existed but that it was a gravestone, and as the water receded
it seemed they had been proved right. I mean it wasn’t like the sort of
gravestone you see in a churchyard, no finely chiseled slab or cross of stone,
but stone it was, a large oblong stump, three sides rough-hewed with the fourth
smooth, the all of it green stained but strangely free of moss.
Great-grandad had also spoken of
writing and in this, he was also proved right for on the smooth side there were
letters; strange symbols that no one knew or understood. Even after we took a
brush to it we were none the wiser even though each symbol was now as clear as
the day it was carved. Grandma said it was to do with the old religion while
Dad, who knew a bit of history believed the stone went back in time to the East
Saxons who gave
It was a discovery that would be of
much interest to the museum men, but were we to tell them? The harvest was only
two weeks away, and although it mattered little to us what they did in the pond
they would need a broad way through our fields for the cars and trucks that
brought the equipment they’d be needing. “Best to keep quiet,” said Dad until
the corn is in. Tell them after that if it stays dry, and if it doesn’t if the
pond fills up with rain, then why say anything at all. It was a sound plan to
which we all agreed, but secrets are hard to keep especially when you’re seven
years old, and my youngest, Will, spilled the beans at school in the hearing of
his teacher.
Next afternoon Jones from the museum
arrives, with a museum woman and a Professor Henderson from the Natural History
Museum. No stopping them now and with rain forecast for the following week, they’re
in no mood to let us first go to harvest. What the writing says no one knows
but the Professor’s sure that they’re runes, the written language of the Danes
who conquered these parts, and much else before King Alfred beat them back.
Some of it he can read but most he can’t because these runes are the oddest he
has ever seen. But of one thing he’s almost sure, the stone is a gravestone and
beneath it a body, or what is left of one.
The next morning we get a copy of the
court order that gives them their right to dig, and a man from the council
promises us we will get compensation although how much and when he doesn’t
know. He’s no sooner away than the first trucks arrive bringing pumps to drain
the pond of the remaining water. They come off the nearest road and cross both
our fields. This is now their highway that gets steadily wider until councilmen bang in metal posts that make a boundary. To make matters worse we’re on
national TV and hundreds of sightseers turn up, trespassing on our land in the
hope of seeing the stone which to their disappointment, but not mine, is soon
lifted and taken to lord knows where for lord knows what.
What’s happening in the pond now is the
slow picking away of mud to reveal what lies beneath. A policeman arrives, and
the reporters and sightseers finding the diggers less than entertaining leave
them to it. By the time it gets interesting again the only one there apart from
the diggers is me. What comes into view is the biggest skeleton that anyone has
ever seen or is likely to see. When
someone takes a tape measure to it he counts seven feet and eight inches from
head to foot, thick white bones glistening in the sunlight, as perfect in death
as they had been in life.
“Superman,” I hear someone say. “Man?”
says another voice, “twenty-four toes and fingers, are you sure?” The truth is
no one is. All they know is that this is something special, something they’ve
never seen before, possibly the most
important archaeological discovery of all time. They have struck gold and the
sooner they can get their treasure to a safe place the better. By evening all
the bones are lifted and on their way to
“When can I harvest what’s left of the
corn?” I ask Penrose. He’s a Ministry man from
“Nevertheless,” he says, “we appreciate
your discretion, at this stage the less said the better.” He hands me an
envelope addressed to myself; inside there is a cheque, my compensation money,
more than I was expecting. “There will, of course, be conditions, papers to
sign but for now all you need to remember is that you never saw the skeleton,
it doesn’t exist. If it does we will say so, you will not. Money given can also
be taken back and more besides, but if that is to be avoided who knows you may
get more.” His severe expression gives way to a smile and he asks if there are
any decent restaurants nearby. I tell him The Plough is best and he goes off
for his lunch. I’m off home, to Dad who knows what I saw and, like me, has told
no one else.
Next week the rain arrives, the pond
starts filling up and the dig is abandoned until the Spring. Penrose returns with a sheet of typescript
listing all the things I’m not allowed to do or say. At this point, I come clean
that Dad knows what I know, but like me has said nothing and will abide by
whatever we agree. This is the last thing Penrose wants to hear, he’s clearly
rattled although he tries not to show it. He says I could be sued for breach of
faith, but I talk him round saying that although Dad’s eighty-two and retired he still owns the farm and that we co-sign all papers concerning it. Penrose
asks to see him and, although he continues frosty for a while, agrees to
include Dad in the agreement he has brought. He changes each ‘I’ to ‘we’ and
reads it to us from top to bottom, which doesn’t take long, it being only four
paragraphs long. We are, if asked, to deny all knowledge of the skeleton and in
exchange for our co-operation, we will receive an annual payment matching what
we have already received. “However,” he says, “be warned, break the agreement
and there will be a fine, more than you can pay.” We sign, money for old rope.
