The Syndicate

The Syndicate

By Len Morgan

   She didn’t really want a job but they needed the money.  Unemployment benefit barely paid the rent it didn’t stretch to putting food on the table.  She was a good mother to her two-year-old Geoffrey and his six-month-old sister Allyson and their well-being was her prime concern.  Money had been tight since Des got laid off when the call centre moved two months earlier.   His job went to India, and he’d been unable to find other employment since; so Tina decided it was up to her.

  Mum had promised to help out by minding the kids while Des was attending interviews.   Her mum was a gem, they would have starved long ago without the money and groceries she provided.

 “I was just passing and I thought you might need something from the shops,” she’d say, but she’d never ask for or accepted any payment.

    The job wasn’t demanding, she was a computer input clerk, dealing with customers and suppliers.   It was a relief from changing nappies and clinic visits, and mum always helped out in any way she could.

   ‘Same-Day Deliveries’ was a small but successful distribution company.   Good work was rewarded so the employees were loyal and committed.   She had been there for three months and proved to be an asset to the business. So, when a mature colleague announced she was due for retirement, and another was promoted, in her place, Tina received an offer of a job in Sales.   It would pay more money but with it came more responsibility.  With little hesitation, she decided to take it!

  “Hi Tina, I’ll be the new Team manager starting from Monday, and you will be taking over my responsibilities here,” Janice smiled, “don’t worry you’ll soon get into the swing of things.  Oh by the way as the newest member of the sales team you will be responsible for running the departments’ lottery syndicate.   It’s £2 a week plus you get 10% of any winnings for doing the job.   You will need to collect the money from the girls each week and buy the tickets on Saturday morning.   There are five members and these are our regular numbers,” Janice handed over the list.  “I’m off home now, see you tomorrow.”

  It was Friday evening, when she went to look she found all her colleagues had gone.   She was unable to collect the money for the lottery tickets.   She ran out into the car park in time to watch Janice drive away.   She wondered, should she use her own money, money she could ill afford, to buy the lottery ticket, or should she hope they didn’t win anything?   She checked her purse; she had just enough money to cover the cost.   She didn’t want to alienate her fellow workers before she’d even joined the team so she paid the £10 and stayed home on Saturday. 

  At 6pm she sat in front of the TV and wrote down the numbers.   One by one she checked them against the syndicate tickets.   Five – yes, eleven – no, twenty-one – yes, twenty-nine – yes, ten pounds she thought.   Thirty-seven – yes, seventy-five pounds, forty-three – yes!   Bonus number seventeen – no.   Five numbers, how much would that be she wondered?   If it’s £500 that would be £50 for her, if the winnings are £5000 10% would be £500.   She began to think about what she could do with that kind of money.   A new TV would be nice but the kids needed new shoes for school, Des needed new tyres for his bike, and it would be really nice to buy mum something for a change.  There may even be enough over to reduce their credit card debt, she thought.

   She arrived at work on Monday, and all her colleagues were ecstatic. Thank goodness she’d had the foresight to buy the tickets if she hadn’t done so her name really would have been mud!   

 “Hi Tina,” said Tracy, a broad grin on her face.   “We’ve won the lottery, £7,250, and I get £725 of that plus my one-fifth share of what is left!   What a great finish to my last week as syndicate organizer.   But, don’t worry I’ll buy you a drink or two at lunchtime to celebrate our good fortune.”

   At the first opportunity Tina slipped away to her coat and took out the Loto tickets she’d bought.   She checked the numbers again for the hundredth time kissed them and gave herself a little hug; thinking of all the things she could do with her winnings.

Copyright Len Morgan

ROBOTICS

ROBOTICS

By Peter Woodgate

It’s hard being a genius when most are normal. I mean, I can calculate the value of X given the equation, x=a+b+c – 23/100, I can evaluate the probability of Earth being struck by a meteorite larger than1kilometre as 1 in 10,000,000 and build a particle accelerator using nothing more than the parts from my mother’s old washing machine.

Impressive, I hear you say, but, and this is the real problem, I can’t remember my wife’s birthday, our anniversary, or whether or not I’ve taken the dog for a walk. This causes friction because at certain times during the year my wife refuses to talk to me for a month and, from day to day, I find the dog, either crossing his paws in agony or, lying on the floor exhausted.

No, I’m fed up of this fine line between genius and muppet. I either join the mob and live a life of mediocrity or sever the chord and march down the street naked waving a placard with the statement “I love the coalition,” that should get me locked up. Once in solitary, I would be able to concentrate on the work I know I am capable of. Of course, there is always the possibility that once locked up I will miss my wife, I’ve calculated that as 3 chances in 1,000. Missing the dog, however, is a different matter, the odds are 50 to 1 on so this does not look a good option.

I’ve changed my mind, I will go back to being an absent-minded genius and learn to concentrate on insignificant things like how many kids do I have and where do I live?

Right, now that’s settled I must get to work on building a robot.

I know that the grandchildren have discarded their DS Nintendo’s and X Box (both over 2 months old and well out of date) and I am sure I can build something that will keep me informed of all unimportant dates.

Robbie, as I shall name him, will also be programmed to take the dog for a walk, except when it’s raining, not good for the circuits you know. And, on such days, Robbie will remind me of my dog-walking duty.

I informed my wife of these wonderful plans, ostensibly to save our marriage, she, however, has come up with a plan of her own.

It appears all I need to do is to mark significant dates, her words not mine, on a calendar and put a tick on each day on returning from walking the dog.

I know what your thinking! Why didn’t I think of that. Well, I’m beginning to wonder myself.

Anyway, I’ve abandoned my plans to build a robot, I’ve decided the planets full of them already.

Copyright Peter Woodgate    

 

The RNLI Story

SIR WILLIAM HILLARY

By Richard Banks

                                                  

‘Sir William loved the sea, knew how important it was to the Manx but knew also its cruelty, how it sunk ships, drowned brave men and made paupers of their wives and children. Us fishermen told him about the terrible storm that killed twenty-six of our fathers and grandfathers, said that when the waves were at their worse the sea would always have its way. He said no, that with courage nothing was impossible and on 6 October 1822 he showed how right he was.

  In the midst of yet another storm, we watched from the quayside as a navy cutter floundered on the Conister Rock in Douglas Bay. Battered by the waves, rudder damaged beyond repair, its destruction was as sure as night after day. While others prayed, Sir William gathered us fisherman about him and promised a reward to every man who went to the rescue. So, we rowed out in two boats through waves so high I thought each one would surely drown us. And he fearless, like the soldier he was, urging us on, shouting out his orders in a voice so loud that not even the shrieking wind could silence him. His plan was to put ropes aboard the vessel and tow her back to harbour, and this we did though Lord knows how we managed it. We felt like heroes but our work was not yet done; other vessels were in trouble so back we went, finally saving ninety-seven lives.      

  In March 1824, at Sir William's urging, a national lifeboat institution was founded. The first boat was at Douglas and he its coxswain. In the years that followed he helped save over 300 people, winning three gold medals for bravery. Not bad, I'm thinking, for a landsman who couldn't even swim.’

[The memoir of a Southend lifeboatman formerly of Douglas, Isle of Man. Dictated at his lodgings in the Ship Inn, 25^th of March 1848.]

Living the Dream

Living the Dream

Janet Baldey

Giles’ king-sized water bed rippled in tune with his body and the girl sighed softly as she trembled on the crest of her orgasm. They climaxed simultaneously and as they did so Giles heard the first chords of a new composition sweep into his mind.   Later, her dusky body gleaming with perspiration, the girl slipped from his bed like a shadow and Giles lay watching sunlight form patterns on his ceiling. The music in his mind grew stronger as he re-arranged the notes to form swelling chords and he smiled at how easy it was.

         His low, white villa was smothered with bougainvillea and as he drew back the curtains and threw open the verandah windows, he looked out on a rolling turquoise sea less than a hundred yards away. Naked, he ran towards the surf, dived into the cool water and within a few swift strokes he was through the creamy foam. Flipping himself onto his back, he floated, staring up at a sky filled with wheeling seabirds, feeling the soft lips of jewel-like tropical fish as they gently nibbled his body. He floated, thinking about his music and how he would incorporate the sound of the waves and the metallic clatter of the surf as it drained away from the glistening pebbles.

Before returning to the villa, he flung himself down onto the soft sand and executed a hundred press-ups without breaking into a sweat. When he stood, the grains of sand powdering his body glowed like gold dust.

         The walls of his bathroom shone with mirrors that somehow never steamed over; stepping out of his Jacuzzi, he looked into them and flashed his white teeth. Peering closer, he scrutinized his firm, tanned skin but could see not the smallest wrinkle or blemish of any kind.  His dark blond hair showed no trace of grey and his tawny eyes were clear and luminous.  The mirrored surfaces reflected a muscled body with not an ounce of surplus fat and his bronzed forearms swelled as he flexed his biceps.  Pretty good for sixty-eight, he thought.

         As he breakfasted, he mapped out his day.  As usual, the morning would be spent at his Steinway where fingers rippling over the keys, he would create arpeggio’s that would bring joy to music lovers everywhere. In the heat of the afternoon, he would recline on his lounger and read the national newspapers brought to him by special helicopter delivery each morning. At dusk, he usually went for a walk along the beach watching as the sun melted into the horizon.  A hint of a line appeared between his perfectly shaped eyebrows as he remembered he had a chore to perform. Tomorrow evening he was due to fly to Zurich to be presented with yet another prestigious award and needed to select his outfit. Two rooms of his villa were set aside for his wardrobe and it took some time but carefully, Giles made his selection. At last, he decided on a dove grey Armani suit teamed with a gold striped shirt and a darker grey silk tie.  Nodding in satisfaction, he started to turn away but froze in mid step as his brain exploded with excruciating pain, stabbing shards of bright light flashed before his eyes and on a rising tide of nausea, he spun into a black velvet void.

        

He rose to the surface feeling talons gripping his arms.  His limp body was being dragged over a flinty surface. At last, he was set down and he felt hands slapping gently at his face and heard the sound of a gravelly voice.

 ‘Wake up’, it said.

He groaned and his eyelids fluttered open. For a moment he lay immobile, then his eyes bulged; there was a skeletal figure peering intensely into his face; its skin was yellowish and creased like an elephant’s hide while grey wisps of hair clung to a shrunken skull.  Black holes, masquerading as eyes, burned into him.   As he struggled to wake from what must be a bad dream the apparition spoke.

‘I know what you’re thinking.  But you’re in no nightmare, or if it is, it’s a living one.’  The creatures’ lips twisted.

   Slowly, Giles became aware of maybe another dozen figures crowded around him; his eyes flitted from face to face and then beyond.   He was in some sort of a cavern, the walls were of pitted stone and ran with moisture and the only light came from a dull glare outside the entrance.  It was stiflingly hot and the acrid stench of its occupants sickened him.      

Giles tried to speak but his tongue filled his mouth.  ‘Thirsty,’ he gasped.   Immediately a tin cup was put to his lips and he gulped convulsively. It tasted foul.

‘I’m afraid we have no freshwater. The slaves are artificially hydrated at night but we have to make do’.  The man gestured and Giles saw a line of containers placed at intervals along the cavern’s floor, each catching a few dribbles of yellowish liquid that condensed down the walls.  

The stranger leaned forward and peered at Giles.

   ‘Let me see. What were you?  An artist?  A poet?  James, here, was a sculptor and Peter, a famous tenor. I was an author. Ideas stampeded through my head. All my books were bestsellers – it was all an illusion of course.  

 Hauling Giles to his feet he propelled him to the mouth of the cave.

‘This is reality!’

 In the harsh glare of arc lights Giles saw hundreds of skeletal figures, hacking frenziedly at the face of a huge mine while others hauled containers filled to the brim with smoking ore. The figures were covered with running sores and their hair was matted but their eyes were far away and each mouth was wearing an idiot’s smile.

         ‘Those poor fools are living the dream. Just like we did. In reality, they’re slaves. We all were.’  He gripped Giles’ arm, fiercely. ‘The truth is, we’ve been colonized  By aliens. Things from outer space!  They chose their time well.   Mankind was worn out by infighting and the battle against climate change.   Before we knew it, the sky was black with spaceships and we were lost. They needed the minerals Earth could supply, and slaves to mine them. So they implanted chips into our brains and we were programmed to believe anything we wanted.  They microchipped us into submission’.

He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper and as he did so, his sunken eyes blazed.

‘But, now we have a chance. Their technology is flawed. More and more of the chips are failing.  Just as yours did.  When mine failed, I was lucky.   About a dozen gave up at the same time and one of them was Michael’s.’

 He gestured at a figure in the background upon whose emaciated face was the ghost of a handsome man.

 ‘In the old days, he was a professor of sociology.  When his chip failed, his brain held enough memory to help him piece together what had happened.   It’s thanks to him that we weren’t picked up by the aliens and re-programmed.   He brought us to this place and shared his memories with us. Every day, we remember more.’

Suddenly, he grasped Giles’ arm and pulled him back. As he did so a strobe of light pulsed towards them. 

 ‘They don’t need many guards, the slaves don’t escape. But they’re catching on to the fact that they have a problem, so you have to keep out of the light.’  

Giles stared at him.  He tried to swallow but his dry throat clicked.   Momentarily, a picture flashed before his eyes. A small child splashed through puddles wearing bright red rubber boots, his hair was soaked and his face ran with rainwater.   Giles licked his lips.

The man spoke again.

  ‘We have to fight back.   It’s our duty. The poor fools outside, won’t last long.  Two years and they’ll be dead.’ 

He looked at Giles sardonically. 

‘In your dream you had women, didn’t you?  A different one every night?   Every time you made love you impregnated a female slave and a baby was born.   They have enormous nurseries of future slaves to take the place of those that die.   It makes me sick to think of it.  We have to rescue them before they can be chipped. Join us and help beat them, it may not happen in our lifetime but our numbers are growing, although some choose to go on fooling themselves.   They can’t stand reality, you see.’

Giles looked down at himself.   He was dressed in filthy rags and his body was thin and wasted. He knew the man was telling the truth.  But then, he thought of his villa by the sea, his music and the girls.  He stepped away from the man, turned and walked out of the cavern. He did not look back as he walked a few paces, stopped, spread out his arms and waited for the light.

                 

  Copyright Janet Baldey

Why?

Why

By June Druce

God works in a mysterious way

I Often wonder why?

He lends life it seems for such a short while

Why do babies die?

Why do people suffer so?

Why are they blind and maimed?

I’m sure some time, somewhere, someplace

It will all be explained.

Why can’t animals stay in the fields?

We don’t need meat to survive.

Why kill the whale he’s gentle enough

Oh man please leave them alive

Why beat the seal till he’s breathing no more

For women so greedy and vain

Do they need a fur coat round their shoulders for warmth

For their vanity they bring only pain.

Why kill the birds for their Cordon Bleu meals

And newly born calves sold as veal

Do they really like frogs legs, cruelly obtained

Do they really enjoy such a meal?

Why kill the elephant majestic and proud

The deer so gentle and shy

Do they need snakeskin bags and shoes of real hide?

Why let those animals die

Plastic & wool, & various things, we can use to keep ourselves warm

There’s food all around, better for health, without causing innocents harm

Why are there wars & men filled with hate,

why is there greed in their heart.

Why black & white can’t get on, when they’re all one in his sight?

Why do Muslims & Jews, Catholics & Protestants, fight?

Why the good die young and the evil grow old I’ll never understand

But, God in his wisdom has reason I know, the world is in his hands.

Copyright June Druce

Does Writing Pay?

I wrote the following a few years ago, tongue in cheek, but it seems appropriate Heh heh!:

Does Writing Pay?

By Len Morgan

 A silly question!   If it didn’t pay, nobody would do it, would they?

You research your target journal or magazine; get to know the house style by subscribing to, at least, three issues.   You read them from cover to cover analysing their format, content, and target readership.   You get a copy of the contributors’ guidelines then phone to confirm they will accept your submissions.   You work up ideas, writing a synopsis then full-length article/story, pull them apart and rewrite two or three times until you are happy they are the best you can do.

   You submit a 300 word article and wait and wait and…   Sometimes you’re lucky you eventually receive an acceptance letter and, much much later, a cheque.   You receive £30 (10p a word) for six hours work that’s £5 an hour.   But you had three other similar articles rejected so that will reduce your hourly pay to £1.25.   Then there is the cost of magazines, phone calls, paper, electricity, typewriter ribbon (just kidding) and postage, let’s call it £10 in all.   That makes your income 83p per hour, less tax and NI (National Insurance) of course, that's 40%, let’s see that leaves you with just 50p per hour.   But, you know you loved it really, the late nights, the dogged persistence…  

Think I’ll keep the day job.  

[But, alas there is no cure for this writing sickness!]

Copyright Len Morgan

WILDERNESS

WILDERNESS

by Rosemary Clarke

     Loretta stared out at the overgrown garden; neither lawnmower nor shears had made the slightest difference.  In front of one window was what used to be the carefully tended flowerbed but somehow bushes had invaded with thorns and spikes, and however much she cut them down new plants would spring up.
     She had found one tiger lily peeking it's orange and black head from among the greenery but of the roses, lupins and anemones there was no sign.  The crocuses hadn't appeared on the lawn either: what was happening to the place?  A large garden may be an envy to some but it was hard with only one person to upkeep it.
     At least the grass was short and walkable, but she had noticed those little white plants pushing their way into the lawn.  Was it worth it; should she, as many had done around her, concrete the whole lot and have done with it?
     Loretta thought back to when there had been a family; brothers, sisters, children, husbands and wives all snipping, sorting, planting, mowing and pruning...now even her niece could not come in case that disease harmed her or Loretta herself.

     As a child she had loved the wildlife; foxes in their red coats, bushy tails trailing behind like bride's veils, badgers Humph humphing as they nuzzled the ground and the birdsong that had awoken her every morning as the smell of toast heralded another day of school no, all gone and the garden was ruined and friendless.
     Just then a slight movement caught her eye, Loretta stared; a small brown sparrow was hopping among the branches of the bushes in the overgrown flowerbed, another sparrow swooped inside joining the first, were they building a nest?  She watched intently as comma butterflies on small brown wings flitted around the bushes, even the garish brown, red and black of a tortoiseshell with some cabbage whites in hot pursuit danced in the sunlight twirling up and down.  Transfixed she opened the window a crack to hear myriad birds chorusing amid the cooing of pigeons.  A stray black cat had flopped itself onto the grass nearby contentedly washing in the sun.  Loretta shook her head in wonderment; maybe the garden didn't need so much tending after all.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke