OLD MR JONES

By Bob French

I smile as my husband, Jim, cradles me from behind as I stare out over the countryside.  It’s three days before Christmas and for the first time in ages, he hasn’t had to go into work.  I feel so happy and content as I stand, feeling him holding me, smelling him, knowing I have him for a whole week.  I hear him chuckle and turn to look up into his hazel coloured eyes.

          “What is it?”

          He nods to the windows and beyond and smiles. “It’s snowing.  We are going to have a white Christmas after all.”

          We stand there in silence just watching the landscape slowly change before our eyes.

          “Who’s that?” and my eyes are drawn to the drive way down our street.  There wrapped in a high-viz jacket is old Mr. Jones.  His face is pinched with the cold and his hair is slowly turning white as the snow starts to lay on his exposed head.“

          “Good heavens, it’s old Mr. Jones. He’s a member of our writing group.”

          Jim quietly says that he’ll catch the death of a cold if he doesn’t wrap up properly.  Without thinking, I ease myself out of Jim’s embrace and move to the cloak-room.

          “What are you doing love?” he calls after me, but all he hears is the click of our front door. Then laughs as he realises that I’m in my soft furry slippers and a cotton skirt and blouse slipping and sliding down the lane towards Old Mr. Jones.

          “Hello Mr. Jones.  What are you doing out in this weather?  You’ll catch a death of a cold if you don’t dress properly.”  I scold him like a young child who has disobeyed me.

          “Hello Frances.”  A smile crept across his ice-cold face.  “I’m doing my community service.  I couldn’t pay my car parking fine so the council took me to court and I was awarded fifteen hours community service.”

          “That’s terrible.  Who were you up in front of?”

          “I’ve no idea.  A woman.  I had forgotten my glasses, so I couldn’t recognize her even if she walked up to me in the street.”  He laughed.

          “Well, here, please put these on,” as I hand him a pair of bright pink gloves and a reindeer bobble hat which brough a smile to his face, then drops his black plastic sack and litter claw and slips on the gloves, then looks at the bobble hat and grins.

          “Thank you so much Frances, that’s very thoughtful of you.” 

          My Christmas spirit kicks in and I invite him in for a hot drink or something, but he declines.

“The quicker this job is done, the quicker I can go home.”

As I stand and admire his dedication and the new look Mr. Jones, the cold air finally reaches my bones and I shiver.  Time to get out of the cold I think.

          “Well take care then.” And I beat a hasty retreat, noting that my foot prints are nearly covered by a new layer of snow.

Jim opens the front door to me as I hurry through it, then collapse onto the hall way carpet shivering. 

“Cold out there then love?”

I take a few deep breaths, sucking in the warmth of the house then look up at him as he gently slips off my wet furry slippers and brushes the snow from my hair and shoulders.  I hold his gaze then he gently lifts me from the floor and holds me.  I melt into his arms as the warmth of my body slowly starts to kick in and he kisses me.

Go into the sitting room and I’ll bring you a drink.”

The heat of the open fire makes me relax as I hear Christmas Carols on the radio and I close my eyes.

“Take this love, mind its hot.”  I slowly open my eyes and grin.  He hands me a hot chocolate in a Santa Mug. Our eyes meet and I thank him with a grin as I notice he’s added marshmallows to the rich, sweet drink.

“Jim Burton, I love you.”

That evening after washing up the dishes, Jim, the number one dryer-upper in Essex asks if the old chap picking up litter in the snow is spending Christmas with his family. 

“Don’t know.  I’m not really sure he has any family to be honest.”

“Then let’s invite him to Christmas lunch.”

I stare at my husband. A man who approaches everything with thoughtful planning and precision, being an engineer. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, why not. I assume you can get his address from the local council.”

The snow has laid and It’s two days before Christmas. I cross my fingers, hoping that the council offices are open. I wait, listening to the ringing tone, then suddenly, there is a voice.  I ask if they could tell me the address of a Mr. Jones who is currently doing community service.  There’s silence as I am put through to another voice.  I explain my request and why I want to contact him, but the woman states in no uncertain terms that it is council policy not to give out addresses.  But just as she was about to put the phone down, she quickly and quietly says that if I wanted to speak to the gentleman, I could try 28 Connaught Road, then the phone went dead.

          Within minutes of the phone call, I am driving my battered old VW through the snow towards a row of old cottages on the edge of town.

          I note as I stop outside number 28; the place is in darkness and I glance at my watch.  It’s ten thirty.  Maybe he’s out shopping, or gone to family for Christmas.

          Suddenly his front door opens and Old Mr. Jones slowly lifts the lid to his black bin and empties his waste paper basket into it. 

Without thinking, I hurry out of my car and stride across the snow-covered path. “Good morning Mr. Jones.”  I see the smile creep across his face and with out thinking, he invites me in.

The cottage is cold and gloomy, as though happiness and life had passed it by.  There were no Christmas Decorations or a Christmas Tree.

“Fancy a cup of tea?” he askes and I shudder at the chill in his kitchen.

“That’s very kind of you, but no.  I can’t stop.” I see the loneliness creep into his eyes as he puts down the tea pot.  “The reason I popped over was to invite you to Christmas dinner?”

I could see the confusion creep across his face.  “Jim and I are inviting to you to come over to our place, say around eleven, and stay for Christmas lunch, then leave after tea time or whenever, if that’s alright?  I’ll pick you up and drop you off if you like.”

I arrive home to find Jim whistling ‘I’m dreaming of a white Christmas’ so I know somethings up.  After quickly looking around and under the tree, I find nothing that looks out of place.

“Alright, what is it?”

He grins. You know my boss Gerald; well he’s taking his family off to Barbados for Christmas and leaving his mother behind.  She doesn’t like flying, so I invited her to Christmas lunch as well.  Thought it might cheer up Mr. Jones.”

I look at Jim thinking how thoughtful he is and I nod my agreement. “What a wonderful idea, bless you darling.”

“I’m picking Mr. Jones up around eleven, so you want me to pick up the mother?”

“No, I’ll take care of that.  She lives the other side of town.”

“Oh, I thought she lived with her son and family.”

“No, I think she doesn’t get on with Gerald’s wife, Lucinda. Or Lucinda doesn’t get on with mother-in-law.  Not sure.”

I slowly open my eyes to the smell of roast turkey wafting from the kitchen and realise it’s Christmas Day.  Jim backs into the bedroom with a tray with breakfast on it.  “Come on lazy bones, turkey’s in the oven and the potatoes have been boiled and flaked.”

 Note to self, add Best darn cook in Essex to the list of things that he excels at.

I’m late back from picking up Mr. Jones and I notice that Jim’s car is already in the drive.  A quick glance through the front windows tells me that the Christmas Tree lights are on.  I turn to Mr. Jones who is now a little apprehensive as we approach the front door.  “It will be alright, I promise.”

Jim opens the door and greets us both with a hearty ‘Merry Christmas,’ and leads us into the sitting room.

Darling, may I introduce Jillian, Gerald’s mother.  Jillian, Frances my wife and Mr. Jones a friend of ours who we’ve invited to join us for Christmas lunch.  As we get to know each other, Jim appears and offers a Bristols cream sherry to everyone.

I leave to deposit my coat in the cloak room followed by Mr. Jones.  When we are out of earshot of Jim and Jillian, I ask Mr. Jones what’s his Christian name.

“Gareth.” He says with a smile, and I take his arm and lead him back into the warm conversation of the sitting room.

I take Jim’s arm and thank Jim with my eyes for a beautifully cooked Christmas dinner as we all retire to the sitting room.  Jillian asks me what occupies my time and I tell her that I’m a writer, though yet to be published.  Smiles and I see a hundred questions coming my way. Jim saves the day and as he fills Gareth’s glass, he asks what he does in retirement besides picking up the litter in a snow storm.

He laughs, I help deliver food to the old people’s homes in the mornings and in the afternoon’s I teach chess to St Johns school.”

“What about family?  Any children?”  We all see his crest fallen face slowly take shape.

“Mildred passed away eight years ago and my two children have grown up and moved away.  We don’t keep in tough I’m afraid.”

I sip my glass then ask Jillian what she does.

“I’m a Justice of the Peace.  It keeps me busy most days of the week I’m afraid. I do miss having friends and socialising.  It seems all work and no play.” I see behind her eyes that she too is lonely.

Jim, who has had a sherry too many, suddenly sits up and I see what is on his mind.

“In your capacity as a JP what do you think of an old man picking up litter in a snow storm because he failed to pay his car parking fine?”  It’s too late. It’s out and there is a stunned silence in the room.

Following the tried and tested formula of ages gone by of awkward situations, I stand.  “Coffee anyone?”  and quietly leave the room, giving one of my deadly stares as I pass Jim.

I can hear the mumble of conversation in the kitchen and think the worst, but to my surprise, when I return, Jillian is sitting next to Gareth all smiles and in deep conversation.  They appear to be getting on like long lost friends.  I glance across at Jim and flash my eyes as though demanding an explanation.

He smiles at me.  “It would appear that Jillian and Gareth went to school together not far from here.  They were good friends until they left school and went their own way.”

I turn around and see that Gareth is gently holding Jillian’s hand.  His face is a picture of happiness and there is a sparkle in his eyes.

The Christmas celebrations continued well into the night with hilarious rounds of charades and festive spirit until it was time to go home.

It was the second week of January and I was on my way to my Zumba Class when who should I see crossing the road, but Garth.

“Happy New Year Gareth.  How have you been.”  Before he answered me, he leant forward and gently kissed me on my cheek.

“Frances, I’ve been meaning to give you a call.  Jillian and I have decided to sell out properties and buy a little cottage not far from you.”

I smile and hug him back. “Gareth, that’s wonderful news.  What’s Jillian think of it all.”  This brings a huge smile on his face.

“Well we’re off on a Caribbean cruise at the end of the month.  Be away for a couple of months, but I just wanted thank you for inviting me to Christmas dinner.”

I feel happy for the two lonely people who found a spark of happiness at Christmas.  We hug each other one more time then part.

“You look after yourself and give out love to Jillian please.”  How nice it is to be kind to someone, especially at Christmas. You never know what lies in store when you do.

Copyright Bob French

 

LOVE IN THE TIME OF COVID 

By Jane Scoggins 

These last six months have been really manic

And all because of a madness pandemic.

This Covid-19 has gone on and on

My love life is suffering, and it's all so wrong.

I am not an amoeba I can’t do it alone

I am flesh and I'm blood, I’m needing someone.

If I can’t mix or chat, can’t cuddle or mingle

I can see no other option than to stay being single

No smiling or kissing or standing close up

With no opportunity for love, I might just give up

I’m sad and I’m lonely, and so want to be close

To another human being, without a mask on his nose

No choice any more must remember the rules

But I’m sick of restraints and these rules rules rules

Another lonely drink by myself, and then to my room

Will have to settle for chatting via video Zoom.

 

Copyright Jane Scoggins

PASSAGE

 PASSAGE 

By Peter Woodgate 

It’s early in the dawn of time

Man’s in his infancy

Much progress in such short a span

Hides blind hypocrisy.

 

Our sciences, in innocence

And with an honest tenet

Look outward to the many stars

Forgotten now our planet.

 

How can we hope in years to come

To find the right solution

When simple comforts we enjoy

Create such vast pollution?

 

Not only in the substances

But in the minds of man

This cannot be the route to take

Have we ignored the plan?

 

We may, one day, amid the stars

Think back, yet not atone,

It’s then assuredly we’ll find

We are, indeed, alone.

 

 

 Copyright Peter Woodgate   (First published 1984)

AN UNEXPECTED MEETING

by Richard Banks

When you go to a provincial gallery you do so more in hope than expectation. If the curator is a person of discernment the procurement of art from living artists will have been astute and well presented, the beginning of a collection that may, in time, acquire a national reputation. If not, you are largely left with the daubings of pre-war and Victorian artists who, the accompanying texts assure us, were well known, if not renown, within their locality.

         For those, like me, who yearn to connect with something more inspired there is little to delay our departure through the gift shop and into the cafe beyond. Indeed on a rain-swept morning the cafe at the Holksmere Town Arts Centre was probably the best place to be. It did, I was told, an excellent pot roast and with that in mind I made my way to the gallery at half eleven intending to while away an hour at most before sampling the culinary arts of a Chef who was about to move on to more remunerative employment in a High Street restaurant.

         The collection proved to be as depressing as the weather and I was soon through to the Victorians when I paused before a painting that seemed to have a little more merit than the rest. Evidently, the gallery thought so too for it had recently been revarnished returning its colours to something like their original hues. The scene it depicted also had topographical interest, showing the west front of the parish church before its restoration in the 1890s. Outside, in the churchyard, is gathered a wedding party of some forty well-heeled members of the local gentry, along with a few others of more splendid appearance. It’s a summer’s day, bright sunshine, short black shadows indicating that it’s only an hour or two into the afternoon. Behind the guests, between them and the church, a horse-drawn carriage waits to take the bride and groom to the reception that has, no doubt, been organised and paid for by the bride’s parents.

         “Good grief, what a performance that was!”

         The voice came from behind me. Without my knowing, someone had entered the room and was only a yard behind me. There was a chill in the air that was almost a mist. I half turned and he came up level with me, a strange little man in a paint bespattered smock that came down to his knees.

         “Thank goodness for photography. Never thought I would say that, but on that day how else would I have coped. An oil painting of themselves and all their guests was what they wanted, accurate in every detail, everyone to be just as they were, standing exactly where they had put themselves. How was I to manage that when they were come and gone in fifteen minutes?”

         The question was apparently rhetorical for the man continued swiftly on.

         “I had no choice but to make a deal with the devil, well, as good as. Paid Timpson, the photographer, to take four plates and work as slowly as he could, while I busied myself sketching everything that caught my eye. Never worked so quickly in my life. In the three weeks that followed I returned to the churchyard on no less than seven occasions to make sure I had the colours and background detail exactly as they were. It was a labour of love, I can tell you. Mark, you there was more than love involved. Had the painting not been to Browning’s liking he would probably have refused to pay me.

         See that man there, the one with the medals, that’s the Earl of Dramgordon. He wasn’t even there, taken ill the day before, but Browning insisted that because he had been invited he must therefore be included. It would, he said, be a breach of etiquette to leave him out. Nonsense! Browning was a social climber who wanted the painting so he could show it off in his dining room.  Leave out the Earl, his guest of honour, no way was he going to do that. Mind you he needn’t have worried, several of his younger guests also distinguished themselves in the years to come. Charley Wainwright won the VC at Mafeking and later became a Government Minister, while the Jones boy became a West End playwright. Then there was Millie Bracknell, who shall we say, achieved a certain popularity in Princely circles. Browning would not have been slow in pointing them out to his dinner guests. He paid me thirty guineas for the picture and got the bargain of his life. Think about it, he had that picture for twenty-five years, twenty-five years of using it so he could brag and show-off. How can you put a price on that? Well, if you could it would be a darn sight more than thirty guineas. However, I shouldn’t complain, the picture was good publicity for me and I received some useful commissions as a consequence of his dinner parties.”

         “And now it’s here,” I said. The words passed slowly from my lips and seemed to struggle through the air.

         “Yes,” he said, “although more by good fortune than design. When Browning died, predeceased by his wife, all his property passed to his only child, the bride in my picture. But what was she to do with my picture? Her husband had left her for an American heiress and applied for a Decree Absolute. The last thing she wanted on her walls was a picture of them both on their wedding day. So she gave it to the daughter of the aforementioned Jones who lived in Scotland, a country Browning’s daughter had never visited and had no thought of doing so. Out of sight and out of mind she reasoned, and so it proved, the picture taking pride of place in another far off dining room. Thirty years on its spinster owner passed away and her house and furnishings were sold at auction. I’m ashamed to say that the reverend gentleman who purchased my picture paid only £3. And why did he buy it? Because he liked the look of the church in the background! Ten years later he was host to an English clergyman who recognised the church and told him where it could be found.

         Although the picture was undisputedly the property of the Scottish Minister the thought that it properly belonged to the parish church rather than himself began to trouble him rather more than his conscience should have allowed. The following year, while availing himself of the reciprocal hospitality of his English counterpart, he visited the church and soon after bestowed the picture upon its board of trustees. It was that body who in 1981 gifted it to the Gallery on condition that the local council undertake certain necessary repairs that the church was unable or possibly unwilling to finance. Its formal unveiling was marked by a gathering of local dignitaries to which I was not invited. Well, of course, I was long gone, dead and buried in the graveyard of the church I once painted. But at least I was not forgotten. Even now there are still a few people who know my name. I wager you won’t be forgetting me in a hurry.”

         I tried to answer but this time the words refused to come. Another voice boomed out from behind me causing me to spin round in alarm. A large, middle-aged man had entered the room in the company of one somewhat younger and of more modest proportions. Our eyes met and he stopped in mid-sentence. Disconcerted and lost for something to say I turned back towards the artist but he was no more to be seen.

         The spell broken and myself in need of a chair to sit upon I hastily made my way to the cafe where I held tightly to the self-service bar until I managed to order and pay for the pot roast. The lady at the till asked if I was alright and when I said I was she bid me take a seat; my meal, when ready, would be brought over to me. I needed no second bidding and sat down at the nearest table. It was my first meeting with a ghost and although he had obviously meant me no harm the encounter left me both bewildered and shaken.

         The lady on the till briefly abandoned her post to bring me my lunch. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

         My querulous expression was changing for the worse. The ghostly encounter was not yet done. The faint but unmistakable sound of his voice was growing louder, drawing ever closer, a  goodbye said, then silence as the artist entered the cafe. The till lady acknowledged his presence with a wave of her hand.

         “Can you see him too?” I spluttered.

         “What, Mr Pettegrew?” she asked, looking at me with renewed concern. “Yes, he’s an actor pretending to be one of the artists in the exhibition. Surprised you didn’t meet him on your way through. He’s proving quite an attraction, especially with the kiddies. At least, that’s what most people think. Now, if you’re sure you’re OK I better get back to the till. The sticky pudding’s very tasty if you fancy a dessert.”

         I did not have dessert. Having by now attracted the unwanted attention of the cafe’s patrons I was only too ready to make my escape. Needless to say, I departed the gallery in a very different mood to the one in which I arrived. How I was taken in by a theatrical performance when no one else had been, I am at a loss to explain. On reflection, the embarrassment I felt was no more than I deserved. No critic is more worthy than the poor artist he despises. I have since done my penance, making a thorough study of the county’s lesser-known talents. They are an interesting bunch, much deserving of the book I am planning to write. If any have become ghosts I look forward to meeting them.                 

 

Copyright Richard Banks 

Abbalar Tales ~ 14

 Abbalar Tales ~ 14 Jellonan 

By Len Morgan

“I think you realise by now that I am not a native of Abbalar?   My people have only ever lived here in our capacity as caretakers.   We were sent here as guardians to ensure the wellbeing of the inhabitants of Abbalar.   I am a Jellonan, my people have travelled throughout the Universe for aeons, trading with any civilisation that has developed beyond a certain level.   We buy and sell technology and help to bring about environmental changes and improvements on the worlds we visit.   We claim empty worlds on occasions and turn them into habitable worlds, using 'Wash & Wipe techniques' known to some as 'terra-forming'.   We came to Abbalar at a time when the universe was booming.   But, it was a time of need for the remnants of a once-proud race, the Karaxen.   They were engaged in a losing battle to restore the ecological balance of this world.   Their technology had outstripped their ability to control the environment.  When we arrived they had ravaged Abbalar, the effects were sadly beyond our ability to reverse in the short term.   They could not live with the consequences of their actions in the long term and had to face hard facts, the world was dying.   Since our initial visit they had been obsessed with emulating us, by leaving their planet, we were you see, by virtue of contact, responsible for their demise.  Despite the high price they had paid, they had not been able to develop the technology that would allow them to journey into space.   We, therefore, felt morally obliged to come to their aid.   The Universal Council commissioned us to build this place, the Ark, to house the remnants of their once-proud race, together with as many other endangered native species as we were able to house.   None would otherwise have survived in that poisoned environment.   We could in fact, have left them to their own devices and returned in fifty thousand years to terra-form a newly dead world, but the Council would not allow us to do that.   Instead, we offered the Karaxen the benefit of our expertise.   We planned to keep them here for two hundred thousand years, the length of time we estimated it would take for the ecosystem to recover.   We housed them in stasis, in the halls of this ark, where they would sleep - frozen in time - barely ageing while the conditions outside slowly improved, becoming capable of sustain life once more.”  Orden paused, considering how best to frame his words.   It wasn't the first time he'd told the tale but it didn't become any easier with repetition or the passage of time.

Aldor took advantage of the pause to put a question.   “How long have you personally been here on Abbalar?”

"Roughly six thousand years, give or take a decade."

"Six!   How long then do you intend to live?"

"On Jellona I would be considered a juvenile.   I could live twenty-five, thirty?   Here on Abbalar, where the conditions are not ideal, a mere fifteen or twenty; mayhap a little more."

Aldor was silent, numbed by the sheer size of the numbers.

Assuming Aldor was waiting for him to continue, Orden went on.   "We would normally visit this sector of the galaxy every fifty thousand years.   We set up this secure place, this Ark, with a complement of five Jellonan’s to ensure that its systems would not fail.  We Jellonan’s take our commitments very seriously.   The custodians were to encourage the steady recovery of the ecosystem tweaking it here, suppressing it there, ensuring everything ran smoothly until our next scheduled visit when the progress would be reviewed.   It was necessary for only one Jellonan to be awake at any given time, the others slept in stasis, not ageing appreciably, the watches would be shared equally, each awake for just ten thousand years.   But, the first guardian met with a freak accident, he was killed in a rock slide.    Even so, there was an alarm that should have awakened the others in an emergency but, it too was disabled by the rock slide.   So with nothing to awaken them the other four just slept on.   It was a real tribute to the builders of the Ark that nothing serious happened."

"So, they slept the whole time." Aldor asked.

"Yes."

"Fifty thousand years and nothing went wrong?"

"Nothing, leastwise not on Abbalar," said Orden.

"What does that mean?"

"There was a terrible Galactic war, out amongst the stars, whole worlds and civilisations were destroyed, wiped from existence in an instant.   All our resources were diverted to protecting our homeworlds.   The drain on our resources was phenomenal; we ourselves were almost wiped out."

"So you didn't return for how long?"

"There were so many things to be taken care of and so few resources."

"How long," Aldor repeated.

"Almost a million years passed."

Aldor was silent, totally dumbfounded.

Orden took his silence as leave to continue.

“In the long period the Karaxen were in stasis, other life forms developed and populated Abbalar, species so unlike them, well they would have been totally incompatible.”

“So when you returned, you wiped out the new life forms and released us?   So why is this not part of our history, why do we not know who we are, and what happened to our technology?”   He asked question after question in rapid succession.