He leaves, all smiles, saying that a
colleague will look in on us from time to time. Any problems we are to let him
know. “Oh yes,” he says as he walks towards his car, “I nearly forgot, there’ll
be no more digging, you can get back to work.”
And so life returns to normal, better than normal, there’s more money in the bank than we have ever had after harvest, and there’s more to come. Farming’s never been this good, or this easy, even if we just sit on the land and do nothing we’re still in the black. Then Parry calls and life’s not as good as we thought.
[To be continued]
Copyright Richard Banks
By Rosemary Clarke
The
only hobby I really enjoy is writing. Even when I was at work I would be
working on screenplays, stories, etc while munching on a sandwich in my lunch
hour. On trains and buses, I regularly write and look for characters,
which on a long journey is a very interesting thing to do; imagine seeing the
person opposite you not as an everyday traveler but a spy with their collar
turned up and deep into a book, or someone with a pile of papers on their
briefcase could be an embezzler out to bring down one of the banks and
truthfully we don't know who anyone is.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle brought Holmes to life after
being astounded by the methods of his tutor Dr. Bell who solved puzzles in
medicine and taught his students to do the same.
I read a lot as well to see how other writers
phrase their work. David Peace believes that crime should not be
entertaining and so he concentrates mainly on the families and others who are
left; what it feels like to go onto that police podium facing the press for
both the family and the police.
Michael
Marshall Smith likes to lull people by soft words and ordinary places
then...BAM! then there's the mischief of Jasper Fforde who loves to play
with the classics with Miss Haversham carrying an Uzi machine gun and loving
fast cars, a detective called Thursday Next, and in one book bears using humans
as drug mules for the illegal substance....porridge!
But the one I shall always admire, I call him The
Master, is Robert Bloch. This unassuming
American writer could take a place or a description of something and paint such
amazing pictures with his words: read the REAL Psycho if you dare!
Copyright
Rosemary Clarke
Jane Scoggins
The year is 1645 and King
Charles I is on the throne of
Copyright
Jane Scoggins
Carole Blackburn
The brightening world looked on with
slitted eyes. Helgason finished his
feast of berries he had collected along his route. Perched on the rockpile, he
frowned at the Rune circle. The carved stones somewhat worn, that encircled
him. There were times, he would have been crouching down in his usual hiding
place. Here he would have observed the Elders. Mattis, Sigrid, and Junis, the Statesmen
as the youngsters named them, who had been elected by the community.
Often at home Helgason, would lay near
the hearth, at the end of the day only to hear his father say, “The telling of
the Runes,” is a secret meeting of great importance,” in an attempt to silence
his son’s curiosity.
These attempts of his father, failed once
and for all, after he first saw Astrid, at the annual community assembly, at
the coming of the harvest moon. The gathering for the Norse god Frigg, who was
a paragon of love, fertility, and fate. He decided then and there, he needed to
find out more about his future with her.
When the days dissolved into nights, and
the darkening stretched into the colder season. And the ‘telling of the Runes’
were due to commence. Helgason trekked along the craggy path and hid behind the
thorny shrubbery on the very edge of the forest glade, but still in earshot of
the three elderly Statesmen. These became regular outings for Helgason and were
to become his education into manhood.
Helgason trusted the wisdom of the Runes. They protected his kind; the runes’ knowledge had guided life for centuries. His ancestors would never have disputed their decisions. Just as the mountain air filled his lungs, the Runes had imbued him with their secret powers, casting no shadows within him.
With winter creeping across the
wilderness of his homeland of Noreg (
Astrid’s gentle but stubborn streak
flowed within her. Becoming a woman and battling with her older sisters, Erika
and Ingrid’s growing demands, to find their individuality. Together with their
father’s attention since their mother’s death, challenged them all.
None more so than, Astrid.
Trouble had laid ahead for this family,
the fourth baby had not been planned and the Runes had foreseen this. Mattis
had warned the family, to be prepared. The outcome, left Astrid distraught knowing
her mother’s arms would never cradle her, again.
