My Computor

My Computor

By Sis Unsworth 

I don’t like my computor, it always gives me grief,

I know each time I shut it down it does bring me relief.

Sometimes I get an email, I’m not sure if it’s a scam,

I can’t do rocket science, the computor thinks I can.

I don’t like my computor, it often makes me scream,

When things I just don’t understand, appear upon my screen.

They really are essential, frequently I’m told,

Is it that I’m stupid, or am I just too old?

I don’t like my computor, don’t mean to be a bore,

At certain times I wonder, just what I have one for?

However, I will persevere, and hope I just might win,

Or else you’ll find the bloomin thing, inside my rubbish bin!

Copyright Sis Unsworth

The Brown Has Won.

The Brown Has Won.

By Phillip Miller

The brown had won, and the Frog sat crying

And the Fish gulped hard as Billy lay dying

Harry the hat held on to old Rose

And Tommy the Knock said, ‘that’s how it goes’

‘It’s sad’, said the frog, ‘the kid was my light

We drank every day from morning to night

It was a choice, you know, his booze or his pills

He drank so much you thought he had gills’

They laughed and talked about times long gone

And Rose took Bill's hand and sang him a song

The Frog shed a tear and The Hat said a prayer

And they all said that life really was unfair.

The Knock, the Hat, the Fish and Old Rose

Said, ‘let’s tap the Toad’.

‘Yeah! Come on’, said Fred, ‘for Billy’s sake,

Let’s have one for the road’.

Copyright Phillip Miller

IF YOU DO COME WITH ME

IF YOU DO COME WITH ME

By Richard Banks       

It was a book that had to be ordered. Long out of print the only copy listed in the library catalogue was in Colchester. At first, they didn’t know they had it. Their own records contained no reference to Katherine Melrose or any book by her. Then they found it in a dust laden cardboard box with the works of other dead poets. It arrived in Rayleigh at my local library two weeks later with a note saying that it was now part of a library sale and could be purchased for fifty pence. I paid the money willingly, and quietly celebrating my good fortune hurried home.

      There is nothing to compare to an old book. New ones have their attractions I grant you, – that perfume smell, the pristine freshness of each opened page, a virgin land just waiting to be discovered, but old books are better a shared experience, every blemish telling its own story, the smudge of an unwashed finger or thumb, the meticulous creasing of page corners, the occasional annotation, all bear witness to those who have read the same words that you are reading now. A previous reader of Miss Melrose’s book had been a tea drinker (may still be a tea drinker) a circular brown stain indicating that he or she had once placed a hot cup or mug on its padded leather cover. A moment of carelessness I wonder or did the book have no more value to the reader than a coaster?

      There would be other ‘clues’ inside. I turn to the first printed page. It was not, as I had hoped a first edition. Published in 1847 it was the second impression of a third edition. Clearly, Miss Melrose was a popular author in her time; today she is largely forgotten, meriting only four sentences in the Dictionary of Literary Biography. At the top of the page there is an inscription in blue ink: ‘Henrietta Brice, Westcliff-on-Sea, August 1848.’ The copperplate handwriting is neat, well formed letters slanting left to right. So the book first belonged to Henrietta, a young woman no more than twenty years of age. Her writing shows this, not a childish hand to be sure but nothing of the regressive slackness of later years. She has a romantic disposition; if not her ownership of Miss Melrose’s poetry would be a paradox. Towards the foot of the page an oblong stamp declares that the book has become the property of the Colchester Subscription Library. The same stamp testifies that this happened in October 1850. Was this when Henrietta put away her romantic notions?

       I skip the preface and read the first poem, a sonnet, fourteen lines occupying a single page. I read on to page twenty and find another addition in blue ink, a single line beneath the words, ‘the endless drift of unfilled days'. Could this have been Henrietta’s life? In 1848, her education at an end, her progression to the workplace would have been firmly discouraged. Only working class girls sought paid employment and Henrietta was not working class, her ownership of an expensive book proves that. Her role in life as a wife and mother was yet to begin. There might be many years of waiting until the right man came along. Would he come? The world was changing but not quick enough for Henrietta. For now she must fill in time as best she could. On the same page a pressed flower, a forget-me-not.

      Modern-day critics of Miss Melrose’s poetry are less than kind, accusing her of sentimental self-indulgence, velveteen emotions, a lack of intellectual content. These criticisms are harsh, conveying the prejudices of a more cynical age. They ignore her ability to charm, to weave the dream, to give it substance. In her works we see an ideal world tantalizingly out of reach but never out of sight. If Henrietta was to escape her gilded cage she needed dreams, a belief that life, her life, might one day step beyond the limited horizons of 'polite' society.

      I continue reading. The pages show little sign of wear. Unlike the cover, none are stained or smudged. Could I be the first person since Henrietta to read this book? The notion seems absurd, but not impossible. On page fifty-four is another annotation; beside the words, ‘he comes to conquer, feigns to love,’ is written ‘George’. One feels there should be a question mark after ‘George’ but there is none; evidently, his motives, his intentions, were only too clear. Could George be a suitor? If so he was likely to be disappointed. A man who only feigned to love was not for Henrietta, but George was persistent.

      Clinging to page ninety I find his visiting card, ‘George Bovis, Chief Clerk, Martins Bank, Lombard Street, London, EC3’ On the reverse side is written, ‘sorry to have missed you, fond regards, George.’ So George had come calling and Henrietta was out – by accident or design?

      Her parents, if they were in, might well have been pleased to see him. A young man with a secure job in the City was a suitable young man. Already a chief clerk he would surely make manager. If these thoughts were theirs they were not Henrietta’s. The card is folded and creased, picked at in one corner. The poem on this page is titled, ‘The Stranger at the Hearth’ - accident or design? The poem is a long one covering five pages. It deals with a loveless marriage. The words ‘damned’ and ‘condemned’ are underlined. In the penultimate verse the heroine mourns for, ‘he who loved and may still love.’ This too is underlined.

      I read on but the printed pages have less interest now than the manuscript additions. Henrietta is writing her own story; I may be the first to read it. I turn each page carefully. The next act in this drama is not long in coming. I find it between pages 102 and 103, a poem, five verses long written in brown ink on the notepaper of the Ship Inn. It is a love poem entitled, ‘To look into your eyes'. Expressive of chivalric love the poem is tender, warm, intimate. The last verse reads,

               ‘For those who flee the citadel,

                No more the walls, the curfew bell.

                Sweet world beyond the wishing well,

                If you do come with me.’ 

Beneath it the author has signed his name, ‘Clem.’ Below that is a large X to which Henrietta has added one of her own.

      So, Henrietta had two suitors, George the banker and Clem the poet. She had made her choice, that is clear but was she free to choose? Not yet of legal age, a romantic attachment to a man unacceptable to her parents would have been forbidden. Did they know about Clem? Would they have approved had they known? His poetry would not have been enough that’s for sure, what else did he have? I want to know more. There must be more, another poem, a calling card, more annotations, but there are none. The remaining pages contain only the black print of Miss Melrose’s poems.

      I feel downhearted, cheated. In frustration, I shake the book and from its spine something flutters to the floor. Beneath my chair, I find a ticket to a concert. The ticket is dated 29 August 1850, red lettering on tan coloured paper card. A theatrical company, the Northgate Players, are performing a play at Trotter's theatre near Southend Pier. It is the last night. The play is ‘Paul Pry’ by John Poole. On the reverse side of the ticket are brief details of the Company’s next production in Reading.

      Has this any relevance to the unfolding story of Henrietta, George and Clem? I think it does. The date on the ticket precedes the library acquisition of Henrietta’s book by less than a  month. Then I remember the closing line of Clem’s poem, ‘if you do come with me’. All is clear. Clem was an actor, with a travelling company, the Northgate Players, temporarily resident at the Ship Inn where he wrote his poem. During the Company's summer season he and Henrietta met and fell in love. Whether her parents knew of this or were kept in ignorance we may never know. Either way, their opposition to such an association would have been formidable and unyielding. Within days of the company’s final performance, Henrietta and Clem eloped and married.

