The Chair

 THE CHAIR

By Peter Woodgate

You will look at me and think I am normal. A simple wooden ladder-back chair, ten a penny on the market.

I could have been one of those second-hand jobs, stuck outside a junk shop getting wet in the pouring rain.

You would be wrong, even though I say it myself, I am unique.

I have been finely crafted, in specialised wood, and put together with ultimate precision.

In fact, I am destined for stardom, chosen for a career in film. A remake of the Good the Bad and the Ugly.

I don’t have a speaking part but plenty of action. I am looking forward to the part where the saloon temptress sits on me rubbing her hands gently down my sides before sliding her stockings down her legs. She then pulls them seductively over her feet.

Of course, all this paraphernalia is wasted on me but the stranger in town, the chap with the beard smoking a cheroot and leaning on the bar, he really clocks an eyeful.

It appears the lady’s boyfriend takes exception to this and gives the stranger a right hook.

True to form (and the script) the stranger fights back, he’s not a wimp and thinks the temptress ought to be allowed to carry on with the striptease.

Well the fighting gets serious and spills over to other areas of the saloon.

This, unfortunately, causes the young woman to vacate her position on me and seek refuge behind the bar.

The next action is my starring pinnacle as the goodie, as we now know him, you know the one smoking a cheroot, grabs my back and smashes me over the head of Scarface, I end up in a hundred pieces, specifically designed of course. My brief but heroic career will be over. I am destined, it seems, for firewood, but it must be better than ending up, on the pavement, in the rain.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

Devils Canyon

Devils Canyon

By Phillip Miller

It had been a beautiful summer but now the nights were drawing in and by 6pm most children were safe indoors. For Mitch, however, safety lay outdoors, where he could run and hide should he need to. Tonight was a good night for running. if he could just getaway. Get away from the noise: the screaming, shouting, beatings. Just run and run and run.

His family had moved to the new estate in East Ham a few months ago but things weren’t going too well at home.  Billy, Mitch’s stepdad was having problems with his business partner and things went from bad to worse when the contracts dried up and the VAT man came knocking.  That’s when the beatings started again. And so Mitch decided, at 10 years of age, that he would leave and never go back home.

1976

Initiation night tonight, the E6, were to be born.  After checking himself in the mirror Dan pulled on his jean jacket and pounded down the stairs in his size 9 DM’s and made his way to the front door to the sound of “Save your kisses for me,” blaring from the living room.

“You make sure you’re in by 9, school in the morning, and you gotta do the washing up,” slurred his mum as she took another slug of vodka. But he was already slamming the door before the last words reached him; Drunken cow, it’s Saturday tomorrow.

He made his way to the old Vicarage school, walked around the garages and hopped up onto the old asbestos roofs. Princes Tower  cast a long shadow over the old Edwardian boarding school. Great, he thought to himself, no eyes about.

 He stood for a minute and gazed up to the 7^th floor of the 1950’s block of flats. Come on Tracey!, just look out the window. I know you like me. Just look. He was just about to hoot like an owl when he saw some smoke up on the old school roof and it was only a matter of minutes before he shimmied up the drainpipe and made his way up and over the small parapet surrounding the Belltower which sat above the second floor. He gazed across the skyline. The smell of sulphur from the launching of thousands of fireworks still hung in the air and a lone rocket was letting out its dying breath on the tarred floor. He sat for a while, thinking about Tracey. Will she ever see me?  No chance, too posh, Just got to talk to her, but how?

Danny was in the realms of fantasy when a black hand appeared over the far side of the flat roof followed by another and then up popped the big afro that could only belong to Leon who was followed over by Neil. Wherever Leon went Neil was sure to follow.

‘Jesus!, it's freezing,’ Said Leon, Shivering. He was always cold, no matter what.

Danny looked down at Leon’s trousers. They were his school ones which fell about two inches short of his ankles; No socks, Shoes scuffed with the heels half worn. He just shook his head. Poor sod! he thought. Pity he didn’t dress smart like his dad.

‘Anyone got a fag’, said Danny.

‘Ere you go, look, I got 2 fags from Rama’, beamed Neil, offering them up as if presenting gifts to a god.

‘Nice one Neil. Now kneel down over there and keep an eye out for Spammo,’ he said as he pointed to the perimeter wall.

Neil did as he was told. He knew the pecking order. ‘Is Bobby coming? ‘av you seen im?’ he said as he shuffled along hunched over to avoid being spotted.

Just then there was a muffled sound behind the bell tower. It was Bobby. He pulled himself up and over the wall and fell straight into a very shallow area of rainwater,  cursing as he stood up, dripping wet and covered in leaves.

Danny and Leon trying not to laugh but could not help themselves.

‘That’s it, you laugh! Bastards!

They all stood together, except Neil, the consummate lookout.

‘Ssh!’ Whispered Neil, ‘Spammo’s up. His lights just came on,’

Neil made his way back to the others and they all huddled below the Large brass Bell.

Leon took out a box of matches from his jacket and lit the two fags that hung from Dan’s lips who then presented one to Leon. They both inhaled deeply and slowly and then blew rings into the cool evening air. Leon then passed his to Neil and Dan passed his to Bobby and they enjoyed the hazy smoke-filled silence for a moment before all eyes widened as  Bobby drew out a 6” blade. They all stared at it, and then at each other.

‘I’ll go first, then you Leon, then Bobby and then Neil.’

They finished the fags and then Danny cut himself across the thumb with his razor-sharp flick knife. They all did the same and together they said, as they squeezed bloodied hands together; ‘We are the E6. Blood tied, brothers; no retreat, no surrender.’

‘It’s done,’ said Danny through gritted teeth, before retrieving a small bottle of whiskey from his jacket pocket.

‘One mouthful each, come on!  Then Devils Canyon tomorrow for the Big Burn.’ They drank and spluttered and laughed and sniffed and coughed and then all took turns to ring the bell. It wasn’t long before Spammo, the old caretaker, was hollering up at them. He had two large rottweilers but the lads knew the dogs; docile as hell.

‘Get down you sods, Old Bill are already on their way. Come on, I know you’re up there,’ he screamed.

The gang made their way to four different areas of the roof and before Spammo had a chance they were on their way. They knew this place like the backs of their hands; easy.

Mitch had found refuge over the Green Hills which lay about a mile from his home and which were very familiar to him.  After pulling up his hood and checking for the penknife that he stole from his older brother he made his way tentatively through sodden grass. It had started to drizzle.  His clothes were still wet through from the earlier downpour  so cover was essential. After stumbling and crawling over mounds of rubbish and cutting his hands on broken glass he managed to reach the new dumping area by the old relief road just in time for the heavens to open again, only this time accompanied by the roll of thunder and the crack of lightning. He was petrified now so he sought refuge under a pile of old wood, cardboard and tree branches. The cut was caked with mud which had stemmed the bleeding but it began to throb, which brought tears to his eyes. He settled as far back as he could and then opened his small school backpack and took out his torch and bag of sweets. He was starving and very thirsty but most of all dead tired. He found some matches in the front zipper of his bag, tore off a small section from his goody bag, lit it and gradually added small twigs and what looked like horsehair to the mix.  Warm now, tired though, very tired. He thought about his older brother, didn’t want to be like him; didn’t want to be in a gang.  A farm, that’s what he wanted. To be around animals, pigs, sheep, horses and chickens.  Mitch kept that thought as he drifted into a deep sleep.

Saturday morning and it was a clear day; windy and chilly but beautiful nonetheless. The E6 were on their way down to Devils Canyon.  They ran to the bottom where the old defunct sewer used to spew its contents from the nearby pumping station but which was now filled with old trolleys, bike parts, wire and other scrap. They laughed and pushed each other around. Leon was acting like a monkey and Neil was copying him but they stopped dead in their tracks when they saw that their mound of rubbish had been razed to the ground.  Neil complained about the odd stench that hung in the air.

Danny poked around the edges of the scorched earth until he came across a small object and opened it up. He fell back in horror when he saw his initials.

“It can’t be, no, no way!  Mitch nicked that ages ago, the little git.”

Copyright Phillip Miller

Two stories in Flash Fiction

A Question on Gardening

By Shelley Miller

I don't know if I look like I know what I'm doing, but I don't.
I know that some weeds look pretty but for all I don't know, they could be much-desired perennials. I'm a city girl come good; from a London flat to a seaside bungalow. I say ‘good’ because it feels good, pottering around in my humble garden.

The garden winces each time I approach with my hand shovel and matching fork and the evergreens cower as the jaws of my trusted sack-of-tears gape open.

A neighbour stopped to say hello once...in the good old days, as I threatened to tend to the flower bed on the front-drive. She asked me if I knew when the best time to dead-head the geraniums was. “I have to be honest," I said, "I don't know, I've never seen one before."  

"Oh", she replied, unenlightened, "you're standing in front of them."
I love nature, springs new growth all around for all to see, every shade of green, my favourite colour.

I'll get on with some weeding. I hope I don't look like I know what I'm doing because then the neighbours won't ask me any questions.

© Copyright S.C. Miller.

Midnight Concert.

By Shelley Miller

My husband likes 3 or 4 ales on a Friday night and occasionally I push the boat out and have 3 units of Stones Ginger Wine, just to keep him company. I noticed that on such nights as we lay down to sleep, my right ear gets a real treat. A midnight concert of what can only be described as sounding like a Punch and Judy show with a kazoo stuck firmly up my hubby’s nostril.

I never complain, normally, but last night I nudged him ever so deliberately, he jolted violently upright and asked where the fire was. "What fire?" I asked innocently. He settled back quickly enough and said no more. The concert ended when I fell asleep and the following morning nothing was mentioned. So you can imagine my surprise when he accused me of waking him up, not with a deliberate nudge in his side but with my snoring which he described as sounding like the Titanic's distress signal going off rapidly.

"Really!" I said "was that before or after the concert?"

I love an early morning breakfast with my husband, listening to the birds chirping happily in the small garden. It's always a real treat.

© Copyright S.C. Miller

Poem (for man)

A Life Of Toil (for man)

By Peter Woodgate

Is there such a thing as freedom?

For Man

and has there ever been

since time began?

For we are all held, prisoners

by the clocks we build

that track our forced progression

on this earth, that’s filled

With mankind’s coerced labour

on each orbit around the sun

and, according to the experts

this has only just begun.

The adamantine fate

bestowed on every man,

ticks endlessly around the face

that illuminates this span.

It measures what has gone before

and what is yet to come,

for most, it will appear too brief

yet shorter still for some.

Even then within these terms

We have our daily tasks,

this drudgery when will it end

One asks.

I spoke to Him the other day

discussing details of this strife,

Amazingly, He sympathised,

then blamed it on my Wife.      

© Copyright Peter Woodgate

The Gran I never had

My Gran who I never had.

By Sujata Narang

Wearing tight jogger leggings, headphones stuffed in her ears Shreya runs down the street as she gallops huge lumps of air.

The voice in her head says "Come on you can do this, last 5 minutes to go and you will be done with your 30-minute couch to 5k run for the day."

 Hearing these words she continues to summon her mental strength, battling the pain creeping down her spine and she runs past the Church of England and the crematorium. 

Strangely enough though, the road leading to the station has managed to keep alive the spirit of the past century despite being busy at all times. This side of the town gorgeously blankets the tales of the countryside and town life both.

The Church edging on the high street of Benfleet sometimes silently whispers the history of the Battle of Benfleet. 

However, Shreya got no time to listen or be distracted as she runs past it. Staying focused to her run she chooses to miss anything the church or the half-crown pub had to say.

"Only a few last minutes and I will be done."

Moments later she hears the much-awaited voice in her head say.  

"Hooray! You have completed your 30 minutes booster run, give a nice pat on the back and feel proud of yourself. Thank you so much for joining me today for your run. It's now time for the cool down walk. This is Jo Villey signing off. Check the app for hints and tips to succeed in running."

The last couple of minutes apparently seemed to have lasted a lifetime.

"Boom, I have done it, slow down breathe easy. Done and dusted for today." 

As Shreya walks to cool down she plans to sit and relax at the bench outside the South Benfleet library.

Soaking in the warmth of the winter sun; drinking in the joy of being alive.  She sits there stretching her muscles, wiggling her arms and twisting her neck as she starts to relax. 

"Last evening was fun!" she thinks to herself.

Shreya begins to recollect the chats she had at her nitter natter chit chat knitting group night. 

Every fortnight she meets her pack. A bunch of chatty crafty women. Swinging and swirling their knitting needles, like warriors, smashing and tucking their wool in enchanting patterns.

She thinks of Jenni, the woman probably in her late 70's, who, Shreya always enjoys sitting besides and having a little chat with.

Thoughts initiate the web of emotions and feelings, bringing the words she felt for Jenni.

I believe she is my Gran who I never had.

I have met her unarranged although 

there is nothing random, everything is planned and yes we were destined to meet.

Wow, what a great feeling, I have met my Gran who I never had.

She held my hand tight,

kissed on my cheek, slight.

Her touch is soft and gentle as if I m a new child.

I could feel her warmth and kindness when she placed her palm on mine.

I have an infinite connection with her. 

For every time we meet I know She is my Gran I never had.

Life is short and time is naughty 

galloping fast and racing undoubtedly plays it's game

Flies away when you want it to stay

when in pain slighter like a snail.

I wish to see her every time, I hope she stays fine.

For she is the Gran I never had.

Dear overseas Gran know what, 

My Gran would have been just like you 

shrunken frame, wrinkled face and only a few nested grey.

And a genuine smile with the right glimpse of joyfulness

And exactly the same sparkling shyness.

But you are my Gran who I never had.

I think I don't belong to this pack, yet I don't consider it true.

Strangely enough, my far-flung Gran and I can connect and relate.

I am sure even mum would be a stranger to understand why should we be mates?

But when I peel away our perceptible differences 

I always find the warm golden heart of 

My departed Gran, who I never had.

The Fitbit begins to vibrate, it shook her mind off, teleporting her back to the discomfort of her aching muscles. 

"Oh dear, it's time I must make a move get back and get more things done for today."

She quickly wraps her mind and mood and gets along into yet another busy day.

© Copyright Sujata Narang

Flash Fiction & Poem

All Change

by Rosemary Clarke

INT: A DETACHED HOUSE IN RAYLEIGH

MONTY an elderly man in slippers shuffles to the phone.
"Grandad it's lovely of you and Nan to agree to look after the kids but you really don't need the blackout curtains; they won't stop anything."
"Good to be prepared that's what we learnt in the war."
"Yes, but this isn't that kind of war, it's a disease."
"Well, it just so happens that I've still got ten bottles of Ipecacuanha wine, glycerine and syrup of squills.  Got us through everything that did; the nations cure-all."
"Hippy what? No, I mean they're fine they just needed somewhere to go while I go to work."
"A whole crate of it; clears whatever's wrong always does."
"No, now the reason I'm calling is because I've had some worrying news.  Lucy is under the impression that Floppy is to be used for food."
"Well that's why we bred them before; a good rabbit stew.  I'm growing veg too, they can help with that."
"Yes, but you don't have to eat pets.  There's Sainsbury's near you and Aldi; they do still deliver don't they?"
"I suppose."
"Well just leave Floppy in his hutch but the veg is a great idea."
"And the Ipecacuanha will keep us all good."
"Er...about that, they're not ill they're fine."
"Then why aren't they at school?"
"The schools are closed Grandad, haven't you heard?"
"Don't believe all that, misinformation we had it then but we got through it and we'll get through now."
"Look Grandad can I speak to Nan?"
"Sally he wants you, yes you."
SALLY in a floral tent comes to the phone.
"Hello William don't worry Monty just feels useful now but I'll keep an eye on things and - don't tell him - those bottles were washed out ages ago; they've had barley wine in them for years."
"Thanks, Nan, look after yourselves."
"Bill, we're all clapping for you and I've got the ladies from my W.I. online to machine some of those scrubs."

© Copyright Rosemary Clarke

Keep Going

by Rosemary Clarke

Behind all the masks there is kindness
Behind all the gloves there is care
Whatever the future throws to us
That knowledge will always be there
That's why we must stay in our homesteads
And cope and not get depressed
Because of our own secret weapon
The folk of the NHS.

© Copyright Rosemary Clarke

Cub Reporter

The Meeting.

By Len Morgan

As a cub reporter, I was expected to accompany a seasoned hack and take photos and movie shots with the Herald's digital camera.  I'd not been trained in its use, the editor just threw it to me together with the manual.

"Here kid, you're a gadgets man, get your mind around that; you're covering the Council meeting with Ted.  So, bring back some content for the website."

I took them as if I knew what I was doing and asked, "what do you have in mind boss?"

"I'll leave that up to you son, ten minutes of video and some stills aught to do it.  I would suggest you shoot thirty minutes then you can edit it and upload the best bits to the website, okay?"

"Okay boss," I said shouldering the camera like a pro.

.-...-.

 I'd been taken on two months earlier as a gofer; favour to my grandpa who in his day was the Herald's ace reporter, he's been retired for five years now but is still highly respected by the older hacks.  I'd been making coffee and running errands for the first three weeks.  So, I offered to help out with IT while the regular computer expert was on holiday.  The older reporters less savvy with the technology would call on me for help.

"Hey boy, can you take a look at my keyboard, it says I have 'sticky keys', but they all seem fine to me."

"Hey kid, my content just vanished can you get it back for me?"

"Gofer!  My mouse isn't working properly, can I have a replacement."

"My screens locked up..."

"It's broke..." 

Get the picture?  When Greg the IT man returned, as a reward for helping out, they sent me out to cover a story with Ray Scott the sports reporter.  

"Meet me at the City ground at 2pm tomorrow kid, here's your press pass.  Take your notepad & Pen and the mobile phone you were issued with, don't forget to charge it up overnight," he said.  "A reporter has to be prepared for anything, just like a boy scout."

So there I was outside the ground when Ray called me up on his mobile.  

"Sorry kid, my car's broke down on the M4, there's nobody else available so you'll have to cover the match for me.  Phone in your report to the main desk, (speed dial 01), as soon as the match is finished.  Do it before leaving the ground, so it makes the late edition!  Best of luck," there was a 'Click' then silence.  

My report must have been acceptable because on Monday morning I was offered the position of cub reporter; that was effectively an apprenticeship.  It meant I would get paid, but I had to attend college three nights a week and shadow the regular newshounds.  I was on cloud nine.

.-...-.

So off I went camera in hand, accompanied by Ted Marshall the local affairs reporter, to cover a routine monthly Council meeting at the town hall.  It was a hot sunny day, Ted drove in silence as I struggled to read the English section of the manual.  I left the manual in the car sure that what I didn't know, I could pick up as I went along.

"This is it, kid," we entered the front entrance and went into the chamber room where the meetings are held. 

The council was already in session, so I took some shots of the councillors.  I hadn't covered the flash section in the manual, but there was a domed glass roof allowing plenty of light to enter from above, and beams of sunlight came through slits in the closed blinds at the windows.  I took my stills and sat with the camera propped on a beanbag so it could be operated with the remote control.  I plugged earphones into the jack to monitor the sound and sat back to observe how Ted operated, as he took out his notebook and pencil.

"Meetings are always boring, nothing much gets done, but they have to justify their attendance fee, so they all say something, just to get into the 'minutes of the meeting' are you recording?" Ted asked.

 I checked "Yep," I said, pressing record.  He was right the meeting was boring, voices droned on and on and...

"Hey kid, you can wake up now, the meeting is over."

"Mmm uh?" I woke with a start.  The camera was tilted at a 45-degree angle, I stopped the recording and we headed back to the office.

"You slept for an hour and a half!  Wish I'd done the same." He grinned "you didn't miss a thing."

.-...-.

Back at the office, I viewed the results of an hour and a half of recording.  I felt sick.  The sound was muffled, I couldn't understand a word, the camera had fallen asleep at about the same time I had.  Dust motes made fascinating patterns as they passed in and out of sunbeams, as the camera slid slowly from vertical to horizontal in answer to gravity's pull.  A disaster!  I was gonna be sacked for sure.  No other self-respecting newspaper would ever employ me, not even as a gofer.  Then I saw Greg approaching and my heart sank even further, ridicule, humiliation, what would grandpa say when he heard how I'd let him down, as he surely would...

"Hi kid, did you get some exciting footage for us?"  I looked at him stricken with terror, ran for the toilets; locking the closet door, close to tears.

"Idiot, idiot, idiot!" I yelled.  Nobody came to see where I was, an hour passed, then I heard the door open.

"Well kid, I just viewed what you got.  It's not as bad as you think, in fact, it's verging on genius with a little judicious editing, from moir of course, come on out of there and give me a hand."  

.-...-.

Three hours later I was called into the editor's office for a debriefing and I wasn't looking forward to it.

"Your only real mistake son was in leaving the earphone jack plugged in.  A seasoned user checks the sound is okay then unplugs it.  If you'd done that the whole boring meeting would have been recorded, meaningless twaddle according to Ted.  Your sound was about as good as it got."  He smiled.  All things considered, you did a damned fine job.

"Let me show you the edited footage," said Greg switching on the video.  

The titles rolled:

Council Meeting 21/10/2014. 

 The picture was upright, showing the council members in landscape, then in panorama as the camera slewed slowly, then gradually the angle changed from 90 to 75 to 60 then 45 degrees.  The Councillors disappeared, stage left, and the sunbeams came into view.  Dust motes crisscrossed meaningfully in slomo, as unintelligible voices droned on and on...   I became aware that the pictures had slowly switched from colour to black & white.  Animated, shadows gesticulated on the floor, as the camera continued its unfettered mobilization.  Muffled voices raised in anger, followed by 'here here's', then more voices, and the camera toppled further, and further...

  

Finally, It stopped.  A voice said clearly.  "No more business?  I, therefore, declare this meeting closed!"

"We can't put that on the website," I gasped, "they'll sue."

"Too late, It's already out there," the editor smiled.  "The Mayor says it's the most entertaining recorded council meeting he's seen in thirty years.  It's a classic!"

As I left the editors office, my fellow workers stood up and applauded, Ted was sporting an especially broad grin as he patted me enthusiastically on the back.

  © Copyright Len Morgan