It was usual for the sunrise to warm and
melt the grey dark mood that hung in Astrid’s mind of what her future may
become. However, today her greying mood clung to her like the fog that shrouded
the morning ground. It had been her chore to forage for firewood for the cooking
of the main meal. Her courage to cope made her adept in her life to carry on to
the best of her ability. In whatever way, she appeared, to the outside world. However,
she was brightened by a chance meeting with Helgason that day. He had spied her
wandering, seemingly lost.
Now, they sat on the rockpile, huddled
against the howling wind, after all of the three statesmen had left the Rune
circle. They had heard them translate the Runes which foretold the young adults
their future. It was settled. Sorted. They were to be wed.
Astrid was not so sure and asked, “My
situation will bring its own future, can we manage it alone, Helgason?”
His thoughts swirled around eclipsing the
truth.
It would be fine, ‘the telling of the
runes’, have spoken. He thought.
He would find a way.
Hiding
from the truth, was a way Helgason tried to regulate difficulties in his life.
Glancing down at his hands, which had been
scarred forever. That day’s event came flooding back. The scalding water had seeped
into his skin when trying to help his mother in the kitchen. The disfigurement was often hidden by mittens even on the hottest of days. This everyday reminder of
his now, damaged, previously carefree boyhood days. At times, this memory,
caught him unaware, just like his feelings for Astrid.
The Norwegian way of life is to be
prepared. Mother nature guides and watches the planet’s custodians. With the
intent of nurturing one generation to the next. The runes carved into the
circle of stones, arranged over time to remain, like a torch, forever.
Life’s route with its twists and turns
had bought Helgason to a crossroads on this eve meet, with Astrid. In a
familiar spot, they had chosen after the community assembly for the god Frigg,
just a few months past. Now, not long to wait.
The day became night, with a patchwork of
clouds in hues of grey, gathered. Astrid walked hand in hand with her sister,
Erika, who guided her younger sister. Now, essential in the dimming light and
the threatening rain,
Helgason’s figure silhouetted the
skyline, in the last edge of daylight before the night took over. He turned on
hearing footsteps, but only one pair he could hear now. Concern raised in his
chest, forcing his focus on the sound of the footsteps. He could see Astrid was
alone, her hands outstretched feeling the night air for danger.
Erika, had with reluctant feet returned
home, for her job was now done. The birth of her youngest sister, the unseen
baby in her mother’s womb. Hiding a challenge not foretold.
The runes belong to the gods and their
reasoning of altered lives are kept from the planet’s custodians.
Astrid sensing Helgason, her eyes that had
never focused, never seen. Hands that grasped the darkness as he took her hand
into their new life.
The planet’s past is part of our changing
world. It will continue to stride forward promoting its custodians, into
finding a way.
Copyright Carole Blackburn
By Carole Blackburn
Grabbing the armrest and my father’s hand with my other clammy palm,
the Boeing 747 bumped along the runway at
“We have had, a wonderful life, haven’t we, Jacinda? And it will
return, my love.” Dad was forever the calm in my storm.
Stepping back, into the wider world, had been an unexpected treat. At
first, Dad had been reluctant, due to the limited travel time on the tickets
and the unpredictable weather of our destination.
“The
I knew this lucky treat, we
deserved.
Gathering our belongings from the overhead locker, we followed the
procession of tourists to the Arrivals terminal. It opened into a
vast honeycomb canopy that surrounded me with unfamiliar sights and sounds.
However, I found myself with my familiar accomplice which permeated ripples of rapid
firing into my chest that knew, no ceasefire. A familiar sensation, that tested
my control once again.
Jacinda, breathe, breathe, I thought.
In the airport terminal, we absorbed the atmosphere. Whilst strolling,
we located the exit and flowed with our fellow travelers towards the gliding,
sliding doors. The warmth bellowed in, as I spied the line of taxis. We rippled
out into the late haze. The anticipation flowed from the face of our
cabbie-to-be. He beckoned us to his cab, which took us into the bustle of New
Provence island.
The 4-star hotel with its sleek walls lined with doors, which would
open into awaiting rooms of untold promises for those seeking paradise.
Following the directions given, Dad and I trundled until our door number 103,
smiled back at us. On entering, my eyes conducted a tour around, only then did
they judder, as the sea view which came into focus through the French doors. My
vision hypnotized, paralyzing me for a moment in a welcomed stance of relief.