      Pure supposition I hear you say. Where is your proof? The facts are too few, you stretch them too far. There is no evidence of an elopement. But there is. It lies on the desk at which I sit, a certificate of marriage received this morning from the Institute of Genealogy. On the 1st September 1850 Henrietta Brice and Clement Jerome married at Gretna Hall in Gretna Green. Their occupations were given as actor and actress. Henrietta was nineteen years of age.

      Of their life together I have no further information. That it can be found in genealogical records I have no doubt. Let it be. The dry dust of history ends only in death.  On the 1st September 1850 they were young, happy and free. The story’s told. No better ending can there be.   

Copyright Richard Banks   

Green eyes

 Green eyes

By Phillip Miller

It tears me up inside and grinds me down

The fact she’s hitched with that stupid old hack

Who rides a bike to work and acts the clown

And sings for his supper down at “Ye Old Smack”

I have the look’s, house, and bundles of cash.

Drive a smart red Porsche and own a large Gite,

and I impress with style and panache,

Rolex on my wrist, Prada on my feet.

He is short and has a pale complexion,

Puny against my body, tanned and strong.

He stands in the shadow of perfection

Happy because she sings only his song.

Then what does she see in him but not me?

Why! She loves him you fool, so plain to see?

Copyright Phillip Miller

Incarnations ~ Part 1 of 3

Incarnations ~ Part 1 of 3

 

By Len Morgan

Engage power.  

 It was Harley’s voice in his mind, calm and reassuring.   Power, he thought.   He heard a faint click and a sharp crackling sound.   His eyes opened, to a torrent of rain.   He gazed out at the dank forbidding storm-scape.  Without infrared sensors, the darkness would have been complete.   He could see a faint afterglow, defining the regular shape of a wall stretching from horizon to horizon.   Even as he took it in, a ball of blue flame materialized twenty feet above the wall and to his left.   It was projecting a stark beam of white light down into the void, midway between him and the wall.  Alert and predatory, it moved as if on rails, traversing the intervening ground, illuminating and defining every square inch, adding stark contrast to the flat desolation before him.

The killing fields, Harley volunteered.   Don’t move, he warned.   The light approached quickly now, bathing him in its cool ethereal glow.   He lay still and the light moved on.  Wait!   Wait – wait – it reversed direction, rapidly retracing its path, to where it first appeared.   Wait – wait – wait– then it returned to the farthest point it had reached, and continued its steady progress, combing the barren mudflats constantly searching.   

Now!   He scurried forward ten, twenty, thirty yards, skirting the remains of a dismembered mechanical spider, partially digested by the acid rain.   He passed the remnants of eight other similar constructs, in his frenzied dash for the wall.

Stop!   He froze as the light spun back in his direction once more, illuminating him briefly, before moving on.  

Wait, wait, wait-   It turned again to resume its journey mapping and memorizing every hillock and puddle of the killing fields.   Looking around he realized he had progressed beyond the last of the dismembered spiders; he was now in virgin territory.   At ninety yards he paused anticipating yet another light cycle.   He waited but the light did not return.   Several minutes passed before he cautiously moved on, covering a further ten yards.   Then, to his left, the ball appeared once more.   A second appeared to his right; he heard a faint hum, a crackle accompanied by the smell of ozone.   The ball changed, flickering - blue - green – yellow, then red.  A ruby laser licked towards him dissecting his left side appendages, with surgical precision, throwing him high into the night sky.  He turned pirouettes in mid-air as the second laser quartered his arachnid body.  Mangled shards of red hot metal ploughed deep furrows in the soft mud porridge, raising steam as they cooled.   He felt no pain before returning to oblivion.

.-…-.

   “That one lasted nineteen minutes Stig, but any movement within a hundred yards of that wall clearly triggers a laser strike.”

Stig slapped the instrument panel in frustration.  “Our sensors are detecting no signs of life out there; it must be some kind of automatic sentinel.”

Harley shook his head, “It’s ignoring our attempts to communicate; it doesn’t seem programmed to respond.”

“If it can’t be neutralized the colonization will have to be abandoned.”   

 “The alternative is to move on to Perligolli.”   Harley paused as the implications sank in.   He went to the galley and prepared two mugs of stim-café.  “Another thirty-six parsecs?   It took the Orbitar ten thousand years to get here from Earth.”

“It’s so unfair!  Carb-oxy life forms were never intended to last that long, even in stasis, I doubt we could survive another fifteen thousand years,” said Stig his face revealed his frustration.

“The CM crystals will survive the journey but I’ll wager ninety-nine per cent of the minds they contain will have gone insane before Orbitar gets there; that’s assuming there is an E-type planet in the Perligolli system.”

“We’re here now Harley we’ve got to find a way.   Hope, or New Earth, whatever they decide to call it is our new home!”   We don’t really have a choice, he thought. 

“We still have eleven Rak-nid units, but we only have two CM crystals to man them.   We could try returning to the Orbitar for more crystals?”

“I doubt we‘d make it Harley.   We haven’t had contact with the ship since we left; for all we know it no longer exists.”

“All we’ve got since hitting the atmosphere is static, and according to the con-panel we don’t even have enough fuel to reach escape velocity.”

“That doesn’t surprise me; I’m beginning to think this whole scenario was a set-up to lure us here.   We lost three Lander’s and ten remotes, then this two-man scout makes landfall without a scratch?   I don’t believe in coincidence, but at this moment I feel like a rat in a maze.  Question is whose maze is it, theirs or ours.”

“What’s the difference?” said Harley.

“We were told it’s an uninhabited, E-type planet.   Yet, it was inhabited recently, possibly within the last ten thousand years, yet mission control knew nothing about it?   We find it abandoned but guarded by advanced alien technology?”  Stig’s face clouded, “My instinct tells me we’ve been set-up.”

“My gut feeling says you’re right.   I think it’s a listening post to give early warning to the rest of the Universe; lookout, the humans are coming.”   They finished their stim in silence.

.-…-.

Stig harboured fond memories of their childhood.  He and Harley had been inseparable pals, growing up in the burbs of New Birmingham; they went through high school, University, and Space Academy, always together.

They graduated as pilot and navigator respectively and spent years prospecting in the asteroid belt, between Mars and Jupiter.   They worked for all the major mining conglomerates discovering and developing viable mineral deposits.

  When the market became crowded, Harley became bored with the routine so they switched from space jockeying to prospecting on Mars.   In the beginning, there was a lucrative market for the rare ore deutridium, found only on the red planet.   Ironically it was a key component in the production of synthetic flesh used initially in plastic surgery; without it, the mass production of synthetics would never have been possible.   They made a fortune, cashing in on the experience they’d gained working in the asteroid belt.

  When deutridium was synthesized and mining it became a thing of the past they cut their losses and returned home to earth.

.-…-.

“I think we’ll try two Rak-nid units this time Harley.”

“We only have two CM crystals left Stig, when they’re gone we’ll be done, for sure.”

“Damn!  I know that."  Stig shook his head, "sorry".

“No offence taken.  There’s a lot at stake.”

“If I’ve guessed correctly we only need a crystal in one of the Rak-nids.   Can you rig some kind of remote control for the other?”

“They all have rudimentary remote drives; they can either be programmed or guided with a J-Stik.”  

  

   Stig awoke the Rak-nid and viewed the planet through its eyes.   They followed the pattern laid down on previous approaches, avoiding the globes, as the earlier units had done.   They pushed forward, carefully narrowing the distance between themselves and the wall.   Ninety, seventy, forty yards, they were way past the wreckage of the previous units.   At thirty yards, Stig instructed the CM to keep moving and stop for nothing until it reached the wall.   Harley’s manually operated unit was programmed to stop every ten yards.   As it paused for the second time it was spectacularly incinerated, a flash of fire a plume of steam and it was gone.   The CM Rak-nid reached the wall and stopped without warning, as if its batteries which had been fully charged before starting off, had been drained.

 “Well that’s it, we have one more stab then we’re out of ideas, and time,” said Stig.   “What do you suppose it's doing?”

“The Internet knows, we’ve been orbiting this world for two and a half years, but know nothing more than we did when we first arrived.”  Harley winced and looked away.

 “I don’t understand.  I was awakened two days ago, if we’ve been here for two years why wasn’t I roused earlier?   Why wasn’t I fully briefed before we left Harley?”

“It wasn’t my idea; they said they needed to protect you.”  

“Protect me?   From who, from what, why?”

 “We arrived and everything was going smoothly.   The policy adopted was to wake people only when their skills were required; to conserve our resources.  Nothing could be taken for granted.  We were setting up a new colony, ten parsecs beyond our solar system, fer crysake!   Then we received a message from the planet, it was their one and only communication.”

”Didn’t you think I should know this before we left?”

“I did, but they said no!”

“What was the message?” Stig asked.

’Only a true born human can set foot on this world,’ said Harley.

“That was it?”

“We waited but there was nothing else, so we ignored it and sent down the landing parties.”

“Such arrogance,” Stig seethed.

“Three manned Landers, with a hundred and twenty crewmen were lost before we switched to unmanned probes – that didn’t change our luck.   Each flight began routinely then, as soon as they entered the atmosphere, we lost contact and the craft just seemed to disappear.” 

“What did they mean by ‘true-born’ humans?”  Stig asked.

“Humans born and bred on Earth.”

“So where’s the problem?   There are hundreds of ‘true-born’ humans aboard that ship.   I saw them, before we left on the Orbitar, a good few of those in the Lander’s must have been ‘true-born’ humans.”

Harley shook his head.   “All Synth’s.”

”But, we were banished because we refused to give up our natural bodies for synthetics.   It was these bodies, warts and all, they found so offensive.   There were thousands of us forced into a deep sleep, in orbit around Mars.   You know that Harley, you were with me.”

 Harley shook his head. “My original body barely survived two thousand years, I’m a clone of the original Harley; I was created from his genetic material and I have his memories because they were stored in a CM crystal but that means I’m no longer ‘true-born’.”  

“But, we both agreed, we would die rather than inhabit synthetic bodies, we…”

“Of all those who left Earth in the Orbitar only one ‘true-born’ survived.   We were in stasis for ten thousand years, our bodies, our minds, were unable to cope with it,” tears formed on Harley's cheeks.

“You let them turn me into a synth?   Knowing how I feel about it?”

 “You self righteous asshole Stig!   You are the only remaining ‘true-born’ human!  Most didn’t last as long as me, after five thousand years you were the only one left, but being the hard-assed obstinate bastard you are, you survived to defy the odds.”

“All gone.   Everyone?   No survivors?”   Suddenly the last human felt so alone.

Copyright Len Morgan

Happy hour

Happy hour

Phillip Miller

Mixing with crowds, in a drunken stupor

no sense in my life, and as blind as those

with voices that bore into my mind.

I need to escape from this daily grind,

but, what else awaits? What else is there!

For a man that is dead inside.

Copyright Phillip Miller

Living a Lie Part 2 & Last

Living a Lie Part 2 & Last 

By Janet Baldey

She looked down at the pitiful remains of Feng.   At that moment no one would recognise the demure librarian; a regular Diana, she blazed with righteous anger.

         ‘She must die!’ Her voice proclaimed a triumphant clarion call.

        

Joey the budgie, trapped in his cage, looked at her in alarm.   Fluffing up his feathers, he sidled towards his bell and gave it a quick reassuring ping with his beak.

*  *  *

        

‘This is terrible!’ The butcher’s eyes bulged as he stared at the note trembling in his hands.

