Blue

From Natalie Hudson

I look happy on the outside,

And mostly, that's enough,

But feeling it on the inside,

Is where it gets more tough,

I get up in the morning,

I try to raise a smile,

But really, on the inside,

I want to run a mile,

It takes all of my energy, 

To just get out of bed, 

I find it so much easier, 

To hide away instead, 

Quite frequently I just wish,

That I could disappear,

Climb into a bubble,

And hide from all I fear,

It really gets quite tricky,

To learn to love your brain,

When all it seems to serve you,

Is uncertainty and pain,

Why can't I just be normal,

And think like others do,

Have happy thoughts inside my mind,

And not feel so damn blue,

I really do feel stuck sometimes,

With thoughts that fill my mind,

So negative, so miserable,

And to myself unkind, 

I hope this poem helps people, 

To start to understand, 

That although a smile is on my face, 

My mind is not so grand, 

I really wish this poem, 

Had a positive refrain, 

But I'm afraid that's not the case, 

With what's inside my brain. 

 

                                                                                   Copyright Natalie Hudson 

A real life horror story

By Janet Baldey

‘Piss-arse.’   Jamie screamed, his face fiery.   ‘I hate you…..’

His brother turned, his eyes wide, his mouth a comical ‘o’ of surprise.  ‘Language Jamie’, Ben wagged his finger.  ‘I won’t be long.  Just stay in the house.  Read a book – you can borrow one of my Stephen King’s if you like.’

         ‘I’ll tell Mum…’  The ultimate threat, but both boys knew he wouldn’t.   Ben was charged with looking after him while his parents were at work and if he was grounded, Jamie would have to stay in with him and being cooped up with a sulky teenager was a fate far worse than death?  

         ‘Read a book!’  Jamie clenched his hands into two small rocks.  It was high summer, the sky was blue, birds shrilled and a soft breeze beckoned.  It was no day to say inside. Anyway, Stephen King books were scary.

He watched as Ben’s skinny figure vanished into the distance to where his mates were waiting.  He knew what they were going to do.  They were going to play the ‘Wall of Death’ game at the local quarry - the game that Ben said was too dangerous for Jamie.  ‘I hope you break your neck,’ he yelled although he knew his brother couldn’t hear.  Anyway, his fingers were crossed so it didn’t count.  He quite liked his brother sometimes, especially when he played computer games with him.

He didn’t know what to do.  None of his friends were around, they were either on holiday or not available, but suddenly he had an idea.  He’d do something that would make his brother jealous, something that would prove he was brave and not the wuss that Ben believed.  He’d explore the old Manson House, or at least sneak inside, maybe take something away to prove he’d been there.  Even Ben didn’t dare do that.  Left derelict since before Jamie had been born, the house had a bad history and was slowly decaying as ivy crawled over its walls and grime screened its windows.

Stiffening his small body, Jamie turned and trotted away from his home, up the street and away down a narrow lane. His footsteps slowed as he neared its end where the old house loomed.  A cloud slipped across the face of the sun draining all colour out of the day, the wind dropped and the birds stopped singing.   A shiver crawling down his back, Jamie forced himself forward, through the stone gateway and up the drive but just as he neared the front step, he tripped and fell flat on his face.  As he lay on the ground biting the dirt, he felt a sharp stinging pain in both knees.  His eyes flooded and he opened his mouth, preparing to bawl even though there was no-one to hear him.

‘Ups a daisy.’  Two strong arms gripped him firmly and hauled him to his feet.  Through his tears, Jamie saw that his rescuer was a boy with rosy cheeks and a mass of golden curls. He seemed to be not much older than his brother.  

‘Hi there,’ the boy grinned.  My name’s George.  Right, let’s see the damage.’  Jamie felt his clothes being brushed down, dust flying in all directions.  ‘Hm, grazed your knees.  Think we should give them a bit of a wash, let’s get you inside.’

‘Inside’, wide-eyed, Jamie stared at the boy, ‘inside there’.  

‘Sure.  It’s where I live. I know it doesn’t look much on the outside, but that’s just to keep folk away.  Inside, it’s okay.’

‘You live there?’ Jamie repeated, bug-eyed.

‘Sure, why not?’   Jamie couldn’t think of an answer but as he stared at the boy, he noticed something, something that made him uneasy.  The boy’s skin was no longer peachy smooth, in fact, it looked distinctly stubbly, almost as if he was growing a beard.  What was more, the boy’s grip on his arms had hardened.  Jamie tried to wriggle free but couldn’t.

‘Come on.   You’ll feel better once you’re inside.   I promise.  In fact, you may never want to leave.’

The boy’s voice had roughened and suddenly Jamie wanted to get away very much indeed.   What did the boy mean?  Never want to leave – that would mean he’d never see his family again.  This time he didn’t try to hide the tears that rained down his cheeks.  He wanted to feel his Mother’s arms around him, play football in the garden with Dad or wrestle with Ben, even though Ben always won.  

‘Come on. Don’t be scared. The house is waiting for you. It needs a new little boy to play with.  It needs fresh blood.’   The boy/man tugged him towards the house and as he did Jamie smelled him for the first time.  It was an acrid stench and the nearer to the front door they got, the more feral it became.

Fighting an urge to vomit, Jamie twisted and as he did he caught another glimpse of his captor.  A torrent of iced water swept through his veins.   No longer a golden-haired boy, he was a man who aged visibly the longer Jamie looked at him.   His stubble thickened into a full beard then greyed and withered into straggly wisps.   His skin wrinkled then thinned and sagged like melted wax while his eyes disappeared into craters surrounded by a maze of lines.

‘I was once a boy like you.  Just like you, in fact.  But now my time is nigh and the house needs a fresh guardian.   No need to worry.   It will take care of you.’

As he spoke his yellow teeth stirred in his gums.

‘Help me.’ Jamie prayed but then he discovered something and his heart leapt.  The crone was weakening as its muscles wasted.  Gathering all his strength, Jamie burst out of its grasp and without once looking back streaked away out of the drive and down the lane, not stopping until he reached his house.

A few minutes afterwards Ben bounded through the door, his eyes shining with excitement.   Stopping abruptly, he eyed his brother.

         ‘Hi kid.  You look pale.  Been reading a horror story?’  Jamie didn’t answer.   Fiction would never frighten him again.

Copyright Janet Baldey

 Christmas Group Message

By Sis Unsworth

I wish all our members, happy Christmas cheer,

and hope things are better when we all meet next year.

I’ll try to keep busy with paper & pen,

and give a big thank you for help from Len.

Your ZOOM nights seem to be going so well,

I may try and join you, sometime, who can tell?

So, keep washing your hands, I know it’s a task,

but we’ll beat this virus with vaccine and masks.

Take care and stay safe, the message is plain,

and I’ll make a bread pudding when we all meet again.

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

Abbalar Tales ~ 16

 Abbalar Tales ~ 16 Orden’s Gambit

By Len Morgan

Dawn broke and the scoreboard showed 21-23, there were four points available for a win in the final event, ‘The Duel’, and Aldor needed a win to clinch the contest.   On the other hand, Angxy only needed a draw to reach 25 points and victory.   The contestant with the highest number of points got to choose weapons for the final event and Angxy chose the ScY.    Aldor had been drilled in its use over and over; its intricacies had been rammed down his throat until he could recite them in his sleep.   But, it was not a weapon that existed on Abbalar so it offered a definite advantage to Angxy.   Aldor tested its weight manipulating it with intricacy in his hands and in the air.  It was a duelling weapon and a throwing weapon in one.   They faced off with the two-handed crescent blades, measuring each other's stance.   His opponent moved, and he felt the weight of his first blow.   He sidestepped and countered, in a single movement, landing a blow of equal strength.   They separated and he looked into his opponent's eyes.   The body was bog-standard and would tell him nothing, the clothes at least were unique, but the eyes were an indicator of the mind behind the body.   Orden had warned him never to be surprised or awed by anything he saw, but the twinkling delight in those eyes almost brought him to a standstill.   He nearly failed to move at all as a heavy overhead blow threatened to split him vertically in two.   At the last instant, he dropped and rolled towards his opponent, who hopped neatly over his moving form.

“Nice try sprout,” he said.

For the second time in the contest, he froze for an instant and the blade sliced through the flesh of his calf.

“First blood” the judge’s voice resounded and the scoreboard showed 21-24. 

 He squeezed the wound together, hobbled to his feet, still stanching the blood, and backing away.

Angxy closed in for the kill, his blade raised for the strike high above his head.   Aldor’s blade caught him just above the waist, scything him in two, 25-24 said the scoreboard.   He had won!    In truth, he knew the advantage in this event had always been with him.   Angxy was a being from a heavy world.   He was used to working with, powerful rhythmic movements, what Aldor called ponderous.   He had used similar moves to defeat Orden when they sparred.   Orden had never learned to change his style in thousands of years so he had not expected Angxy to do so in a matter of days.  The Arena faded like a dream and he slept briefly...

   He awoke with a start, grabbing at his damaged calf, he was back in his room but had only a phantom ache to remind him of the wound; and it quickly passed.

.-…-.

  During his waking hours he worked closely with Orden, completing his final tasks swiftly, and with an ease that comes naturally to the young.

It was with pride, therefore, after trouncing Orden at 'Kingdoms' for the hundredth time, that he accepted a gift from his mentor.   It was a thin five-inch spiked blade with a transparent crystalline hilt, containing an opaque iridescent metallic gold fluid, in a slim white wood case.  

"Place this beside your bed as you sleep tonight," Orden instructed, "we will have need of it in the morning."

As he slept, his dreams were particularly vivid.   It seemed as if the whole universe was at the ceremony to witness him Join the "Hive Matrix" and take the oath of brotherhood...

.-…-. 

In the morning he awoke to the familiar aroma of Orden's cooking.   He shared a repast with his mentor, relating to him the details of his dream.

Orden had been there as a witness, but would not dampen his exuberance. 

"You have done well sprout!   Be so good as to fetch the artefact you left by your bedside at my behest."

Aldor did so, handing over the syringe without a second thought.

"Do not think badly of me.   You still have to be finished, and there is no easy way for me to accomplish what I now have to do," he said, plunging the needle deep into Aldors chest. The fluid entered his body and started working instantly.  

The young mans face turned towards Orden in disbelief.   Hurt and betrayal both, played fleetingly on his face, as fire erupted in his veins and ice formed at his extremities.   He felt consciousness ebbing away.   He struggled to focus his mind.   His body began to stiffen as the rigours began, and his muscles turned to stone.

"I am dying, what have you done to me?" he croaked, his eyes added a silent 'WHY?'    His lids stayed open, unmoving, his eyes accusing, full of emotion, pain, and hurt but his condition had already progressed beyond that.

 

(to be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 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)