THE PASSING

By Peter Woodgate 

Whilst tidying some garden pots

on the morning of my birthday

I disturbed a male blackbird

but he didn’t fly away.

 

He hopped a mere two feet from me

and stood upon a boulder,

studying me he didn’t flinch

he couldn’t have been much bolder.

 

I thought, at first, he must be hurt

my hand reached out to test,

he shifted, slightly, showing me

no damage tail to chest

 

he was fully grown, no doubts,

no frail chick was he,

and yet he showed the symptoms

of young’s naivety.

 

I then moved on to other pots

and thought I’d let him be,

an hour later, as I passed,

I could clearly see.

 

He was still standing on the rock

Sunbathing, so I thought,

yet deep inside my mind, it seemed  

things were not as ought.

 

I then forgot him for a while

and supped my birthday drink,

then curiosity returned

and I began to think.

 

I wondered if he was still there,

I looked and then dismay,

he lay prone upon the ground

for he had passed away.

 

Of course, I’ve seen dead birds before

killed by cars and cats,

piles of feathers on the lawn

the work of “dirty rats.”

 

But this was somewhat different

never again would this bird sing

I’d spent some final hours with him

yet failed to hold his wing.

 

It set me wondering 

and made me sigh,

do birds, like elephants,

choose where to die?    

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

The Black Room

The Black Room ~ (silent in solitary)

By Len Morgan

    During the Korean War the Chinese developed a method of interrogation that made prisoners susceptible to suggestion, and more willing to communicate generally. They called it ‘HSI NAO’ (wash brain). They discovered that just 5% of prisoners had leadership qualities.   If they could be identified and segregated, from the other 95%, the latter could be left unguarded, and would be unlikely to attempt escape. If the selected 5% were then placed in a room that was permanently lit, and soundproofed day and night. In just a few days they could be softened up sufficiently to become co-operative, and susceptible to indoctrination.

   During the 1960’s, the Canadian defence board set up a ‘Black Room' at McGill University in Montreal.   It was soundproofed, and kept in permanent darkness, with the object of investigating the phenomenon of sensory deprivation.  Princeton University, USA, also built a ‘Black Room’, it containing a bed, toilet, and food store.   It was found that most volunteers who entered the room quickly fell asleep; forty to fifty hours of sleep was not uncommon.

  When they were released, minor illnesses, coughs, colds, and rashes were found to have cleared up.   Smokers, alcoholics, and drug users found that they experienced no cravings during their stay.   This was attributed to the alien environment, and sensory deprivation; conditions that do not exist anywhere else, except perhaps in space, conditions so strange that old habits simply failed to register. 

Although the room was soundproofed, many subjects found they could hear a high pitched whine and a low rumbling sound.  On further investigation, the whine was found to emanate from their nervous system, and the rumble was the sound of blood pulsing around their body.

  Apparently, less intelligent people could stay in the room far longer than those with higher IQ’s.  Intelligent people were far more likely to hit the panic button, sometimes in as little as ten minutes, after waking up.   Student volunteers described their experiences as follows:  For the first few hours you could think clearer, without distractions, the mind goes into overdrive running wild with ideas.   But, then you find it grinds on and on and cannot be switched off.   You’re not physically tired, you’ve just slept for forty-plus hours, at which stage panic sets in, you have acute insomnia, you start to itch, you scratch and it moves to another location, the room seems to be getting warmer…   You can understand that after a few hours without cessation anybody would become susceptible to a few carefully scripted words, from a friendly voice.   A kindly interrogator, soothing and assuring, would make you eager to talk, and share your secrets; you might want to share just to maintain contact with, somebody, anybody.   Conversely, you would become a sponge, ready and eager to soak up any information or new ideas fed to you.  Students reported that a spell in that room prior to exams concentrated the mind wonderfully.

  Curiously animals don’t seem to mind the ‘Black Room’ they will stay in there indefinitely, without ill effect; they just eat, sleep, and defecate.

Further investigation of the ‘Black Room’ revealed the following conclusions:

It had the ability to accelerate the cure of minor ailments; illnesses that normally take days to clear up were cured in a matter of hours in that room.   It has been suggested that it could prove an effective means of treating and curing neuroses.  In responsible hands, it could prove to be a wonderful tool for good.

   I heard of the ‘Black Room’ in the 1980’s but I’ve heard nothing since, suggesting it was either a blind alley or proved very effective; I’ll let you ponder on that. 

  In the meantime, if anybody can shed any further light on its demise I would be very interested.

 

Len Morgan 22/11/2005

 

Cold pasty

By Phillip Miller

Stuart was a rather large fellow. He had lost most of his teeth and his hair looked like it was in a permanent state of shock. He resembled that crazy one from “The Hair Bear Bunch”; it looked like some demon was continuously messing his hair up, throughout the day, just for a laugh.