        

‘It certainly is.   The grammar is appalling, the punctuation non-existent and doesn’t the stupid girl know there are three s’s in repercussions?’

        

Disapproval was etched deep into the lines of her face as the headmistress’s beady eyes noted every error.   She was fuming; it was bad enough to be blackmailed but worse to be blackmailed by an illiterate.

        

‘What’re we going to do?  My wife’ll kill me!’ The butcher’s jowls quivered like jellied veal.

        

‘Oh!  Pull yourself together man.  Do you think we’re going to be beaten by a chit of a girl?’

        

Gradually, what she was implying sank into his ox-like brain.

        

‘What do you mean?  Marjorie, do you know who sent this?’

        

‘Of course I do.  It’s as obvious to me as that boil on your nose.’

        

She read the note aloud.

        

‘If you dont want peeple to no  what you get up to on  Friday evenings, make sure you make the rite choyce about whose going to star in the skool concert.   If you dont, I cant be held responsibel  for the reppercusions.’

        

‘Hah!   She’s as good as signed her name.   The wretched creature has been badgering me for months.’

        

The butcher’s face shone with relief. ‘So, it’s alright then.   You give her the part and we’re off the hook.’

        

‘I’ll do no such thing.   She’s completely deluded, she thinks she can dance but she’s got as much grace as a pregnant hippo and I’ve got the school’s reputation to think of.   Anyway, it wouldn’t stop there. You must know that!’

        

Sometimes she wondered why she had got involved with a man who made slugs look astute. With a pensive look on her face, she walked towards the window.   Outside the moon had just broken free from a tether of cloud, and was bathing the vicarage in a clear, lemon coloured light.

        

‘We have to put a stop to her antics once and for all.   Apart from anything else, her continued existence is having an adverse effect on the school’s league tables’.

  *  *  *

        

His white robes billowing around him, the vicar stood at the lectern surveying his flock.    He looked down at the rapt faces, upturned towards him.  They were drinking in his words like nomads at an oasis.   His powerful voice soared as, exalted, he flung out his hands.   His heart was full and heavy with joy.  He’d been charged by God to preach His Holy Word.    It was his calling to convert the heathen; to rescue man from Evil and wrest them from the sins of the flesh.   Oh! Would that every day was a Sunday!

            

         Alfreda shifted in her seat; even her well padded rump couldn’t protect her from the hard wood of the pew.    She looked around the church and scowled.   Empty, as usual.   Except for Clarissa and even she had to be forced to come.   She looked at her husband as he preened and strutted on the podium.   She couldn’t imagine why he bothered; nobody had attended his Services for months.   No doubt the lazy, good for nothings were far too busy fornicating and stuffing themselves with food.   At the thought of food, her stomach rumbled.   She glared at the vicar as he thrust out his scrawny chest and screeched.   An impious thought sneaked into her mind.

        

‘Get on with it man, I’m hungry.’ 

 She visualised their lunch, shrivelling in the Aga, the potatoes softening and the stringy lamb drying out in a greasy pool of gravy.   She was well aware that their wretched maid scurried off to spend Sundays with her mother as soon as the family left the Vicarage.

        

As Arnold continued his rant, she gave up and closed her eyes.   She was just drifting into her long running day dream involving a rather attractive wife who happened to be married to the Master of the Hounds, when she was disturbed by a curious noise.    On the pew next to her, a hive of rather cross bees was being robbed of its honey.  Her eyelids snapped open.   Beside her, Clarissa’s head was slumped to one side and her mouth gaped.    As she watched a trickle of saliva rolled down the girl’s chin.   With a ferocious jab of her elbow she made contact with the girl’s fleshy body, jerking her awake.   No matter that they were the sole members of the congregation, they had a duty to keep up appearances.

At long last, Arnold’s sermon ground to a close, he gestured to the long-suffering organist and as the last anthem thundered in his ears, he stood transfixed gazing, if not heavenwards, at least towards the rafters.    At that moment, a pigeon rudely awakened from its doze, shuffled along a beam.   It took aim, fired and the glistening projectile landed fairly and squarely in the middle of the vicar’s shining pate.

