The road not taken

Christopher Mathews

Of all the powerful human emotions, love, hate, anger or resentment, regret is one of the most destructive. It lingers in the unexplored corners of the soul for a lifetime like a maggot silently chewing over the ‘other choice,’ the one I did not take. The heart always wonders,

“what if…”

The imagination longingly looks across to the road not taken from the road we did.

Leaving school is a bit like diving from a high board into a vast unknown ocean, who knows where the tide will take us.

It all started when I saw the hand scrawled note on my school bulletin board. It was buried among the glossy career opportunity literature.

“Have you thought about a career in… banking, insurance or finance?”

“Get a trade, Britain needs carpenters, plumbers, bricklayer and butcher’s.” But this note read,

“16-year-old deck hands wanted to serve aboard the three masted schooner, the, TS Tradewind.

 “Two years before the mast. Must be fit and agile, not prone to sea sickness or afraid of heights. Learn to navigate by the stars, see the world, become a man,

signed, Captain CT Kestrel RN (retired).

Apply in person by eight bells, 1^st June 1962 at the TS Tradewind. Royal Naval Docks – Portsmouth.”

The three of us stared at the small note. Micky Binns stood to attention and saluted stiffly in mock respect, then laughed - fit to burst.”

“What a stuck-up prat,” he said, and carried on laughing.  “Captain Pugwash RN retired.” Again, he saluted. “Eight bells – what’s eight bells anyway?”

But we didn’t laugh. Jim and I stared hard at the note, and he said,

“Do you know what eight bells means?”

But I was not listening, in my imagination, I was already at sea, climbing the mizzen mast to set canvas or battling a fierce southerly gale. Or sitting in the Crowsnest at midnight, under a cloudless inky black sky, a gentle wind creaking in the rigging as we glide along a smooth bottomless sea, a perfect mirror of the heavens above.

“Do you think it’s real? The note I mean,” said Jim. I was suddenly jerked out of my imagination and back to school. Jim was my best friend at school; we did everything together, always have.

“We could both go to sea.” He said, excitement lit up his face. But then it fell like a deflating balloon and said, “no, I can’t, my dad wants…”

“Real!” bellowed Micky, “don’t be stupid, ‘course it’s not real, it’s a prank! – it’ll be someone in the upper sixth – Snotty Bulstrode, like as not - Looks like his scrawl.”

But Jim was enthralled by the idea of going to sea. His father was a solicitor and wanted him to follow in the family profession or even become a barrister. Not an Italian bloke who makes posh coffee either.

“He said I have to get all A’s, go to a top university and then...”

“What about Portsmouth, that’s a very old university? And, we could meet with Captain CT Kestrel RN retired and see the ship for ourselves at the same time.”

“Not good enough for my father. Anyway, it’s not a real university, just a technical college.”

“Come on Jim, we could get the late train down, sleep in a carriage when the guards aren’t looking, see the ship and be back on the milk train.”

“I don’t know, my Father…”

“…Won’t ever know. Anyway, It’s not up to him, it’s up to you! It’s your life, not his. You must choose your own road. Not him!” He thought for a moment, then smiling, he said, “There are no roads at sea you fool,” and we both laughed.

Rummaging in my father’s attic many years later, I found a box of my old school diaries. I turned to the date; 1^st June 1962. I had written a note that night, so very long ago now;

Our first sight of the ship was breath-taking! It was tied up on the dockside amidst Royal Navy battleships, vast, grey steel ships, frigates, destroyers and even a submarine. These modern vessels dwarfed the three masted schooner, but it outshone all of them in pure grace and splendid majesty!

The tang of the sea was mixed with the smell of hot iron and grease from the ships and gantries lining the dockside. But among all that was another aroma; tarred rigging, fresh deck varnish and the rich exotic smell of ships planking made from old Teak.

Even from the quayside we could hear the booming, gravely voice of Captain Kestrel, it couldn’t be anyone else. He barked out clear unambiguous orders in a voice used to compete with the roaring of the wind and the crashing of the sea. His face was bronzed and weatherbeaten. A white beard and straggly hair under a sun-bleached captain’s hat was set awry on his head.  He had the most piercing blue eyes I had ever seen. When he noticed us, he mopped the sweat from his brow, grabbed a small notebook, strode across the deck and swung from the rattling shrouds and with a light bound was standing on the gunwales looking down upon us. He was at least sixty, but he had one of those ageless lively faces, both old and boyish at the same time.

‘Well now, what has the tide washed up today.’ He said in a brisk commanding but not unkind voice. A small knot of us, five nervous boys stood close together on the quayside staring up at the old man. He looked like a giant holding on to the rigging with one hand, swinging back and forth slightly as if still at sea. He beamed down at us.

‘Come aboard lads, and we will explore all the oceans of the world together. If you join my crew, you will see wonders that no one else has ever seen. I could tell you of the great Leviathan, the kraken, of beautiful mermaids and deadly sirens, of ghost ships and lost islands where pirate treasure lay hidden waiting to be discovered.’ He laughed a hearty laugh, and said, ‘what about it lads, which of you will come to sea. Bosun, bring me the ships log, if you please.’

The deep wrinkles in his face showed that he was well used to smiling and the sun had blessed him with well-worn contours like the waves and troughs of the sea. He was not at all as I expected.

There was much more written, but I closed the book gathered up all the other diaries and climbed down the loft ladder. Tucked inside many of the diaries were dozens of old dusty letters from my school friend Jim. The envelopes bore the stamps from all over the world.

In a quiet moment, I would sit alone in my Lincoln’s Inn Chambers between complex legal cases, read these letters and weep; for the road not taken.

Copyright Christopher Mathews. June 2026

 

Emotions 02

Emotions 02 

Barbara Thomas 

When you are young, growing up, there could be a mixture of emotions.

Not wanting to go to school in case the bully is there today, emotion fear.

Teenage years, 1st boyfriend, girlfriend, finding out that person doesn’t want to see you anymore for a girl tears, for a boy hidden tears materializing in anger.

That’s what emotions are to so many people: 

Happy

Sad

Depressed

In love

Out of love

Bewildered

Marriage

Birth of a child

Menopause

Birth of grandchildren and great grandchildren.

End of a relationship

Divorce

Loss of a partner

Grieving

 

As you grow up you try to come to terms with all your emotions good/bad.

We live in a country that doesn’t encourage Emotions; best keep a stiff upper lip, in case you offend. 

As old age creeps up on you the Emotions felt are overwhelming, loss of partner, siblings, family friends.

But on a happier note the birth of your grandchildren and their children, your great grandchildren. 

It’s a battle with a world that has no place for emotions and when you reach a certain age then you become invisible.

Barbara Thomas

 Sarah’s Marathon 

By Sis Unsworth 

Sara often did recall, the Marathon she’d run

The first they held in London in 1981

Had she run from Blackheath, to Constitution Hill?

She must confess the memory, still gave her quite a thrill.

The 29^th of March, began the great tradition,

Where many like her, would complete a life’s ambition.

Although the years have quickly passed, it often brings a smile,

She even joined a running club, and stayed there for a while.

But time brought on changes, from what she’d done before

With age something you loved, can turn into a chore.

So Sarah moved her goalposts in, and joined a walking club,

They all meet up on Saturdays, and walk down to the Pub.

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

                               

ABORTED CALL

Peter Woodgate

It’s like this officer

I’ve found my wife in bed

With all this red stuff over her

I think she may be dead.

I don’t think she is breathing

Sometimes it’s hard to tell

She doesn’t often get aroused

And just makes my life Hell.

She says she might well have sex

With a robot or a dummy

And when I tell the blokes at work

They think it’s bloody funny.

But it’s not, I’m telling you

Cos she just sends me packing

I’m pretty good at foreplay

It’s after that I’m lacking.

What’s that you say , feel for her pulse,

Ok I’ll see if I can

This red stuff It’s all sticky

Hang on I think it’s jam.

Good God her eyes have opened

Sorry what did you say?

No officer ignore this call

I forgot it’s my BIRTHDAY.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

Emotions 01 ~ homework (Flash fiction 600 words)

 Emotions  ~ homework (Flash fiction 600 words)

By Len Morgan 

I saw Michelle in Tesco’s today.  I thought I’d put all of that behind me.  I thought I was free of her; I’d cried until I was all drained out; I felt empty, yet every time I thought of her, tears leaked from my eyes again, and my brain became overwhelmed by the hurt and anger. After ten months, I thought she couldn’t possibly hurt me any more. But, the pain still returns every time I think of her, thoughts and memories are things I now have to guard against. 

   Then in Tesco’s she looked directly at me, her expression was blank, there was no recognition in her eyes.  We’d been a couple for two years, then she met her Ex, Bruce, and it was as if we’d never met, never shared our private secrets, never shared intimate moments of love.  

   She didn’t tell me she was breaking up with me, she just stopped answering my calls, never explained that I was just an infatuation, just cut me off!  Pictures of us together were deleted from her ‘Face Book Page’ replaced by pictures of her, Bruce, and their child. That was before she blocked me completely from her face book.  I watched her as she left the store; Bruce was outside with the baby in a buggy. 

   After nine months, in limbo I thought I was over her.  I even believed I could start dating someone else, but now I’m crying myself to sleep again.  It didn’t help when I met her friend Valerie who mentioned that she’d met Michelle in the high street.  She said Michelle had a baby in a buggy, she looked pale and had a bruise on her cheek. Then Valerie delivered the killer blow, she said the baby was the spitting image of me…

 

Copyright Len Morgan

PLEASE, SHOW ME YOUR GLORY

 PLEASE, SHOW ME YOUR GLORY    

By Jeffrey Porter 

I saw Moses, beckoning to me,

Asking if I would like to stand beside him

On the rock where he stood.   

Abandoning my fear of height, I began climbing.

I never saw rock climbing as a sport,

Moses kept shouting to me climbing techniques.

 

Indefatigably, my strength, endurance, agility, and Balance were severely tested;

Climbing over gigantic shelves of rocks,

Like a small penguin on a cliff

I have become a rockhopper.

 

I am perched on one of the sharpest of these rocks;

Exasperatingly, I am panting and grunting

With exhaustion.

 

It was a supernatural feat.

Exhilaratingly, I finally reached the summit -

Outstripping the range of mortal sight

Standing beside Moses.

I always wanted to stand on the rock where Moses Stood.

The scenery was picturesque; breathtaking, it was a Stunning panoramic view.  

I saw a magical array of thousands and tens of thousands

Of tiny, twinkling lights

I spoke with Moses for a moment

I saw the Phoenix rising from the ashes

I saw fields and fields of scarlet roses

And romancing eagles. 

Moses had a longing for the promised land

Where he belonged.

Copyright Geoffrey Porter

 

Note:

In Greek mythology the phoenix is an indomitable bird that was said to burn itself to death in a fire every five or six centuries and be born again rising from the ashes.  

 

 

The best laid plans

 The best laid plans

By Christopher Mathews

 

The best laid plans of mice and men often fail and fail again.

They come to naught or grief or pain - but the world goes round and round the same

 

Such is all their worth

 

The fieldmouse builds her home in vain, just before the ploughman came

to strip the soil, her straw built shed and leave her tiny offspring dead.

 

Beneath the naked earth

 

‘House for sale, with mountain scenes, on the shores of Tyrrhenian Seas.

Herculaneum, a seaside town’ - built on hubris - that deadly ground.

 

A city built on mirth

 

Fool! the man who builds on sand and takes not heed for how he plans

Come soon or late, our end will come and what is left of all we’ve done?

 

Unless you have new birth

 

-o0o-

The above was inspired by the Robert Burns poem, To a Mouse.)

 

Copyright Christopher Mathews, June 2026

THE EVICTION

THE EVICTION 

By Peter Woodgate

 

Whilst dozing by the telly and well into a dream

Tranquility was shattered by a piercing scream

It seems Jo’s mum telephoned to say she’d seen a mouse

She wasn’t going to sleep a wink what’s more she’d sell the house.

When Jo regained composure she said don’t worry mum

Pete will come right over armed with torch and gun.

So, off I go to Tallow Gate to exorcise the beast

Being told it was quite big, two foot six at least.

When I get there Mum’s in the chair her skirt up to the light

“Can you see it?” She remarks, not a pretty sight.

“It went into the hall,” she says, as big as a bloody cat.

“Where did it come from? Where’s it gone? Do you think it is a rat?

And so with torch in hand I search each darkened place

And then inside the bathroom I see a tiny face

It’s poking out beside the bin, I have him now, I think

But out the little bleeder shoots, he’s quicker than a blink.

Down the hall and round the bend and into mums bedroom

I’ll never get him now, I’m sure, that’s what I assume

But just in time, help arrives, and Tony’s there on cue

“Well, what’s the score, how big is it and what is there to do?”

I saw that Tony came prepared and ready for the crunch

But with gloves and tea-towel I thought it more like lunch.

The tea-towel proved a master stroke and we cornered him at last

Pity that we wrecked the room and smashed a pane of glass.

We wrapped him in that tea-towel that scared and lonely mouse

And Tony set him free outside evicted from Big Momma’s house.

So in future if you see a rat or tiny mouse

Just call out catchers Pete and Tone no need then to grouse.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

  

Little Miss Jone’s Eviction (100 Word Flash)

 Little Miss Jone’s Eviction 

By Sis Unsworth

Little Miss Jones was feeling extremely anxious. It seemed

her life was changing as she was about to be evicted

after living there a short time. She loved her own space

and had everything she needed. Without warning they wanted her out. 

What had she done? She hadn’t bothered anyone

and now they were physically evicting her. Where could she find

another place like this? She began to get extremely angry

and gave out a large screaming sob, in desperation

then found herself pushed into a strange environment…

Where a voice said, “Mrs Jones it’s a beautiful baby girl!”

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

Sandcastles 02

 Sandcastles 02

By John Abbott

Pretty little things created on the beach

Almost out of reach

Decorated with shells

The stories that relate to those moments, it dwells

And a moat surrounding

with all the noises sounding

Of the gentle flow of waves

Is often all that one craves

 

Like life, it is constant, never-ending

Always in the winds, bending

Build, create, decorate, the children imagining stories

And delighting in great glories

You grow from there to imagine dreams and futures

For you to think about experiences

However, it often deals with disappearances

The waves on the sand causing ripples

Maybe you need to realise

That this often ends, destined to capsize

As the tide gets heavier

Maybe its just a little merrier

It is after all, an epiphany

You go along with the ride

And as we all know, it all washes away with the tide

 

Copyright John Abbott

PETRIFIED

 PETRIFIED

Peter Woodgate

“Where on earth has it gone?” Mary fumbled around in her pockets searching for for the tickets she had bought just 5 minutes earlier. Suddenly a feeling of de ja vu overcame her. 

“Can I help you?” a mysterious stranger appeared from nowhere. 

“No thank you,” Mary replied abruptly.

“Are you sure, you look so distressed,” the strangers voice had an air of calmness in it and Mary felt rather embarrassed as she continued to search in the pockets of her overcoat and jacket. She had agreed to meet her friend

but she had not turned up, hence the reason for Mary’s distress. 

“Perhaps this is what you are looking for?” 

Mary glanced at the outstretched gloved hand and, there they were, the admission tickets for Madam Tussauds. 

Feeling rather stupid Mary mumbled a “thank you” adding “I must have dropped them, how silly of me.” 

She found herself gazing into the eyes of the stranger,

They were dark, very dark and, as she studied his clothing,

the feeling of de ja vu crept up on her once again. 

He was wearing a top hat, a bow tie with a dress shirt, a dinner jacket with tails and striped trousers. How odd, she thought, as she retrieved the tickets from the gloved hand of the unusual looking stranger that stood before her. 

Mary thanked him again and was about to enter the exhibition when she felt his hand on her shoulder.

She spun around quickly as he spoke. 

“Allow me to accompany you, I can be your personal guide.

I am an expert on everything there is to know about all the exhibits. I am practically part of the furniture.” 

Although feeling awkward Mary thought she owed him something for finding her tickets and stammered an OK. 

As they wandered around the stranger, who had now introduced himself as Albert, clearly had vast knowledge of all the figurines they encountered. He was able to convey every last detail of each exhibit and, it appeared, before too long they had visited all but the Chamber of Horrors. 

Mary had not intended visiting this part and when she looked at her watch, she was aware that the exhibition would shortly be closing. Albert, however, insisted they visit this famous old section and she found herself gazing through bars at grisly scenes of murder and debauchery.

Suddenly, Mary Was aware that they were alone in what was now becoming a very spooky place. “I think we ought to be making our way back,”

she spoke nervously, “it will be closing shortly.” 

“There is just one more exhibit I need to show you,”

Albert ushered Mary along the corridor until they reached the final enclosure.

“ But there’s nothing in there,” Mary exclaimed, and was about to turn around when she felt herself being pushed

through the unlocked enclosure door. 

“What the Hell,” Mary had no time to finish her sentence before she felt the knife as it was thrust into her abdomen.

The feeling of de ja vu again swept over her as she slumped to the floor catching sight of Albert leaning over her before she passed out.

She came to and looked up at the figure still crouched over her, she recognized the clothes as those worn by Albert but she couldn’t see his face.

There was a spotlight shining down on Mary but his face was turned away toward the shadows. 

He didn’t move, she tried to, but couldn’t. She screamed

but no sound came out of her mouth, she was rigid. 

It was the following day and some early visitors had made their way to the Chamber of Horrors. Helen and her boyfriend Tom had been excited but shuddered at some of the exhibits on view. They were regular visitors to Madam Tussauds and for some reason loved the horror of squeamish scenes.

“Look Tom,” Helen turned to her boyfriend in excitement,

There’s a new exhibit.

They looked at the board which showed the details. 

JACK THE RIPPER WITH ONE OF HIS VICTIMS

MARY JANE KELLY 9th NOVEMBER 1888

“But you can’t see his face” Helen remarked disappointedly

“That’s because they don’t know for sure who he was,” Tom replied rather smugly.

 “Oh look at that poor woman’s face,” Helen sighed,

“It looks so real, there’s even a tear in her eye.”

 

A Scream was heard throughout the corridors of Hell…

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

  

26.2 (500 Words Flash)

 

26.2

By Jane Scoggins 

 I didn’t feel fit. I was anxious, and nervous. I took deep breaths. I felt sick.  I put one foot in front of the other and hoped for the best. I was jostled, surrounded by noise from thousands. I began to move forward. I got into a rhythm. Blue sky. I kept going. People around me still jostling. Some running, some jogging, some dressed weirdly attracting attention. I jogged on. Right and left people behind barriers shouting and calling, hundreds of them. Banners and waving arms. I jogged on. People passed me by, running. It was a warm day, my mouth was dry. I jogged on and on and on. An hour gone. I can see the Cutty Sark. More people passed me, some older, some younger. I slowed to a walk. Ahead a table with bottled water, I took one. I carried on.  Over the river Thames, and a sign saying HALF WAY. Towards Docklands I was so weary. I ate a protein bar. My legs were tired. I walked on. I wished it was over. I carried on in a dreamlike state, willing myself  to continue. I found mental strength from somewhere in my depths. It kept me going. I shut my mind to everything, including tiredness. It was hard but I was determined now. I stopped for another drink of water, must keep hydrated. I sucked on a barley sugar. I looked at my watch. Three hours had passed. I was surprised I had survived this far. It gave me incentive to believe I could carry on. My feet were tired as well as my legs, but no blisters. I was pleased with myself. I found myself smiling back at people. I was determined. Four hours passed. My legs were heavy. I often slowed to a walk or stopped altogether. I was hot, There were others around me dawdling same as me, we gave each other encouragement with a smile or kind word. It felt good. Eventually I saw a huge sign ahead that read WELL DONE, ONLY 5 MORE MILES TO GO. I felt rejuvenated. I was determined to enjoy those last five miles. I was going to make it after all. Tower Bridge and the roar of the crowd was amazing and incredibly loud After more than six hours I was approaching Buckingham Palace, The Mall and the finish line. So happy to have made it, I shed a few tears as I received my medal from a smiling official who saw my exhausted happy face and gave me a little hug of congratulation. My legs were weak, my spirits high. Putting the surprisingly heavy medal around my neck I gave it a kiss and held it up to the sky and whispered ‘For you Max’. Max was a fit twenty six year old when he died suddenly from a heat attack. He will be forever missed and loved. I was running for him in aid of Cardiac Risk in Young Adults. CRY.

Copyright Jane Scoggins