FAITH

FAITH

By Peter Woodgate

One day God spoke to me

And I could clearly see

Not outwardly, but deep within my soul.

My transgressions were laid bare,

As if, for all to share,

And, confessing every sin, was now my goal.

Oh I had this strange belief,

Almighty God was real, my chief,

And all before my eyes, revealing Him.

So, I trod religious routes,

Wearing out so many boots,

On the path to rid myself of every sin.

But, each denomination entered

Had a schism, was self centered,

And I questioned why these factions should occur,

Surely He, who fashioned all,

Should have the final call

And faith, not for diversity, to stir.

Mankind, acutely flawed,

Cannot be guided or assured

By a god that seems imperfect, just like he,

It appears that God allows

So much pain on beaten brows

With death, destruction, grief, for all to see.

My blind faith has faded fast

And I fear it will not last

Yet conversely I see things that make me wonder,

The detailed structure and design

Of each creature down the line,

A rainbow, lightning, and almighty thunder.

I can’t believe it’s all by chance

That this Earth has learnt to dance

Our existence then is open to suggestions,

If it’s true, God is our maker,

And I should meet him at the crater,

I will beg the answers to so many questions. 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

My Brother Killed A Bird

My Brother Killed A Bird

By Shelley Miller

You had to stop
And look to see,
Before he flew on by,
So free,
Towards that dense
And bushy tree,
Away from view,
From you and me.
You had to be
So very still,
Without a care,
Prepare to kill,
With just one shot
You plot to fill
The bird with lead
Until it bled.
One less bird
Is heard on high,
An empty place
In space, just sky.
And now I watch
You watch me cry.
My brother killed a bird,
It sounds absurd
But now I want to bury him.

Copyright Shelley Miller

Something For Nothing

Something For Nothing

By Jane Scoggins

    I am definitely not religious and have had no interest in God, but I find myself sitting in a church and feeling content. I haven't been in a church except for an occasional wedding or a funeral, and I have never sung a hymn or said prayers. So what am I doing here?

     About a week ago I was going to the corner shop when I saw a man about to topple into the road in front of a car. I was just in time to reach out and grab his coat and haul him out the way. He fell back onto the pavement whilst cars slammed on their breaks and had a near crash themselves. An angry driver got out of his car to check if the man was OK and give him a mouthful of bad language. The man on the pavement, although clearly in shock from a potentially horrible accident, mumbled his apologies to the driver, for not looking where he was going. The angry driver, feeling exonerated, got back in his car and drove away; as did the other cars who had squealed to a sudden halt. The pedestrian was an older man, and appeared shaken, so I took his arm and directed him to the wooden bench nearby, where the dog walkers usually tie up their hounds whilst they go into the  shop. When he had got his breath back he spoke with a soft Irish accent.

     'Thank you, thank you, thank you. I don’t know what I was thinking of. That could have been really nasty. I am a stupid old fool. I don’t know if I was away with the leprechauns or just not looking where I was going.'

    We both sat quietly for a few moments absorbing the enormity of what could have been before he continued.

     'It must be the luck of the Irish, is all I can say. I cant afford to have any mishaps. I am going to my son's, and he is expecting his Dad to arrive in one piece' he said smiling weakly.

      When he'd composed himself, we went into the shop. While he was at the newspaper stand, I went to buy a stamp for the job application I was posting. I waited for him to pay for his newspaper so I could say goodbye.

     ' Thank you again for your kindness' he reiterated. At the same time thrusting a large bar of Galaxy chocolate into my hand. I did not decline. I thought it was nice of him to want to give me a little thank you, and I find chocolate difficult to resist. He followed this up with

    'Can you spare a few minutes to sit with me on the bench before I go on my way?'

    ' Of course I can'  I replied.

  What else could I say when he had given me the chocolate; and anyway, I was in no rush.

    ' If you are still feeling a bit shaken, would you like me to phone someone, your son perhaps?’

 I volunteered

   'Oh no, he will be at work, and besides, he lives in Australia!' he laughed

     ‘When I said I was going to my son's I didn’t tell you the whole story. I am going to Australia to live with my son, and his wife. So all the more reason why I shouldn’t be knocked down in the road before I go, and not be fit for travel, or even worse!

  'When are you going?'

     'In a few days. My house is sold, and my bags are packed. My wife died two years ago and they have been asking me to go out to Australia since then. Truth is though, I am afraid of the flying, and the whole business of travelling so far across the world makes me nervous. As you have seen for yourself, I can’t even cross the road without mishap! The only comfort is that my wife will be coming with me.'

   'But I thought she had died' I said, confused.

     'I am taking her ashes with me' he said slowly, as if to a halfwit.

    When he got up from the bench, two lottery tickets fell from the fold in the newspaper he was holding. Picking them up, I held them out to him. He put his hand up in a gesture of refusal, saying   ‘No, you keep them, they are no good to me. I don’t know why I got them. I shall be across the world by Saturday, and if you win a tenner, good luck to you. I have always bought lucky dip lottery tickets for me and my wife, and we would check the numbers on a Sunday after Mass. We always said we would visit our boy in Australia if we won enough for the air fares. I have kept up the habit, I don’t know why, because there's no pleasure in it without her. And I don't need the air fare money.

      'That's kind of you. And thank you for the chocolate too'

        He gave a little dismissive wave of his hand.

        'It's nothing compared to what you did for me. But I would be grateful if you would do me one more kindness. Would go into a church and say a little prayer to Our Blessed Lord, and St Christopher, and maybe light a votive candle, to keep us safe on our journey and for good luck when I get to Australia?'

  ' Of course I will' I said.

   I knew that I wouldn't, but I wanted to be kind. What's a little lie now and then to keep someone nice happy. I know all about lies and this one rated less than 5 on a scale of 100 in my book.

      My mother lied to me all the time when I was young, with promises of this and that. Promises that rarely materialised, like dinner money, outings, new trainers, clothes, or a trip to the pictures. When confronted she would say I would have to get a paper round or a Saturday job at the hardware shop nearby that was always advertising.

       'You don't get something for nothing in this life.' she would say.

         In my early teens I did not have the confidence or the words to tell my harsh, unobservant mother about the sort of price I was expected to pay with one of the bullyboys on the paper round, or the sly touchy feely man at the hardware shop. All I knew was was that it was just not worth a new pair of trainers.

      In the church, I have discovered what a votive candle is and have put a £2 in the money tin beneath the black iron frame holding the eight rows of little metal shelves on which are placed the lighted candles. I lit a candle from one already burning, and placed it in a vacant space on one of the shelves. It looks pretty with the dozen or more candles flickering their warm gold light. I go back to the pew and prepare my words to deliver to God, and St Christopher, as requested by the old gent. I knew nothing of St Christopher, until I googled him to discover that he is the patron saint of travellers. So now that makes sense.

   I say the words under my breath.

   'Dear God and St Christopher. Please take care of the old gentleman and his wife in the urn, who have gone to Australia. I am sorry that I haven't believed in you, but I never thought I had reason to.’

Camelot have confirmed that one of the lottery tickets has come up trumps. It is a substantial amount and will make a huge difference to my so far rather pathetic life. I can move from my rented bedsit to a nicer flat. I can buy new clothes for job interviews, and if I get the job I applied for, or another one, I will take driving lessons and buy a little second hand car. I don’t intend on being extravagant. I just thank my lucky stars that after all, I seem to have got something for nothing, via the luck of the Irish, and intend to make the most of it.

    

Copyright Jane Scoggins

  

   

Persian majesty

Persian majesty 

By Rob Kingston

Spiritual rotations
Floating in the wind
Orbital citations 
Bequeathed to minions.
 
His words are majestic
Wisdom for all to see
Cost is insignificant 
His intentions were, they are all free.
 
Banished from his hometown
Poor vision in a Sultans might.
Driven out of Persia
By delinquent raiding fights.
 
Today across this Earth
His wisdom en masse resonates
Just simple words of meaning
Love and Peace, endorse before it’s too late.
 
From within the reed bed
resounds the flute
Sweet sounds of birth
transforming this earth
 

© Copyright Robert Kingston 3.5.15

The Darker Half Chapter 1 & 2

 

The Darker Half Chapter 1 & 2

By Janet Baldey`

CHAPTER 1

ANNA

                         
Anna wonders what it’s like to drown.  She’s heard that after the first few frantic struggles, it’s a peaceful way to go.  Oxygen leaches from your brain, your worries fade away and you drift away on a cloud of euphoria.  She’d like to think that was true but isn’t convinced.  How does anyone know?  Most people think they are so clever. Unlike her. She is always one step behind, always the last to know.  She hadn’t even recognised the signs when her world started to collapse.

 A frozen stream of air scythes down from the Arctic and she draws her coat closer.  For the first time, she becomes aware of the cold stone of the parapet cutting into her stomach and she draws back a fraction, only to lean forward again, mesmerised by the river pounding underneath the bridge. Its colour is constantly changing from metallic blue to pewter, reflecting the turbulent clouds scudding across the sky. There’s a twig caught in the grip of the current and she follows its progress as it spins towards the weir.  Without thinking, she toes off first one shoe and then the other, standing on the balls of her feet, watching the water writhing and foaming as if in the grip of a seizure.

 “Is everything all right, Miss?”

Anna’s body jerks and her hands tighten on the parapet as she smothers a scream.   She’d thought she was quite alone.

The man’s bulky figure is silhouetted against the bitter orange of the dying sun and all she sees is the luminous oval of his face. He sounds concerned and she feels a surge of irritation. When she replies her voice is curt.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

Her cheeks burn as she feels around for her shoes and slips them back on. With a brief, dismissive, nod she turns and hurries towards the town.

Frost sparkles the pavement as Anna walks through the empty streets. It’s full dark now and most of the houses have drawn their curtains against the night. Lit by electricity, the lemon coloured windows look cosy and Anna slows, gazing at them in the same way that a sugar starved child gazes into a sweetshop. Inside those houses, families will be brewing tea, asking each other about their day and settling down for the evening. Her own will be in darkness except, maybe, for the blue flutter of a television in the front room.

       As she rounds a corner “The Queen’s Head” materialises in a blaze of light. It’s a cheerful place and in happier days had been her local. As she draws nearer, a drone of sound spills out into the darkness and early Christmas decorations shiver in the windows as they catch the draught of the ever-opening door. Suddenly she craves the warmth of uncomplicated human companionship and without thinking, her body swerves towards the entrance. Just in time, she stops herself, imagining what would happen if she did go in, walk up to the bar and order herself a drink.  At first, no-one would notice but, sooner or later, someone’s look would harden into a stare. One by one, other heads would turn, and the buzz of conversation would dwindle.  Anna’s blood runs cold at the thought.  She turns away and, picking up speed, almost runs down the road.

Her steps are slow as she reaches her street. A car comes around the corner and its headlights wash over her house, briefly illuminating its windows one by one. The house looks as if it’s winking at her. It looks sly. She used to love it once but not now.      

She crunches up the gravel drive and deliberately fumbles her key in the lock, making sure they know she is back. As she slams the door a light goes on. A moment later, Romeo appears in the doorway. His face is flushed, his hair tousled.  He stretches, and his mouth opens in an elaborate yawn.

“Nice walk, love?”

Apprehension dulls his eyes as she doesn’t answer. Instead, she turns left, into the kitchen, giving a sick shudder as a scene she’s repeatedly tried to obliterate flashes into her mind.  She grits her teeth and squeezes her eyes shut, pushing the image away, desperately trying to think of something else. At some time, she knows she will have to deal with it but she’s not strong enough yet. Weak with misery, her body leans against the sink. At last, she opens her eyes.  Reaching forward, she wipes condensation from the window and looks out at the garden, seeing but not registering. Long moments pass before she realises that it’s started to rain. Picking up a white plastic kettle she thrusts it under the tap, listening as the hiss of the water drowns out the steady drumming of the weather.  Wavy lines of raindrops march down the panes and on reaching the kettle’s pale reflection, merge slowly coalescing to form the shape of a face. Her knees start to shake as a sudden certainty makes her gasp,

“No.” she whispers and shakes her head.  “It can’t be.”

  The lips twist in a familiar smile of triumph and she knows she’s wrong. Almost instantly the face vanishes and is replaced by the stygian black of a winter’s night.    Feeling weak and ill she puts the kettle down and stumbles to a chair, wondering if she is going mad.

“Oh, Alec,” she whispers, “how you must be loving this.”

CHAPTER TWO

 BILL

The sound of the front door closing echoes as he stands in the hall unbuttoning his coat.   Unable to break the habit, he glances up the stairs expecting to see the faint line of yellow light below their bedroom door but it’s as black as pitch up there.  He frowns, impatient with himself.  It’s been a year now since Martha went and he still can’t get used to the emptiness of the house. The dog’s the same. He looks at Jackson who’s also got his eyes fixed on the dark at the top of the stairs, ready to bound forward the minute he hears her voice.

         “Come on, yer daft bugger…there’s no one there.”

Turning away, he opens the door of the sitting room. A faint warmth lingers but the fire is almost out, he can just see a dull crimson glow underneath the layer of grey ash.  Carefully, not wanting to smother what’s left of the fire, he places a few lumps of coal over the embers and crouches, covering the hearth with a sheet of newspaper until he hears the dull roar telling him the flame has caught.  He remembers his Dad doing the same thing, all those years ago in Derbyshire and wonders if anyone else, besides himself, brings a fire to life like this these days?  Probably not many, he thinks, just us oldies.  After he’s banked up the fire, he stands up and listens to it crackle, staring into the mirror over the mantelpiece. Not, that old, he thinks.  Fifty’s no age these days.  He peers closer, a bit of grey around the temples.  Distinguished, that’s all.   Bags under the eyes though, he hasn’t slept well since Martha went.  Can’t get used to being the only one in a double bed.

Briefly, his body sags and he slumps into his armchair. The blank screen of the televisions stares at him but he makes no move to switch it on, he’s not in the mood and anyway he’d bet there’d be nothing worth looking at. He reaches for the whisky bottle placed close to hand on a side table.  For some reason, he can’t stop thinking about the lass on the bridge. The moment he’d caught sight of her, shoeless and slumped against the bridge, he’d known she was a jumper.  He hadn’t spent all those years in the Force for nothing and when she’d turned round his instinct had turned to certainty. He’d recognised the look on her face, vacant and spaced out, she’d been psyching herself up.  The furrows crossing his brow deepen.  He knows her from somewhere; it isn’t a recent memory but her face was definitely familiar. It wasn’t one that was easy to forget, the broad forehead and large eyes, placed a little too far apart. Not pretty exactly, but striking, her cloud of dark hair redeeming her. He closes his eyes for an instant, willing a name to fit the image. 

  ‘Come on Bill Dexter, Detective Inspector retired.  Think.  You know who she is.  You know you do.’

  But it won’t come and with a shake of his head, he gives up for now. But, he’ll get it in the end, he knows he will. Once a copper, always a copper.  The trick is not to think about it too deeply.

He lifts his glass towards the light and watches the amber liquid swirl. He’s drinking too much and knows it. Half a bottle a night; if he doesn’t watch it, soon it’ll be a bottle. It’s the long, empty, boring days that does for him. Two years ago he wasn’t like this.  Two years ago he had a career, a wife and a home, all of which he’d loved, possibly in that order. Now, he’d got bugger all. Even his house isn’t a home any more, just a place where he lives; if you could call it living.  He barks a laugh, a short unhappy sound that makes Jackson twitch his ears.  He takes a gulp of whisky knowing that, in spite of the consequences, he doesn’t regret what he’d done and given the same circumstances would do it again. It was the look in Martha’s eyes that had finally decided him.  She hadn’t asked, she was past it by then, but they’d been together for nigh on thirty years and he’d known what she wanted.  

Anyway, what’s done is done and can’t be undone. He bangs his glass back on the table so hard that some of the whisky slops from the glass. His eyes flick towards the clock.  He hasn’t had his tea but he’s not hungry. He forces his mind back to the problem at hand, perhaps there’s something in his archives that might jog his memory, it’d be something to do anyway, might stop him feeling so sorry for himself.

He knows it’s a mistake as soon as he starts leafing through the dusty folders peering at the scribbled notes in the margins, all in his own spidery handwriting, some so illegible and obviously done in haste that he can hardly make them out.  He’d always kept details of all his old cases from the very first, even his failures - those that he’d known damn well who done it but just couldn’t prove it. Why, he’d never been quite sure, perhaps at one time he’d had a vague idea of writing a book when he finally retired.   Every turn of the page brings back glimpses of the past, tiny shreds of detail he’d thought he’d forgotten, the sound of an abandoned child sobbing in the silence of a bedroom at the top of a house so squalid they’d held their noses as they entered. The drained corpse of a suicide in a bath brim-full of gore.  The dead eyes of a mother who’d just smothered her baby. He gasped feeling pain as sharp as a bayonet thrust. His own eyes must have looked like that as he sat feeding Martha her sleeping tablets, one after the other, praying he wouldn’t botch it.  It would be the end of his career, he knew that at the time, but he hadn’t cared. He owed Martha and gratitude in her eyes, as she lay obediently choking down her pills, was worth any sacrifice.

But now the yellowing papers do nothing but remind him of past evenings spent in this very room, in this very chair, scribbling the notes he is reading this very moment. He breathes in half expecting the savoury smell of the evening meal to waft through the door and to hear the low mutter of the radio, “The Archers” maybe or the husky voice of Neil Diamond and the faint clatter of china as Martha bustles around in the kitchen. For an instant the memory is so warm and alive that his stomach rumbles in response, then his appetite disappears as he remembers.  His hands tremble as he stacks the pages together and replaces them in the folder.  They’d been no help and his useless trip down memory lane has only served to torment him. If only he could turn back the clock.   They’d all been so kind, his colleagues.  Some he’d worked with for so long that they’d become close friends.  They’d all promised to visit and they had at first.  He glances towards the silent phone.  It’s a long time since it had rung. But he couldn’t blame them, they were busy and had their own lives to lead. It wasn’t their fault that he’d ended up a sad and lonely sod and he’d rather rot than be a burden to anybody.  Thank God he had Jackson. He leans forward and strokes the collie, plunging his fingers deep into the dog’s thick fur and feeling the warmth of its body.  He looks at the clock again.

“Come on lad, time for bed.”   He isn’t tired and knew he wouldn’t sleep but eventually he’d drift off and at least he’d be lying down. Perhaps a mug of cocoa would help.   He might even take one of Martha’s sleeping tablets if there were any left.

Copyright Janet Baldey

Incarnations ~ Part 3 & Last

Incarnations ~ Part 3 & Last

By Len Morgan

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way Stig…”

“Don’t call me that, don’t you ever call me that!  You’re not Harley!   You’re… just like all the other filthy Synths!   You lied to me; you used me for the benefit of their disgusting clone cult.   Only one man ever earned the right to call me Stig and he died, all alone, eight thousand years ago!   You represent everything we fought against and detested. Cloning is an unnatural abomination.  There is only one way to renew the human race and that is not by growing and inhabiting artificial bodies.”

  “I didn’t ask to be cloned; the colony needed the largest possible gene pool.  The Orbitar passed through a cloud of irradiated hydrogen, and all those who were awake at the time were sterilized.   Natural reproduction became impossible for them but they still needed to run the ship and keep it on course.   Without the genetic material from the Anti-Synth’s, who died in stasis, there would now be insufficient variety to guarantee our survival.   If you refuse to meet with the intelligence running this world we will all die anyway, we have nowhere else to go.   The irony is that the colony will not survive without clones from the ranks of the Anti-Synth Activists.”

“Don’t even think it!” Stig yelled.   “We were banished because of our opposition to their perversions, now they want me to be their salvation?”   He remembered all those perfect young people rushing to discard their humanity at the first opportunity.  “Huh!  If it were up to me the whole damned human race would die out here and now.”

“Well, it’s up to you man, you – prima-freekin-Donna.   So you may as well open the airlock right now and let that noxious stuff in,” Harley glared at him.

  “I’m tired, I need to sleep on it,” said Stig climbing into his sleep pod; they were nicknamed peanut shells.  Space is at a premium on a two-man scout ship; he had just enough room to curl naturally into the foetal position.

“Don’t sleep too long, we only have air for a day, maybe I’ll be able to scrub some oxygen from that stuff out there,” said Harley gazing out through the Plexiglas dome at the maelstrom of debris outside.

Stig’s subconscious registered the occasional muffled thump as something heavy struck the outer skin of the scout ship as he slept.

.-…-.

 He had a dream.   In his dream, he met with two tall slim humanoids.   Both were over seven feet, hairless, with pale green-tinged translucent skin.   He was struck by their intelligent gold-flecked viridian eyes.

“We have been waiting a long time to meet a member of the human race.   From your broadcasts, your race appears extremely violent, aggressive, and stupid.   Fortunately, we do not judge by appearances.   Do you suppose we could ever trust your kind to administer our world?   We were once very much like you.   We were proud and certain that everything we did was right.   But, we made mistakes, and because of that, we ceased to exist on this and many other worlds. We are the Mooli, your kind may encounter us, in the flesh, sometime in the future.  Other races arrived to occupy our worlds but they also made mistakes which resulted in their extinction.   Knowing what happened on those worlds, we decided we would test all future prospective immigrants for intent and commitment to the future well-being of this world.   We decided that only ‘true-born’ creatures could be valid test subjects because they are free from the taint of engineering, and, bred true to the nature of their race.   If your race wishes to stay you will submit to this test.   You have ten hours to comply.  You leave your ship and proceed to the wall where you’re disabled unit awaits.  You will answer one question which will allow your companions to either repopulate this planet or will result in their complete destruction.

What if I choose not to come?  He thought.

In such an eventuality you will all die!   You have nine hours and fifty-eight minutes… 

“Ugh!”   He awoke with a start.  

“Stig, did you hear that?   Did you receive their message?”

“I did and don’t call me that!”

“Sorry, Captain Stephan Tavishar Imo-Gordannovich!”

Stig roared with laughter.   “Ok, I get your point clone; call me Stig, but only for the next nine hours fifty-five minutes.   Deal?”

“Affirmative!”

“We need a plan.   We need to know what their question is likely to be.   We need…”   Stig paused to think.

“What say we just settle for breakfast?”

Stig smiled, “the condemned men ate a hearty breakfast.”

“Hardly!” said Harley throwing him a freeze-dried ration-pak and a flask of liquid nutrients.

“This changes nothing you understand, natural procreation is the only way humans should ever reproduce.”

“But, we have frozen semen and eggs, and the facilities to start life again, naturally as it should be,” said Harley.   “Despite what they have made of me I agree with you one hundred percent!   There must be preconditions to settlement on this world and I know I speak for the others still in the Orbitar.   We will only create clones for the CM’s we brought with us, but natural births must become the norm once more.”

“Nice words Harley, but are you sure we can speak for everybody?”

“Honestly, I don’t know but Anti-Synth’s are not in a minority here.”

.-…-.

  “When you’re up against it, time passes swiftly,” said Stig as he took the symbolic step from the craft onto the planet ‘Hellegron’, the word just came into his head.   He looked back at Harley who gave him a reassuring smile.   “The first step on Hellegron for humankind,” he said.   He looked down, at his boots, his first step had been into mud, and there it was on his left boot.   But there was none on his right, which was planted thigh-high in lush ryegrass.   He looked back at Harley once more; he was gazing into the distance.   As he turned his eyes to follow that gaze he saw Hellegron transformed.   Blue sky wispy clouds and a warm sun shone down.   Harley stepped from the ship, and side by side the two headed for the distant hills where the wall had once stood.   Neither spoke for an age, each cocooned in his own private thoughts.   The debris had gone but the final Rak-nid unit still stood where it had come to rest.   As they approached, it turned towards them.   Then it led them into a small copse of hardwood trees.  The growth was lush and fertile, Harley bent down to pick a yellow and white daisy-like flower, it smelled aromatic, he crushed it between his fingers and held it close to Stig’s nose.

“Chamomile?” Stig voiced his surprise.

They entered a clearing with an open pool of gently undulating water.  It was crystal clear and fed by a small waterfall.   The polarised sunlight reflected off droplets thrown up by the cascading waters, creating a rainbow.

“Beautiful,” said Harley.   He went forward and dipped his hand into the water it felt cool and inviting.   He dipped his tongue and tasted it.   “Sweet water,” he said taking a mouthful and swilling it around before swallowing.  “It’s good.”   He turned towards a cluster of weather-worn rocks and sat down.  

After only a moment Stig joined him.  

Harley removed his boots and began to undress.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going skinny-dipping,” said Harley and waded out into the pool.

“Wait!” said Stig alarmed by some sixth sense.   But, he was too late; Harley was in the pool and swimming around without a care in the world.   Stig smiled, always the cautious one, always the laggard…

The Rak-nid unit stopped beside him and he felt at peace.

“There are now three versions of your race, living harmoniously, on the Orbitar.  Homo-sapiens, Homo-synth, and Cristal-Minds.”   We are here to determine which should inherit Hellegron?”

“Did you hear that,” Stig asked.

“I heard it,” said Harley heading towards the bank.

The football-sized Rak-nid was describing figure eight’s on a clear patch of grass between them.

“I think we can all coexist well enough here,” said Stig.

There was no reply. 

Harley shook off the water and started to dress.  “Is that the one question?”

“I doubt CM’s could colonize unaided, they need humans or clones to utilize them,” Stig reasoned.  

A ball of light formed twenty feet above the pool.   It hummed faintly, they could smell ozone.  The light flickered - blue - green – yellow.   Then it turned red and a beam of white light flashed towards the Rak-nid illuminating it momentarily, then the unit and ball were gone.

“Shit!” said Harley.   “Better be careful what we say.” 

Stig moved closer to him.  “We all know that I’m the only original so there is no doubt who will inherit Hellegron.   All I ask is that you try to return to natural childbirth as soon as possible.”   He turned towards the centre of the pool, “do your worst!” he said.

The ball of light reappeared above the pool - blue – green – yellow.   It turned red.

“No!” Harley screamed and dived at Stig in an attempt to save him.

The beam of white light flashed illuminating them both...

.-…-.

For two days the screens on the Mother-ship had shown nothing but white noise.  Suddenly they burst into life.  

A tall figure with subtle green skin pigmentation appeared.  

“Our planet Hellegon is bequeathed to the children of Earth!”

The colonists watched as Stig and Harley stepped from the scout ship. 

“A price was asked of the last natural-born Human.   A price both he and his cloned companion were prepared to pay in order to secure your safety.”  

They watched in silence as the two friends stepped onto Hellegon then witnessed Harley skinny dipping, the Rak-nid being vaporized, and finally, they witnessed the price Stig & Harley paid to secure the planet.  

“They asked only that you return to your roots as soon as possible, and honour their Anti-synth belief.”   The transmission ended, and full communications were restored. 

“This is the Orbitar – we accept those conditions unreservedly." 
  
"Captain!  We are now in communication with all the Lander's, and only one scout ship has failed to check-in that of Stig & Harley.”

“God, will you look at that Ensign?”   

“It’s a view from one of the Lander's Captain.  If that isn’t the Earth down there then it’s her twin.”  

“Seems they encountered some pretty foul weather down there,” said the young Ensign who bore a remarkable likeness to Harley.   “Do you think Stig knew the truth?”

“I’d like to think he did, and ultimately acted in the common interest of us all,” said Captain Stephan Tavishar Imo-Gordannovich, (Stig2).

...Ends

Copyright Len Morgan

WINDERMERE REMINISCED

WINDERMERE REMINISCED 

By Peter Woodgate

Blues and whites and pinks are seen

from houses on the hillsides, green,

that divide the lake and sky

a scene that visits you and I

these mornings as I open wide

the shutters, now securely tied

to greet the warm and gentle breeze

That drifts across my face, I sneeze

then look back at the bed and you

and see you have awoken too.

Then, softly, I caress your face

you turn around and we embrace,

I whisper that I love you, then,

we hear the chiming of Big Ben.

Copyright Peter Woodgate