BAD HAIR DAY 

byPeter Woodgate 

When Old Homer first put pen to papers

And thrilled us all with those exciting capers.

Who gave him inspiration for those creatures

The Odyssey and other stories teach us?

And when young Perseus slew the evil being

Using his shield as a weapon and for seeing

Holding the ugly head  in safety at arms length

Not looking at the eyes lest he should lose his strength,

 

Did he use the power of the matted writhing hair

To defeat his enemies by foul means or by fair?

And when they quaked in fear what was it that they saw?

What could turn men to stone, was it the Mother-in-Law?

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 The Health of The Nation

By Jane Scoggins

Concentrate orange and cod liver oil

From the teaspoon specially kept.

I hated the taste, I would always recoil.

But every winter's day before we left

The house to walk the mile to school

I would  hold my nose to grin and bare

The horrid dose that was my  Mother's rule.

Copyright Jane Scoggins

 

 Come on you Guys

by Rosemary Clarke

To RLWG I call
If you miss this, you'd be a fool.
It's writers we're supposed to be
So get your pens, listen to me!
We've got an outlet for our work
To lose that would be to be a jerk
Writer's need a forum, true
So get to work and join us do!
Our writing will not be well known
If you twiddle your thumbs at home
So get writing, you know it's best
And then we'll really show the rest.
We're writing for the folks out there
To show them that we really care.
So get your pen, or your laptop
And write and write until you drop
You will get better as you write
Who knows, careers might just take flight
So come on, get some work out there!
And be that writer...
IF YOU DARE!

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

Abbalar Tales ~ 25

Abbalar Tales ~ 25  Revisionists 2

By Len Morgan

   One moment, Genna was gazing into the portal the next she was falling into an endless void.   When she felt firm ground beneath her feet once more she opened her eyes, to find herself outside the walls of the city, gazing longingly across at the Poche Platzi.   She crossed the road without realising she was now alone.   There was a sign on the door: Artists Wanted, apply within.   She entered the house of ill repute, conscious that this had always been her childhood dream.   It was as though the past six months had never happened.   She was no longer a child and her inner desires were close to fulfilment.   Whether dream or reality, she was not concerned, this was what she had always wanted.    She could hear the music, Sexy and seductive, she moved into the light…

.-…-. 

  Skaa stepped through the portal and into full sunshine, the colour temperature totally unique to one place only to his certain knowledge.   He gazed around him, everything was as it should be, and two hundred feet below him he could see the family farm.  It was late summer and the Easterly facing slopes were overgrown with lush ripe red fruit.   He placed several of the small grapes between his lips drawing them into his mouth, testing their texture with his tongue and crushing them slowly against the roof of his mouth.   He smiled with approval as the sharp sweet juice burst forth into his mouth.   A taste and memory that cast him instantly back to his childhood.   His limbs were strong his muscles supple and springy the agues and aches from the many wounds, that had plagued him constantly, were gone from both his body and from his memory, he was home.  It seemed that fifty years were slewn away from him, in an instant; it was as though he had never left.   He looked at his hands with incredulity, he had been walking and the house was much closer now, he felt excitement charge his limbs, and broke into a run…

.-…-. 

   'Why did you bring them?   You must know that standards are not permitted here?' the voice in his head upbraided him.

Aldor gazed down at the two who had entered the portal with him; both lay unconscious on the floor of the chamber.

'Put them in the easy room they will be out of harm's way there.' A door opened, revealing a neat white room, bathed in a gentle pink light, containing two single cots.   He laid them both carefully down, and covered them, allowing the door to close as he left.

'Where are we' he asked.

'If you need to ask, you are not of this world or you are damaged in some way.'    He felt a sharp pain and experienced a bright spot expanding within his mind and with it, his memory returned.   In addition, as the brightness enveloped his mind it brought with it further enlightenment.

He knew Raelon was not his real name, but for the second time, in a matter of months, he had been renamed by the same young woman; the one he knew as Genna.

'All that I know, you now know' he thought the words and knew them to be true.

The fresh voice speaking in his mind was familiar and yet not the mind of a living entity.

'I have been inactive for longer than the creators intended.   I know that when last I was conscious humankind were trying valiantly to banish war, and all other forms of conflict, but ABBALAR had already been ravaged by centuries of excess.   Most of humanity elected to travel out to the stars seeking new worlds to inhabit; a new beginning in virgin pastures as yet untainted by man.   Aeons passed, and their migration disappeared from the memories of those who remained.   Of those, 99% elected to turn their backs on the technology and machines that had brought this world to the brink of ruin.   They returned to the more natural ways of farming and husbandry, living in harmony with nature.   In time they knew their planet would recover but they did not want future generations to be subject to the same temptations they had succumbed too.

So, when the last ships left their launch pads, the enormous circles of silica rock, became the foundation sites for new cities and towns.   But, the people were so disaffected with the old ways that, after building these new cities, they chose to desert them and favour the countryside and an agrarian way of life.   The cities fell into disuse and decay, as nature relentlessly reclaimed its own.   Just 1%, a tiny sect, chose to continue making use of computers and continue to perpetuate the discarded technologies that had once made man a power in the universe.   This sect was known as REVISIONISTS, they were reviled and persecuted by the majority, and learned to develop teach and practice in secrecy within their own groups.   They are the ones who continue to develop the questioning mind that is able to communicate with higher-level machines.   Within just a few thousand years the others - the STANDARDS - lost the ability altogether.   Most of the machines now exist either in sleeping, or sentinel mode, since the few occasional demands made of them are little more than routine operations.   AEONS passed and this place, together with many other similar complexes, was completely forgotten.'    The world ceased to have any real technology.  

'Then the KARAXEN arrived.   The 'Standards' of course had no defences.  They had lost the mental capacity to use the existing defences, even if they had been able to access them.   Finding little resistance and, by their criteria, no intelligent life on Abbalar they deemed it ripe for exploitation.   Despite their technological superiority, the struggle (I hesitate to use the word War) lasted for centuries during which time humans became fugitives; living in caves and inhospitable environments where the Karaxen chose not to go.   Anywho became too prominent were hunted and exterminated like vermin, gassed, poisoned, shot and burnt out of any area capable of being inhabited by the Karaxen.  Throughout all this, the 'Revisionist' cult continued to exist and thrive, in small communities.  They maintained the computers and machines whilst keeping the old ways alive.   At the start of the invasion, when the Revisionists first became aware of the Karaxen, they sent out distress calls to the stars appealing for help from those who had left.   Some ships did eventually return disabling the then long-deserted Karaxen mother ship which had been abandoned in orbit.   They had adopted a policy of non-interference with races below a certain development level, and since the 'Standards' had degenerated below that level, and the Karaxen were not a race with whom they could coexist, they left.   The Karaxen were then effectively marooned on Abbalar.

 'Does that mean there are still Revisionists?   Of course; you do not allow ‘Standards’ to enter here so who maintains the place?'

'’Standards are not capable of comprehending the nature of this place, what they do not understand they will invariably destroy.   Yes, there are others like you "Revisionists" who do know and understand.'

'I need to find them, to enlist their help,' said Aldor.

'The larger communities live to the north, your friend Wizomi has gone in search of them.   He implores you to leave that task in his hands and continue with your own quest.   He will contact you when he has news.   He counsels you against revealing our existence, to non-revisionists and, especially Orden - he is not of this world.'

'Orden would never act against our interests,' Aldor assured.

'Orden is a good and loyal friend to Abbalar but, he cannot hide what you tell him from the Universal Network.'

'But, Wizomi and I both use the UN' Aldor said.

'Ah, but there is a difference, they are able to skim the surface of your mind but, they are not able to delve deeper unless you consciously give them consent to do so.   That is why secrecy is necessary, that is also why they are so interested in you.   You alone, of all the races, have the ability to shield your minds and deny them access to your innermost thoughts.   They can access only what you are prepared to reveal.'

'I knew he was hiding something from me,’ Aldor smiled with satisfaction, 'they fear us?'

'If so, you should hope they are not like men, who habitually destroy anything they fear or do not understand,' the voice replied.  

'If we are unique to them, what became of those who travelled to the stars?' he asked.

'All I can tell you is what I learned from the past, and what I learned from your mind at the moment you entered the portal.   At that instant past, present, and future, cease to have meaning.   Wizomi would say that you sing for your supper.'  Aldor grinned and pictured the machine smiling with him.

"Is there another way out of here?" he asked, clearing his throat.  

'Follow the blue line on the wall' it answered.

'How will my friends fare' he asked.

'They will sleep and dream happily enough for four days, and then they will hit a block.   You must return for them within four days or they may not survive.'

'How will I be able to return for them?' he asked.   Pictures and maps began forming in his mind.

'When you leave the sanctuary of this portal, you will be unable to commune with the outsider known as Orden.   This is necessary to protect the knowledge I have passed on to you.  I have buried it deep in the recesses of your mind; it must never be divulged to outsiders.  To ensure its security I have set up blocks in your unconscious memory, however, should you need access it will be instantly available.  Remember, if Orden knew, or even suspected, the existence of this place, he could not hide it from others in the UN.    On the table behind you, there are documents of introduction to Asba Dylon, first counsellor of Corvalen.'  

'He is a highly placed and respected official, at the palace, I know him well’ Aldor replied.

‘I think you have changed a little since last he saw you.   There is also something you do not know about him; he is a ‘Revisionist’ and, therefore a friend.  You will have sore need of friends in the near future.’ 

(to be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

THINKING OF YOU 

By Peter Woodgate 

Thinking of you today

the burden of mediocrity

slipped from my shoulders

and was trampled underfoot.

 

Thinking of you today

I rose above the senseless attitude

of self-pity

and looked down on the real world.

 

Thinking of you today

made me weep,

tears that cleansed my heart

preparing for your love.

 

Thinking of you today

saved my life;

I’m beginning to understand

why I love you.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 

 A NEW YEAR’S WISH (Part 1 of 2)

by Richard Banks

The problem with wishes is that people seldom, if ever, wish for the right thing. This is only to be expected. Well, after all, they are only people and will never, as people, achieve true wisdom. Better that the wish goes to the shepherd rather than the sheep, and that’s the way it use to be. Yes, I know that was a long time ago, but sometimes the old ways are best. The trouble is that too few of ‘us’ -and I use that word loosely - are old enough to remember anything before the Great Flood. If they could, they would know, as I know, that wishes are best made and implemented by a properly constituted body of Guardians.

         The evidence for this can be found in the records, if anyone can be bothered to look. Not that anyone should need to. Think about it! How can the judgement of Guardians, possessing as we do many millenniums of all-knowingness, fail to come up with better wishes than mortal beings whose time on Earth is come and gone in the blinking of an archangel’s eyes.  “What could be more obvious,” you say, and you will never be more right but apparently, that’s not the point any more. Since the Ethics Committee invented Free Will all wishes relating to the well-being of the human race have to be made by the little blighters themselves. How else will they learn appears to be the current wisdom? When will they ever learn is what I say.

         I mean, look at what happened last year. I am sent below to Betty who has been selected to make the one and only wish granted to the human race on New Year’s Day. And who is Betty you are thinking? Why has she been chosen. Is she a leader of church or country, a philosopher, a great benefactor, a seeker after truth, the righter of wrongs? No! She is Betty, the barmaid at the Dog and Bucket who otherwise spends her time being wife and housekeeper to Harold, a benefits fraudster. No one is less endowed with the virtues and skills needed to benefit the world, she even pilfers money from the til! She is one of an underclass of semi-criminal dullards that the Celestial Focus Group have decided should be entrusted with this year’s wish. Who, they reason, knows their needs better than one of their own who with a single, insightful wish might instantly raise the fortunes of an entire strata of society. That’s the theory. Will it work? In a word, no! but who’s listening to me. I’m just the messenger. My job is to deliver the good tidings to the wisher, note what he or she wants and then inform the Implementation Team who make it happen. Fortunately all this takes less than a day, which is indeed fortunate as the whole charade is a complete waste of my time and everybody else’s.

         I arrive in Betty’s bedroom in the early hours of an earthly night to find her asleep in a double bed alongside Harold whose head is hidden from sight beneath a large pillow. This he has placed there in a desperate but unavailing attempt to escape the reverberating shrieks emanating from her open mouth. If he had a wish I have no doubt what it would be but it’s Betty who has to choose. Woken by the stardust Betty stares up at me and says, “blimey, who are you?”

         I ignore this and make the usual announcement that I have come with glad tidings of great joy. She reaches out to Harold to wake him but before she does I quickly draw her up into the beam. While she is within it she is in another dimension, a micro-world unseen from Earth, a world that will be remembered only by myself once she returns to the mortal realm.

         “So I’ve got a wish,” she says, once she has cleared her head sufficiently to take in what I’m saying. “Is there a cash limit?” She asks.

         I reply that we don’t do cash wishes.

         “And does that apply to gold and silver bullion?”

         I confirm that it does.

         “What do you think I should ask for?”

         I should be seizing the moment and telling her that the wish can be used to bring peace to the world, end hunger and disease, but I’m not allowed to. The wish must be entirely hers and when I tell her this the expression on her face indicates that the thoughts in her head are unlikely to benefit anyone in the world beyond herself. She looks about her at the objects in the room as if willing them to provide the inspiration for her wish.

         “Perhaps,” I say, “there is something missing from your life, and others, something that will make them better, give them new meaning.” This is as far as I can go in guiding her, perhaps I have gone too far, but at least I seem to have inspired a light bulb moment.

         “Blimey, yes, of course, why didn’t I think of it before. I need a new freezer.”

         “A new …!” I can’t even bring myself to say it. She can have almost anything she wants, but she chooses a freezer. She can’t be serious, but serious she is and even if she isn’t she’s said it now and there’s no going back. At least she’s done better than the idiot man who said he only wished he knew what to wish for and when this was made known to him had to be told that he wasn’t allowed a second wish. Unlike him, Betty seems fully satisfied with her choice, especially when I assure her that it will be a top of the range machine with a ten year, all faults guarantee. I release her from the  beam and she falls gently back onto the double bed where she resumes her snoring.

         The granting of her wish is, of course, an administrative detail that the Delivery Team take care of with immediate effect. By the time Betty gets up in the morning the machine is waiting for her in the middle of her kitchen floor. Is she pleased? In a word, No! Not having any recollection of our meeting she is totally at a loss to understand how it’s got there. “There’s been a break-in,” she tells Harold; “how else could it have got indoors?” Harold knows that break-ins don’t usually result in the delivery of expensive merchandise but has no logical explanation as to what has happened, so Betty phones the police who, after several long conversations, prosecute her for wasting their time. Change your locks is their only advice and when Betty and Harold do this it costs them more than the retail price of the freezer.

         So, that’s the story of Betty’s wish, but not, I’m afraid, the whole story. Gone are the days when wishes were granted and I was able to hurry back to the celestial realm and forget the whole thing ever happened. Now I am expected to go back and conduct a six monthly review.

         “What’s the point, I say, “it’s got a ten year guarantee. What can possibly go wrong!”

         But it’s not the going wrong the Focus Group are concerned about, they want to know what went right, particularly the socio-spiritual benefits for Betty and the wider community. When words fail me they give me a thirty page questionnaire and book me a ticket on the next stardust beam to Earth.

         I arrive and immediately make my way to the kitchen where I come across Betty on bended knees about to open the freezer door. While most people consider it necessary only to tug the handle Betty is engaged in a strange ritual that involves her throwing up her arms while lowering her chin to the floor. Once she has done this several times she opens the door and to the accompaniment of martial music a large man of Oriental appearance emerges and after stepping awkwardly around Betty exits the kitchen through an exterior door. Before he leaves, he tosses a thick wad of banknotes in her direction which she stuffs into the pocket of her pinny. She shuts the freezer and rises stiffly to her feet.

         It’s time to take her into my beam and have a good chat. “How do you like the freezer?” I ask.

         Betty replies that she likes it very much, although it’s not quite what she was expecting.

         “Yes,” I say, “I did notice the man. Is he often in there?”

         She thinks not. There’s a bell that rings and when it does she opens the door and a man gets out but it’s probably not the same man because some of the feet she sees seem larger than others. She explains that owing to her prostrate positioning when greeting them she seldom glimpses much above the ankles.

         “Is that strictly necessary?” I say. “I mean to say they’re only men.”

         “Wouldn’t be too sure about that, dear. All I know is that once you look them in the eyes you don’t want to do it again. Shakes you up something rotten it does. No, best to do what they say.  After all they don’t ask much. All they want is that you help them through the freezer and do a bit of grovelling so you don’t see their faces. Nothing to it really, and in return they give me all this money.”

         “And, that’s all for you?”

         “No Sir, gawd blimey no. It’s for the downtrodden masses of the proletariat struggling to free themselves from the yoke of capitalist oppression.”

         “So they get the lot.”

         “Well, not exactly. I mean, we got to cover our expenses, don’t we. And then it’s only right that we pay ourselves a proper salary for all the work we’re doing. It wouldn’t be a proper charity if we didn’t do that.”

         “That rather depends on your cut.”

         “On what, sir?”

         “Oh don’t be coy with me Betty. You know perfectly well what I mean. How much for you and how much for the downtrodden masses?”

         At this point her equivocation gives way to a genuine inability to answer the question.

         “Well, it’s like this, sir. It’s all depends on the cupboards. When they’re full up of banknotes because we can’t spend them quick enough Harold puts the left overs in a handcart and takes them over to the food bank at the Sally Ann. They’re ever so grateful. No one goes hungry around here I can tell you, nor homeless and I’m not talking about the old doss house they use to run. They’re brought up all the old council flats that went private and charge the people that live there only what they can afford to pay.”      

         “And they do all that on the money you give them?”

         “Well, sometimes we give them a bit extra. I mean, how can you not when they name their new HQ after you. The Betty and Harold Centre they call it. If you came along the Nags Head Road you would have gone right by it.”

         I reply that I came down not along, and that there is someone outside the kitchen door wanting to come in.

        

[To be continued]

Copyright Richard Banks

THE EXPLORERS

To Peter Woodgate

Edward had wandered off whilst studying a creature that resembled a red squirrel. It couldn’t have been one, of course, because he was in the middle of a jungle in Myanma, not the Scottish highlands. A sudden monsoon-like storm had caused him to become separated from the rest of the group and he had started to panic.

    The exploration party were from Oxford sent to explore the indigenous flora and fauna and, in particular, to locate the elusive carnivorous plant nick-named “The Trumpet of Terror”. Only one person, other than the local tribespeople had ever seen this plant and that person was Martin Hardwick.

    Martin, an explorer from Swindon, had visited the area shortly after the second world war. Soldiers returning from The Burma Campaign had relayed stories they had heard from the native Burmese. The accounts spoke of a massive carnivorous plant some seven feet tall. These frightening plants, it was said,

ate not only insects but birds and bats as well. It was even claimed that small monkeys too had suffered the same fate if swallowed by the leathery trumpets, ending up in the gastric acids lurking at the base of the plants.

    It was said that they grew in the Kabaw Valley (translated as death) and Martin Hardwick had visited the area in 1947. He successfully located the plants, logged the details and took samples to study on his return to England. Unfortunately, preservation techniques at that time were inadequate and the samples were completely useless by the time he arrived back home. He did re-visit the area some five years later but sadly it had been de-forested and up to the present, no further sightings of this truly mystical plant had been made.

    Right now, however, Edward had other things on his mind and his main concern was to join up with the rest of the party. He was in the middle of the Kabaw Valley, there were poisonous snakes and giant spiders, huge stinging insects and he had no food and little water. On top of that statistics had shown that tropical diseases had either killed or incapacitated up to twenty five thousand allied and Japanese troops during the conflict in 1945.

    Yes, they were well equipped on this expedition but, supplies were with the group and alone he was in grave danger. Sight was pretty much useless here as the jungle was dense and the rainstorm had left a thick hazy mist that blocked out anything more than fifteen feet away. He had shouted, of course, but the myriad of bird and insect noises had drowned out his frantic cries.

    “Think logically,” he thought, as he started to shake, “don’t panic.” Edward fumbled in his pocket and took out his compass. He knew that they had been travelling east before the storm broke and, logically, if he headed in that direction, sooner or later, he would meet up with them.

    After about thirty minutes of hacking his way eastward, he heard the sound of running water, quite faint at first but becoming louder as he pushed forward. Suddenly, he found himself clear of the jungle and looking at a very deep ravine. Opposite a waterfall, the source of the sound he had heard, gushed from an opening to plunge some 200 or so feet into a pool at the bottom of the ravine.

    Laughter broke out and turning to his left Edward was relieved to see the other members of the group. Instead of worried-looking faces, they were all smiling. Apparently, they had bets between themselves on how long it would take Edward to catch up with them. Obviously, he thought to himself, they have more faith in my navigational skills than I do.

    After hugs and shaking of hands the rest of the party explained to Edward that they had met a couple of natives and, after stumbling through a conversation of semi-Burmese and sign language, they had obtained some wonderful news. The natives had explained that there was a colony of The Trumpets of Terror about a mile to the north and on the floor of the ravine.

    The group moved on looking for the path that would lead them to the foot of the ravine and, literally, into The Jaws of Death.

 

 

 

The group arrived at the bottom of the ravine negotiating, somewhat precariously, the very narrow path that led them to an area that appeared somewhat alien against the rest of the landscape. They approached a huge pile of rocks that were obviously the result of a previous landslide and cursed their luck when realizing it blocked their path. The rocks and soil protruded out from the side of the ravine wall and ended about 20 yards into the fast-flowing river that gurgled loudly as it raged past them on its unstoppable journey, before emptying its self invisibly into a vast expanse of lifeblood.

     Mick, the leader of the group turned to the rest and swore before asking, politely for any ideas they may have. In truth, if they were to continue their journey, they had just two options. One, they would have to climb over the huge mound and two, they would have to wade or swim around the mini headland. After a short debate, it was decided that the swim around was probably the safest one.

    There was substantial vegetation all around and after assembling some flimsy rafts, these were used to float essentials that hopefully would stay dry, they made their way slowly around the barrier that stood before them. Luckily they found they could just about wade up to their shoulders and, sensibly roping themselves together, they reached the other side safely. As they scrambled ashore each member of the group gasped in disbelief.

    The scene before them was like something out of a sci-fi magazine. Stretched out for as far as the eye could see were hundreds upon hundreds of the mystical plants, The Trumpets of Terror. It was thought that descriptions of these plants had been exaggerated, but, if anything, they appeared even more majestic.

They stood, some as much as ten feet high, line after line on the gentle slopes at the base of the ravine.

Excited as they were the group were professional and quickly sprang into action.

    A suitable site for the camp was found and after a celebration drink, just coffee, they set about the tasks vital to the success of this exploration. The group were all aware of the dangers that some plants could exert upon humans and, as beautiful as these plants were, they would be handled with care.

    The group would log as much information as possible on such things as soil samples, daily temperatures, other flora within their colony if any and, if possible, how they propagated. On top of this, they would hope to take away some junior plants for examination upon their arrival back home. Soil samples, unsurprisingly, showed very high acidity, but surprisingly, and more so on the largest plants, it was found that root structures were very shallow. Deep rooting would have been expected but it found that approx. 80% of the roots extended above ground. The soil was extremely soft and this begged questions on how they were able to grow to such heights.

    Edward and Jack, the youngest member of the group, had been assigned soil examination and sampling. This task complete Edward, in particular, had turned his attention to the root depth anomaly applicable to the larger plants. Before returning to the camp on the second day he took it upon himself to mark the positioning of a few of the largest plants with the idea of checking them the following morning.

    After the usual breakfast of cereal, he made his way to the area where he had marked a certain number of “the trumpets.” What he discovered was difficult to digest. Yes, they had moved, approx. six feet down the slope and Edward expected slide marks to show that the soft soil could not stabilize the plant.

However, the marks made in the soil showed more like footprints, ie, one in front of the other. He reported this back to the group who thought he must have been dreaming but, when investigated by other members, they agreed that it seemed some of the plants had walked. However, knowing that this was an impossibility, the leader simply logged the strange phenomena to be investigated upon the return to England.

                                          #############

Back in Oxford, England, Edward’s son began reading a book. “What rubbish are you looking at now?”

Tom’s mother asked as she continued watching East Enders on the box. “You know it’s your bedtime and you have an exam tomorrow”

“But it’s a great book mum, Day of The Triffids by John Wyndham, and besides, I want to stay awake to watch the meteor storm that will light up our skies at about 10pm tonight.

“I don’t know” his mum replied “that science fiction rubbish ain't gonna happen. You’d be better off watching Phil Mitchell beat the hell out of Ian Beal.” She turned her attention back to the television as Tom made his way upstairs eager to read another couple of chapters before “the fireworks began.

   

Copyright Peter Woodgate