He lived in a five bedroomed council house in one of the smelliest and most notorious roads in East London. It was a perfect breeding ground for an apprenticeship in gang warfare or how to become an expert rodentologist; rats everywhere; not surprising, considering the garden backed onto the biggest waste disposal depot in Newham.

His wife was very large; larger than him. They had nine children. I asked him one day if he was going to have any more children.

“No.”

“Have you had the chop?”

“No.”

“Is she too old now?”

“No.”

“That’s what happens I suppose.”

“What?”

“You know. You both get on in years and that sort of thing falls by the wayside, ay? The passion goes.”

His eyes started to roll. They were red raw like he hadn’t slept in a week.

He said, “to be honest, I got home last night from work and three of my kids opened the door, giggling. The missus shouted down the stairs ‘who is it?’ I looked up and got the shock of my life.

“Was she with another man?”

“No, she was in her birthday suit which, I can assure you, is not a pretty sight.”

He grinned from ear to ear, exposing the one front tooth he had left in his head, before pulling from his pocket, and munching on, a cold pasty that he had started the night before.

We arrived at the building site to start our contract and made our way to the canteen to wait for instructions. When the fried breakfasts turned up the food was literally swimming in oil. Bacon still had hairs on it, sausages burnt, eggs broke and toast and beans cold. Tea was nice and hot though; every cloud, ay. All four of us started to talk about the day ahead and after about 10 minutes Stuart’s eyes rolled again, but this time his head dropped and the side of his face slammed into his breakfast. I shouted for help and went to get up but felt a tug on my arm.

“Sit down, he’s ok,” said my boss, who happened to be Stuart’s oldest friend.

“He’s gonna die. That won’t look good on his death certificate- death by drowning in a plate of fat.”

“It's all right. He’ll wake up in a minute. Another cuppa anyone?”

Stuart came too 10 minutes later, and began wiping the leftover egg, bean sauce and fat from his face.

He added another four sugars to his cold coffee ( so eight sugars in total ) and lit a cigarette.

He could see I was slightly alarmed.

My boss said, “you been selling your pills again, up the West End?”

“Yeah! Fiver each,” said Stuart, grinning, eyes almost shut.

I said, “what pills?”

“I’m narcoleptic. I need the pills to keep me awake. They are amphetamine, better than blues. You want some. Do you a deal, matey boy.”

I told him I don’t do drugs.

“Your loss. Never mind. Back up the West End tonight.”

“Why don’t you just take the pills?”

“Nine kids and a wife to feed, that’s why. They all need shoes, clothes and stuff for school.”

“Have the chop mate.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“We are Catholic.”

“Try doing it standing up then.”

“I can’t do it standing up or laying down and I certainly don’t want her dunking up and down on my totem pole. She’ll do me an injury.”

“How did you manage nine kids then?”

“Normally happens when we go on holiday to my mate’s caravan in Clacton.”

“What do you mean?”

“She bends over in front of the oven, I’ve had a few too many, and in it pops. Quick as apple crumble really.”

“I think you better give up caravanning mate.”

“I think I better give up apple crumble.”

We all roared with laughter.

Two months later I found out that Stuart had died. He had been doing some electrical work on the side. Everybody thought that the tiredness killed him. It didn’t. He was colour blind.

Copyright Phillip Miller

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Books I’ve read No. 2

 

Books I’ve read  02

Jane Skoggins

A book I have recently enjoyed and recommend. 

THE CLEANER OF CHARTRES by Salley Vickers.

 

 

The Secret

By Janet Baldey

          Harald drew back his arm and an arrow soared into the sky.  Tense, he stood watching, then scowled as it fell short. With a snort of disgust, he tossed away his bow, threw himself flat and lay kicking the ground, his heels sending spurts of dust floating upwards.  

         ‘I’m bored.’

         Alain’s eyes flicked towards his friend. Unease fingered his heart. When Harald was bored, mischief followed and afterwards it was always he who tasted the whip while Harald escaped with a merry toss of his blond head.

         His friend sat up, a grin dimpling his face.

         ‘I know!  Let’s find the witch.’

         The crescent shaped birthmark under Alain’s breastbone started to itch and his stomach cramped. The witch had an evil reputation, it was rumoured she stole new-born infants to roast over her fire.  He looked upwards, although the sky was still blue, the sun had started its downward slide and the shadows had a sharper edge.  Soon it would be curfew when they barred the castle gates and if they weren’t back to help Cook prepare the evening meal, it was they who would be roasted.