*  *  *

Later that same evening, as the ground mist’s chilly tentacles groped the frozen grass, three separate groups of wraithlike figures crept up the hill towards the Vicarage.   Their hoarse whispers already muffled by the fog, trailed into silence as they approached their destination.    Each group had a separate agenda but one aim in common, to silence forever those that were living a lie.

Inside the vicarage, Alfreda sprawled on the sofa, back issues of ‘The Horse and Hound’ scattered around her.    As she leafed through their pages her jaws chomped rhythmically on a thick hunk of bread and dripping and soon the glossy pages were smeared with fingerprints.   At last she belched and tossed the remains of her meal to the hound lying at her feet.   Draining her beer, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.   Egad, she was bored.   She glanced at the clock; still Sunday.   It was such a pain that her morals forbade her to go cubbing on the Sabbath.   Ridiculous really, like going without at Lent.   No point to it at all!   She pounded her thighs in frustration.   Then an idea struck her, jumping up she reached for her hunting horn.  At least she could practice.    With a scarlet face and distended cheeks she puffed out the melancholy notes of  ‘Gone away’ at full volume over and over again.

Above her, the ceiling creaked and bulged as Clarissa practiced her dance steps, pausing only to turn up the volume to drown out the sound of the horn.   In his study, the Vicar, with wads of cotton wool stuffed tightly in his ears, crouched over his computer.

Shaking his head in sorrow, he pursed his mouth.

‘Those poor, dear children’, he whispered, his hands trembling on the mouse.

‘It really shouldn’t be allowed.’

His eyes gleamed as he scrolled down the screen.

 

And so, that pious, God fearing family spent a serene evening engaged in their various pursuits, blissfully unaware of the dim and shadowy groups of figures flitting in and out of the rhododendrons, drawing gradually nearer with every tick of the clock.

*  *  *

         ‘Fire.   Fire.  It’s a fire!’

The newest recruit to the village Fire Service, burst into the rest-room, his face rivalling the flames he’d just spotted.  For six boring months, he’d done nothing more exciting than polish brass on hoses but now at last, he was going to see some action.   He jumped about the room, unable to contain his excitement.

‘Can I press the bell?’

Chief Station Officer Hancock, looked up from the deck of cards he held in his hands. ‘Are ye sure lad?’
        

‘Yes, yes.  The vicarage.  It’s on fire!’

‘The vicarage, eh.’ The Station Officer rose and walked to the window.   Looking out, he saw a blazing chrysanthemum blossoming on the distant hill, its scarlet and gold petals shooting upwards into the night sky.

‘Hm, looks like you’re right.’

Strolling back to his seat, he sat down and picked up the cards.‘Right lads.   We’ll just finish this hand and then we’d best be off.’

*  *  *

‘Well, that’s a shame.’  Hancock turned the key again; the engine spluttered but did not catch’.

He shook his head. ‘I did tell them, at the last Council meeting. We need a new vehicle.'   I said.   'But Vicar wouldn’t have it.   Said he needed the money for the Church Spire Fund.’

There was the sound of muffled snickering from the back seats and he turned, holding up a thick finger in reproof.

‘Now, now lads.   It’s no laughing matter.’

By the time the elderly motor was resuscitated and coaxed up the hill, everyone knew it was too late.   The house was a ruin, its skeletal frame engulfed by roaring flames.   Every so often there was a sound like thunder as burning timbers crashed to the ground accompanied by showers of crimson sparks that danced off into the night.

Craning their necks, they stared skywards at a small group of figures clinging to a roof strut.   With horrified fascination they watched as first one and then another lost their grasp and plunged into the flames.

The vicar was the last to fall and when he saw what was waiting for him, his mouth opened in a horror stricken scream.

The demon was right. The Devil was much worse.

Copyright Janet Baldey