“Aldor, you are not the Karaxen!   They are all still in here, at the lower levels of the Ark, waiting to be released.   You are the new life…” 

“If what you say is true they may not live very much longer.   If they are far below level 120, for there is prodigious pollution at that level.   The air is so foul I was forced to return to the higher levels or succumb to that vile noxious soup."

“It is down that far?" said Orden, a look of dismay on his face, "seventy years ago the pollution was at level 50.   There are sensors attached to an automatic unlocking mechanism, which will be triggered when conditions at the lower levels of the Ark become acceptable.   When normal air reaches level 500 the creatures down there will start to revive and will be released automatically.   The simpler life forms nearer the surface will be released first, then when they have had time to become established, the intelligent species housed in the lower levels between four and five hundred will be released.   The upper twenty levels have always been left empty, for use by off-worlders, and helpers."

Aldor considered carefully before answering.

"Then why were they not released earlier?   You have been here six thousand years if the pollution levels had not changed in almost a million years, what happened recently to accelerate the process?"

"As far as we could ascertain, there was a volcanic eruption, sometime in the past.   It sealed the Ark from the surface, probably early on; it may even have caused the death of the original guardian.   The blockage was only cleared on our return."

"If what you say is true, we may have less than 500 years to formulate a plan of action.   What would happen if they were not released?   How long could they remain in stasis?” Aldor asked.

“In theory, they could remain there indefinitely,” said Orden.   “But this place has to be kept provisioned and in a reasonable condition, it was in serious disrepair, on our return, though most of it has subsequently been restored.   It could now, in theory, continue without further assistance, for several hundred thousand years or until some major event takes place…”

“Then I would suggest you start working on a way to reseal it or at least ensure the pollution levels remain high enough to prevent their release.   Or you will be responsible for a disaster far worse than you were originally protecting them from, a disaster of epic proportions, for Humans and Karaxen alike.   Humanity will not yield one inch." 

"You have read the situation well sprout.   When they emerge, they will expect to reclaim their world, which is what they were promised when they were incarcerated.   With their relatively advanced technology, they would surely be capable of overwhelming mankind.   They may even consider you are vermin and exterminate your civilisation out of hand," said Orden.

"We could perhaps release them a few at a time, transport them to a distant part of Abbalar?” Aldor voiced his thoughts aloud.   “But, how long would they stay there…”

Orden nodded “Myself, I could not in truth envisage this world being big enough to support two intelligent species and so, seventy years ago, I fixed the sensors to open only on a methane atmosphere, a state that could never exist on Abbalar, it would kill all existing life including the Karaxen.   The Galactic Hive Matrix found out about it and I have been sentenced to imprisonment, here on your world.   For the rest of my natural life, I must live as its custodian.   I was also ordered to realign the sensors, so the threat is still immediate.”

"Then your fate is closely bound with ours.   How did they learn of your action?"

 

"When the war ended, all the surviving races were absorbed into the Galactic Alliance.   We embraced and became one with 'The Galactic Hive', our minds and thoughts becoming part of the Hive Matrix.   Now, as we sleep all our knowledge and experience is passed on, in both directions, what I know becomes common knowledge to all other members of the HM."

"I'm sorry," said Aldor, "It must be terrible to have no privacy…"

"Ha ha!   Tad's Breath sprout, it’s exhilarating!   To be able to close your eyes, and sally forth into the heart of the universe, through the HM, to retrieve anything: information, knowledge, the experiences of others, of long-dead races, whatever you require is there for the asking.   It would have been far worse had my punishment been ex-communication.   It must be terrifying being alone with just your own thoughts.   I cannot imagine what it must be like for your, short-lived, race with no means of sharing.   It's a miracle you ever developed intelligence let alone sentience, or feelings."

"Does that have anything to do with my inability to stay awake in the room you have allotted me?" Aldor asked.

"There is a mild sedative in the atmosphere which is conducive to sleep and aids you in your training.   I teach you what I can whilst you are awake then, as you sleep, the groundwork for future lessons is being laid down subliminally," seeing the look of alarm on Aldor’s face he added, "of course the contact is non-invasive, they are able only to access surface thoughts and certainly not against your will, the process is passive, not active.    When you join with 'the HM', you contribute of your own free will, there is no possibility of invasive techniques and this is absolutely necessary to the success of your training.    You gain years of experience, and knowledge, in a dream state which lasts but an instant.  Each night you may have hundreds, maybe thousands, of similar encounters…"

“Mayhap their minds could be altered, to erase all memory of their technology," Aldor suggested, changing the subject.   "We could release them, a few of at a time, into our communities, and integrate them?”

Orden shook his head vigorously, despair evident on his face.  “They are not human, if you saw them you would understand, you would call them monsters.”

“Transfer them to another planet?”

“Beyond our existing resources, if it had been possible it would have been our first option, but physical travel in space is so prohibitively expensive.   Anyway, all planets capable of sustaining carboxy life forms are currently occupied.   Carboxy life is the most common throughout the Universe and in this Galaxy specifically.    This is a problem that must be resolved here on their homeworld, Abbalar.”

“No Orden, it is not that simple, it is a problem of Jellonan making!   You should have left nature to find its own course, hard as that may seem.   Now, you will have to raise us up to their level…”   He stopped his tirade, the light of understanding registering in his eyes.   “You really should walk away from the problem now, as you should have done then, but, it is obvious your race is not capable of such action.”   He smiled and slapped the stocky Jellonan on the back, an action he instantly regretted, it felt like he’d hit a granite wall.

(to be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 

THE CURSED FOREST OF TRANSYLVANIA

By Peter Woodgate 

A shortcut through the forest

Would get them there on time

The bride-to-be and groom stepped in

The coach that looked so fine.

 

The groom was anxious as he spoke,

“We are late for our wedding rite,

Don’t spare the horses, we must arrive

Before this coming night.”

 

The rhythm of the horse’s hooves

Drummed out a lullaby,

The couple soon, were fast asleep,

As trees were flashing by.

 

The coach driver stared straight ahead

A concerned look upon his face,

He glanced at the sun as it fell from the sky

And feared they would lose this race.

 

Sunlight faded and birdsong ceased,

The breeze became a gale,

The horses pulled up with a stamp and a snort

And the coach wheels slid on the shale.

 

The crack of the coach driver’s whip fell across

The backs of the sweating team,

They pawed at the ground and lifted their heads

As the mist swirled about them like steam.

 

The couple inside the ill-fated coach,

Awoke at the sudden jolt,

The groom pulled the window down to the latch

And looked out to determine the halt.

 

 

His gaze fell upon the coach driver’s face

Who now lay prone on the ground,

He felt a black shadow envelope his soul

Then collapsed with never a sound.

 

The bride-to be was pale with fright

No scream could she compose,

The stranger from Hell looked into her eyes,

She gazed back and instantly froze.

 

She awoke and lay in a four-poster bed

Upon sheets of the finest silk,

She was dressed in a cotton negligee

And felt passion, yet fearful of guilt.

 

She leapt out of bed and ran to the door

Alas; she was locked in that room,

A shiver ran through her yet sweat dripped from brow

And inside her a feeling of doom.

 

A shadow slid under the door that was locked

And approached as she cowered on the bed,

A figure emerged from the shadow that was

Her eyes, wide with fear, filled with dread.

 

The hypnotic eyes, those blood-red eyes,

Brushed all sanity aside,

She half-turned as fangs drove deep into flesh

And she relished the moment she died.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 

 

 

 

                           

 A WARM EMBRACE

by Rosemary Clarke

Once they were strong
now they are weak.
Once they had voices
now they can't speak.
People who care for them,
but do they care?
When they are needed,
they're never there.
Thank God for the carers
who do their job well,
who bring back the Heaven,
When folks live in Hell.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke