A FAMILY AFFAIR  (Part 2 of 3)

by Richard Banks 

         My preference was for the spirits and on a coolish afternoon, I was more than content to wile away the several hours until dinner with a large G&T in the conservatory. It was while observing a strange plant of Triffid-like proportions that I inadvertently made the discovery that my fellow guests were attempting by more active means. In the intestines of this transparent monster was not only the necklaces but a hoard of gold coins that I took to be the fabled pieces of eight. Alas, I had fallen asleep, but my dream, although disappointing for not being reality, had at least brought me within an hour of dinner and the French cuisine of Aunt Flora’s faithful retainer, Madam DuSavoury. 

         Having located Teddy on the veranda of the Drawing Room we departed to our room where we again attended to our ablutions before changing into our evening things. Our subsequent entry into the dilapidated grandeur of the Queen Ann Dining Room was made all the more pleasant by the demeanour of our fellow diners which while expressing conviviality gave no indication that any of them had scooped the jackpot. The meal took its usual form with three excellent courses that, in the absence of the elusive necklaces, were likely to be the only highlight of our stay. 

         Coffee served, we endured the usual speeches eulogising Uncle Hector and bowed our heads respectfully when the vicar offered up a prayer to the old rogue who apparently was in Heaven and fondly looking down on us. “Here, here,” I muttered briefly breaking ranks to look up at the ceiling which responded by jettisoning a large flake of whitewash that spiralled slowly downwards until coming to rest in Cousin Izzy’s coffee cup. If this was a sign from heaven it was not one likely to benefit Izzy who might, perceivably, provide some entertainment by choking on the whitewash. With that thought in mind, I felt a pleasant tingle of optimism that within the next few hours the necklaces would be mine. 

         The dinner broke-up around 11.30 and after ushering Teddy into the male preserve of the smoking room I lost no time on returning to our bedroom ready to make good use of everything I had learnt at the twice monthly meetings of the East Dulwich Spiritualists. Having exchanged my evening dress for a see-through nightie that I thought likely to attract Uncle’s attention I offered up my first incantation at precisely twelve midnight. To my delight, this was immediately answered by a knocking on the ceiling above me. On my calling out, “Is that you Uncle Hector?” The knocking promptly ceased and a male voice answered,”no” and that he was sorry to have disturbed me. “But who are you!” I demanded. There was only one way to find out and having placed a chair on the bed I climbed up onto it and pushed aside the loft hatch in the ceiling. A dazzling blue light was shining in the otherwise inky blackness of the loft. “Are you a spirit?” I asked, bracing myself for a confrontation with one of Brookvale’s former owners. “Identify yourself and come in peace.” The light shifted from side to side and with much heavy breathing drew closer revealing in its wake a helmet and a grimy face I was beginning to recognise. 

         “Hello, Aunty, it’s Archie here, your nephew. Just doing a bit of potholing in the loft – awfully good practice, you know.”

         I did not know, although it was only too obvious what he was up to. “Found anything of interest?” I said, in an accusing sort of way, and on receiving the answer, “only a dead rat” I bid him continue his potholing out of earshot of myself who did not wish to be disturbed again. This I said with all the icy censor I could muster which was more than enough to send him scuttling-off in the direction of the Beck-Cooper’s room. Pausing only to entertain myself with the notion that he might fall through their ceiling and into their bed for an uninvited three-some I descended to the steady foundation of the bedroom floor where I cleared my mind ready for a second outreaching into the spirit world. It was not long before my call was answered by an unfamiliar voice speaking in an unfamiliar language that might have been Italian. It was not Uncle Hector. 

         I needed to clear the line, so to speak, but spirits, once they answer a call, are often reluctant to hang-up. The logical thing of course was for me do so but the psychic words that should have sent him on his way had no effect whatsoever. “Push-off!” I demanded in the vernacular, to which I added a rude word in Italian that I had learned on a school trip to Florence. While it had been reasonably successful in discouraging the bum-pinching activities of Italian youth it had no effect on my unwanted visitor until another voice gruffly told him to bugger off, which the spirit did with an indignant sigh. My new visitor not only spoke but, without being summoned, materialised in front of me.

         “So what does my little temptress want?” he asked. “Is she missing her dear old uncle? And why not, after all we did have some memorable moments together. Although, of course, it wasn’t just me. What a gal you were. I was your number fifty-two I recall and you were once kind enough to reward my efforts with a ten. You wrote it in that little black book of yours. But that was in the old blood and flesh days. There’s no going back to them, at least not for me. Now put on a cardigan or something before you catch a cold and tell your poor departed uncle why you have dragged him away from the sweet smell of tobacco in the smoking room. Incidentally, I saw Teddy there; is he still putting up with your tricks?”

         “Teddy does what I say and believes what I tell him. He’s an ideal husband and providing I light his fire once a week he’s happier than he has any right to be. He’s not half the man you were.” 

         “Very flattering, I’m sure, but you haven’t answered my first question, as if I didn’t know the answer. Well, let’s ask you something else: why should I tell you where the necklaces are? What right do you have to them?”        

        “So I can pass them on to Robert, of course.”        

        “You mean, Robert, your son?”

         “Yes, of course, I mean Robert. Your favourite nephew, a chip off the old block you once said, and with good reason.” 

         “What do you mean?”

         “I mean that Robert is not only my son, he’s yours too.”

         “Poppycock! Mind you I never thought that Teddy was the father, nothing more obvious than that, even Teddy must have had his doubts, but why me? And don’t tell me that he was born nine months after one of our assignations. There’ll be a dozen other candidates for sure; knowing you, more than that. No, no my dear you’ll have to do better than that.” 

         “Then I will. If it’s proof you want, then proof you will have. Not that I needed any, a mother always knows the father of her child. However, with this interview in mind, I resolved to put the question beyond doubt.”

         “How so?” 

         “DNA testing, of course, first I took a lock of Robert’s hair, and then a few days later at the wedding of your brother’s younger son, I encouraged his brother to become the worse for drink at which time I also cut-off a lock of his hair. Both were sent to a clinic in London and their forensic analysis is to be found in the several documents on the writing desk. Take a look at them, take a good look. Robert is indeed a chip off the old block. He’s your son, there’s no doubt about it, none at all.” 

         Uncle’s spectral image flickered like a florescent tube about to expire, his face registering surprise bordering on incredulity. At last, he steadied himself and with eyes, only on the papers I had set out crossed the room and stared down at them in their numbered order. 

         “Congratulations,” I said, once he was through. “You are a father. Now let us consider what you can do to help your son.”

         “I take it you are referring to the necklaces?”

         “Of course I am. Only you can ensure that he receives what is rightly his.”

         “And how much would he get once you sold them to your Hatton Garden friends?” 

         “Uncle, how ungallant of you, I am the mother of your only child, surely you don’t begrudge me a few little comforts in my middling years. Anyway, let’s face it, what choice do you have? If left where they are they will either be lost forever or discovered by one of the navies who one day will be demolishing this crumbling ruin. Is that what you want? No, of course not, so tell me their precise whereabouts and I will guarantee that what should happen does happen.” 

(To be continued)

 Copyright Richard Banks

                                                                           

Three Tanka

 Three Tanka 

By Rob Kingston

Recently published in issue 9 of HaikaiKatha.

HaikaiKatha is a journal published through the Triveni haiku India website.

A journal dedicated to Japanese short form poetry in India where the form is growing at a very fast rate.

 

Tanka is a short love song.

 

a walk

by the river

how these gulls

remind me of days gone by

arguing over nonsense

 

on repeat

the blackbird's song ...

recalling the days

when dad whistled the tune

i whistle today

 

 

stretching rainbows

from his new fishing rod

that memory

of a time in Southend

when all he caught was a cold

 

Copyright Robert Kingston

Tylywoch ~ 21

 Tylywoch ~ 21 Fighting Back I

By Len Morgan 

   Placing their best warriors in the van, they attacked the Barracks.   Luck was with them, and they caught most of the occupants of the first barracks were asleep, their attack was swift and bloody.   The second room was almost empty, they stripped it of weapons food, and anything likely to prove useful, then set it ablaze.   The serious fighting began when they attacked the third barrack room.   They were still able to count on the element of surprise and made a telling blow before the occupants reacted.   Then for a while, there was a hard fight until, at a signal, the lamps were extinguished and the reds withdrew.   For minutes the defenders were attacking each other, then somebody realised and ordered them to put up their arms.   At that precise moment, the Tylywoch entered the killing zone and the fighting came to an abrupt end.   

Scouts returned to report there were two other fully manned barracks close by.   Flushed with success Veille and his reds were all for pressing home their attack but Schell insisted they stick to the plan, not losing sight of the objective, to release Galyx.   So, they attacked and retreated as planned.   Finally, the alarm was raised and all available enemy units converged on the lower-level detention areas in far greater numbers than had originally been anticipated and Veille quickly acknowledged the wisdom of sticking to their plan. 

It took the attackers ten minutes to demolish the containment doors to the lower levels, by which time the defenders were well on their way.   The glow from the torches of the rearguard led them on into the maze of tunnels in hot pursuit.   Hildi, Soren, and four of the Red Guard slowed to ensure their pursuers did not lose contact before plunging into the next tunnel.   Five minutes later… 

“I think we’ve missed a turn,” Soren said, “We will have to go back.”   But as they turned to retrace their steps the first of their pursuers came into view.

“We’ll never get back in time, I know the way, follow me,” Hildi dashing down the next tunnel on the left.   They were now heading in the same direction they’d have taken had they previously made the correct turn.   The chasing pack followed with renewed determination, they were gaining on their quarry.  

“It's time to lose them!”   Soren said half an hour later.   They increased speed to match the slowest of the red guards quickly losing their tail.   Fifteen minutes later they caught up with the main group poised ready to attack at the opposite end of the palace.   In went ‘Stealth quad’, to silence the watch. 

(to be Continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

  A FAMILY AFFAIR   (Part 1 of 3) 

 by Richard Banks

We were early intending to be the first to arrive, but by the time we did, my Wyngate cousins had already laid claim to the only guest room fit for the purpose. Invited by our host, Aunt Flora, to take our pick of the third floor bedrooms in the East Wing, Teddy and myself finally settled on one less neglected than the others with a ceiling so far unstained by the ingress of rainwater. What the late arrivals had to put up with I shudder to think, although in the case of the Beck-Cooper’s I derived great pleasure in imagining them being rained out of their bed or bitten by one of the many small mammals contesting ownership of the old ruin; it was no more than they deserved.

         Having previously visited Brookvale I had come prepared and within my suitcase packed half a pound of cheese, four sturdy mouse traps and an aerosol labelled ‘Bugkill’. These I unpacked along with our bathroom things leaving everything else within our suitcases where I judged they would be better off than out. After performing our ablutions in the cloudy waters of the only functioning tap in the bathroom we ventured down to the Great Drawing Room in which our fellow guests were beginning to assemble.

         It was the usual crowd and we did the usual thing of pretending to be glad to see them. They reciprocated in similar fashion. We made the usual small talk, exaggerated the achievements of our teenage children and swanked about foreign holidays to exotic places that some of those present had only seen on TV or the web. Our conversations, while scrupulously avoiding any mention of money, were intended to give the impression that we had rather more of the stuff than we needed; fortune hunters we were not, and we professed an affection for Aunt Flora and Brookvale that fully justified our presence in this family gathering of her nearest and dearest.

          The least fortunate of her guests was Eric, the grandson of Aunt Flora’s youngest sibling. It was he who would inherit Brookvale and the death duties that would bankrupt him unless, come the time, he could persuade the National Trust to take the property off his hands in lieu of said duties. This was an outcome he daily prayed for and which would have been as welcome to him as the commutation of a death sentence. Unfortunately for Eric the almost derelict condition of the house and the sale of much of its estate had made Brookvale an improbable candidate for public ownership.

         If Eric’s prospects were bleak to the point of despair Aunt Flora’s other guests had nothing to lose and the tantalising possibility of improbable gain. For this they had Uncle Hector to thank. Hector was the first born son of his father Joseph Entwhistle a self-made millionaire from Quebec who had hit upon the idea of marrying Hector into the English aristocracy. It was to be a loss maker that would raise the prestige of his once impoverished family, into the starry orbit of a noble and ancient family, with a proven, if distant, connection to Royal persons living and deceased.

         The deal when struck, over fifty years ago, was that the eldest son of Hector’s marriage with Aunt Flora would inherit the family title and in return Henry would write the cheques that kept Brookvale afloat. This he did for seven childless years, finally delivering an ultimatum that unless his son and daughter-in-law got on with their side of the bargain he would cease all future payments into the Brookvale estate. As Hector had no significant funds of his own we can only imagine that he redoubled his efforts at fatherhood, but with no more success than before. The monthly payments duly ceased and in an unfatherly act of abandonment Joseph remade his will leaving his great wealth to his second son. The only mention of Hector was now a bequest of ten dollars included only to show that his disinheritance was the firm intention of the testator rather than the oversight of an elderly man of increasing eccentricity.

         However, it was rumoured that Hector’s father had not entirely abandoned his elder son and that he had sent him over a million dollars in a wooden chest labelled ‘tea’. This he had done on the solemn understanding that none of it was to be frittered away on maintaining a crumbling property no longer relevant to the aspirations of the Entwhistle family.

