Ode to a Crow

                          Ode to a Crow

                                   By Dawn Van Win

Oh Mr Crow

We thank you so

‘Tho much maligned 

(which is unkind)

Once souls move on

To life anew

You flutter down

And take your due

Recycling discarded shells

                              You keep life’s cycle

                              Turning well

My gang of girls

My gang of girls

By Sujata Narang

Inspiration and Motivation in life to me comes from my gang of girls.
Life is a celebration when they are around.

Happiness sparkles all around even in a dull street
Or, a laid afternoon in the back yard sitting on sheet.

If I had to hit the gym or dive into the pool,
My gang of girls must be around.

These women give me the vigour and strength to go along.
I keep motivated each day to run an extra mile.

She demonstrates me the patience to cook something novel in my own style.
Yes I have a partner a soul mate, but life without my friends would utterly shatter.

We celebrate the spirit of womanhood with each other.
Leaning on each other, learning from one another.

Sailing along in up and downs in our journey of life.
We are partners in crime. Creating memories, building blocks of lifelong friendship.

The world is our canvas; we are the women of the world.
We chat and tell tales of lands far beyond and travel places built on the ships of words.

My sisters, my cousins, and my friends any women I once meet, if we click, then they are in my gang.

A Gang forever - To love, to live, to chat and cling and clang.

Copyright  Sujata Narang

  

Romany Galactica ~ Part 1 of 4

Romany Galactica ~ Part 1 of 4

By Len Morgan

“Sonny, wake up we’re approaching Flagstaff!” She listened to his buzz-saw snoring. “We’re legally bound to observe their bylaws. A one-man cruiser cannot land on autopilot, and the master must present credentials and a retina scan. The penalty for non-compliance could be seizure of the ship.” She gave him thirty seconds then cranked up the volume. “Shift yer frikin arse, fer cry-sake. You have less than seven minutes. Respond to their hail man, why doncha!”

She listened to his asthmatic wheezing. He hawked and spat at a 1970’s poster for a Sonny and Cher concert. She waited. “C’mon Sonny, there’s a frothing stim-soba in the icebox. You got five minutes then I’m taking evasive action.”

“Quit naggin woman,” he staggered to the galley, fixed his gaze on the icebox. It opened to a snap of his fingers. He grabbed at salvation and downed it in one.

“Feel better now do we?” Her scorn was evident. 

He threw the bottle into the disposal, leaned over the sink and heaved, “Hersuse, what was I drinking last night?”

“We picked it up in the Scottish system. They call it Scotch whiskey.”

“Those guys should learn how to make decent Bourbon. That Scotch will never catch on.”

“Let’s pretend you never said that...”

“Oh no, what did I do? Don’t tell me…”

“You purchased three thousand cases of Scotch and two of Bourbon. You used up the last of our trading credit bozo.”

“I said don’t… So we sell it on Flagstaff, and head on back to civilisation—“

“Problem!”

“Go on?”

“This is a dry system. No alcohol or drugs planet-side.”

“So, why did you bring us here? Don’t—“

“You stuck a finger on the vidscreen and said take us there.”

“Shit!”

“That’s what I said but you’d already passed out.”

“You should have tried to wake me up.”

“I did. All you said was ‘Quit naggin’. Three minutes to abort.”

“Abort?” He spat several times and wiped his mouth on a napkin which he threw with pinpoint accuracy.

“Shit fer brains! Never heard of the recycling bin? You’re such a slob. Why does everything end up in the disposal unit? It took me three days to repair it last time, you have no respect for this ship.”

He grinned, entered the comms pod, and pressed [missed calls]. 

‘Captain of one-man cruiser Cher, y’all come back now. Confirm your origin and destination.’ 

--He pressed [Next]. 

‘Captain, answer our hail, we’re targetin ye with Nooks. If ye approach by half a mill miles, without identification, yer ship will be gas. Y’all hear me now.’ 

--He pressed [Next].

“You’re final warnin Captain, ye have two minutes…”

--He pressed [End OK], then [Reply]. 

“Captain Bono of the one-man cruiser Cher, out of New Chicago, ye hear me? Why don’t yous answer me damn-it, y’all comeback.”

“Captain, we bin callin fer nigh on an hour, mayhap your comms are fricasseed?”

“I can hear you just fine now you’ve decided to pick-up. We’re bound for Vegas with a cargo of Bourbon and Scotch.”

“Man, yer timin’s impeccable, Vegas’s nearin dry. You know our rules; you gotta turn 50% of yer poke into goods produced here on Flagstaff.”

“Hello, hello? I missed the last part of your message, thought you was telling me how to spend my money? Come back now. Hello, h_l_o…” He stepped out of the comms pod, “I thought you said Flagstaff was dry.”

“I lied!”

“Why didn’t I get a simple computer installed? Something reliable and efficient, no hassle…”

“Because I wrote your employment contract Captain Bozo.”

“It's Bono! The ship is your responsibility, but the cargo is mine. I’m not landing here with a clean-up cargo without knowing what I’m gonna get for it. What do they produce here, woman?”

“Heavy metals, radioactive's, crystals – diamond, sapphire, ruby – synthetic and natural - platinum, gold, silver, designer drugs…”

“You’re shittin me! Nothing of real value?” he asked.

“They mine deutridium on the outer asteroids; they design ships, and build some of the finest deep space cruisers in this arm of the Galaxy. They also do refits, something we’re in dire need of.”

“Deutridium, isn’t that used in the production of synthetic flesh?”

“Yea, they have a Synth Industry but their laws only allow inhabitants two synth bodies then they are expected to live out their natural span planet-side.”

“So they tend to live a full life before their first regeneration?” He smiled. “Find out what happens to their minds at the exit gate. Are they planted in standard CM's when their final synth pops its cork?”

“I’m on it!”

He sat down and opened a bottle of Scotch.

“I thought you said…”

“Button it! I do the thinking around here.”

“Haha, yea.”

“Have you got me an answer yet?”

“Their minds are recycled, and stored in standard Cryo Memory cubes, like mine.” 

“Ho Flagstaff, master’s credentials and ships manifest piggabak on this trans; will report for ret-scan on arrival, mess-ends 18:24 GST.” He pressed [Send] and took another slug of Scotch.

“Their nukes are standing down.”

“Did I ever tell you a distant ancestor of mine was ringed-up with the girl on that poster? The real Cher?” 

“A hundred times, but never while you were sober.”

“His name was Sonny too. She was a real looker, he was a lucky guy.” He had a faraway look in his eyes as he took another pull from his bottle. 

“Ah, can’t we dock before you get pissed out of your skull, man?”

His answer was to raise the bottle to his lips and slurp.

“Guess I’ll put some fresh stim-soba’s in the icebox.”

.-…-.

He dabbed his eyes with sterilene lint, ret-scan always caused his eyes to water and blurred his vision. He’d been advised to sit and allow them to recover naturally, but he wasn’t big on taking advice. A figure loomed ahead of him and they collided. Has to be a woman, he thought they don’t make ‘Midnight in Paris’ aftershave.

“Watch where you’re going, you drunken lout!”

His heart stopped, he knew that voice. He took a deep breath, “Anju?”

“Bono? The years haven’t been kind to you have they.”

He dabbed his eyes again enough to see the outline of her face, “It is you…”

“Ret-scan? It used to have that effect on me until I became head of security here, now I don’t have to submit to it.”

“Same old Anju, rules are for others eh?”

“Wrroah, and what scam are you planning to unleash on our unsuspecting populace?”

“Should imagine you already have them all tied up.”

“I’m now a responsible citizen, a pillar of the community.”

“Pillow? Ah, still sleeping around.”

“Whatever it is you’re up to, I’ve thought of it first and I’ll catch you at it!” she warned.

He raised his eyes in mock surprise, “who me?”

“I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Bono.”

“So let me see, it's, been five years? You marooned me on an uninhabited asteroid, stole my heart and my ship, now you’re accusing me of running a scam. You really must hate me.”

“Look I, I’m running late for a meeting but I’ll catch up with you, soon ok? We can snipe all you want and draw a line under the past,” she gave him a quick smile then she was gone.

He sat on a massage chair, he felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. He thumbed several coins into the slot and sat back to reflect.

Copyright Len Morgan

(to be continued/…)

Full Circle

FULL CIRCLE

By Rosemary Clarke

A long time ago
Nature was all
And then we came
We cut the forests
Burned the fields
Smashed the flowers
And now some of us are dying
Bees nourish our fruit and vegetables
Blossom cheers us
Bird song gives us the strength to go on
Nature unlike Mankind
Is not unforgiving

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

WRITE ME A LOVE STORY Ch 1b

WRITE ME A LOVE STORY

By Janet Baldey

CHAPTER 1b

         Collapsing into his chair he looked at his meal with glazed eyes.   He pushed the plate away.

‘Got something to tell you,’ he slurred.

I glanced at him, only half of me paying attention; the other half fully occupied regretting his rapidly congealing supper.

‘Mm?’

         ‘I’ve joined up.’

 Food forgotten, my eyes jolted towards his face.

‘What?’

         ‘I’ve joined the army,’ he repeated, his voice suddenly loud.  ‘I leave at the weekend.’

         The ticking of the clock seemed deafening, echoing the thumping of my heart.   My mouth fell open as his words sank in.   Then, I shook my head.   This was pure nonsense:  but Frank was no joker.   I looked at him.    He was staring past me at the wall, his face stony.

         ‘What are you talking about?   Why on earth would you join the army?  You’re a farmer, you don’t need to.  Please don’t talk nonsense Frank.’

         His face flooded with colour; he made a quick movement towards me and I flinched.

         ‘Nonsense is it?  So, you think I can skulk at home while our boys are being slaughtered over there?’   He jerked his head towards the south.  ‘Good God woman! Do you think I’m that much of a coward?’ 

         His voice was loud and like thunder it rolled around in my head.

         ‘No, of course I don’t think you’re a coward.  But you can’t be serious.   Do you really think one man is going to make a difference?  And, what will happen to me?  What will happen to the farm?  I can’t manage on my own.’

         ‘There’s no need to worry.  I’ve arranged for some help.’

         Suddenly, I felt so angry I could have hit him.   ‘And what sort of help would that be, pray?   A pensioner?   Or perhaps the local half-wit?   Or maybe you’re thinking of Bill Rogers.  He’d be a great asset.  He could use his wooden leg to plant the spuds.’

         He shook his head, my sarcasm bouncing off him.   

         ‘There’s the prisoner of war camp down the road.  One of them’ll be drafted. I’ve arranged it with the Sergeant at the camp.  He’s a mate of mine.’  He stared harder at the wall.   Then I knew he was wrong.  He was a coward; he couldn’t even look at me.

  I knew all about the camp.  Newly opened, it had been thrown up to house the increasing number of German Luftwaffe pilots shot down from our skies.    Its presence had caused great consternation in the village and if the rumours were to be believed, all its inmates had horns and forked tails.  Once, I’d caught sight of a trickle of them marching in a drab line along the lane.   Immediately, I’d turned and gone the other way, my skin crawling at the thought of their eyes on me.   I hated and feared them: they were Nazis and the newspapers were crammed with stories of their brutality.

‘No Frank. Not in a million years and anyway, surely, that’s not allowed?’ 

‘Yes, it is.   It’s already been okayed.    You’ve got nothing to worry about.  It’s only a small camp and they’ve all been vetted.  None of ‘em are dangerous.  You’ll be all right.  I’ve left you the telephone number, it’s behind the clock.’

I felt my face freeze.

‘I’d rather die.  If you go, I’ll manage on my own.’  

Copyright Janet Baldey  

(To be continued/...)

WRITE ME A LOVE STORY Ch 1a

WRITE ME A LOVE STORY

By Janet Baldey

CHAPTER 1a

‘It’s only a few acres, I know.  Thing is to start small and expand. There are already some mature apple trees in the orchard.   We’ll buy a couple of cows in calf for milk, hens for eggs and a pig to fatten.   Any surplus cream you can churn into butter and cheese to sell in the market and next year…. ‘

         I looked at him; my husband of just a few months, the rays of the setting sun filtering through the trees reflected the fire in his face.   With an effort, I dragged my gaze away and towards the small cottage.   To some, it might appear derelict but to me, it was wonderful, my very first home and one that I wouldn’t have to share with scores of others.   I slid my hand into Frank’s and squeezed.   We could do it, Frank and I.   I was absolutely sure of it.

For a few years, we were happy.   We worked until we dropped but Frank’s predictions seemed to be coming true.   He leased a couple of extra acres and planted potatoes and beet.   We even had a bit of money in the bank.  Life was good and getting better.   Then, so gradually that at first, we didn’t notice, a shadow crept across our sun.   

         Neither Frank nor I were great newspaper readers, we were too busy for that but we bought one occasionally, usually on a Sunday, reading it over a late breakfast after we’d done the milking.   Gradually, its news became increasingly bleak until even we began to realise that, in the world outside our own, things were going badly wrong.   The name ‘Hitler’ became familiar and every edition carried pictures of an odd-looking little man with oily black hair, sporting a comic-book moustache from behind, there was the occasional glimpse of a petulant mouth.     

         ‘Don’t like the sound of this. That chap is getting too big for his boots.’  Frank dipped a piece of fried bread into his egg and lifted it to his mouth, the yolk dripping from his fork.

         ‘What’s he done now?’

         ‘According to this’, he shook the paper at me, ‘not content with Austria and Czechoslovakia, Hitler’s now threatening to invade Poland.  It’s causing quite a stir.’

         ‘Oh, surely that’s all talk.  He wouldn’t go that far.  That would raise a hell of a stink and he’d never risk another war.’

Although Frank and I were both too young to remember the Great War, we knew that Germany had been thoroughly thrashed, and had become a crushed and broken nation.   But then Hitler had risen to power and his belligerent speeches caught the world’s attention, although most ordinary folk didn’t take him seriously.   He was just another crank and surely, only a lunatic would dream of putting their country at risk so soon after the last disaster.  Anyway, the German people wouldn’t stand for it.  At least that’s what we thought, but it gradually became clear we might be mistaken and soon photographs of massed ranks of steel helmeted soldiers goose-stepping in honour of their Fuhrer, struck a chill in our hearts.

         It was a worrying time.  Every time we attended church it was a little more crowded; it was clear that people were getting the wind-up, especially those with sons.  Whenever Frank got back from the village pub, he barely got in through the door before blurting out the latest rumours, his face flushed and his eyes almost feverish.  But it’s only with the benefit of hindsight that I look back on those evenings and wonder if he wasn’t a trifle too excited and that maybe the shine in his eyes wasn’t entirely due to cider.   At the time, in all innocence, I did my best to play things down.

         ‘Don’t worry.  I’m sure it won’t come to anything.  I think he’s just full of wind.’

         But I was wrong and I’ll never forget that bright September day, eighteen months later, when we sat, glued to the wireless, listening to Chamberlain’s tired voice.  Hitler had ignored his ultimatum and the broadcast ended with sombre music.   Without saying a word, Frank reached forward and switched off the radio.   The carefree twittering of the birds outside seemed out of place as we looked at each other in dumbstruck silence.   We were at war with Germany again and we just couldn’t believe it.

         At first, a jittery silence enveloped the whole country as we waited for the next blow.   But, as the months passed very little happened and we got on with our lives.   In our remote district, this was all too easy. We’d always felt separated from the rest of the country.   We had our ways and they had theirs. We just got on with it.  True, food began to get a bit scarce but that did us, farmers, a good turn.   Our produce was in great demand, although we always kept enough back for ourselves and lived well.   The meat was scarce but with the occasional poor layer for Sunday dinner, we didn’t go short.  Anyway, the meadows abounded with rabbits and every morning Frank went out with his gun, as did most of the villagers.   The fields around us rang with the sound of death; it was like living in our very own war zone.  

In fact, it wasn’t until the Germans invaded France that we really started to worry; suddenly, the Channel seemed very narrow. Things went from bad to worse, culminating in the disaster that was Dunkirk and it was during this time that I first noticed a change in Frank.  Although everyone’s heart went out to the soldiers marooned on those windswept beaches, Frank’s reaction was out of proportion.   Their plight seemed to seep into his very soul.   As soon as he got back in the evenings, he’d retreat into the front room, switch on the wireless and sit listening, his face intent and still as if carved from stone.   Once I went to tell him that supper was ready; I touched his shoulder and he jumped as if he’d been scalded.   At the time, I didn’t take much notice; I thought he was just worried about the war in general.  I know I was.   During those dark days, we all felt vulnerable and the threat of invasion lurked in the back of everybody’s minds.  Partly to reassure myself, I tried to jolly him along.

‘Don’t worry love.  Our brave boys won’t let us down.’ Much later, I thought this was quite the wrong thing to have said.

One night, having gone to bed with only silence for company, a sudden crack of thunder split the heavens and I sat bolt upright, barely able to breathe in the sultry air.    Feeling a hint of panic, I turned to Frank but his side of the bed was still empty and when I ran my hands over the sheets they were quite cool.  Quickly, I slipped out of bed.   The cottage’s thick walls had trapped the heat and as I padded downstairs it was like wading through treacle.    I heard the low mutter of the wireless and found him in our tiny ‘best’ room, that we kept for visitors.   The polished oilcloth felt slippery under my bare feet as I stood in the doorway.   Sitting bolt upright on one of the shiny leatherette armchairs, staring straight ahead, Frank’s face was blank.  Mechanically, he was taking sips from his cigarette, its scarlet eye waxing and waning in the half-light.   It was three in the morning and we rose at five.

‘Frank, what are you doing?’

         Starting, as if waking from a dream, he turned his head. 'Couldn’t sleep. Too hot.’

         Clicking off the radio, he got up and came back to bed but neither of us slept again.  Once, I moved towards him but he shrugged me off and after that we both lay as stiff as planks, listening to the birds as the sky lightened.

         As the weeks went by we carried on working side by side but, brick by brick, I could feel him building a wall around himself.  Our easy banter was gone and he seemed to have forgotten how to laugh.

         Gradually all the joy drained out of my life.  Frank became increasingly distant and even worse, subject to black moods.  I found myself tiptoeing around him for fear of saying the wrong thing and unwittingly setting off another volcanic bout of temper when he would storm and rage and eventually disappear for hours on end.   I never knew where he went and never asked; to be honest his absence grew to be a relief.   But I did worry.  This was so unlike the Frank I’d married.

         One evening he was late for supper.  Inevitably it was rabbit but, for once, my pastry had risen like a dream and when I cut into it the golden crust fell away in soft flakes.   I could have saved myself the trouble.  Thursday was Frank’s ‘pub night.’   The one evening of the week that he allowed himself off, spending a couple of hours chewing the rag with his friends.  Although Frank didn’t drink much alcohol, he was far too conscious of how his mother had ended up for that when at last the cottage door opened, it was obvious he’d had a drop too much.  He swayed slightly as he crossed the room and there was a strong smell of cider on his breath.

(to be continued)

Copyright Janet Baldey

THE CHOICE

THE CHOICE

by Rosemary Clarke

"Are they really magical?"
"Metaphorically speaking."
I looked at the three jumpers in front of me neatly folded on the table they looked the same, creamy colour soft and shaggy, but if you looked closer you could spot that they're made of different types of wool.
"So what animals were sheared to make these?"
The old woman stopped knitting and put her needles and unfinished work into the basket.

 "This one is made from camel hair; wearing this you will always spit, metaphorically speaking, on any problem but you will have plenty,” She said. 

 “This one is goat, wearing this you will always complain and make people feel sorry for you, but there will be plenty of people in your life,” She paused. 

“This one is sheep's wool; you will be hidden from problems and from good people but you will be safe, although alone.  You can only choose one and be that person forever."
"Metaphorically speaking?"
"No, so what will it be?"

She picked up each jumper, feeling it against her face and thinking as she held each one; she'd hardly ever complained, in fact, she should complain more but she couldn't bear people to feel sorry for her, the Angora wool did feel soft and comforting.  Would she like people to feel sorry; it didn't mean they'd help if she had trouble and anyone can feel sorry while not lifting a hand, no she couldn't be miserable it wasn't in her nature.  The soft sheep's wool bounced lightly under her fingertips like lambs jumping in a meadow but hiding; she would only do that if really necessary, a sort of calming down before facing the world again, but alone?  Alone she could handle but no problems meant no adventure, no working out no growing...she smiled suddenly; as long as there weren't too many at a time, problems were good.  Lastly, she held the Camel hair; it was coarser than the rest, harder wearing and if she knew how to spit on her problems instead of worrying they shouldn't be too bad.
She turned to the old woman holding out the Camel hair jumper.
"This is the one; if I learn to spit on my problems, whatever happens, I can handle it."

The old woman smiled knowingly.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke