Let’s Hear it for the Buses

by Rosemary Clarke

They've been with us
The whole time through
They're usually punctual
Rarely blue
And through it all
Not made a fuss
What would we do
Without a bus
For some of us
They're a lifeline
Those buses try
To be on time
But roadblocks, jams
And other folks

Make driving really
Past a joke
So when you board
Just spare a thought
If in the town
You do get caught
They have dependents
Just like us
So if they're late
Don't make a fuss
Without the buses
We'd be lost
Just help them all
Don't count the cost
It isn't such
A heavy task
Use cleansing gel
And wear a mask
Then they should all
Be very safe
And no one has to
Buy a wreath
For our bus drivers
Everywhere
Look after them
They need our care.

 

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

TIMEWALK     (part three of five)

 by Richard Banks        

I return home along the pedestrian highway. For the first time in a long time, I'm glad to be back in the here and now. There's no traffic snapping at my heels, and only minutes away is Greta's cooking and an Egor-free flat. It is not until I am on the landing and reaching for my key card that my good mood is all but erased by the thought that nothing may have changed. I open the door, half expecting Egor to be there. For a few moments logic has deserted me, in another, it is restored.  

         Greta stands at the oven, obscured by a cloud of steam, but unmistakeably Greta. Mia is setting the table and two unfamiliar figures, a man and a woman, sit either side of the window. The woman gets up and greets me as though we are good friends. She kisses me on the lips. I figure we are more than good friends. The man stays seated and acknowledges my presence with an open palm salute. There is no baby and no Eli. I ask where he is and almost instantly regrets doing so. No one knows him. They look puzzled and I make up some story about expecting a visitor. We drink our vodka and talk. Everyone is at ease with each other, we laugh, there is careless talk about politics. No one suspects any of the others of being a spy, the secrets of the room stay in the room. During dinner, I discover the woman's name is Cheshire. She sits next to me and runs her hand up and down my thigh. The man is Lew, an American, from the Southern Confederacy. He has only recently arrived, having replaced someone called Dee. He has an open, easy-going way, that everybody has taken to. He also has a guitar and offers to play us some few tunes after the President's broadcast. As this is on all TV channels and the loudspeakers there is no escaping it. We watch it on Sky State. There is a brief introduction and the scene switches to Unity Hall, where a guy called Palmer is about to address the People's Assembly.

         “What's happened to Hurst,” I ask, wishing I hadn't. I get more odd looks

         This is crazy. The only change should be Egor. So where are Hurst and Eli? Why them? Could it be they are links in the same chain? Powerful people were watching over Egor, Eli as good as said it. Had Hurst delegated the watching to Eli? Why else would a party member be slumming it in grade C accommodation? It makes sense. With Egor gone, never born, why would Eli be here. And what of Hurst, our President for nearly five years, who no one remembers any more. Has he also ceased to exist? How could my five minutes of play-acting make that happen? And then I know it did. Eli said that Josef Herschel had only one son. He was lying and with good reason. I take the photograph of Josef from my jacket and study his face, the prominent forehead, the olive drab eyes, the flared nostrils of his flat nose and know him for what he was, the father of Egor, and Joseph Hurst.

         Palmer comes to the end of his speech and after the obligatory standing ovation vacates the rostrum and returns to the VIP seating at the back of the stage. He resumes his place in the front row and accepts the congratulations of those either side of him. A familiar figure sitting directly behind him leans forward to add some words of his own. The weasel face is fuller now, better fed, his standard-issue denim replaced by a tailored suit. It's Eli, but not the one I knew. The transmission ends and normal programming resumes. It's a quiz show called Stick or Slide. Cheshire asks if anyone wants to watch, “this rubbish,” and when nobody does she switches it off.

         Lew and I have the job of washing the dishes. Apparently, there's a rota but where it is no one knows. Lew doubts whether it ever existed, but Tuesday, according to Cheshire, is definitely one of our days. We go down to the utility room and load up a machine. There's fifteen minutes until it starts, time to talk, to get up to speed. Lew also wants to talk. He suggests we have a cigarette on the roof. He says it will be quiet there and he's got some good wack that will keep us happy for the rest of the night. We go up in the lift and sure enough, we have the roof to ourselves.  We light up and Lew starts talking about jazz, how no one plays it any more, about the music library in Patriots' Square and how he is a member.

         I express surprise. “Isn't that for officials?”

         He gets up from the bench we've been sitting on and wanders off a few paces. When he faces me again he has a gun in his hand. He tells me to sit tight and keep smoking. His voice is unchanged; he could still be talking about music, the weather or any other everyday thing. He says that he usually shoots his targets without warning. But with me it's different. He wants me to know that it's nothing personal. I'm a regular guy and he likes me, but business is business and he isn't allowed to pick and choose.  If it was up to him this wouldn't be happening but evidently, I've pissed off someone important and that's never a good idea.

         “Do you want to finish the cigarette?” he asks.

         I nod. It's good stuff and the fact that I'm about to kick the bucket seems almost irrelevant.

         “So who is it that wants me dead? Eli Weisman? Is that who?”

         He shrugs his shoulders. “Who knows. I get my orders from a guy who gets his from someone else. Where it starts I don't know. Best not to know. All I can tell you is that this is about you knowing more than is good for you. At least, that's the rumour.” 

         “Did anyone mention Timewalk? How the President shouldn't be the President because I ...”

         “Stop it there!” His demeanour changes. “I don't want to know and you ain't going to tell me. Now stand up, this has gone on long enough.”

         I do what he says. He aims and the sharp ping of a laser gun sends him crashing to the ground.

         “Are you okay?” My deliverer steps out of the shadows and stoops down to inspect the hole in Lew's back. Cheshire returns the slimline she's holding to her jacket. For a second time, she asks if I'm okay.

         I'm not sure what I am. For a man who's had a near-death experience I'm feeling foolishly content with the world and my place in it. Then reality comes rushing back.

         “Yeah, yeah I'm okay.” I want to ask her what the hell is going on, but think better of it. Anything I say is likely to be a mistake. My angel delight, if that's what she is, is a dangerous girl. Thank the Lord we're on the same side, whatever that is. Say nothing, let her do the talking. She does.

         “So good old Lew was a government hitman. Who would have thought it? I wonder how long he's been onto us?”

          Her question is a rhetorical one, so she's not fussed when I don't answer, which is just as well as the answers, I have related to a reality that doesn't include Cheshire or Lew. I mean they were probably around shooting people or doing whatever else they do, but they weren't a part of my life and how I wish it was back, my discontented but blissfully humdrum life.

         I've been silent too long and Cheshire's giving me the sort of look that makes me think I should be saying or doing something, so to fill the gap I ask her what she thinks we should be doing. Maybe I'm the one who should be making the decisions, but somehow that doesn't seem likely. As I thought, she's not short of a plan.

         “We need to get out of here and warn the others, tell them what's happened.”

         As plans go this one suffers from the disadvantage that anyone breaking the curfew is likely to find themselves on the wrong side of the police or a criminal gang.

         “What if we're being watched?” I say. “Couldn't we send them a text?”

         Cheshire snorts in disbelief. “Are you crazy? M16 be reading every word. Get your gun. If we have to we'll go out blasting.”

         I return to the flat and open up my locker, where I'm surmising my gun is. I'm not mistaken, and without stopping to say goodbye, or anything else, to Greta and Mia, I rush out onto the landing where Cheshire has stopped the lift and is now pointing her gun at its only occupant. She orders him out of it in the name of the Revolutionary Brotherhood and we descend the thirty-two floors to ground level. Things are getting clearer now. The Brotherhood is the military wing of a proscribed organisation that wants to turn the clock back to the bad old days of universal suffrage and civil rights. At least that's how the Government sees it and up to now, I've kept well clear of an argument that involves both sides shooting on sight. We reach the ground floor and as the doors, open Cheshire braces herself for a volley of gunfire.  When nothing happens she charges across the lobby floor and peers through the glass door into the street.

         “What do you think?” she asks.

         What I think is part of a much longer conversation that we don't have time for now, so I say, “lets roll.” Not only does this sound like the kind of thing an urban freedom fighter should be saying but involves zero chance of us being shot; no one's outside because Lew was a lone assassin whose only mission was to kill me. In order to enhance my credibility, I dash out into the street waving my gun wildly through 180 degrees and signalling Cheshire to follow me. Having done so she veers off to the right with a turn of speed that has me struggling to keep up. At the first intersection, we take another right into a road that is suddenly plunged into darkness in anticipation of the curfew. We slow down and as our eyes become accustomed to the dark the faint hum of an electric motor warns us that someone else is about. The humming gets louder and the darkness is pierced by the flashing blue light of a retrieval van. It's coming our way, so we duck down behind a refuse shoot and wait for it to pass. It stops. A man gets out and with the aid of a torch examines a mound of debris piled up against a wall. He declares it to be clear.       

         “Where the hell are they?” he complains. “How can I make a living if there's no bums.” A voice from within the van says that if they can't find enough stiffs they will have to take out some still breathing. The other man concurs and suggests they try their luck by the river. He gets back in the van and they continue on.

         Cheshire takes a deep breath and announces, “we're going down.”

         I consider the likely connotations of this expression and decide that I have no idea what she is talking about. “Down?” I say.

         “Yes, get it up.”

         “Up?” I say.

         She waves her gun at a manhole cover in the middle of the street. “Get it up, we're going down the sewer.”

         This is probably Cheshire's best idea to date. Whatever is down there can't be worse than what's up above, so I rush out into the street and start clawing at the cover. Fortunately, there's a gap between it and the metal surround. I insert my fingers, pull hard and the cover flips up and over. Buoyed by the unexpected success of my efforts I signal Cheshire to join me, but she's already on her way. She scrambles down into the hole and descends the metal ladder within. I drag back the cover and follow on. Cheshire switches on her mobile and directs its light down to the sewer, where a steady flow of goodness knows what awaits us.

         We step down off the ladder and sink ankle-deep into a fetid cocktail of sludge and water. The sewer's too small in which to stand, so Cheshire drops down onto her knees and starts crawling towards what she says is the main sewer. Not only am I the newest revolutionary in town, but with Cheshire kicking muck and water into my face I'm also the dirtiest, and if there's anyone smellier I don't want to meet them. We get to the main sewer just in time to be almost immersed in a surge of liquid waste. Cheshire staggers to her feet and hits out at a large rat that's attached itself to her jacket. Having vanquished the rat with a right hook to its whiskers she declares that, “we're nearly there,” which means we're wading through more of the same for the next ten minutes.

           Just when I'm thinking she's lost her way Cheshire shines her mobile at a flight of steps below a vertical shaft. We climb up the ladder within and push up past the cover into cold air and the light of a first-quarter moon. We're in a road of detached villas which can only be part of a gated compound. Cheshire races down the road, before turning into the driveway of a house that's all but hidden behind a large fir tree. She rings the bell; two short rings followed by one long. We wait several minutes and are about to ring again when the door half opens and then stops. The shadow of a face peers out at us.

        Copyright Richard Banks

A Queen for nine days

By Janet Baldey

 I have never admired the month of February, even as a child its dripping skies depressed my mood.  Now, as I sit and watch murky light creep into my dungeon, which I refuse to compliment by the name of chamber, I realise at last the dawn has come. The last I will ever see.   I could have wished that it were fair June and that the sky were eggshell slashed by rose but ‘tis the dreariest month of the year and if I were to look out of my casement there would only be yellow-grey fog shifting around clouds the colour of ashes.

           I have not slept this long night, my limbs ache and my back screams. Why I could be sixty and not sixteen.  Old age has crept suddenly upon me but it matters not, for soon I will be at peace. Across the room, on thin pallets stretched out before the smoky remains of a peat fire, are my two companions; loyal friends who haven’t faltered in their love for me.  Strange that it is only now that I experience true kindness and that it comes from those not of my blood.  A fit of shivering takes hold of me.  It is so cold in this dank cell.  Odd those thick stone walls cannot hold the weather at bay.  I long to liven the fire but do not move lest I wake the sleeping women.  They need their rest – their strength will be tested today.  I say nothing aloud but it is as if they hear me in their sleep for both Mrs Ellen and Mrs Tylney, my dearest friends, stir as if they are one. They stretch, one turns to the fire and the other to me, concern settling upon her  features.  

         “My Lady, have you not slept?   You are as pale as a ghost and as cold too I shouldn’t wonder.   One moment and I will boil a mug of hot water.  It will warm you if nothing else.  Come over to the table – look there are some of your marzipan favourites left.”

         I do as she says and sit nibbling at a sweetmeat; it tastes like charcoal in my mouth and I fight an urge to vomit.  I am neither hungry nor thirsty but lack the strength to argue.

         Mrs Ellen opens her mouth as if to speak and then freezes.  A second later, I hear it.  It is the same sound we endured the whole of the previous day.  They have finished my husband’s scaffold and are starting on mine own.  I shut my ears against it and turn to the Bible, whispering its age-old Latin phrases to myself.  Their sweet cadences soothe and transport me to a place beyond this hell.

          I become aware that my friends have fallen silent and are gathered at the casement, their faces straining to see.  There is a rough roaring that fills my ears as if it were the sea and I rise from my seat as the two women bow their heads and begin to pray.

         They part as I reach the window.  I know full well who their prayers are for.  My husband Lord Guilford Dudley has met his fate and I grieve although our marriage was not of my choice and we were ill-suited to each other. A wave of sadness passes over me as I reflect that I hardly know what love is. Certainly, my parents had no regard for me.  At best I was ignored and at worst I was pinched, bullied and forced into a marriage that I sought not and which has led me to this sorry state.  For my part, admittedly I did nothing to earn their affection for I scorned their way of life, their gambling, their hunting their fornicating, for it went against the word of the Lord and the teachings of the Bible for which they had scant regard.

          As to my mother, the Lady Frances Brandon, I cannot remember a single kind word directed towards me, nor any affectionate gesture only sly pinches, slaps and venomous glances. Whatever I did, it pleaseth her not and from an early age I learned to creep away whenever I heard the rustle of her skirts. Frequently, as I hid behind some dusty curtain, the voices of gossiping servant girls would reach my ears.   I learned that my mother was both hated and feared. In tones sharp with malice she was described as a ‘slut’ and a ‘high born whore, no better that she should be.’  At the time, those words meant nothing to me but they remain in my memory and now I wonder, was I indeed my father’s child?  For, if not, this might this explain his complete indifference towards my fate.

         Nevermind, in the absence of my family’s affection something greater took its place. When I was but four years I wandered into the family chapel and there saw the face of Jesus for the first time.  So much love shone from his fair face that I was transfixed. At last, I had found my true Father and one whose love was boundless.

         I am brought back to the present by the grating rumble of iron upon stone and know very well what that sound portends.  My reluctant husband did not deserve to be parted from his head so young and in his honour I stand and watch as a cart rumbles its way towards my tower block.  At first, a thin veil of rain shields my view, then I see it.  The body, shrouded in a sack is strangely deformed and I can bear it no longer. This same fate awaits myself and all the Latin verses in the world cannot help me now.  

         “Oh Guildford, Guildford..” I cannot help myself and a torrent of tears stream down my face as I fall to the floor.

          At last I compose myself and allow my ladies to wash my face and dress me in a good dark dress and robe.  I pick up my Bible again and am surprised to see my grip is steady.  I have prepared my speech, each word of which has been carefully chosen and I trust it will suffice.

          I am comforted by the fact that Feckenham will accompany me. Although not of my faith, he is a good and pious man and I know he would catch me should I fall. Although failing in his purpose to convert me, he bears no grudge and we had many interesting discussions. However, not once did I falter even though conversion may have saved my life, of which I have had too little. But I have no regrets, for what would my life be if I betray our Lord?

         Now we can only sit in silence, each of us waiting for what must come and as we wait I realise that the silence is now complete. They have finished the scaffold. I have not long now. My eyes begin to brim until I catch sight of the face of our Lord and wonder why I cry.  Soon I will be in his arms and suddenly, I am filled with joy. I grasp the hand of each of my ladies and bid them not to sorrow for am I not on the brink of something wonderful?

Copyright Janet Baldey

 BOUNCING BACK

Peter Woodgate

“Sit down,” he said,

then beckoned me towards a chair

and read

the notes arranged across his desk,

my fate, in words, inscribed upon

the death of yet another tree.

 

I’d guessed the outcome,

funny we all fear the worst

yet that word still made me choke,

two syllables, it was no joke,

he confirmed that it was “C”.

 

But…..that preposition gave me hope,

I’d listened to the words, of course,

not fully grasping every one

like sand between my fingers.

 

One word stood out,

a beacon shining through the dark,

sheltering within my head,

held fast, my thoughts,

remaining still, it lingers.

 

“Cure,” a simple word,

a word I want to shout out loud

whilst by myself or in a crowd.

A future I once thought was black,

is bright, and I am bouncing back.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate  

 Nothing

by Rosemary Clarke

Caring inside
Makes you feel so tired
Crumples your heart
Pulls you apart
Time was when
You could laugh again
Now it's the end
Don't feel you can bend
Someone save you
It's no longer true
The Sun's not there
And you can't care.

For all those suffering or with those they love in Covid take care.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 

This Christmas

By Sis Unsworth

I ate too much this Christmas; I drank too much as well,

If I only put a few pounds on I don’t think you could tell.

Alas I’ve been quite greedy; I didn’t know when to stop,

I thought ‘Ah well it’s Christmas,’ as I did the seasons shop

It was a different Christmas from others we have, had,

No family or neighbours in, it could have made me sad.

But, we would not be beaten; no virus could do that,

We would have a good time, and not care what we ate.

So now that its all over and the Christmas lights grow dim,

I’m glad we had a good time, but really now must slim.

So now we’ll hide the chocolates and put away the beer,

And try to lose a little weight, till the Easter eggs appear.

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

Abbalar Tales ~ 22

Abbalar Tales ~ 22 Corvalen

 By Len Morgan

 "Quiet!”  Genna warned, “we are being followed," they stopped to listen, sure enough, they could hear light footfalls.

"Then we continue heading in the same direction but we pick up the pace."   Wizomi closed his eyes attempting to pick up further information, immediately he contacted Aldor.

'Wiz, you’re in the cellars beneath Grym-Baal's house,' he explained.

 'Not any longer,' he replied, flashing a mental picture of their surroundings.  

'The lighting is reminiscent of Orden's cave complex,’ Aldor commented.

‘The temperature is all wrong though’ Wiz replied.

'It certainly is not Jellonan technology,’ Orden rejoined, 'but I can see why you would think so.  Your race has not yet developed technology sufficiently advanced, and this place has been in existence a very long time.   It is not even Karaxen if it had been, only one in a thousand of those light pads would still be operating, if any, the whole place would appear to predate their time...   Very interesting but I am at a loss to explain it; I will let you know if I am able to discover anything further from the UN,' he said.

'If possible we would like to discover a way out of this place, can either of you help in that respect?' Wizomi asked.

'You may find an exit if you can find irregular markings underfoot, leading to either wall or, since the actual hub wall is of later construction, a less sophisticated exit may be discovered there.’ Orden suggested.

'Is there an alternative means of entry into the tunnels,' Aldor asked.   'If I can avoid the house of Baal, it will simplify matters somewhat.'

'It appears that all the adjoining buildings have similar cellars judging by the regularity of the grill system.'    "We should be looking for irregularities in the floor, leading to either wall, which could indicate a way out," he explained to Genna, who was totally unaware of their mind link.

"How do you know," she replied.

"This place is not unique.   There are other similar places, though not quite so well preserved, they are of great antiquity and their existence is not common knowledge.   In fact, I doubt if the people who own the houses are even aware of these tunnels."

"Then who is following us?"

"Mayhap it is time to find out," he said, "you continue the search and I will catch-up with you presently."   Turning on his heels he headed back in the direction they had come, his face a mask of resolve

'Wouldn’t it not be better to remain together,' Orden's thoughts impinged.

'It is possible but, my instincts tell me this is the way.'  Wizomi answered.

'As you wish.'

 Genna moved on, carefully examining the floor on either side.

Wizomi moved unhurriedly in the opposite direction, towards their shadow.   He didn't look back, falter, or slow his stride as a bear-like figure came into view.   Neither seemed surprised to meet a body travelling in the opposite direction.

'Do you recognise him?' Aldor asked.

'Not from this distance' Wizomi replied, 'Should I?'

'It is…'

'Yes, I recognise him now.'   "Skaa!   We are a long way from Mandrell, to what can we attribute this surprising turn of events?" Wizomi asked.

"We?" said Skaa looking around.

'You have surprised him,' said Aldor 'he does not like that.   He prefers to know all the answers before he asks the questions.'

"I met your young friend.   A very likeable lad - Ahlendore - shame I had to kill him."

"Haha! He whooped you with a twig and left you to limp home!" Wizomi laughed.  

Skaa coloured up.

'Careful, don't hurt his pride.' 

"You are definitely limping better, so where are all those minions, deserted you have they?   Guess they found a prettier one to follow; but that wouldn’t be difficult would it?"  

"Why you pompous little mongrel…"

 "Let us not banter insults, it is evident we both have an extensive vocabulary of adjectives.   Truth to tell, we may well have use for each other," said Wizomi.

"Let's say we do!"   Skaa answered his face now inches from the tall slim young man.   Their eyes met.   Skaa was used to others turning away at this point, acknowledging his power.   Wizomi did no such thing, and his stare unnerved Skaa, forcing him to blink first.

"Mmm must be getting old," Skaa smiled easily.

‘Careful, he’s dangerous when he’s being friendly’ Aldor warned.

"Well, now that we have got past the machismo bit, let us be honest with each other."

"Very well," said Skaa undaunted, "So where is the girl?"

"She is just up ahead, looking for the way out.   Her name is Genna, she grew up as an orphan and not only survived but thrived on the streets of Corvalen.   She can handle herself and is very wise, in the ways of the street; you would be well advised to treat her with respect.   But, you seem a little old in the tooth to be taking silly risks with your future.   Come let me introduce you."

 

(To be continued)                                                      

                                                                                                          Copyright Len Morgan