         What happened next was also rumour until the discovery of a bill of sale by Aunt Flora. Uncle Hector anxious to conceal his father’s clandestine gift from official scrutiny used the money to purchase two diamond necklaces which he no doubt reasoned could be concealed about the house or grounds until such time as Brookvale was somehow disposed of. This, however, was never going to happen in Aunt Flora’s lifetime. For her, ownership of Brookvale was a sacred trust that she would never relinquish even though the folly of remaining there was becoming increasingly obvious. Uncle Hector’s hopes of deriving any material benefit from his father’s gift therefore depended on him outliving his wife which he spectacularly failed to do by falling off the battlements and drowning in the moat.

         So, here we all are, three years on, solemnly assembled to commemorate an event that’s still the common tittle-tattle of the county. Our motives for being at Brookvale were undoubtedly mixed. Of course we all loved Uncle Hector and were saddened by his unfortunate passing but a mystery has an attraction which is difficult to resist and the possibility that one of us might somehow find the fabled necklaces was a magnet somewhat stronger than grief. Not that any of us were going to admit this, after all to do so raised the question of what we did next  with said diamonds. For now no one in the assembled company mentioned them, not a single word, which confirmed my suspicion that their thoughts were not so very different from my own. Having all been descended from Donald the Duplicitous, the seventh Marquis, we were, of course, all cut from the same cloth. Ditto for Aunt Flora, but in her case this family trait was remarkably absent. Indeed in old age she had acquired a kind, almost saintly aura that suggested that she would soon be a candidate for Chief Angel. Clearly she had no need of diamonds in the next life and would only use them in this one to shore-up an ancient estate that was a lost cause. Our discovery of the necklaces, if by chance that happened, was therefore likely to raise a moral dilemma requiring subtle and complex reasoning. Inevitably this would raise many questions such as what would Donald the Dup have done? But I’m getting ahead of myself, first of all we must find the necklaces.

         The same thought was very much in the minds of Aunt Flora’s other guests and if the last two years were anything to go by their modus operandi would be both varied and enterprising. Try as we may no one was quite able to conceal that intoxicating feeling that one of us would soon discover what we should not be looking for. 

         The welcoming refreshments consumed, the guests were free to walk the grounds or play croquet with the only mallet and ball that could be found. For now there was nothing for me to do but relax. My search would begin at midnight but for others, the hunt was already on and they were determined that not a moment should be wasted. What exactly each of them was up to was less than clear, although I soon became suspicious of cousin Hugh’s new walking stick which emitted faint but discernible bleeps that he tried to muffle by humming loudly on his lengthy perambulations of the front and back gardens. Hetty and Arthur retired to their room for an afternoon nap which they appeared to abandon in favour of a noisy rearrangement of its furniture, and Eric departed to the woods, spade in hand, to dig, so he said, for truffles.

         My preference was for the spirits and on a coolish afternoon, I was more than content to wile away the several hours until dinner with a large G&T in the conservatory. It was while observing a strange plant of Triffid like proportions that I inadvertently made the discovery that my fellow guests were attempting by more active means. In the intestines of this transparent monster was not only the necklaces but a hoard of gold coins that I took to be the fabled pieces of eight.

(To be continued)

Copyright Richard Banks

 THE LONG GOODBYE

 

By Peter Woodgate

 

They turn, depart, into the mist,

A fog that doesn’t hide the shape,

Thoughts, however, sink from view

Behind a cloak, a shroud, a cape.

They are there but cannot share

Quotidian actions day to day

Causing distress, anxiety

And concealed visions of dismay.

They are lost and yet remain

Your love obstructed by a shield,

A barrier that blocks your care,

Normality to them concealed.

But worst of all, a timeless wait

When hope for change will never be,

When all the love and care there is

Will be, shut out, eternally.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate 16/7/22

 

 

 

 

I shall miss this.

 LOOKING BACK WHEN THE TIME COMES

By Bob French

The silence of the night, so deep and dark, gradually changes, slowly at first by the faint shimmers of cream and yellow spreading across the distant horizon, then the gentle chorus of bird song gradually rising from all corners to a cacophony.  Then steadily the sky is filled with a million colours of the rainbow as a new day is born.  I shall miss this.

To hear the sound of young children laughing and playing in the parks; on the river banks and in the fields.  Happiness in abundance, with no care of fear, threat or danger as they live their young innocent lives, watched by their minders, parents and loved ones, who all look on them with love and contentment as they grow.  I shall miss this.

The sound of the river as it gently glides idly by, creating a sense of peace enjoyed by those who take the time to sit and listen.  Its glistening surface changing colour as the sky above moves across us all, dictating how the land we live in endures and grows.  The smells of the fields and the hard-working animals as they put their shoulder to the task.  I shall miss this.

The winding paths that lead through pastures green and trees so tall; the leaves that gently move in the cool afternoon breeze, giving comfort to those who choose to rest in the shade.  The air that carries the scent of the wild honeysuckle and jasmine that grows in places that only bring pleasure and a sense of tranquility.  I shall miss this.

The changing weather that heralds the seasons of our being on this earth, the meeting of families and friends to celebrate old memories and good times.  The young, proudly showing off to their grandparents and relatives whose time on this earth is drawing to a close, seeing hope in their young eyes and a wish for a better future.   Their young and innocent faces; so much to live for. So much to learn.  I shall miss this.

To friends who endured the hardships and comradery of serving in places far from our home shores, to those we remember, but no longer here.  The people who shared their love and friendship and the times we had in those mad, reckless, dangerous days, thinking that tomorrow may not come.  Remembering the women who gave their hearts and souls to a belief that one day things would change, to the tears and heartbreak that always followed.  They will always be in my mind.  I shall miss this. 

Feeling the temperature of the day slowly changing as the light fades, bringing to a close of another day.  The fading birdsong and rustling of the trees high on the distant hills slows to a still and birds and animals move to silence, seeking a place to sleep in the coming night. The black velvet sky high above stretching far away to the distant horizon speckled with diamonds, then silence.  

I shall miss this.

Copyright Bob French

 

 IF ONLY... 

By Rosemary Clarke 

You feel it every day

His touch upon your skin

It's with you, come what may

Where true horror begins.

He thinks it's just a game

And it's a lot of fun

But you don't feel the same,

The damage now is done.

There's an image many seek

Of a good time naughty lass'

But she'll never exist

In age or race or class

What many take for flirting

Are teenagers learning sex

But many leave them hurting

Feeling that their time is next.

So if you do love someone

Look straight into their eyes

And try to learn how they may feel,

don't keep on with the lies!

We all have feelings, all have blood

And we should be set free

Not trampled in an ugly mud

As many times we'll be.

For vileness echoes to the past

Where bad things often live

Could it be someday, that at last

We'll start to really live?

 

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 CLOUDS

By  Peter Woodgate

 

Like human souls

They drift across the sea of life,

Taking the shapes of happiness and love,

At other times of sadness and of strife.

Whilst wearing white they dance

and catch the sun,

at other times they mimic all our fears,

they turn from white to grey, then black

and like us souls, we find it ends in tears.

I think, perhaps, these clouds are souls

Of Those who left the earth

To dwell in higher places,

Looking down on us and knowing all

Our weaknesses, our faults, also our faces.

Should that be so, I hope that when I go,

I will enjoy the sights and sounds

Whilst keeping tabs on those

Who, I suppose,

Have wronged me on this Earth,

Then I shall rain, with force, upon them,

With great pleasure and with mirth.

 

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

Tylywoch ~ 20

 Tylywoch ~ 20  Elementals 1 

By Len Morgan

   Wilden cast his mind back thirty years when the seekers arrived in his village for tribute of cattle and initiates.   They chose indiscriminately, taking one in five children aged thirteen.   He was torn away from his loving family who assured him it was a great honour to be chosen, but he did not want to go.   He smiled with hindsight, as he recalled the tears.   But, his wants were of little moment to Bedelacq the one true god.   He became part of a herd of 30 young men driven, from town to town, like cattle.   The herd increased at every stop.   At night they were haltered, and by day forced to run non-stop, behind the cattle and horses.  The young women were treated differently; they were placed in three enormous box wagons following the procession.   At evening, food and water were placed beneath the canvas flaps, at either side of the wagons, in the morning the flaps were opened and the food was gone.   He recalled envying those well-fed and pampered prospective ‘brides of Bedelacq’.   Whilst they, and the cattle, would at best become slaves to his brides.   They survived, at far below subsistence level, they grew lean and mean on gruel supplemented with anything they could find, catch, or steal.   They took from those weaker than themselves, and those who failed to survive were decapitated and bled into large bronze receptacles and stripped of their flesh.   The survivors ate well on such occasions and never questioned the source of their good fortune.   The charred bones were plainly evident in the smouldering ashes of the campfires at dawn.   They headed steadily north, towards the mountains, he noted, after months of travelling, they no longer added to their complement, from the towns they passed.   New additions would have been eaten alive by the ravenous, wild-eyed, pack of wolf children, who had replaced the docile innocents of a few months earlier.   They had been systematically stripped of all dignity, compassion, and humanity.  

Now gaunt and hungry, they were prepared to fight to the death without provocation.   Even the Seekers became wary of them, attaching restraints at night and going around in pairs.   When the Priest Leader judged them to be ready; their numbers reduced from fifty to twenty; they could be herded to Blutt Central.   To him, they were merely the survivors. The raw material or distillate, the elemental substance that might produce half a dozen acolytes, of whom, one in a hundred might become a priest.   The remainder would simply be fuel expended on the gods work. 

The young females, as he now knew fared no better.   Through out their conversion, and transformation into ‘brides of Bedelacq – the one god’ they would have been aware of how the boys were treated and been envious.   The distillation of twenty females to just four had been both slow and painful.   The survivors considered themselves to be the unlucky ones. 

He recalled being herded into a corral with seven other acolytes, cold, naked, dirty, ravaged with hunger and thirst.

On either side young women either viewed them dispassionately or jeered derisively.   A group of young women approached them fastening collars around their necks, leaving them on display for public inspection.

Wilden toyed unconsciously with the thin leather thong around his throat, symbolic of the thick studded collar he’d received that day.

He remembered the young woman approaching him and attaching her leash to his collar. 

“Down!” she’d commanded, jerking sharply on the leash, bringing him involuntarily to his knees.   “Good Boy,” she said without emotion, patting him on the head like a hound, and placing a chunk of raw meat into his mouth.   “Eat!” she commanded.   He recalled the taste; it was the most delicious food he’d eaten since home; a distant memory.   She handed him a carafe of liquid, “Drink!”   He obeyed; it had a slightly saline taste, and faint yellowish tinge, but was far better than the earthy ditch water he’d been forced to drink in order to survive the journey.   There was something added to the water, something with an addictive quality, because to this day he still required a little of that liquid on a regular basis, always from the hands of that same young woman.   He smiled once again, recalling her long serious face, those large sienna eyes with dark dilated pupils.  Forceful, piercing and unblinking, those eyes gazed at him and through him without fear or pity.   He recalled a cool wayward breeze ruffling her long straight black shoulder length hair, and wondered how it dared to do so.   He gazed in wonder at those moist dark pink lips, slightly parted, revealing strong white teeth.   She stood motionless before him as if inviting his worship.   He was acutely aware of her scent, the sweet smell of her breath and skin.   He lowered his gaze in shame, to her dainty delicate feet, defiled by dust from the compacted earth floor of the compound. 

“Clean them!” she commanded as if reading his mind.

He knelt before her.   She raised her left foot to the level of his face.   He brushed it rhythmically with his hands then poured water from the carafe massaging it gently. Finally, he dried it on his now long brown hair, wiping her sole on his thigh.   She raised her other foot and he repeated his act of obeisance.  

“They are still dirty,” she said in slow metronomic syllables, “clean them!”  

He lowered his head licking and wiping them until finally, she appeared satisfied. 

“Come!” she commanded jerking simultaneously on the leash, bringing him to his feet.   She stood head and shoulders above him; tall slim and sinuous.   Where she walked he followed, she never cast a backward glance, so supremely confident was she of her control over him.  Some smiled as she passed; had she but glanced back she would have known the true measure of her power over him.   He prayed she wouldn’t look, as he fought to control his wayward member…  His prayer was answered.    

Throughout that first meeting, he was conscious of a voice within his head.  Calmly Reassuring, soothing him, counselling him to obey her; so that no harm would befall him.

She led him, through a maze of corridors, to a door one amongst many.  

She made unfamiliar hand gestures before the door causing it to open.   

“I am third hand maid to Mawgwrr the Premier Bride,” she announced proudly.   “You are my slave, and will call me mistress…”

“What is your name mistress?” he asked.

She was not fazed and didn’t raise her voice at his great impudence.   “My name is mistress Glamhorten.   I will overlook you speaking to me without being asked because I have not yet instructed you in mistress-slave etiquette.   You are allowed to speak only when asked.   Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he replied at once.

She carefully selected a thin whippy cane from a sheaf of similar implements standing upright in a tall wicker bin beside the door.  

“When not engaged in an activity at my request, you will kneel, head bowed before me or beside me as directed,” she said in a calm quiet voice.   “The answer I required was YES MISTRESS!!” she spoke sharply for emphasis, punctuating the syllables with vicious blows to his back.  

He winced as the full sting of those powerful biting blows exploded in his mind, milliseconds later.  

‘Be still, do not react, be grateful for this lesson in behaviour,’ said the voice within him. 

“Yes, Mistress.” He said in a servile voice, through streaming eyes, before she could follow up with further blows.

She took a hank of his hair and slowly wiped the cane on it, before replacing it in the wicker bin.   She straddled a back-less chair and clapped her hands twice in rapid succession.  A lean, naked young male appeared, prostrating himself before her, kissing her feet, prior to kneeling by her side.

