September Memories

By Carol Blackburn

 I have tiptoed across the harvest fields,

A track is cut, by so many that heeled,

Their way was direct, to shorten the trips

It may be because of, dodgy hips.

But out and about in pastures, once green.

A delight of scent and all that’s seen.

Freedom moments, that are stolen

catapulting into motion.

Now.

Memories of our devotion

Of another Indian Summer.

Not diluting its feel

In Autumn, is such a thrill!

As the dusk descends across our backs

And takes heed of all who went and tracked.

Across the harvest fields, I would tiptoe

For the scent and sight of the green,

Now mown.

 

Copyright  Carole Blackburn ~  September 2021

Cheilin Saga ~ 28

 Cheilin Saga ~ 28 Dan the Charmed

By Len Morgan

Efelel sat in Mawld’s mind and witnessed the struggle on the rooftops.   She intervened to gain him an advantage.   She was shocked by the speed and the violence of her expulsion from Aldor’s mind.  Confused, and in a daze, she lost contact with Mawld. 

.-…-. 

Daidan stood up in the carriage and waved, to the crowds en route, encouraged by the warm reception he was receiving.

“I don’t think you should be doing that, light of the world,” said the young woman sitting beside him.   He could not imagine why Aldor wanted her there so close to him.   She seemed such an intensely serious young woman it didn’t even occur to him to ask why she thought she could give orders to the Emperor of Cheilin.

“You worry too much” he chuckled, ‘can’t see what Aldor sees in you’  he thought.   “What is your name?”

“Emmiline,” she replied.

“I’m told you are one of Aldor’s friends from Samishaan?”

“That is where I met him,” she said sighing with relief as he returned to his seat.

“There is nobody out there trying to kill me, listen to them, they love me.”   He shook his head, “It’s all scaremongering, to justify Aldor’s’ position.”

“I certainly hope you are right but…”

“Yes?   Don’t hesitate, my dear, you were about to say something pertinent?”

“Did you know there have already been five thwarted attempts on your life this morning?”

Dan giggled, “We're almost there,” he said but stayed firmly in his seat from then on.

“So which particular threat are you here to protect me from?” he asked.

“I am just a contingency,” she said smiling sweetly.

Forgive me for saying this but you don’t look much like a contingency.”

“How then do I look?” she asked.

“More like somebody my sons would like to know.”

She glanced towards his sons, one with eyes for Zophira only; the two younger boys averted their gaze, furtively, as her eyes fell upon them.   She smiled inwardly.

“Don’t need to be a mind reader to know what’s on their minds” he said.

She blushed, ‘touché’ he thought triumphantly; at last a human response from her.

“They will get over it” she said.

He looked again, disappointed; mayhap he had imagined the blush?

She smiled inwardly and spoke aloud, “touché light of the world!”

“I like you,” he chuckled, “call me Dan.”

.-…-. 

   The confusing scaffold structure, of the reviewing stand, loomed ahead.   It seemed different with hundreds of people milling around.   Major Meredin looked up with true appreciation of the effort and skill that had gone into its erection.    The gaffer had informed him that several men would be posted aloft in case final adjustments were required.   Halfway up he spotted two sun browned men sitting patiently in the basket like construction.   They sat perfectly still, so as not to draw attention to themselves.   But, a movement deeper within the structure drew his attention; a pale skinned figure eased forward from the rear.

Sergeant, take a look at those riggers,” he said.

“Sir” he took a folding glass from his belt and planted it against his left eye.

“Does anything strike you as odd?” Meredin asked.

“They seem very still, one even has his eyes closed, he heh!    That’ll cost him, he just dropped his hammer.”

Meredin turned and grabbed the spyglass, “they’re dead,” he said quietly.   “They have been carefully posed.”   As he looked he saw further movement, the pale figure had moved in closer, behind the two riggers.   “There’s somebody up there, waiting, we need a Bowman, It’s too long a shot for one of those,” he said pointing at the bo’stad on the sergeant’s arm.

The sergeant’s face wrinkled in a pained expression.   “In close quarter situations like this it’s a waste of time attempting to use a bow, so we didn’t bring a single one,” he said.  

“Somebody has to get up there, try to slow the parade down and pass the word, I’ll see what I can do” he said heading towards the structure.

Emmiline spotted the commotion and scanned the sergeant’s mind as he raced back towards the entourage.

.-…-. 

   Aldor witnessed the look of amazement on Mawlds face as he clasped at the quarrel projecting from his chest.

“Why did you play it out so long?   You knew me right off,” he said accusingly.

“I thought perhaps he might give away some useful information?”   Sloan was already looking to his friend Dragor.   “I did not want to kill the man in cold blood; that would have made me no better than him.   I had to cool down and act as an instrument of the law, not as an out of control maniac.   If I allowed myself to act thus I would be no better than those I have condemned and hunted down over the years.”

Aldor had stood over the dying man and scanned his mind which had been left open, almost as an act of confession, revealing all his past misdeeds.   In moments he had discovered a man not so different from himself, but for the accident of birth they could have been brothers.   He learned the details of his childhood, his rise to the heights, his downfall and ultimate enslavement.   He realised Mawld had been driven and acted as directed by Bedelacq, not as the man he had been.   He felt anger and humiliation at the manner in which the creature was misusing mankind.

“Why do you shed tears, for that?” Sloan had been watching Aldor as he knelt over the dead assassin.

“He was a man, and he was gravely misused, but I will avenge him and all like him.”   ‘Bedelacq will not win!’ Aldor vowed.

“That’s conjecture, you don’t know that for sure, you are just guessing” said Sloan his voice cold and empty, but his eyes revealed the truth, without entering his mind Aldor realised that he had guessed something of the truth.

“We need a longbow,” said Aldor dismissing it, and becoming suddenly animated, all he could find were short range weapons discarded by the assassins.   He looked up at the stand, in frustration as he saw movement.

“Why” asked Sloan.

“There are two dead riggers up there and an assassin lying in wait” said Aldor with certainty.

“Then we need to get closer,” Sloan grabbed the nearest bo’stad and a quiver.   They headed along the rooftops towards the stand.   “Do you have anybody closer?   I don’t think were going to get there in time.”

“There should be a man at the top” said Aldor, scanning for the distinctive mind.   A man came to the edge Sloan waved, to attract his attention, and pointed down.

Aldor knew immediately he was not Tylywoch and that the person below was; possibly their only chance.

“He’s not one of ours,” Aldor said, too late to stop Sloan.

 

(to be Continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

Return to Southend 2

 Return to Southend

By Janet Baldey

It was after I got back from the hospital that I decided the time was right. Strange that when the grim reaper is breathing down your neck, your thoughts return to the place you were born. Maybe in some, it’s just an urge to reminisce but I have another reason and if I don’t go now, I never will and that would be like denying the past, akin to spitting on my parents’ graves.  From deep inside the dark recesses of my mind a thought occurs, a tired old cliché now but still powerful - a murderer always returns to the scene of his crime.

So next day, I bought a return ticket and walking back home, I thought about my parents. They weren’t bad people, they did their best, they were just the product of their age. Hardworking, repressed and terrified of what the neighbours would say.  It must have been hard on them having a son like me.

Sandridge was a tiny village, not more than a smudge on the map and I never really understood its purpose. It had a village shop, a post office and a slaughterhouse all lining a narrow road that ran from St Albans to Harpenden.  After that nothing much, the houses were mostly council, apart from a few small cottages, there was a tiny village school and an overgrown recreation park, known as ‘The Rec” and that was about all really.  Strange, that whenever I think about Sandridge it seems to be raining, but then it was in the dim and dreary fifties.  

 I know I never thought much of the village when I was young but I only really remember my teenage years and teenagers are well known for being anti.  I expect the place has been gentrified now.  Ex-council houses are worth a gold mine and I do remember ours had plenty of space, not like the boxes they call ‘new-builds’ these days.  Now, I’ve got the bit between my teeth now and my mind is ranging further, memories are crawling out of the shadows and pictures are forming. Suddenly, it’s there! So real, I feel I can touch it.  The church - St Leonards. I’d honestly forgotten it, almost as if I’d blocked it from my mind. The place where my childhood ended and trust trampled into the dust.  I flick a switch and think of happier things, my cat and bread pudding.  I’ll have some of that tonight, I feel the need for comfort food.

A few days later, as I sit in the train slicing its way towards London, the underground and all points beyond, I’m nervous and the old saying ‘never go back’ is tolling deep inside me.  But I know I have to. Having opened the box, I have to expiate my sin, although it wasn’t really my fault. Even as I think these words, I know I’m deluding myself. I could have done more.

Trains go so fast these days; outside its windows the flat Essex countryside is a blur and in no time, we are pulling into Fenchurch Street.  Even so, we’re edging towards Christmas and it’ll be dark before I reach St Albans. I’ll spend the night there and catch the bus to Sandridge the next morning.  The green, round-shouldered 321 it used to be and I wonder if it still runs.  If not, I’ll get a taxi. I’ve got plenty of money now and little time to spend it.

I was right about the gentrification, St Albans is posh now although it never used to be.  But I don’t care. I’m tired and can think only of food and a comfortable bed.  Not wanting to walk anymore I plump for a hotel slap bang in the middle of the city, within sight of the Cathedral. The White Hart, an old coaching inn, is full of ghosts and even as I’m led up a creaking and narrow staircase, I pass through a room with a minstrel’s gallery peopled by skeletons.

Ghosts or not, I sleep well and breakfast even better and in no time at all I’m at the ‘bus stop.  I remember it well and apart from the bus no longer being green and round-shouldered, but angular and flashy with chrome, nothing else seems to have changed. It’s when I get off the bus and start to walk through the village that I feel my spirits drop and I’m a scared kid again who can’t stop washing his hands.  Even though, there’s no-one around, I feel the need to look over my shoulder and almost scurry down the road to the lane where I used to live. Except that it isn’t a lane any more, but a four-lane highway with a roundabout where the village shop used to be.

 As I thought, the council houses are now privately owned with an abundance of acne-like extensions.  Their front gardens have been expensively paved over and are littered with cars.  Freshly waxed and polished the sun bounces off them until I fear a migraine.

 When I reach my old house it’s almost unrecognisable.  I locate the room that used to be mine and stand staring.  Beyond those blank windows, a frightened boy once thought of suicide. I still have the scars to remind me but only a few have seen them, underneath my trousers, high up on my thighs raised tissue writhes like bleached tree roots. 

I tried to tell my parents but they didn’t listen.  “What nonsense, of course you must go.  It’s very kind of the Reverend to spare you the time, and what he says is right. If you have talent, it shouldn’t be wasted.”

I’d stood and stared at my mother.  How could I tell her that it was nothing to do with talent and that I hated the way the he sat too close, the way his breath smelled of onions and most of all, the touch of his hands as he guided my fingers.  My mouth opened but it was impossible. I just couldn’t find the words.

So, on that fateful evening I’d dragged my feet along the lane to where two huge oaks guarded the entrance to the gloomy tunnel leading to the rectory. Now, how I wish I’d had the guts to say “No, I won’t go to that place. Something isn’t right but I don’t know what.” But I was twelve years old and, in those days, children did as they were told.

In the end I did find some courage but too late.  “Shove up boy,” he’d cried, his face merry, as my fingers faltered over the keys. “Let me show you how it’s done.” Pulling up an extra stool he sat down beside me and soon his thigh was pressing against mine. I tried my best to ignore it but at last something snapped. “No” I yelled and pulling away, I jumped up and rushed towards the door. He cried out something but blood was clogging my ears as I fled into the night where more treachery was waiting.  My feet skidded on a patch of ice and caught off balance, I fell flat on my back. He caught up with me but I pushed him away.  I shall always remember the sickening sound as his head struck the concrete step. I stared at his crumpled shape and saw his face, lit by moonlight and so pale, apart from the black trickle of blood curling over his forehead.  I thought my heart would burst out of my chest. I’d killed Reverend Apthorpe.  I was a murderer.

I don’t remember much after that, I remember the nightmares, they have stayed with me to this very day, and I remember the cutting.  I know, at some point, I was admitted to the local looney bin, as we used to call Hill End Hospital but details of that I can’t recall.  By the time I was discharged, my parents had moved to St Albans. “To be nearer to Gran” my mother said but I suspect she was escaping the stigma of a son with mental problems.  I never went back to Sandridge and none of us ever mentioned Reverend Apthorpe again.  Long afterwards, I wondered how much my parents had learned as I lay raving but at the time, I said nothing. I didn’t want to go to prison.

But go to prison I did ‘cos I couldn’t escape my guilt.  It weighed me down at every step, draining my confidence so that I never achieved my potential. I also never managed to find a partner, because It’s true what they say, if you can’t love yourself how can you expect anyone else to?

Without realising it, I have found my way to the church and am standing in its porch.  In for a penny, in for a pound I think to myself as I push open the door.  The air is thick with memories as I enter and I hesitate, knowing I have no business here. With a stealthy movement of my head, I glance around and that’s when I see it.  An illustrated list of incumbents, dating back centuries.  Out of habit, because I can remember doing the same when I was young, my eyes follow the names starting at the top from when records first began.  I realise that unconsciously, I’m seeking out his name and sure enough, there it is The Reverend Theodore Apthorpe 1945 to… I stop, blink, rub my eyes and start again. I’m tired, I must have skipped a line. Three times I read it and three times I see the same dates 1945 – 1975.  That can’t be right, I was twelve when the unthinkable happened and that would be in 1952.  My legs begin to shake so hard; I almost fall to the ground as I process this information.  Slowly, I realise how guilty consciences can corkscrew facts when one is young.  I’d been so certain but I’d been wrong.

On my return to Southend, I can’t work out whether I’m relieved that I’m not a murderer or whether I’m sorry he dodged the bullet.  Our species are so complicated that I guess, I’m not yet old enough to work that out.  All I know is that that a boulder has been lifted from my shoulders and the feral stink of the grim reaper has become a mere whiff.

 

Copyright Janet Baldey

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Haiga 3

 Another Picture Haiku

By Robert Kingston

 The Day before Christmas Eve

By Sis Unsworth

I always eat too much that day, I do the same each year,

far too much roast turkey, washed down with pints of beer.

I try to save the planet, I really don’t like waste,

But when it comes to whisky, I drink it for the taste.

“Have you ate all that pudding?” my old girl softly sighs,

When she turns and leaves the room, I start on the mince pies.

The shortbread never stands a chance, I just can’t call a halt,

You’ll never guess what I do then, I wash it down with port!

I always eat and drink so much, I have to work the next day

as no one else will do it, That’s all that I can say.

When I wake up next morning, I always feel so listless

I don’t think it would be so bad, if I wasn’t Father Christmas!!! 

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

Using

 Using ~ (05/03/2001) 

By Len Morgan 

Twenty Years ago, a misdirected finger pressed the wrong button and found me listening to radio 2 instead of 4.

A track from the Eurythmics was playing.  I stayed my correcting finger before it could change the station.  The sound was crystal clear and for the first time I could listen to the lyrics (plagiarism?):

 

Some people want to use you

Some people want to be used by you

Some people want to abuse you

Some people want to be abused by you…

 

I was at first surprised by the lyrics, initially being drawn towards the S&M connotation; a very shallow interpretation.  But, that would be selling the song short.  Because people use people, it’s as simple as that.

Gregarious people have a greater need for interaction with others.

A hermit/unsociable person would be less inclined to take advantage or even associate with people.

If I’m honest everybody gets used at times, sometimes even abused or taken for granted. 

But, who can put 'hand on heart' and say they have never taken advantage of another person. 

Never been guilty of Bullying…  Oh, you can dress the ‘B’ word up how you like, but ‘at the end of the day’ it means the same…

I guess ~ as the proverbial undertaker would say ~ That’s Life!

 

 

 

FORGET

 FORGET (Following the poem Remember by Christina Rossetti) 

By Peter Woodgate

Better by far you should forget and smile

Then that you should remember and be sad

For I have been a bastard, that’s the honest truth,

Now that you are rid of me, you should be glad.

But let me say, in my defense,

I loved you once, it’s true,

We laughed, as one, and sang in tune

Together, me and you.

I don’t know where it all went wrong,

When we fell out of love,

But we both know it’s over

When push becomes a shove.

Go find yourself another flame,

Forget that I exist,

Enjoy life whilst you still have time

Be held, be touched, be kissed.

And as for me, I won’t bemoan

The parting of our lives,

I won’t regret the absence,

The excuses and the lies.

Don’t listen to the gossip,

Don’t believe what you have heard,

I’m not depressed, in deep despair

Cos I’m with a younger bird.   

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

Personal Well-Being ~ 17

Personal Well-Being ~ 17 Reiki Healing (Visualization)

By Barefoot Medic

Today my wife took an ITEC exam in Massage and came home with a classic tale of visualization.

In the past, I have told how I warmed my feet on cold nights in front of an imaginary coal fire and banished insomnia by visualizing a party down the street.

I know it works because I’ve employed it since my early teens. 

Fred, a Reiki Grand Master was also taking the exam.  When it was over, a fellow student complained of aching & creaky joints. 

Fred told her to close her eyes & visualize him with an imaginary oil can.

He gently manipulated each joint in her hands then said, ”I’m starting to pour oil into this joint, & this, & this…  He oiled both her hands then she opened her eyes and to her amazement, her pain was gone.

So, my wife told him about her tennis elbow and pointed to the spot.

“Here!” he said, and she felt a sharp pain radiating up and down her arm.  “Close your eyes and imagine I’m giving you an injection that will anesthetize it.  Now feel the needle prick.  It’s going in now, feel your elbow going numb?  I’m now slowly withdrawing the needle!  How does that feel?”

Amazingly all the pain had gone.

“The injection will last for up to 24 hours then you will have to give yourself a second injection.”

“Ten hours later she was still pain-free!”

Two up for visualization…

  

At the Crossroads

Crossroads 

By Len Morgan 

Why does he want me beside him in the middle of the night?

Snuggling close and warming me in the absence of the light.

During the day he does his own thing, never seeking to share,

Whistling and talking to himself as though I weren’t even there.

 

Come the night, he seeks me out as sure as night follows day

And as always I relent it seems the easiest way.

I cook and sew and plan and shop, watch TV if there’s time

I sit and think and have a drink and ponder that’s no crime!

 

Should we exist as in a play just acting out a mime

staying together passion spent existing, killing time?

Though all is gone we talk till dawn instead of counting cost

Should I stay or walk away to seek the magic we’ve lost…

 A DAY IN SOUTHEND

by Richard Banks

It’s been a long time, nearly fifty years, and in my absence not too much has changed. Edwardian shop fronts are still to be seen, and in the ‘old town,’ next to the sea, the housing stock is of a similar vintage, but the green shoots of modernity have arrived in the form of two off-street shopping malls and a university hidden away in the back doubles. There’s also a new cinema, a multiplex.

         Some things will never change, the curving slope of the pedestrianised High Street down to the estuary and the view across it to Sheerness and the Kent Isles. Trains still run up and down the pier, and the Royal Hotel where I am bound is much improved from the neglected Georgian building I remember as a child. Indeed the hotel and the terrace to which it is joined have never looked better. They belong to historic Southend, a reminder of its genteel and sometimes aristocratic past when a small fishing village was pushing its claim to be a fashionable seaside resort. Over two hundred years later the aspirations of those who now run this City are much the same.

         That’s why I’m here. I’m what I call a Climate Engineer. I make weather, micro weather systems that turn winter into summer, where extreme weather events never happen and it only rains at night. In 2024 this is an amazing technology and I am the genius who has made it happen. Quite how is a closely guarded secret. After all, if this went mainstream who would pay me the megabucks I presently command.

         So, today I am meeting the Executive Committee of the Development Partnership to hear what sort of weather they want, and for me to tell them how much it is going to cost. The meeting is in an upstairs room of the hotel. I am met at the front door by a young man who conveys me up several flights of stairs to a large room where the Committee is already gathered. The Chairman, a Councilman, politely welcomes me, introduces me to six other suits and directs my attention to the view outside. This, he says, is the Southend we are here to discuss, the seaside resort beloved by generations of visitors.

         Down below is a cliffside garden that slopes steeply down to a well-trafficked road. The promenade beyond it is wide and long, terminating in outlying parts of the City that were once separate towns. Centre stage is the longest pleasure pier in the world and either side of that is a large fairground with all the big rides. The amusement arcades and eateries to the east are hidden behind another hotel, ‘The Palace,’ but I know they are there. It is October, the sky is grey and a cold wind off the estuary has deterred all but the most intrepid promenaders. Once - before the masses could afford foreign holidays - Southend was a place where people stayed for a week or two in boarding houses that have long since gone out of business. Nowadays it is the day tripper that contributes liberally to the City’s coffers. Big money on warm summer days, and of those there can never be enough. At least that’s what the Development Partnership thinks.

         They have been to Brighton, my last big project, and want much the same but with a few extras. As well as warm, dry days throughout the year it is important, they say, that Southend’s weather is distinctively different, that it has features only to be found within its borders. I tell them that they can have any shade of blue sky that they wish and that once allocated it will be theirs and theirs alone. In addition, I say, the setting of the sun over the estuary offers exciting opportunities to light up the evening sky with a range of sunset colours that will only be seen in Southend.

         The Committee looks impressed. I undertake to give them a detailed proposal, and the discussion inevitably moves on to cost. This is the bit they don’t like. I have a single fee, it’s non-negotiable, take it or leave it. Yes, I say, I know it’s expensive but if Brighton is anything to go by the project will turn a profit within three years. The money men on the Committee, the venture capitalists, know I am right and that I can deliver. They say nothing; they will reserve their comments for the discussion that takes place after I depart. In case they are not fully committed I immerse Southend in a torrential downpour that floods some of its streets. The message I am sending is clear. Put up with this and the winter freeze to come, or feel the warmth of the sun in paradise. It’s a no-brainer.

         They wish that they understood the science that enables me to do what I do. They would steal it if they could, but they can’t for the very good reason that it does not exist. Oh yes, I have all the paraphernalia of a laboratory and more computers than mission control. I employ a score of so-called technicians to analyse data and provide graphics for my web sites, but it is all for show. In an age when science is the new religion, I must appear to be the man of learning, the kind of man the world values and understands. Those, like me who ‘do’ but don’t know how, defy all explanation and are feared, our powers a danger that some might regard as witchcraft.

         As a small child fascinated by my ability to stop clouds in mid-air and make rain or sunshine I did only good things. Holidays or days out to the seaside were always blessed with warm sunny weather, my mother’s washing was dried by a southerly breeze, and my father’s garden liberally rained upon whenever he thought it too dry. But if I could reward those I liked I could also punish the few I did not. Those that threatened me were most at risk, the school bully who blacked my eye was struck by lightning and taken to hospital, his long blond hair pointing stiffly towards the sky and sizzling with electricity. My mother, the only person to realise my part in his misfortune, made me promise never again to use my powers to harm others. We had a pact, she kept my secret and I kept my word. Now that she is no more I am free to do as I please and what pleases me is to use my powers to become obscenely rich.

         I used to think that my interventions produced no overall benefit or disbenefit for mankind, some would suffer while others prospered. Now, I no longer care. Why care for a people so intent on destroying the planet and each other. The pollution they pump into the sky and seas I have no remedy for, and having none my contribution to this man made time bomb has been to shorten the fuse; a crisis brought closer to the ‘here and now’ has commercial opportunities that no enterprising entrepreneur can ignore. So, when Governments desperate for a solution come my way, as surely they will, I will ‘rise to the challenge’ and remove from the equation my not insignificant contribution to worldwide warming. What happens after that is down to mankind, this man can only do so much.

         In the meantime, Southend will be warmed with little consequence for the planet, and you and I will be allowed in for an entrance fee costing less than a plane ticket to Torremolinos. Paradise awaits you; sun, chips and beer, satisfaction guaranteed! What more could anyone want?

 

The End.

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 

 

 

 

Haiga 2

 Haiga 2

By Robert Kingston

 Integrity 

 

By Robert Kingston

 

I

can paint you

a love story 

in red

white

and blue

I’ll even 

wave some 

bells over

and tell you

that it’s true

 

A poem for Boris and co.

 

 Return to Southend 1

By Carol Blackburn

The forecast was encouraging with bright intervals and a gentle breeze. The high tide was due at mid-afternoon and Henry was preparing to go home to Southend. An elegant fellow and others would say “Not a hair out of place.”

Now thinking back, Henry’s life had thrown him a bounty, a good life. There was someone for him, Hetty his partner, to care for him. This lucky reward continued with the arrival of his numerous offspring. Nevertheless, Henry had been forced to travel across to the other side of the Thames Estuary. Due to the burden to put food into the mouths of his children, who still lived with them. He thought of them as his “Forever family”. The days as the Sun cracked were filled with fresh vigour from the little ones, that continued until the day slowed and peace was regained. His family antics were just like the waves rushing, crashing, exploding on the seashore at Southend. Then as gentle as silk as the waves rippled back out to sea, only to be repeated all over, again. But as with the way of life, Henry realised that nothing lasts forever. Not even the bad stuff!

His thoughts weaved further. Southend on Sea, like many seaside towns had changed physically and the needs of Henry and Hetty’s brood could no longer rely on Southend being the one-stop for everything. The daily commute across to Whitstable would not be easy for Henry. This necessitated travelling to this richer area across the Thames, where the pickings were plentiful giving Henry the mental stamina to continue his daily commute. However, physical stamina was another thing altogether.

So, on a Wintry day, the family moved to Whitstable to take up permanent residence sadly in a squatty attic. This was all he could find to keep his loved ones safe. Henry was determined his family tree would not be cut short. Survival was paramount.

As with all of us, time flies, and children grow, thrive and move on to have lives of their own.

Then cruelty fell upon Henry when he lost Hetty, all too soon. For Hetty, no illness, just a brutal swift end, leaving Henry alone. Although his future with Hetty had been cut short, he was determined, to carry on.

Now, Henry bittersweet needed help. Although Hetty was no longer at his side, she had guided him with his final decision. A final move. He decided to return home to Southend; being his birthplace it drew him with strength and memories of happier days.

Now the day had come for Henry to take his final pilgrimage across the Estuary to stay in Southend. By returning to a familiar area, he felt this could ease him and provide him with stability. He would settle back not far from where the Bandstand used to be and with her Majesty Queen Victoria down the way. This would provide a place daily to stop and rest. He would share the lovely view with Her Majesty’s commanding glare over the waves. However, for others, this silent statue companion symbolised an era that was fading fast. But not for Henry.

The journey back to Southend took a little longer. His older bones creaking. Nevertheless, the familiar sights, smells, and sounds jangled his senses and touched him with a welcoming reassurance.

This bereft widower with his mellowed eyes looked around to where he and Hetty had started. Then returned his eye gaze to look up at Her Majesty, taking an extra gulp of sea air, confidence swelled his chest.

However, when visiting Southend or any sunny coastal waters. Henry was best known by the likes of you and I by:

 “Oh no, look what that blessed Seagull has gone and done!”

Have a good life Henry the Herring Gull.

 

Carole Blackburn   Nov 2021

 

 

 

 

 

 REMEMBRANCE DAY 

By Peter Woodgate 

Once in a dream, I heard the sound

Of a thousand million souls

Crying out for freedom,

Trapped within the prison of injustice,

Concealed within my mind.

Each had been condemned by humanity

The result of greed, of selfishness, and lies,

They turned to face me, slowly,

With outstretched arms, accusingly

And questions in their eyes.

To those questions asked, I had no answers,

To the reasons why I could not say,

To when the world would understand

There was no indication

And, until I gave an explanation,

They would stay.

Each one a bead of sweat upon my brow,

I tossed and turned within this dream of woe,

Face upon pitiful face flashed into view,

My eyes, tight shut, I prayed that they would go.

It was then I found myself within a field,

All full of poppies that I walked upon,

I plucked one, held it up, for all the world to see,

They turned around, faded, and were gone.

 

Of course, we must remember them,

Yet I, still have, this grave concern,

They gave their lives, we have been taught,

But will we ever learn?

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 Imaginarium 

 

By Dawn Van Win

 

And at eventide 

Shall we wander

Through vast avenues

In storage vaults

Where life’s river leads

Larger still

Than all of Amazonian facilities

 

Our warehouse

Of abandoned dreams

The countless possibilities

Of who we someday

Could have been

 

A slowly reverent walk

Down dusty halls

Shelves stacked to the sky

Down either side

 

Then gently reaching out

Our hands

Caress the edges,

Shapes and forms

 

The bittersweet sting

Of smiling tears

Remembering 

so many years

Of ‘some day’, ‘one day’

When work is done

 

Can we attend then

To this sum

Of all that is

Our Life’s true calling

Held within

This moment’s mourning 

 

Perhaps our fingers

Chance upon

A dangling thread

Unravelling 

 

A breadcrumb trail

To start the search

Into a box 

Left on a shelf

 

Refusing there

To be abandoned

This dream still flickers

And calls our name

 

Wipe tears away

Find packing knife

Unwrap the box

That holds your life

 

Copyright Dawn Van Win

Cheilin Saga ~ 27

Cheilin Saga ~ 27 The Parade

By Len Morgan

‘Are our agents well disposed?   He must die today, without fail, there can be no excuses, all our planning and efforts depend on it.   This is the culmination of your planning and sacrifice, we are relying on you.   His assassination will negate their primary means of defence.   The Tylywoch will become renegades & outcasts overnight.   Through you, we will control the new emperor, and the Cheilin Empire will become a satellite controlled by Blutt Central and no one will know it until it is too late.   With our combined resources we will sweep North and destroy all opposition!’   

‘Yes my master, victory is at hand, we will not fail you,’Efelel promised.

‘See that you do not!   You will not want to survive to report failure! All that has gone before would be as nothing to what I would do to you,’ warned Bedelacq.   Her throat constricted and she experienced visions of torture and pain, her own cries of anguish accompanied them.   ‘You understand don’t you, Efelel!’

‘Yes master’ she cried gasping for breath; stricken with abject misery.   Then she felt the tension relax, the mist and the green glow dissipated, she felt relieved.    He was always an overpowering drain on her energy.   Such she supposed was the way of the god, though gone now she remained aware of his continued presence like a sentinel overseeing all that she did.

She felt for the first time another was present in the room.

“You had another visit from the master,” said Mawld.

“There can be no mistakes here today, do you understand,” she lashed out with her mind, bringing beads of sweat to his brow.   ‘The invasion is upon us.   If we fail he will demand the ultimate sacrifice, and, death will be a long time coming.’

Our agents are in position, they know what is expected of them, we can only wait and see what comes to pass…”

“For all our sakes it had better be a resounding success,” she hissed.

.-…-. 

Bector lay on his cot, eyes wide open, staring into nothingness and mumbling under his breath.   His fellow quad members whispered together, out of earshot, aware his actions were not normal.   They had already sent for Tyse and awaited his arrival with concern.

“This is not the Bector we know,” he said.   “I want him locked up securely and restrained until this day is over, we cannot take the chance that he might be taken over.”   He handed over a vial of milky fluid to one of them, “He should be drugged and kept in an unconscious state.   Keep him under observation an armed guard would not be excessive but make it as painless as possible for him.

Do it now before I take my leave,” said Tyse. 

.-…-. 

“There is a problem,” she said.   “I cannot reach Bector.”

“What does that mean?” asked Mawld, “is he dead, or sick.”

“ I don’t know,” said Efelel.

“It may prove more difficult but they are still seeking the old man, which will work to our advantage, we do have other agents, but none as close to the seat of power,” said Mawld.

“How many do you have, capable of handling this?”

“Two, maybe three,” he said.

“Including yourself?” she asked.

“Four,” he said.

“I want Daidan dead,” she said, “if it means sacrificing all our agents, ourselves included, it must happen today, if you fail we will all be better off dead anyway!”

.-…-.

“What news,” asked Daidan.

“The Bluttlanders are massing on the far banks of the Staalbech River.   They are ready to embark at the news of your death,” said Aldor.

“What are their numbers,” Dan asked.

“The last estimate was 300,000 in the first wave, but there will be at least that number again ready to cross as soon as a beachhead has been established.”

“So what are you doing about it?”

“There are a hundred thousand seasoned troops waiting to defend the Empire with their lives, and we have a few other surprises in store for them as soon as they are afloat, I doubt that half their force will reach our side of the river.” said Aldor.

“Then they will only have half as many again as we have?”

“There is a lot resting on your survival Dan, you cannot attend these games, your life is in very real danger…”

“Do not presume to dictate to me Aldor!   I have not missed the first day of the games in forty years, and I will not allow Bluttland to deny me one of my few remaining pleasures in life.   I will be at the opening of these games as planned.   You may as well get used to that here and now,” said Dan.

“I am not suggesting you should miss the event, rather that you should attend as somebody else.”

“Monstrous!” Dan roared with indignation.

“You hold the rank of commander in chief of the Imperial forces,” said Aldor.

“Indeed that is so,” said Dan.

“Then this is what I propose,” said Aldor…”

.-…-.

 

The royal procession started out from the palace, moving slowly down ‘E5’ the Central highway.   On either hand, the crowds waved and yelled enthusiastically as the open carriages moved slowly towards ‘C20’.   Daidan III was a popular ruler who had worked consistently and conscientiously for the good of all of the peoples of the Cheilin Empire.   The majority were aware that they prospered under his benevolent patronage.   But, a small minority thought he inhibited their progress, they decided that forty years was enough time for any ruler, it was time for a change.   As the figure in the carriage waved to acknowledge the crowds a figure lurked in the crowd with malevolent intent.   Until recently the ill-dressed figure had been administrator of grain imports.   He had enjoyed a good living charging heavy supplements to importers whilst lining his own pockets.   This had always been considered acceptable practice and encouraged by his superiors whose hands were always extended for their share of the profits.   Suddenly, they were all gone, he was alone accused of bribery and corruption, and everybody was pointing accusing fingers at him.   He was suddenly alone and held accountable for his crimes, all the others had either fled or were adjudged innocent.   Still others gave evidence against their fellows in order to save their own skins.   He was not the best, nor the worst of the bunch, but institutional corruption runs deep.   The difference was that he refused to name others, or accept a demotion, and so was stripped of his office his house, and his wealth.   His family disavowed him and he was reduced to working, in a low class tavern, for food and board.

“That bastard Daidan brought me to this sad state, now I will bring him to a worms feast!” he muttered under his breath as he took up the false cane he had been using for support; all he had retained from his former life.   Unscrewing its head he checked the dart projectile was correctly seated, in the tube, before reversing the cane and removing the iron butt spike.   What he had was a very effective blowpipe.   He waited expectantly.   As the Emperor’s carriage drew nearer, and he judged it to be in range, he raised the pipe to his lips.

.-…-.

 

Gorten wore a Bo’stad, a small crossbow, attached to his wrist with a quarrel held in place, for instant use, by a strategically placed index finger.   Strapped to his right hip three more projectiles ready for rapid use and a mini quiver strapped over his left shoulder.   He gazed down on the crowd below, then slowly he panned his eyes along the road, through the crowd back to the Emperor's carriage, then back through the crowd to his roost high above them.   He glanced across the rooftops to his opposite number, who was still scanning the side nearest to Gorten.   Suddenly he stiffened and made a crows alarm call and pointed down into the crowd on his own side of the street.

A quick glance revealed a man with a blowpipe about to be levelled in the direction of the approaching coach.   He saw the nearest of the Red Guard had received the signal and was aware of the situation.   Should he aim to disable the, would-be assassin, or would the Red Guard reach him in time, it would be a close call.   The blowpipe rose…   He took the shot.   The coaches rumbled by and he started to move on, passing the coaches as he ran on leapfrogging the other three members of his quad, placed at twenty-yard intervals.   He continued to scan the windows and crowds lining the opposite side of the road.   He looked back but was unable to see whether the man was taken for interrogation, or escaped.   Either way, he knew he had prevented the hit, and that was his job.   Gorten moved then moved again, three times, without further incident.   Then he watched a figure hefting an object preparing to throw.   Dragor glanced up at the parapet and saw the signal from a man with a distinctive face and noted it for its potential for a portrait in a quieter moment.    He was quickly beside the man, who explained he had intended on throwing his message into the emperor’s coach.   It was an honest congratulatory note thanking Daidan for making it possible for honest traders to flourish.

 

“I’ll see that the emperor gets it,” Dragor said to the man.   He glanced up to inform the man on the parapet that the potential crisis was over.   He saw a different face now, and the signal was not acknowledged.  

Dragor ran for the nearest roof access yelling instructions to his partner.

“Warn Sloan, there’s something strange happening on the roof.   Tell him I need some backup and fast…”   He headed up, two steps at a time, moving swiftly to where the man had been.   “Where is the man who was here” he demanded knowing, even as he spoke, that these men were not Tylywoch.   All eyes turned on him, “I need some information…” he said lamely, five Bo’stad were levelled at him.   He dived for the nearest man, drawing his blade, on the move.   Three quarrels hit him together, an instant after he moved, the fourth man lay beneath him unmoving.   He did not see Gorten and his quad loosed their projectiles, two of his killers fell dead, the third disappeared behind a structure.   Aldor arrived and signalled to Gorten that he was in pursuit but could use assistance.   He followed the man to the rear parapet, he turned to face Aldor.

“You,” said Aldor in surprise.

Mawld just smiled, taking advantage of the situation, he loosed his shaft.   Aldor swayed economically to his left and the quarrel passed within half an inch of his chest.

“Well, well, you are an ugly cove,” said Aldor “they said you looked like me?  Can't see it!”

Mawld re-cocked the bo’stad and reached for a quarrel.   Aldor piled into him as he slotted it.   Bo’stad and quiver fell over the side of the parapet.   Mawld was half balanced in mid-air, on the edge, fighting to retain his balance.   When he did, he kicked out viciously catching Aldor in the vitals, gaining sufficient respite to right himself and draw his sword.    Aldor ducked under a sweeping blow and drew his own blade, but was off-balance as he delivered a short slashing blow at thigh height.   Mawld partially blocked it but the three quarrels at his hip were snapped in halves, and now hampered his movements, so he ripped off what remained of the device and threw it at Aldor.   He looked closely into Mawld’s eyes but saw no fear, or expression of any kind, there.

Mawld made an exploratory stab at Aldor’s chest.   Aldor stepped around it and threw a punch hard into his opponents face.   Mawld stepped back aware of a trickle from his upper lip, he was bleeding from the nose.

 

“First blood,” said Aldor without emotion.

The reply was fast and frenzied causing Aldor to smile.

“The Emperor's cause is five pigs down, soon to be six and then, after he dies, your entire Tylywoch brood will be hunted down and slaughtered by those you protect.   Rather ironic don’t you think?”

“You are forgetting something rather important,” said Aldor.      

“But I’m sure you will enlighten me?”

Aldor easily parried an overhead cut and delivered a kick to his opponent's lead leg, “you will have to kill me first.”

“Precisely,” said Mawld.

“Your running out of time” Aldor goaded, “you have ten minutes at most then the opportunity will be gone…”

“Oh!   So you think this is our only gambit.   You’re even more gullible than we thought.”   It was Aldor’s turn to feel pressured.

“Fortunately I have an invisible helper…”

Aldor felt Efelel’s mental assault; at the same instant, his opponent renewed his attack; a perfectly coordinated effort.

He ejected her violently from his mind and instantly erected a shield about him, to prevent a repetition.   He countered forcing Mawld back against the parapet, once more.

 

“Hold fast, both of you,” a commanding voice bellowed, “Now!”

Aldor disengaged and stepped back.   Mawld lunged with a dagger catching Aldor in the right shoulder.

“Ahh!”   He yelled pulling the blade from his arm as if a firebrand had been touched to his naked flesh, he turned angrily to face the wielder of that voice.

“Sloan” said Mawld, “Thank the gods you got my message.   We have him now, red-handed; he has agents on the opposite side of the street.   Give me your bo’stad, I can pick them off from here…”

“Ho,” said Aldor, ”I would not countenance that…”

“Hold your distance both of you,” Sloan levelled his bo’stad to cover them both.   He looked at them wide-eyed, “Gods you’re as alike as two feathers on a ducks…”

“Except he is an impostor,” said Mawld.

“That will be for me to decide,” said Sloan.

“There is not much time,” said Aldor, “if time overtakes us I might be forced to act.   If you loose that shaft at me, be ready with some other means of defense.   This man is both clever and deadly.”

“Why would you be so foolish?”

“Dan’s safety must always come first,” Aldor replied.

“I am General of Internal Security!   You will obey my orders,” Mawld yelled, “shoot the impostor NOW!”

Aldor remained silent.

Sloan fired.

(To be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan