The Zombie Drug…

 The Zombie Drug… 

By Len Morgan 

   Marcus was smooth, suave, and sophisticated. He liked drinking in different bars, as the mood took him; he had an ulterior motive. He had a host of clever chat up lines that he used to good effect to lure young women into his influence.  If one line doesn’t pique a woman’s interest he would try another.  But, if there were other equally desirable young women in the bar he would simply change his tack and hit on them, in the certain knowledge that his good looks and fake charm would grab their attention.  His method was to treat a young woman as if she was the only girl in the room, offer to buy her a drink, then another and another.  Eventually she would have to visit the ladies room.  That is when he would slip a roofie into her drink... 

Veronica, Cloe, and Crystal were young women on a mission, trolling the bars looking for their mark.  Cloe checked out the bar, “He’s in here,” she told the others, “Far end, propping up the bar.”

Veronica entered the bar and in a short while Marcus sidled up beside her. 

  “Hi I’m Marcus; it seems I’ve been stood up by my date.” 

  “That’s a shame, maybe we can talk while we wait, I’m also alone, a friend was supposed to meet me here but she hasn’t arrived yet.” 

  “That’s my good fortune,” he smiled, disarmingly “What’s your poison?” 

  “Oh that’s kind of you; I’ll have a gin & tonic.” 

  “I like this bar, it has a nice atmosphere, and the music is background; not too ‘in your face’,” he said. 

  “I’m Ronnie,” she said, “Oh look, there’s an empty table over there, why don’t we sit and chat.” 

  “A good idea, let me take the drinks over,” he smiled again.

‘Maybe he wasn’t the mark they were looking for,’ she thought looking towards Crystal and Cloe. Cloe nodded to confirm he was the one they were looking for. 

  “You’ll have to excuse me, I need to visit the ladies,” she smiled and headed across the room.  She visited a cubicle to relieve herself. Leaving the cubicle she freshened up her lippy, whilst waiting for Crystal to arrive.    

  “He did it Ron, Cloe confirms he’s the one!” 

  “Are the rest of the girls outside?” 

  “Ready and waiting,” said Crystal taking a small vial from her purse and handing it to Ronnie.  

“Are you sure this will work?” Ronnie asked as she unscrewed the lid and applied a little of the green fluid to her lips, “here goes nothing…” she said. 

Ronnie gave him a pleasant smile as she sat at the table. “I noticed there are nuts on the bar, drinking always makes me hungry, would you mind asking if they can spare some?” 

  “I’ll find out,” he said and went over to the bar. While he was out of sight she poured her drink into a nearby potted plant and refilled the glass with water. 

He returned triumphant with a small dish of nuts, “you haven’t touched your drink, is something wrong with it?” he asked. 

  “It’s fine,” she assured him, and emptied the glass in one. 

“Let me get you another,” he said, taking their glasses back to the bar. 

When he returned she leaned across the table and, spontaneously kissed him full on the lips, “you’re Angel,” she said, before drinking it down. Then, she took a napkin from her bag and wiped her lips. 

  Crystal joined them at the table, and said “stand up.” Marcus obeyed. 

  Ronnie took out her phone and dialled. “Hi girls, the fish is in the net, come and join us!” 

Two ladies entered and headed for their table. 

  “He’s the one,” Cloe said, preparing to attack him. 

  “Shhh,” Crystal soothed her.  “He’s completely under our control.  My grand mother was a voodoo priestess, and we used one of her potions to turn him into a zombie it will only last for 24 hours.  So let’s take full advantage of that time; unleash a little girl power.” “We’re taking him back to your apartment.” Ronnie said.  “We’ll humiliate him like he did to you, and heaven knows how many others.”

“Great idea! Let get out of here,” Cloe said. 

”Follow me!” Crystal commanded, Ronnie, and Marcus headed for the door, the others followed them.   

“Don’t feel sorry for him Cloe, his bottle of tablets is less than half full so you were not his only victim,” said Ronnie. 

Back at Cloe’s apartment they stripped him, dressed him in ladies underwear and wrote abusive words on his chest with waterproof lipstick. 

“Do you have your tattooing kit ready Ronnie?” 

“I have luminous red ink and a special stencil prepared,” she said.

“When you’re done, we can take him to the park and leave him on the ‘roundabout’, leave his clothes in a neat pile beside him. 

Two young constables took one look at the ‘RAPIST’ tattoo on his forehead, found the bottle of roofies in his jacket pocket and called for a car to take him to the station.

Two weeks later, the girls saw his picture in the local paper and read the story ‘6 month for possession and use of ‘rohypnol’, the banned rape drug.’

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 Rory of the Rovers

By Len Morgan

For three years, Rory Miller had been the top scorer for Melchester Rovers, ever since Jason Fairfax, his friend, had been sold to Coryton United.  So, Rory became Melchester’s star player until he was callously hacked down by his ex-friend Jason in a game against Coryton United.  Rory came away with a broken leg and dislocated hip he was out of the game, flying a wheelchair for the foreseeable future.  He still attended all the training sessions and games, as a coach, encouraging the younger players, like Alan Peters who was currently wearing his No.9 shirt.

 

Peters was young, not another Rory but he was a good player and given time would be a great player.  He just needed to gain experience.  Melchester lost their next game and drew the following two.

 

Rory ran through the first game, in his mind, and dreamed it that night, with himself in Alan’s boots.  He knew exactly what had gone wrong, and gave Alan appropriate advice plus some extra training.  The next two games showed improvement but were both draws. 

 

Then came the return fixture with Coryton United.  A few nights before the game, Rory dreamed of the match.  Jason Fairfax pulled the same crippling stunt on Alan that had sidelined Rory.  He warned Alan, telling him when it was likely to happen.

 

He was on the sideline during the first half but hadn’t slept well the previous night. His wheelchair was parked in the dugout with the management team when the second half started, but he was drowsy and dozed off.

 

 He began to dream, he was on the pitch.  The right-back passed him the ball and he headed for goal; as he did so Fairfax slid in with his dangerous tackle, Rory jumped and the attack missed its target.  He shot and the ball went into the top right corner.  Alan turned to find Fairfax writhing in agony; he’d twisted his knee and pulled a hamstrung muscle.

 

The roar of the crowd woke Rory from his doze, in time to see Alan’s celebration at scoring the winning goal!

 

Later, Alan related his experience.

“It was almost as if my body had been taken over by somebody else.  When I started my run on goal, I did it exactly as Rory would have done.”

 

“Except it was you Alan, now I think the Rovers have an excellent player in my place.  I reckon I’ll have trouble winning my place back when I finally get fit,” he smiled and patted Alan on the back. “Nice one!”

 

Copyright Len Morgan

Before I Died

 Before I Died  

By Len Morgan 

Before I died, I signed an organ donor form, and as a joke, I added~ (All of me, why not take all of me…).  But, it was just a joke! 

So, here I am, they added my brain to an AI/Quantum computer system.  I’m required to supply the human factor, illogical thinking, and uncertainty. Typical hesitation and slow reactions. Input attributes that would make a machine appear human.  In fact, I’ve been sliced, spliced, and diced into the system to provide that magic ingredient ~ Human error!  

My job is to answer those difficult questions, ethical questions, that a computer could not, such as:

 

I am not a computer…

 

  48 a very Good Year. 

By Len Morgan

  I have fond early memories of 1948, and my childhood, just after the war.  The production of munitions stopped and the production of cars resumed at Dagenham.  So after demobilisation, Dad got a job in the River Plant at Briggs Bodies, soon to become a subsidiary of the Fords Motor Company.

 Rationing was still in force and shortages were the norm.  There were four hundred houses in Western Avenue, where we lived, but only two cars.   One belonged to Doctor Smithers, the other to Bill Roach a neighbour.   Bill had been in the RAF, as aircrew, and lost both legs when his plane was shot down.  He drove a Ford Prefect that had been converted to operate with hand controls.   At that time the streets were still safe for children to play in, and that was where I first discovered I had a sense of humour.  In 1948 I was an ancient three-and-a-half-year-old.

.-...-. 

 It looked like a tea cosy but it was a hat.   Grass green inside, orange, red, green and blue outside, with a large blue pom-pom on the top.   Mum religiously planted it on my head whenever I went out to play.   But, as soon as she went in, I removed it and stuffed it up the drain pipe.   When I returned I would retrieve it and nobody was any the wiser.   One blustery day I returned but forgot to retrieve the hat.  When mum asked where it was I said the wind had blown it away. So she bought me a brown French Beret (see photo). 

 That winter we had a series of heavy rainstorms and the gutters overflowed.   Dad decided to clean them out, but first, he checked the downpipes, where he discovered the remains of my hat.   He solemnly announced, to Mum and me, that a small furry creature had got trapped in the pipe and died.   He made us turn our backs whilst he extricated it and buried it with full ceremony. 

“Heh heh heh!

.-...-.

    In the spring of 48, Dad told me off for calling our next-door neighbour Arry!

“You mustn’t call him Harry, that’s disrespectful.   Call him Mr Thomas!” he said.

Next morning, I was in the garden when out came Mr Thomas to do some gardening.

“Hello Lenny,” he said with a smile.

“Ello Arry.   Mustn’t call you Arry, aye Arry.   Mr Thomas aye Arry?

Dad looked as if he would suffocate attempting to stifle his laughter.   Harry had no such inhibitions. 

Here I am, good job they didn't know what fiendish plots were hatching behind that cherubic face.

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 

 Miracle Child

By Len Morgan

At a time when women were shorter than men, shy, pretty, and demure, Ivy Melsom was none of these.  She was 6’ 2”, a plain, slim, swarthy, woman with four redeeming features. She had kind brown eyes that drew people in; she was a shrewd businesswoman and a good judge of character.  She owned and ran a successful General Store and when times were hard she knew who she could extend credit to, which endeared her to her neighbours.   

  But, what she most desired in all the world was a child of her own. At 54 she knew she was long past childbearing but she retained her hope and prayed.

.-…-. 

Michael Cambell owned a truck in which he hauled goods and disposed of rubbish.  He also worked on building sites, did odd jobs, anything to buy a few pints.  At 42 he employed his good-natured blarney to get work, or to charm the pants off of women.  He was homeless by choice but seldom slept on the streets or in his truck.  His Irish charm always seemed to get him a bed for the night; sometimes with willing female company.  He moved around the country, often with regular stopovers where he was sure of creature comforts. 

.-…-. 

Patrick Cambell, Michael's son, possibly the result of one of his many dalliances was 10 years old; old beyond his years. He had become the ace up his father's sleeve.  More so now that Mick was on the wrong side of forty, Patrick became his foot in the door.  Sympathy was just one of the many tricks he used to gain entry into the lives of unsuspecting women.

.-…-. 

And so it was that young Patrick was delivering fliers advertising his father's business.  He entered the ‘Melsom Emporium’ and delivered a flier, then on his way out he snatched a couple of mars bars. 

Ivy saw it and grabbed his arm.  “That will be a shilling or, you could work it off?” 

“What would ye be wantin of me missus?”

“Well, in my backyard, there's a pile of rubbish that needs moving outside the back gate.”

“Sure I’ll do dat fer ye missus…”

“My name is Ivy, call me Aunt Ivy, or just Aunty.”

“I’m Patrick, Da calls me Paddy, aunty Ivy.” He held out a grubby hand, she was surprised at his politeness but shook it anyway. She led him out back and undid the latch on the gate, half expecting him to run…  But he began picking up the boxes and carrying them out the gate forming a neat pile. 

“Are you hungry Pat?” 

“Famished. I scrumped some apples on me way here but dey wuz cookers sour as lemons, urgh!” 

Ivy smiled, “Did your Dad not give you breakfast?” 

“Nah he says workin on a full stomach makes ye lazy.”

“Well, we can soon fix that my lad.  Finnish up out here and be sure to lock the gate. I’ll see what I can rustle up.  Do you like eggs bacon and crusty buttered rolls?” She smiled when she saw the hungry look in his eyes. “Wash your hands at the sink, don’t want you catching food poisoning…” she hurried back inside and set a table for two. 

“Thanks, Aunty, dat was scrummy…” he was interrupted by the jingle of an old school bell, “Dats Mick me Da, drummin up business. He’ll take your rubbish to the tip fer a few shillins?” 

“Go call him over, then you’d best get off to school.”

“Uh?  I don’t go to no school, me an Mick belong to da University of life.”  He left the shop to hail the truck.

“Where’ve ye bin Paddy, I’ve had to drive as well as ring da bell …”  Ivy followed him out to the storefront. 

“Aunt Ivy has a pile dat needs shiftin Mick.”

“Aunt Ivy is it?  Mmm, dats quite a pile ye have der miss-aunt Ivy if I may be so bold.  I’d say ooh ten bob…” 

“Well, Mick you’re a businessman like myself, with a family to feed?  So I’ll make you an offer.  Five bob to take it to the tip; won’t take more than a thimble full of petrol or half an hour of your time.” 

“Ah! You’re a hard woman,” he spat in his right palm and offered his hand. She shook her head and smiled. 

“Right, get it onto the truck Paddy, then ye can take de bell.”

At that moment two customers arrived, so Ivy handed Mick two half-crowns and followed her customers into the store. 

.-…-.

A few days later, at nine o’clock on a cold drizzly evening. just as Ivy was closing up, Pat entered the store. “Ten Senior Service please Auntie,” he said offering her a ten bob note, then seeing the look on her face said,  “Dey’re fer Mick, not me.”

“I should think not, you’re far too young to be smoking.”

“Would ye know of a nearby lodgin house aunty?  We need somewhere to stay…”

“Open the back gates and tell him to drive his lorry in, it’s much too late to be knocking on doors, I have a spare room.  You can stay here for the night.” 

“Thank you, Aunty.”  While Pat let Mick in she finished locking up.

“Tanks missus, you're full of de milk-o-human-kindness,” Mick began… 

“It’s only for one night you understand?”

“Oh, we do, Dat’s grand.” 

I’ll show you to the room, but there’s only one bed so you’ll have to share, and no smoking.” 

“It’ll beat our leakin cab on a night like dis, so it will.” 

“I’m up at six to open the store, I have breakfast at seven so I’ll want you out by eight, don’t want tongues wagging.”

.-…-. 

The alarm clock went off at six, Ivy got up, and Mick stirred beside her.  “Come along Mick time to get up!  Patrick starts school today and I don’t want him to be late. You’ve been here a month now, so you should know the routine.  You came in at eleven last night, drunk as a Lord and you woke us both up…” 

“I was totin fer business, and I got offered a job fer six months makin' muck at a site in Barnsley, So Paddy will not be goin ta school here in Barkin, he’ll be comin wi-me!”

“ I think Patrick is old enough to make his own mind up about that…” 

“Make me mind up bout what?” 

“We’re movin to Barnsley, I got a job der, so ye can ferget about schoolin!”

Pat looked at Ivy, and at the new school uniform she'd purchased, “I’m stayin here wi Aunt Ivy, if she’ll have me? ye can go to Barnley or Timbuktu if ye like, I'm stayin!” 

“She’s not your Aunt ye know, she’s nothing to ye Paddy, I’m yer Da…”

“Are you?” Ivy asked, “so, where’s his mother?”

“She’s dead!  Died in childbirth halfway down the A1, she thumbed a lift then went into labour beside the road.  I ran to a call box, the amberlance arrived half hour later, took her to the hospital, and I followed em…”

“So do you have his birth certificate?  Did you even register his birth?” 

“No…” Mick said stony-faced. He dressed, packed his grip, and stormed out of the store, without saying another word. He grabbed a box of two hundred cigarettes, and a bottle of whiskey as he went! His truck roared off in a cloud of exhaust fumes, Neither to be seen or heard from again…

.-…-. 

Seven years later Patrick Melsom received 6 ‘A’ grade GCE passes and his application for a place at Oxford has been accepted.

“I’m so proud of you son, you came into my life as if in answer to a prayer,” said Ivy.

“Thanks, Mum, what I’ve accomplished is all down to you.  I could never repay you for what you’ve given me.”  He put his arms around her and gave her a hug.  

She smiled through her happy tears and squeezed him affectionately, 'my miracle child' she thought.

Copyright Len Morgan 

 How Much Do I Love Thee

By Len Morgan 

It’s Thursday, half-day closing, I can tell.  She’s getting all excited.

She's putting on her war paint, Lippy, Rouge, and a dab of chanel No5 behind her ears. 

There was a time when she would do that for me, now it’s for somebody else.  

Is it platonic?  I doubt that.  She was ever the warm passionate woman.

It’s been three years since I left, but as yet she hasn’t moved on. 

But, she has to move on!  It hurts me to see her tear-stained face, day after day. 

It’s a testament to our love that she lasted this long, and I know she will never forget me. 

But, at the weekend they will spread my ashes by my beloved Thames, and then we can all move on…

 The Begining...

 Northern Reaches ~ 02  Wizomi’s Quest

BY Len Morgan 

They touched down 30 yards from a rocky outcrop.  Wings were efficiently collapsed and ported towards the bare rock face where he recognised the, now familiar, hand print incised at shoulder height.  They, each in turn, pressed a hand into the print and walked into the darkness.  He was pushed forward by Ariel and entered the void.  The wings were laid on racks at either side of the entranceway.  Further in there was a locker room where they removed their flight suits and donned soft synthetic clothing. 

“You can stow your gear in 111,” he was told, “Use your palm print to open it.”  The clothing provided was a warm figure hugging light material as were the shoes.  They headed down a 1 in 2 gradient ramp into a bunker lit by the now familiar ceiling tiles.  The bottom of the ramp opened into a high roofed area two hundred feet long half that wide, and to either hand there were rows of doors.

“So Ariel, this is your lair?”

“No this is our main storage facility, the top floor, there are other floors below.  The sector committee wishes to meet with you first, so follow me.”  She led him to a wall space without a door, indicating that he should activate the palm panel on the wall.  He found himself in a lounge area, in the presence of five others, Ariel did not follow him. A tall slender grey-haired woman greeted him and ushered him to a seating area. 

 

“Greetings Mr Wizomi, My name is Cherrie these are Petter, Fred, Shane & Jeenie.  We brought you here by a circuitous route for security reasons.  We do have, on occasion, uninvited guests.  They tend to follow our fliers but, as 'Standards', are unable to enter our sector lodge they eventually give up and leave.”

“Do you maintain contact with them?” 

“No, but they are human and curious.  There have been a few sensitive minds, capable of gaining access.  We tend to plant doubt in their minds…” 

“Could you not let them in, and educate them?  We are going to need as many as possible to repel the Blutlander’s and later when the Karaxen return.”

“I’m afraid you’re getting ahead of yourself,” said Cherrie.  “We haven’t even agreed to help you, and to put it indelicately, we need to know what is in it for us?”

“The Bluttlander’s intend to dominate and take over our world of Abbalar.  They may not be your immediate concern but if we do not stop them and change their philosophy they will eventually reach you.  It would be better for us to combat them now, together.  Because, In roughly 500 years the Karaxen will be released to reclaim the world they consider to be theirs…” 

“Wizomi, we do not live that long, so that is a problem for the future.  We know of the Karaxen, we have met them before…” 

“You have?  You know what they look like?  You know they will exterminate we Abbalons like vermine…” 

“Look,” a picture of an alien-scaled creature filled a wall of the room. “this is our enemy, we can defeat it.”

“What a monstrosity…” 

“They would be a problem, but we have improved our technology, and our numbers are increasing rapidly.  There were pockets of the Karaxen that did not die out or go underground.  We now know their weaknesses and could combat the others on an equal footing.  We are prepared for them.” Cherrie said. 

“So, you would abandon the ‘standards’ of Abbalar?” 

“Why should we be concerned with them, they’ve persecuted us for years, they are no better than the Bluttlander’s, they deserve each other!” said Petter. 

“We were briefed by the Oracle. We were given all this information.  The Oracle was left behind when the others left to bring us back together again,” said Jeenie.

“We need to discuss this!” said Shane. 

‘Ariel, collect Mr Wizomi and take him to the canteen…”  

“Please go out the way you came in.  Ariel will be your guide while you are here. We will call you back when we’ve discussed your request and reached a decision.”

“Wiz, you’ve had a long journey.  You need to eat and unwind,  Follow me,” Ariel said.

“Where are we going?”

“First we shower, change into fresh clothing, then eat and drink with friends.  Do you have a talent; Musician, Dancer, Conjurer?”

“I’m known as Wizomi the Story Teller, If the opportunity presents, I will ply my trade for your enjoyment.” 

“Good!  We, not of the council, are starved of news from the outside world.  Will you tell us about it?”

Wizomi ate a sumptuous meal with the rest of the flight.  During the meal, he told them of his time with the various peoples inhabiting the Southern regions of Abbalar.  They ate, drank, sang, and danced until even Wiz became tired. 

'Follow,' said Ariel, 'tonight you sleep with me …'

.-...-.

They were breaking-fast in the canteen the following morning when they were accosted by four stern-faced men in uniform.

"Visitor Wizomi, the Committee has reached a decision with regard to your plight. please come with us."

"Who are you?" Wiz demanded.

'They are Inquisitors, and they have weapons,' Ariel explained. 'You'd better go with them...'

Ariel rose to accompany him.

"Not you!" the leader said pushing her unceremoniously into her seat.

'This does not bode well,' Wiz thought as They led him away. 

(To be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 

 

 The man most likely to Succeed. 

By Len Morgan

  When I look back on my childhood, one person immediately springs to mind. Barry O’Donnell ~ was a handsome lad ~ and the one most likely to succeed in life.  Dough to his friends, was a charismatic guy, intelligent, witty, and inventive. His passions were modern & traditional Jazz, and Science fiction.   In 1960, at 15 years of age, he was a gifted artist who could paint incredible Sci-fi panoramas so vivid you could imagine you were there.   He idolised an artist, in Weird & Astounding Sci-fi comics, who simply signed his work as DITCO.   Dough was a poet and songwriter, who also wrote stories that could make you laugh or cry.    He would spend endless hours drinking brown ale, and listening to Elvis, Buddy Holly, Eddie Cochrane, Jerry Lee and other rock stars of that era.   But mostly he loved the Jazz of Chris Barber, Bix Beiderbek, the Dutch Swing College Band, Duke Ellington, Earl Bostic, Dizzie, Bird, and Ella Fitgerald.  

   At school, he was a gifted ‘A’ stream student, always top of the class.   It seemed that the world was his oyster.   If anybody from Eastbury Secondary School for Boys was going to make a name for himself it was Dough!   But, he had one enormous flaw.   An anarchic antisocial streak that left us, his friends, embarrassed and feeling obliged to apologise for his thoughtless words and actions.   You see we loved him, we appreciated his finer qualities, and wanted others to do likewise.   But Dough, predictable as the weather was guaranteed to do something offensive to alienate somebody - often violently.

“Sorry he behaved like that, he’s really a great guy but, when he drinks…”   Whilst we apologised Dough would wander off, doing his own thing, wreaking havoc, oblivious to the trouble he’d caused and the efforts we put in to make things right! 

   On a school trip, to France, he got drunk and rode off on the local gendarmes bike - there was a gun pointed at his back as we remonstrated with the officer.   We retrieved his bike and apologised, but Dough still spent a night in the cells learning gutter French, and how to drink cheap red wine, with the town drunk; skills he would make use of, in later years, as he travelled the continent as an itinerant grape picker in France, Italy, and Spain.

   Back home he continued to paint and write breathtaking stuff but refused to submit anything for publication.   I believe, that above all, he feared rejection.   But, we will never know, on 5^th Nov 1961 he burned everything, on a bonfire, in his parent's back garden.  

  When he left school he worked in a succession of menial jobs from which he was sacked for disrespect, verbal abuse, bad timekeeping, unreliability, turning up drunk, and fighting.   His longest employment lasted less than six weeks, he didn’t give a toss; he was unemployable. So finally I gave up on him.  I joined a rock group as their singer and saw less and less of Dough.   When we did meet I found myself repelled by his outlandish antisocial behaviour.

   In 1964, I joined the Army for 9 years, serving in Germany, Cyprus, and the Trucial Oman.   I was home on leave the last time I saw Dough, it was in 1969, at 2am in the morning, he was paralytic drunk, and urinating up the front doors of the Barking Town Hall; showing his regard for authority.   I didn’t stop to talk I just looked him straight in the eyes, thinking of all that wasted potential, he glared straight back at me without a glimmer of recognition, and I walked on by.

   In 1974 I read, in the Barking & Dagenham Post with regret, that Barry O’Donnell, aged 29 of no fixed abode, died on the streets of a drug overdose.  Should I, Could I have done anything to change the course of his life?  I think not.

  Some people are like moths.  Try as you will to keep them away from a candle flame, they will inevitably crash and burn.  Sadly, it is their nature.

 

Copyright Len Morgan

Northern Reaches ~ 01 Wizomi’s Quest

 Northern Reaches ~ 01  Wizomi’s Quest

By Len Morgan 

[This is a continuation from Abbalar Tales ~ 24] 

https://rlwg2020.blogspot.com/2021/01/abbalartales-24-revisionists-1-by-len.html 

Wizomi stepped down from the arrival daise.

The Oracle ‘Mind spoke’ to him:

‘The nearest town is due East it’s called Banks.  The weather is inclement so you will need to don rough weather gear from the dresser.’ 

Suitably garbed, still retaining his hooded robe and staff, he headed towards the main door that bore a recessed palm print. He placed his hand in the print, and the door opened on a grey sky.  A blustery gale pushed him out onto the barren plain.  He checked his loadstone, raised his hood and visor, protection from the swirling dust, and headed East; along a well-travelled path.

The Oracle continued:

‘You will find a sailboard hidden in the copse to your left; it will speed your journey.’ 

 He found the wheeled sailboard, hoisted its square sail, and grasped the guide ropes. Twenty miles on he could see Banks in the distance.  There were parking spaces outside the town some occupied by similar wind driven vehicles tied to a hitching rail.  He tied up and headed into town; along an uninspiring ‘dirt’ road. 

He was disappointed.  It wasn’t as he’d imagined a town in an advanced society would look.  It was a shabby border town like so many he’d visited in the past. 

 ‘That is how it is intended to look outwardly. Go to the Inn, ask for Tam and tell him you were sent by the Oracle.’ 

The Inn was situated on the outskirts of the town.  He went in and took a seat at an empty bare trestle table, he observed the wood had been darkened and smoothed by the hands of many patrons, of which there were few today.  He received curious glances.  Then a waitress entered with bowls of steaming food and a basket of bread rolls.  His nostrils twitched, it smelt good!  He waited until she’d emptied her tray then waved her over. 

“Young lady, the aroma of your food is tempting, might I have a generous helping and a flagon of ale please?”

She ignored him and went to another table instead; taking their orders first.  He waited until they’d received their food. 

“Waitress, can I please order a meal?”

She ignored him and returned to the kitchens.  He waited a while then wandered over to the bar.  “Barkeep, I would speak with Tam.” 

“That’s me, how can I help?” 

“My name is Wizomi, I’m newly arrived from the Oracle and would like a room and victuals if you please.” 

“Bett please serve this gentleman and show him to our best room.”  He placed a tankard of ale on the counter. “It will be added to your bill sir.”

Wizomi returned to his seat and quaffed his ale.  Pretty soon Bett returned with a bowl of mutton stew and dumplings.  He wiped out his bowl with a Bread roll from the basket that accompanied the meal.  Bett collected the empties. 

“Thank you that was delicious Bett.” 

“Can I show you to your room now?”

He smiled, stood and followed her to a clean room above the tavern.  

.-…-. 

He awoke with the first rays of the sun, a new day, bright and welcoming.  He went downstairs where a committee of five waited to greet him.  He was ushered to a vacant seat. 

Without preamble he spoke, “I’m here to seek out the Revisionist sect.”  He took out his letter of introduction from the Oracle.  Nobody moved. 

“Are you one of them?” Tam asked. 

“I am not, but I am sympathetic to their cause, and I am seeking their assistance…” 

“You won’t find them here; their sect is situated a hundred miles further East of Banks.”

“Then why was I sent here…?”

 ‘You will need a key,’

 “Do you perhaps have said key?”

The group exchanged looks, then Tam slid a token across the table.

“We will provide you with rations for your journey, return the sailboard, and provide you with transport for your onward journey.” 

.-…-. 

Wiz travelled by horse in an Easterly direction, towards a distant range of hills.  After three days he arrived at a narrow pass.  Casting his mind ahead he located an eagle in her eyrie high in a fissure on the cliff face.  Her eyes were so sharp; it took him several moments to align his senses with hers.  Through her eyes he saw a campsite, the embers still smoking.  He saw the lookout on the cliff top signal to a group of five armed men spread out on either side of the cut; he’d been identified as a potential mark.  There were no projectile weapons so he continued afoot, whilst identifying each adversary from the eagle’s eye viewpoint, allowing the horse to guide him.

A man stepped into his path and smiled.  “Greetings friend, we work hard to ensure the pass remains open for travellers through all kinds of weather.  So, I’m sure you would not think us unreasonable if we request a small tithe, a contribution, for travelling our highway?” 

“That does not sound unreasonable, I’m sure you have a family to support.  How much should I donate to your cause?”

“Well, you appear to be a reasonable traveller you’re obviously visiting our village, just a few miles ahead, so will not need that fine horse. And, shall we say half your goods!” 

“It is possible you are correct, so tell me sir, what is the name of your dwelling?” 

“Journeys End…”

“But, that is not my destination, so I will still require my mount…” 

“It’s as far as you will go on this path my friend,” the man took the reins of his horse; it promptly took a step forward and stamped on his foot. “Aahh,” he yelled.  Thinking he’d been attacked by Wizomi, two men appeared from either side.  The horse reared up and pushed one man to the ground in a daze. The other raised his sword to strike Wiz, who used his stave like a spear aimed at the man’s solar plexus, and pushed him to the ground, spark out.  He rubbed his hands together and a light appeared.  He closed his eyes and clapped his hand.  A blinding flash temporarily robbed the other two of their sight, and Wiz continued on his way.

That would have concluded the meeting had not the lookout signalled to two others a mile further on.  Wiz was aware there might be others ahead but was caught unawares by a well aimed rock.  Dazed and hogtied he was jostled by the gait of his horse, as he lay prone across its back. 

At ‘Journeys End’, he was dropped to the hard packed earth.

 “What have we here,” a heavyset bearded man said removing the ropes. 

“Thank you, sir.”

“He’s a tricky one Arturo, he blinded the main crew with some clever device, I had to brain him with a rock…”

“Show me his things Boxer,” his remaining provisions a short blade, a length of thin cowhide rope, a few silver and copper coins, his robe and a stave. “Aside from the horse, there’s nothing here worth fighting over. He poked Wiz with his foot.  “Who are you and where are you bound!” 

“My name is Wizomi, I’m seeking a group known as ‘the Revisionists’.  I’m told they reside in these parts.”

“Really?  So, what do you want with them.  Are you worth anything to us by way of ransom?” 

“I’m sure something could be arranged to make it worth your while, if you convey me to them, what is your price?”  He’d taken care, with slight of hand, to conceal the token on his person.

“We will permit you to keep your robe and stave.  All else contributes to your passage.  Do you have a map or indication where they reside, because we’re not aware of them.”

 “There might be a stone or Oracle with a hand or palm print incised in it, do you know of such a place?” 

“Boxer?”

“There are villages nearby, within twenty miles. We regularly trade…”

An elderly woman spoke out, “there is a gully back a ways with a flat rock we occasionally use as a table. It has a hand print on one side and a slit in the rock as deep as my blade would go…” 

“I know the place, Leisser.  It’s less than a mile from here

I’ll take him there if the price is agreed. Arturo?”

“Ten Golden would be fair.  Take him Boxer, don’t let him go until the bounty is paid, take four men with you.”

They made the journey in half an hour, Wiz gazed down at the stone, “This is it!”  He placed his hand in the recessed palm.  Nothing happened.  He dropped the coin into the hole and disappeared.  At the same moment, a purse of coins appeared on the table.  Four men ran, leaving Boxer alone.  Hesitantly he reached for the pouch. 

‘I failed to make you aware that Leisser is a sensitive.  Your bounty has been paid with interest. You may need to return this way,’

.-…-.

The atmosphere was warm, there was a faint scent of oil and roses in the air.  A gentle purr from machinery, foreign to his ear. Gazing up at the source of blue light he recognized panels identical to those in the tunnels beneath Corvalen.  He was in a kiosk, the air circulated like a tornado that disappeared into vents at the top of the walls on either side.  A red light above the transparent door turned green, and the door slide open.  He stepped out into a corridor. 

‘Welcome Wizomi from Chinake, you are here to solicit our aid in repelling enemies of Abbalar.  You will require devices appropriate to your current level of development.’ 

“That is so, what should I call you?”

‘I am an extension of the Oracle, you may call me O2.’ 

“So O2, where are the Revisionists?”

‘Not here,’ the silence dragged on… 

“Will you direct me to the ‘Revisionists’ or, tell me where I might find them?”  An arrow lit up on the path; he walked in that direction until he came to a fork where a second arrow pointed left.  He followed until he reached a cave opening to the outside, a snow covered scene.  As he stepped over the threshold the scene wavered and changed to a hot desert scene.  He stepped out and turned around to see only the unforgiving desert behind, and around him.

“Which way do I go, he asked?”  There was no reply.  He looked carefully in all directions, but saw only the endless desert, under a cloudless sky.  Then he looked to his left and saw in the sky, five dark pinpoints coming from Sun’ard.  He looked away so as not to destroy his vision.  He waited squinting briefly into the sun.  The points were growing rapidly larger now they looked like birds.  Within minutes he saw they were winged people.  He planted his stave firmly in the powdery sand and waited, they began to glide towards him, he was obviously their target, he could employ a dazzel and seem to disappear, but they were here for him in response to his cry for help.  They landed lightly running briefly to reduce speed then the wings folded, and they approached…

“Mr Wizomi, you will come with us.”

“Show me how?” 

A young woman stepped forward, “Call me Ariel, I’m the lightest and have a tandem wing, put your stave on the bar, your hands through the loops and hold on.  When I say go, we run…”  Within moments they were airborne.  He looked down they were flying faster than they had been running.

“How does this device work Ariel?  I’m of the weirding way, yet I could not accomplish such a feat,” he had to shout to be heard.

“It’s technology beyond the ability of ‘Standards’,” she yelled into the wind.  ‘Do you mind speak?’

‘Yes.’ 

‘The wing and our flight suits soak up the sunlight and turn it into energy.’ 

’That may be so, but what happens at night?’ 

‘The bar we are holding soaks up the energy and stores it; so that we can fly all night and still have energy to spare.’

‘But how is that done?’ 

‘I don’t know!  You will have to ask a tekkie when we get to home base…’  She pulled a string and a trapeze was released from the wing structure.  ‘Sit on the bar Wiz, it will relieve the strain on your arms.  We are used to long flights and take them for granted.’

Well before they landed Wiz was grateful for the perch. 

They flew on for several hours then a rock formation appeared in the distance.  

‘Almost there.’

(To be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 Autumn 1963

By Len Morgan

Autumn creeps in with a cold stiff breeze

While sunlight dapples russet & ochre leaves

A carpet of copper for my feet to touch

A flush-faced wanderer who loves Autumn so much

 

Salmon heading for the sea like savage hoards

Suicidal leaping falls and slipping over fords

Now heading for the sea, that vast watery expanse

they’ll be back again in spring if given the chance

 

Birds, a heavenly choir, emitting pleasant discords

Flying ever onward moving towards

The South and the tropics, mustn’t leave it too late

For chance is they will die, if they don’t migrate

 

Oh Autumn, your skies most variable of all

Clouds dashing and dancing in answer to your call

Devious in their flight like a stag at bay

till sunset stains the blood corps of the day

Copyright Len Morgan 

Flash Improvisations

 Flash Improvisations: 1. A Stone 

By Len Morgan

  As he walked along the river bank, he idly picked up a handful of stones selecting ideal shapes for scudding across the stream. He was aiming for six bounces, but the best he’d accomplished so far was five. 

  He spied an ideal stone half buried in a patch of blue-green soil.  He washed it in the stream, the water dripped off as if it were oil, leaving the stone completely dry. He took a closer look, it was smooth round, milky blue-white.  It was the perfect shape but felt a little light for a skimming stone. So, he dropped it in his pocket and selected another that skimmed two three four times then sank.  He realised it wasn’t his day; he wasn’t going to achieve six today.   

On his way home he was stopped and searched by the Kimberley Security Police.  They took him into custody despite his protests

“But, it’s a stone!  Just a stone…” 

 

 

Flash Improvisations: 2. A Leaf

 

By Len Morgan

 

On Father's Day, I view a leaf pressed between the pages of my Concise English Dictionary 4^th edition.

It was gathered by my daughter on her seventh birthday.

  It was one of her most treasured possessions; she gave it to me in her thirty-seventh year; on one of her more lucid days. 

“Happy Father's Day Dad.”

She’d framed the golden leaf on a pale rough linen swatch, on which she’d embroidered: ‘With all my love on Father's Day’.

She is sadly no longer here, but the memory of her love returns every ‘Father's Day’.  Just a leaf in time.

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 

 

The Scream (Flash Fiction)…

 The Scream…

By Len Morgan

“AH OOH AAAH…” he cried. 

“Oh my god Pete!  Are you alright!”

He lay still, unmoving beside her.  She moved to the opposite side of the bed creating as wide a distance between them as possible. 

He lay still and silent…

“Shreeeek!…”  The sound woke their neighbours on either side, the couple opposite, as well as those above and below.  Lights came on all over the student dorm.

“Was it that good?” asked Pete. 

“A-a-uh?” She said, falling silent, feeling foolish, allowing the urgent knocking on their door to be heard. “Oh my god, why did you lay like that?  So still…?”

“Just savouring the moment, you were great,” he smiled “Guess I’ll have no trouble getting layed from here on in…”

 

Copyright Len Morgan

Geranium 

Len Morgan 

Way back in the 1980’s, I worked in Dagenham near some wild uncultivated land.   There was nowhere to go for lunch, apart from a burger van and a greasy spoon where I ate egg chips & sausage, once a week. 

   Mostly I took sandwiches and ate them while roaming over those wild fields. During that spring and summer, there were all manner of plants flowering there.

   While serving alongside the United Nations Peacekeeping forces in Cyprus (UNFICYP).  I purchased a 35mm camera which I used to record my plant discoveries.  Then after a few weeks, I wanted to know the names of the plants, their medical uses, and which were edible, or in some cases both!  Others I became aware of were poisonous, so to be on the safe side, I purchased a book ‘The Wild Flowers of Britain & Europe’ at last I was able to name them!  

  But, I didn’t really have much further information, so, I drove into Barking to visit the Central Library.

There were all manner of books containing information I could harvest regarding
my finds.  

   I took out an Ordnance Survey Map of East London (sheet 177) 1:50,000 (2^nd series).  I marked out the area’s I'd been surveying they covered just 2 squares (¾ inch by 1½).  I marked each as I found it in my book, highlighting if they were poisonous Edible or Medicinal plants.  By the middle of summer, I had made quite a thorough survey and by summer's end, I was anticipating resuming my work in the spring. 

   Unfortunately, the company I was working for was taken over and the site closed down, so I had to find alternative employment some way away from my area of investigation.  When next I returned, the local council was in the process of building a housing estate on the land.  So, I bowed to the inevitable and took up playing the guitar instead. 

One plant I had never been able to find which I was assured should have been in my area was the wild Geranium known as Cranesbill. 

Coincidentally, while on a holiday to Harlech in Wales, in 2003, we visited a garden center, and there, in a neglected heap of soil and rubbish, I found a broken flower pot containing a single specimen of Cranesbill.  

The owner must have thought, we’ve got a right mug here, when I asked to buy it. “50p” he said. 

I’ve had it in my garden for a number of years now, and it quickly spread, giving us a fine pink display.  This year I noticed it was all over Hullbridge, and now I wonder if I am responsible for importing an invasive species to Essex...

Copyright Len Morgan

 wonder if I am at fault in some way?