ELIXIR

ELIXIR

By Peter Woodgate

It had been a long hot night and Jimmy Smith had found himself walking the streets at 4am looking for a breeze.

Bloody heat, he murmured to himself, as he continued slowly along the deserted high street. Jimmy was down on his luck; he had lost his job, his house, his girlfriend and right now was in danger of losing his sanity.

    The unusually long spell of hot weather had shrivelled almost everything in sight including poor Jimmy’s brains. His worries had kept him awake at night and the heat just compounded the situation.

There has to be something better, he thought to himself, as he started to cross a narrow alley leading off the high street. He wouldn’t normally have given it a second glance but a sudden gust of cool air wafted over his gaunt features. Jimmy glanced at the sign and read the rather odd name, S’NATAS STREET in unusually bold letters. Strange, he thought; don’t remember seeing this street before, mind you, (his thoughts continued) if it hadn’t been for the breeze I probably would have missed it again. The cool breeze continued to envelop him in a sense of relief and he turned left, into the alley, to investigate further.

    Feeling quite refreshed, Jimmy’s step had changed from a plod to a reasonable gait and, before long, he spotted a neon sign.

“What the Hell, “he muttered, don’t tell me shops are open all bloody night. Jimmy looked at the sign and read the bold red letters. “Leave your troubles here before 6am and pick them up freshly cleaned by midnight.”

What a strange place, Jimmy’s head was spinning, am I dreaming this he thought.

    He stepped into the open doorway and the cold air exploded into his face as Jimmy heard a voice from the shadow at the back of the room.

“Greetings friend, what troubles are you leaving with me today?”  Jimmy was speechless for a moment but found himself inexplicably blurting out all his problems.

The shape in the shadows listened intently as he explained all his grievances, one by one.

     As he finished he suddenly became aware of what he had done and felt rather foolish. “What the Hell,” he blurted out, “look, thanks for listening pal but I must be off.”

     “Wait,” came the reply from the shadows, “come back between 10pm and midnight and all your troubles will have been solved.” Jimmy felt embarrassed now.

“Ok mate,” he mumbled as he stepped through the doorway and back into the alley.    The heat hit him like a steam iron and he immediately started sweating. So much for my troubles, he thought to himself.

    Jimmy’s day was crap, no luck at the jobcentre, not a decent meal inside him and the bloody heat bore on. He was watching an episode of Big Brother that evening, bored out of his skull when he suddenly thought about the strange place in the alley. Shortly after, he found himself trudging down the high road, looking for S’natas Street.

What am I doing, he thought, as he spied the sign. He entered the alley, there was no cool breeze this time. He looked at his watch, it showed 9.55pm.

    This has got to be crazy, he thought, as he wandered down the Street. There were no neon signs showing and Jimmy was about to return to the high street when a light blinked, once, then twice, before finally remaining lit. He read the bold red letters again, his heart thumping as he stepped through the doorway, the cool breeze hitting him once more.

    “Ah, I see you have returned, “whispered the voice at the back of the room.” Jimmy peered through the gloom, but could not make out anything except a shadow in the enveloping darkness.

“Your troubles have all been sorted,” whispered the shadow, “but;” there was an eerie silence before the shadow continued, “there will be a cost for this service.”

“Wh… what do I have to pay,” stammered Jimmy, not quite believing what he had heard.

“Just come back here in one month’s time and should you not be completely satisfied then you will not have to pay a penny. If you are completely satisfied I will inform you of the cost. Do you agree?” Jimmy couldn’t believe what he was hearing and thought, well, it probably won’t happen anyway, so I won’t owe anything. “Ok,” he agreed as he smiled to himself.

“Don’t forget what you have agreed,” whispered the voice, as Jimmy, once again, stepped out into the alley.

    The air now felt cooler and fresher and as he reached his flat he was amazed to find his girlfriend sitting on the step. She had decided that the grass wasn’t greener and had returned to support Jimmy through thick and thin. The following day he received a letter from his old firm, the markets had taken a turn for the better and they were offering him his job back, with a salary increase. Within a couple of weeks, Jimmy had commenced the paperwork to secure a mortgage, allowing him to regain the house that had been repossessed.  Even the weather had relented and was back to rain and more rain, with an occasional dry spell.

    Things just couldn’t be better for Jimmy as he walked down the high street late one evening. It had been a month since his visit to the strange shop in the alley; in fact, he had completely forgotten about it as he hurried on, umbrella held high against the driving rain. He was going to meet his girlfriend, whose shift at the hospital finished at 10pm. They were to have a few drinks to celebrate the turnaround in their fortunes and Jimmy was smiling as he started to cross the side street. Something made him look at the name; there it was in bold letters, S’natas Street.

    The memory came flooding back and he found himself walking down the alley, even though he did not want to. Sure enough, there it was the sign with bold red letters.

He entered the doorway, his heart racing.

 “Welcome” sighed the voice from the shadows, “you have come to pay your dues.”

“Y Y Yes” stammered Jimmy, feeling most uneasy and impatient to be on his way. “How much do I owe?” Jimmy began sweating profusely despite the cool atmosphere.

“Here, young man, open the box in front of you, it will reveal what you owe.”

    A white glove extended from the darkness, a key dangling from the outstretched forefinger. Jimmy took the key, nervously, and started to push it into the lock of the gilt box that lay on the table in front of him. He prayed that it would not fit, perhaps it was all a dream and he would wake up at any moment. The key slid in perfectly and Jimmy closed his eyes as he turned it anti-clockwise. He heard the soft click and slowly opened the lid; then opened his eyes and stared at the message inside. An expression of horror crept over his face and the voice in the shadows hissed,

“Say the words Jimmy, say the words.” Jimmy’s mouth was completely dry and his voice croaked as he read the message quietly. “You have dumped all your troubles and reached your goal, now you must pay and the price is YOUR SOUL.”

    Jimmy’s girlfriend was waiting patiently in the bar and as he entered, she smiled at him. She noticed a strange red glow from his eyes and wondered where the light was coming from. He didn’t acknowledge her smile but walked straight over to the bar, and ordered a pint and chaser. Funny, she thought, what’s gotten into him tonight?

Copyright Peter Woodgate

Write Me a Love story Ch4+

Write Me a Love Story 

CHAPTER 4+

By Janet Baldey

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 my fault. I’d noticed the gale had loosened some fence posts and had meant to do something about it but had been so tired. Now it was too late. A hungry fox 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?’

The cockerel was 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, tucked behind the clock. I’d phone the camp from the village. 

* * *

All the way down the hill I rehearsed what to say. Frank had said he’d fixed it but, because of the delay, they might have forgotten and as I lifted the receiver, my stomach was churning. A voice answered and I pressed Button A, hearing the hollow sound of coins dropping into the box.

‘Hello.’

The voice was faint but, in the event, things went smoother than I’d imagined.

‘Just hold on a bit missus. What did you say your name was again?’ 

 There was a dull clunk as the phone was put down and in the background, I heard the muted rumble of voices, like the faint herald of a summer storm.  Minutes dragged by as I wilted in that stuffy box  the sun was rapidly turning into a hothouse, sweat dripping down my arm as I held the receiver clamped to my ear. At last, the cheery voice was back on the other end of the line.

 ‘That’s all right then luv. Now, ‘ow many do you want?’

  For a mad moment I thought I’d got the wrong number. It was like ordering up bales of hay. Then I almost slammed down the phone as a nightmare vision of a group of cold-eyed men standing in my yard flashed before my eyes. I gripped the black Bakelite tighter.

‘Just one.’  .

‘Righto.  Might be a few days, mind’. If the man on the other end of the line had noticed the tremor in my voice, he made no comment.

I left the telephone box and walked over to where I’d left Barley. My legs were shaking and at that moment I would have sold my soul to see Frank’s familiar figure striding towards me.

* * *

 Wasn’t it just typical?   Life never missed an opportunity to catch you out.   Exasperated, I wiped my nose with the back of my hand, realising, too late, that it was filthy. Now I probably had black streaks across my face as well as straw in my hair.

All week I’d been on tenterhooks, alert for the slightest sound of an army truck; every morning waking up with the thought that this could be the day. Except, of course, for this morning, when I’d felt so miserable that everything else was wiped from my mind. I had a pounding headache and when I swallowed fire shot down my throat.   The harsh morning light had increased the thumping in my head and wincing, I’d screwed my eyes shut again. Every fibre of my being yearned to slip back under the covers and sleep for at least the next eight hours, but from somewhere I found the will to force myself out of bed. Full of self-pity, I stumbled downstairs thinking that no doubt the Spanish Inquisition had its tricky moments but it couldn’t have been much worse than a dose of summer ‘flu.

Sniffing miserably, I went about my usual morning chores. Luckily, by now they were second nature and I trudged around like a robot, doing what I had to do, my arms and legs working with mechanical efficiency.

When I returned from the milk run, I looked at the long-suffering pig wallowing in his sty. I’d recently evolved a new system. To avoid overlooking any job, I’d made a tick list, tacking it up on the kitchen door so I’d be sure to see it whenever I went out. Today, it was the pig’s turn to be mucked out.

So, with the porker grunting and snuffling around me, I was standing ankle-deep in manure, forking soiled hay out of the sty when, to my horror, I heard the clash of gears as a heavy vehicle laboured up the hill.

Before I had a chance to move, an olive green truck swung through the gateposts, its heavy tyres skidding over the muddy yard as it slid to a stop. A moment later, a squat plug of a man dressed in a hairy khaki uniform jumped down from the cab and stood looking around, his head snapping backwards and forwards. A silent group of men seated in the back watched impassively.  

Seconds passed in slow motion then, without taking my eyes off the scene, I took an uncertain step forwards and almost tripped over a metal bucket lying in wait.   At the sudden clang, heads whipped around and I sensed, rather than saw, a dozen pair of eyes settle on me. My face flooded with heat as I remembered the smudge on my nose and my wild hair. My hands trembled as I let myself out of the sty.     

As soon as he saw me, the sergeant’s face cleared and he did a quick right turn trotting towards me at the double, a clipboard tucked under his arm.

‘Ma’am’!

He braked and came to a halt; his spine erect and his chin tucked in. As his bulky figure stood bristling in front of me, I noticed that what filled out his uniform was not fat but muscle; there was not a spare ounce of flesh on his body. Somehow that made me feel worse and I stood drooping in front of him feeling like a rag doll, my headache intensifying as the bark of his parade-ground voice vied with the gong being beaten inside my skull.

 ‘Arrive at seven…..leave at seven.   Monday to Saturday……’ His words burst around me like machine gunfire. They were clear enough but I didn’t understand them. Their sense was muffled by the layers of cotton wool inside my skull. Wearily I closed my eyes and as I did the ground beneath my feet started to ripple. Slowly I began swaying to compensate.

‘Sign here Ma’am.   Ma’am?’

A hand grasped my arm.

‘Are you all right? You don’t look quite the ticket.’  Mercifully, he’d stopped shouting and his voice, although roughened by years of roaring at squaddies, was softer.

I shook my head and the sudden movement sent nausea coursing through me.   I retched helplessly.

I saw the sergeant’s head whip-round and he bellowed over his shoulder.

‘Fritz!’

 I felt the pitchfork being taken out of my hand.

‘Just lean on me.’

With unexpected gentleness, I was guided across the yard and into the kitchen where I collapsed into a chair. Leaning back into the soft cushions, I tried to ignore the room circling around me. Slowly, I closed my eyes, dimly aware that somebody was taking off my shoes and lifting my feet onto a stool.

When I opened my eyes, everything was hazy. I blinked and dim images swam into focus; I recognised the clock, my wood burning stove and the high stone sink. As if a tap had been turned, everything came flooding back. I remembered the lorry, the sergeant and someone called Fritz. I sat up with a jerk almost knocking over a cup of tea that had been placed close by. A wrinkled skin covered its surface and it was quite cold.  Startled, I looked at the clock. I had been asleep for over three hours.   A pulse began to beat rapidly in my neck. Where was everyone and what had been going on while I slept?  

I jumped to my feet and immediately clutched the back of the seat as my legs buckled. I stood hunched over for a few seconds then lurched to the door and flung it open. Sunlight flooded in and, narrowing my eyes against the glare, I squinted around the farmyard. Nothing seemed out of place. The usual farm buildings slumbered in the sunshine that was rapidly drying the mud in the yard to a brown crust. I could see the dark shape of Barley’s dun-coloured head poking out of the stable door. Her jaws were moving rhythmically and strands of hay spooled from her mouth. Someone had fed her. That had been the next job on my list, after the….    I suddenly remembered the pig and my head jerked towards his sty. Grunting gently, he was rooting about in a fresh pile of golden straw. Round and pink and clean, he looked contented.

The beating of my heart steadied and my grip on the door relaxed. There was a sharp sound of stone against metal and I craned my neck to listen. It was coming from around the back of the house and I started to step outside before remembering I’d no shoes on. Retreating into the shadowy coolness of my hall, I found my shoes, slipped them on and walked through the house towards the back door.        

As I passed the kitchen window I stopped dead.

The cockerel had been corralled inside its little wooden house and the old posts had been uprooted and lay neatly stacked on the ground. A man was digging a deep trench around the hencoop. He seemed very young, hardly more than a boy.   Pausing for breath, he wiped an arm across his brow and took off his shirt. His bare torso was so white, it looked luminous and I could count his ribs, his stomach was concave and his trousers were held up by jutting hipbones. I felt a flash of irritation: he looked weedy. They might as well have sent a girl. Then, he started to dig. His movements were sure and unhurried and with fluid grace he bent and lifted the shovel with rhythmic ease, piling the excess soil in a neat line at the side of the trench as he worked.

I watched him for a few minutes, perhaps I should make him a cup of tea. Or should it be coffee?  I wasn’t sure what Germans drank. The French liked coffee, I knew that. Frank and I had rarely touched the stuff but sometimes in the evenings, we had a cup of Camp, made with boiled milk heavily laced with sugar. I opened a cupboard but the bottle was empty apart from a sticky brown residue coating the bottom.  

The man looked up as I approached and at first, I thought the colour of his eyes was a reflection from the sky. Later, I realised they were always that shade. As I drew nearer I realised he was older than I’d first thought, maybe twenty-five instead of sixteen. Straightening, he put down the spade.

‘Ach. You are looking so much better now’

He saw the cup, smiled and stretched out his hand.

‘Danke.’

The sweetness of his smile took me completely by surprise. I’d prepared myself for surliness, arrogance or a cringing slyness but not that.

‘My pleasure.’  

I handed him the tea, regretting my curt reply. I forced myself to continue, aware I was sounding more and more like a vicar’s wife.

‘Thank you for all you’ve done Fritz. You’ve obviously worked very hard.’

         ‘Please.’  He held up a hand.  It was a very slim hand with long fingers, it could have belonged to a concert pianist. I noticed that ugly red welts were already beginning to blister his skin.

‘Please’, he continued. ‘Not Fritz. My name is Georg.’ Suddenly he put the cup down and straightened. Snapping his heels together, he saluted.

‘Georg Reiner Weindhoven.’

He dropped his arm, relaxed and laughed out loud.

‘The sergeant calls us all Fritz. Every one of us. It’s his little joke. I think it saves him from remembering all our nasty foreign names.’ His eyes twinkled into mine.

I drew back and there was a long silence. He hadn’t taken long to show his true colours. How dare he mock the sergeant; that was pure arrogance, typical of his race. He blinked uncertainly and his smile faded. Suddenly, he looked sixteen again.  

‘I’m sorry. I haf offended you?’

‘Drink your tea, before it gets cold. Do you have anything to eat?’

Even to my ears, my voice sounded as if it could stiffen sheets.

Turning to where his jacket was draped over a post, he rummaged in a pocket and drew out a brown paper package that crackled as he unwrapped it.

‘Bread and…’ he peered inside the sandwich…’ marge, I think you call it.’

‘Is that all?’

He shrugged. ‘Unfortunately, I’m not staying at the Ritz.’

Despite myself, I was shocked. He was the enemy but he wasn’t a slave.

‘I hope you like eggs’.

As I poached the eggs and buttered the toast, I wondered about him. He didn’t look as if he was used to manual work but when he’d finished mucking out the sty, he’d fed Betsy and had obviously realised the chicken coop needed mending. Most men in the same situation would have lazed around smoking, waiting to be given orders.

But as I carried out the loaded tray he was, indeed, sprawled on the ground, his thin fingers busy with a roll-up.

***

That night I couldn’t sleep and lay staring into the dark sure I’d made a terrible mistake. The more I thought about it, the more certain I became. Of my own free will and driven by panic, I’d invited an enemy alien into my home. Goodness knows what would happen now. Mentally cursing my stupidity, my hands gripped the sheets, their nails almost ripping holes through the worn cotton.  Eventually, in the early hours of the morning, I drifted into a thin doze only to be awakened almost immediately by the first shrill chirp of a single bird that swiftly multiplied as others joined the chorus. I crawled out of bed, feeling half-dead, and laboured through the day. Whatever I did, wherever I went, a dark cloud hovered over me and the same thought circled inside my brain like a record with a stuck needle.  I’d made a dangerous error.

To Be Continued/…

Copyright Jan Baldey

The Garden we want

The Garden we want

by Rosemary Clarke

We think of life as being ours,

being neat and tidy and everything in its' place,
but life is wild, a wilderness,

a place where we try to cut the grass

and trim the hedge and usually succeed...

until our lives are torn apart

and the wilderness takes over.
Perhaps we should stop trying

to cut down the wilderness and instead grow with it,

helping each other and understanding

until we all have the garden we want.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

Perspectives

Perspectives

By Jane Scoggins

Love is all around us for the NHS and all the key workers on the Coronavirus front-line.

One and all, we are in this pandemic together, clapping each Thursday to show our support.

Caring to keep in touch by phone and Zoom when we cannot be together in person.

Kissing the computer screen to say goodnight to a precious grandchild.

Daring to believe that the deadly Covid-19 will soon be banished, exterminated.

Out in the garden breathing clean air, identifying sweet birdsong not heard, or noticed before.

Wanting to believe that we will come out of this better people and with a stronger community spirit.

Never wanting to take anything for granted again, reflecting on the sadness of the thousands lost.

        Or

Locked indoors with nothing to do but worry.

Only a short walk every day, coping with the stress of staying two metres away from other humans.

Cannot get our heads around the fear of how many are dying from the Coronavirus on a daily basis.

Killing time, no work to go to and running out of jobs to do at home, desperate to keep sane.

Depression creeping in, and the overhanging anxiety of developing a high temperature or cough.

Only the basics, the world is closing down. Jobs lost, the economy crumbling, debt rising.

Why hadn’t we done more with our lives before this, painfully conscious of life’s fragility.

No pubs or restaurants open, shops closed. No weddings, birthday parties, or family celebrations.

Copyright Jane Scoggins

WHAT IF? (Part 1of 3)

                                                                                                                                                       

WHAT IF? (Part 1of 3)                                                 

By Richard Banks

Sarlek peered into the monitor and observed the launch of another missile. It was the third in as many weeks. The Americans would again threaten reprisals but with their second fleet already in the Sea of Japan, it was becoming obvious, even to the hawks in the Pentagon, that military bluster was not enough. Indeed the threat of force seemed only to energise and embolden the North Korean leadership.    

         Equally impervious to diplomacy and economic sanctions they continued to develop their weaponry in the belief that the Americans would not invade a country that in the past had enjoyed the unwavering support of their neighbour and superpower, China. For now the Chinese appealed to both sides for calm and restraint. Only through them was a diplomatic solution possible but their unpublicised attempts to broker a deal with the Korean regime had been politely, but firmly, dismissed. No longer a client state of China, North Korea was a proud and independent nation; in an unfriendly world, they heeded only the voice of their supreme leader, Kim Jong-un.
                        

         Privately the Chinese had no more liking for their troublesome neighbour than the United States did but, should the Americans attempt to invade Korea, China would have no option but to send in its own troops. The U.S. could not be trusted. Their occupation of Iraq had destabilised that country and those around it, the same could not be allowed to happen on their doorstep. If necessary the Americans would have to be stopped by force. The army had made its plans and was ready for action.

         Sarlek turned away from the monitor and stared out the window at the two moons of Haligan. Below them, the neon signs of the City’s nightspots were beginning to light up the gathering gloom. Soon he would be meeting Mia at Maxi’s and, for a few hours, the problems of planet earth would seem less daunting. It would be better in the morning he told himself. Why let it spoil his evening. His shift was over, time he was gone. The walk to Maxi’s would do him good, clear his head. Who knows, the solution might occur in a eureka moment when his mind was relaxed, half thinking of other things. He had turned off his terminal, he must now turn-off his mind. What would be, would be. He could only do his best.

         Happy hour was nearly over when he arrived at Maxi’s; just enough time to order a double Gurgleblaster for himself and an Andromedan rice wine for Mia. He looked forward to her arrival. As usual, she would have much to say. With her, there were no awkward silences, no struggle to find common ground. She was open, uncomplicated, said what she thought and never said anything that was spiteful or uncaring. At times she sparkled with good humour and he would forget his fascination for the curvaceous wiggle girls of Alterbyracticous.

         By the standards of her own species, Mia was only moderately attractive but Sarlek saw much in her appearance that he liked. In fact, the more he looked the more he liked. He admired her lithe figure, the green luminosity of her skin, her long serpent neck. When he looked into her single eye, at the sapphire circles that filled it, he sensed a beauty that was more than physical. She was kind, clever and for some reason liked him more than he liked himself. She was also extremely punctual and in one minute precisely would be making her entrance through the open doors of the City’s most visited nightspot. His negativity about his working day was almost gone. He glanced down at his watch and then at the entrance through which an increasing number of different life forms were passing. He counted down the seconds to her arrival and on one saw her squeeze past the broad expanse of a Tritonian Gobblebug.

         She greeted Sarlek with an effusive, “wot yer,” and dropped down beside him onto the sofa where they had sat on their first date. He purred his appreciation and they rubbed noses. She was of a species that also enjoyed kissing but the razor-sharp incisors within his large mouth rendered such an undertaking hazardous and was therefore banned under galactic law, 471,054. She took consolation in the lack of regulation concerning the rest of his body, particularly the well-exercised muscles of his upper torso.

         They touched glasses and for a few moments savoured their scented drinks. She apologised for nearly being late; a large birthday cake on a flying plate had collided with the hover bus on which she was a passenger, leaving the bus immobile and the driver immersed in cream topping. She had meant this to be amusing, as indeed it was, but Sarlek immediately showed his concern by throwing a protective arm around her shoulders. This was not what she was expecting but fully accorded with her hopes for the evening. She drew close to him. Through the translucent, soft-weave of his shirt she could feel the rapid beating of his heart.

         “Oh, it was nothing,” she murmured and then, with a dash of melodrama, “I have survived.”

His grip tightened to the point that she thought it prudent to change the subject.

         “How’s the job going? Solved the problems of Planet Earth?”

         He raised the pupils of both eyes to a point where neither could be seen. He was only partially successful in suppressing a groan. “Why don’t you tell me about your day.”

         She began with the ringing of her alarm clock and finished with her stepping off the bus and running full tilt towards Maxi’s clutching her high heels and handbag. As usual he listened attentively. She was funny, full of energy. Her day had been as humdrum as his own, possibly as irksome, but for her, there was nothing that couldn’t be made amusing or interesting. She saw only the colours of the spectrum, the blacks and greys she left to those with careworn faces. She looked down at her watch and to her horror found she had been speaking for ten minutes. The poor man must be bored stiff, she thought, but the expression on his face suggested otherwise. She remembered that his mother had been unwell. “Was she better now?” she asked.

         He replied that she was and that a sample of her vomit had been sent away for analysis. He was about to say that it was frothy and green in colour when it occurred to him that these were details not conducive to a romantic evening. Instead, he volunteered the unrequested information that his father’s health which was good continued so. Indeed he could not remember a time when it had not been good.

         “You must miss them?” said Mia, “so far away on the other side of the galaxy. Will you see them again this year?”

         He replied that it depended on his present assignment. If he was able to bring the crises on Earth to a successful conclusion he would be awarded two extra stripes and sent even further from home to the Strategic Command Station on Alpha Venturous. If on the other hand, the situation on Earth should further deteriorate his career in the Diplomatic Core would be over, six years of his life wasted. His father would not be pleased.

         “But there are other jobs,” said Mia, perhaps you could get one here on Haligan. The Governor’s Office is always advertising for admin bods. You could be a tax collector or a town planner.”

         As good ideas went, this one, she thought, was better than most. Alpha Venturous was so far away. If he went there they might never see each other again. Besides, Alpha was a dangerous place on the frontier of a war zone. Who in their right mind would want to go there? Clearly, she had to save him from himself, or was it for herself? She wasn’t quite sure. Either way, it was better he stayed.

         Sarlek briefly considered the prospect of a job in colonial administration and felt a despondency bordering on despair. He was a high flier, a serial achiever. He had never settled for second best, why should he now? He needed another drink.

         Mia watched him at the bar waiting to be served. He was wearing his poker face. She liked him better when he smiled, when he was relaxed, at ease. She realised this could not be all the time, that sometimes he would frown, be cross, even angry. That she could cope with. They were clouds to be chased away and she was good at that. But when he wore that face, that impenetrable shield, he shut himself off from the world and part of that world was herself.

To Be Continued/...

Copyright Richard Banks

Oh Yes

Oh Yes

By Shelley Miller

Oh yes, that man is all I want,
I told him that already.
I wore a dress from Mary Quant
And said "undress me Freddie"

He said I was a trendy beaut,
Too stylish for his liking,
So I showed up in me old tracksuit
And off we went hitchhiking.

Oh yes, that man, he makes me swoon,
He has a way about him.
Me mum said " not too much too soon,
If he tries his luck, just clout him".

He said he had a way with words
And his heart was full of love.
He said he used to chase the birds
Now he's settled for a Dove.

Oh yes, that man is very fit,
He doesn't own a car.
He bought me a banana split
And said we could go far.

We walked six miles, me bunion throbbed,
Me knees had had enough.
I said "hold on, me corn's been cobbed
And I think I'm up the duff"

Oh yes, that man is all I need,
He took it on the chin,
We found a pub in record speed
And he downed a triple gin.

Me mum said "now I told you Jean,
He won't be round for long".
But I said "I do" in Gretna Green,
This time, mum got it wrong.

Copyright Shelley Miller

The Gathering

The Gathering

By Dawn Van Win

                        

‘Twas All Hallows on that night

When at the beach I saw a sight

That stirred emotions raw and mixed

I stood there watching quite transfixed 

Was I 

By this strangest sight

Of women dancing in the night

By moon so full

In nature’s thrall

They had no clothes on

None at all!

Initial thoughts of fear and dread

Gave way to something else instead

When once I may have run and hid

I thought I’d join them

So I did

They welcomed me with open arms 

The sea it beckoned deep and calm

And so we stepped into the brine

The moon continuing to shine

It’s wondrous light 

on spirits free

All gathered in the name of She

These mothers, daughters, sisters too

All with an inner calling knew

To come here to this wildest place

And dance and laugh and raise a face

Up to that gentle silver light

All shame and doubt had taken flight

And so on Hallow’s Eve each year

All of those tales of dread and fear

Of vampires, bats and walking dead

Are just a veil placed to distract

The masses 

from this simple fact

That while some gather to trick or treat

And shuffle up and down the streets

A smaller group, perhaps a few

Who knows exactly what to do

Are summoned by our Mother Nature 

To seek a wild place for adventure 

So if your granny, daughter, mum

Pops out the door with errands to run

And it seems late, the witching hour

Don’t make her wait, 

She feels the power 

of this time, this special eve

When of her senses she may leave

And though you may not recognise

This fiery light behind her eyes

One usually so meek and mild 

She has an inner, wilder child

It isn’t that her nature’s switched

It’s just her inner, knowing witch!

Copyright Dawn Van Win