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?

     

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

ADVICE

 ADVICE

By Peter Woodgate 

He said, chill out,

Go meditate

And take no notice,

Of the lunacy

That surrounds the world today.

 

My answer to him was:

 

That I could rid my mind of those

Damn thoughts of  blind hypocrisy

And meditate instead and choose

Each one with positivity

I would be one, with greater mind

And innocent philosophy

Who slept without the worlds harsh truth

But then, that one would not be me.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

WHO IS THIS MAN?

 

WHO IS THIS MAN?

Write a characterisation based on this image. Between 500 and 1000 words.

A Day Remembered

A beautiful Spring day, and the pretty village was buzzing with activity. A stranger in the village always got noticed by the well-heeled ladies who lunch and shop at their leisure. So when Megan parked her car and started to walk along the High Street there were sidelong glances. They were discreet looks, and Megan was not at all aware. An affluent area, the hanging baskets around and about were stuffed full and overflowing with the abundance of narcissi, pansies, crocus and primroses. She had read in a magazine at the hairdressers that there was a new bridal shop recently opened that sold beautiful dresses, some handmade. She had driven the 12 miles from home to have a look. She was not familiar with the village, but liked what she saw as she started to casually stroll. Bigger than she had anticipated, the High Street had a number of well-presented independent shops. When she saw the pale pink and white paintwork of Wedding Belles, she looked in the window and was immediately blown away by the dress on display. Pure white lace and silk with such gorgeous embroidered detail, and tiny pearls on the bodice. She could not help but stand and take it all in for several minutes. The dress of her dreams. Without hesitation, she stepped inside the shop and was greeted by the young woman at the desk, adjusting pale pink roses in a crystal vase. The lighting was soft and the carpet cream and luxurious. Megan was relieved she had dressed smartly and paid attention to her clothes, hair and makeup. She felt she had stepped into another world of exclusivity, a fairytale, and was so happy. The young woman stepped forward and welcomed Megan with a smile. Megan could not think of anything to say except ‘Wow, I love your shop’ as she surveyed the velvet armchair and wedding dresses hanging on a rail under the soft light of a crystal chandelier. Feeling like a schoolgirl with a crush, Megan felt a bit overwhelmed. She had waited so long for this day when she would walk into a bridal shop and be surrounded by glorious dresses in such luxurious surroundings. But she had not anticipated the strength of her emotion. 

The young woman Carolyn, was clearly pleased by the impact on Megan and, smiling, replied ‘Thank you, I have dreamed for the last two years of opening my own bridal shop. My Grandmother lives in the village, and when she told me this shop had become vacant, I knew it would be perfect. It has taken me three months to prepare and decorate, and I love it. Three hard months, as I did it mostly by myself. I do some of the sewing and alterations too, so I am a Jack, or should I say Jill, of all trades. Her tinkle of happy laughter was infectious, and Megan relaxed. Before long Megan had looked at all the dresses on the rail and asked if she could try two of her favourites, together with the one in the window. Carolyn was really helpful and attentive, giving her lots of encouragement and telling her, quite truthfully, that she looked lovely. Two of the dresses would need a little adjustment if she were to choose one of them, but Carolyn, with a pincushion on her wrist, was on hand to pin and tuck and assure her that the alterations could be done very easily within a day. Feeling more confident, Megan asked if she could try on a veil and a crystal tiara. Carolyn was immediately at her side with a selection, delighted that a sale was almost certain. Megan really did look good in her dresses and was thinking she would ask her if she could take some photos for her promotional material. Megan could not quite decide on which dress she liked most, so agreed to return the following week to try them on again.

Outside the shop, Megan was still on cloud 9 as she walked to where she had parked the car.

Sitting quietly before starting the ignition, she thought about how she had dreamt for a long time about the day she would choose a beautiful wedding dress, choose the perfect venue and reception and walk down the isle as a bride. She was still deep in her thought when her mobile phone rang in her handbag. It was her mother.

‘Megan? Where are you?

‘I’m out in the car, why? There was a pause before her mother replied

‘Because you were supposed to be back here nearly an hour ago’

‘Oh, sorry Mum, time just slipped away’

‘Well, hurry back, will you. I've been worried about you’

‘I’m OK, Mum, really I am’

‘OK, love, but hurry up so we aren’t late’

‘Late?

‘Yes, for the church..You know, Martin’s memorial service?’

Silence

‘Are you there, Megan?’

‘Yes, Mum, I’m on my way’

Megan slumped in the seat and felt her emotions rise to the surface, and she became tearful.

As soon as she was composed, Megan drove home, and her mother greeted her with a hug and a cup of tea, before they sombrely set off for the church.

Sandwiched between her Mum and Dad, Megan wept into a series of handkerchiefs passed to her by her mother throughout the service. The music and the flowers were beautiful, and Megan almost felt it could be a setting for a wedding.

After the service, she stood with her parents as family and friends came over to speak to her. She tried to make sense of it all as she heard them speak in hushed tones

‘So sorry, Megan’

‘ I’m here for you, Meg, if you need me’

‘Sorry for your loss, Megan.

‘ Martin will always be remembered love’

‘He was a good man, Megan, and loved you so much’

‘Such a tragedy Meg, he will be remembered in my prayers’

The words washed over her and taking her arm, Megan’s Mum led her to the car and home.

In her bedroom, Megan was left to rest, she seemed shell-shocked, although it had been a month since her fiancé had died in a tragic accident. They had been together six years.

There would be no one else for her, she was certain. He had always been the only one for her. She thought of the bridal shop and the joy that had been snatched away from her. She would never go back to that beautiful shop. What had she been thinking? Her dreams of being a bride would never be fulfilled. Her memories of those beautiful dresses and her joy of trying them on would be her only memory of what was not to be.

Copyright Jane Scoggins – October 2026

Summer of 69

 Summer of 69

By Jane Goodhew

Shakespeare may have written about our Winter of Discontent but for me, I prefer to remember the summer of free concerts and love in the Royal Parks in London.   It was 7^th June 1969 when four of us made our way to Hyde Park, the sun shone and over 100,000 people attended without any fights or disruptions just music, peace and love.    It was to herald the birth of the super group of rock and roll, Blind Faith whose members were like a list of Whose Who in music.

Eric Clapton guitarist, who it has been said was not happy with their performance due to lack of rehearsals.    Ginger Baker with his flame red hair was on drums, known from the Cream and Stevie Winwood vocalist from Traffic and also an organist. Then Rich Grech from the Family.   Unfortunately for them although they went individually to become famous Blind Faith only lasted a short time before disbanding.  Yet no one can take away the memories of their first ‘gig’ even if they were not sure of its success.  For those there it was brilliant.  How can anyone forget Ginger Baker with his mop of flaming red hair as he bashed away on his drums or Eric Clapton who appeared to be both unsure and yet confident in front of 100-125,000 people.  They did not perform until after 5pm but the crowd just waited patiently enjoying the lead up to it with Donovan making an impromptu appearance and Mick Jagger and his then girlfriend Marianne Faithful amongst the crowd at the back of the stage. ‘Under my Thumb’ being sung in recognition of Mick’s presence and Mick would later that year have his own concert at Hyde Park but for me this was my first and last.

                        

                                     

I do not remember the other bands although Richie Havens, Edger Broughton Band and Third Ear Band played, I have to confess I haven’t a clue as to any songs they may have sung that day or since.   I was more into Talma Motown but had gone along for the experience and will never regret doing so.   The 60s were a memorable time even if ‘they ‘whoever ‘they’ are, say if you remember it then you were not really there.   I was there throughout the whole decade but that day of blue skies, the occasional cloud, sunshine and peace was the most memorable.

The 60s were remembered by many for flower power, hippies and free love but I was still in my mid-teens and more into freedom and ‘love’ in the broadest sense of the word as I was very much one of life’s innocents.  I doubt if my parents even knew where I was as I had a fairly Victorian upbringing in many ways as my dad would turn the TV off if anyone so much as kissed which as we mainly watched The News, Panorama, University Challenge, Coronation Street and Dad’s Army in those days there was not much to offend his sensitive mind or corrupt his children!  I somehow think if he had known where I was going I probably would not have been allowed and my mother had been known to lock me in my bedroom.  Rather a waste of time as we lived in a bungalow and I was more than capable of climbing out of the window.

I can still see our merry little band as we met outside Leigh Station to get the train to London and find our way across to Hyde Park.  Until about a decade ago I thought a throng of a few thousand had attended but it was well over 100,000.  It hardly gained a mentioned in the newspapers although the DJ John Peel thought it was the best of the Free Concerts that took part in the Royal Parks.   It was almost as if it had been a hazy dream, I had worn a bright red French Connection jumper and a very short mini skirt, the love beads, long dresses and hair which I hid behind came later in the 70s.  But this was the end of the 60s and as we all packed together in the midday sun I began to appreciate how warm it was and Mick not of the Jagger fame kindly removed his bright yellow shirt and let me wear it.  

I can still remember, not every moment but if I close my eyes can be transported back there and feel the warmth not just from the sun but all those that were there that day.  The small stage swamped by the group and their equipment, the inadequate speakers which meant the noise levels were not too loud which suited me.  I sometimes wonder what became of Mick and his yellow shirt or the others that made up our little band of freedom lovers.  I know my friend Sue who I kept in touch with through the decades sadly died in 2015 but I still see her sat in the Park, smiling and enjoying the moment as I sit in my own little park with the sun shining but instead of Blind Faith I hear the song of the birds, the buzz of the bee and the hum of the lawn mower in the distance and the radio blaring out from next door but I block that out and remember that day, No Winter of Discontent for me…

Copyright Jane Goodhew

 

                                    

THE REUNION?

 THE REUNION

Marion Anthony

 Jimmy sat on the train reminiscing about the time when he was evacuated with his younger sister Alice.
The smell of the smoke from the engine brought back such sad memories of him saying goodbye to his dear mother at Paddington Station. There was commotion and confusion amongst the crowds of sobbing children and tearful mother's. It was all so daunting!

He had not only had to contend with his own sorrow but also that of his sister, Alice who was four years younger. There were of course helpers on the train that tried to console the children at this particular sad time.

Jimmy was taken by the hand and led away with a helper. He became separated from Alice. He spent four years with his adopted family and never returned home to London to be reunited with his family. He stayed in Coventry and was educated there, by the end of the war.

That was forty two years ago. He searched for Alice through different agencies and services. It was amazing how quickly he received a letter telling him that a contact had been found.

He wrote to Alice after finding her address in Leeds. Their emotions emerged in the letters they exchanged, they were heartwarming and consoling.

Now suddenly here he was at Coventry Station, sitting on a train, similar to the one that Had brought him here in 1942.

The train started off and the smell of smoke through the carriage windows, reminded him of his sorrow at leaving their dear mother. He was on his way to Leeds to meet Alice. They had been parted for the past forty two years.

He had seen photographs of Alice, her husband and three children but only Alice would be there to greet him today.
He was alone in the world now after losing his dear wife Emily to cancer two years earlier; they had no children.

The train slowed as it pulled into Leeds Station. He pulled his coat on, collected his bag and left the train…

Copyright Marion Anthony

 

Sounds…

 Sounds…  (Flash Fiction)

Len Morgan

As I waited for the bus, I listened to the sounds around me, different engine sounds as a variety of cars passed by. 

“So I said to her…”

Phut~pop~phat~Pop~phut, a small single-stroke moped engine propelled an overweight man in his twenties.  He looked slightly ludicrous in a 1950s crash helmet & goggles.

“I don’t give a shit!  Don’t contradict me when…” 

A council lorry rattled by, filled with rubble & hardcore.  Its sound rose to a deep thrumming vibration that slowly melted into the general background…

“Jody you're so Fuckin…”

Nee naw nee naw, an ambulance demonstrated the Doppler effect as it sped by.

“Don’t call me ’shit fer brains’ you moron!”

An ice cream van went by playing the music to ‘I love to go a wandering…’

Slap! “You bitch…” 

The bus arrived emitting the smell of diesel, rattle, rattle, rattle, the door slid open & I got on, followed by Jody and the moron rubbing his red cheek. I took a seat.

“The next stop will be Castlemere Drive…”

I put on my earbuds and tuned into: ‘baby you can drive my car…’

Len

THE SWINGING SIXTIES 2

 THE SWINGING SIXTIES 

By Peter Woodgate

        Today I visited the scenes of my youth.

Paused, in the playground of my dreams and recalled,

               The swinging sixties.

 

The magic of Motown the Beatles and Stones

The Mods wearing mohair the Rockers in jeans.

 

Kensington High, Carnaby Street, and

The Kings Road for clothes and shoes for your feet.

 

The fashion of Quant, the hair of Sassoon,

The “Space race” was on, who’d be first to the moon?

 

The Beehive, the Minis, both car and the skirt,

The thin pointed shoes and button-down shirt.

 

The coffee all frothy the juke box alight,

You put in your money and danced through the night.

 

In sport, so it seemed, we were on the way up,

Euphoria struck when we won the World Cup.

 

I felt indestructible was joyful not sad,

My thoughts were of good ignoring the bad.

 

For I had a future no one good destroy,

I’d grown into a man from that small timid boy

 

 

Yes there was turmoil,  assassins and war,

But life was for living, it wasn’t a chore.

 

And so as I travelled through life’s ups and downs,

I remained optimistic with smiles and with frowns.

 

But as seasons pass quickly we tend to look back,

And I wandered those streets seeking something I lack.

 

So I sat on that seat, suspended by chain,

And gently pushed back, ……….I was swinging again.

     

Copyright Peter Woodgate

The swinging sixties 1

  

 I well remember the swinging sixties

By Bob French

I had been at the legal firm of Sedgwick and Humphries for six months and my employment review was coming up in three weeks’ time, so I was on my best behaviour. Even though I had gained two GCE Advance level passes, smarty and creepy pants Simon Smith had gained three GCE Advanced level passes and if that was not enough his uncle was one of the board members., so I knew I had to be particularly cunning and where possible, discredit the creep without attaching any blame to myself especially as there were only three candidates for one slot.

*****

          As I approached the tube station a young lad thrust one of the free London newspapers into my chest.  Without changing pace, I quickly folded it and stuffed it into my pocket, promising I would read it on the tube home, but didn’t as it was too crowded.  Then I remembered that Friday night was my favourite TV time when Coronation Street, followed by Eastenders was on the tele.

          As I made myself comfortable in front of the box, the telephone in the hall went off.  It was Graham, one of the lads who played in the same five a side footy team down at the gym on Sundays.

          “Yo, Billy, you still on for the game tomorrow at Frank’s place?”

          Frank, and Graham were my mates and we had planned to sit and watch the FA World Cup final on tele tomorrow afternoon.

          “Try and stop me you wazzuk.”

          “You still bringing the beers?”

          “Yep and I might bring some Pepsis.  You still buying the pizzas?”

          “Yeh, Is Harry coming? or has his bird got her talons into him and taken him shopping or something?”

          “Pass.  See you at two tomorrow mate.” Then the phone went dead.

          As I waited for Coronation Street to come on, I picked up the free London newspaper and quickly thumbed through it, only to stop and turn back a page. Tom Jones, The Rolling Stones and The Who were all on at the Palladium.  There was a number and before I had realised what I had done, I was through to the ticket office.

          “I’m terribly sorry but we sold the last ticket this morning.  I fell silent and closed my eyes.  My world had just come to an end as I gave a quiet groan.

          “Are you sure there is nothing left.  I have been waiting to watch these groups for ages.  Please could you have another look.”  Silence filled the telephone pressed against my ear, then her voice was on the phone.  I had already crossed my fingers and legs in hope that she might find an unsold ticket.

          “Hello.  Are you there?”

          “Yes, yes, I’m here.”

          “Look this is not supposed to happened, but I can squeeze you into the mosh pit if that’s all right?”

          “The mosh pit? Where’s that?”

          “It’s a wide-open space directly in front of the stage.  The view is brilliant, but the sound is deafening and at times it can get very violent.  On average, at least three or four people are carried out by the St. Johns Ambulance guys.

          A voice inside my head was already telling me to buy the ticket, but there was something in the back of my mind telling me not to.  Before I realised, I had told the young lady that I would buy the ticket. When I put the phone down, I felt as though I was on top of the world.

          Monday morning came and I woke with a funny feeling.  As though I had forgotten something important. I put it down to England beating West Germany, then remembered that I only had four beers and didn’t pass out, which was my usual party trick.

          It wasn’t until I sat and mindlessly watched the suburbs of London flash past my window on my way to work that it hit me and I swore out loud, causing a number of commuters to turn and stare at me. I had promised Mandy that I would take her to the Chinese Golden Dragon, one of the most prestige restaurants in the West End, for her birthday.  Which was on the same day as my great night out at the Palladium.

          I tried several excuses, but she rejected all of them and I could see the writing on the wall; Another failed relationship.  If this keeps up, I think I’ll try for the priesthood down at Ealing Abbey.  I laughed, but felt a horrible feeling that this future employment as a monk might actually come true, especially if I didn’t get the job at Sedgwick and Humphries.

          As the date of the gig drew nearer so my concentration started to wander.  All I could think about, was standing in the pit at arms-length from the groups on stage and sucking in the vibes, the music and the surroundings. Four hours of uninterrupted bliss I thought.

          Then at five thirty on the Friday before the gig, Simon and I were called into Mr. Sedgwick’s office, to be told that the third contender had pulled out leaving just us two.

          “I know it is at short notice, but the panel wants to put you under pressure, so I want you to write a 5000-word thesis on how to improve the office mail system by nine o’clock on Monday morning.

          “Excuse me Sir, do you mean this coming Monday morning?”

          Mr Sedgwick frowned at me. “Are you alright? Of course I mean Monday. If I asked you to have it done by a fortnight’s time it would defeat the point of putting you under pressure.”  His voice rose in volume matching his frustration with me.   

          At that point in my life, I felt that my prospects as a monk looked more attractive.

          I arrived at the door of the Palladium in good time, and once I showed my ticket, the usher told me to make my way down to the very front of the theatre.  When I got there the place was nearly full, so I just pushed my way in.  My eye caught a smart looking blond in a Twiggy mini skirt  and introduced myself.

          “Hello, my name is Bill. Have you come for the Stones?”

          “Jill, as she extended her hand.  No, Tom Jones.” Then suddenly the lights dimmed and the warm-up band, AC/DC, started and I noticed that those in the Mosh pit simply stood and stared.  When they finished, they made their exit and the trouper spot lights started to spin and flash across the stage as though winding up the expectations of what was to come. Suddenly the lights landed on Tom Jones as he appeared and the whole theatre erupted as he started to sing, then swing his hips causing the volume in the theatre, including the pit, exploded into one massive scream of hysteria.

          Part way through his routine, he started to move closer to the pit.  This ignited my wild and hysterical colleagues to rush towards the stage. A tall girl with pink hair barged past me; stopped, lifted her mini skirt, slipped off her knickers and threw them at Tom. I was a little shock having had a very conservative upbringing when it came to female relationships. Then I caught sight of Jill as she made her way towards me.  Without so much as an excuse me, she grabbed my shoulder and seem to be tugging at me. As I looked down, I could see that she was pulling down her knickers and was very unstable, so I leant into her and held her as she slipped out of them, then turned me around and lent on my back whilst she wrote her telephone number on them, then rushed towards the stage and threw her knickers at Tom, who caught them and smiled back at her. Everywhere I looked there were women frantically pulling down their knickers and throwing them onto the stage.

          Jill turned to me. “Come on then, get your Shreddies off.”

          Before I could protest, three of her mates had joined in the chant, so I quickly slipped my jeans off and pulled down my Spiderman underpants and threw them at Tom.  I was sure he pulled a frowned look at me. As I stood there with my John Thomas hanging in the wind, Jill laughed.

          “First time then” as she lifted her miniskirt to reveal a second pair of knickers. The night seemed to get more volatile as the crowds moved down into the isles and the hail of female garments increased. 

          On the tube back home that night I felt that I had fulfilled my dream, a dream I will remember for the rest of my days.

          At nine o’clock on Monday morning, I lay in my bed thinking of Simon, as he presented his thesis to old man Sedgwick and smiled.

          Then Jill turned over and gave me a long soft kiss. “Do you want breakfast again you naughty boy?”

 Copyright Bob French

 

RECOGNITION

 RECOGNITION

Peter Woodgate 

We can be right and yet be wrong

when not attuned to another’s song

and then at odds to understand

we let life slip like grains of sand

through fingers and without a sound

it gently mingles with the ground.

We realise then it’s too late to hide

the agony, caused by selfish pride.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

His Demise...

 DEATH

By John Abbott

It was dark , no moon , I could barely see my hand . My gloved hand tightened on the grip of my weapon , a small double-edged blade , six and a half inches of cold hard Sheffield steel . I must be conscious of not only trying to make as little noise as possible , but of not trying too hard , that only makes it less natural . I gritted my teeth , assuring myself that I could take him , that the sleek slim darkened metal could kill him , end his life and with it , his hopes , his dreams , his thoughts ....

A final word to myself .... now lad , go !!  My left knee took the strain and moved me cautiously upwards .


There he was , three large steps away , a low wall shielding his lower legs . He was about my height and seemed cold , his breath showing slightly in the night air . I glanced down , leaves in front of me , I made a full scan , left to right , couldn't see fuck !  right !  Here goes . Don't breathe Johnny old son , no intake of air , he might hear it .

I stepped into the abyss , into the darkness , one step , stop .... second step .... here goes .... it slowly occurred to me how could I stop him falling or making a sound ?

Without giving the idea a second thought , I stepped to him .


Left hand couldn't reach over to grab his headgear , so whilst moving forward , my right hand steered a piece of Sheffield into his left kidney , a tenth of a milli-second to withdraw the blade and now his helmet was in reach . Snap the helmet back SHIT !!!! , Bollocks !!! , No strap !!! , as his helmet calmly landed on my left thigh , my fingers tightened upon it , in the same moment , his head turned slightly left . Dear old Sheffield scored the winner , tight , hard , an inch and a half below his right ear lobe and up into his brain . Job done blade withdrawn in a second , I gently cradled his body , lowered it to the ground , claret all over the shop . I sat , cross-legged upon the wall and expelled my breath .


One-nil to England chum , I thought to myself . Not exactly a text book job , what was I doing ?  Should've realised the bloody strap , what a prat , that could have done for me ?  I hadn't heard any noise , too hyped-up, didn't matter now .


I raised myself , turned and stepped back three steps into my place of origin - the darkness .

As I wiped the blade upon the rag on my belt , my last thought was cold  I wondered what they'd tell his bird ?

 

Copyright John Abbott

Bay of Pigs

Do you remember…

Barbara Thomas

Let me take you back to the “swinging sixties.” If you are a baby boomer like me, this was our era. Mini skirts, vinyl records, Elvis Presley, Mods and Rockers, and many other moments. But that is not where my memory is leading me to:

This was the time of East meets West.

During this period, I was a young mother with a toddler and seven months pregnant with my second child, and, picture the scene, I am shopping in the high street, when I noticed a small crowd of people standing round the TV shop window; Having an inquiring mind, I edged towards the crowd. On the black and white TV, I heard the BBC newsreader saying that our prime minister, Harold Macmillan, would be making an important announcement.

I went to my parents’ home, really upset. Mum asked me if something had happened to me or my son, I blurted out what I had half heard a man saying that we will all be blown to smithereens. Mum settled me down on a chair and asked me what I was talking about. I explained that the Prime Minister would be talking to the nation at 6:00 pm that night.

At 5:55 pm we were ready to hear what the Prime Minister had to say at precisely 6,00 pm. I had brought my Grannie Smith in from next door.

The prime minister explained that as the Cold War was escalating, we must all prepare ourselves for the worst. We were told that every household would receive instructions from the government’s “protect and survive” campaign, which outlined highly specific steps for home survival. He went on to say that previously, during the year, the two leaders, J. F. Kennedy, the President of the United States and Soviet Premier of Russia, Nikita Khrushchev had met in Vienna, Austria. Letters had gone backwards and forwards where the newspaper called them “pen pals.” But the Cuban crisis changed all that; it was the moment that two superpowers came the closest to nuclear war.

Then, the Prime Minister said that everybody should stay glued to the radio for hourly updates, and that was that. The Prime Minister had spoken.

I was extremely frightened at the news and started to cry, mum being mum said “listen to me, I was born at the beginning of the first world war, my parents had to move twice after a zeppelin made a direct hit on both houses, then came the 30’s, everyone struggled to keep food on the table, and a roof over our heads. Poverty was all around us due to the general strike,

Followed by the second world war, where I was bombed out three times, one was when i was working at the Gaumont Picture House.

Mark my words, if your number is on it, that’s it!! All the worrying in the world will not make a ha’pence of a difference, so, dry your eyes and off home.”

N.b. The instruction leaflet explained that you unhinge your doors, have an allotted room, then stay as far as possible from the walls. Cover windows with blankets, rags with whatever you have available, and do not go out of the door.

Sirens will sound when the bombs are detected; take any necessary step to avoid the nuclear dust.

Some days later, after the superpowers were eyeballing each other, the Russian Soviet Premier was the first to blink and backed down leaving the President of the United States visually shaken. Agreements were hastily put together and signed. The President was heard to say that this was the worst thing to happen in my life.

The standoff was transmitted across the world.

This was my memorable moment…

Copyright, Barbara Thomas

Be the Character

 Be the Character

Len Morgan 

Constantin Stanislavski (1863~1938) was a Russian actor/director, known for the Stanislavki System of ‘Method Acting’ associated with many actors, Al Pacino, Robert De Niro, & Marlon Brando among them.

Stanislovski encouraged actors to question their characters:

 

1.      What does he/she want & Why?

2.      What is he/she thinking & feeling?

3.      How can you experience their circumstances?

4.      How would I behave in his/her skin?

5.      Live the Character!

 

I would suggest that budding authors could do the same.  When writing his/her story.  Give them a history, get under their skin!

 

Porter Wagoner the American Country Western star said:

“Before you judge a man walk a mile in his shoes.” 

Which to me seems good advice, try for empathy, see the world through their eyes.  People are complicated characters.

 

ORIGIN: When I look deeper I find Porter Wagoner was not first.

There is a poem by Mary T Lathrap “Judge Softly” 1895.

“Walk a mile in his Moccasins before you abuse criticise or accuse”

Aparently before that, it was an old Indian Proverb.

 Look up the poem "Judge Softly" It says all.  But for the grace of God go you or I.

 

Len Morgan

Little things mean a lot...

 OUR MUM AND DAD

Marion Anthony 

We had the best Mum and Dad of them all.
They gave us such love and we can recall the happy memories that we shared.

The love they both showed us and the way they cared;
We were definitely rich in love.

The joy one Christmas Eve, when we were small,
on that particular occasion, I was only three,
when dad came home from work, we dressed the Christmas tree;
He lifted me up in his arms, so tenderly,

and said 'Listen can you hear that?
My eyes sparkled as I imagined Santa on his way.
With the bells of Rudolph pulling his sleigh
And oh the smile on daddy's face,
it was a memory to treasure forever!
My imagination runs riot, caught up in the wonderment of  childhood.

The ride up to bed on dad's back, made us giggle,

when he put us in bed and told us not to wriggle
and the soft tone of his voice lulled us in to sleep.
Along with the feeling of contentment and deep feeling of security in knowing that we were truly loved.

Copyright Marion Anthony