We had made it, safely.
Within the hour, my suitcase emptied, and with the lighter feel of
cotton floating over my body and my feet freed, which were able to breathe
again. I could then shake Dad from his catnap. Waiting as he stirred, I peered
through the Sun-drenched gossamer window drapes as they fluttered, as paradise
awaited.
Stepping outside, I blinked at the jeweled azure waves that danced in
the distance. Daring me to take its invite. I accepted. Dad stretching out
lounging with pride, again watching his only daughter, now happy once more.
1
That evening, bought a relief of a cooling breeze to my sun-kissed
shoulders. Glancing at Dad, the atmosphere wound its self around me like a
seductive pashmina. The hapless band with their
Ted’s stubby, pincher, digits had picked out the last raffle ticket
for the evening and with his tannoy-like voice.
“Pink ticket number 3-6-7, pink ticket 367,” while scanning around the
seated audience. My eyes popped and nudged Dad to look down at the winning
first prize ticket in my hand.
Only four months later, with that prize unfolding now, the ripples of
the sea tickled the shoreline. I languished, as it instilled me into a troubled
slumber.
On that late afternoon, Mum had
grabbed her car keys, happy just to run an errand for me.
“No worries love, I have time to pop into town, before my Bingo. It
won’t take long”
How true.
Her kindness, until her end, cradles me, still.
The only certainty in all our lives is that it will end one day. The
‘’how and when’ hangs, like the sword of Damocles. It accompanies us, always.
Now my morning, sprung into life as the beachwear clad bodies began to
litter the loungers. We ventured out. The sand shifted beneath my naked feet,
whilst my glittery flip flops entwined in my fingers like jewels. Dad in his
comfy prone position having the full attention of one of the waiters lasted,
but a few hours. The sweltering midday sun in
“You don’t mind, Jacinda, do you? love.”
“No worries, Dad I will soak up the Sun, a little longer,”
Drifting in and out of my thoughts. Alone again …I must do this. I turned
and watched him shuffle back inside.
The afternoon heat faded into balminess with the sea blending with the
cloudless sky, veiled me with its tranquillity. I needed to turn over like a
spit roast, in doing that, I noticed the beach fringed parasols were swaying
like dancers in time to the wind. I reached for my beach top as the sand began
to cloak me like a shroud.
The ease of the afternoon quickened its pace, as others around me
scooped up their belongings. Hastened by the agitated, angered waves. Seemingly,
reacting to the loss of its
2
The Palm trees and the clumps of surrounding grasses twisted and
turned in support to the reactive turmoil of the waves. Every step I
endeavoured towards my shelter; Nature’s tidal tyrant smacked me with its
forceful attitude. Our French doors slammed behind me, I was safe, again.
I continued to witness others
deserting this haven, who scuttled to safety. My focus fixed on an older couple
hand in hand, but torn apart and then discarded like empty seashells that had once
bedecked Landgrove cove, such unnecessary cruelty.
Frenzied panic mounted, as it surged my mind to find a release. My
eyes widened to this apocalyptic vision; the heaviness of a parked trunk doing
a ‘roly-poly ‘like the ease of a floating feather twirling in a warm breeze.
The cacophony that orchestrated with the lashing, whipped destruction of this
paradise, rendered me helpless. I freeze-framed in the pandemonium of hurricane
Cecilia.
A moment of stillness, human voices cut in. Their panic vocalised with
screeching at this catastrophe, to halt. Desiring to be awoken, to resume with
their normality in
However, it engaged me back to my pink ticket, that had bought me
here, which laid crumpled in the bottom of my flight bag.
The Pink ticket bought clarity to my mind, “Storms if you allow them Jacinda,
they will always rage within you.”
Earlier, Dad had stirred into the world and had shuffled to the opened
doors. Only noticing the calm before the impending storm, he closed them. Now being shaken into the world of violence that threw him against those same doors,
splintering his head.
My world shrunk.
Outside, the palms bent and gyrated to the aggression and screams of
Cecilia beating without care on those who succumbed to her terror.
Cecilia’s purpose was to make her presence felt. Her destructive
journey had collided with mine. Both unexpected to this paradise. I mourned, as
the world beyond continued to cartwheel out of control.
The only certainty in life drew me closer.
Copyright Carole Blackburn