She patted him on the head without a glance, “My Slave!” she said

“Until death mistress,” he answered, completing the ritual.

“This is your replacement,” she told him dispassionately.   “Teach him his duties well, if he fails it will be your fault, you will receive the punishment, not he!”

“You sleep there!” she said to Wilden, pointing to a narrow flat wicker basket covered by a thin grey threadbare blanket.   “Sleep on your belly until the blood dries, I do not want my blanket soiled.  

“You! With me!” she commanded the older boy, “I have need of your serpentine tongue…”

(To be continued)

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 Tomorrow

 

By Rosemary Clarke

 

I look up into the sunlit sky

And know that all is well

The people of Ukraine though

Are all living in Hell.

Their skies are filled with missiles

Their lives a ruin and pain

Why does the world do nothing

While this tragedy remains?

Why is nobody helping them

By closing up the skies

The schools and homes and hospitals

Why are they left to die?

We are all saying ' we can't do' 

What gives us the right?

This is a form of genocide

It isn't just a fight!

And after Ukraine what will be

The fate of all around

Is Finland next, which country die

If this is not improved?

And where are others in this fight

With all the pain and sorrow?

'It won't be us!' It won't be yet

But who's to know tomorrow? 

 

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 CHANCE MEETING

Peter Woodgate

Tony was standing on the platform, he was on his own and it had started to snow. “What am I doing here,” he muttered and started to walk towards the exit gate.

As he did so a smartly dressed woman entered the station and walked slowly towards him. The light was poor but as she passed under one of the station lights he caught sight of her face and immediately thought, I think I must know her, her face is very familiar.

As she passed Tony, she gave him a smile before walking up to the waiting room turning the handle, and pushing open the door.

Tony glanced round to view the information board and noticed the next train was not due for 45 minutes, blast, he thought. Of course, they have recently changed the timetable I might as well join the lady in the waiting room.

As he pushed the door open he was met by a pleasant odour, obviously emanating from the attractive lady sitting in the corner. Tony studied her face for a moment before walking over and sitting down near enough to talk without raising his voice. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out, I seem to recognize you but at a loss to remember your name, are you local?

“Oh yes, she replied, that’s probably why you recognize me, I am on my way to my sisters, she lives in the next village up the line, I visit her frequently just to catch up on all the gossip, you know what us women are like” she added with a smile.  

Tony was about to continue the conversation when they heard an announcement, “owing to signal failures there will be no further service this evening.”

“Oh no,” Tony gasped, “do you know of any good B&B’s looks like I’m stuck for the night. Sorry” he added.  “I should introduce myself I’m Tony.”

She smiled at him before replying. “My name is Lorraine and I am pleased to meet you” she extended her arm and shook Tony’s hand. Well, I won’t be visiting my sister now and I only live 5 minutes walk from here so I could offer you a sofa for the night. Tony looked surprised before replying, “well, I don’t want to put you out but that sounds extremely tempting.”

After a short walk, they arrived at the house and Lorraine inserted the key in the lock and pushed the door open. As Tony entered the hallway a sudden feeling of de ja vous swept over him and he shivered as Lorraine led him into the kitchen speaking as she did so.

“I think we should have a drink, tea or wine?” she smiled and held up a bottle of red wine. They made their way to the lounge where Tony was shown a nice comfortable chair and the drinking commenced. After the second bottle was consumed Lorraine stood up suddenly and started undoing the buttons on her blouse, “I am a married woman you know” she spoke softly,

“well, I am a married man,” he replied, “but what the hell.”

It was sometime later, as they lay in bed that Lorraine leaned over and whispered in Tony’s ear,

“and how was that for you then?” Tony replied with a smile on his face.

“That was great, I am really glad we decided to consult the sex therapist, perhaps next time we should meet on a river cruise.”

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 The Birthmark 

Jane Scoggins 

A hot July day in Southend On Sea and Jackie and Julie linked arms and strolled along the seafront towards the ice-cream kiosk.

‘Not a cloud in the sky’ said Jackie as she raised her face to the sun. ‘What a perfect day’ 

Julie squeezed her mum’s arm and felt a bit sad as she felt the thinness of her arm. And put to the back of her mind her Mum’s sadness. How unfair she thought to herself before turning and beaming at her mum. 

‘I told you it would be a beautiful day today and Southend has come up trumps.’

Southend had been a last minute decision for a day out.

‘There are a couple of deckchairs free over there, you go and sit on one and I will get us ice-creams.’ 

Julie came back laughing with two ice creams melting down the sides of the cones and dropped down into the second deckchair beside Jackie. They sat silently for a few minutes eating their ice creams conscious of the hot sun in a race to melt them before they were reduced to a completely sticky mess.

They sat watching the world go by; secretly storing up their observations to share and talk about later when they were out of earshot of the subjects of their observations.

They had always loved people watching and it was something that bound them together as mother and daughter. They had the same sense of amusement. Julies Dad hadn’t quite got it but he was always tolerant and indulgent and accepted that he was not on their wavelength as far as humour was concerned.  Today was the second anniversary of his death, and wife and daughter had visited his grave first thing that morning and laid down two red roses beside his headstone. Dad had been so proud of his ‘two beauties’ as he had called them, with their thick auburn hair and brown eyes. A thorn between two roses he had called himself as he put his arm around the pair of them.  He had always wondered how a geek like himself had managed to capture the heart of such a beautiful vivacious girl as Jackie. But capture her heart he had, and many happy years together had followed. 

A simple tale of love and loss. A group of teenagers laughing and jostling, chatting and happy went past. The girls in cut off denim shorts with wide leather belts on their hips, skimpy striped bikini tops with shoestring ties.  Growing up Julie had always been conscious of an operation scar on her chest and shoulder and had always been reluctant to show much upper body bare skin in public.

Mother and daughter sat for a while longer enjoying the day and observing the passers by. A middle-aged couple strolled past holding hands and Julie thought ‘That should be my mum and dad’. When the man turned around to look at her Julie thought she must have spoken out loud without realising, felt a bit embarrassed and automatically put her hand to her mouth as if to stop any further inappropriate thoughts escaping. 

The man paused and the woman looked on expectantly as he looked again at Julie and then to her mother.  His hand also went to his mouth as if wanting to delay his speech before he committed himself to speaking...  He directed his words carefully and hesitatingly to Jackie. ’You aren’t by any chance Jackie Mills are you?’ Julie looked at her mum and Jackie looked at the man and for a couple of seconds, there was silence as she looked searchingly at his face.

‘Yes I am’ she said hesitatingly, clearly not as yet making any connection with whoever the man was...

And then the penny dropped and with caution, she said ‘And are you Dave Fox by any chance?’

Simultaneously they both beamed at one another in complete recognition.

Jackie rose as quickly and as elegantly as was possible from the awkward position of sitting in a low slung deckchair, clutching her handbag and cardigan.

 Dave Fox stepped forward and took her hand. ‘Jackie Mills I cant believe it, after all these years. You have hardly changed at all.’ 

 Jackie’s hand self consciously went to smooth her once abundant burnished chestnut hair that had been her crowning glory, and for which she was known and recognised through her teens. She had turned the heads of many a young man with her pretty face and gorgeous hair. Dave had been one of those young men. To look at him now, a man that had not reached middle age unscathed in terms of hair thinning and lines on his face he was not readily identifiable to the untrained eye as the cool handsome slinky hipped youth who sang with a band and had a following of girls as long as your arm. 

‘Well, I never. can it really be you?’ Jackie looked into his face and then turned to her daughter. ‘Dave this is my daughter Julie’. 

‘I can see that, she is the living spit of you. And this is my wife Mandy.’

By way of explanation, Jackie explained to Julie that they had hung out together when they were young and that she used to travel about with him in a crowd when the band went to play at clubs and festivals.

After Dave and Mandy had said their goodbyes and gone on their way Julie and Jackie sat down again whilst Jackie gathered together her memories and shared them with Julie explaining that Dave was known as ‘The Fox that rocks’ Julie began to get a new view of her mother, as a rock chick, a groupie even. Julies mind is suddenly opened up to another world, one that she had not imagined her mother inhabiting. Her father had been a much more serious sort of man than Dave. She considered the contrast. 

When they got up to walk along the seafront looking for somewhere to eat Jackie continued to chat about the past. Meeting with Dave had prompted those dormant memories.

Julie also found herself thinking about Dave and her observations of him. True his face was no longer that of a handsome young rock singer, but he certainly had a twinkle in his eye. The most impressive part of him was his well-honed tanned upper body above his jeans. The day was hot and he had his T-shirt thrown across his shoulder.

It was not until he pulled his T-shirt from his shoulder as he said goodbye and turned to go that Julie could see the full extent of a rather beautiful and intricate tattoo that swept across his right shoulder and down onto his chest. Beneath the tattoo she was sure she could see an irregular patch of pink skin that was not tanned, and as if by coincidence almost matched the same scarred area on her own shoulder and chest where she had had a large birthmark removed as a child.

Copyright Jane Scoggins