         He looked at his friend and saw scorn lurking behind his smile. Although he was by far the bigger boy, Harald was a year senior and never let him forget it; the slightest sign of fear and he would be called a ‘babe in arms.’

         So, he nodded, feeling as though his head was controlled by strings.

         In a flash, Harald was up and darting towards the drawbridge.  Luckily, the day was hot and the guard had downed numerous draughts of ale. As fleet as deer, they slipped past his slumped figure and ran out of the castle and over the moat towards the greensward separating the village from the wilderness beyond.

         At last, their lungs on fire, they threw themselves down at the foot of a grassy hill and squirmed on their bellies towards the top, Harald leading the way. Just before his head crested the summit, he turned and placed a finger on his lips before parting the long grass.

         A rotting pile of wood, masquerading as a cottage, was slowly decaying at the bottom of the hill.  They lay, hardly daring to breathe and as they watched, its entrance darkened and a grotesque figure emerged into the late afternoon sunshine. At first, a matted tangle of hair obscured its face, but when it raised its head they gasped. Its features looked fashioned in clay by a spiteful child; it was difficult to tell whether it was male or female. Their unspoken question was answered when the creature waddled forwards and with a grunt, hoisted its rags, squatted and released a flood of steaming urine.  As the stench wafted towards them, Alain retched and the witch sprang up, her hairy nostrils flaring. Jerking her head upwards she stared in their direction.  Even from a distance they saw her eyes glow like hot coals and she let out a screech rivalling that of a pig being slaughtered. Stooping only to grab a handful of round, white objects the witch hitched up her skirts and lumbered towards them.

         ‘Run’, shouted Harald but Alain’s legs were already pumping.  As they fled, the witch picked up speed and pelted them with the missiles but the boys were fuelled by fear and soon her screams faded into the distance.

         Deaf to the guard’s outraged bellows, they streaked into the castle grounds and ran until their legs shook. Collapsing against a dank stone wall, they slid to the ground, their breath rasping their throats.  Alain felt Harald’s fingers digging into his arm and heard his hoarse whisper.

         ‘Did you see what she threw at us?’  

         Harald’s eyes bulged, his face was ashen and his freckles stood out like breadcrumbs sprinkled upon snow.

         ‘They were skulls, Alain.  Little, tiny skulls’.

        

         Tossing and turning in his narrow cot, Alain couldn’t sleep. His birthmark was throbbing and every time he drifted off, he awoke in a sweaty terror, dreaming he was drowning in a pit of ivory bones while the witch capered above him.

         ‘Hush, my love. It’s just a bad dream.’

         His mother’s hands, cool as river water, stroked his forehead. Alain could bear it no longer, he was tired of being frightened.  He nestled his head against her breast.

‘Mother….’

As he told his tale, his mother’s body stiffened and his words trailed away as he glanced at her. Her head was bent and she sat quite still, her expression hidden beneath a waterfall of ash blonde hair.

At last, she roused and shook her head.

‘She’s just a lost soul. Touched in the head.  Forget about her.’

Rising, she left the room.

 

Of all the people he knew, Alain hated the Cook the most. Gross and evil tempered, he treated those working under him with spiteful cruelty. While his own belly overflowed his breeches, he slapped away the hands of hungry kitchen boys sneaking scraps destined for swill.  In return for turning spits all day, they were rewarded with a single mug of gruel but a surfeit of kicks.   

One market day, when Alain out was with his parents, he spied his persecutor waddling towards them and his heart sank.  Knowing the man’s malicious nature, he stepped to one side but as the Kitchenmaster drew abreast, the man deliberately changed course and barged into him, his heavy bulk sending him flying.

‘Out of the way, boy.’

His falsetto voice sliced through the hubbub.

Alain lay, drinking puddle water. Rage flooded his mind.

‘I wish you dead old man,’ he thought.

There was a crash, followed by silence. Then, women began to scream and men shouted, deepening the tumult.

         Startled, Alain sat up, wiping mud from his eyes.

         The Kitchenmaster lay sprawled under a barrowload of spilled golden russets, his face as red and swollen as a turkey’s wattle.         

         He looked around for his parents; they were standing a little way off staring, not at the fallen man, but at Alain;  their faces twin masks of despair.

 

         Alain heard his mother sobbing as he neared the cottage.  Entering, he saw his father comforting her; their heads pressed close together.

         Hearing the creak of the door, his parents looked up:  his mother’s face was streaked by tears.

         ‘Mother?’  

         Quickly, his father rose, holding up a hand to block his advance.

         ‘Son, there is something you should know.’ Alain frowned, his father’s voice sounded strange; it was off-kilter, like a bell with a hairline crack. 

         ‘Before you were born, my wife and I longed for children but we had no live births. We both grieved deeply and at last, I plucked up courage and went to the Witch for a potion. I went expecting a hag but was spellbound by the evil creature and saw, not her, but the phantasm of a beautiful girl.’

         He stared at the floor.

         ‘I was given no potion but was told to go home and wait. Nine months later, a basket containing a babe was left at our door.  A note was pinned upon its shawl. The babe was ours for a while. It said we would know when it was time to return the child.’

         He gave a deep shuddering sigh.

         ‘We will always love you, my son, but now you must go back to your true home.’

The seconds lengthened, and the innocence in Alain’s eyes faded:  when he spoke, his voice was wary.

         ‘What are you saying Father?’

         ‘Son, you are not your mother’s child. You bear the witch’s mark.’

         He lifted the boy’s shirt to reveal the half moon, glowing scarlet under his breastbone.

         ‘No!’   The word erupted from Alain’s mouth. He shook his head wildly until his coarse black hair stood on end, his thick eyebrows drew together in a scowl and his body started to swell.

         His father stepped backwards;  the love on his face changing to fear.

         Then, the only mother that Alain had ever known, spoke; her voice husky as if the words were being dragged from her.

         ‘Alain, do you recall what happened in the market place. When the kitchenmaster threw you to the ground, did you wish him ill?  Alain, we fear you have powers that can harm.  Powers that will grow just as your body does.  ‘Tis not safe to keep you with us.’ 

         Alain stared at his mother, mixed emotions of guilt and horror plain upon his face.    He whirled and fled outside where he stood trembling in the darkness.  He’d meant the Cook no real harm, ‘twas not his fault.  Hate welled as he realised how his parents had lied to him.  He wished they were…. his fist blocked his mouth and he tasted blood.  He squeezed his eyes shut, his lids glowing pink as he felt his heart pounding, like a mailed fist on an oak door. He fought to bring himself under control and when at last, his rage ebbed, he slumped against the cottage wall, his body weak and drained.  Slowly, he raised his head, moonlight washed over his face and as it did, a great weight rolled away.  Suddenly, he knew how to end his misery. He would wish himself dead.  He had the Power.  But, he would be so lonely in the afterlife without parents, for all their faults he loved them dearly.

         He felt no pang as their bodies thudded to the floor. After all, they would soon be together, reunited in some magical kingdom beyond the stars.  ‘I’m coming’, he thought as he willed himself dead.  Minutes passed and nothing happened.  Gritting his teeth, he concentrated harder. ‘Die,’ he commanded.  But no matter how many images of death he conjured, his heart beat with a steady rhythm. With rising panic, he rushed inside, grabbed a kitchen knife and stabbed himself repeatedly. The pain was immense but when the knife was removed his flesh healed over and not a drop of his blood was shed.  Bawling and wailing, he blundered about the cottage, beating his head against the walls, begging for death but still the breath in his treacherous body refused to still.

         When, at last all hope had gone and he’d found his way to his only refuge, he learned the true price of evil.  His stomach rebelling against the sour smell of her breath, he lay half smothered in the foetid embrace of his birth mother and listened as she whispered their secret.

         ‘Witches and their kinfolk live forever.’

 

Copyright Janet Baldey

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

        

 

 

 

 

 

 

KAYA KOY (Ghost Village)

(Vacated during Turkish/Greek repatriation 1923)

By Peter Woodgate

I climb your polished cobbles

seeking visions of the past

but your grey and weathered walls

have vacant eyes;

The sun beats down exposing

unprotected frames,

bones, without the flesh,

beneath the skies.

 

And when the sun sinks low,

quenching daylight thirsts,

night will cast her shadows

on the scene;

A whisper, through the silence,

is all that can be heard,

as creatures roam the paths

where souls have been.

 

Tell me what your thoughts are,

do you resent all humankind,

for deserting, leaving feelings of mistrust?

And do the spirits linger,

in the by-ways of your heart,

weeping, as you slowly turn to dust?  

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 

 

One of the moment.

One of the moment.

Brexit

Rob Kingston

They put the boat of cohesion to sea

Plied it with lies and ambiguity 

Stirred the ocean, steadied her down

Docked her gently filled up with clowns

They set out their stall, expecting no one to guess

No embarrassment followed for they couldn't care less

They have what they wanted through division they rule

Now comes the bloodletting as our society stalls

The serpents had risen defending their quest

Among them the cobra who dithered and guessed

He stood there in yellow proud and astute

Now awaiting his lordship with other cahoots

Enter stage left the Blairites all stream

This man of cohesion is dead they all deem

Plying the media who from him had strayed

Disgrace to this nation leaving laymen they've played.

Copyright Rob Kingston