Pongo Lil. 

by Phil Miller

Pongo Lil lived over the hill and Christ! did she stink

Mentioning a bath was a dangerous path,

She’d be gone before you could blink.

T’was  too much for one village to bare

So they hatched a cunning plan,

To trap her, by Olde Goatsmere pub

With the promise of a caramel flan.

The day soon came and did she run but

Too fast were the sprightly young lads.

Who felled her quick with a bramble stick

And tore off her old oily rags.

Not a sound did she make when

Dragged to the lake, naked and raw was she.

They picked her up and threw her in

And they danced around with glee.

Pongo Lil drowned that night,

And her body was never found.

The lake was dredged and the dogs brought in

To search the sodden ground.

A year went by and all was well

Till one night when bathing Jack,

New mum Nell thought she could smell

Rotten fish wafting in from out back.

She left her babe wrapped up in a towel

To follow the stench with her nose.

Which took her to the lake by the hill

Where she froze from her head to her toes.

A light shone bright from the murky deep,

As sleek, deathly arms broke through.

Nell gave out a guttural scream

As her worst nightmare came true.

Her babe held high to the silvery sky

It’s body lifeless and grey.

Down went Lil, to her watery grave

The curse remains to this day.

Goatsmere Village is a haunted place

The folk’s fate was savagely sealed

The night they danced around with glee

When Pongo Lil was killed.

 

Copyright Phil Miller

 

Abbalar Tales ~ 15

 Abbalar Tales ~ 15 Arena

By Len Morgan 

During his stay in the Ark, he studied and mastered many skills.   He became proficient in logistics, mass psychology, as well as natural magic, the natural sciences, pure & applied mathematics, medicine, genetics, philosophy, the many languages of Abbalar and the Hive Matrix (HM); though he would probably never get to use many of them.   On encountering a particularly knotty problem he would frequently sleep on it.   Aided by the sedative laced atmosphere in his quarters, he was able to commune with the HM, and through its vast pool of members, living out there amongst the stars.   He was empowered, to absorb information, conceive ideas and seek out solutions; without let or hindrance.   As the days and weeks passed, he honed his skills, in seeking out answers.   Whilst his problem-solving abilities improved by leaps and bounds, he built up liaisons with like-minded beings of other races.

Towards the end of his time in the Ark, he was able to grasp and solve abstract, theoretical, and practical problems with the same relative ease.  His physical attributes and abilities were enhanced far beyond his own expectations; as a direct result of his frequent visits to the Arena where his psyche engaged, in physical and mental battles, with others.   It was far more than a virtual Arena, attested to by the many cuts, bruises, and minor injuries he sustained on his visits.

“You would be foolish to enter the Arena lightly,” Orden cautioned him early on “it is quite possible you could be killed.”

But, he enjoyed some unexpected advantages from these forays, in addition to his physique, his muscle tone, self confidence, reflexes and reactions, all improved beyond the norm.

   Aldor did not visit the Arena every night but, found it irresistible when he did, it would seem as though he were there for days.   Yet always he returned in time to greet the dawn.

.-...-.

    It was day three.  The scoreboard showed, Aldor - 18, Angxy - 20.   The HM joined beings of many races, some slight, others heavy beyond belief.   The only way the many diverse races were able to compete, in the Arena on equal terms, was by taking on a standard persona each would then have equal strength.   Each persona possessed identical physical and mental attributes.   It is then up to the intellect and willpower of the contestant to raise his or her persona above the others.   The contests always begin with thirty-two contenders.  The first to accumulate twenty-five points would be the victor.    In the event of a tie, sudden death rules apply and, the struggle continues until one has gained a clear two-point lead. 

 Aldor had tried everything but his leading opponent, a Jellonan, was powerful and as determined to win as Aldor.   In the initial stages, they competed as a group, all thirty-two took part in foot races, horsemanship, physical skills and mental tests.   This quickly reduced the field to sixteen, and they played off at a game similar to kingdoms or chess, in which Aldor expected to excel.   He won eleven games and drew four, but the Jellonan won thirteen and drew two.   When the scores were tallied, Aldor was in third place.   The eight highest scorers went through to the third round which was unarmed combat.   They were physically bruising hand to hand contests between tired, but unbowed, survivors fighting on heart and guts alone.   When the cut reduced them to four, Aldor was in second place, two points behind the Jellonan.   The events were selected randomly and this time it was the Gauntlet; the one Aldor feared the most.   Each contestant was required to negotiate a coarse, overcoming a series of obstacles designed to test strength, stamina, dexterity, instinct, and determination.   The first two contestants were good, but not good enough.   When Aldor’s name was called nobody had yet negotiated the coarse successfully.   What none of them knew was, that it was a blind coarse, none of the contestants were allowed to see it prior to, or during, their run.

   He stood at the start gate waiting for it to open.   The entrance went dark.  Something told him to crawl in on all fours.   Something flew over his head, reinforcing his instinct to keep low.   He felt to his left, there was a void, he tried to go forward, then to the right, then up and back, he was boxed in.   There were only two ways for him to proceed; to the left then either up or down.   The latter felt right to him.   He felt around and eventually discovered a rope.

   He had decided to go down so he swung out into the void.   The darkness was complete.   The sense of sight was of no use whatsoever, he yelled and clapped and his sense of hearing told him he was in a wide cavernous place.   It seemed to lead him on enticing him to go lower, and lower, until without warning he reached the end of the rope.   If he dropped, it may have been a few feet to the ground or a death leap.   At full stretch, he could not feel the ground and his instincts told him that was not the way to go.   He began to swing on the rope, back and forth, increasing the arc with each pass.   His arms were aching, from the effort, his sinews stretched until he felt sure they would snap.   He swung still further and higher, on the seventh forward swing his feet touched something solid.   On the eighth he used the balls of his feet as sensors, rubbing then across the surface in either direction.   The surface was rough but he could find no hand or footholds.   Gradually, He changed the direction of swing through 90 degrees.  Unexpectedly, he collided heavily, at speed, with a smooth hard round pole.   He grabbed for it by instinct but missed.   He hung from the rope dazed for several moments, and then started to swing slowly towards it making a grab, with his legs then one arm, then finally he let go of the rope.   The pole was not completely smooth; it seemed to cling to his hands.   Sensing it would be useless going back up he lowered himself, hand over hand, in a measured manner.   Twenty times his hands crossed before his feet touched the ground, he estimated the distance to have been forty to fifty feet.   Had he dropped from the rope he would now be dead.   He realised that he was still not at ground level, but on a platform suspended between parallel poles.   The platform was only ten feet long, but the poles continued horizontally.   He decided to walk along them, when he reached the end he hung, at full stretch, from one pole but still could not feel the ground below.   He shouted again, but could not be sure the returning echo came from below.   He climbed back up and sat on the pole as though it were a trapeze, resting his muscles and massaging the joints.   While so doing he was taking stock.   In his pocket he carried three pebbles; he'd picked up outside the arena.   He needed to know how far it was to the ground.   He dropped a pebble and counted: one-thousand, two-thou…  thunk…   He heard the pebble hit the ground and judged it to be twenty to twenty-five feet.   He did not know if the surface was rough or smooth, only that it was hard if he dropped from this height he stood a good chance of getting injured for his pains.

“Ha!”   He shouted and noted there was a slight echo, but the sound was flatter from the front. He turned through 45 degrees and repeated “Ha!”   Confirming his initial impression, one wall was definitely closer.   He lowered himself to hang from the bar again, and started to swing, stretching his legs before him.   His right leg touched something cold and yielding.   On his next swing, he probed with both feet and discovered a rope/net structure.   He returned to the bar to examine his feet, where they were cold, he found mud; the smell was unmistakable.    “No! It’s Clay,” he found he was able to mould it with his fingers.   He carefully dried his hands and feet then stood on the bar facing what he imagined to be a mound of clay.   He held onto the pole and bent at the knees; he began to topple forward out of control.   He spread his fingers like talons took a deep breath and sprang like a tiger.

   He hit like a root sack.   He breathed out sharply, as all the air was forced from his lungs, and he began to slide.   Then his fingers grasped the net covering the mound, he clung on, fighting for breath.   He lay there, for quite some time, regaining his composure then he began to climb.   At the top, it flattened suddenly, and he moved forward on all fours, anticipating the opposite edge, instead he hit his head lightly against a brick wall.   He moved slowly.   He returned to the lip and clambered down. 

  At ground level he started a detailed examination, employing hearing, touch, and smell.   There was no way out, he had missed something, but what?   Had the pole been a red herring?   He thought back over his moves, he began to retrace his steps, climbing back up the mound.   Back on the peak, he made a mental survey of its boundaries, ten steps from the back wall to the lip, seven from the front wall to the lip.   Then he traversed it again, with his hands above his head, systematically covering the ground from wall to lip checking for anything to get him back up to the roof.   He estimated he’d covered two-thirds of the space and was very close to the edge when the back of his hand brushed against a knotted rope dangling a foot above head height.   He took several deep breaths then jumped for the rope and began to climb hand over hand.   One-two-three ~~~ forteen-fiftee…   He came up against the roof.   He was again swinging from side to side hoping to locate handholds, anything that would enable him to proceed further.   He revolved in a circle and when he judged he had returned to his starting point, he lowered himself another two feet and started the process again.   He judged he was fifteen to twenty foot, below the roof when his feet made contact with the back wall.   He tucked his knees into his chest only straightening at the top of his swing, stretching his legs and running on the surface of the wall.   On the third attempt, he was able to hook one leg over the top.   There was a two-foot gap between the roof and the top of the wall.   He worked his way along the wall, conscious of a drop on both sides, and discovered a four-inch diameter, pipe travelling away at 90 degrees from the wall.   After checking it was the only option he hung by his hands raising his feet to grip it and shinned across.   He continued away from the wall until he came to the mouth of a second, two feet diameter, open pipe.   He lowered himself to its lip and immediately felt the flow of fresh air coming up from below.   Easing himself in he allowed gravity to take over and slid down.   He slowed, almost to a stop, as he saw a faint glow of light up ahead.   He eased forward, gingerly, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the light.   There was no telling if this was the end of the gauntlet or just the start of another phase.   Taking a few deep breaths he came out of the tunnel, feet first, into a circular arena.    It was muddy and wet underfoot, to way above his ankles, and the water was numbingly cold.   He was in a pit, thirty-foot deep, its sides were vertical and made of, or covered with, smoothed clay.    In the centre of the circular arena was a pole about as tall as the pit was deep.   It might be possible to climb the pole but how could he cross the divide between the top of the pole and the rim of the pit?   He paced out the distance from the pole to the wall; twenty paces from either edge.   He had to have something to span that chasm - twenty paces.   He reminded himself why he was taking part in these contests, to test his abilities and ingenuity to the full.   He believed that every problem has, at least, one solution and frequently more.   He did not doubt he might also have found other ways through the gauntlet maze but this one had been his choice, and he knew that he would be penalised if he backtracked.  There was only one way to go and that was forward.   He noted there were holes at regular intervals around the walls.   He began to walk around the perimeter in the hope of discovering something of use buried in the mud and water covering the pit floor.   He found a solid black rod about eighteen inches long and slid it into one of the holes nearby; it was a snug fit. The rod was too thick to snap, so he would need to find another before he could start to climb…

“Ah,” he was hit hard on the shoulder by a rock.   He looked up at the rim in time to see and dodge a second missile as a third landed close by.   There were half a dozen figures ranged around the rim, each throwing rocks down at regular intervals.   Any special abilities the contestants possessed had been stripped away, so they all competed on equal terms, and he had to see the rocks coming to avoid them or simply ignore them and concentrate on the task at hand.   He avoided six missiles then chose to brave the odd blow by continuing his search for a second rod.   He circled the pole in a spiral route, shuffling his feet to make contact with any submerged object.   He used the rod he had found and a batting technique to fend off missiles that looked to be on target.   He found a length of strong cord, but nothing further.   When he had covered the area completely he felt around the base of the pole with his toes and discovered a split pin, on one side, and what appeared to be a hinge on the other.   If the pin was released he figured the pole would fall, to rest against the wall, just below the rim.   He used the rod and one of the rocks that had been hurled at him, to straighten the bent ends of the pin.   But he was unable to get a finger through the ring end.   However, he was able to thread the cord through it, at the third attempt as missiles continued to rain down on him.   He tied it to the rod and pulled with all his might.   At first, nothing happened then as he resorted to sharp jerking pulls it came away, suddenly, depositing him in the mud.   He blew mud bubbles as he watched the pole topple.

“Yes!”   He yelled triumphantly, rolling to avoid another projectile aimed at his face.   He shinned up the pole like a monkey and hurled himself up to the lip, and hauled himself, over the rim. 

21 – 21 appeared on the scoreboard, now it would be the Jellonan’s turn.

 

(to be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 A REAL TREE FOR CHRISTMAS

By Peter Woodgate 

Lying on the rubbish tip,

Tossed aside, now brown and spent,

A vivid chapter, all too brief,

Adorned, adored and redolent.

 

Its branches, once, were draped with balls,

The tinsel glistened bright,

Twinkling lights caressed its boughs

And shimmered through the night.

 

But this aesthetic glory

Masked loss beyond repair,

Its roots they had been severed

A short time left to share.

 

And now it’s left to decompose,

A small child passes, out at play,

He stops and looks at needles lost,

Sadness felt at its decay.

 

For what though is it that he sighs?

Thoughts of memories now past,

Anticipation, short-lived joy,

And happiness that doesn’t last.

 

Back in his room, the toys are stacked,

Some in their boxes, never used,

He’d wandered out to look, it seems,

For something else to keep amused.

 

He saw the tree and did recall

Those joyful times when it displayed

Beneath its branches, Christmas gifts,

But now he looked and was dismayed.

 

He bent down slowly, touched the tree,

More needles fell to ground,

A tear welled in that small boy’s eyes,

It dripped but made no sound.

 

He realized that once it lived

Now it was left to die,

He never did forget that day,

I know, that boy was I.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 (Adapted from a story published  In the school magazine Jan 1950)

 

 

 

Never a cross word

By Janet Baldey

Mild flavoured capsicum (5,6) 

Julia chewed the end of her pencil and squeezed her eyes closed until she saw dots but the answer still danced a tantalising step out of reach.  Snapping the puzzle book closed, she picked up a cigarette.  She was smoking too much but so what?   ‘Curse this bloody lockdown’ she muttered and drew in a lungful of smoke. She was sick of working from home.  Alright for some but she missed her colleagues’ banter and those zoom meetings just didn’t do it for her. 

         She got up, stretched and went over to the window.  There he was, busy as a little beaver. She watched as Joe pottered about the garden, planting, weeding, mowing… he was in his element,  couldn’t wait to get out there in the mornings and had to be dragged back inside come supper time. Then, low and behold, in the evenings he’d bury himself in his seed catalogues.  It had got so bad she’d started to hate everything green.

         Stubbing out her cigarette, she stared into space, as her mind drifted. Everything would have been so different if she’d married Nick all those years ago. He would never have bored her. She felt the lines on her face softening as she remembered magical evenings full of sparkle and gaiety. She had never been so happy, or laughed so much. Nick had been her soul mate. A perfect companion, he had a wicked sense of humour and even when they weren’t physically together, there were the text messages. Every time her phone chirped and a little yellow envelope appeared, her pulse raced.

         For over a year they were together and she had been sure it would never end. Then she was sent away on a course and during that time his text messages gradually dwindled before stopping altogether.  Abruptly she got up and began to fill the kettle, hoping the sound of rushing water would drown her obsessive train of thought.  She refused to let herself dwell on it, it was a long time ago and she was completely over him now.  Suddenly her mobile started to vibrate and her heart joined in although she knew it was hopeless.  She looked at her ‘phone and saw it was her boss.

         “Hello. Yes, that’s fine. I’m so pleased.  It will be nice to get back to normal again. I’ll see you next week.”

         Relief washed over her. She loved her job.  She supposed she lived for it, like Joe did for his garden.  Sadness replaced relief. She’d married Joe on the rebound and there’d always been something missing.  Not that she had anything to grouch about; he’d been a good husband and a good father to their two sons as well as being a superb handyman.  Their spic and span house and garden were all his work.  It wasn’t his fault that he’d never thawed the nugget of ice that had taken the place of her heart.

@@@

         Flecks of granite embedded in the white stone sparkled in the sun as she hauled her load of legal papers up the steps of the courthouse.  They were heavy this week. It was a complicated case with several plaintiffs involved and was expected to drag on for days. Julia paused for a moment to catch her breath, only seven more steps to go. She saw three figures, pasted black against the front of the imposing entrance.  She easily recognised two of them, were local lawyers; she squinted at the third, wondering why he also seemed familiar. He took a step away from the other two and her breath caught in her throat. It was him, she was sure of it. Her heart hammered so fiercely that she clutched her chest, almost losing her grip on the document case.  Never in her wildest dreams had she expected to see him again and especially not here. He must have taken silk, she knew he was clever. She wondered which side he was on.  She was almost at the top of the steps now and could see him clearly. He was just as handsome, although he’d aged, the haggard look suited him.  A bit like Hugh Grant she thought. She wondered whether he would recognise her but his eyes washed over her and she was too busy swallowing the lump in her throat to speak.

         Her hands were trembling as she arranged the papers on her boss’s bench.  This was what she had yearned for all these years.  A reunion - he would see her again and realise what he had lost.  All thoughts of Joe were wiped from her mind as she made her way to her seat and waited for the judge to arrive.

         As she sat listening to the case unfold, she grew numb from top to bottom until she could barely move. She had watched the accused enter the dock and had gasped with horror.  It was Nick. He was not a high-flying lawyer, he was a criminal and the enormity of his crimes gradually became clear.  Posing as a man looking for love, he had milked unsuspecting women of their fortunes and then disappeared, leaving them with hearts as empty as their wallets.  One woman had even tried to take her own life when he and his promises had vanished like early morning mist.  

          Julia was forced to face the truth.  Her ex, the man she had longed for all her married life, was nothing less than a common crook.  Clearly, she too had been duped and had probably only escaped his clutches because she wasn’t rich. Without realising it, she had been lucky. She looked at Nick one final time before he was led away. He no longer looked like a film star but like the cringing thief he was.

         As she was driving home her thoughts were full of Joe, patient, long-suffering Joe. She’d make it up to him. This would be a new beginning. They could have a second honeymoon and this time she wouldn’t be thinking of another man.  Afterwards, she would take an interest in the garden and afterwards, in the evenings, they’d do a crossword together. Maybe, she would think about taking early retirement. She couldn’t wait to see the look on his dear, familiar face when she told him about her plans.  She pressed down hard on the accelerator.

         She turned the corner of her road and saw her house was in darkness. Joe was obviously in the garden and had forgotten the time. Bless him. A little smile played about her lips as she opened the front door and groped for the light switch. Making her way into the kitchen, she went to the back door and poked out her head.

         “Joe”, she called but there was no reply. She stepped outside and walked around the garden, it was neat and tidy as usual, his brassicas marched in straight lines down their rows and his onion sets paraded likewise.  She peered through the window of the shed and saw the luminous yellow handles of his fork and trowel set hanging in their usual spot, but of Joe, there was no sign.

         Turning to go back into the house, she jumped when a shadowy figure reared up from behind the fence.

         “Oh, it’s only you Paul. You gave me a fright for a moment.”  She looked more closely at their neighbour, “Is anything wrong?”

         “You saw the note then?”  Paul stared at her mournfully, looking a bit like Eeyore, she thought.

         “What note?”

         “Never would have believed it of Daphne. She was such a homebody. Loved her house and garden.  Said it made up for our lack of kids.”

         Julia frowned. What was he talking about?  

         “What note? Paul,” she repeated, in a slow and patient voice.

         Paul blinked.  Then he looked at her as if for the first time.  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. You don’t know, do you?  Go back inside and look around, I’m sure you’ll find it somewhere.”

         Backing away from him, Julia escaped into the safety of her house.  What was all that about? She’d have to ask  Joe, when she found him, of course.  In the meantime, she’d brew some tea. She reached for the kettle and that was when she saw it. A small white envelope, it was propped up against the tea caddy where she had been bound to see it.

         Julia sat staring at its contents, waiting for the room to stop circling. Now she knew what Paul had meant. Joe had left her.  He had run off with the woman next door.  It sounded like a music hall joke but she didn’t find it funny. She read the note again.

         “I think both of us realise that our marriage has not been working for a long time. We have nothing in common but Daphne understands me and we want a chance of happiness before it is too late. You can have the house. Daphne and I are going away to start up a market gardening business. So sorry for any inconvenience caused.”

         In spite of everything, she couldn’t help smiling at the last sentence. Typical Joe, stuffy to the last.  She tried to remember what Daphne looked like but couldn’t bring her face to mind. It was a bit of an insult that, she thought. If ones husband did have to run away with ones neighbour, there would be some slight consolation  if the neighbour were beautiful, not some dumpy little creature that nobody remembered. 

         Then she thought of Paul, Daphne’s husband. Underneath the wrinkles, he wasn’t bad looking for a man of his age, a bit like….She shook her head, no, she wasn’t going down that route. Nevertheless, she got up and opened the back door again; perhaps he could do with some company,

         “Paul, she called into the still of the night. ‘Fancy a cuppa?” Or, maybe even something stronger, she thought.

Copyright Janet Baldey

 

 Teenage Lament

by Rosemary Clarke

Here I am
All alone
Waiting by my telephone.
Wond'ring if
He is there
Does he even know or care?
Does he hear
Rants and screams
As he shatters all my dreams?
Wond'ring if
Set for life
Do I want to be his wife?
Will he want
Only me?
Guess I'll have to wait and see.
Put my hand
To his ring
Would that give me everything?
Have a flat
Then a car..
Will we really go that far?
Have a girl
Then a boy
Would that fill my heart with joy?
What if he's
Ringing now
That fat slag that's down The Plough!
How will I
Really know
When it comes, that final blow.
Telling me
That we're done
That he wants to have some fun.
Should I block
Him instead
Tell him I wish he was dead?
Here I wait
Phone in hand
Miserablist girl in all the land.
I won't try
To ring him..
I could go out with Paul or Jim.
Then he'll be
All forlorn
Wishing he was never born.
Making him
Stop his schemes
Lose the lady of his dreams.
I'll give him
Until 8
Then I'll say 'it's much too late!'
Could he be
Still at work?
Oh he really is a jerk!
What's this text?
What's it say?
He's remembered my birthday!
So we'll go
Out tonight
I knew our love would turn out right!

Copyright Rosemary Clark

 

Playtime 

(ode to a muse)

 

By Dawn Van Win

 

Here she comes skipping up the path

She loves to sing, she loves to laugh

The little girl who comes to play

Can brighten almost any day

 

Without a worry or a care

And rainbow smiles for all to share

As she finds the toys I’ve placed

To see that smile upon her face

 

But it is not always thus

Sometimes I fail to earn her trust

With long delays between our dates

And saddened by those fickle fates

Who pile up things both large and small

To keep us distant from it all

 

I try to pause and catch my breath

And notice feelings of neglect

Of that which is most pure and true

And filled with light of every hue

 

Returning to our sacred space

I’m hopeful that this child of Grace

Will once again deign to return

And from her I shall strive to learn

The lessons only she can teach

Which are not far, they are in reach

Inside of me when full of joy

We play together with our toys

  

Copyright Dawn Van Win

 

 

 PETRIFIED

By Peter Woodgate 

“Where on earth has it gone?” Mary fumbled around in her pockets searching for the ticket she had bought just 5 minutes before. A feeling of De Ja Vous overcame her.

    “Can I help you?” a mysterious stranger appeared from nowhere.

“No thank you,” Mary replied abruptly.

“Are you sure, you look so distressed,” the stranger's voice had an air of calmness about it and Mary felt rather embarrassed as she continued to search in the pockets of her overcoat and jacket.

    “Perhaps this is what you are looking for.”

Mary glanced at the outstretched gloved hand, and there it was the admission ticket for Madame Tussauds.

Feeling rather stupid Mary mumbled a “thank you,” adding, “I must have dropped it, how silly of me.”

She found herself gazing into the eyes of the stranger, they were dark, very dark, and the feeling of De Ja Vous crept up on her once again as she studied his clothing.

    He was wearing a top hat, a bow tie with a dress shirt, a dinner jacket with tails and striped trousers. How odd, she thought, as she retrieved the ticket from the gloved hand of the unusual-looking character that stood before her.

Mary thanked him again and was about to enter the exhibition when she felt his hand on her shoulder.   

    She spun around quickly as he spoke.

“Allow me to accompany you, I can be your personal guide, you see I am an expert on everything there is to know about all the exhibits. I am practically part of the furniture.

    Although feeling awkward Mary felt she owed him something for finding her ticket and stammered an “o, ok."

    As they wandered around the stranger, who had now introduced himself as Albert, clearly had a vast knowledge of all the figurines they encountered.

Mary found that before too long they had visited all but the Chamber of Horrors.

She had not intended visiting this part and when she looked at her watch she was aware that the exhibition would be closing fairly soon. Albert, however, insisted they visit this famous old section and she found herself staring through bars at grisly scenes of murder and debauchery. 

    Mary, guessing all the other visitors had left, noticed they were alone in what was now becoming a very spooky place.

“I think we ought to be making our way back,” she spoke nervously, “it will be closing shortly.”

“There is just one more exhibit I need to show you,” Albert ushered Mary along the corridor until they reached the final enclosure.

“But there’s nothing in there,” Mary exclaimed and was about to turn around when she felt herself being pushed through the unlocked enclosure door.

“What the Hell,” Mary had no time to finish her sentence before she felt the knife as it was thrust into her abdomen. The feeling of De Ja Vous hit her once more as she slumped to the floor catching sight of Albert leaning over her before passing out.

    She came to and looked up at the figure still crouched over her, she recognized the clothes as those worn by Albert but she couldn’t see his face. There was a spotlight shining down on her but his face was turned away towards the shadows.

He didn’t move, she tried to, but couldn’t. She screamed but no sound came out of her mouth. She was rigid.

    It was the following day and some early visitors had made their way to the Chamber of Horrors.

“look David,” Helen turned to her boyfriend in excitement, “there’s a new exhibit.”

They looked at the board which showed the details. 

JACK THE RIPPER WITH ONE OF HIS VICTIMS

MARY JANE KELLY 1888

“But you can’t see his face,” Helen remarked disappointedly.

“That’s because they don’t know for sure who he was,” David replied, rather smugly.

“Oh, look at that poor woman’s face,” Helen sighed, “it looks so real, there’s even a tear in her eye.”

Mary’s mute scream echoed throughout the corridors of Hell.

Copyright Peter Woodgate