ALARMING ALTERCATIONS

Peter Woodgate 

Shall we meet,

On the corner of the street?

and will we know, even though,

our visions are blurred by heavy sleet?

For, we must make our way,

through many storms that rage,

without their need to tear the page

from the book we signed.

Must we suffer with time apart,

because of each impatient heart

and selfishness with blinded eyes,

ignoring signals, silent cries,

that each of us could only see

through inward facing lenses.

 

We could talk of early years

without the tension and the tears,

remembering aspects of love

when we just smiled and rose above

the silly arguments that grew,

boring deep into each mind,

to fester, into bitterness,

it’s then we find;

unless acknowledging our stupid pride

and senseless things that cause divide,

we may be lost;

what then, the cost?   

 

Copyright Pater Woodgate

SOMETHING EVA THIS WAY COMES ~ Part 1 of 2

 

SOMETHING EVA THIS WAY COMES ~ Part 1

by Richard Banks

The President pulled-up the blind and peered out the window at DC’s lights and the purple-pink clouds behind which the sun had just set. The City was on the move again, the ebb flow of commuters heading back to the suburbs by road and rail. Had it been an ordinary day he would have taken satisfaction from the steady movement of traffic on the arterial roads leading to the Superhub and the motorways beyond, all clearly visible from his office on the 48^th floor. But this was no ordinary day and no press notice would be issued tomorrow drawing attention to the success of Traffic Edict 204/164 in increasing inner-city speeds by 2.4 mph.

         On an ordinary day, he would not be making a target of himself by standing in a brightly lit room in full sight of anyone with a telescopic rifle. It would take a good shot to hit him but since the construction of other high rises it was now feasible, according to his Chief of Security, for a good marksman to do so with the latest weaponry. Pressed to quantify the risk the Chief conceded that the odds were low, maybe two per cent, but it was two per cent too many and that this figure would only increase with each passing year. The President should keep away from his office window and wear a bulletproof vest at all times.

         The memory of his words brought an ironic smile to the President’s face. A two per cent chance of being shot equated with a ninety-eight per cent chance of not being shot. He was an optimistic man, these were odds he liked. What was not to his liking was the zero chance of him and everyone else above ground surviving until morning.

         The approaching executioner had first been sighted by a NASA observer called Eva who invited to name the asteroid, promptly did so after herself. At first its unexpected appearance in the night sky attracted little more than academic interest, its irregular motion indicating that its normal orbit had been disrupted by an unseen collision in the asteroid belt. Despite its large dimensions, similar in size and shape to the Dover Cliffs, it seemed little threat to Earth. One more wobble would send it well clear but, when the asteroid failed to oblige, the scientists did the maths that told them that a collision with Earth was ninety-eight per cent more certain than the President being shot at his window.

         The news of impending doom was imparted to an international audience at a meeting of the ten most technologically advanced nations, convened ostensibly for the purpose of discussing climate change and its effect on the global economy. In a closed session unwitnessed and unreported by the world’s press, the President informed the minor Presidents, First Ministers and Chancellors there present of what was on its way. His scientists and military advisers, he told them, had been working on a solution for nearly three weeks and were yet to find one. The United States nuclear arsenal could shatter the asteroid into small pieces but this was only possible when it was closer to the Earth than the Moon. The Earth would still be hit and the consequences of many minor strikes would be as terminal to the human race as one large one. If a solution was to be found it could only come from his own great nation or one of those there gathered. This was a time for them to put their differences to one side and work together for the common good. While they did so, their populations and those of every other country in the world must be kept in blissful ignorance of what was happening. Public anxiety might too easily give way to public disorder. If nothing could be done it was better, kinder, to say nothing.

         Three more weeks passed without a solution being found and the asteroid was now within sight of amateur astronomers whose enthusiasm for their discovery was as yet untarnished by the knowledge that it was on a collision course with Earth. At this point Government observatories issued press notices confirming that they were fully aware of the asteroid which, they ‘confidently’ predicted, would come closer to the Planet before passing safely by.

         When all hope of avoiding a collision was gone the nations concentrated their efforts on ensuring the safety of survivor populations in underground bunkers. While only the best and most useful were to be selected the President like every other Head of State was able to add persons of his own choosing to the list of those to be saved. In this he was more stinting than other world leaders, opting to save only his two daughter’s who on the day of destruction were to be escorted by the FBI to an underground installation on the pretext that they were attending a Party rally.

