The Quantum Entanglement Machine

 

“A core phenomenon in quantum physics where two or more subatomic particles become deeply connected so that the quantum state of one particle cannot be described independently of the others, even when they are separated by vast distances. Most atoms consist of three primary subatomic particles."

The Quantum Entanglement Machine

“I am told that Dr Max Jennings together with his friend Isaac Bamford have made significant strides into some obscure branch of physics.”

“Yes, I have heard that rumour too, after the Nobel, no doubt! You do know they both studied under that funny chap over at Trinity, what’s his name, the one who mysteriously disappeared. Did they ever find out what became of him?”

“Oh yes, Butterworth or something, wasn’t it, ran off with the Dean’s daughter from what I heard, quite a scandal.” The two walked across the Great Court for luncheon at High Table.

“What exactly are Bamford and Jennings working on?”

“I have no idea, old chap, something to do with Quantum Entanglement, I’m told.”

“What rot. Didn’t Einstein debunk that theory back in ‘35?”

“Don’t ask me, I have no idea. All I can think about is luncheon; I’m starving. I hope they will be serving the ‘52 claret and not that cheap plonk they tried to foist on us in the Michaelmas term.”

Meanwhile, in a large laboratory, Professor Jennings was pacing around a tall, complex machine like a large fridge with a glass front; it was humming quietly. Powerful magnets and electrical coils were attached to every surface. Cables and pipes came out like tentacles, connecting it to the walls, floor and ceiling of the laboratory. The whole room hummed with some unseen power, and from the cooling pipes, frosty mist was falling onto the floor, obscuring the men’s shoes. Their hair was occasionally standing on end, as if the air was charged with static electricity.

“I don’t understand what this machine does, let alone how it works.” Exasperated, Jennings said,

“Bamford, I have tried to explain it before. It exploits a strange and misunderstood phenomenon most physicists reject out of ignorance because they claim it violates a fundamental law of physics, the speed of light. Objects made of identical subatomic particles but separated in space have a special and instantaneous connection even over vast distances. They are inexplicably ‘entangled.’ I know Einstein has dismissed this concept as ‘spooky action at a distance’; nevertheless, it remains a fact.”

“I still don’t understand, how?” Bamford asked, looking confused. Jennings looked into his bemused face, and with a great sigh said,

“Whatever is done to one of a pair of ‘entangled objects,’ instantaneously affects the other, no matter the distance between them. I have discovered how to exploit these phenomena.”

“You mean this machine is one of a pair!”

“Indeed, the other is with Professor Ziegler in Vienna. If I place an object into this chamber and activate the device, an exact replica will appear in his counterpart instantaneously.”

“I see,” said Bamford hesitantly, although he looked doubtful.

“Yes, Bamford, you see, the possibilities are endless! Even if the other device were on the moon, or Mars, or even the other side of the galaxy, an exact replica would appear instantaneously. You could build anything here on Earth and an exact copy would appear in the other device, wherever it was. The two are entangled at the Quantum level, but only whilst they remain inside their respective devices. What happens once they are removed, I do not know.” The telephone rang somewhere in the room. Jennings picked up the receiver,

“Are you ready, Professor Ziegler?” An indistinct reply was heard, which may have been,

“Ja,” followed by, “Treten Sie zurück, ich platziere den Gegenstand jetzt in der Kammer.“ (Stand back, I am placing the object in the chamber now.) Both Bamford and Jennings stood back, shielding their eyes as something materialised in the chamber. Astonished, Bamford reached for the door of the machine, but Jennings grabbed him, shouting,

“No! Don’t touch it! Not until the containment field is fully off. We do not know what would happen if your arm entered that field whilst it is still running.” When the power was off and the humming was silent, they could see a small silver cigarette case laying on the floor of the chamber. After examining the case, Banford said,

“What would happen if a man stood in the chamber, would he be duplicated?”

“No one knows.” He said quietly. “We have only experimented with inanimate objects so far. Living beings are a very different matter. A man is so much more than molecules and atoms. Molecules and atoms are simply the dust his body is made from. A living man is the spirit that inhabits his body, and that cannot be transmitted; it is unique. If you tried, what materialised in the other chamber would simply be an animated corpse, a biological object without purpose or will. All Bios and no Zoe.” Both men shuddered at the thought.

Copyright Christopher Mathews, November 2026

Group Challenge !

 Scatterbrain 01

By Len Morgan 

On a Sunday morning In the 1950s I heard a crazy song on the ‘Billy Cotton Band show’ (the Light Program).  It had a catchy tune & memorable words; I was 7 or 8 at the time.  I sang that song to myself for a couple of weeks then promptly forgot it as kids do. 

Fast forward to 2026.  Then on YouTube I chanced upon a song by the same name recorded in 1939 by Frankie Masters ‘Scatterbrain’

https://youtu.be/Dywstp_uLhQ?si=pah8a6I87CZs6n1r   

If it doesn't work, just go to YouTube and type: Scatterbrain & press enter…

He is a long forgotten Band leader. I listened to about one & a half minutes of music from the band and was about to go to something more recent, when Frankie began to sing…  Then it all came back to me and I sang along!

 

Something so memorable after 73 years had to be a sign. 

.-…-. 

My brain was hooked. I picture a young schoolgirl between 8 & 10, in a girls boarding school her name is Catherine Sherrat, Cat to her friends.

Her parents have passed on, and she is being brought up by her aunt Dorothea (Dot), who works for MI6 in a clandestine role. Dorothea trains her to think like a Agent, and teaches her skills she would be able to use in later life. 

Cat takes on the persona of a crazy ‘Scatterbrain’.  She wears thick rimmed spectacles with plain glass (despite having 20/20 vision), she has unruly hair and a false stammer that gets her dismissed by her classmates as of no consequence. Yet with an IQ of 160; Cat is the measure of them all.  When a problem arises she will solve it by calling a fictitious cousin ‘Frankie’ who is always able to solve the problem.  She seems clumsy but in fact is at black~belt level in several martial arts.  She has no fear of heights and is in fact quite the gymnast. 

During her school holidays she often takes advance lessons with her Aunts colleagues, and on occasions takes part in assignments. 

.-…-.

Thought I might offer it as a piece of Collaborative writing to spice up the groups output.  If you are interested let me know…

 

Pick an area that best suits your style and write a story in 500 to 1000 words:

 

• There is Cats early school days at lower school.
• Then as she progresses through to middle school 13 to 15.
• Finally upper school 16 to 18.
• When Cat leaves school she goes to University where she meets Frankie (Her actual cousin).
• Both Cat and Frankie are recruited by the security services and engage in many clandestine adventures.

Have I gone too far?

 

Have fun!

 

Len

 

 

Who is this Man? 4

 Rebuttal

By Jane Goodhew

Who is this man, Peter Marchant?  That was your question, was it not?  If I told you that everything you wrote about him was a lie!  That you really did not know what you were saying or should I say writing?  For the man I knew was the exact opposite of all the heinous, negative adjectives you used to describe the love of my life.  I can almost hear your response that he was manipulative and charming and I was weak to fall for his lies.  

If anyone is a con it is you and your lies and as for being a psychopath I would suggest you look in a mirror!   The charm and smile are correct but it was not to draw a person in to use them for ill-gotten gain but to put them at ease. It warmed my heart every time I saw the broad grin that led up to his eyes that sparkled and radiated with warmth and love.

For he was just that, a warm, kind and generous loving man who would do all he could to make others feel relaxed and comfortable in his company.   He dedicated his life to helping others in any way he could whether it was practical or monetary.  He was generous perhaps to a fault because it was that that caused his demise.

The man you met was not the Peter or Gerald that you wrote about so please do not hold your breath for another meeting unless you are going to a séance.   For the man you called Gerald died pushing a stranger out of the way of a speeding car.  Perhaps you already know that as perhaps the driver was you so that the truth of your sordid life could not be told?

 

 Copyright Jane Goodhew      

                                                             

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A Halloween Story

By Jane Scoggins

We had had a good night out at the Travellers Joy pub in Rayleigh, me and the girls. Six of us, old friends. It had been ages since we had had a night out together, before the Covid pandemic struck, in fact. We had all had Covid at some point over the last 18 months or so. Jenny and I had been really poorly and Jenny still didn't feel 100%, but apart from a lingering cough for a month after, the other girls hadn't been too badly affected. Anyway, we were all glad to have survived intact. Both Ann and Clare had lost a loved one during the lockdowns. Ann, her Nan, and Clare her Granddad, who had been in a nursing home. Neither had been able to visit and say goodbye. A horrible time it had been. We were all triple vaxed up and ready to celebrate all the missed birthday celebrations and Christmas get-togethers. We all arranged to get a taxi home or have our partners pick us up by11pm. At11 pm I was the only one left to be picked up. My partner Tony had texted to say there had been a bit of a hold-up on the A127 but was on his way. The pub was ready to close so I was waiting outside on the little terraced balcony. We had had a scorching summer, and although it was the end of October, it was quite mild. There was virtually no traffic passing at that time of night and not a soul about. It was quite nice waiting in the quiet gloom. We had all had quite a lot to drink, me included, which was unusual, but I felt mellow rather than inebriated. After 10 minutes or so, I thought I would walk around the car park a bit to avoid starting to get cold. It was getting a bit misty and the Halloween pumpkins dotted about were looking a bit spooky with their funny cut-out eyes and mouths. One of the flats across the road had one lit up in the window which looked more cheerful than scary.

After a while I stood nearer the road to look out for Tony as the pub lights were now turned off. All was silent, and then I heard a muffled voice somewhere near, but no actual person to be seen. I thought it must be my imagination until I distinctly heard a young voice say

‘Miss, Miss’. I looked around, but there was no one. And then I saw a most extraordinary thing that so shocked me I was rooted to the spot. Looking down, I saw what looked like a hand appearing out of the ground. Impossible I thought. Then it moved and stretched its fingers. It looked like the hand of a young male. I looked closer; yes, I guessed, a young man’s weather-beaten hand. The air was beginning to feel cooler and a bit damp. Whatever I had drank that evening had definitely gone to my head. The voice came again. ‘Miss Miss’. The voice seemed to be coming from below the ground, and then, with a swirl of mist, it rose above the ground and was very close. I waited, still rooted to the spot. The voice came again, nearer to me.

‘Miss, my name is James. James Cook. I died a very long time ago.

‘How long ago?’ I heard myself ask. As if it mattered at all.

‘In 1829, Miss’, came the disembodied reply.

‘It was wrong, Miss, a miscarriage of justice Miss; I never done what they said I had. Mr Green the farmer I worked for said I set fire to his property Miss, and they believed him and took me off to prison. It broke my Mam’s heart it did. I had to go to court. There had been a few arsons about that time what with all the dissatisfaction with farm workers conditions. Everyone working on the land were frustrated. They had taken our contracts away and we only got what we worked for ,so during the winter if there was nothing much to do ‘cept feed the animal no one got paid until planting time in Spring.It was hard to survive, and some didnt. I was 15 at the time and although headstrong didn't have any evidence,so it was my word against Mr Green’s. He didn't like me one bit. He had a nasty temper and worked me to the bone. He beat me once too. He was a horrible man. His wife was scared of him. When his daughter Molly even dared look in my direction he would shout and ball at me and reduce my dinner ration. I would of left if I could but my Mum was a widow and couldn't really afford to keep me in food. In fact I used to scrump apples and plums for her and a handful of corn for her 3 chickens now and again to help her out. It was the only way. But I did hate him and he knew it. I don't know who did torch his barn, he was not liked by anyone, but it weren't me. But he was determined to punish me for anything he could and apart from being asleep in another barn, I had no alibi. He was an influential man was farmer Green. I stood no chance. I'm sure my Ma believed me but what good was that to her? I couldn't help her out any more. I never thought for me it would come to the gallows, but with all the unrest with farm workers and labourers and he arson attacks the judges were coming down hard to try and frighten folk and stop it happening.’

There was a pause while I digested this information as best as my fuddled brain could. He carried on with what sounded like a little sob in his voice.

I was shocked to hear the judge say

‘The sentence of the court upon you is that you be taken from this place to a lawful prison and thence to a place of execution, and that you be hanged by the neck until you are dead. And may the Lord have mercy on your soul’

‘Where you are standing now, Miss, is where the gallows stood, and where I was hanged. Walking up those steps with townsfolk standing watching was horrible. I dared look up at them standing there. I told my Mother not to come, and I was glad not to see her face. But I did see my brother. He was crying so pitifully I had to look away. I never knew who burnt down farmer green’s barn. It could have been anyone with a grudge, or it could have been an accident. But I was blamed and had my life ended cruelly and wrongly. I was barely 16 years of age. I can never settle. I am troubled and restless. Tonight is Halloween, when many spirits are abroad. Most living folk do not have the spiritual power to believe in the spirit world, and so do not hear or see us. You have heard me, though, and it has helped me that you have listened. Do you believe me?’

‘Yes, I do’, I hear myself say, almost in a whisper.

Just then I am alerted to Tony’s car lights as he swings into the pub car park.

He stops the car and leans over to open the passenger car door. Before I get in I look all around me in a slow 360-degree movement. Nothing to see or hear. Tony calls me to get in. Giving me a peck on the cheek as a welcome, he says, laughing,

‘Good Lord, love. Good night with the girls then? You look like you are three sheets to the wind, or have you just seen a ghost? Well, it is Halloween. Let’s get you home; you definitely don’t look quite right.

I am silent as we drive home. Was that real or just my imagination?.

Copyright, Jane Scoggins October 2026

Who is this Man? 03

 Peter Marchant

By Len Morgan

He is a quiet man, unassuming, keeping his own company. He’s the type of man who would pass unnoticed in a crowd.  Not one in a hundred could reliably describe him, or pick him out in a line-up.

That’s of course is by design, that is his intent! 

He’s a con man and a psychopath! He plies his trade with impunity the world owes him a living. He is highly intelligent, quick witted, and shows little empathy or remorse for his marks.  He gives shallow emotional responses, and displays a willingness to manipulate others without feeling any guilt. He is a technician who can work the emotions of the gullible, and even those with their wits about them.  His smile and charm can be turned on at the drop of the hat.  

“Hi Peter, So good to see you again after all these years…”

“I’m sorry, you are mistaken, my name is Gerald, and I don’t think we’ve ever met before?” 

“Then it’s my mistake Gerald.  It’s just that you bare a startling resemblance to my good friend Peter Marchant. I’m so sorry! I must apologise. You’re not a relation of his are you?” 

“No! My name is Gerald Moffat…”

“Then Gerald, allow me to buy you a drink.” 

“I don’t drink.”

“Then a meal sometime perhaps? Do you work close bye?”

“Yes, but I’ve just eaten. Now I realty must dash, I have a prior appointment to keep back at the office.” 

“Do you normally dine between 1 & 2?  I could meet you here tomorrow at 1pm, and we could dine at Wheelers; at my expense of course…”

The mark could decline and walk away, but be sure they would meet again in the near future anyway; at his design.

 

Copyright Len Morgan

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

 

MOGGIE POLITICIANS

 MOGGIE POLITICIANS

By Peter Woodgate

I have read, with great interest, on numerous occasions

The debate concerning dogs, their owners and more to the

Point, the mess they leave behind.

Being a dog owner and a responsible one at that, I agree

wholeheartedly with the disgust one has when being confronted by one of these abandoned faeces. 

Having picked up hundreds of my own, aptly named Shih Tzu’s packages, I have become somewhat of an expert on dog faeces and, in particular, what they tell me on the health of my dog. On viewing some of the many alien deposits encountered I am fearful that the perpetrators may not have long to live and, on occasions, simply could not believe the entire package was deposited by just one animal. 

All this being said I feel the poor dog and the owner get an

unfair and over-publicised slating concerning their misdemeanours. I, for one, would like to see more done Concerning cats. Don’t get me wrong I like cats but it does appear they, and their owners are allowed, literally, to get away with murder.

You know, it happens all the time; a sweet grey- haired old lady calls her pussykins in for dinner. He slinks in looking up at her, putting on his best “come and give me a stroke” look.

Gives his bowl a cursory sniff before jumping up on his favourite chair, which just happens to be next to the fire, and used by, yes you’ve guessed it, the grey haired old lady. She then puts him on her lap and pussykins squirms

backwards and forwards between her hands whilst

purring ecstatically. “And what’s up with you today?”

she asks as he looks longingly into her eyes. “not hungry?”

She is, of course, completely unaware that a mere 30 minutes previously dear pussykins had been dismembering a blackbird whose newly-hatched chicks would now be left to die. Shortly prior to that pussykins had dug up most of my newly planted pansies before choosing to deposit his faeces in an area not previously excavated. This is bad enough but it seems his games know no boundaries as sometimes he aggravates my dog to the point where he has a nervous breakdown. The cat can then return home where he is treated like a celebrity.

I live next door to three cats, an Abyssinian Blue, a Ginger Tom and a Tabby with a big red collar.

Unlike the Springer and Labrador who live the other side of me, these cats have never worked.

When they are not destroying wildlife and plants, they are either, crapping on everybody’s garden except there own or spitting and hissing at each other, mostly though, they just sleep.

I’ve Knick-named them

 

KEMI, ED AND ANDY

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

HALLOWEEN 01

 HALLOWEEN 

By Richard Banks 

Cold stirring in the ground below,

the yearly urge to rise and go,

 

to live again from dusk to dawn

and see the folk who once did mourn.

 

But little is that once there was.

Each change does add to sense of loss.

 

But in the churchyard all’s the same,

the ancient church, it’s weather vein,

 

the old yew tree, the heaped-up ground,

some markers stayed up, and some fell down.

 

But through the lychgate into town

the march of time is too oft’ found.

 

The shops in High Street once well known

are often gone or newly owned

 

by those who trade in strange new wares

or nail paint, tattoo, fashion hair.

 

Much has changed but people more.

The son who was is man by law.

 

And widowed wife is now new wed

and shares once more a double bed.

 

Brief holiday, this night is not

and anger flares in minds half rot.

 

To get back at the world that is

becomes their all consuming wish.

 

So haunting starts, the midnight game

of those despaired and racked by pain.

 

What good it does is none at all

for frightened folk or frenzied ghoul.

 

To make things worse black witches come

on broomstick steeds and far from dumb

 

recite foul spells that curse and blight

until the dawn when day brings light

 

and in the twilight off they go

as raised-up dead retreat in woe.

 

Back to churchyard there to spoil

to feed the worms beneath the soil.

 

Never again! they all do cry

will I return to life earth high.

 

But all do know that those once been

must always answer Halloween.

 

© Richard Banks  

Possey, my life together

 Possey, my life together

By Len Morgan

Ring Ring!

“Alexa said, “There’s somebody at the door!”

I didn’t answer her in my usual sardonic manner, because I knew what it would be, my weekly delivery of medication from the chemist in the high street. 

“Coming!” I yelled. Frequently he would drop it on the doorstep and let the rain dissolve the brown paper sack into paper mache. 

I opened the door…

It was a traditionally dressed middle aged woman with sun bleached skin dark hair and mesmerising green eyes.  She held a small basket filled with bunches of Lavender, posies tied up with string. 

She proffered one to me.  “For the one you love, pin it to her dress, and good luck will follow you and the wearer.” 

“I suppose you will expect payment for this?” 

“It is customary to accept a gypsies gift and give something in return.”

“Cross your palm with silver?  Well, I would need more than your luck, I need a miracle. So take it away…”

“You do not fear a Gypsy curse?" she said with vehemence, "I will pin it to your gate and send you a hex…”

“I don’t believe in Magic I said!”

A young waif no more than 13 had followed us in, dressed in a pale flimsy dress made for Summer wear not October winds. “Oh leave the poor man alone Gran your hex may be the blessing he seeks. Let me scan him and offer him a better future,” she said. She handed me the brown paper sack she’d retrieved from the doorstep, it was still dry. 

She placed a hand on my chest. Immediately I felt a shock of electricity coursing around my body, it felt hot exploring, invasive, seeking. I was rigid, couldn't move. After several minutes she removed her hand.  She took the medication sack from me and dumped it in the waste bin. 

“You won’t need that anymore,” She said. 

'Strangely I believed her.'

“The Cancer will leave you when next you defecate. When you take a run, your hardened arteries will improve and soon clear.”

I ran to the toilet, even as I ran I could feel my legs improving.  When I looked into the toilet bowl I could see a dark evil mass, I flushed it away, revolted by the sight. When I returned to the hall I found it empty. My visitors were gone but...

There on the mantel shelf beside my wife’s picture was a posy of lavender.

My wife died two years ago in late October. She told me she would visit through the aether, and protect me. I told her I didn’t believe in magic but thanked her anyway. I still don't believe in Magic but, Miracles are a whole other thing!

Copyright Len Morgan 

 

The Aether

The Aether

By Len Morgan

It seems cruel, that in the twilight of my years, I should be beset by so many great story ideas, that I’m unable to write down. Even if I could put down the basic plot, it would not be written the same way by another author.

However, the same ideas would still be out there, ready to be harvested by others more able than me.  

I could drop idea’s, down like bread crumbs, hoping that they would be taken up by another, but that’s not the way of things.

The thing about stories is that they are in the air all around us, waiting to be picked out by the receptive author. They exist in the ‘aether’ like living things all around us, but we have to be receptive to them.  It must be the same for songwriters, inventors, playwrights and other creatives. 

I honestly do believe in the existence of the aether.

People go to sleep & dream, then wake up with an idea fully formed in their mind.  The difference is; they are more receptive than others.

 On reading the qualities of Aether, do they not sound remarkably like Dark Matter?

The Aether:

A very rarefied and highly elastic substance formerly believed to permeate all space, including the interstices between the particles of matter, and to be the medium whose vibrations constituted light and all living things.

 

Copyright Len Morgan.

 

CLAIREX

 CLAIREX

By John Abbott

Briiing... Briiing, Briiing... Briiing, Briiing... Briiing,

“Damn !”  The phone downstairs was ringing. Briiing... Briiing. God knows what the time was.

Briiing... Briiing.

I rolled right and yawned as I dragged myself out of my slumber and rushed my body into action. The phone was ringing again. 

I rapidly descended the stairs in the dark; fortunately, I knew the house well enough. The landline was on the wall.

Briiing... Briiing. I slapped my right hand on the telephone and lifted the receiver. A voice spoke out from the other end.

"Hello. Is James there?"

The voice was soft and female.

" No, sorry. You must have the wrong number. " I responded.” My mouth was very, very dry.

" Are you sure ? It sounds like the right number to me” Her voice was pleasant.

" No, I'm afraid not. " I replied.

" Are you on your own ? " She asked.

" Er ... Yes. " I replied with a quick thought. " What a waste ... eh ? "

" Yeah, I suppose so. "

" What are you doing ? " she questioned. " Uh ? ... I was in bed. "

" Really ? "

" Yes. "

" Do you want to know what colour underwear I'm wearing ? " she asked. I was mildly shocked. I found the question a little perturbing, but I must admit that a tiny tingle of excitement ran through my body.

" Erm ... Yeah ... Whatever. " I replied, unconvincingly.

“ White. I'm wearing white. " she stated, unequivocally.

“ White ... why white ? " I queried.

" Because I'm pure. " she purred back.

I swallowed hard, feeling excited and intrigued, but still somehow subdued. She asked me another question.

" What have you got on ? "

" Nothing ... naked. " I answered.

" Really ? Hmmmmh ... That's nice, " purred the voice. I decided to find out what was going down here.

" So, how come you're ringing me up at this time of night ? " I said, realising almost immediately that it must have, in fact, been early morning.

" I was bored. " she answered. " Sorry... ?

" I was bored. " she repeated. " Bored ? "

" Yeah ... I was bored sitting here. "

" Do you often ring up strange men at odd times of night ? " I queried, again not registering that it was morning. Her soft response sounded honest, although repetitive. " Only when I'm bored. "

My dry throat attempted to splutter out the next sentence. " Strange habush ? " Uh ... " Hobit ... "

She interrupted, " Hobbit even. "

I laughed, " Yeah ... even Hobbit. " I continued, " Isn't it an expensive habit ? " " Hmmm ... " She murmured back.

It felt very eerie talking to someone I didn't know in the dark at this time of the morning. By now, I was really curious, so I asked her a more general question.

" Well ... Tell me something about yourself ? "

" What do you want to know ? " she answered, happily. " What's your name ?”

" Claire. "

" Nice ... My names John." I questioned her again. " How tall are you ? "

" Five-foot-five. "

" What colour hair have you got ? " " Blonde ... Short. "

" How short ? "

" Erm ... Down to my neck. " she said, as I imagined her face.

" Are you attractive, unattractive, or somewhere in-between ? “

" Well ... I think somewhere in-between, but I leave that to other people. "

" I can't quite believe this. "

" You mean you can't believe your luck ? "

" Ummm ... It could be a wind-up of some sort. "

" Well, it isn't. "

I decided to ask a few more questions.

" I know you're not supposed to ask women this question, but how old are you ? " " I'm twenty-nine. " she answered.

" And ... How old are you ? " 

" Guess. "

" You sound young ... "

" Yeah ... Thank you, " I retorted, " Well, guess then ? “ 

" I'd say you were ... Twenty-six. "

" Ha ! ... I wish ! "

She laughed. It sounded really sweet. " I'm thirty-three. "

She hesitated, then asked me a more personal question. " Are you slim ? "

" Yes ... very slim. " I checked my own answer, " I mean, not skinny, but still slim. "

"Are you muscly ? "

I quipped back quickly,

" Yeah ... I've been to the gym-every day this week. " As she quietly purred approvingly, I said,

" Well, I don't suppose you can believe your luck this time can you ? "

" Mmmmmh ... " came back her wonderful murmur.

She asked another question,

" Where do you live ? " I hesitated.

" C'mon ... Where do you live ? It must be nice, because you sound posh. "

" Posh ? ... Nah, not me. I think I'm relatively intelligent though. "

" C'mon ... We could meet ... Now. " She sounded like she wanted it to happen. I felt a mild shock of excitement zip up my spine, but I resisted.

I laughed and said, " No, I don't think so. "

" Wouldn't you like to meet me ? " she asked,

" We could go for a drink or something ? ... What do you think ? " She sounded genuine, but I avoided answering.

A brief pause, and I continued. " Where do you live ? "

" Plaistow. "

" That's close ! ... What street ? " 

" Balaam Street. "

" Christ ... That's just around the corner. "

" Are you sure you don't want to meet ? " she repeated.

I became a little cautious. I knew nothing about her, so I asked yet another question. " Are you married ? "

" Separated ... Almost divorced. "

"What about your husband ? "

" He's not around. He doesn't come around. "

" I'm divorced. " I stated.

" Yeah ... Well, I'm nearly divorced. I decided to wait for the ... er ... Two year bit. "

" Umm. " was my response.

I thought I heard a sound at her end. " Who are you whispering to ? "

" Uh ? "

I lowered my voice. " Who are you whispering to ? "

“ Whispering ? ... You, silly ! " she whispered back. I must have been wrong.

" Can I ring you again ... sometime ? " she asked.

" Yes. " I replied excitedly. " But you'll have to call me at a more reasonable hour. Not at this time of night. "

I made the mistake of mixing up night and morning again. " I'll ring you again then ... When ? ... What time ? "

" Erm ... Tomorrow ... Sometime tomorrow. "

" What time ? Are you in all day ? "

" Erm ... I dunno. Er ... Six O'clock. "

" What ? In the morning ? "

I laughed. " No ... Six O'clock in the evening. "

" Are you sure ? "

" Yeah ... I think so. "

" I'll ring you again tomorrow then. "

I thought on it for a few more seconds and decided that six wasn't actually convenient. " Nah, make it Nine O'clock. "

" What ? "

" Not in the evening. Nine O'clock in the morning. A.M. " 

" Alright ... I'll ring you again at Nine O'clock. "

" Good ... "

" I've got to go ... There's someone at the door. "

" Uh ? I muttered. " Someone at the door ... At this time ? "

" Yeah, I've got to go. It's been really nice talking to you. What's your name again ? "

" John. "

" Yeah ... I'll ring you again John. "

Click ... Burrrrrrrrr ... She hung up and I replaced the receiver. 

My heart was pumping hard and I felt elated, but I wasn't sure why. I slowly slinked back to my bed. I checked my digital clock; one-twenty-one, precisely. I didn't sleep much, I couldn't.

I continuously tossed and turned. Only one thing filled my mind. Claire ... I had a prolonged, delighted feeling.

By the time daylight arrived, I hadn't slept at all since I'd spoken to her. When I climbed out of my bed at around seven-thirty, I was still thinking about her. I hadn't even thought of taking her number ... Why not ?

I waited two days obsessively for her to ring. She didn't. I never thought to ask for her number nor did I have a method to identify this.

However, I was never to receive that call.

Copyright John Abbott

 

Guy Fawkes Remembered

 Guy Fawkes Remembered

By Sis Unsworth

The flames so high did light up the sky, so well I do remember,

Way back then in the old East End, every 5^th of November.

Families would meet in their own backyard, to savour the fun of the night.

Others would gather round a huge bonfire, they’d built on an old bombsite.

There was no health and safety then, and the fireworks gave such thrills,

from high flying rockets that went off bang, to the colourful Catherine wheels.

Children would build their own Guy Fawke’s, then ask a penny for the Guy,

That would help pay for fireworks, they would use to light up the sky.

But the best bit I loved for the old folks, was something I now understand,

It’s great to just sit by a bonfire, with a large glass of beer in your hand!

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

WHO IS THIS MAN? 01

     

The Temporal Displacement Machine

    “I know he’s a genius and all that, but did you understand anything he said in that lecture?” Two students descended the steps of the auditorium together towards the platform at the front, arms laden with books,.

    “Well, Jennings, what did you expect? Physics at this level was never going to be easy”.

    “I expect a teacher who can actually teach! Not a genius whose knowledge is locked away behind those tiny oval spectacles he wears. What’s more, I now have an hour's worth of tutorial with him, alone. Wish me luck, Bamford!”

    “Then do, try to stay awake, for heaven’s sake. I must admit it was rather dull; I almost dropped off myself. They say he can become quite animated when you get him alone and on a subject that he’s really passionate about. Some people are just not good in front of a large audience, too introverted, I expect”.

    “He didn’t look up from his notes once during the whole lecture”. The clock chimed the quarter hour. 

Bamford glanced at his watch and said, “You had better be off, Jennings; everyone knows he’s a stickler for timekeeping”.

    “Yes, I know, he was very insistent that I come exactly on time. ‘Do not be late, Jennings, even by one minute, do you hear?’ Softly spoken though he is, he almost barked at me. Very unlike him, I thought, a bit alarming actually. Oh well, I had better go; perhaps I can salvage something on temporal displacement theory from him after all, if I can keep awake. Where are his rooms?”

    “He lives alone in college, south-east staircase. Did you know he was the youngest don in the history of Trinity, so I read somewhere. Spends all his spare time playing with pointless inventions that don’t work!”

    At exactly five and twenty past eleven, Jennings knocked on the heavy door; a small brass label read, Professor Nicholas Butterworth BSc PhD.

    “Enter”. Came the reply in a clipped, precise English accent from somewhere deep within. As he pushed open the door, a blaze of morning sunlight caught his eyes. The aroma of old books, polished oak panelling and an assortment of dusty old leather chairs filled his nostrils. A familiar smell, which gave him a sense of foreboding. And, like the pipe tobacco which hung in a cloud, it made him feel slightly befuddled. A blackboard was covered in drawings and calculations, scribbled and crossed out as if in a frenzy of thought.

    “Ah, Jennings, please come in,” said Professor Butterworth from behind a large desk. There on the desk sat a whirring, quietly humming machine about the size of a large clock with all the mechanism exposed. The thing emitted a pale violet light and pulsated with what felt like barely contained electrical energy. The professor did not look up as he adjusted small brass dials, making meticulous notes in a thick leather-bound book. He wrote with an old fountain pen in a small, neat script without unnecessary flourish. The notes covered the whole page in precise lines of even lettering. Once he had finished, he sprang to his feet with surprising agility and said,

    “Sit yourself down, Jennings.” But the student was staring, open-mouthed at the fascinating machine.

    Butterworth surveyed his pupil, and slowly sat on the corner of the desk, removed his spectacles, placing one arm into his mouth absent-mindedly. A suppressed smile played across his face, as if he could barely contain a secret. The student sank into an armchair, mesmerised by the fascinating object. Wheels and cogs were spinning like a tiny model of the solar system.

    “Yes, it’s quite a marvellous thing to behold, if I say so myself”. As he spoke, his face lit up with boyish enthusiasm, very unlike the rather expressionless, dry and dusty delivery he gave in his lectures. “Have you guessed what it is yet, Jennings?”

    “No sir, I, I don’t think I...”

    “Come now, Jennings, you have attended my Lectures.” Pointing, he said, “That part is a Faraday Cage. It’s the containment field into which any object may be transmitted”. The young professor took out a half-hunter watch from his waistcoat pocket and began counting down. The clock in the Great Court outside began to chime. Pointing a long finger at the wire container at the base of the machine, he said, “Look.” A blaze of bright light, a small pop and a silver cigarette case appeared inside.

    “Why, that’s mine!” Jennings exclaimed, getting to his feet, “I lost it a month ago. It was a gift from my father for gaining a place at Trinity. I was rather reluctant to tell him I had lost it”.

    “Oh, you didn’t lose it, Jennings, I stole it!”

    “You, you stole it. But why, sir?”

    “Congratulate me, Jennings, I have finally succeeded in creating a Temporal Displacement Machine. After years of failure, I have at last refined the targeting mechanism to a precise instance in time.

    “Was it you then, behind all those thefts in college last month?”
    “Yes, yes!” he said dismissively. “It was all part of the experiment I have been conducting”. He then strode around his desk, picked up his book, scanned through his notes and said,

    “Here it is. I stole your cigarette case on the fifth of May nineteen hundred and twelve, placed it into this device and sent it to today at exactly half past eleven. As you can see, it has just reappeared. For a whole month it has existed, but outside of time.

    “Err, I, I don’t quite follow, err, existed where, sir. How can a thing be in space but not in time?”

    “Come now, Jennings, don’t you see, I have created what is commonly known as a time machine. The possibilities are endless. This, of course, is only a prototype. I am having a full-size working machine constructed in the basement of the physics laboratory, and soon it will be finished”.

    Several months later, a crowd of students waited outside the lecture hall, but Professor Butterworth did not show up. Rumours were rampant: had he drowned in the River Cam, had he run off to America with the Dean’s daughter. This was the favourite theory among students, but this seemed very unlikely for a timid man like Butterworth. Or perhaps he had been murdered. He was known to be conducting secret experiments for years; had one of these gone horribly wrong, was he lying dead somewhere in college?

    Only Jennings suspected the truth. Time travel takes its toll on the body; just ask Prof. Stephen Hawkins of Cambridge.

Copyright Christopher Mathews – October 2026