My Worst Holiday 01

 My Worst Holiday

By Chris Mathews

“This is the one for us!” Mabel said, rifling through the glossy magazines she pinched from the dentist’s waiting room. “Listen to this Arthur, Shore & Shanklin Holiday Tours of the Isle of Wight. Wonderful, two weeks on the sandy beaches of Shanklin or Ventnor.”

“Listen to this Arthur,” she read, “the coach picks us up from Chelmsford and takes us all the way there. Just think, you won't have the stress of driving, and for once, we won't have to start the holiday under a cloud because you lost your temper getting me lost in the middle of nowhere, just because you are too stingy to buy a new map. Those maps of your father’s are at least 20 years out of date.”

The 17^th of July 1964 came at last, and with their suitcases packed, they stood on the pavement waiting for the coach from Shore & Shanklin Holiday Tours.

“Arthur, are you sure this is where we board the coach, it seems a very odd pick up point, right outside the front gates of Chelmsford prison, of all places. I ask you couldn’t they have chosen somewhere else.”

“That's what the young lady at the travel agents said.” Arthur replied in a wearied, longsuffering tone.

An ancient, dilapidated coach pulled up in front of them after ten minutes, and Mable said “that's disgraceful, they promised us a new shiny sleek touring coach. Look at it, it's just an old grey bus. The travel agent will hear of this in a stiffly worded letter.”

As the doors slammed open a surly, grim faced man in a blue uniform stood before them with a clipboard in his hands, without meeting their gaze or any attempt at the usual pleasantries, he barked out “number.”

“it's Mr and Mrs Jones, I believe we are numbers 24 and 25, and, I do need a window seat, one can get rather bilious if one can't see out.

“Oh, certainly Madam, cocktails will be served at 11:00, and what time would you like lunch?”

His sarcasm was lost on her, and Mabel whispered under her breath,

“That's better, you see Arthur, a little courtesy goes a long way.”

“Thank you, my man, prepare luncheon whenever is convenient, we don’t want to put you out. Well, come along Arthur.”

Arthur was jabbed in the back with a stick the man was carrying, none too gently either, but he said nothing. Arthur was used to that sort of treatment, having been married to Mable for 40 years.

They climbed aboard and found their seats. Mabel sat next to a big burly man covered in tattoos. “How do you do,” she said we are the Joneses, but you must call us Arthur and Mable.” He simply grunted and looked away. And what is your name? Without looking at her he said,

“My cell mates call me knuckles and my enemies don't call me.”

“Lovely, but I hope our rooms are a little bigger than a cell, we have ordered a sea view and a connecting Avocado bathroom suite. “

“And are you looking forward to your holiday on the Isle of Wight?”

“Holiday, yeah, I suppose you could call it that, after Chelmsford and before that the Scrubs and Wakefield. though I don't suppose Parkhurst will be much better.

“Yes, but, think of those brisk early morning walks along wide empty sandy beaches and the bracing fresh air, that’s real freedom.” Mr Nuckles grunted at this, wiped the greasy mist from the window and turned away again.

“He does not seem to be looking forward to his holiday much does he Arthur,” she said under her breath.

“Perhaps he is recently widowed,” said Arthur longingly. 

“Oh yes and that’s why he is down in the dumps I expect, we will have to try to cheer him up a bit when we get to the hotel.”

“Best not Mable,” said Arthur looking across at Mr Nuckles. And he too turned away to take a nap.

“This holiday will be a chance to get away from the humdrum life chained to the kitchen sink all day.”

Mable chatted on to no one in particular at one point suggested a singsong. Arthur groaned as he pretended to sleep.

To Mables discussed, they were not allowed to take the bracing sea air during the crossing to Cows. This would no doubt be added to her stiff letter too.

“Look, look,” cried Mable, “the hotel is set in its own grounds with walls and gates, it must have been a grand country house once owned by... But yes, look look, Her Majesty’s something or other written above the gates. Oh, I do wish I had my spectacles.”

There was some confusion when they disembarked from the coach. With the Coach tour guide barking out numbers from a list, and they had to carry their own bags too, as they were briskly marched across the forecourt.

“I should like to see the hotel manager young man” demanded Mable. “This place has obviously been allowed to go to rack and ruin, it looks nothing like the photos in the brochure.”

“Certainly madam, I will show you to your suite and ask the manager to pop in an see you once you have had a chance to unpack. Perhaps he can bring you a small, sweet sherry too madam and how do you like your porridge in the morning.” The uniformed coach courier said sarcastically.

“That’s better, and be quick about it my man.”

“I’m going to find the bar,” Arthur said, seizing the opportunity for a peaceful half hour. It had dawned on Arthur that this would be a holiday unlike any other for Mable. And, whilst he was not a vindictive fellow, he felt that the experience may well do Mabel some good. He also felt that long sleeping boyish devilment which had been suppressed through 40 years of his own imprisonment of a very different sort.

He found his way to the games room where he played table tennis with a celebrated bank robber, lost a game of chess with a financial embezzler and even had a fascinating conversation with a murderer. Another prisoner offered him some prison moonshine.

“Only, keep it under your hat governor, don't let the screws know.”

“Prisoners get a really bad press”, he thought to himself “underneath they seem like really decent fellows, I could really fit in here.”

Several hours were spent in the company of some of the most notorious criminals in Britain. But eventually the prison governor called him to his office. He profusely offered his most humble apologies. And burbled on about no need to speak to the press about the unfortunate mix up. He offered him a glass of sherry and ordered a taxi to wherever he chose to go. Eventually, the governor himself escorted him to the prison gates still mumbling his apologies. Somehow, in all the fuss Arthur forgot to mention Mabel, and before he knew it, he was half a mile from the prison.

“No doubt they'll realise their mistake eventually, and I suppose I'll have to come back and pick her up, but in the meantime…” Arthur thought to himself, rubbing his hands in glee.

Arthur found a small B&B in a sleepy seaside town close to the railway. Steam trains were his long-neglected passion. It had slowly given way to tedious hours of bridge and cocktails with Mable’s friends under her persistent social climbing. “She could have been a mountaineer.” he thought with a wry smile.

He had a wonderful time touring round the Island making many railway enthusiast friends. No fancy pretentious dining, no expensive cocktails, no, “elbows off the table Arthur.” just pub lunches with his new mates. But after four days in which he thoroughly enjoyed himself, guilt began to nag away at his conscience like a storm cloud on a sunny day. But Arthur told himself:

“I suppose I really ought to... Eventually, they will realise won’t they though... I'll ring them tomorrow, or… maybe the day after. One excuse followed another, and so the days of peaceful freedom stretched on.

 

© Christopher Mathews - Aug 2023

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Haibun ~ Long haul

By Rob Kingston

It‘s never easy shopping with one arm tied behind your back.

market day

The same can be said of competing in a three legged egg and spoon race.

between the oohs and ahhs

 

And then there’s the hop, skip, and jump to navigate through

her trapped nerve

 

 THE GUEST

By Peter Woodgate

Peaceful is a garden,

Especially with a glass of wine,

I’d finished a spot of pruning

And the sun began to shine.

I watched the birds begin to feed,

Some were there to drink,

A lovely sight for me to view

I think.

My eyes began to wander

at the colours now in view,

pots I’d planted in the spring

erupting now, on cue.

It was then I spied something odd

beneath the ivy tree,

a sort of brownish colour,

was there for me to see.

It was not a plant, I was certain of that,

and approached with minor caution,

upon identification,

my immediate thought was action.

My mobile phone was handy,

I snapped him there and then,

a fox, there, in my garden,

On day leave from his den.

Fox visits are quite common,

but this, I felt, was steep.

He wasn’t just in my garden,

the rascal was asleep.

I studied him, there, for a moment,

he awoke, shook his head, studied me,

I spoke to him softly, “Now look here mate,

stay there and I’ll charge B&B.

 

By Peter Woodgate

Wrong Time Wrong Place 

By Sis Unsworth 

“Are you sure you can’t find the ring?  I’m beginning to panic, I know I gave it to you at the stag night George.

“No, you didn’t, Bill, you were too busy chasing that girl.  My God the way you were acting, no one would think you were the one getting married. 

“Yes I do remember her, she was a bit of alright, she really did fancy me.  But I did give you the ring!” 

“No, you didn’t Bill, you were so into her you had no time to give me the ring.”

“I gave it to you just before we went on the Whiskey chasers when Bobby Smith tried to balance a glass of beer on the barman’s head and nearly got us thrown out…” 

 “No, you didn’t, you were kissing that girl when it happened.”

“No that was after, now for God's sake give me the ring!”

“Gentlemen, Gentlemen, can’t you borrow a ring just for the day and find it later?  How can you expect me to start this service while you are arguing all the time? Now can anyone lend us a ring?  Oh, too late the bride just ran out of the church!”

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

                                                                                       

 A Bouquet of Flowers 

By Jane Scoggins 

It had been a hot day, and even at 6pm, it was still very warm. He arrived at her flat hoping his best shirt still looked crisp and fresh and didn’t look sweaty. He was glad he had decided on the flowers and not the chocolates. The blooms were beautiful and expensive. He was sure she would love them. Their relationship was just taking shape and he hoped was becoming more serious. He wanted to continue to impress her. He had never had a girlfriend he felt so much for. The blinds were down at her downstairs apartment window keeping out the remaining heat of the day, and the window was open. He could hear her on the phone laughing and chatting to a girlfriend. He decided to wait a few minutes rather than ring the bell and have her tell her friend to hang on while she opened the door. He wanted to see her face when she saw the bouquet without any distractions to spoil the impact. He wasn’t much into girly stuff so was not interested in the content of their chat, but couldn't help hearing her say very animatedly

 “He is gorgeous. I wish he was mine. Eyes to die for. Snuggling up would be divine. No, you are right, my Mum probably wouldn't approve, so I won't tell her. It's time I had a bit of something to liven things up for me and keep me on my toes. What about John? I hadn't thought about him to be honest. Like it or not he will just have to accept any decision I make.  Yes, I do like him a lot but I wouldn't say we are a proper couple yet. I think it best I spend time with Ben first and get to know him better.”

  John wished he hadn't heard the conversation, It had made him realise his worst fears that Caroline was playing with his affections. He felt deflated, unworthy of her. Punching above his weight. Of course, he knew she was popular and had admirers. And he with his pebble spectacles and his less than trendy gear just couldn’t compete. He should have realised sooner he was on a fools errand. He turned to go with the sound of Caroline's lovely voice fading as he walked back down the path and towards the bus stop.

  So he didn't hear the remaining telephone conversation.

   “ I must go now Liz. John is coming round this evening and I need to freshen up, get changed, and put on a bit of makeup. He may not be my usual type, but he is growing on me. He is so kind, funny and intelligent. I didn't think we had much in common at first but the more I get to know him and his quirky self, the more I like him. I am beginning to realise that maybe all those other blokes I've been involved with were not for me after all. He said he was not really a doggy person but if I do decide to take on Ben, I'm sure he will be fine. Having a bouncy puppy to take on walks and cuddle up to on the sofa, may be what we both need to bring a bit of fun and zing to our budding relationship. So bye, for now. I will let you know how I get on”

   On the way home John made two decisions. To give the bouquet of flowers to his Gran, and to accept the offer of the job in Dubai after all. A fresh start for him and his heart.

 

Copyright Jane Scoggins

 

THE THREATENING LETTERS

By Bob French 

The afternoon light was beginning to fade and the calm wind, that had been throughout most of the day, had started to freshen.  Peter Harlesden, a thirty-five-year-old civil servant, working for the Ministry of Science was worried.  He had already received several threatening letters, which he had ignored, but now it appeared that ‘they’ were getting serious.

          Beside him, as he walked slowly along the deserted beach at Jaywick Sands in Clacton with Alex, his wife.  She had recently retired from the army as an Intelligence Corps officer.  They didn’t speak but walked silently along the beach subconsciously listening to the rhythm of the waves rushing up upon the sand and the screeching sound of the seagulls that circled above them, hoping for some discarded scraps of food.

          She knew they were heading towards the ‘Never Say Die’ pub, just off the beach.  He had taken her there once, many years ago when he had been threatened by ‘them’ and he had managed to satisfy their needs.  After that, he'd made a promise that he would never allow himself to get into that situation again.

          Alex slipped her arm through his and hugged him. “Let’s sit a while and see if we can put together a plan where you both can come out of this alive,” and nodded to the weather-beaten bench that faced the sea and distant horizon.

          Once they were comfortable, Peter took a deep breath, closed his eyes and slowly allowed his head to tilt back.  “All we know so far is that Jacobson, the head of the Science Secretariate at the Ministry of Defence has been compromised.”

          Alex didn’t face him but quietly spoke to the horizon. “Yes, and that he had bragged about his affair with a rather attractive woman he met on a package holiday to Turkey last summer, to Maurice White, after a game of squash.”

          She smiled to herself. “It appears that she had taught him things that weren’t even published in the Kama Sutra and because of his conduct, which would become a threat to the security of the project, Maurice White had discretely reported him to his security people and then of course, GCHQ started to take an interest in Jacobson.”

          Peter nodded. “But I know GCHQ.  They will only act if Jacobson is contacted by the person who set him up.  They won’t move to neutralize him until then.  Not their style.”

          Alex frowned and shook her head slowly.  “Knowing GCHQ, I’m inclined to think that they or MI6 will probably wait until they know who is behind this honey trap against Jacobson, then try to discover what they want. What will happen to Jacobson?  Will be he killed?”

          “Good heavens no.  We’re British, we don’t go around killing off our own.  No, he will be quietly retired with a D Notice slapped on him and his family.”

          They didn’t speak for a few minutes, then Alex took out a packet of cigarettes and lit up.  Blowing smoke into the air above her head she asked “Does his wife know about this holiday affair?”

          Peter thought for a minute, then shook his head.  “No, he would have worked out that if he told her, she’d walk out on him which would automatically alert the security services.”

          “What I don’t understand is that if it is the Russians behind this operation, why Jacobson?  He’s no big fry, in fact, he’s fairly junior really.  It doesn’t make sense.”

          “Good point.  He has only recently been appointed head of the secretariat from the Department of Agg and Fisheries.”  Peter thought for a minute. “Just thinking outside the box, what if it was someone with a grudge against him.  You know; found out that he was going on holiday by himself and set up a simple honey trap or sting.  Then when he returned to the UK, waited a month or two, then posted a couple of photographs of him with his fancy woman in compromising positions with the threat that the photographs would be sent to MI6, unless he resigned?”

          “Yes. That’s quite possible.  You can buy any sort of service you want in Turkey if you have the money.”

          Peter sat quietly looking out to sea then spoke.  “Three questions; who would undertake such a venture.  Who would gain from Jacobson’s demise and who would know Jacobson’s holiday plans?”

          “Harvey Sebastian Flood.”  They said his name together.

Peter turned to face Alex. “Flood; the man everyone thought would take over the secretariate after the sudden death of Billington.”

          Alex frowned at Peter’s suggestion.  “Flood is a fool.  He has only reached the position he is in now because his father is an MP who just happens to work in the treasury.  No, I am convinced that it’s not the Russians.  They are not interested in gathering intelligence about financial matters of the United Kingdom, they want information about Project 47.”

          “You may be right.  Remember last year.  Someone started that rumour about Flood and Jacobson’s wife at the Christmas Party.”  Peter paused to collect his thoughts. “But Billington had them investigated; nothing was proven.”  Peter shook his head slowly. “Several thought the whole thing was a whitewash, which was typical of the civil service.  You know the saying, one does not hang out one’s dirty washing in public.”

          Alex dropped her cigarette butt and ground it into the sand. “Do you think Flood had Billington murdered, or do you think there’s a Russian connection?”

          “Flood’s a mysterious character and also very ambitious, but I don’t think he would go as far as killing someone.  No there has to be something a little more simple, more sinister.”

“What do you mean?”

          “Let’s just say that Flood and Jacobson’s wife were having an affair.  Now the sudden death of Billington was put down to kidney failure.  If you factor in that Jacobson’s wife is one of the doctor’s receptionists at the surgery where Billington was a patient.  It is not beyond the realms to think that she could have easily altered a prescription, say increased the strength of one of his medicines and suddenly you have a perfect undetectable death.  Then Flood, who was expected to be appointed the next head of the science secretariate doesn’t get the job. Jacobson does.  So Flood, plans a double coup; he compromises Jacobson who is then removed by the security services and, being the unsuccessful choice as the next head of the secretariat he is given the job.”

          “That’s it! And as a result, Flood becomes the director of Project 47.  That’s clever, even for Flood, very clever.”

“Yes,” said Peter, “but it doesn’t end there.  Flood is not the problem.”

Alex sits forward on the bench and turns to faces Peter. “Then who is it?”

“Flood is married to a Ukrainian woman.  She came over in 1983 and has since taken British citizenship.  They were married in 1995 after a whirlwind courtship and if one believes the rumours, are still madly in love.  No children yet.”

“And you think she’s the mastermind behind this plan?  Is GCHQ aware of her?”

“Oh yes, but she’s as clean as a whistle.  She’s buried herself deep into her local community; started a mother and toddler group, sings in the local church choir, helps in the local primary school as a teaching assistant and is a Girl Guide leader. A pillar of respectability in every sense of the word, one may say.”

“And you suspect that Mrs Flood, after she has sucked every last detail out of Flood about Project 47, will quietly vanish back to where ever she came from, leaving Flood to face the music.”

Peter nods slowly, then stands up.  “Put my life’s savings on it, my dear.”

The light had started to fade and the gay promenade lights that lined the coast road suddenly came on and started swinging gently in the wind.

Alex hugged his arm as they walked slowly back along the beach. “I knew you would sort out the last chapter of your book.  You can now tell those beastly publishers to stop sending you threatening letters, and we can get back to looking after our garden.

Copyright Bob French

Haibun ~ Round about

 Haibun

 

Round about

 

By Robert Kingston

Do you know that feeling? Sure you do! You start off from one room with an aim, only to be distracted along the way by a telephone call. Putting down the receiver you set off with a different intent and carry on your day. Later, given cause to go back to the room you set off from originally, you discover the thing you’d forgotten.

cold day

a crow in the rear view mirror

returns to the roadkill

 

 BLINDFOLDED

By Peter Woodgate

Oh mummy, I’ve been told today,

Protests, they must cease,

We can’t allow disruption,

Though carried out in peace.

But mummy I have also learned,

This Earth in danger lies,

For those we look upon to lead

Are blind, just close their eyes.

And mummy all those laws proposed

To ram deep down each throat,

Remember, were it not for them

You wouldn’t have the vote.

It appears you just want to appease the crowd

Against those you think are hollow,

Oh mummy I’m eight years old today,

But oh, what of tomorrow?

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 Flash Fiction

By Sis Unsworth

Mary was a reader, and loved to spend her time,

with articles, haiku, and very often rhyme.

Mostly she loved Flash fiction, she read it when she could,

it helped keep her brain active, and made her feel so good.

Novels were too long for her, she couldn’t concentrate,

to find out how it ended, Mary couldn’t wait.

Flash fiction was the answer, it suited her just fine,

she’d read one in the checkout queue, when she was last in line.

A journey never bored her, she never made a fuss,

and always had one with her, when riding on the bus.

She took them to the doctors, in case she had to wait,

they always come in handy, when her takeaway was late.

But her favourite time to read, was when the clock struck nine,

when she could read Flash fiction, with a very large red wine.

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 MISSPENT YOUTH

By peter Woodgate 

If only I knew then 

what I know now,

A time before these lines 

were chiseled on my brow.

Knowledge, oh you come too late,

we can’t regress, that is our fate.

A wasted youth in many ways,

As all the minutes hours and days

turned into years of tender bliss,

Oblivious of just what I’d miss.

It was just I against the world,

my future it would be unfurled.

No thought for others, just my dream,

a common trend, so it would seem.

And when, I fear, that I will cease to be,

before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,

I will look back on errors now I see

And think, why was I so insane.

 

Copyright By Peter Woodgate

 

THE CHIMING OF THE BELL 4

                         

THE CHIMING OF THE BELL  [Part 4 & Last] 

By Richard Banks        

While regretting his unintended enlistment Sebastian was nonetheless heartened when he was issued with his uniform consisting of a camouflage jacket and a peaked cap that Mr Dyson insisted he wears the right way around. Learning that the three stripes on the sleeve indicated that he was Mr Dyson’s second in command he was still further encouraged by the deference now shown to him by his fellow residents, even those with better cars than his own.

         After several days in which they practised marching and saluting they moved on to target practice in the woods where they nearly shot a squirrel and Mr Pry tripped over a tree root and had to be carried back to his car.

         Fully trained, or as trained as they were ever likely to be, Mr Dyson issued a martial command that ‘Lethal Outcome’ was to begin on the following Friday. Accordingly, Sebastian and the rest of the number one platoon took up their position, under cover of darkness, on Mr Simpson’s garage. Steeling themselves for the battle to come the gallant defenders waited for their enemy who duly arrived at 11.30. Aiming the searchlight at the masked men entering their road Mr Dyson gave the order to fire only to find that Mr Jones, their designated gunner, was on a comfort break. Urged by their leader to take his place, Sebastian hurried forward and delivered a rapid burst of gunfire that struck a bush producing an indignant meow from a cat sheltering beneath it.

         The advancing foe armed with nothing more than a dustbin lid and a stick to beat it with, broke off their war cries and after a chaotic attempt to find cover were urged by their leader to, “get the ---- out of here!”  While “it” was not defined the invading force responded by running back the way they had come, surviving another volley of bullets from Sebastian who somehow manage to shatter two street lights and a satellite aerial.

         Fearing a feigned retreat Mr Dyson ordered his troops to stand fast while peering through night vision binoculars and muttering darkly about a further attack. On learning of the likely resumption of hostilities Mr Jones, who had just rejoined his comrades, retreated once again to the bathroom in order to retrieve his glasses. On his return, a bright light in the sky heralded the arrival of a helicopter that hovered overhead while a police van screeched to a halt outside Mr Patel’s shop. Observing the arrival of twelve armed officers, the Greenacre Action Force greeted their comrades in arms with a resounding cheer that nonetheless saw the comrades take cover and point their weapons at the gallant defenders. Sebastian, fearing that he would be their first target, acknowledged them with what he hoped would be interpreted as a friendly wave.

         Encouraged, if not entirely reassured by both cheer and wave, a man with a megaphone cautiously emerged from behind a wheelie bin to demand their unconditional surrender. He was, he assured them, Superintendent Ernest Nabber, a name he had every intention of living up to, and he was at the head of a force of elite marksmen, with telescopic sights, who had been practicing only the week before. The SAS were on their way and the RAF, not to be outdone, had jet fighters massing over the Thames Estuary. All resistance was futile. Their only choice was death or incarceration under the 1824, Overthrow of the State Act.

         Mr Dyson advanced to the edge of the garage to assure him that no such thing was intended. They were on the side of law and order, “just like themselves,” and that the police should be pursuing the hooligans who had been rampaging up and down their street on a nightly basis.

         The Inspector replied that had they complained to 101, their call operators, Molly and Eric, would have been only too pleased to offer them counselling or send them any one of a number of really useful leaflets. But they, ungrateful citizens of this Sceptred Isle, had chosen to walk on the dark side and perpetrate the very worse of crimes, which was to try and enforce the law themselves. This made the police look really bad and could not be tolerated. He therefore had no hesitation in bringing down the full force of the law against them, and any law would do. He only regretted that hanging and quartering had been discontinued. As for the hooligans of which they complained, they were no more than Mr Watts and his employees making a rumpus in order to boost sales of their security equipment. This he had known about for weeks and fully intended doing something about next week, or possibly the week after that. In the meantime, they had more pressing priorities, of which the overthrow of the State was now top of their list. If they did not surrender he would have no option but to unleash the destructive might at his disposal.

         Mr Dyson considered what Churchill might have said at this moment. Deciding that, “OK Gov, it’s a fair cop,” was something that would not have passed his lips Mr Dyson frantically searched his mind for the words that would save him and his confederates from imprisonment or certain death. Concluding there were none or at least none he could think of, he turned to his comrades and raised up his arms in a gesture of despair that unfortunately was not dissimilar to the signal to fire. Sebastian’s finger tightened on the trigger and as the gun fired, almost without him knowing it, a volley of bullets came forth the other way striking him, and then the others, with mortal effect.

         In his death throes he heard the chiming of a bell and hoping that he may have been, ‘saved by the bell’ opened his eyes to find it so, himself in bed and Margo downstairs in the hall talking to the man who had come to read the meter. But, when wearily closing them again, he knew not which was the real world and which was not. Only when he opened them again would he know. Could he open them? That would indeed be the test. It would not be easy. He needed to rest a few moments, to gather strength. All that was required of him was to count up to ten, open his eyes and all would be well. There was still hope, but on reaching five his counting stopped. 

 

The End

 

Copyright Richard Banks   

 KARMA

Peter Woodgate

 

I can see when I shut my eyes

For all that mist called life

Obscures the truth within all things,

Creating stress and strife.

 

Within our minds data exists

Revealed when sight’s obscured,

Thoughts are sought within our souls,

And tension then is cured.

 

Each day that dawns, a problem,

Exists to bring us down,

A puzzle that needs solving

It’s then we need our crown.

 

It glitters with a horde of gems,

Each one will shine a light,

Upon the answer that we need

To win each daily fight.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 HOME WORK – FLASH FICTION:

RODDY’S SECRET

By Bob French

Little Jammie looked up at his father’s running medals and asked.

“Daddy, where did you get all those medals from?”

Roddy answered without thinking.  "That when he was young, he used to be a very good runner.

“Is that why Uncle Henry calls you flasher?”

This time Roddy thought for a minute, then nodded.  But buried deep in his memory were the events leading up to Jilly’s 21^st fancy dress birthday party. It was on a Friday, which was his swimming class night; something he didn’t want to miss.

On that night, someone had stollen his clothes from his locker, so Roddy had to improvise and on the way out he stole an old raincoat.  His wet trunks were uncomfortable, so as he moved through the evening streets, he removed them.

As he passed Jill’s house, friends had seen him and dragged him into the party.  It quickly became obvious what his fancy dress was and after several drinks, he was obliged to open his raincoat and from that moment onwards, he was known as flasher.

Not only did he come away with the prize for the best fancy dress, but Jill, who he later married and to cover his nick-name, he took up running and became rather good at it.

Copyright Bob French