         As for himself, he decided to remain. He would go down with the ship and in the company of the woman to whom he had been married for twenty-nine years. At this moment she was on her way to him at White House II. When she arrived he would go down to her car and they would drive to the place he had chosen to go.

         The President picked-up one of the telephones on his desk and spoke to his Secretary in the adjoining room telling her that once he left the office she was to go home to her family. On being told that she had no family and could not go home until Henry, the out of hours liaison officer had arrived, he issued a Presidential order that the two of them were to go to the Supreme Grill at the Ritz and have dinner there until further orders. The Secretary giggled nervously, thinking she was the butt of a joke she did not understand. The President assured her that he was being entirely serious and that refusal to comply with a Presidential Order was a disciplinary offence that would have her demoted to Paper-keeper, Second Class. He had no sooner put down the phone when his private line rang and the voice of his wife informed him that she was in the Presidential parking bay. Abandoning the many papers on his desk he bid his Secretary a pleasant evening and under the watchful eye of security staff made his way down to the ground floor where his wife was waiting.

         The President was a man of generous and sometimes unexpected impulses, so his wife was not surprised when he insisted that she drive over eighty miles from the family home in order to meet him. What he was up to she had no idea. As usual, he would enlighten her when he was good and ready, but the signs were good. The invitation to meet had come directly from himself rather than his secretary, and this encouraged her to think that something entirely agreeable to herself was about to happen.

         The elevator door opened and out he came, followed by two FBI agents whose remit that evening was to keep him safe despite his cavalier disregard of the measures considered necessary for his protection. He seemed in better spirits than of late as though the many burdens of Government had been lifted from him. She shifted over into the passenger seat so he could drive. He enjoyed driving, usually too fast along the Superhighways where he would routinely break the speed limit often leaving his minders far behind.

         “So, are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

         “Not far,” he replied. “Close your eyes. We’ll be there in five.”

         “Close my eyes, with you at the wheel? When did I ever do that?”

         “You did once. Don’t you remember?”

        

         Indeed she did. How could she forget the young lawyer who had picked her up outside her office in a red Mercedes that he had rented for the weekend. It was their first date and she sensed, indeed it was only too obvious, that he was trying hard to impress. Normally this would be a turn-off. She liked the easy charm of men, attractive to women who were in no hurry to choose, men who had to be won over, beguiled. This man was different, not at all her type. She wondered why she had ever agreed to the date, but she had and would now have to make the best of it. At least she would get to have a decent meal, see a play, or do whatever else he had planned. But what did he have planned? It would be a surprise, he had said, and when she stepped into the Mercedes he still wasn’t letting on.

         “Close your eyes,” he had said.

         “Do what?” She retorted.

         “Trust me. If you don’t close your eyes it won’t be a surprise.”

         So she did or nearly did, peeping out from time to make sure he wasn’t getting up to any monkey business. But this, she soon realised, was not only unlikely but virtually impossible given the speed at which he was driving and the rapid manoeuvring needed to pass every car in front of him. They were on the wrong side of a main road, full of brightly lit shops and neon signs when he abruptly turned left into the courtyard of a building that few but the seriously rich ever ventured into.

         “You can open up now,” he said, and when she did the first thing she saw was the name over the door, ‘The Grand’.

         For the first time that evening, she was impressed, seriously impressed, although in truth more so by the restaurant than her escort who she now regarded with a wariness bordering on non-comprehension. How could a young lawyer living in a down-town bed-sit afford this? She spent the rest of the evening trying to find out but never did. Instead, he told her of his plan to be the best, the most successful lawyer in the Capital, and how this would be the stepping stone for his entry into politics.

         “For what party?” She had asked.

         He seemed surprised by the question and swotted it away as though it was an irrelevance; as President, he would lead not follow. Parties evolve. It would be his job to show them the way. Of course, he couldn’t do this entirely on his own, he needed help, her help. How did she feel about becoming First Lady?

         “Did that involve being elected?” she asked.

         He replied that all that was needed was for her to be the wife of the President. That done, and the nuptials could take place anytime before his inauguration, she would be the razzle-dazzle, the patron of every good cause likely to reflect favourably on his administration. They would be the dream team that sometimes connected politics with showbiz. It was a good offer he told her, not every girl got to be First Lady. She thanked him for his favourable consideration, she too had political ambitions and if she ever needed a First Man she would let him know.

         “I asked first,” he said. “Tell you what, after my second term you can have a go. Do we have a deal?”

         He did not have a deal and she kept him waiting until their fourth date before accepting the undersize ring that he somehow squeezed onto her finger and which she couldn’t have got off even if she wanted to. By then she knew him for what he was, what he claimed to be, the best young lawyer in town. As to the future, it was unlikely to be dull. She was a girl that liked to travel and this was going to be one hell of a ride.

 (to be continued)

   Copyright Richard Banks

 

Abbalar Tales ~ 8

 Abbalar Tales ~ 8 Meyam 

By Len Morgan

Six hours later, Aldor was riding in a sou-easterly direction, through the forests of Llandor.   The road was wide enough to allow three to ride abreast, or for two riders in opposition to pass without breaking stride.  The trees were gradually encroaching on the road, and the sky was almost completely hidden, by the verdant canopy, allowing only sporadic beams of light to relieve the otherwise constant gloom.   It was a secondary road, not a main road; Wizomi had chosen it specifically because it was little used.   He was therefore unlikely to be passed, or seen by over-many travellers.   There were blind turns that made speed impossible.   He, therefore, rode at an easy canter and, after a few painful clashes, he learned to keep his head low, to avoid overhanging branches, and his eyes set firmly on the road ahead.

 Wizomi had informed him, the journey would take two weeks.   He had been given a list of safe Inns and private residences where he would be welcome.

"Though you may have to sing for your supper," Wizomi had warned him.

"Huh!" Genna smirked "So you've not heard him sing yet?"

 Wizomi just smiled and handed him a letter of introduction: To Whom It May Concern…  

Genna suggested "if you're not able to reach one of those safe houses, camp some way off the road.  You won't know how close the 'dog soldiers' are to you, or even if they have passed you in the night, so be cautious and don't take any risks, I want you to return safely in one piece!"  

He smiled warmly recalling that precious memory.   She had changed a lot in the nine short weeks they had been together, then he realised, so had he.   She had metamorphosed, from a gangly, flat chested, spindly-legged girl, into a well rounded desirable and quite beautiful, 'very beautiful woman' he thought.   What is more, she knew exactly the effect she was having on the men around her and used her newfound magic to devastating effect.   She had also grown several inches taller than him in that time, 'best not be too long away’ he thought 'or she will outgrow me altogether.'    He smiled inwardly fingering a medallion, on a chain; she hung it around his neck as a parting gift before kissing him goodbye.   On later examination he found it to be a thin flat sheathed blade.

"You can use it for cutting paper, rope and string," she had told him tearfully.  

If he’d read the map correctly, there would be a small side track to his left, about a mile ahead, it should take him to the first safe house on Wizomi's list.   He had not ridden any real distance for some time and was becoming distinctly saddle sore.

.-…-. 

Aldor had left several hours before Genna took centre stage, for the first time, to tell a new story.   It was one they had all laboured to perfect.   Later, when questioned, they both maintained Aldor had returned to Pylodor that morning.   A trip he had been planning for weeks.

Wizomi was of the weirding caste, which naturally made him a good storyteller, he had no fear of the Huren singly or collectively.   He could weave spells that would entrance, enchant, confuse, or kill.   He could bind the most discriminating minds and make them totally believe in whatever he wished them to believe.  His magic was not limited to the secrets of his caste; he had the knowledge, to employ subliminal suggestion, to bind normal humans to his will.   Consequently, when the Huren left, at his instigation, they split their force.   Five were heading for Pylodor, the others for Hartwell, in the feudal Meyam states.   Before they left town, Jazim carefully scrutinised all the citizens she met in the town but found no familiar faces.

Wizomi smiled 'funny stuff magic,' he thought, 'the smaller the spell the more potent its action…'

'For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction,' a voice in his mind replied, 'what news Wiz?'

'Aldor is on his way along the old road Orden.  The hounds have taken the main road with extra mounts, so it will be a close-run thing.   The boy has an excellent mind for one so young.   He is arrogant, self-centred, and his hormones still rule his mind.   In other words, he is just a normal fifteen year old but, with training, he will make an extraordinary co-ordinator.'

'Well, you have done your part Wiz, do I detect a note of affection?'

Wizomi just smiled but said nothing.

 

(To be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

Abbalar Tales ~ 7

 

Abbalar Tales ~ 7 Mandrell

By Len Morgan

   A veiled woman, accompanied by nine mounted dog soldiers, entered the sleepy town of Mandrell at first light.   The few inhabitants abroad at that time were either on their way to or from work, all viewed the newcomers with suspicion, armed visitors invariably meant trouble.

Wizomi took in the motley band at a glance.   The men were mercenaries, but the woman was from a different mould.   Her cape was of fine black velvet, the delicate black gauze of her veil sheer silk.   Her hand made sandals were of calf leather finely jewelled and chased in gold thread, the soles showed little wear, he doubted she’d walked any distance in them.   Her nails were finely manicured and painted blood red.    The silken texture of her chocca honey skin was too perfect to be living tissue.   Finally, he looked into her wide brown eyes, which she'd expertly accentuated with a fine black kohl stick.   Her profile revealed a tantalising suggestion of her true form, as she rode past, the cape was taut at her breasts and hips accentuating the curves.   She was certainly a fine horsewoman full of poise, passion and bearing: qualities that cried out breeding; highlighting her superiority over those accompanying her.  The men were so obviously common that he wondered what their connection might be.   He would not have to wait long for an answer.   They were asking about other new arrivals over the past six to eight weeks.   At the Inns, nobody would speak openly to strangers but later would seek them out.   They were certainly free with their money making no secret of the fact they were prepared to pay well for information.   It would be just a matter of time before somebody mentioned Aldor and Genna…

His priority was to warn his friends, and that he did without further delay.   He knew he would probably be quizzed as would Genna, but he did not believe she was the object of their search.   Unlike her, he was a relatively high profile member of the community.   He would have to ensure her standing in the community was enhanced, and quickly.   He would get her to tell stories in place of Aldor, she certainly knew most of them.

 

.-…-.

 

    When Wizomi entered their quarters, he was agitated, a look of concern on his face.

"Friends, it may be of no concern, but you should know.   There are Huren horsemen, in town, enquiring after new arrivals.   Knowing the circumstances of your arrival I thought it prudent to warn you immediately."

"Thank you Wizomi, you are a true friend," Aldor began…

"Perhaps if you were to confide in me, as to the true nature of your situation, I could suggest an appropriate course of action?"

Aldor looked at Genna, she nodded assent.

"It is not a story I am particularly proud of."    He began…

 

.-…-.

 

Wizomi removed a sheaf of papers from his pouch.   "I fear we will be parting company sooner than I had hoped."   He shook his head sadly as he began to write on the first sheet.   "How much gold do you have?" he asked.

"Less what I owe to Genna?" he answered, asking her silently with his eyes.

"Around 820 Okes, I've deducted the price of a new horse," she explained with a smile.

"Take 10 with you, on your person and I will supply you with a promissory note for 500…"

"No!   Make that 100 the rest Genna will invest for me she is after all, my partner," he said.

Wizomi nodded "100 Okes payable on demand at any money lenders where the icon at the head of this promissory note is displayed."

Aldor looked at the 'Sun & two Crescents' sigil.   There was also some writing, repeated in several languages, and a set of glyphs he didn't understand.  

Wizomi explained, "It is a simple method of moving sums of money from city to city, or country to country, without actually taking it with you.   It works like this, I put up a sum say 1000 Okes, upon which a member of the 'Sun&Crescents' syndicate can draw.   In return, I can go to another city and draw on a similar sum put up by a member there.   If I have a debt to settle, I provide a note, to the person I owe it too, and they can draw on the syndicate, there is a recconing every six months.   There is , of course, a charge for drawings, currently 5% which will be…" he paused to calculate.

"5 Okes." Said Genna at once.

"But, the advantage is you do not have to carry heavy gold or risk being robbed on route.  Please sign this note immediately below my signature, the syndicate will only pay the sum to you when you sign in their presence and your signature is validated.   Here is a map," he continued, spreading it out on the table.  Head sou-east towards Hartwell, it is a walled city in the Meyam states.   There is a small mountain outcrop about two-thirds of the way, about here,” he said "you will feel an urge to avoid them, resist it and head for the tallest of the three peaks.   The Huren will almost certainly follow you, but I have a good friend who lives on the slopes of that mountain, he will aid you.  Do not be put off by his appearance…"

"Put off?"

"He is - a little different from other men, but he will be looking out for you.   He will know you are on your way and will aid in your future quest."

"My quest is as it always has been, to fulfil my birthright by becoming Caliph of Corvalen!"

"His name is Orden, he will aid you in what is to come," Wizomi repeated.

"Different?   In what way different," he asked a puzzled look on his face.

"I cannot say more, I am sworn, you will just have to trust me!   Now take the map and promissory note."

 "It is a good plan," Genna assured him.   You can move fast a'horse and light, with a small sum in your pouch.” 

Something in her voice made him stop her.  "You are coming with me of course?"  He said, gazing hopefully into her eyes, he didn't want to leave her.

She smiled wistfully, "I cannot ride a horse and so will slow you down.   You have to go partner, and I have to look after our interests here."

He looked away, suddenly overwhelmed with sadness, tears starting in the corners of his eyes.   He had only just found her - he knew if he stayed he might get himself killed but, he would almost certainly put her life in danger and that was unacceptable.

"You have to go, there is no choice."   She added, reading his mind, though it wasn't her own safety uppermost in her thoughts, as she surreptitiously wiped tears from her own eyes.  

They gazed at each other and suddenly they were close, their arms were entwined.

"I'll see you before you depart with some final details" Wizomi said tactfully withdrawing from the apartment.

 

(To be continued)

Copyright  Len Morgan

 

 ANOTHER YEAR ON

By Janet Baldey

“Thank God it’s Friday.”

Jodie leaned forward and clicked off her computer before cramming a bright green beret over her blonde curls.

“Bye, all. Off home for a long, sudsy soak. Hot date tonight.”  She winked and whirled out of the office.

Darren was the next to go. Unfurling his long limbs from his workstation he stood up and stretched his lanky frame until his joints clicked. Then, with a lazy wave of his hand, he ambled towards the door.

Gradually the accounts department emptied, its staff clattering out of the office and along the corridor towards the outside world where their voices faded into silence.  Eventually, the ‘phones stopped ringing. Only Sonia remained. Sonia was always the last to leave. Gazing into her glowing screen, she tried to lose herself in its depths. Her hands moved over the keyboard with mechanical precision, her eyes fixed on endless columns of figures. Invariably, she spun out her work for as long as she could, postponing the time when exhaustion forced her towards the place she used to call home.

A sound broke into her concentration and she looked up to see a wedge of light widening as a door at the far end opened.  Don, the office manager, appeared.  He glanced towards Sonia and weaved his way around the desks towards her.

         “Working late again Sonia?  You should go now.  You’re looking tired.”

         Sonia knew very well how she looked. Every morning her mirror reflected the same image. Empty eyes, underscored by indigo, stared out of a pallid face, its skin stretched too tightly over bones. She had grown used to it now. After all, that’s what you got when you existed on toast, tea and two hours sleep a night.

          An imitation of a smile moved her mouth.  

         “Just finishing off, I’ll be away soon.”

         “Make sure you are.” He hesitated and lifted his arm slightly as if to touch her.   She flinched; he saw the small movement and dropped his hand.

         “You know if you ever want to talk….”

         Her face froze. He sighed and walked back to his room.

         Only Don knew her story and that was the edited version. Maybe that was the reason why, for all his kindness, she couldn’t look him in the eyes.

         Sonia worked on until she heard the metallic clanking that heralded the arrival of Edie the cleaner, armed with her mop and bucket.  She shut down her machine and rose to her feet. She always tried to time her departure ahead of Edie’s arrival; too many times she had been on the receiving end of one of her lectures.

‘You shouldn’t let them work you so hard, dearie. You look fair peaky. And a good square meal wouldn’t do you any harm either.’ Edie had sounded concerned but Sonia had caught the speculative glint in her eye.

Outside, the night had closed in and icy stars studded the sky. Automatically, she glanced towards the car park half expecting to see her car waiting for her, its roof a frosty rectangle glittering under the floodlights, but the car park was deserted and she turned up the collar of her coat preparing for the long walk home.

         As she walked, head down, hands thrust deep into her pockets, she passed a pub.  It was a blaze of light and shadowy heads bobbed across its windows. Even from outside, she could hear the cheerful hum of voices. Her footsteps faltered, she turned and like an automaton, she pushed open the door.  Her feet took her up to the bar, her voice ordered its usual and her body carried it to a table. She sat for a moment, looking at the crowd thronging the saloon. She noticed one girl in particular. Sitting, perched on a barstool, her voice was just a little too shrill, her laughter a little too loud, her eyes a little too bright. Throwing back her head, she arched her slim white throat and swallowed a mouthful of alcohol. Sonia stared as if mesmerized. She recognised her. Once, she had been that girl.

She dragged her gaze away and looked down at her glass of red wine. Suddenly, a man sitting at the next table got up and caught her table with his hip. The table lurched, she shot out her hand to save her glass but was too late and its contents spilt onto the polished wood. The wine lay glowing like some fantastic jewel or….a pool of blood. Suddenly she was gasping for breath and made a frantic dash for the door. Outside, she leaned against the rough brick, gulping draughts of frigid air. At last, her breathing slowed, her limbs stopped trembling and her pulse steadied. She started walking.

         The sound of her key grating in the lock seemed very loud. Inside, her house was dark and still. Although she could hear the soft chuntering of the central heating system,

she could feel no heat and shivered as darkness seeped into her bones. Without bothering to switch on the lights or take off her coat, she made her way to the sitting room, guided by moonlight streaming through the windows. She sank onto a couch and stared vacantly in front of her.

         Time passed and Sonia’s tired brain drifted. She never slept fully but occasionally her consciousness leached away. She came to with a start as she heard a soft chuckle. She sat up, feeling a surge of joy. They didn’t always come but she lived for the times they did.  Adjacent to where she was sitting, a winged chair swivelled towards her and she saw her daughter curled up on its seat. Thin arms clasped her knees as she sat staring fixedly at the television screen watching images invisible to Sonia. Her face was animated and as she watched, she chewed the end of one of her plaits.  She was all arms and legs, just reaching the gawky stage before the onset of puberty and showing only a trace of the beauty to come.

         “Marcie,” Sonia cried but the child ignored her. Just then Sonia’s husband entered the room with a plate of sandwiches and a jelly.  He put them on the table and said something to the child who turned to him and grinned.  Sonia could feel the love flowing between them. He left the room and Marcie uncoiled from the chair and approached the table. Her mouth opened and she clapped her hands with delight as her father reappeared wearing a chef’s hat at a jaunty angle and carrying a pink iced cake decorated with silver hearts.

         Sonia caught her breath; of course, it was Marcie’s birthday.   How could she have forgotten? She tried to jump up but her limbs refused to budge. The last vestiges of sleep left her and she felt the familiar sense of desolation.

         “James, Marcie,” Sonia implored. “I love you. Please let me in. I miss you so much.”

         As always, neither showed the slightest indication that they heard her.

It was not always like this; sometimes it seemed to her that the barrier separating them thinned.  Its surface flexed and she had the feeling that if she pushed hard enough she could burst through. But tonight, it was sealed shut. Maybe it was because she’d been to the pub. Tears rose to her eyes. After all this time they still hadn’t forgiven her.

She didn’t remember much of the night that ruined her life. She remembered leaving work and going with her pals to the pub. “Just one,” she’d said. “We’re going away tonight.”  

         She remembered leaving and going home and seeing James’s face. It was the colour of spoiled milk.

         “Stinker of a migraine. You’ll have to drive.” He started to hand the car keys to her and then stopped. “You haven’t been drinking, have you?”

“No,” she’d said, her brittle voice betraying her. But James was in pain and didn’t notice.

         She remembered getting into the car. They’d planned to drive through the night and Marcie was already in the back, snuggled into a blanket. Excited, her eyes shone brightly in her small, delicate face. She reminded Sonia of a fledgeling cradled in a nest of down.

She remembered starting the car and driving off. After that, Sonia remembered nothing.  When she’d woken up, she was in the hospital. Her family were in the morgue.

         Ever since, she lay night after night, trying to remember. She was sure she hadn’t been drunk. She was sure she’d only had the one. Almost sure, anyway. Suddenly she screamed, the sound splintering the silence of the shattered house. Balling her hands, she pounded at the invisible screen until her fists were sore.

“IT WASN’T MY FAULT.   IT REALLY WASN’T MY FAULT.”

         Dropping to her knees, tears blurring her vision, she watched as their figures thinned, darkened and slid into the shadows.  Once more, she was left behind. 

Copyright Janet Baldey

BLUEBELLS 

Peter Woodgate 

The fragrant sound of springtime

The breeze, its echo heard in many bluebell flowers

Snaked artfully through early budding hedgerows

That eagerly awaited April showers.

 

Tiny feet came pounding

With steps that shook off winter’s caution

Eyes that saw yet led them on still, blindly

Those children so alive but sadly without notion.

 

Small hands swooping downwards

Plucking up the blooms that proudly stood

Leaving shattered stalks to freely weep

But all the crying in the world would do no good.

 

Above the laughing voices, screams could not be heard

And leaves and roots are crushed beneath the feet

Of happy children, arms all full of colour

And homeward bound to give their mum’s a treat.

 

On mantelpieces, placed in polished vases

The flowers still give out their pious scent

Whilst knowing, sadly, in the shady forest

Their very future lay with life-sap spent.

 

For a hundred years, perhaps, or even more

Local folk had thought not of that springtime splendour

“Why thank you very much,” they tell their children

As they observe a fleeting glimpse of grandeur.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 The Last Time I Saw Him

 by Jane Scoggins

How easy it is for the years slip by. One minute you are twenty and next you are forty. Linda got out the car and glanced as she always did at the old brick chimney stack rising tall and singular against the sky and hurried towards the entrance of St Lukes.

Joan was waiting for her in her small purpose-built flat that was always too hot. In recent weeks it had an added smell of Linda knew not what but thought it was supposed to represent the floral aroma of lavender. The smell emanated from one of those plug-in air fresheners.  Linda imagined that the gadget had been bought by one of the daily carers in order to mask some underlying odour from Joan that could not be removed sufficiently with soap and water.

Auntie Joan was old and it was expected that she might by now be suffering from a few old age ailments and possibly that included a bit of incontinence. Auntie Joan had always been so well turned out, clean, spruce and smelling of soap. Ashes of Roses had always been her favourite since Linda was a little girl. Since she had been in St Luke’s sheltered accommodation she had gone a bit downhill and this was upsetting to Linda, who preferred to think of Joan in her younger days.

Joan had stepped in to help care for Linda and her brother David when her mum had been diagnosed with MS. They had started by going round after school to have their tea with Auntie Joan and Uncle Ted, and when Mum deteriorated further Linda had had to help out a lot at home. Joan had been a brick and Linda could not imagine how she would have coped without her, especially when her Dad moved out. In the end, he had not been able to cope with the sight of his wife deteriorating in front of his eyes and feeling helpless to do anything about it. Mum said she understood. She knew he loved her and that he couldn’t cope with the stress. Linda thought she was too forgiving and that her Dad was a weak man.  Linda a teenager by then rebelled in more ways than one. Worse was to follow when her mum died and all that led up to her death still played on Linda’s mind.  She had not seen her father since the funeral. Linda was certain he had stayed away out of guilt for leaving them, and maybe because he had found another woman to take mum’s place  Linda had decided not to give in to forgiveness for many years, but as time passed she thought more about him. David had emigrated. Sad that a once happy family could be so lost to each other. 

The brick chimney at St Luke’s symbolised the last trace of Rochford Hospital before it was pulled down making way for new housing, including St Luke’s. Rochford Hospital was where she and her brother had been born, where her mum had come to outpatients and where she herself had been an inpatient after her breakdown It had also been the place where…

 ‘All done and dusted Mrs Bateman, see you on Wednesday ‘the carer’s cheery voice was saying as she was leaving Joan’s flat.’

‘Hello Linda, your auntie has just told me you are on your way so that is timed just right. Goodbye’

Joan Bateman smiled at Linda from her armchair as she walked in. She studied her face as she reached up her cheek to be kissed.

Linda felt in her handbag and brought out an envelope

and silently raised her eyes to meet Joan’s.

‘You’ve heard something then?’ said Joan quietly.

‘Yes, this mornings post,’

Joan patted the stool beside her and without taking off her coat Linda sat down. They both looked at the white envelope with the red logo.

Joan waited with the patience of years and wisdom and knew there was no hurry to know what words lay on the sheet of paper.

‘They have found him, Auntie Joan’.

The simple statement held twenty years of memories, and time stood still for them both.

‘The last time I saw him was here, isn’t it ironical?

Joan said nothing, but put out her hand and held Linda’s’.

He wants to see me. I don’t know how I feel. I am excited and afraid at the same time.

Why not bring him here and we can talk to him together, this is after all the place he was born.

I still have the blue blanket and his name tag.

Will he forgive me for having him adopted though?

When he hears your story and meets you he cannot fail to forgive you

You did nothing wrong and twenty years ago you were young, a different person, you did right by him. Time has healed us all and. you have put the past behind you.

‘Put the kettle on and let's talk. Maybe it is time now to start putting this family back together, its what your mum would have wanted. 

Copyright Jane Scoggins