THE INTERROGATION

 THE INTERROGATION

by Richard Banks                         

“Do you know who I am?”

         What shall I tell him? That I know him for the murderer he is, the man who has killed more folk in these parts than any soldier of King or Parliament. The Lord's work he calls it. He holds the bible when he says that, turns the pages to Exodus 22.18, then reads what it says: 'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live'. But who are the witches? Is every old woman with a gargoyle face a witch? For it is mainly them that hang. Few men are witches, neither are there many that are young – maid or man. So why me, why have I been accused? Me, Tilly Roe, not yet twenty years of age. What have I done? Who has spoken against me? Someone has.

         “Do you hear me, mistress?”

         “I do, sir.” I must be polite, humble. If this man takes against me, I am lost.

         “Then what is your answer?”

         “You are the Witchfinder General, sir, come to rid us of those who worship Satan and do harm against God's people.”

         “And are you one of God's people?”        

         “I am, sir, truly I am. And whoever says different speaks not the truth.” I look him in the eye like my father taught me; that, he says, is the mark of an honest person. Does the Witchfinder know that? He looks uneasy. Perhaps he thinks I try to enchant him? I look down at his hands. He takes a pen

from the table at which he sits and writes something down on a sheet of paper.

         “Your accusers are five. Can they all be lying?”

         “But who, sir, are my accusers? Am I to hear what they say?”

         “Of course. That is the purpose of this interview. I put forward the evidence against you. Your answer. If you answer well you go free. If not, you will be arraigned at the sessions in Chelmsford. We work within the law, Mistress Roe. The innocent have nothing to fear. Are you fearful Mistress? Your face is pale. What has drained it of its maiden's glow?”

         “I am tired, sir. The searchers would not let me sleep. They kept me standing all night in my night shift.”

         “And did they search your body for unholy marks?”

         “They did, sir.”

         Then they have done their duty well and you should be grateful to them. They watch for Satan, for his familiars that feed on witches blood. They can not suffer you to lie down. A bed has unseen places; there can be no watching there.”

         I pretend gratitude to the searchers. Say I will remember them in my prayers. Does he soften towards me? His face is without expression. He takes up another piece of paper full of writing.

         “Can you read, Mistress?”

         I tell him no.

         “Then I will read for you. Have you know that this is the testimony of Ann Cook spoken to me two days ago. She is your first accuser.

         “And what does she say, sir?”

         “That you did steal by witchcraft the affection of Tom Hewer, who was Mistress Cook's sweetheart, and that you did cast a spell by which you made her unwell of the sweating sickness. And furthermore that you did come to her when she was hot with fever in the form of a satanic imp boasting of all you have done. What sayeth you?”

         “I cast no spells, sir. Tom and Ann quarrelled. That is why he left her. It was no doing of mine. Neither did I bid him to come to me. It was he who did the courting, as all men should.”

         “So Tom Hewer is now your sweetheart and not Ann's?”

         “But not by witchcraft, sir.”

         He looks thoughtful, writes down his thoughts, returns his pen to the inkwell. He seeks to catch me out. Honesty is not enough, my cunning must be the match of his or he will ensnare me.

         “So if Tom Hewer was not bewitched and you did not draw him to you why did he choose you instead of one of the other maidens in the village. There are ten are there not? Comely maids, so I be told, four with marriage portions, one a miller's daughter. Yet he chose you the cuckoo in the nest, the foundling child with heathen, gipsy blood. Why you?”

         “Should you not be asking this of him?”

         “But I'm asking you, Mistress Roe. Surely he told you why he loved you?”

         “He did, sir. He told me many things that should stay a secret between lovers. But this I will tell you, that he thought me loving and kind which is more than Ann Cook ever was.”

         “So you despise Ann Cook? Is that why you put a spell on her?”

         “There was no spell, sir. Ann caught the fever last month along with two other folk. I know not why she caught it. It was nothing to do with me. I cast no spell. Neither did I visit her when she had the fever. She may think I did for when the fever is at its worse people go wandering in their thoughts and see things that never happened. But even if the imp was real why should it be me? I look no more like an imp than you or any other Christian person.”

         He looks angry, commands me not to be insolent. But my arguments are sound. He picks-up another sheet of paper, again full of writing. He asks me if I know Master and Mistress Grindley.

         “Yes sir. Master Grindley is Uncle to my Father.”

