Scarlett's Granddad said...

 Scarlett's Granddad said...

 by Len Morgan

When I was a boy, about your age, the tooth fairy began to visit.  She took away my milk teeth.  One by one they fell out until they were all gone. 

Then the tooth fairy waved her wand and allowed me to grow a new set of teeth, bigger and stronger. 

"Take good care of them!" she warned, "they are your second chance.  Do not eat too much sweet stuff or drink too many fizzy drinks or they won't last long." 

But Granddad was a silly boy who drank too much Lemonade and Fizzy Pop.  He ate sweets by the bag full and sweet sticky cakes and buns by the ton.  He forgot to brush his teeth regularly and pretty soon, he was visiting the dentists for fillings every month.  

When he had his first extraction, he recalled the Tooth Fairies warning and tried to change, but he was a 'sugar-junkie' he couldn't resist the 'Sugar-Demon'. 

He called out to the Tooth Fairy and promised he would change his ways!  His Teeth were being extracted every three months regular as clockwork. 

"If you prove you can go one month without sweets or fizzy drinks, I'll see what I can do," she said. 

After a month she returned with his old milk teeth and fashioned them into a new set of false teeth. 

Granddad smiled and showed his bright teeth. 

"Ha ha!  You got them from the dentist," Scarlett said.  

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Mmm..." she wasn't quite so sure after all...

Copyright Len Morgan

A Conversation with Mother

 A Conversation with Mother 

By Barbara Thomas

Today happens to be the 15th anniversary since my Mother passed away, and I would dearly love to speak with her. 

I sat quietly so that I could get in the right frame of mind.  

The first question:  “Mum what is heaven like and did you meet up with both Dad and June and tell me please, is heaven as good as we are led to believe”

Mum said, “Heaven is within your soul and pain is a thing of the past” then added “we are all ok”

There was one more question I had to ask Mum “are you aware what is happening in my life, and I added that I was very aware of her presence around me like a warm blanket hugging me.

Mum said, “yes, my love I always said I would watch over you.”

I thanked her with tears in my eyes.

There had been so much I wanted to say but knew the moment would not last forever so I reminded Mum about the time she had a visit.

Dad had died roughly 3 weeks before and do you remember telling me that you had gone to bed, then about an hour later you said you heard a strange banging outside the bedroom door followed by a sensation that someone had come in the room, pulled the duvet back, and climbed into bed.

I also remember you saying, you scooted out of the room. Then you phoned me, and as I lived locally I came round immediately.  I checked the bedroom there was nothing there. I decided to stay over-night. 

In the morning, after breakfast, you told me how frighten you had been.

I told you that it could be Dad giving you a visit and would you like me to get my Bible and holy water and talk to whoever had frightened you? 

You agreed, so armed with the Holy book and water I entered your bedroom. Going round the room and spraying each corner plus reciting the Lord’s Prayer I spoke to whoever’s spirit was there and said “ Dad, if it was you who visited Mum please find another way to show you are there as Mum was frightened”

Mum, this is where things became strange. Mum if you recall you went to put the kettle on and as you passed the fireplace you noticed a badge that hadn’t been there before.

Mum your face was a picture. Because boldly printed on the badge were these words: 

       DO YOU LOVE ME ENOUGH TO GIVE ME YOUR LAST ROLO

 

A saying from an 80s advert selling Rolo sweets. 

That’s when you knew it was Dad, is that right Mum?

You said that that was Dads favourite saying. 

Problem solved Dad chose another way to let Mum know he was looking after her from the spirit world. 

These were the words I am hating to have to say but time was not our friend. 

“Well Mum it’s time now for me to go and it breaks my heart to say goodbye, but goodbye it is.”

“May you rest in peace and let the perpetual light shine

Upon you and may you live in the house of the Lord forever, Amen.”

“Goodbye sweet lady”

 

Copyright Barbara Thomas

 

THE OLD BOOK OF SPELLS (Part 2 & Last)

 THE OLD BOOK OF SPELLS (Part 2 & Last) 

By Richard Banks  

At 2 pm I set out and by evening I’m crossing the Tamar Bridge into Cornwall. The campsite’s near Bodmin, but it’s not open until the morning, so I pull up in a lay-by on the A38 and spend the night there. Come morning I buy a tent in Liskeard and drive the rest of the way to the campsite. It’s in a field, next to an old manor house where the local toffs live. Buy a ticket at the gate and join the early arrivals at a fast food van that’s serving breakfast.

Nothing to do now but put up the tent and suss out the new arrivals. There’s a girl called Lorinda in the next tent who’s came with her best friend, Trish, and Trish’s boyfriend. She’s not best pleased with the arrangement and spends most of her time outside the tent, while Trish and boyfriend cavort energetically inside. 

When it starts raining I invite her in for a coffee. Ask her what she knows about The Anointed Order, but she’s never heard of it. Says she’s only come for the drugs and the chance to get her kit off during the maypole dancing, or whatever it is they do here. She says the organisers of the other events she’s been to are always on the look out for handmaidens and they get given the most incredible psychedelic drugs that you can’t get anywhere else - at least not in the club she goes to. She asks if I’ve got any drugs. I say no, but when the festival drug dealer turns up I buy a few spiffs, and arrange to meet Lorinda in the evening. 

Meanwhile, the site is filling-up with people and tents, but no one resembling the collector is among them. People are also arriving at the house, mainly in expensive cars. According to a guy who’s been here before they are the High Priests, who only come down to the site for special events. No one knows who they are because they keep their faces covered and have made up names like Incubus and Belias. As well as the usual guys on security they also have their own minders, and no one who hasn’t been invited gets inside the house. 

This isn’t good news. If the collector is a priest or a minder getting near him is going to be one big problem. But maybe he isn’t, so I spend the rest of the day by the way in, watching the latest arrivals. Come evening I still haven’t seen him and when Security close the gates for the night I go back to the tent. It’s not long before Lorinda joins me and we start chatting about all the things she’s been doing since we last met; the main news being that this guy from the house has asked her to be a handmaiden for a big ceremony they’re having there at midnight. 

It’s too good a chance to miss, so I tell her about the murder I didn’t do and how I need to get inside the house to see if the collector’s there. She thinks all this is terribly exciting and can’t wait to help me, especially if I let her have one of the spiffs I bought. Two spiffs later and we’ve hit on this plan, where she lets me in through this window on the first floor. I don’t know what I’m going to do once I’m inside, but if this pans out anything like the last film I saw I will not only prove my innocence but get back the book as well. 

The first part of the plan goes like clockwork. Lorinda goes into the house and ten minutes later she’s opening the window so I can climb in from this tree outside. The ceremony’s taking place in a courtyard in the centre of the house and I can see it all from another window on the first floor. Any hope I have of spotting the collector, however, is dead in the water; everyone, except for the handmaidens, is decked out like the Ku Klux Clan, in white robes that cover their faces. The handmaidens seem to be there mainly for decoration, but Lorinda has a starring role. She gets to lie on this marble table and writhe around, while the head priest anoints her from head to foot with linseed oil. Then he picks up a ceremonial sword and pretends to run her through with it, while she throws out her arms and does this cute little scream that’s probably not in the script. All this time the other priests are chanting ‘Comius, Comius, Prince of Darkness’ but he don’t come and after a while they give up and have a prayer instead. 

While all this is very interesting I’m no further forward than before. I get out of the same window I came in by and go back to the tent. Half an hour later Lorinda arrives back in her ceremonial robe, looking like she’s just drunk a brewery dry. Instead of the night of passion we were planning she falls down outside the tent and I have to haul her in. 

I figure it’s best to let her sleep it off, but midway through the night she has a dream in which she’s an oven ready chicken being chased across Bodmin Moor by a fox that sometimes turns into a fire breathing goat. Up she gets and races off, like she’s been shot out of a rocket. I go after her and when she trips over a power cable I grab her and, despite the fact that she’s as slippery as a bar of soap, drag her back to the tent. 

The disturbance, however, hasn’t escaped the notice of Security, and, by following the strong aroma of linseed oil, their man has no trouble in finding us. At first he’s going to throw us off the site but then we realise we know each other. It’s Ernie, who I shared a cell with for six months. I pump him for information about who's staying in the house, but he doesn’t have their names. All he knows is that their car numbers are cross referenced to their room numbers. But, as he says, if I can find out which room my man is staying in I can use the car number to hack into the DVLA’s internet site. I bung him twenty quid for his trouble and he says for another twenty he can let me have a ceremonial robe for wearing inside the house. I agree, and when everyone on site are back sleeping, he brings it along to the tent. 

In the morning, just before brunch, Lorinda wakes up, and I tell her what’s happened and that we have to get back in the house as soon as possible. She says that’s no problem because there’s another ceremony in the evening, after which the Order are having a slap up dinner. The significance of the dinner is that they have to take off their hoods to eat it, so I will be able to ID the Collector and follow him back to his room. What’s more, the priest who was rubbing her down with oil was also reciting stuff from a book that could be the one that belonged to uncle George.

At last everything’s going my way and I can’t wait for the off. But wait I have to because the ceremony doesn’t start until 8 pm. Lorinda’s got the same job as before, except that she’s been told to cut out the ad-libs. Anyway, she goes into the house about 7:30 and I follow her in, ten minutes later, dressed up in the ceremonial robe that Ernie flogged me. 

The sun is setting and when it’s nearly dark the ceremony begins. It’s the same old business as the night before, but this time there’s a thunder storm rumbling overhead. If ever the Order is going to conjure up the Dark Prince this is the night, except that when they get to the Comius, Comius bit a bolt of lightening comes down, strikes one of the minders and fuses all the lights. Needless to say this causes quite a stir, but once the lights come back on and the priests work out that the minder is still the minder and not the Prince, they all troop off to dinner, except the minder, who’s carted off to hospital. 

Sure enough, once everyone’s in the dining hall, the priests take off their hoods and park them on the floor under their seats. At first I don’t see the Collector, or anyone like him. Then he looks round at a waiter and I spot him. All I got to do is sit tight until the dinner’s finished and follow him back to his room. It should be a doddle, but it ain’t. After the cheese and biscuits, the Head Priest says something in Latin and everyone gets up and puts their hoods back on.

Keeping my eyes on the Collector is worse than the three card trick. Far worse! There must be at least fifty guys in robes and they’re all on their feet, going every which way. I’m trying hard not to take my eyes off him, but the hood I’m wearing isn’t helping because the eye holes are too far apart. However, once he’s out of the dining hall there’s less people, and by the time I follow him up three flights of stairs he’s on his own. Half way along a corridor he stops and gets out the key to his room, but, like me, he’s having trouble seeing, so he takes off his hood. Whoever this guy is he ain’t the collector. As if things can’t get any worse he susses out that I’ve been following him and asks me what my priestly name is. 

The game’s up, so I do a runner back down the corridor, hoping I can make it to the ground floor and duck out, through the back door, with the hired help. By the time I make the stairs, the security alarm is ringing, and the word is out that there’s an unwelcome visitor in the house. If the heavies get me I’m toast - the collector may not be the only one who wants me dead. Down below, two minders are running up the stairs towards me. There’s no way I’m going to get past them, so it’s right turn at the next landing, and along a corridor on the first floor. In addition to the guys behind, there’s another one running towards me. I put my head down and crash into him. He hits the floor but I’m still going. Ten yards on I see the window through which I came the previous night and climb out onto the tree. It’s dark and I can hardly see the ground, but the minders are almost at the window, so I take a chance and jump. I think I’m going to break an ankle but the ground’s soft and although I take a tumble there’s no damage done.

I need to disappear into the night but the robe I’m wearing is almost glowing, so I stop behind a bush and tear it off. My lungs are bursting, but stopping ain't an option, so I run hard towards the camp site. I’m nearly there when someone comes straight at me and shines a torch in my face. I zig-zag round him, nearly collide with a tree, and tumble down an embankment that slopes down to the camp site. By now I can hear dogs barking and they don’t sound like they’re going to lick my face. As they can run faster than me, I'm guessing it won't be long before they catch up. 

I’m in a panic. If I have a guardian angel this is the time for it to come to my rescue. Then it appears, except that it’s not an angel, it’s Lorinda. She’s packed a bag with all the money we’re got and on the assumption that a speedy exit is the order of the day, is haring off towards a hole in the perimeter fence that she nearly fell through the previous night. I follow on and we scramble through it and onto an unlit road that’s darker than the average coal cellar. We start running again but there’s no need. The dogs haven’t left the campsite and if their pitiful whimpering is anything to go by they’re not liking the pungent smell of linseed oil still wafting from our tent. We slow down, get our bearings and figure out our next move. 

What happens next is the arrival of the number ten bus to Plymouth. As get away vehicles go it’s not the fastest, but at ten pounds a head it’s definitely the cheapest. An hour later we’re in Plymouth and an hour after that we’re on an overnight coach to Poole. 

Why Poole? you’re thinking. The answer is logical, if not obvious. Lorinda knows a man there who owes another man a favour, and the last named man is Lorinda’s dad. What’s more, the man in Poole owns a yacht, and that’s our ticket out of the country, away from the Anointed Order, the police and everyone else that will do us down. And the good news doesn’t stop there, for Lorinda's old man owns a casino on the Costa del Sol, where he launders money for the same mob I used to work for. It’s a safe haven that might well have a need for my professional services.  

                                                            ********** 

So, it’s all ended well you’re thinking. Okay, so he didn’t prove his innocence to the police, get back uncle George’s book, or get even with the collector, but he’s met this really fun chick and now they’re going to get it together in a warm, sunny place that’s a distinct improvement on north London. While it’s better than a goalless draw at the Emirates I’m not sure how I should be feeling. Had it been down to Tom Cruise everything would have been sorted inside three hours, but real life ain’t like that. 

In real life there’s only so much a guy can do – sometimes, whatever you do ain’t enough - but a guy and a girl together, that’s different. Right from the start it felt different, the proof that it was came on the motorway, south of Exeter. That’s when Lorinda remembers she has something for me. She unzips her bag and rummages through it like she can’t find what she’s searching for, which is odd, because what finally comes out is nearly as big as the bag - it’s a book. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. “Is this the one you’re looking for?” she says, and sure enough it is. 

It turns out that when the lightning came down and the lights went out, my quick fingered little magician takes the book off the High Priest’s lectern and drops it down behind the table she’s lying on. It’s like taking candy from a baby. While everyone’s attention is focused on the stricken bouncer she gets off the table, slips the book into her bag, and as the Anointed Order go off to dinner she exits the house with the other handmaidens.

What happens after that you already know, so I guess this really is the end of the story. Lorinda says that it has more ups and downs than the Himalayas and that if I don’t finish it now while we’re on an up I will only have myself to blame. I take her point. What happens next I don’t know, but it’s a new start, a new story. The old one's over; there’s only one thing left to say - The End.

 

Copyright Richard Banks

THE OLD BOOK OF SPELLS (Part 1 of 2)

 THE OLD BOOK OF SPELLS (Part 1 of 2) 

By Richard Banks

When I first heard the news about uncle George I was sad. Not that I was ever close to the old boy, only met him three or four times, but he was family, Dad’s brother, the last of his generation. Then I got the letter from his solicitor and I felt a whole lot better. Turns out I was his nearest living relative and sole beneficiary. Thought I had won the lottery without buying a ticket. How big the jackpot was I didn’t know, but as Uncle George lived in a three storey house on the Caledonian Road I figured it was the nearest thing to a fortune I would ever see. 

After three years in Pentonville, and one on the dole, my lucky star was shining like never before. Then the clouds started rolling in and not even the sun was getting through. Should have known it was too good to be true. Uncle George hadn’t left me the house, it wasn’t his to leave; he only lived on the ground floor and that was rented. All I had was the stuff inside it and a bill for last month’s rent. Decided that the best thing to do was clear the flat before another month's rent was due and sell anything likely to fetch a price. With a bit of luck I could pay off his debts and still make a few quid. 

Wasn’t thinking that for long. One look around his pad was enough to tell me that there was better stuff on the local tip. Even then I thought there might be some money hidden away. Old people do that, especially when they don’t have bank accounts - whole wads of notes at the back of drawers or on top of cupboards. That’s when I found the shilling piece, and an old book of spells. At least I think that’s what it was. The old time writing didn’t make much sense, but the pictures were clear enough. It wasn’t no bible book, that’s for sure. 

I remember Mum saying that uncle George had a dark side, now I knew what it was. In the same cupboard I found his ceremonial robe and a certificate saying that he was member one hundred and thirty four of the Anointed Order of Gehenna. It didn’t seem right to take them down to the tip where they might get noticed, so I burned them in the back garden. Almost burned the book too, then thought better of it. Why not take it to that second hand bookshop in Camden Town, I thought; anything that old must surely be worth a fiver, so that’s what I did. 

As soon as I walk through the door I know I'm in the right place. This isn’t any old book shop, it's the Psychic Antiquarian Resource Gallery; the resource being books and magazines on every weird notion and religion that’s ever been invented. The guy behind the counter looks surprisingly sane. If he has a ceremonial robe at least he isn't wearing it. In fact he's better turned out than uncle George’s solicitor. What’s more he’s a real charmer. This is a man who can really close a deal, a born salesman, but I'm not buying, and at first neither is he.

He takes one look at the split in the binding and almost pushes the book back at me across the counter. Then something gets his attention and he opens it up. The guy would make a good poker player, but for a split second he lets down his guard and I can see he’s interested, really interested. Then he’s back to his poker face, sighs, says what a pity it isn’t in better condition, points out a creased page and a dark stain on another. Sighs again. I’m thinking that he’s going to offer me a fiver when it’s worth a pony or maybe fifty quid. Instead, he quotes me the full fifty. So how much is it really worth? I don’t trust him, so I say I’m not sure, that I think it might be worth more. He shakes his head, almost winces as he finds another stain in the margin of a picture; then his attention switches to the picture itself. It’s Old Nick himself, eyes glowing like they’re going to jump off the page. The guy can’t help himself, he’s almost drawling. Ups his offer to eighty quid, but by now he knows I’m on to him, that I’m going to say no and move on to other book shops.

When I do say no, he shrugs his shoulders like he’s none too bothered, but he knows a private collector who might pay more. If I leave my card maybe he will get in touch. I don’t have a card, so I write down my address and telephone number on a piece of paper he gives me. He smiles, wishes me luck and we say goodbye.

It’s 4:30, too late to find another book shop, so I head home. Figure if this book is as hot as I think it is then the collector will be on the phone before morning. I’m not disappointed, except that it’s not the telephone that rings, it’s the door bell. I open up to find this guy on the doorstep. His name is Mackenzie. He says he’s come about the book. I invite him in. This is dangerous, but he looks okay so I take a chance. It’s a chance too many. 

Not sure when he hit me, probably the first time I turned my back on him. All I know is that when I come round I’m lying on the parlour floor, staring up at Mrs B from the next door flat. Turns out that when I hit the deck, the old dear hears the bang and starts hammering on the wall like she does when she wants me to turn down the radio. Except that this time I don’t shout back, so she comes out her front door and finds mine open. 

Luckily for her, my visitor has grabbed what he came for and legged it out of the building. She wants to call the police, but the police and me don’t get along, so I say I’ll do it when I know what’s missing. What’s missing, of course, is the book, nothing else, just the book, and now I’m certain it’s worth serious money. I want it back and my devious little friend in the bookshop is just the man to help me find it. 

Next morning I’m there bright and early, half expecting the shop to be shut, but the sign in the window says ‘Open’, so I go in. It’s quiet, even quieter than a bookshop ought to be. Right away I’m smelling trouble and it ain’t long in coming. The door into the office is open and there’s books and magazines all over the floor. I ring the bell on the counter and, when no one comes out, I go in. 

At first I don’t see him, then I look behind his desk and there he is, flat out, with his head bashed in. He’s not breathing, and, unless his name is Lazarus, he won’t be getting up again. Cut and run, I’m thinking. You’re an ex-con with form for GBH. If the police find you here they won’t be looking for anyone else. Then I see this poster in his hand. It’s like he’s trying to give it to me; it’s stupid, but it makes sense. He’s holding the poster because it’s important, because it has something to do with the man who killed him - the same man who, but for Mrs B, would have done the same to me. This is all about the book and if I want to see it again the poster is my only chance. I take it from him and go back into the shop. There’s nobody there, or in the street outside. I slip out of the front door and walk back to my car several streets away. I mustn’t do anything to attract attention, and I don’t. 

By the time I get back home I’m thinking that the book is the least of my problems. I might have got out of the shop without anyone seeing me but my fingerprints are all over the counter and maybe some in the office. It won’t be long before the police find them and make the match with the ones I gave them four years ago. It’s not enough for a conviction, but if I’ve also been seen on CCTV then I’m definitely in the shit. What’s more the poster I took from the book guy also connects me to the shop and who’s to say his DNA isn’t all over it. Whatever else I do today, I need to burn it before the police find it. 

I take it out of my jacket pocket and go into the kitchen, intending to incinerate it in a saucepan. Then I think, no, slow down, if the book guy thought this important then it’s important enough to read. So I do. It’s about some sort of hippy gathering that’s taking place in Cornwall, 'The Festival of Gehenna and the Awakening Lights'.

Straightaway my mind goes back to Uncle George and the Anointed Order of Gehenna. Are they connected, I’m thinking, and sure enough they are; in the small print there’s an address, the same one that was on uncle George’s certificate. My mind’s working overtime and everything’s making sense. By holding on to the poster, the book guy was saying that his killer and the festival are connected, ‘go to the festival and there you will find him, book and all.’

And do I want to go? You bet I do. This guy is my get out of jail card. If I can find him, get his name and address, I might just be able to convince the police that it’s him, not me they should be looking for. But that’s a conversation for another day. Right now I’m wanting to avoid the police, and a festival campsite, in the middle of nowhere, seems like the perfect spot. 

There’s no time to lose. I change the plates on my car and get money from the bank. I also need a change of image. Appearances are important and I don’t want to be recognised, so I shave my head, wear a new age shirt I should have thrown out years ago and put on a big pair of shades. 

 (To be Continued)

Copyright Richard Banks

Franks Tyres

 Franks Tyres 

By Barbara Thomas 

7.30am The day has started well

8.00am had breakfast said my goodbye's then went to my car.

8.10am Driving off to work, roads clear for a change.

8.55am Driving steady down the road, traffic building up.

9.00am going towards Blackwall tunnel traffic has eased with a bit of luck I should be at my meeting in good time.

9.05am Suddenly there was something wrong as I was getting nearer the tunnel the steering wasn't right luckily there was a layby.

9.10am I got out of the car traffic whizzing past not to sure what the problem was, I walked round the car problem solved two tyres had burst.

9.20am I phoned the breakdown who said due to traffic they couldn't come for at least an hour thats when I was thankful my wife and children were not in the car, that's when it would become a priority. 

9.30am the sky opened up then there was an almighty flash. The rain became a deluge and there was I stranded! So I pulled up my coat collar and sat in the car at a loss.

9.45am the rain stopped, I was soaked through. I checked my watch thinking it must be time for the breakdown lorry to finally arrive. I pulled my mobile out.

9.50am  I phoned the building where my meeting was and spoke to receptionist explain I could be a little late  as I was having trouble with my car she said she would pass on the message and I thanked her hoping as I put my mobile away then low and behold the breakdown lorry arrived. 

10.00am I put my hands together looked up to the sky and thanked God.

10.10am the driver got out of the cab and we exchanged pleasantries, then he had a look at the problem.

10.15am The mans name was Dave. He scratched his head and said he was sorry but he didn't have that size tyre so unfortunately he couldn't help but he was willing to phone up for another breakdown lorry that would have the right equipment. Words failed me Dave apologised again before he set off into the heavy traffic.

10.35am once again I was stranded and the day has started so we'll.

10.50am I looked down the road and at last I saw the flashing lights of the second breakdown lorry the driver pulls in, gets out of the lorry.

“Hello mate my name is Frank. Now let me see what the trouble is.” after checking all my tyres he walked back to the lorry and, pulled out 2 tyres. Within 20 mins, the job was done.

I shook his hand and thanked him.

"That's alright mate only to pleased to be of service."

11.20am I sat in the car, turned the key. Watched the traffic, waiting for an opening then creped out into the flow.

11.30am I reached the tunnel now at least 2 hours late for my meeting I could only hope the people were still there, quietly thanking our lord for Frank. And his efficient tyre change.  

Driving along I wondered what the rest of the day would throw at me. Oh it had started so well 10 minutes to the meeting I must look a sight still soaked through, what a way to go to an important meeting. 

I arrive, I park the car rush into the toilet wash my face check my suit put my hands through my hair this is it I have arrived.  I went up to the receptionist and asked if she could tell me what room my meeting was being held in?  She looked up her appointment book asked me my name and after 5 minutes said she was very sorry but my meeting was tomorrow. 

Yes you guessed it I was a day early I walked out of the building got into my car and thought to myself that really takes the ticket let's hope tomorrow will be better. 

When I finally got home I checked all my tyres as I had been advised by Frank.  I couldn't go through that again.

Copyright Barbara Thomas

 

Riddles 24

 Riddles 24

 

By the Riddler

 

The Riddler has more puzzles for us today:

 

No 1.  1326 5210 4208 416?  (what is the missing No?)

 

No 2. Surveyed/Merchandise/Diagnoses/Vermouth

 

Which of the following belongs to the above group?

 

Cheery ~ Precocious ~ Charming ~ Heathens ?

 

 

 

Keep em coming Riddler

 

Life

 Life

By Len Morgan

  Life is all around us and, beneath each patch of ground we step on.  Insects butterflies moths and bugs inhabit the earth, air, and sky. 

Molds mosses grass and trees are inhabited by life.  Every time you place a foot on the ground you cover a microcosm of life far outnumbering the human inhabitants of the earth. 

Each breath you take contains more microbial life than there are grains of sand on South End beach.  

A disinfectant that kills 99 per cent of all known germs when used on your hands will leave more germs, outnumbering the population of the UK, and what of all the unknown germs?  We also have to realise that they were here first! 

We have always thrived living side by side with them.  The children we seek to protect from them are fast losing their natural immunity.  Asthma and other common allergies were rare when I was a child.  We played in the streets, amongst the dirt.  We swam in the local duck pond, climbed trees, picked mushrooms.  Accidentally dropping a jam sandwich on the floor, we blew off the dirt and ate it.

There were no sell-by dates on the produce we bought; yet we survived! 

The human body is host to trillions of inhabitants, ‘plant & animal’ alike; without them we’d be extremely ill.  They live inside our gut, helping us breaking down the food we eat killing off harmful germs that gain entry to our body. They coexist, and we live in harmony!

If we eradicate all the insects and micro-organisms (our allies), the world would be six feet deep in excrement.  Other living things are mostly our friends, and not to be eradicated! 

Everything dies, naturally, it is the order of things.  Death is a blessed release from pain anguish & confusion, it is a gift from Gaia.  Not to be spurned or feared, rather to be embraced as your reward for a life well lived…

Copyright Len Morgan

Shahai

 

 Shahai - Brandy hole, taken from SWF side of the river.

The pond surrounded Wollemi pines at Markshall estate in Coggleshall. (a species from when dinosaurs roamed the earth). The estate holds the biggest collection of these pines outside of their native Australia. 

 

 

By Robert Kingston

Cheap Lives

 Cheap Lives

By Jane Goodhew

If you are reading this then you have either purchased or picked up a copy of the magazine which contains the sort of stories that you would expect to find in an X rated movie or cheap novel but never to have been written by yourself.

Yet, this is my story; it may sound familiar to some of you who are reading this in the hope of finding inspiration and I do not mean to write for a group that you are in but the motivation to move out of the situation.  The one that so far you have not had the power to leave or anywhere to go that you will not be found and returned to the hell you were living in and continue to live and will do until you decide enough is enough.

There will be others of you who have such boring, mundane lives that this is how you get your cheap adrenaline rush, reading other people’s sordid, sad lives of sex, depravity, violence or even murder. You may think that this could never happen to your or any member of your family, but it can and does even to those who you think are in a happy and stable relationship they too can have their secrets.

Those who have high-powered and highly paid jobs, they are not exempt they can just disguise it more by sending you to a health spa until you have recovered or if really serious to a plastic surgeon to fix that broken nose or displaced jaw or to remove the scars from your wrists where you tried to kill yourself or just to replace one pain with another.

I can almost feel you cringe and blush as you realise, I am talking about you, and you wonder how many more are sitting at home thinking ‘Oh my god that is me! Yet you do not like to see yourself as a pathetic victim, so you allow such demeaning, despicable behaviour to continue and you continue to make excuse after excuse.

So, what do you intend to do? Continue reading in the hope I will save you from this hell by giving you permission or the method to leave. There is no magic answer, no fairy wand to wave away your misery, no wishing will make it happen, it must come from you. You could stop now and go upstairs and pack a bag, get your passport and any small treasured items you can carry and just leave but no you continue to sit there and imagine it will all go away so make more excuses such as it is coming up for Christmas and you don’t have relatives to take you in, you are not yet at the stage of desperation where a doorstep is preferable to being in your comfortable home so you continue to sit and sip your tea and read on until it is time to pick the children up from school. 

For others of you the children are all grown and moved on and have jobs and family of their own. They no longer bother to visit very often as their lives are too busy and anyway, Australia, the USA and any other far flung country is about as far from you and your situation that they could go as they knew no matter what they said you would not leave.   You had dedicated your life to being a martyr as you believed in the sanctimony of marriage and the vows you had taken. Harsh you may think, who is this person to say such things. But are your vows the real reason you stay?

Well, I cannot share my sordid pathetic life with you so pick up the phone and ask for help, find that refuge, I don’t say women’s because there are many men out there who are physically and mentally abused by the woman in their lives but are too ashamed to admit it.  They consider it a failure, that it would not be manly to admit that a woman hit them, or ridiculed them until they lacked self-esteem and believed that no one else would want them or love them as she did when she was not tormenting or goading or proving he was not a man as he cowered in the doorway as she moved towards him with that smile that meant she was about to strike.

The night before I had been prepared to leave, he came home struck for the final time. The police are here now and are about to take his body away. I had just the strength to type this concluding chapter and press send to wish you all a Merry Christmas and may your New Year be without fear, filled with love, health, and happiness even if it means alone. I am going to be at peace for the first time in years, for an eternity because they will find a second body and it is mine.

Copyright Jane Goodhew

 

 PAMELA’S LAST DAY.

By Bob French

Jill Burnham sat looking out over Huntington Beach just west of the small town of Costa Mesta in California.  It was turning seven on a Friday evening, one of the best times of the day; the groaning sound of traffic on Highway 55, replaced by the gentle sound of the waves as they gently crept up the sandy beach, and the exotic birds that came out to serenade the beach lovers and tourists.  If the air was clear, you could see all the way out to Cataline Island.  Jill was at the top of her game in the high-end sales department of Partridge and Partridge, the estate agents to the movie-stars.

Bartram McKensie worked up state Los Angelese, in the blue-chip market place of fast-moving stocks and shares, futures, bonds, and foreign banking, which Jill found thoroughly boring. Their relationship was an unspoken arrangement, woven into the fabric of their busy lives.  Neither of them had time for romantic entanglements, but when a rare free evening presented itself, they would meet up and dine at Mario’s over at Long Beach or some of the other renown restaurants in LA.  Indulging in fleeting moments of companionship before returning to their respective financial empires.

Jill felt mentally and physically drained.  It had been an extremely busy fortnight, ending at lunch on, with her closing a multimillion-dollar deal with one of the stars who’d chose to remain anonymous. There had been much drinking to her success, and as the sun gradually faded behind the western horizon, Jill closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, oblivious of the prearranged dinner date with Bartram at Santa Monaca’s best fish restaurant at eight.

Monday morning Jill was up early and was in work by half Seven.  Met by her dizzy secretary, Pamela, she settled in to studying the markets, whilst Pamela supplied her with copious cups of double latte with three brown sugars and a Danish.

Jill always held her meetings with her staff at mid-day on Monday’s, to go over the properties that had been flagged up earlier.   Jill felt uncomfortable.  So far Pamela had not made any blunders which disturbed her, then realized as she glanced around the room that she’d forgotten to circulate the agenda for the meeting. As Jill and her area managers were still on a high from last Friday’s drinks, everyone seemed to grin and get on with the meeting.

It was coming to the end of the meeting when Jill suddenly sat up, as though someone had just slapped her across the back of the head.  She had just remembered that she was supposed to have met Bartram in Santa Monica last Friday evening.  She knew that sometime today she would have to apologize to him; something she hated doing.  Ignoring the winding up briefings from the various area managers, Jill decided that she had had enough of this pretend affair with Bartrum. she wanted something with a little more zing, something that would make her feel good inside, relaxed and carefree. Bill from down Santa Anna way popped his head in to Jill’s office. 

“I have had a good look at the French chateau in Le Bouscit near Bourdeaux Jill. Very promising.  I visited it last week and the owner of the Chateau is a chap call Maurice du Champion.  Speaks good English. He is also the bank manager of the town. I‘ve left a report with Pam.”

It was just past two in the afternoon and Jill had been trying to convince herself that this casual affaire with Bartram wasn’t what she wanted, but each time she tried to come to a decision, her mind told her to just wait a little longer.  Then the door to her office burst open. Pamela rush in, note pad at the high port, and in a complete flummox.

“Jill, it’s him, on the phone!”

Jill staired at Pamela, and slowly stood.  “Who is it on the phone Pam?”

“Its him, the bank man, you know.”  Jill froze.  She had made her mind up to dump Bertrum once and for all, but she felt unsure of herself.  Could she do it?  They have been friends for nearly six years.

“Thank you, Pam, put him through on my private line then switch off your line, No interruptions until I tell you, understand?”

Jill sat there in silence, staring at the little red winking light on her telephone. Her thoughts going over and over in her head. She knew He was going to call her and rebuke her for missing Friday’s date and she dreaded it. God! it was only a dinner date.  She spoke out loud  “I shall take command of the situation and tell him straight how she felt about him, and more to the point, that she didn’t want to see him again. Don’t let him get control of the conversation, just tell him what you expect in a relationship. Then she took a deep breath.

“Before I explain, I want to get something off my chest.  I’m sorry but what I want in a relationship is something you don’t seem capable of providing, I want to meet you at my front door after a busy day, slowly remove your clothes, item by item, smother you in kisses, as you devour me.  Then have slow and crazy sex with me on the sitting room floor, before you pick me up and take me gently to my double bed where I want you to explore every part of my body until I drift off into oblivion.  After that I want to sit naked in bed with you, drinking iced champaign and eating lobster sandwiches and watching Fifty Shades of Grey. Then, as mid-night chimes, I want you to take me down town to Saint Philippes, on fifty first and second and dance exotically like those young Latin kids until I wet my pants.” 

She heard him try to but in, but she was having none of it.

“Don’t interrupt me, just listen!  After leaving Saint Philippes, I want you to take me down to Emerald Bay and swim naked and dance in the sand as the tide gently come in.”  Jill took a deep breath, then eased herself back into her plush office chair. 

“Well what have you got to say?”

There was a short pause. Then she heard a voice that she didn’t recognize.

 “Well I can certainly fulfil your desires up until I take you dancing down at Saint Phillips, then I think you lost me.”

Jill suddenly sat forward. “I’m sorry, who is this?”

“Maurice du Champion.  I hope I am speaking to Ms Jill Burnham?”

Jill stood up, pushing her chair back and screamed at the top of her voice. “Pamela, get your sorry backside in here!”

Copyright Bob French

 A SUMMER WOOING                                     

By Richard Banks                    

The seven-fifteen from platform two was leaving the station, slowly gathering speed as it turned the bend in the track that pointed it towards Bransford. The last passenger to board the train took her seat in the half empty carriage and observed the streets and houses of the town give way to a field of barley. She recalled the winter months when the field was nothing more than dark clods of mud and the trees beyond it leafless skeletons. In a week or two the field would be harvested, the first step back into winter. She repressed a shiver and consoled herself that it was only August and that September days were sometimes the warmest of the year.

         What was it that Granny used to say when summer lingered on into autumn? It was an old expression not much heard now; something about India. Yes, that was it, an Indian Summer. When July or August were cool and wet, Granny always held out the prospect of an Indian summer just like those she claimed to remember from her youth: “September days so warm you could have fried an egg on the pavement.” The woman smiled, but Granny sometimes got it right. September when it came could be warm, a golden month made precious by the knowledge that summer dresses must soon give way to warmer clothes.

         The woman unfastened her handbag and extracted a compact which opened to reveal a mirror. She anxiously studied her face counting the lines that radiated from the corner of her eyes. There were three on either side of her face, the same as yesterday, the same as four weeks ago when she first noticed them. Was the middle one slightly longer? She wasn't sure. For now the application of a little cream would render them invisible. But first there was mascara to apply.

         Gerry liked girls who took trouble with their appearance. She knew this, he had a roving eye and a wagging tongue like other guys in the office. From their conversations she learned that Gerry liked brunets with shoulder length hair, slim girls with made-up faces and long legs, fashionable girls in silk blouses and pleated skirts that terminated several inches above their knees. Gerry seemed to have an obsession with pleated skirts which was weird she thought because no one made them now except that Romanian firm on the net which she had found after several long hours of searching.

         Now that she had changed, morphed into Gerry's perfect girl it was only a matter of time before he realised what she already knew, that they were a perfect match. For now, the focus of his attention was Cloey but this was ridiculous and could never be. Cloey was far too young and flighty for Gerry. He needed an older woman in the summer of her life, not a spring chicken with a voice to match. Why could Gerry not see this? The poor man was forever attracting unsuitable women. First there was Janey who fell off the stepladder while putting up the Christmas decorations. Didn't look so cute with her neck in a brace; no wonder Gerry dumped her. By the time she was back from sick leave Gerry had moved on to Deborah, that snotty girl in Personnel who didn't like being called Debby. But Deborah was just using him, stringing him along and when she sent that text to Janey detailing the deficiencies of Gerry's 'little acorn', Janey inflicted her come-uppance by copying it to everyone in the office.

         Poor Gerry, how humiliating for him. Who could blame him for complaining to his head of section and having them both sacked? That's when he needed the affection of an older, more mature woman, one who truly loved him. While the other girls were still sniggering she was his rock, at first his only true friend and then, gradually, almost without him noticing, a closer attachment began to form.

         It was going so well, then Cloey arrived, Deborah's replacement, and Gerry's wandering eyes began wandering all over her hour glass figure. He should have realised his mistake when she fell over drunk in the Kings Head that lunchtime and was unwell on the carpet. Instead he picked her up, plied her with coffee and saw her onto her train at Charing Cross. Since then their 'by chance' meetings about the office had become too frequent to ignore. Even more worrying was the rumour that they had been seen together in the Memphis Grill. Then she saw them for herself, together on that park bench, snogging like it was an Olympic event. She turned back on her heels and found a bench of her own where her tears might also have set new records. It was over, she thought. No one could have tried harder, how had she failed?

         The negativity of her thoughts astounded her. She stopped crying and dried her eyes. Emotion was giving way to rational thought. Failure was not an option she told herself. She was a positive person who made things happen, this was no more than a clearing shower. That's what Granny said when dark clouds gathered and the rain set-in driving her and the other children into Grannies scullery. No matter how black the clouds Granny was always adamant that the rain was nothing more than a clearing shower, that within minutes, an hour at most, the sun would be back out, a yellow blaze in a deep blue sky. Not for the first time the memory of Granny's boundless optimism brought a smile to her face; there would, she resolved, be no more rainy days in her life.

         The train pulled into Bransford. The woman returned her mirror and lipstick to her handbag and observed the City bound commuters hurry into the carriage and occupy the remaining seats. Her make-up completed, her mind was fully focussed on what must be done at the next station. Up to now she had been merely mischievous: the tilting of the ladder on which Janey was standing, the sending of that text on Deborah's unattended mobile – what a wheeze that had been – and finally the Mickey Finn in Cloey's drink. The present situation, however, called for something more serious, anything less would not be enough. Her plan was simple, high risk, but the stakes were high. She told herself that desperate times required desperate measures, but that once done, all would be well. She drank from a flask; the liquid reinforced her resolve, gave her confidence, repressed those what if doubts. But what if she did nothing and let things be? No, nothing could be worse than that.

         Not a moment too soon the train arrived at Milstead Junction. The woman alighted and made her way to the coffee bar on the London bound platform. This was where Cloey stopped for a cappuccino and croissant on her way to the office. The woman knew this because Cloey had told her so, “her life saver” she called it, her reward for dragging herself out of bed at seven a.m. It was not long before she made her entrance.

         The woman attracted her attention and beckoned at the empty seat beside her from which she had removed her handbag. Cloey looked surprised, then nervous, but was reassured by the woman's friendly expression. It was not difficult to switch the paper cups on the table in front of them, the same unsampled coffees filled close to the brim. They talked like the friends they were not, silly girlish stuff that the woman had outgrown but still remembered. Cloey yawned, her eyes struggling to stay open; the pills in her cup were taking effect. Timing now was everything. The woman put on her white sun hat with the wide, floppy brim that might have dipped down over her eyes had it not been for the large frames of her dark glasses. “It's time to go,” she said, “the 7.55 is due.” The woman guided her companion, from the café and stood her on the edge of the platform as their fellow commuters formed irregular lines either side and behind them.

         Only a single, piston-like movement was needed, the firm pressure of an open palm in the small of Cloey's back, too quick, too subtle for TV imaging or human eye. It was said that she fell slowly, arms out wide, her thin cotton dress billowing like a butterfly in an unexpected breeze. The woman closed her eyes and from her darkness heard all: the braking of the train, a juddering thud, the screams and shouts of those whose eyes were open. These 'details' she would banish from her memory, lose in some unacknowledged place along with all she did see: the dark splashes on the track, the ashen face of the driver as he pushed open the door of his cab.

         The woman withdrew unobtrusively from the platform and completed her journey to work by bus. Later that day or maybe the next, the news of Cloey's death would reach the office. When it did she would express the same sentiments of grief and disbelief as everyone else, but most of all she would be there for Gerry. More than ever he would need that special friend who could be so much more. In time he would realise this, how could he not, and when he did, nothing would ever come between them again.

         There he was at his work station opening his emails. Time to take him his post, to perch herself on the edge of his desk and flirt, tell jokes, laugh when he told his. The dark clouds were gathering but soon the sun would shine.         

                                                                                  Copyright Richard Banks