Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 9

Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 9

By Phil Miller

CHAPTER 9

Kayse Matrix had been an oddball her entire life: A gifted child they called her, from a broken home, excelling in all aspects of academia, specifically technology and mathematics.

At fourteen years of age, after developing extreme Kyphosis, her spine became misaligned giving her the appearance of a hunchback, which afforded her peers the opportunity for ridicule and abuse throughout the rest of her miserable school life, impacting her on all levels. The endless medical appointments and brace adjustments compounded her misery. She felt Isolated and ugly; a misfit; last to be picked for the team; utterly friendless.

She feigned illness on multiple occasions during the last years of her schooling, deciding to opt-out of the so called education system altogether; she had other plans. At the age of fifteen, she headed for the bright lights of London. Surviving on the streets had proved difficult, but she was sure that, as she grew into a woman, things would work out, one way or another.

She would do anything to get by, and she did. It was while living rough round the slums of Shoreditch that she crossed paths with a high flying financial executive, that her technical genius, problem solving and analytical skills came to the fore, with one event being the catalyst for change: his need to be ahead of the game during the worst financial crisis of the century; her genius as a hacker, to get inside the minds of his rivals.  

KC’s hacking skills were second to none and, along with her extensive contacts in high places, was a formidable foe.

She sat, gorging on chocolate and packet jelly, analysing the field of the partially de-encrypted data on her screens. Something was niggling away at her, but she could not quite put her finger on it. She would have to dig deeper.

KC thought about the young officer who had once saved her life. Craig had done well. Problem was, what to do with him now? If he went to Russia, then the entire world would be thrown into a third world war.

She stopped tapping away at her keyboard for a moment, transfixed to her monitor, and the capital letters that had magically formed from the results of an algorithm she had punched in some hours earlier. “HADES,” she said, in a low grumble.

Major Singa was feeling rather anxious. His IT engineers were having difficulty accessing some of their systems.

“How long is this going to take?” asked the Major.

“I’m not sure, Sir!” said the systems engineer, sheepishly.

“What do you mean you’re not sure. What’s the problem?”

As the Major was talking, another engineer arrived and whispered into his superior’s ear, before stepping back to stand to attention.

The top tech turned to the Major with a look of stupefaction on his face.

“It seems that we have been hacked Sir,” he said, as he drew a damp handkerchief from his trouser pocket.

Major Navin Singa began to visibly shake with anger. His head lit up like a belisha beacon before vehemently berating the quaking subordinate.

“We have spent too long and too much money for something like this to happen. You get your arse in gear and get this sorted, and you might just live to see the dawning of another day. Do you understand me?” he yelled, “sort it, get out.”

The Major sat quietly contemplating his next move as he slowly poured himself a dram of his favourite thirty year old Balmenach. Moreau and Donyevsky arrived shortly after, having been summoned prior to the news that they had been hacked.

Moreau sat down and the Major offered him a small shot. Donyevsky stood by Moreau.

“No thank you. What is going on? What’s happened?” said Moreau

“We have a technical issue”

“A serious issue?”

“You could say that. My technicians are working on it as we speak.”

“Enlighten us,” said Donyevsky.

“We have been hacked.” Major Navin Singa arched his back and stared at the ceiling, trying to contain his anger.

“Impossible. This command centre is impenetrable. Nothing can get through. We have our own satellite for God's sake!” said Moreau.

“I know that,” shouted the Major as he jumped out of his chair, “I know everything about this place. I know every security detail inside out. I know virtually every member of staff by there first names and I know there is absolutely no way this place could be hacked,” he turned to his whisky and poured a large glass, loosening his tie as he did so.

“How do you know one of your men hasn’t been compromised. Maybe an insider,” said Donyevsky.

Tom took a deep breath. “Listen to me. Every member of my staff has been vetted, thoroughly. They are all allied military personnel with top security clearance. No hardware is allowed in and none is taken out. No personal mobile phones. Everybody is scanned in and out. Nothing gets by security. Nothing.”

“We were not scanned though Major,” said Moreau.

“Of course not.”

Donyevsky turned to Moreau and then to the Major.

“Craig gave me the USB that he said he found in his flat. The one with the files on the Okhrana.”

Both men stared at him. “Yes,” they replied, in unison.

“Well, I…”

“Yes! you what?” barked the Major, staring intently at the powerful Russian.

“I checked the files last night.”

“Oh! My God! Where is it now? Where is the USB?”

“I have it here,” he produced it from his pocket. “I used it in the war room when the meeting was over. I didn’t think, I… I ….,” he shook his head in disgust.

“Give it to the tech guy’s, it might not even be the source,” said the Major.

“Wait,” said Moreau, “why would the Russian Secret Service put a virus on a USB stick with just a few files and information on it anyway. That does not make sense. They had the list of names and info about Okhrana’s plans. They could have just copied it.  They know nothing of the command centre.”

“We hope not,” said Donyevsky, as he made his way to the Major’s desk to pick up the light coloured whisky bottle before uttering, “they will know about Flamingo.”

“You don’t drink,” said Moreau.

“You are right,” he carefully placed the bottle back on the desk.

“Hold on, when we tracked Craig, he was at the Archway,” Moreau stood up. “He had been there for 4 days.” All three stood together in silence for a moment then the Major issued the order. “Get over there,” he nodded to the Russian, “find out if anyone else knows about this. Do what it takes. We don’t have much time. Take the chopper, move.”

Mika was waiting patiently in a disused yard near Victoria Docks, London. The state of the art communications complex, that was Telehouse West, was a mere 10 minute drive. Her patience was about to pay off as a black transit van pulled in behind her, then out stepped Credi O’rourke. Mika wound down her window.

“Get in.”

“Nice to see you too darlin’.”

“Where is it?”

Credi unzipped a rucksack and reached in but stopped short and sighed, “Bob told me about Beeson. Thanks for taking care of him for me, I was looking forward to dealing with him myself,” he eased the silver laptop and small black Kingston drive delicately out and sat it on his lap.

“The copy is in place and primed.”

Mika reached behind to the rear seat for a small case and handed it to Credi, who immediately popped it, to check the contents.

“Are you meeting your man tonight?” she shifted slightly, angling her body towards him.”

“Yeah! why’s that?” he slid the case under the dashboard.

“Where are you meeting the big man then?”

“Oh! sorry, I’m not meeting him. He’s meeting us,” he beamed, like a cat that got the cream.

“What do you mean?” totally caught by surprise, her door was wrenched open, she was dragged to the floor. The monster that was one-eyed Bob did not hold back. As she tried to get up he kicked her hard in the stomach, and then again; he couldn’t afford to give her the slightest chance.

She was still reeling from the kicks as he pulled her along the ground by her hair and threw her into the back of the van, closing the doors behind him. Credi checked the radio in the car and did a quick search of the stations before settling for XFM and Nirvana’s Teen Spirit; full volume was the only way to listen to it. The car was rocking and so was the van as Bob laid into the secret service agent. Five minutes later Credi decided he wanted in on the action. He turned the radio off and stepped out of the car; it was his turn to have some fun. He opened the rear van door and jumped back when he saw the carnage. Bob had been almost decapitated and Mika was gone. He was about to turn and run when he felt a chill down his spine. He didn’t know what to do or say next. It was of no consequence. It was so quick he didn’t even see it; the razor sharp cheese-wire drawn from her belt slid over his head and sliced through him like a hot knife through butter. He collapsed dead onto the oil stained, muddy ground. Mika’s face was a mess and her body was battered, but she still managed to drag his body to the van, heaving him into the back alongside his boss. The keys were still in the ignition, so she popped open the petrol tank and tore some fabric from her already ripped and bloodied dress. Two minutes later Mika was on her way with her hardware and 40k for her troubles. The orange flame in her rear-view mirror seemed almost poetic to her; like a beautiful sunset, she thought. Her body ached all over and she needed a few stitches to her left eye. She felt a tinge of emotion for a moment, but held it back, trapping it deep within one of the many corridors of her mind; emotions make you weak, and I can’t afford to be weak.

Donyevsky sat across from the Archway, observing the premises from a safe distance; didn’t seem to be a lot going on; the place looked almost deserted. He walked over and tried to get a view of the interior, but the opaque glass frontage put paid to that. He soon realised there was no way in except through the front door; no answer from the intercom. “Hmm!” Donyevsky scratched his head and stood looking around for a while, then looked up and down the old cobbled street, sussing foot traffic; dead quiet. “Fuck this,” he cursed, as he launched part of a broken paving slab at the window, shattering the glass, but unless he had some heavy cutting gear,  there was no way he was going to get through the heavy duty security shutters. He could see the floor was empty, barring a pile of assorted communications cable and a few busted monitors.

KC was gone. Just within an arm’s length was a table with an empty coke tin. A slim chance, but maybe some fingerprints. After reaching in and grabbing it he took out his phone to upload several pics to the command centre. UV light from his pen, coupled with intelligent latency processing on his BIPS (Biometric Intelligent Particle System) app should help hurry the procedure along. It was only a matter of minutes before he received a text; the wonders of technology, he grinned. “So, Kayse Matrix, I wonder where you are,” mumbling as he dialled into the command centre.

“Put me through to Moreau, please!” He was patched through in a nano second.

“We have the eyes of the city looking for her. She shouldn’t be too hard to nail. We need to interrogate her, thoroughly.”

Kayse Matrix sat in her sanctuary, beneath the Archway. Nobody knew she was there. She knew this day would come; the day of reckoning. The secret underground bunker was a relic from the last world war; now upgraded to a state of the art, apocalyptic stronghold; hi-tech, self-supporting with generator and UPS back-up for at least one month. If someone did manage to figure out how to get in, they certainly would not get out; sensory lasers would cut any adversary down in a split second; It had taken a few days to sort everything, get everything right; Now I can work properly, she thought. She worked away at the keyboard for hours; HADES was causing more problems than she imagined. The thought of a strong coffee beckoned, but before she had a chance to flick the switch, the feverish scrolling on all four monitors stopped. KC sat wide-eyed and waited. The cursor sat blinking on and off for a fleeting moment and then the conversion began.

The days of mind numbing de-coding had finished, the end result consisting of several short paragraphs. A dark cloud fell on KC as she realised the potential fall-out. Craig needed to get to a safe place. A place where no one could find him; not Russia; not London; another planet may just do it. She needed help but there was nobody she could rely on, apart from herself. She decided to send a message to the command centre.

Cody sat at her desk but had very little to occupy her mind as the system had crashed earlier in the day. After toying with a pet microbot for a while, she decided to go and see Tom. She could do nothing until her screen came back up. The red line was still there; very annoying, time was slipping. Cody had work to get on with so decided to head off and check on Craig but, just as the automatic doors slid apart, Tom dashed past her, making a B-line for the screen on her desk.

“Jesus Christ! Tom, you scared the shit out of me, get off that,” she grabbed at his left arm and tried to pull him away.

Tom said nothing. He booted the flat LCD with palm-print recognition and waited.

“Well!” shouted Cody.

The slim screen fired back up. They both read the bold, crimson text. The tension was palpable. Cody swallowed hard and wiped her mouth; the air con was playing up in her office, making her feel thirsty.

“We’ve got to get Craig out of here Tom, I thought we were doing this to secure world peace, not destroy it.”

Copyright Phillip Miller

THE TROUBLE WITH NAMES

THE TROUBLE WITH NAMES

By Peter Woodgate

I have this sort of problem

With names of things and places

With people too, it’s just the same

I can’t put names to faces

There’s Thingamajigs and Whatsername

And Whatchamacallit too

Thingamabobs and Whatsitcalled

Just give me a bloody clue.

You see it’s fairly simple

It’s there within my brain

But accessing is difficult

It’s never been quite the same

Since I became an O.A.P

My memories gone to pot

My children look at me and say

That I have lost the plot.

This does not concern me much

Cos I can keep a list

Of all those names and birthdays

And the things I’ve often missed.

But something is quite worrying

When I cuddle the wife, and then

She utters the words “you’ve had that

And I can’t remember when.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

Spark’l ~ Part 1 of 4

Spark’l  ~  Part 1 of 4

 

By Len Morgan

In a single instant, a being of pure energy was created by a Supernova.   She left her birthplace, at the speed of light, never to return.   Her journey through the galaxy began, taking her through many star clusters, and planetary systems.   She travelled on a beam of light, feeding off the energy from nearby stars, growing larger as she came closer to them and smaller as she moved away.   As the distance, she had travelled increased her speed began to reduce.   She was slowing down as she approached a planetary system, orbiting a rather ordinary yellow star, way out on a spiral arm of the Galaxy.   She became aware of radio waves; coming from the third planet out from the star.   It was then that she realised there was life on that planet.    She knew nothing of living creatures then; she wondered what they would look like and if they would be able to communicate with her, maybe she could visit their world, and learn about them.

    She listened in on the radio signals trying hard to make sense of them so that she would be able to talk with them.   She could pass through solid matter, without causing harm, but would she prove harmful to living creatures?   She listened to and experienced feelings and emotions.   She learnt languages; the radio signals were very informative.   Then, as she drew nearer, she began to receive television broadcasts and for the first time, she discovered what the creatures looked like.  Television was good; her favourite program was ‘I Love Lucy’.

   At this time she did not have a name.   She was a baby, feeding off stray sunlight and slumbering when it grew dark.   But, she had an insatiable desire to learn which she realised would only be satisfied if she were able to visit the inhabitants of that third planet.   She was very close now and soon discovered that she was able to read their thoughts; she assumed that this was normal.   She also found that sometimes she was able to share their memories.   This was not always good because sometimes they were very sad.  

.-…-.

   Karen’s border terrier growled and snarled at something and despite her soothing noises, he wouldn't be quiet.

“What’s bothering you Scruffy?” she asked.   He shook his head and tail vigorously and seemed to be pointing towards a large clump of deep red peonies at the end of the garden.   Karen went closer and knelt beside him to discover what might be causing his agitation.

“Grrruf Ruf rururf yap!” said Scruffy excitedly his tail wagging like a metronome.

“There’s nothing there Scr…”   Then she saw it, a pinpoint of light, shining out from one of the mature blooms.   Odd she thought, bending closer; it was as if somebody inside was shining a tiny torch.  She sniffed, aware of the heavy perfume coming from the flowers.   Suddenly the tiny beam grew brighter, dazzling her, she closed her eyes protectively.   She felt calmness, and a sense of wellbeing, as the light bathed her mind.   Then she heard a voice inside her head­­.

‘I came from an exploding star.   I have been very lonely.    I came here to find friends.   I found Scruffy.   He is funny.   All he thinks of is food, play, and being here with you.   He listens and he talks to you, all the time, but you do not understand him.’

“Who are you, what are you?” Karen was suddenly fearful.

‘I am nothing you can feel or touch, I just am,’ said the voice.

‘You can talk to Scruffy?’  Karen thought.

‘Yes,’ came the reply.

She opened her eyes and saw a star-like ball of sparkling light, the size of a golf ball, just six inches from her nose.   “Spark’l!” She said at once, the word just popped into her mind, “Spark’l is perfect.   That is what we should call you.   Would you tell Scruffy one bark for yes, and two for no please?”

“Yap,” said Scruffy.

She smiled, “Scruffy is clever, he’s a linguist, he understands English even though I do not understand dog-ish.   Do you like her new name Scruffy?”

“Yap.”

“Then that’s settled,” ‘but only if you like it,’ Karen thought, stroking Scruffy to calm him.

‘I have never had a name.   I do like it.   Spark’l,’ she thought, ‘it’s good to have friends, and it’s good to have a name also.’

.-…-.

   That evening Karen lay in her bed, in the darkened room, with Scruffy beside her in his basket.   She closed her eyes and immediately a pattern of stars appeared in her mind.   As she watched a tiny insignificant star, in the lower half of the constellation, grew rapidly brighter until all the other stars were engulfed in its magnificence.   Karen remembered, a few months earlier, Dad had shown her a new Supernova that had appeared near the Orion constellation.  

‘That was your birth?’  Karen asked.

She got out of bed and went to the window, searching the sky for Orion.   There it was, the Supernova, much smaller but still the brightest object in that part of the sky.

“It happened more than ten thousand years ago,” Karen whispered shaking her head, ‘ten with three zero’s.   Were you travelling all that time?’

‘What is time?’

“You have no family and no friends?”

‘Just me,’ said Spark’l.

“Yap yap yap.”

‘Me and Scruffy and now you…’ she added.

“One – Two – Three – Four – Five…”

‘What are you doing?'

“Counting seconds, a second is a measure of time, sixty seconds is one minute, sixty minutes one hour, twenty-four hours one day, 365 days in one year…   Ten thousand seconds would be…” she paused and thought long and hard “almost a week,” she yawned and returned to her bed.   Scruffy was already snoring.

‘What is wrong with Scruffy, he is making such strange noises’ said Spark’l.

“He’s snoring in his sleep,” Karen whispered in amusement.

‘Is it painful, snoring?’  Spark’l displayed genuine concern.

“It doesn’t hurt him in the slightest, he doesn’t even know he is doing it, but it hurts my ears and keeps me awake,” said Karen with an expression of pain on her face.  

Spark’l went closer to Scruffy until she was almost touching his wet nose; his breathing became easier and he slept on in silence.

“Shhh!   He needs his sleep,” Karen whispered.   ‘Do you remember being part of a star?’

‘Not at all, my first memory was of being ejected from a warm comfortable place where I had been safe and content.   I recall passing planets where I detected life and intelligence, but I was unable to stop, so my journey continued.’    Spark’l moved towards Karen’s oversized teddy bear, Boris, disappearing inside his head.   The bear stood up and looked around experimentally.  

‘’Boris cannot see or speak, and he has no brain,’ said Spark’l.

‘That is because he’s a toy, he isn’t alive, he’s a pretend bear.’

‘Does he know that?’

‘No, he doesn’t because he’s not a living creature.  Only living things have feelings.  If he were a real bear he would be far too ferocious and dangerous to be allowed in my room.   Mum would never allow it!    His eyes are buttons, his fur is artificial and he is stuffed with pieces of foam.’

‘Why did you do that?’

'Foam makes him soft and cuddly; it’s nice to pretend you can be friends with animals.   Go to sleep, we must be up early tomorrow,' she said turning out the light; a tiny spark persisted where the light had been as Spark’l waited.

.-…-.

"Is everybody up?" Mum placed a bowl of Doggiebix on the floor, "here Scuff."
“Dad?” said Karen.

“Yes, Sweetheart.”

“Do you really think there’s life out there?” she asked.

Dad turned the page and folded his paper in half.   “Life?   Out there?   The garden is teeming with it,” he said from the other side of his paper.

“No, I mean out there,” she said pointing and waving her hand above her head.

“Like ET?   On other planets?   In other star systems?    I would think it’s extremely likely,” he nodded.

“Then why have we not found it?   They’ve been searching the heavens forever, with radio telescopes, but they’ve found nothing.”

“It’s true we’ve not found evidence of life but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there.   The Universe has been around for thirteen plus billions of years, it's a vast place so the astronomers tell us,” he said, putting his paper down.

 “Maybe there is life but it hasn’t yet invented the radio, or maybe they are an older race with a better means of communication,” said Mum. 

“Then again they could have existed and died out before the dinosaurs roamed on earth,” said Dad.

“Maybe they had this same conversation with their children,” said Mum.    

“The size of the universe, and the time scale involved, is beyond understanding; so we may never really know,” he said.

“What if they were beings of energy created by a Supernova,” Karen asked, “Born of a dying sun?”

“Mmm,” said Dad.

“Breakfast is ready, come and get it,” Mum called.

“Beings of energy?   Created by a Supernova?   Wherever did you get that notion, Startrek?”

“Is that so ridiculous?” asked Mum.  ”What about life here on earth?   We are told it was created in a muddy soup, of volcanic ash, and stirred by bolts of lightning.”

“Mmm, not sure that’s the current scientific line, we are living in the 1980s after all!” said Dad.

“I know which story I would believe and it doesn’t sound so ridiculous to me,” Mum said.

“If there are beings of energy and light spreading out from that Supernova near Orion they could well be with us right now…”  said Dad thinking aloud.

“Assuming they were travelling at or near the speed of light, in that time, they could have developed intelligence,” Mum said.   “You talk as though you’ve seen such a creature,” she laughed.

“Yap,” said Scruffy.

“That means yes,” said Karen before she thought to bite her tongue.

“Would that be one bark for yes and two for no?  Tell me you’re joking,” said Mum.

“Yap yap,” said Scruffy.

“Oh my G.. what is it called?” asked Mum.

“Spark’l,” said Karen, getting an answer in at long last.

“Very apt,” said Dad, turning another page.

“C-can we see it?” Mum asked nervously.

“Yap.”

Karen left the room returning with an eerily glowing yoghurt carton.  She placed it on the table and removed the lid.   There was a small mirror inside and a one-inch ball of light.

“It feeds on sunlight,” Karen explained as it expanded slightly.

The ball rose slowly into the air, keeping its distance.

“Can it communicate?,” asked Mum, pushing her wooden spoon gingerly towards it.   The ball edged away, maintaining the gap.

“Heavens to Milligoon!” said Dad jumping to his feet knocking over his chair and spilling tea down the front of his shirt.

“It’s alright Dad, it won’t hurt you, just close your eyes,” Karen warned them.   They did so, more from surprise than belief.

“Mmm,” said Dad, a secret smile forming on his face.

“Utterly amazing, just like meditation class,” said Mum.

The light receded and they opened their eyes again.

“I had no idea Scruffy was so intelligent.   I now know his favourite food is my vegetarian sausage, I must make him a special batch,” said Mum.

“Yap!”

“Is she staying here with us or just visiting?” asked Dad nervously.

‘What difference would that make,’  Spark’l asked.   ‘You measure life in tens of your years’ then your spark is extinguished.   I have existed for many hundreds of your lifetimes; I could visit until Karen’s children have children.’

“Mmm,” said Dad, “you’re the Trekkie Mum…”

“I know what Dad means, we might lose our anonymity.   When people know where you are staying they will be curious and want to visit you.   We should be taking steps to hide, or disguise you, and think of a way you can travel around without being seen by too many curious people?”

‘You want me to hide?   Have I done something wrong?  You wish me to avoid people?’

“No, what Mum means is, that when people know about you, we will be treated as curiosities. The newspaper and TV journalists will be camping in our garden.   We will be prisoners in our own home.”

‘People can look at me if they wish and if I decide not to cooperate I can leave.’

 “Mmm,” said Dad.

“What does that mean?” asked Karen.

“It means that when people know she is here we will never be left in peace.”

‘Then they should not know that I am here.’

“How could we prevent them from knowing?” asked Dad.

‘I could contact your authorities and cooperate with them until they lose interest.”

“Now that’s a good idea,” said Mum.

‘Don’t stay away too long though’  Karen thought, wishing she had kept Spark’l’s existence secret a while longer.

“Yap yap.”

‘Where should I go and who should I speak to?’  asked Spark’l.

“Wait a moment,” said Mum.   She left the room and returned with a small silver trinket box.   “Could you fit into this?” she asked.

Spark’l shrank to the size of a pea, whilst increasing in brightness, before slipping into the box.   Satisfying herself that the box was lightproof, Mum said, “If it isn’t too uncomfortable it would be adequate for travelling.   Tomorrow we will visit the Jodrell Bank observatory where the radio telescopes are.   You could say you were attracted by their radio dishes, and allow them to carry out whatever tests they think necessary.   Then, if you wish, you can come back home to us; you would be very welcome.”

To be Continued/…

Copyright Len Morgan

Alphabet Soup

Alphabet Soup

By Rob Kingston

I could never tell their order, for they all came out so fast
All the letters in the alphabet, all came with a blast
Words I did not recognise, words I did not choose
All of the letters they kept scrambling
All of them amused.

I see them all before me,
A vast ocean full of glee.
Words becoming sentences
Grammatically painting pictures
For one and all to see.

I see pictures from the present
I see pictures from the past
I see pictures in natures many guises
Some of them cast to last

I read of the mystical meandering, that comes from within Pandora’s Box
I read of the mythical dimensions, of Devinci his ruse that seekers seek to unlock
I read of the magical new beginnings, in nature as seasons produce its flocks
I read of the wonders of the universe, bequeathed by scientists since time started the ticking of its clock

All the wonderful letters bequeathed to those that note,
All the wonders of the mind, its senses from which the stories float.
All these special visions’ artists choose to collate,
All these special pictures writers choose to paint.

Copyright Rob Kingston

ALONE

ALONE

By Peter Woodgate

Jimmy was a loner. He worked in a call-centre for an energy company and hated it.

Never a moments peace, if the phone wasn’t ringing, his work colleagues would be idly chatting

about superfluous rubbish.

    He was a confirmed bachelor and, even though asked, on several occasions, he would never accept invitations to join them for a drink down the pub. No, Jimmy wanted just one thing, peace and quiet.

Even when, at home in his flat, He rarely experienced a quiet evening. His neighbours, especially those upstairs, were always rowing or banging just about every door they had.

    On those odd moments when he did speak to other members of the staff he boasted about one day after he had won the lottery, he would retire to a place in the middle of nowhere.

    Well, that day arrived, it was no longer a boast, Jimmy had all the right numbers and, consequently,

had won 6.2 million pounds. No bottles of champagne, no farewell party, Jimmy simply walked out

of the office, leaving a resignation letter on the supervisor’s desk.

    Away from the crowded metropolis, Jimmy had decided to buy an uninhabited island in the middle of the pacific ocean whilst at the same time purchasing a small yacht. Jimmy didn’t know anything about boats, in fact, he didn’t really want to know and only took note of what he called essential information like, how to start and stop the engine, which way to turn the steering wheel and how to re-fuel. He gave no attention to the communications equipment or the various gauges for navigation.  Jimmy simply saw the boat as a means to isolation and was unaware of the dangers this lack of information could cause.

    At last, he thought, as he lay in his hammock listening to birdsong and the rustling of leaves through the palms.  Even these normally soothing sounds were mildly irritating to Jimmy who, it seems, would settle for nothing less than complete silence.

     I will take the boat out tomorrow, Jimmy was thinking, out beyond birdsong and rustling leaves, nothing but endless sea and sky above. The following morning was sunny and the sea calm as Jimmy set off with a packed lunch and a crate of beer. If I steer direct north on the outward journey then directly south on the return I should be safely back here, no problem he mumbled to himself.

    In theory, this should have been ok, however, Jimmy had not fully taken account of the effects of drinking five pints of beer. He felt tired and turned off the engine then laid down on the soft bench seat falling asleep almost immediately. It was about two hours later that Jimmy awoke and, starting the engine, he turned the boat around and headed due south.  Unfortunately, Jimmy did not realize that whilst asleep the yacht had drifted east and that, whilst going in the seemingly correct direction, he would miss his island by several miles.

    Jimmy looked at his watch, I should have spotted my island an hour ago, he thought, then a sudden wave of trepidation swept through his whole body. The sun was shining, not a sniff of a breeze and 360 degrees of shining water was all he could see.

    Suddenly the engine gave a cough and stopped. He checked the gauge, empty.

“What do I do now? He mumbled as panic set in.

Jimmy looked at the unending expanse of water underneath of which millions of life forms were going about their business unseen. There were no birds to be seen or heard, no whispers of a breeze through leaves, in fact perfect peace.

    Jimmy should have been happy, but he wasn’t. For the first time in his life he wanted to hear noises, voices of people, even the highly irritating sounds of car horns would have been wonderful but no, nothing. Then Jimmy looked up to the great blue yonder, not even a cloud. What he did see far above his isolation was a vapour trail streaming behind the barely visible outline of an aircraft. He waved his feeble arms whilst knowing it was pointless. He was now beginning to dehydrate, the five pints of beer making Jimmy feel extremely thirsty. He was now beginning to panic and looked around for something to drink. There was nothing, not even a beer, although he realized that this would just exacerbate his condition.

    “Stupid, stupid, stupid”,” he mumbled to himself, why, oh, why did I not bring water along?”

Jimmy then attempted to use the boat’s radio system to no avail, he simply did not have a clue.

He did manage to switch it on and heard crackling noises, but was oblivious to the button used for speaking and receiving. It was probably a waste of time anyway as he simply had no idea of his position.

    The sun continued to beat down mercilessly as Jimmy’s dehydration was beginning to frazzle his brain and he began hallucinating. He was in a cool lake and leaned over the side of the boat scooping the cold water up into one of the empty beer bottles.

    Laying down on the bench seat he started to pour the sea water down his throat then, almost immediately, sat up with a jerk and started to vomit explosively.

Jimmy,s eyes were now red and staring;  staring at a mirage. It showed Johnny, who used to occupy

The seat next to his whilst working at the call centre. Johnny opened his mouth and Jimmy could hear the words that Johnny had whispered to him on the day he left.

“You need to be careful about what you wish for.” 

Copyright  Peter Woodgate

MY VALENTINE

MY VALENTINE

By Peter Woodgate

Although at present we are far apart,

the result of mankind’s dark insanity,

I focus on the dreams within my heart

not tainted by the world of negativity.

For each and every day I think of you,

untouched by earthly deeds and selfish thoughts,

within my heart the purity of love is unconfined,

not physical, as in the way that we are taught.

Whilst free of matter, wonders cannot be destroyed

and ecstasy will burn beyond our dreams,

although we cannot touch, as in the worldly sense,

our spirits intertwine, or so it seems.

For we have more than love that fades

as flesh grows old,

not bound by laws of nature we are free

from all restrictions that withhold mere mortals

and no longer blinded, we can see.

Our passion is euphoric, joyous to the end

and down some by-way in the mists of time,

I will take your hand and we will realize

what it is to love, My Valentine.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

Road Kill

Road Kill

By Jane Scoggins

George had recently been dumped by his girlfriend. He was back living with his Mum temporarily and that wasn't going well either. She had house rules, and this made him feel like a teenager again. He had gone to the pub to get out the house, and by chance met up with some old mates. He had told them his tales of woe and being the wind-up merchants they had always been, they laughingly taunted him. Knowing that George quite easily lost his cool, as had been the case since school days, they enjoyed the fun of watching him rise to the bait. Jed and Mac were the worst and led the others. When George felt he was getting to boiling point he took his leave. Driving away from the pub he felt angry. His so called mates had teased him and made fun of his inability to keep his girlfriend, and about having to return home to his Mum. He didn't have the personality to take it and he was a hot head. He banged his fist hard a second time on the steering wheel in recognition of his stupidity and humiliation and took a few swigs from the half bottle of whisky he kept under the seat. He drove on in the darkness feeling thoroughly dissatisfied with his life. There was no other traffic on this back road which was lucky as he was not paying attention around the bends and suddenly there was a thud and then silence. George knew he had hit something so he slowed down and stopped the car and turned off the engine. All was silent. The thud had sounded substantial. 'Bound to be another bloody badger, they are everywhere around here ’ he said under his breath. He opened the car door, got out and peered back down the dark road. He couldn’t see anything. He checked the front nearside bumper, there was no damage, and decided not to look any further.  Whatever it was had gone now and he didn't want to hang about knowing he was over the limit.  He had chosen to take the B164 rather than the main road for that reason and wanted to avoid even a slim chance of another motorist stopping, and then reporting him if they smelt his breath, or if he came across a member of the Save The Badger league who were sometimes around at night checking the sets. Badgers were big solid animals so maybe he just got a nasty bump and had run back across the field .So he put the Audi into first gear and slowly pulled away. Accidents happen, but knew he was at fault whatever it was he had hit due the speed he was driving and lack of concentration. ‘Good job it wasn’t an oncoming car that would have been nasty. He had previous form and convictions for drink driving and currently had six points on his driving licence. He banged his fist hard and angrily yet again on the steering wheel, suddenly feeling more sober than he had ten minutes ago, but his mind was in a mess, thinking straight was hard, and he fought back tears of wretchedness.

         Letting himself into the house very quietly George went straight up to bed. He could hear his mother's gentle snoring as he passed her bedroom door.

Setting the alarm and getting up early he took paracetamol with a glass of water for his hangover and went to work. Trying to put the loss of his girlfriend, and the events of the previous night out of is mind, George concentrated on his work as best he could. Arriving home in the evening he was relieved to find a post-it note from his mother telling him she had gone to see her sister for the evening and there was shepherds pie in the oven for his dinner.

        The next few days passed uneventfully and George's mother was pleased that they seemed to be getting along OK. She took the opportunity to chat to him about her job at Tesco supermarket and the bits of news and gossip that arose from her interactions with other staff. He listened but didn't show much interest until his mother mentioned the body that had been found rolled down in the ditch near the sharp bend along the old B164.

       Seemingly the dead man, a youngster really, was the younger brother of a man she remembered George had gone to school with, a Jed Thompson.

        ''The police found his motor scooter back up the road, broken down. They think he had left it hidden in the hedge and started to walk, probably hoping to get a lift from a passing car. He had been working somewhere away, and his family were not expecting him home.

       ''They didn't even know that he had bought a scooter,'' she said ''He must have wanted to surprise them. His mother will be devastated.''

        The funeral date was announced, and his Mum read it out from the local newspaper. It was she who suggested he ought to go, out of respect. He said he would. He dressed carefully and slowly on the morning of the funeral in his one and only suit. His boss had shown concern and sympathy when George had approached the subject of time off for the funeral. He had noticed that George had been in low mood of late.

       ''Of course you must go, take the day off. A terrible thing to have happened to a youngster just starting out in life. Your schoolmate will appreciate you being there for him.''

   The church was packed with old and young alike. Flowers were everywhere; on the coffin, in the church, and carried in bunches by those attending the service. Tears were also in abundance and George felt the power of the sadness and shock of those all around him. He was enveloped in their grief. He had intended to slip away after the service, when he had paid his respects to Jed and his parents, but they had insisted he go along to the pub where the wake was being held. George bought a pint of lager and stood with it at the bar. Several of Jed's and his school friends were there and they chatted in subdued voices for a while. He made an excuse to go to the gents toilet, just to get away. Jed approached him when he came back into the room. He looked a different man to the one George knew. He looked broken. He did not recognise this person who had always been cocky and self assured, the boy who had regularly teased him at school, and ribbed or taunted him at every opportunity since leaving school. Jed grasped George's hand and spoke in a voice choked with emotion.

  ''Thanks for coming mate, I am still in shock. My little brother, gone forever. Come outside with me for a minute will you whilst I have a cigarette. Jed had half finished his cigarette before he spoke.

  ''I know I haven't always been nice to you George, in fact I have been a pig at times, but you were always so easy to bait. I am sorry. I should have outgrown all that nonsense. But we have known each other since school and I need to confide in you. It is because of me that Pete died. He had asked me to help him buy a car, and I had said no, even though I could easily afford it. I didn’t get any help when I wanted to buy my first car, and I couldn't see why he should have it easier than me.  I wanted him to struggle. And do you know, he never complained. The only time he asked me for something I turned him down flat, out of spite. I have always been jealous of him. He was more clever, happier and better looking than me. So he ended up buying an old scooter which broke down. He walked along a dark road at night hoping for a lift and tripped and banged his head or was knocked down. We don’t know. He was coming home to surprise Mum and Dad. Apparently, the firm was taking him on permanently after he did so well in his apprenticeship. They would have been as proud as punch.

 Jed paused before going on.

    ''I haven’t told anyone what I have just told you. Mum and Dad would never forgive me for not helping him so I can't ever tell them.  Please don’t tell anyone? I will carry that guilt now till I die.''

George nodded in agreement.

    ''Thanks mate, sorry to have burdened you.''

The two men parted and went their separate ways. Knowing now the date and place of Pete’s death, George could not forget the noise of the thud on his nearside wing the night he drove home from the pub.

Copyright Jane Scoggins