THE SWINGING SIXTIES

THE SWINGING SIXTIES         

                                   

                                    By Peter Woodgate

                             

                              Today:

I visited the scenes of my youth.

Paused, in the playground of my dreams and recalled,

The Swinging Sixties.

The magic of Motown the Beatles and Stones

The Mods wearing mohair the Rockers in jeans.

Kensington High, Carnaby Street, and

The Kings Road for clothes and shoes for your feet.

The fashion of Quant, the hair of Sassoon,

The “space race” was on who’d be first to the moon?

The “Beehive”, the Minis, both car and the skirt

The thin pointed shoes and button-down shirt.

The coffee all frothy the jukebox alight

You put in your money and danced through the night.

In sport, so it seems, we were on the way up

Euphoria struck when we won the World Cup.

I felt indestructible, was joyful, not sad

My thoughts were all good ignoring the bad.

For I had a future no one could destroy,

I’d grown into a man from that small timid boy.

Yes, there was turmoil, assassins and war

But life was for living, it wasn’t a chore.

And so as I travelled through life’s ups and downs

I remained optimistic with smiles and with frowns.

But as seasons pass quickly we tend to look back

And I’d wandered those streets seeking something I lack.

I’d sat on a seat, suspended by chain

And gently pushed back,...........................I was swinging again.

  Copyright Peter Woodgate         

Two Limericks

Two Limericks

By Shelley Miller

There once was a pig with 5 trotters
Who used them all up as fly swatters,
The flies drove him mad
So the pig wasn't sad
To be shot of the lot of the rotters.

 

There was an old man from Peru
Who had only one foot per shoe,
In each shoe, a foot
The old man would put
`Till one day, a third foot he grew.

Copyright Shelley Miller

THE BOATHOUSE WORDS Part 2 & Last

 THE BOATHOUSE WORDS Part 2 & Last              

By Richard Banks

                         

There is no logical, scientific explanation for what happened that night. It doesn’t help that Sara won’t talk about it and that Jack has no memory of what he did. But Danny does remember, and so do I. What we saw, we saw and what we saw happened. What follows now also happened. You can believe it or not, more fool you if you don’t.

         Sara dumps Jack and the moron hits the bottle even worse than before. He’s even drinking on the building site where he works. They’re going to fire him but he saves them the trouble by jumping off the sixteenth floor. Three months later Sara goes abroad to a finishing school in Switzerland. Where in Switzerland no one’s too sure and the rumour spreads that she’s somewhere closer to home having a baby that will be put up for adoption. And that’s just how it is except that when the baby is born Sara takes a shine to her black-eyed son and decides to keep him. To her mother’s horror, she arrives back home unannounced in the back of a taxi with little Michael demanding to be fed.

         “Who will want you now?” screams Mrs Eden, too near an open window not to be heard. Her plans to find a suitable husband for her daughter from among the local elite are at an end, but she’s wrong, a new family moves into the area and takes up residence in the Priory, the oldest and biggest house in a gated community outside of town. They are ‘old money’ with political and social connections that reach far beyond Fairmeadow. Within a year Sara marries the son of the house and disappears from sight behind the grey stone walls of her in-law’s house. Her new family have let it be known that they are private people, at home only to friends and relatives; they are seldom seen in public. 

         Little Michael is now five years old, a solitary child who can sometimes be seen at the window of his bedroom staring sullenly – some say with malevolence – at all those who venture by. They say if looks could kill he would, and maybe he has; birds fall lifeless from the sky and in the gardens of nearby houses the bodies of small creatures are often found. A guard dog dies on Priory Hill and on the road just past the house a pony stumbles and breaks a leg. The rider summons help on her mobile and another rider sets off from the farmhouse but gets no further than the first gated house before his mount drops lifeless to the ground. The news spreads like wildfire and makes the front page of the Herald. “What next?” people ask. What next is me?

         I’m out walking. On a warm August afternoon, I should be on my way to the shops in Halesbridge, but I’ve missed the bus and any thoughts I had of waiting for the next one have given way to the need to walk. Where I’m going I don’t know. Why? is another question I should be asking but I’m not, my brain doesn’t want to work that hard, in fact, it doesn’t want to work at all. I’m no more in control of myself than a twig floating down the centre of a stream.

         At last, I’m stopped, on the same white concrete road pictured only days before in the Herald. My head tilts upwards towards the house, sunshine in my eyes. I blink, blink again and through half shut eyes find myself staring at Michael staring down at me from a second floor window. He speaks the words, the boathouse words, the strange rushing words that swirl around me until my head and body is shaking with the force of them.

         A car’s coming towards me, the driver sounds his horn and then twice more as I stand witless in the middle of the road. He shouts at me, revs up his engine as though he means to run me down. Shock waves crash through my brain and collide with the words which falter and for a moment lose their grip. I’m back inside my own head. My thoughts are scrambled, like a bad dream, but something tells me I must run, that only in distance will I be safe. I head off helter-skelter, like a crazy person, blind to every danger save the one I’m running from. 

         The end of the concrete road is first base, after that there’s a tarmac road which after fifty yards bends sharp left but there’s only one direction I’m going and that’s straight ahead. There’s a footpath and I’m down it, a hedge either side and me in the middle. There’s a man coming towards me, there’s scarcely room to pass, we scrape shoulders but I’m still going, running faster than I have ever run before. The words are close behind almost upon me but as the path slopes downwards I run even faster and the words fall back. If I don’t slow I might, just might be free of them. In front of me, at the end of the path, is a country road. A car roars by right to left. I hear another one coming. I should be stopping but I can’t so I plunge across in front of a van that swerves past me horn blaring.

Ahead is another path, a track between two fields.  At the end are houses, red roofed new builds not yet sold.  I’m back in town running down the centre of deserted roads and then along those with lived in houses that gradually fill up with people and traffic. I’m nearly at the High Street. A car narrowly misses me and another slams on its brakes, screeching to a halt in front of me. I can’t stop and go sprawling across the bonnet. I sink down onto the tarmac, blood streaming from my face and arms. A man asks if I’m alright, wants to call an ambulance, but I tell him no, that I’m nearly home. I get back on the pavement, and minutes later I’m in the flat I share with Danny.

*****

         What happened after that I’m keeping to myself, but you won’t be surprised to know that we’re a long, long way from Fairmeadow. No one knows where we are and if we want to stay alive that’s the way it’s got to be. There’s dark days ahead and not just for us, but what can we do? Who’s gonna take any notice of us? Only when he gets stronger when the evil spreads and people see and hear it for themselves, will they know the horror of what is to come. Too late, by then it'll be too late.  

         Danny says I should write the whole thing down and put it in a bank vault only to be opened when we’re dead and buried. So, if you’re reading this, remember us in your prayers. Say one for yourself, you will need it. The abomination of desolation has just begun.

                                                                                                                                                                                      Document DC 127/18                                                                                     lodged by Delia Carr at the                                                                             National Bank,                                                                                                Kaloorlie 

                    Boulder,                                                                                    

                    Western Australia on 28/9/2018                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

         

Prescient

Prescient

 

By Len Morgan

Adam Quest, Psychiatrist in residence, silenced his pager and read the scrolling message:  Dr AQ 2rm24~patient S.Odell.  He winced, he'd not been looking forward to this one, but it couldn't be put off.  The time had come for Sarah's reality check.

She stood at the window, gazing into a cloudless sky.  Dust motes danced unheeded through shafts of bright sunlight entering through the blinds.

"It's a glorious day," he said.

"There's a storm coming," she replied.

He stood beside her shading, his eyes from the suns glare. "There is?"

"I know these things," she said.

"Or you listen to the weather forecast perhaps?"  She didn't reply.  "Shall we sit?" He pulled up a chair for her.

"Not using the comfy couch today?" She didn't move from the window, so he sat down, facing the empty seat.

"How are we today?"

"I'm well thank you, but you will not be if you keep your lunch appointment at 'Gordino's'."

"What have you heard," he spoke in his routine unflappable voice.  He'd arranged to meet his fiance at 'Gordino's' at 2pm.  He'd booked a quiet table for two in the rear.

"Call her and tell her to meet you somewhere else, as far from that restaurant as possible." He ignored her outburst and began writing up her notes.  "Wasting my breath aren't I?  You'll go right ahead regardless of what I say..."

"Hmm," he grunted, shifting in his seat.

"Well I've warned you, so my conscience is clear."

"My dining arrangements are none of your concern.  Now can we proceed please?"

She turned to face him, her auburn hair swishing past her face like an opening curtain, revealing full vermilion lips and deep blue, hypnotic eyes.  She shook her head, "such a waste."

"I'm well aware that you are a voluntary patient.  You can come and go as you please; I have to believe that you want your condition to improve.  So, sit down and let's get started."

She sat, leaning towards him across the table. "It isn't to late, she will understand, just call her!" she spoke in earnest.

"Moderate your voice please, or we will have security arriving from all quarters."

"I'm sorry, Doctor--, Sorry."

"That's better.  If we both keep cool heads we will make progress," he glanced at her notes.  "Now according to your notes, you claim to be 'prescient'?  Can you describe to me how the condition manifests itself."

She smiled, revealing even white teeth, her eyes sparkled drawing him in, "It's quite simple.  I have flashes - like waking dreams - I see something that is going to happen in the future.  Usually, I have no idea when or where the event will take place."

"Mmm, I must say as a predictive tool it's hardly laser technology." he gazed into her earnest eyes.  "So, tell me how it impinges on your life, and what you would like me to do about it?"  His pencil poised, an inch above her notes, its hard dark shadow softened and disappeared.  He heard raindrops against the window; gentle at first, they grew rapidly louder masking her reply.

"Did you know I got disqualified from driving?"

"I'm sorry?" He said.

"I was disqualified from driving," she repeated, her words punctuated by flashes of lightning.  A sharp clash of thunder followed 15 seconds later.

"I had a flash in the middle of the M25 motorway and wrote off my lovely little Ford Fiesta."  He nodded without looking up.  "The judge said I was driving 'without due care and attention'.  Apparently, I was weaving drunkenly in and out of the traffic; I explained it was because I'd had a flash, so he gave me a six month suspended jail sentence and banned me from driving, pending a psychiatric report, he also gave me 6 points on my driving license and a £250 fine." She gave him a wane smile and a resigned shrug. The sky brightened again; the storm had passed over, as quickly as it arrived.

"So, what exactly do you want me to do?" He asked.  

"Why stop them of course, stop the flashes.  The first happened six months ago.  The second happened six weeks after the first.  Then there was a week between the second, third, and fourth.  Now, I'm getting them once or twice a day without warning.  They have destroyed my career, I've had to give up a well-paid job because I can't trust myself."

"Why do you think you are getting these f-- 'waking dreams'?"

"If I knew that I would be happier.  It's not knowing that scares me."

"Has your G.P. checked you out?"  She nodded.  "Did he send you to hospital for tests, in case there is a physical cause?"

"A scan, blood test and ECG, yes.  They found nothing abnormal, no growths or hormonal imbalance just slightly raised blood pressure nothing to cause alarm."

"So, all the preparation work has been done.  Hmm.  So we know it isn't a physiological anomaly."  He took an instrument from his pocket and raised it to his eye.  "Look at the light please," he examined her eyes, "no aberrations there," he closed the blinds, and noticed that the rain had stopped and the sun was shining once again.  He dimmed the room lights.  "Join me over here please," she sat on the couch beside him.

"Have you ever been hypnotized?"

"No, I thought it was just theatrical hocus-pocus," she said.

"Well, it's not the universal panacea we in the profession had hoped for, but it does have its uses."

"Are you going to put me under?"

"Would you have any objection to that?"

She thought for a moment--  He waited.  "No."

"I should warn you that not everybody is a suitable subject, but all we can do is try."

"Will I know when you begin?"

He smiled and shuffled his pen from hand to hand, "it's important that you are comfortable and relaxed.  Would you prefer a nurse to be present?"

"Yes please."

He pressed a button beside his chair, a nurse entered and sat beside the door, out of Sarah's direct line of sight. 

"Nurse White is here to observe and will take no part in the proceedings, do you understand?"  Sarah nodded.  "Do you mind if we record the session?"

"No, it would be interesting to hear just what happens."  Nurse White moved slightly and there was a click.

"Now close your eyes, breath slowly, and deeply.  When I count to three you will sleep.  you will still be able to hear me and respond to my questions, relax, relax, one... two... three."

"For the record, your name is Sarah O'Dell?"

"Yes."

"You're 27 years old?"

"Yes."

"How long have you lived in Barchester?"

"Twenty-five years."

"Do you recall your first 'waking dream'?"

"Yes."

"Would you describe it please?"

"It was 06:55pm on Tuesday evening.  I like to watch 'Holby City' so I went over to switch on the TV.  Suddenly I was in a dark cellar, I could hear running water and feel damp stones underfoot.  It smelt musty - like mushrooms.  I could hear a dog whimpering and a voice 'don't fret Bobby they'll miss us soon, and start a search.  They'll find us, you'll see!'  There followed a low rumble, and the dog started barking in earnest; then the Holby City theme tune began, and I was standing by the TV."

"How did you feel?"

"I was terrified and cold, I could still smell it, and my feet felt clammy.  It wasn't until I sat down on the couch that I began to feel a little more like my old self."  She shuddered.

"What did you think?"

"I felt as if somebody had switched channels, and then switched back again only it wasn't the TV, it was my life that changed.  I was afraid to move in case it happened again.  It didn't, but I couldn't move.  I must have fallen asleep because suddenly it was the early hours of Wednesday morning, there was some game show on.  I live alone, so I had no one to confide in this is the first time I've told anybody about it."

"Thank you!  How did this affect you?"

"I became nervous and fearful in case it happened again.  Other people noticed the change in me.  

"How did this change your life?"

She licked her lips, "I became hesitant, nervy, and uncertain."

"How had you been immediately before the incident?"

"I was a confident, friendly and outgoing, extrovert," she paused and reflected before continuing, "I was getting back to my normal self when it happened again, in the middle of ASDA--"

"Can you share that experience with me?"

"I saw a young woman with a child in a pram, and a toddler dawdling behind her."  She licked her lips, "I noticed them leave the store, then the flash hit!  I saw them heading for the car park and the toddler wandering off between two cars, into an empty parking space.  Two cars were racing for the space.  The winner didn't even see the child but must have felt the bump.  It was so vivid that I abandoned my shopping trolley and rushed out of the store.  I grabbed the child's arm an instant before he ran in front of the parking car.  At that instant, the mother reached her car.  She looked back and gave me a look of pure hatred.  'Hey! Leave my child alone!'  I tried to explain, but she had hardened her mind. She smacked the child 'Don't you ever let a stranger hold your hand!  She yelled.  All eyes turned in my direction when she yelled out 'pervert!'  "I kept walking, the toddler's voice wailing in my wake."

"Did you learn anything from the experience?"

She paused and shook her head.  "No.  If I had I wouldn't have tried to warn you about the explosion at 'Gordino's'..."

"Explosion?  You didn't mention that..."

"I saw you sitting with a young woman wearing a dark business suit, and a pale blue blouse.  She had short dark hair and carried a tan briefcase.  You were laughing together, drinking coffee.  I glanced out the window, the town hall clock said ten past two, then there was an explosion."  She looked straight at him.  "Even if I am wrong, what harm would it do to change your venue?"

"I will change it to a later time, will that make you rest easier?"  He'd decided to humour her, against all logical reason. 

"Yes," she visibly relaxed, "that will put my mind at ease."

"Sarah, I'm going to count down.  When I reach one you will awake refreshed and relaxed.  Three... Two... One."  He clicked his fingers and her eyes opened.

"I'm ready, you can start whenever you like," she smiled at him.

.-...-.

The session was over, he escorted her to the reception desk and scheduled a follow-up appointment for the following week.  Then he called 'Gordino's' to cancel his reservation and see if he could book a later time, but they were fully booked. 

He rang his fiancé, "Angie, something has come up and I can't make 2pm, can we try that small cafe near your school?"

.-...-.

They met at 2:15pm and enjoyed a pleasant meal.  Over coffee, he shared the bizarre story with her.  Angie was vice-principal at the local comprehensive school, so after settling the bill Adam walked her back to school.  It was 3:00pm by his watch when he glanced up at the Town Hall clock, which showed 2:10pm.  He pointed it out to Angie, she laughed.

"That old thing hasn't worked for years," she said.

"Then in theory, the explosion could have happened at any time."

"That's if your story were true."

"I'll have to leave you here," he said.  "I have an appointment at 3:15pm."  He kissed her.

"My god!" She pointed to a plume of smoke rising from the direction of 'Gordino's'.  Then they heard it, and felt the blast of the explosion.

MIX UP

MIX UP

by Rosemary Clarke

Love is
Never having to say you're sorry.
Abuse is
Always having to say you're sorry.
Love is
When Christmas is a time of cheer.
Abuse is
When Christmas is a time of fear.
Love is
When all you've ever wished comes true.
Abuse is
When all you've ever dreaded comes true.
Love is
The freedom to choose.
Abuse is
A cage of doubt and worry.
Love is
Opening the door.
Abuse is
Trying hard to keep it closed.
Love is
Reading the violence in the papers at breakfast.
Abuse is
Knowing it every day of your life.
Love is
Looking out of the window at hope and the future
Abuse is
Looking out of the window and seeing only the past.

Every cut is happening to you even though you know it's not true.
Don't choose abuse in anything it's what smashes up this world.

Two Limericks:

Two Limericks:

Designer Wear.

By Sis Unsworth

“Can I go to the shops?” John did ask,

he did have a new special task.

To the town he would go,

So that he could show

off, his brand new designer face mask!

First Steps…

By Sis Unsworth

I came out of Lockdown today,

I survived it I’m happy to say,

but I had to complain,

when it started to rain,

so now back indoors I will stay

Copyright Sis Unsworth

THE BOATHOUSE WORDS Part 1 of 2

 THE BOATHOUSE WORDS  Part 1 of 2                      

By Richard Banks                         

“Why don’t we go down to that shack by the river,” says Jack. He looks across at Danny who’s beating out a rhythm on the steering wheel.

         “What, the old boathouse?”

         “Yeah, that’s the one. The place where they found the body of that old man with no name.”

         “Of course he had a name. Everyone has a name.” Sara’s spitting venom and it’s only 9.40.  Most people get happy after a few drinks, with Sara it just makes her angry, angry at Jack, at her stepdad and most of the human race. Judging by the cuts on her arms she’s also angry with herself. She’s Jack’s girlfriend although you wouldn’t think it to see them together. Jack tells his friends that he puts up with her because she’s a good shag. She’s also good for the ready cash that has bought us the JD we’re drinking.

         For once Jack resists the temptation to snap back. There’s no need. We all know what he means. The Herald was full of it; front page news for two weeks. Then the Coroner at the Inquest decided he was just an old vagrant who died of natural causes. No one knew his name or anything else about him. End of story.

         Danny looks at my reflection in the rearview window. “Dee, what do you want to do?”

         Evidently, he’s none too keen on the boathouse idea. Who can blame him? It’s Halloween, we should be on our way to a party but since the rumpus, at Kylie’s seventeenth, we’re not invited.

         “Yeah, let’s do it!” says Jack warming to his own idea. “It’s the spookist place in town.” For once he’s right. Fairmeadow is a new town, no church, no cemetery, not a building older than thirty years. Take my word for it, no place this boring can be spooky. 

         “Why not?” I say. “Anything’s better than sitting here doing nothing.”

         Surprisingly Sara agrees. She says she once went there with her real Dad. If anyone rises from the grave, it might be him. There’s an awkward silence, no one knows what to say. Danny starts up the engine and we’re off.

         The boathouse is two miles along a narrow unlit road that runs through woodland. There’s a track somewhere on the right that goes down to the river where the boathouse is, but in the dark, we can’t find it.  Danny parks the car in a passing bay and says we will have to walk the rest of the way.

         “Which way is that?” asks Jack. He’s not so cocksure now. He wants to be the leader but he doesn’t have a clue what to do. Fortunately, Danny does. He takes a searchlight out of the boot and locks the car. It’s a single ray of light in what would otherwise be total darkness. He points it down at the ground in front of him and tells us to follow on. He can hear the river he says; once we’re there the boathouse won’t be far away. So we start walking in single file through the trees stumbling over every bump and dip in our way. As the sound of the river becomes louder the ground beneath our feet turns to mud.

         “Stop!” shrieks Sara. She’s lost a shoe. She stoops down and fingers the mud until she finds it. She’s sounding off with every swear word she knows. Who wouldn’t, the shoes cost nearly as much as Danny’s old car. She pulls off her other shoe and continues on in her stocking feet. At last, we come out of the wood onto scrubland by the river.

         Jack’s trying to be the alpha male again and says we should go to the left. Sara says that if he’s going left that can only mean it’s the wrong way. She rolls her eyes. “When the fuck did you get anything right?” He moves angrily towards her but she holds her ground and threatens to hit him with the heel end of her shoe. Jack looks at the thin stiletto pointed towards him and thinks better of it.

         Danny shines the searchlight up and down the river. There are some wooden stumps in the water he thinks might have been part of a jetty. We turn right towards them and a few minutes later we’re there. He’s right, on top of two of the stumps are the remains of a wooden platform. Danny shines the light away from the river and, hey presto, we see the boathouse, or at least what’s left of it. The doors are open, nearly off their hinges and every window is broken. We go inside and find the walls blackened by fires that have been lit in the centre of the concrete floor.

         “What do we do now?” Says Sara. She’s in a mega strop and for once I don’t blame her, we’re cold, our feet are soaking wet and it’s only 10.30.

         “Why don’t we sit down and tell a few ghost stories,” says Danny.

         “Sit on what?” I reply, more sharply than I meant.

         The boys go outside and find a tree log that they drag inside. We sit down. At least we still got a bottle of JD to drink. Once that’s finished we’re going home, bewitching hour or not. Jack tells the first story. He says he heard it on the radio. I only hope the guy reading it was a better storyteller than Jack. If not he should be banned from the airwaves and everywhere else he might be heard.

         Jack finishes and Sara claps sarcastically. “It doesn’t make sense,” she tells him. “And who’s the guy at the end called Stan? Where did he come from?”

         It turns out that Stan started the story as Steve and that Jack’s mixed up the names.

         “Give me strength,” wails Sara.

         It’s funny and I can’t stop laughing. Danny passes me the bottle and I take another swig. Things are looking up; it’s less than an hour to midnight and tomorrow’s Saturday so I don’t have to go to college. Danny tells a story about a ghost rider without a head. It’s like that Johnny Depp film they keep showing on Freeview but Danny changes the ending so that the ghost rides off with the girl. He tells it well like I thought he would. Even Sara says it was good. Then it’s my turn and I tell them the story about a man finding a ghostly whistle that’s on my reading list at college. It’s seven minutes to twelve, time enough for Sara to tell her story but she’s too drunk to make any sense.

         Danny shines the light on his watch and we count down to midnight. The second hand passes twelve and nothing happens except that Jack shouts boo which is no big surprise. Then he does something we’re not expecting, he starts shaking like he’s having a fit. He’s trying to tell us something but the words aren’t getting past his throat. He opens his mouth and is sick, then the words come tumbling out, except that it’s not him who’s saying them. The voice is that of an old man and the words being spoken are like nothing we’ve ever heard. Slow speaking to begin with, then quicker and quicker until they become a swirling wind that sends bottles and searchlight spinning across the floor. The words join up and become a high pitched whine that blots out every other sound. Sara is screaming, her mouth open, her face contorted with fear but I hear only the rush of the words. Jack is standing up in front of her. He’s spinning round like he’s no longer connected to the ground. Then he collapses onto her and they writhe together on the floor, he on top pressing down, then up and down until he’s done and with that, the words stop and all is still. I snatch up the searchlight, point it in their direction and see Jack’s bare arse. Sara shouts, “no!” She’s telling me to shine the light away from her while she struggles free of Jack. She pulls up her tights and runs out of the boathouse with me chasing after her. She’s heading towards the river and I have to grab her to stop her plunging in. We hug like the best friends we are not and never will be.

          A minute or two later the boys come out. Danny’s got the searchlight in one hand and is holding up Jack with the other. The poor mutt is even more brain dead than usual; he hasn’t even zipped up his jeans. We make our way back to the car in single file like we were before. Nobody’s talking, that’s a conversation for another day, for some of us, it’s a conversation that will never take place. Danny starts up the car and we head back to Fairmeadow but he can hardly keep it on the road – like the rest of us, he’s drunk and shit scared. I make him stop in a lay-by on the edge of town and we walk home from there, Danny and Jack to the hostel where they have rooms, Sara and me to the posh end of town where our parents are waiting to give us the third degree.

  Copyright Richard Banks