         “Your Father?”

         “Yes sir, the man who took me in when I was a foundling child.”

         “And do your Father's relatives have reason to give false testimony against you?”

         “None that I know of, sir. They have always been kind to me.”

         “So, what they say must be true?”

         “I know not, sir until I hear it.”

         “Then hear this, the testimony of Master Grindley. 'On Saturday fifth day of August I rode to Colchester where on passing the parish church my horse, a good and healthy steed, did fall to the ground and die. This being at midday when the church clock was striking the hour. At that time I saw young Tilly on the far side of the road dressed in a black cloak and hood which I never saw her wear before. And though I waved at her and called out her name she made no move to come to my aid. Indeed she stared at me with such unfriendly expression that I thought she meant me harm. When I told Mistress Grindley, my wife, of this she was much troubled because on that same day at a quarter past twelve she saw Tilly in the yard of her father's house astride a broomstick on which also sat a black cat. This we told to the curate of this parish who said it was our duty to tell all to the Witchfinder'.”

         “So Mistress Roe how did you move between two places ten miles distant in only one-quarter of an hour?”

         “Because the journey was never made, sir. I have never been to Colchester, neither do I own a black cloak or hood.”

         “So Master Grindley is also lying?”

         “No sir, Master Grindley is short of sight. Only last week he mistook a horse for a cow. I do not doubt that he thinks he saw me in Colchester but he is mistaken. I never stirred from the village that day. Ask my father and other persons who were with me.”

         “And what of the broomstick?”

         “It is a broomstick, sir. I use it to sweep the dust from the house. When Mistress Grindley sighted me I was holding it steady between my knees so my hands were free for the fixing of a new sweeping head.”

         “And the cat?”

         “What about it, sir?”

         “Is it not your familiar?”

         “No sir, it is not. It is a kitten, eight weeks born and no threat to anything bigger than a mouse. He was climbing on the broom while I was fixing it. I call him Francis after the saint who loved all God's creatures.”

         The Witchfinder is silent. He knows his evidence is not enough. If it be known at the Sessions that Master Grindley is poor of sight the case against me will surely fall. Thank goodness the Witchfinder was not able to persuade Mistress Grindley that Francis is a familiar. No doubt he tried but she stays true to what she saw. How many accusers did he say there were? Five? yes, five. So there are two left. He takes up the paper that has their words.

         “This is the evidence of Mistresses Turley and Brine.”

         “Who are they, sir?”

         “They are the searchers that watched over you; the godly woman whom you spoke so well of.” He smiles, but not pleasantly. Like me, he knows them for what they are, lewd women who take pleasure in touching the private places on a maiden's body.”

         “And what do they say?”

         “That at mid-night Satan appeared in the form of a goat that stood entirely on its hindquarters. And when they asked why it came the goat said to drink the blood of the gipsy girl who was his sister in darkness. And this it did through a mark on the gipsy's leg that was red and tender like it had been used this way many times before.”

         “I protest, sir. This never happened.”

         “So they lie too?”

         “Indeed they do.”

         “And why should they do that?”

         “I know not what is in their thoughts but, like you, they are paid for what they do. No witches, no fee. Maybe that is why they do it, or maybe they delight in doing harm? If so, they are as wicked as the devils they claim to see.”

         “Stop this ranting, woman. The searchers tell the truth. They are servants of the Lord.”

         My mind struggles to devise an answer. What can I say? Then, almost without thinking, the words I need come to me and I am speaking them. “What does the other searcher say?”

         “The other searcher?”

         “Yes, there were three. What does she say? Something else to be sure, or otherwise her words would also be on the paper you read from. What is her name, sir? I demand that her evidence also be heard.”

         “Demand what you will, witch. You will get what you deserve, not what you demand.”

         “Her name, sir?”

         He refuses to tell me. Then I remember. It was spoken by one of the other searchers: Mistress Beecham. She drank less beer than the other two, was quieter for it, hung back when the others did what they did. I confront him with the name. He looks startled, almost afraid. I press home my advantage.

         “Why have you not taken her testimony? Does she say differently from the other searchers? Is that why you are silent about her? You have sent her away, have you not, but no matter, my father will find her and we will know her words as well. And what if she says that no devil came and that you refused to hear her evidence? That would not go well for you, Witchfinder. Does the law allow you to do such things? I think not.”

         I expect him to bark back at me but he says nothing. I have him.

         “I will make a pact with you Witchfinder. Declare me innocent of all charges and in return I will be silent about what you have done. I say this with my hand on your bible. If I lie then God strike me down. ….Now, sir, all that remains is for you to write your verdict and for me to walk freely from this room.”

         He does as I request. He calls out: “Guard, Mistress Roe is leaving, there are no charges.”

         I walk out of the room into the office where the guard sits. He gets up and escorts me to the outside door. He looks surprised but says nothing. The Witchfinder sits at his desk and also says nothing. But my silence is more powerful than theirs.

         Me, more powerful than a man? What need have I to be a witch?

                                    Copyright Richard Banks

Haiku from Rob

Two More Haiku from Rob

By Robert Kingston

dilapidated duck house

still holding

an egg

First published akitsu quarterly,  September 2020

first light

the tree conjures up

a blackbird 

First published, The haiku foundation, August 2020

Copyright Robert Kingston

THE START OF ANOTHER DULL DAY

THE START OF ANOTHER DULL DAY

By Peter Woodgate

Here I am in the laboratory working on my P.H.D. thinking about the Black Death and holding up the skull of a rat.

It was the likes of this poor creature that supposedly caused that awful

Plague, it was, of course, the fleas that lived on the rats that carried the virus but being blamed for most things the poor old rat copped it. In fact, I would not be surprised if the latest virus to hit mankind (COVID 19) will eventually be blamed on “some dirty rat.”

I am now getting rather bored with this project and turn my attention to the world outside my window and am aware of a lovely blue sky. This  causes my mind to wander and I begin thinking about my girlfriend Maria, well she is not actually my girlfriend, but, being the only girl that has ever bothered to talk to me, that’s probably as close to one that I am ever likely to get.

                                                                    

I chuckle as I think back to the laughter caused when I called her malaria, well she always seemed to have a headache, especially when

I mentioned anything to do with sex. It’s no better now and I am thinking of re-naming her Virginia. Don’t think this will help my chances in getting my leg over but what the Hell!

Anyway, better get on with my studies, although this mind-wandering business has made me determined to look for the positives in life and I feel sure there is going to be a rainbow over the next hill. I am looking forward to this huge pot of gold that we will all find at the end of it.

Reality kicks in and I am suddenly aware that refraction disintegrates as we pass through the Brexit rainbow, after all,

Richard Of York Gave Battle In Vain.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

Up and at ‘em

Up and at ‘em

By Phil Miller

After finally completing the run of my life- 2001 London Marathon- I realised I should have put more time and effort into training for the event after a tall Sikh athlete sped past me at the 22-mile mark wearing a T-shirt that read,“ SPEED CHICKEN,” on the back; he was in his late eighties.

My wife decided it would be a good idea to organise a surprise party for me.

It was something I could have done without, considering my inner thighs were chaffed beyond repair and my nipples had bled due to the friction against my vest; the hazards associated with running over 26 miles, at a snail’s pace. It didn’t matter too much; most people thought I had been pouring blackcurrant juice over myself.  The photo handed to me when I crossed the line, distinctly showed that I was so exhausted, my eyes were fixed in a crossed position, and stayed that way till I arrived home, in the burbs of Essex, in the back of the brother-in-law’s, clapped out 1980’s 2.0 litre Granada, that farted a great plume of black smoke every time it broke from the traffic lights.

An old double bedspread had been stretched across the UPVC bay window with the words, “WELLCOME HOME, YOU DONE US PROUD!” painted in big black letters.

The neighbours must have thought I was returning from a theatre of war; I think they were right.

The music was playing loudly and there was much laughter and merriment going on. I crept in, ignored everybody, and made my way slowly upstairs to bed, where I promptly collapsed, in a heap. The sores between my legs were excruciatingly painful, and all I wanted to do was sleep. No sooner had I closed my eyes, my daughters had decided to run in and jump all over me, like a couple of puppy dogs. I told them, through gritted teeth and rolling eyes that I would make my way downstairs and say hi to everyone. Five minutes later, I was standing at the top of the stairs. I took one step down but the fatigue and burning pain in my calf muscles were unbearable, so I had to walk down backwards, on my hands and knees. Somebody stepped over me on the way to the loo, “what’s the matter? lost your marbles, ha! ha!”; I didn’t reply but thought to myself, I must have done, to run around the streets of London, while everyone else was stuffing sausages and beer down their necks, dancing and prancing and having a good time.  

After a few minutes I reached the bottom step and stood upright on the laminate flooring. I walked forwards, hands stretched out to the walls for support, and made my way to the living room. I looked like a cross between Douglas Bader and Frankenstein’s monster.  The guests were admiring the sharp lines of the new kitchen units, the sparkling tiled walls and new pristine appliances. The kettle drew a great deal of attention; weird.

After about 10 minutes, a lot of sniggering and the occasional pat on the back, I fell onto the sofa to begin my life as a human sloth.

It was nice that people made the effort but really, all they wanted, was an excuse for a knee’s up. All I wanted was to have a kip; for about 72 hours.

There was a knock on the door. I heard somebody acknowledge my dear old friend, Timothy. I sat, waiting for him to come into the living room and offer up a plate of praise. He didn’t come in to see me. After 15 minutes, I went painfully in search of him and found him hiding behind a very large wine guzzling woman in the garden. When I say hiding, I mean, if he turned sideways he would have vanished. He was emaciated. His eyes were sunken and they had large black bags around them. His cheekbones were ready to breakthrough.

“Bloody! Hell, Tim, you’ve done some weight.”

“Hello, Jack. Well done on running the marathon.”

“What’s happened, mate? You look ill!”

“I haven’t slept for three days.”

“What?”

“I’ve been taking E’s, Charlie, LSD and Ketamine, I’m screwed.”

“Jesus! You ain’t got any paracetamol, have you, my head is splitting?”

Tim just stood there. Not a smirk, grin, or false laugh.

I said, “Where’s Tracy?”

“We split up 6 months ago.”

“Oh! No! Sorry, mate. Do you want a drink?”

“No, just water, I’m so dry.”

“Where you been living?”

“Back at mum’s.”

“Oh! Dear.  Come to think of it, you look a bit like Ronnie Corbett, sorry.”

Tim swallowed his glass of water and apologised for his early exit.

I didn’t see him again until one winters night in 2004. It was three am and I was slumped on the floor of a bus shelter. I had half a litre of whiskey in one hand and a fag in the other. I was crying; I was pissed; I hadn’t smoked for fifteen years and my normal tipple was a bottle of merlot over the weekend. It was Seven Kings High road. Tim was walking on the other side of the street, to catch the night bus.  He had been on a date; some online thing.  He couldn’t believe it when he saw the state I was in.

“Fucking hell Jack, you ok?”

“Curs am kay.”

“What?”

“Ahsed, ham urkay,”

“Where ya been?

“Getchin pished.”

“Who you with?”

“Live mehee aloon.”

Tim lifted me to my feet. He had put on a lot of weight.

“Is the missus picking you up? Shall I get you a cab? Do you want to stay at mine?”

“Shee don luff me, annimor.”

“What?”

“Spanitch arshers.”

“I’ll get you a cab home.”

“Not hurm now. Dumped me.”

“Oh! shit. Come on, stay at mine.”

Tim supported me as I staggered left and right and backwards and forwards. It took us 2 hours to walk 2 miles to his place in Romford.

When I woke up in the morning, we had a good old heart to heart.

I said to Tim, “What did you get from your divorce?”

He said, “I was so distraught, all I asked for was my mastic gun and tape measure. She said, do you want the curtains?” I said, “stuff the curtains, keep them. She did. I didn’t know they were worth two thousand pounds. I also didn’t know that she had racked up a credit card bill for over £25,000, and I was liable for half the debt.”

“Bloody! Hell Tim.”

He said, “What are you gonna ask for from your missus?”

I said, “A Stanley knife and my decorating table.”

“Ay! Why’s that?”

“We can go into business then matey.”

We both laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

Up and at ‘em, that’s what my granddad used to say.

Copyright Phil Miller

Time ~ Gyrax

Time  ~  Gyrax

By Len Morgan

Gyrax expired air!  The air shimmered with the heat of her breath.   For several moments an eerie silence spread o’er the glade, punctuated by the furtive scuttling of a small foraging rodent.   He’d strayed unwittingly over the periphery of the kill zone.   He spotted a fat worm dancing invitingly just beyond his reach.

He closed rapidly, locking onto it with sharp gnawing teeth, seeking to tease it from its hole.   Unaware of the approach of others either side.   The lure slipped out of his grasp and retreated once again tantalisingly just out of reach.   His small mind failed to register danger and he licked the thick sticky sweet worms slime from his whiskers and paws before continuing his assault.   The normally timid wary creature followed its prey and its position became even more precarious.   Slimy tentacles closed in all around him, like a nest.   Through blurred vision, he just registered the once slender worm had now grown much fatter flattening like a paddle.   The nerve agent occurred naturally in the sticky mucous on the tentacles and was doing its deadly work.   At the very last instant, he realised his predicament, but too late to do anything about it.   His limbs were tired and sluggish, he could feel the tendrils wrapping about him, dragging him towards the central pit – the maw of the Gyrax.   Unconscious but still alive he was taken into her dark foetid open gullet.   Down, down he went unable to struggle, into the larder of the oldest creature still living, the last of her kind in the universe.  

Gyrax expired!   She was delighted by the tiny spark of terror, in the rodents mind, but there was other larger prey out there and it was coming closer by the second.   The air shimmered, for several minutes.   Closer, closer…

.-...-.

He was naked as a new-born, save for the emerald ring on the middle finger of his left hand.  Light from the greenstone pulsed in time with his heartbeat, he knew nothing.   He possessed nothing but a sixth sense born of the regression process.   He felt a sudden sense of imminent danger and jumped back several paces.   Twenty yards ahead the air shimmered, a deafening cry of frustration accompanied the beating of tentacles lashing the spot he’d occupied.   He sensed the danger, without recalling a similar encounter, somewhere back in the future.   He watched as the tentacles settled back amongst the flora, and stored the memory, first of many.

“Be wary boy!    This is the lair of the Gyrax, she has been here since the dawn of time and is not particular who or what she eats.”   The boy turned, surprised by a grey-bearded man who had appeared beside him without warning. 

“Who are you,” he demanded, staring up into the intense slate grey eyes. He showed no fear and exuding a confidence he didn’t feel.

The tall slim elderly man switched the stave from left to right hand and smiled, childlike.

“Would you be seeking employment?” he asked ignoring both the question and the boy’s nakedness.   “I have need of an acolyte.   An apprentice to fetch, carry and assist me in the performance of my craft.   In return, I will provide you with food, shelter, and I will teach you all I know of the Forbidden Arts.”

“Forbidden, by whom?”

“A straight question boy, deserving of a straight answer.   Forbidden by those who could never conjure or control true power themselves,” he tousled the boy’s hair and smiled.   “My name is Reynon, it’s a word of ancient power.   Like you, I arrived here from the future.”

“You know how I came here?”

Again Reynon ignored his question, “What is your name boy?”

“I… I don’t know…”

“Then I shall call you Morlen if that meets with your approval it’s another ancient name.” 

The young man paused and reflected.  “It sounds just fine sir.”

“Master!   You are now my acolyte, an apprenticed magician, of the fifth order. Now follow me, to your new home.”

“Tell me master Reynon, how do I reach the fourth-order?”

“You just did, simply by asking the question.”   They walked on in silence for a while.

“Then will you tell me how I can reach the third level?”

“That is not so easy.   You will need to demonstrate a little talent, self-control, and empathy with the minds of other creatures.   In addition, you need to display a thorough knowledge of the sciences, coupled with control and manipulation of natural processes.”

“So where do I start?” Morlen asked with enthusiasm.   A low thatched building came into view surrounded by ancient woodland on three sides and a fast-flowing stream on the other.

“Take a bucket from the rear of the house and fill it with water from the stream.  Do you see that cauldron? Three buckets should fill it, light a fire beneath the cauldron.   Through the side door is a root cellar--”

“What is a root cellar?”

Reynon was exasperated, “Don’t you know anything boy?   Can you not cook?   Am I forced to present an acolyte who can’t cook, to the Grande Assembly of Mages?”   Oh, the indignity of it!  He thought.   “Don’t despair; we have two years before the encounter on Enchanters Island.”  

“You don’t want me here,” said Morlen.

“I never said that--”

“Oh the Indignity of it!”   Morlen parodied.

“I did not speak those words; mayhap you do have a modicum…”  

"Follow me he said," entering the house he opened a chest, "in here you will find suitable garb.  "Dress and follow me through that door, you have much to learn."

 Morlen followed.

"Sit." said Reynon, taking a pack of cards, from a pocket in his robe.  He randomly cut the cards, what is this, he thought.

“A star.”

And this, Reynon cut again.

“A square.”

And…

“Another star, the sun.”

“How do you know the sun is a star?”

I… I don’t know, but it’s true master!” Morlen said with conviction.

“Come let’s find you something to eat,” said Reynon changing the subject.

Continues see Acolyte/...

Copyright Len Morgan

A Hard Life

A Hard Life 

By Janet Baldey

The boy was scowling. His mouth was sealed into a thin line and his eyes were sullen.

‘IF HE TOLD YOU WHERE TO GO, WOULD YOU STILL CARE

Julie read the caption under the poster and turned to her husband.

‘Not likely.  Imagine having to deal with a boy like that.’

Greg didn’t answer and Julie glanced at him. 

‘Maybe he’s had a hard life.’ He said at last.

‘Oh, come on! Face it, Greg. Some kids are born prison fodder’.

Just then a young mum came swinging along the pavement pushing a gleaming pram.  Julie craned her neck, trying to see the baby, but just caught a glimpse of a snowy mound of blankets edged with pink satin.     

Her heart shrivelled. How she longed to be that woman pushing her baby along the street; a tiny girl smelling of milk and rose-scented talcum powder.      

Greg’s arm slid around her.

‘You know, we could always adopt, or even foster’.

She froze as if he’d thrown iced water over her. 

‘What and end up with something like that?’ 

She flung out her arm in the direction of the poster. Knowing her dam of tears was about to burst, she turned away and was almost running by the time she reached home. Racing up the stairs she flung herself on the tiny bed, waves of misery rocking her body.  When she’d fallen pregnant the first time, they’d turned the box room into a nursery but ever since the last crushing disappointment, it had stood empty and now she only went in there once a week to vacuum. Now, she felt frightened because it wasn’t just that tears were dimming her vision, little by little the room was fading. Colour was leaching from the walls and the curtains were yellowing. Soon, it would be no more than an unused room.

* * *

Dumping a pan of cabbage into the colander, she peered through the steam at the clock and her lips tightened.

She’d told Greg dinner would be ready at seven and he was late.  From outside, she could hear the high pipe of childish voices mingling with a bass rumble.  He was playing football with the boys next door.    She banged hard on the kitchen window.  His eyes were sparkling when he eventually made an appearance.

‘Sorry, love’.   He said.

‘They’ve got a father of their own, you know’.  

The light died from Greg’s eyes as he winced.

‘I know, but he works such long hours.’

‘That’s not your problem.’

She turned away, hating herself for being jealous of other peoples’ children. She slammed down the plates and they ate in silence. In bed, each kept to their own side. Julie wondered if he felt as miserable as she did.  They were drifting apart and they couldn’t seem to do anything about it.

The next day the sky was suffocated by cloud and to kill time, she went shopping.   Drifting through the store, fingering clothes draped like empty promises upon their hangers, she vowed to stay away from the children’s department. Never again would she wander through aisles crammed with the delicate froth of pastel coloured dresses and cute babygro's.

Eventually, she glanced at her watch.  The over-heated store had made her throat dry.  There was a café opposite, it was a run-down place but it would have to do.

As she sat sipping her tea, the swing door bumped open and a grubby pushchair was wheeled into the crowded room.  A girl stood bowed over its handles, scouring the room from out of panda eyes, the studs in her face mimicking a bad case of acne.  Her lips were moving rhythmically, they stopped when she saw Julie’s table. 

‘D’yer mind?’  The girl pushed back a wisp of greasy hair.

‘Not at all.’  Julie said reluctantly.

The girl bent hoisted a small boy out of the pushchair and dumped him in the seat opposite.

‘Don’t you move.’   She commanded, disappearing towards the counter.

The child sat staring at Julie out of huge, unblinking eyes.  Slime trails of tears cut through the grime on his tiny face.  He seemed swallowed by clothes sizes too big for him and Julie wrinkled her nose as the sour smell of unwashed body wafted towards her.  

‘Here’ 

The girl plonked some chips and a drink in front of the child.  Silently he reached a grubby hand towards the food and began cramming it into his mouth.  Julie looked at his mother.   She was skinny, almost emaciated, and sat staring at her mobile phone.

 The child stopped chewing and reached for his drink.  As he did, he overbalanced -   the carton went flying and spilt sticky orange liquid that puddled on the table, slowly spreading towards the edge.

The girl’s head whipped around as she exploded into life.

‘Now look what you’ve done, you little bugger’.  The girl screamed, veins protruding from her scrawny neck.  ‘Can’t take you nowhere.  You’re always making a bleedin’ nuisance of yerself.’

Her screeches reverberated in the suddenly shocked silence and heads turned to look.  

‘What are you lot starin’ at?’ the girl yelled.   Abruptly she got up and stormed off.

The child sat as if frozen.  His small face seemed to shrink and Julie saw teardrops begin their familiar journey.

‘Where’s my mummy gone?’   His lips quivered and Julie’s heartfelt as if it would break.

‘She’ll be back soon.  Don’t worry. Let’s get you cleaned up.’

Getting up, she lifted him from his seat, amazed at how light he was.

Julie hardly noticed the journey back home.  She kept remembering how delicate and vulnerable the child had felt. The girl had eventually returned to claim him and Julie had stared out of the window long after the girl’s bobbing head had disappeared into the crowd.  She was marvelling at the child’s unconditional love. His eyes had lit up when he saw his mother but part of her also wondered how long it would take for his love to turn to resentment.

She thought about the boy in the poster. Perhaps Greg was right after all.  Maybe the boy in the poster had had a hard life and it just might be that the same sort of unconditional love might just be enough to turn his life around.

As the train drew into the station, Julie hoped Greg wouldn’t be working late. They had a lot to talk about and afterwards there would be all those forms to fill in.

  

      Copyright Janet Baldey

Fifty Word Snippets.

Fifty Word Snippets.

by Len Morgan

I submitted a dozen snippets for publication & these were the rejects:

Common Courtesy

Not so common, courtesy is, showing good manners and respect for others.   A simple please and thank you, a genuine enquiry after another persons well being; showing you care, endears you to others.   Giving a helping hand to somebody will cost you nothing, and it could well be returned tenfold.

50 words

God Doesn’t exist - Thank GOD!

If he did how would he view our involvement in Afghanistan, Kosovo, Iraq, and with global warming?   Could he forgive our failure to aid - Biafra, Ethiopia, and ‘street children’ worldwide?   How would he view our designs to infest the Galaxy, like a plague, what would he do!  Send us Covid-19?

50 words

The Journalist.

The journalist should be dispassionate, non-judgmental, like a fly on the wall.   He should see with his own eyes, hear with his own ears, and feel with his heart.   He should bear witness, remember, and tell all.   Laziness, anger, fear, sympathy, and vanity, can play no part in this process.

50 words

Genome.

In 1998 $3,000,000,000 were committed to finance the sequencing of the human genome.    It revealed a continuous spectrum of relatedness between all living organisms.   At molecular level fungi, bacteria, and man, share more similarities than differences.   Which includes a common system, for storing and expressing information, namely the DNA Helix.

50 words 

Perfection

Perfection is a wonderful goal to strive for.   But, failing to attain it ourselves, we often fall into the trap of expecting it in others.   Let’s for a moment flip the coin and, instead of criticising their failure, try to ‘catch them doing something right’ and offer them due praise.

50 words

Responsibility 

You are responsible for the manner in which you live your life.   But, you should also allow others to take responsibility for their lives.   Too many people go through life acting as a crutch for others, who choose not to stand on their own two feet.   Don’t be a crutch!

50 words

The Writer

Is an artist who paints, with words, on the canvas that is your mind.   Reading is sharing those thoughts and ideas.   The vividness of the imagery is dependent upon what the reader is prepared to contribute to the symbiosis; what you get back is proportional to what you put in.

50 words

If it costs nothing it’s worthless

If you have an idea, for a product, or a service to sell, people will gladly pay you for it and show their appreciation.   However, if you try to give it away ‘free gratis’ you will be treated with suspicion and have a very much harder task ahead of you.

50 words 

History is written by the Victor.

As such its credibility depends on the viewer’s perspective.   Issues are seldom black and white, so to base a judgment or your beliefs on a perceived truth, rightly or wrongly, is to make a flawed judgement.   An arbitrator should therefore always seek to promote a win/win solution to any dispute.

50 words