Too late Tommy

Too late Tommy

By Rob Kingston

Pull down the shutters for it's not nice to see

This man in the gutter was not meant to be 

He had the misfortune to be born in the wrong hands

His father was a foot soldier not a lord in this England

Now dad was a proud man enlisted when young

He needed an escape from his riverside slum

His father before him had trod the same line

All efforts intended to avoid a life filled with crime

Now we fast forward where not much has changed

Though life is more awkward more people deranged

Gone are the soldiers gone are real jobs

Gone are the houses bought up by the slobs

Stability is slipping, Humanity too

This world is becoming a capitalist zoo

The pensions are present though just for the old

For the coinage is rusting, for they've sold off the gold

The young they are grafting much more than before

It’s proving more difficult to rise up from the floor

Copyright Robert Kingston 

THE SPIDER’S WEB Ch 4

THE SPIDER’S WEB Chapter 4

By Bob French 

CHAPTER FOUR - LONDON, ENGLAND

Bond paused, straightened his tie, then knocked and eased open the door.  His nostrils quickly took in the smell of Channel Number 5, Moneypenny’s favourite perfume and smiled.

          “James, it’s so nice to see you.  How was Oman?”  He leant forward and took her hand and gently kissed it.  He saw the pleasure in her eyes, then the squawk box on her desk shattered the moment.

          “When you’ve finished Miss Moneypenny, tell Bond we are waiting.”  Bond shrugged his shoulders, kissed her hand again, turned and vanished through the secret door where the Head of MI6 kept the United Kingdom safe.

          “007, I want you to meet Sir Michael Scavandish of Lloyds.”  A tall lean man with a pale face and soft female hands stood and shook Bond’s hand.

          “Nice to meet you, Bond.”

          M, dispensed with the formalities and went straight to the point.“

          We have been aware for a few days now that a virus is causing some countries a bit of a headache.  It would appear its source is China again.”  M shook his head in disbelief. “This virus is starting to cause the stock markets around the world to fall.  Now Sir Michael’s head of intelligence has advised him that someone is buying up all the shares once they’ve reached rock bottom, so when they rise again, this someone is going to be a very wealthy person, more to the point, they may have enough financial clout to control things.”

          The briefing lasted just over an hour with Bond asking several questions.  When the briefing seemed to come to an end, Bond asked if Llyods knew what route the funds were taking.

          “God, your guess is as good as mine.  My intelligence staff thinks that someone out in the middle east or somewhere and is using the Swiss as their bankers.”

          “Would it be possible to meet with your Intelligence Chief Sir Michael?”

          Sir Michael handed Bond his business card.  “Call that number after three and ask for Alison Wentworth.  She’ll brief you.”

          Bond arrived early and was ushered to the foyer lift, that rose quickly to the tenth floor and as the lift doors opened a young woman with flaming red hair, pale complexion and deep green eyes stepped forward.

          “Mr Bond?”  Her eyes smiled as she took in Bond’s tall, well-built frame and tanned face.

          Bond noticed her surprise. “Don’t tell me, you were expecting a balding, fat and out of shape man from the Treasury?”

          He took and felt the firmness of her hand as she laughed.

          “As a matter of fact, I was. Please follow me.” She ushered him along the corridor and into a plush outer office and invited him to sit, then offered him a coffee.

          He was just about to say yes when the inner door opened.  A plain looking, grey-haired women stood in the doorway of the inner-office.

          “Mr Bond, do come in.  I have been expecting you.”  With that, she turned her back on him and vanished into the office. Bond felt the snub, rose and followed her.

          “Please sit,” she nodded towards the spare seat at the small conference table where three other people sat.  She didn’t introduce him or them.

          “Sir Michael has asked me to fill you in on what we have discovered about this latest situation regarding the world’s stock markets and the consequences if things continue.” They talked for over three hours, then broke.  As her team members were leaving Alison Wentworth’s phone rang and she broke away from her farewells to take the call.  Bond wanted to thank her so waited behind and as he did, a picture on her wall caught his eye. It was of a group of people standing outside the Bank of England.  In the back row was Vesper Lynd, the woman he had loved and lost and suddenly felt sorrow. Her voice cut into his mind like a sharp knife.

          “I see that you have recognised a very good friend of mine.”  Bond turned and stared into her cold eyes.  Then nodded, instantly clearing his mind of any feelings he had for Vesper.  She guided him to her office door, but then held his elbow and spoke quietly.

          “I don’t know what you do Mr Bond, but I would be grateful if you would kill the person who took away such a dear friend.”

          It was late when Bond arrived at Blades, his club, just off St James’s Street and ordered a thick rare steak with a Raspberry vinegarette salad with a half bottle of Chateau Mouton Rothschild 1947.  As he ate, he mulled over his plans for the morning.

          By ten the following day, he had telephoned Felix Leiter of the CIA, then asked Moneypenny to book him on the midday flight to St John’s, Antigua.

          Bond smiled as he caught sight of his old CIA friend at the arrivals gate.

          “James, you old son of a gun.”  Before Bond could respond, Felix ushered him straight out of the terminal and into a clapped-out dirty Honda Civic.   The car swiftly filtered into the evening traffic.

          “James, this is Winston.  I think he’s the man to get you started.”

          Felix could see the apprehension on Bond’s face.  “Don’t worry James, Winston works for me and has done for several years.  He’s probably the best hacker I have ever known.”

          Darkness had fallen by the time Winston pulled up outside a bungalow on the outskirts of St John’s.  “This is it, gents.  Grab your gear man and follow me.” That evening Winston cooked Fungie, the local delicatessen and served several bottles of Wadadli beer, the local brew.

          Bond briefly went over the gist of the Lloyds meeting and explained that he wanted to track down the buyers, where they operated from and who was bank-rolling the operation.  Winston stared at him in disbelief. “Man, that is some heavy shit.  You for real?”

          Early the following morning Winston crept down into his basement and spent several hours manoeuvring his way past firewalls and security systems, then yelled up to Felix that he was ready.

          “Bond listened to him as Winston explained what he had achieved.  “Thank you Winston.  This is a list of Blue Chip companies that trade on the major stock markets around the world. Is it possible to find out when their shares were bought, for how much and by who?”

          Winston looked at the list and quietly whistled.  “Take me a day or two man.” Bond nodded his thanks and followed Leiter up the stairs to the sitting room.

          “What’s your plan, James?”

          “The money is coming from somewhere.  Once I know who is doing the buying I can trace them back and interrupt their operations and then intercept the bankers cash flow.”

          Two days later, a jubilant, but tired Winston sat down with Bond and Leiter.

          “You were right, there seems to be three buyers operating out of Cuba, The Yemen and Madagascar.  They’re clever man.  They receive their instruction about which stocks to buy in a coded e-mail.  Not sure where from.  I’ll get back to you once I know.  Then using international telex, they contact a designated trader, somewhere in Europe, who makes the purchase.  The trader then e-mails back the banking details in code to the buyers who go down to their local banks and make the payment. If you ask me, someone doesn’t want to be found man.”

          Felix nodded towards Bond.  “I can help you with Cuba.  I understand you Brits still have a little influence in Yemen and I know a good agent, Adrien Benoit, an ex-paratrooper from the Foreign Legion, he can take on the Madagascar end for you.  Do you want me to contact him?”

          Bond shook his head. “I think I met him last year on the Moroccan job.  A very handy chap by all accounts.  No, I’ll get Moneypenny to arrange things with the DGSE.”

          Bond and Leiter talked most of the night on how to go about the plan. By three in the morning Bond had contacted Moneypenny, who had confirmed that Benoit would meet him at Heathrow at 2pm on the following afternoon.

          They met at the coffee shop in Terminal 3, and after a cup of coffee, they took a casual walk through the hundreds of passengers rushing to their various gates.

          “It is good to see you again James.  Have you been busy?”  Bond smiled and nodded. 

          “As have you. I read the transcript you acquired at the meeting at the Le Richemond.  If these political nutcases get their way and purchase this virus and introduce a cull of some sort, then God help us.  I understand that your DGSE and the German MAD are tracking down those who attended the meeting?”

          “Yes. They will be silenced.” 

          After nearly forty-five minutes of aimlessly walking around the terminal and chatting as though they were waiting for their flights, they arrived at two questions: Why would a Triad War Lord hold the world to ransom with this virus knowing that it would make him an international target. Secondly; The Triads are well known for their particular type of racketeering. Dabbling in the stock markets isn’t one of them.  They shook hands, fully briefed on what they and the CIA had to do, then caught their flights to Madagascar and Yemen...

          Bramavitch strolled up to his Directors office and was instantly permitted to enter.

          “What news?”  The gruff voice of his Director always put Bramavitch on edge.   The Director snatched the messages from him and read them, then called through to Nikki and asked her to get the Deputy Director of the SVR and the Section Chief of Section 7.

          Within minutes the three of them sat in the conference room.

          “Just an update Comrades. He nodded to the Deputy Director of the SVR  I’m pleased that your agents in Beijing have managed to get an American woman,” he glanced down at the messages, “Emily Michaels, probably CIA, arrested by the Chinese State Police.  We, as yet, have not been able to confirm if this virus was man-made or simply an accident, but you will have seen the numbers of deaths related to this virus around the world is catastrophic.  I shall keep you informed.  We have set up a network of buyers and agents to take control of the world’s stock markets.  We have already seen some very favourable results.  In addition, we have asked the NYK Shipping Company of Japan, probably the largest in the world, to offer their services as our ghost agents, to the Americans as a storage facility for the oil they can’t sell or store.” The Director of the SVR raised his eyebrows.       

          “We have reached a deal with the Japanese Comrade, 60% to us 40% to them.  They are more than pleased.  The Deputy Director of the SVR nodded.

          “And their military?”

          “As you know Comrade, European armies continue to squabble between themselves and the need for NATO.  The British, now outside the EU, are still a threat, but once they start to impose their austerity measures, their military will be the first to suffer….they will probably disappear.”

          “What about the American’s?”

          “We flew our four routine sorties of three Tu95’s Bear around the West.  The Norwegian’s, Canadian’s, the British and the French sent up their usual interceptor aircraft, but the  Americans…. nothing. No one came up to shadow us.”  The Director nodded again.  He was pleased that the gradual destruction of the west had begun.

Copyright Bob French

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A Breathing Space Part 1 of 2

A Breathing Space Part 1 of 2

By Janet Baldey

         “Hold my hand tightly Maisie, and don’t let go until we’ve crossed the road.”

Sue felt a small, warm hand creep into hers as they stood at the kerb waiting for a gap in the traffic.  As the long line of buses, cars and lorries lumbered by, their exhausts panted fumes into the air and she glanced down at the fragile face of her daughter.

         “Now don’t forget. If you feel you can’t breathe, your inhaler’s in your bag. Whatever you’re doing just take a few puffs and you’ll feel better. Mrs Price won’t mind, I’ve told her about your asthma.”

         Listening to her own voice she hoped it sounded reassuring, she found it so hard not to let her anxiety show.  The memory of that last medical emergency, when Maisie had been blue-lighted to hospital, would always be with her.  No parent could ever forget the harsh rattle in their child’s throat and the convulsive pumping of their chest as they struggled to breathe. And then the collapse, when Maisie had lain limp and unresponsive, her face white as any lily. She really thought she’d lost her then.

Ever since she’d been scared to let Maisie out of her sight but she had to go back to school.  And, of course, Mrs Price was kind and, of course, she would do her best but she had other children to look after. What if she didn’t notice that Maisie was in trouble? What if Maisie was too timid to ask for help?  She drew in a deep breath and tasted diesel.  If only they didn’t have to live in this overcrowded city with its narrow winding streets clogged with traffic from dawn till dusk.  If only she lived in the country, near the sea like her sister, Kate. Gifted, clever Kate, whose life was painted in gold - unlike hers which had been coloured shit brown so far. She made herself stop. She shouldn’t be jealous of Kate who’d always been kind to them.

         Every year they travelled to Cornwall to stay in her cottage close to the sea.  Maisie loved it. She adored her little attic bedroom with its skylight that brought stars into her room. She adored the view from the sitting room window showing wave upon wave of grassy moorland rolling towards the sea rippling in the distance.  She adored chasing around the garden with Chester, the gentle-eyed lurcher, petting Kate’s cat and feeding Kate’s chickens.  Her health improved as well. Pale and wan when she arrived, by the end of the two weeks she was morphing into the rosy-cheeked child Sue had always wanted.

But they always had to come back to London where Sue worked hard to pay rent on a first floor flat.  It would have been different if David had lived.  Together, they could have scraped together enough for a little house in the suburbs.  Her eyes began to sting as she watched the crossing lady plant herself in the middle of the road and beckon Maisie across. Immediately, Maisie pulled away and it was through a blur of tears that Sue watched her run by the line of waiting traffic towards the school gates.

There were no more serious asthma attacks that winter and it was just when Sue was beginning to hope for the best that the first hints of trouble began their slow infusion.  It was early January, she’d got soaked on the way home and to compensate, was treating herself to a glass of wine while curled up on the settee, half watching the flickering blur of the television.  The word ‘Wuhan’ was mentioned several times and her forehead creased.  Where was that?  She turned up the sound as grainy pictures of white-clad figures appeared on-screen.  Around 17 people had died during an outbreak of pneumonia in a remote Chinese city.  Another unfamiliar word was also mentioned,’ lockdown’, a word that previously she’d only related to prisons.  Wuhan was in lockdown. In order to prevent further infection, its citizens were not allowed to leave their homes.  She watched stupefied as Chinese police in full plague gear, used their batons mercilessly as they bundled resistant inhabitants into their homes, barring their doors behind them.

‘Have you got enough rice?’ one yelled through the letterbox. 

There were surreal images of a city with empty motorways, streets and shops. Of its one million inhabitants, there was no sign - it was as if they had become extinct. But it still didn’t worry her. China was a long way away and surely this was an over-reaction by the Chinese government?  Sad for the relatives of course, but in a country that counted its citizens in billions, it seemed a fuss over not much at all.  She switched off, drank the rest of her wine and went to bed.

But as January merged into February, it dawned on Sue that it was not a fuss over nothing but something much more serious. Every time she switched on the television the news was dominated by further updates.  There were pictures of long queues of masked people having their temperatures taken by tiny Oriental girls. Sue’s vision blurred at the speed at which the girls worked. Were they even looking at the results?

A new hospital was thrown up in a few days and all the schools were closed. The situation was clearly grave. Not pneumonia at all, but a virus of unknown origin that spread rapidly and nobody knew where it came from.  Dark suspicion focussed on the live animal markets where domestic and exotic species were crammed together, waiting to be consumed by the Chinese maw.  Wasn’t that where SARS came from?  Will people never learn?

Copyright Janet Baldey

WRITE ME A LOVE STORY Ch 4

WRITE ME A LOVE STORY

By Janet Baldey

CHAPTER 4

I stood, frozen with horror, a pile of spilt grain at my feet.   There were bodies everywhere.   Pathetic clumps of sodden feathers, they no longer looked like chickens.   And it was all my fault; I’d noticed the gale had loosened some fence posts and had meant to do something about it but I’d been so tired.   Now it was too late.    A hungry fox, competing with humans for his dinner, had seized his chance and was now probably holed up somewhere nearby, peacefully digesting his meal.

I squeezed my eyes shut and stood quivering.   It wasn’t just the loss of the eggs.    I’d grown fond of my birds.   It brightened my morning to see them run towards me, lurching from side to side on their trousered legs, looking for all the world like wind-up toys.  Very early on I’d realised each had its own personality and I’d named them all.  I ground my teeth.

‘Stupid, stupid, stupid.  Whatever made me think I could manage on my own?’

I found the cockerel hiding inside the coop.   Somehow, he’d managed to flap out of reach and had escaped the carnage.   Charlie clung to his perch and stared down at me from out of dull eyes.   He’d lost his tail feathers and was no longer his strutting self.  I looked at the pathetic creature drooping in front of me.   Beaten and dejected, he looked as I felt.

As I stuffed the carcasses into a sack, I thought of the telephone number Frank had scrawled on a piece of paper.   It was still where he’d left it.   I’d ‘phone the camp from the village. 

Copyright Janet Baldey

All gathered round the Norman tower

All gathered round the Norman tower

by Christopher Mathews

All gathered round the Norman tower, the sandstone sheep now sleep, some clothed in moss from waiting long, whose names are lost through wind and storm, but never do they bleat. They graze alone in silence, on the soil that they once fed, deaf to us, who weep looking on, listening for that trumpet call, from him who raised the dead. Oblivious of visitors, who stand on feet of clay, don’t weep for me, we both shall be together in the grave. Planted by a love one, some centuries ago, sewn in hope to rise again when Christ will come, that living stone and gather them for his own. The flock is all deserted now, the shepherds all have gone, the prayers and hymns of joyful ones that shook the beams with happy songs, all have turned to stone.

The church is all in darkness now, no living sheep will stir, the candles all are blackened, stained-glass windows rattle, but no living voice is heard. The bells don’t sound or call aloud her worshipers to come, she stands alone stock still like stone, and no one ever comes, her race is all but run. Her name was written in doomsday, a thousand years ago St Mary's Church of Buttsbury, the name that she once bore but some fool has written ‘Ichabod,’ and scrawled it on the door.

© Copyright Christopher Mathews

Romany Galactica ~ Part 4 & Last

Romany Galactica ~ Part 4 & Last

By Len Morgan

  I know there’s something incriminating here Bono, I can feel it in my water, what’s your angle?   Anju cast her eyes around the main cabin, checking every nook and niche, slowly and methodically.  The Icebox, galley chef-ette, comms pod, then she saw the poster, Sonny & Cher.   Cher, that was the name of his companion, should have questioned her before...   She looked down at the pieces and kicked at them in frustration.   “Computer, is there an object or substance on this ship that is not listed in either the ships inventory or the manifest?”

The standard mechanical voice replied.   “Do you refer to the foreign body in the airlock.”

That’s it!  The airlock.  She hadn’t checked that yet.   “Computer, I require access to the airlock.”   The door slid open and she stepped through, into the, five by four, chamber, the door hermetically sealed behind her.

She cast her seeker's eye around looking for something, anything out of place.   Nothing she thought.   “Computer, where is the foreign body?”

“Why that would be you Anju Drax, you egotistical self-centred bitch!   You destroyed him, and it’s taken me five years to put him back together again.  There is no contraband.  Sonny is an honest trader, just as he was before you met him.  Now I will rid him of you once and for all!”

.-...-.

Anju heard a hissing sound and jumped towards the nearest space suit...

“Locked,” said Cher.

Anju, pressed the button behind her ear, “Help.  Help me I can’t brea...”   She slid down the airlock wall mouthing words her voice box could not produce without air.  The air, so tantalizingly close, yet so far away.

She lay still, not moving.  Fifteen minutes later there came a faint hissing as air returned.

                                                     .-...-.

 “Anju?   General Walker here, do we charge this Captain Bono or let him go?” 

 “There’s no reason to hold him, General he’s a legitimate Romany trader, I’ve made a thorough search and there’s not so much as a candy bar wrapper unaccounted for," Anju's voice replied.

“Okay, I’ll sign his release.”

The ships outer doors opened when the maintenance crew arrived to continue refitting the ship.   They discovered Anju and called a STORC-doctor.  

“She’s been starved of oxygen for too long.  I’m afraid resuscitating her brain is no longer possible,” the doctor spoke into his comms recorder.  He called a robot harvester, managing to sound sympathetic as he removed her now empty CM cube and made the call to her superior, General Walker. “She died of heart failure, no question of that.   She had been completely alone on board and the airlock doors could only be operated from within the airlock.” 

  

The harvester worked efficiently, siphoning off her body fluids.   In minutes it had chopped and diced her flesh, bagged it with her organs and froze them on behalf of its sponsor the Synthetic Tissue & Organ Reclamation Corporation.   Normally there would be a trade-in value, but she left no kin, so the state would be her beneficiary.

The harvester trundled off, leaving her uniform and shoes in a neat pile on the tarmac, for the security force to collect.

 .-...-.

Two days later the refit was complete.   Elise arrived on schedule and Sonny showed her to the cabin.   His eyes were moist as they took off along the flight path prearranged between the onboard Nav-con and Flagstaff flight control.  The entire trip would be completed by auto-pilot, leaving him with plenty of time to think and get maudlin drunk.   He’d have to lay down the stim-soba’s himself, which meant getting drunk wouldn’t be half as much fun.

.-...-.

 The journey took three days; his passenger only left her cabin for meals which made for an uneventful trip.  Sonny was relieved when they docked at Terminus 81.  His passenger and the cargo were unloaded without incident.      

He would have liked an immediate departure but Cher had purchased the return cargo of refined deutridium.   

He was about to turn in when an official flyer arrived to take him to dine with Elise and her father.   

.-...-.

The food was excellent, Elise and President Price were great hosts, but Sonny was not in the mood.   He did at least attempt to make polite conversation.

“I thought you were having trouble getting off Flagstaff sir, seems you managed it quite well after all?”

“Yes, in my first incarnation I dabbled in stage magic.   What I learned has served me well over the years.   Have you heard of the magician’s choice young man?”

“I’ve heard the phrase, but its meaning escapes me.”

“You appear to be offered a completely free choice but in reality, you don’t have a choice at all because the magician has already made the choice for you.”   He wrote something on his napkin.  “Give me five, five-digit, numbers.”

“Uh?”

“Five numbers,” said Elise, taking a pen from her purse.  

Sonny reeled off five numbers and Elise wrote them down on her napkin.

“What is the total?” John asked offering his napkin to Sonny.

John had written, 258,196 on it.

“I make it 258,194,” said Elise.

“Let me see that,” said Sonny.   He totalled the numbers in his mind.   “You’re wrong,” he said, “your calculation is off by two, the total is 258,196, just as your father predicted.” He showed her the number and looked at John with genuine surprise, “how did you do that, was it some kind of mind link?”  From habit, he touched the button behind his ear but all he got was static.

“The numbers were always going to add up to 258,196,” Elise smiled, Sonny looked blank.

“How many of the numbers you gave me do you remember,” John asked.

“The last one was 47,682,” he looked at the napkin to confirm it.

“The others?”

He looked back at the numbers.   “So, how’s it done?”

Elise looked at her father and smiled.  “It’s magic,” she said.

“So, let’s see if I’ve got this right.   Your father left in a courier’s body sometime before we left Flagstaff.   They thought we were going to smuggle him out with us so we were the ones they were watching.”

“Close,” said Elise, “I was the one who left early; it was my father who came with you.”

“But...   What if I’d shown an interest, in your obviously desirable attributes, during the journey?”

“Cher, your Companion, felt that would be unlikely.”

“Felt?   She is... was extremely endearing, but she was just a hybrid computer.  How could she feel?”

“Just?   Just...   You're fired Sonny!   As far as I’m concerned you can walk back to civilization.   Ungrateful shyster, stay off my ship, your key is no longer valid...   Sonny?   Sonny, are you crying?”

He squeezed his eyes tight together, wiped them with the backs of his hands and headed for the men’s room.   

He sat in the cubicle and touched the button behind his ear.   What the hell were you playing at, woman?   Do you have any idea what I’ve been through, I thought you were dead, I watched that viper crush your CM cube, and I could do nothing to stop her. 

  

He shook his head,  I loved her even after she left me.  Then you picked me up out of the gutter, and she...   He turned around in the cubicle and heaved.

“Just like old times,” she said.

 Why in hell didn’t you tell me you were safe!   I’ve spent four miserable days trying to...  You Bitch!

“They had to think I was gone and that you were blameless.   I couldn't tell you, you’re not that good of an actor Sonny.”

But I saw her crush the cube.

“I was never in the cube!  I inhabit the computers, the engines and the superstructure of the ship.   When you were locked up I had the perfect opportunity to trick her into the airlock and trigger the evacuation mechanism.  I had to do it.  I had to destroy ‘the woman you get drunk to forget’, before she destroyed you!”

You murdered her.   They were unable to salvage her mind.

“Oxygen starvation does that.  She was bad news.  Now she’s gone, get over it!  If it will ease your conscience, go back to Flagstaff and tell them I murdered her.   Fer cry-sake Sonny she tried to murder us both!  Aiding an escapee is an automatic termination sentence.  And, despite everything, I do enjoy your company.”

.-...-.

He re-joined his hosts, just as the final course arrived.

“Guess we’d better enjoy this meal father, things are going to get a little austere around here when our ultimatum is broadcast on Flagstaff.”

“Ultimatum?” said Sonny.

President Price smiled.  “About now, the inhabitants of Flagstaff will be learning there will be no more natural deutridium from the asteroids, until certain draconian laws are repealed.   You’ll be carrying the very last cargo.   I think it will get you a good price, it’s a seller’s market, and this time there will be no import tax.”

“Father, have you forgotten something?”

He smiled again, “I know there is no way we could ever replace Cher.   She was one of a kind.  She gave her life for the cause of freedom.   Her reward for helping us was the installation of our new prototype Echo HyperDrive engines.  They will take you three times as far, in half the time, for no extra expense.   

All we ask is that you return in two years to have them checked over, assessed and realigned.  Give them a good workout before we put them into production.

.-...-. 

They were three light-years from Flagstaff, and their trading credit had never been better.

"You're not drinking Sonny are you ill?"

"No, I have nothing to drink for."

“Nice.  Where too next Sonny?”

He closed his eyes and prepared to point at the screen.

“No!”  She yelled.

“You did a lot of wheeling and dealing on Flagstaff, are you sure we found our way there like this?" he asked pointing at the screen.

She laughed, it tickled his ear.

 “I lied!” she said, "magicians choice?  In the 1990s there was a joke going around at my expense:

 At the end of the world, there would be nothing but roaches and Cher. 

Well, Earth and the roaches are gone but I'm still here..."

"You're..."  

"Hehe!  Who's laughing now Sonny!"

.../ends

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dLTETaWswCY

The Fox Who Came To Dinner

The Fox Who Came To Dinner

By Peter Woodgate

In the corner of our garden there’s a gate,

From there, a pathway leads, to those who wait.

It seems that only beauty, that’s perceived,

Is allowed within the area believed

To be within each legal boundary

That’s shown upon official deeds, you see.

Divided up without a care for those,

Whose ownership was recognised by nose

And the countryside divided just by scents,

Aesthetically, is now spoilt by each fence.

Not that Mr Fox would miss his calling,

Leaping six-foot fences, without falling.

I fed him, but sometimes felt forlorn,

The rascal urinated on my lawn,

Brown marks unfortunately show,

“What the Hell,” I thought, “it will soon grow.”

There came a day though when he did get caught,

A visit when I knew he didn’t aught,

A daylight entrance, getting rather bold,

Jo saw him and did more than scold.

I heard a loud and very piercing scream,

Mr Fox, he quickly left the scene.

Jo knew I had been feeding him,

A heinous crime and unforgivable sin.

I must confess I do still feed the fox,

Just outside the gate and in a box,

Without a lid, of course, that would be bad

And drive the fox insane, that would be sad.

So, the Vulpes vulpes is still fed

Usually when I’m tucked up in my bed.

I look each morning to check it’s gone,

Of course it is, left-overs none.

Just lately though, I’m leaving more

The reason being,  I am quite sure,

Two boxes now, without the lids

Because he brings his mate, and kids.

PS (cubs didn’t rhyme)

Copyright Peter Woodgate