DRIFTERS Ch 1

 DRIFTERS

 by Richard Banks

Chapter 1                                       

Don’t ask me why she left. I thought we were good. OK, so we had the occasional fall-out, who doesn’t, just the normal sort of stuff, nothing terminal. One day everything’s fine, the next you arrive home and she’s gone. No goodbye note, nothing. So you phone the police to report her missing.      

      “Did she pack a suitcase?” they ask.

      “Yes,” I say.

      “Then that’s her choice. Nothing we can do.”

      Next day I phone the bank she works for, except that she doesn’t. No one there has ever heard of her. Pay a guy I know to do some digging. Same result. No one called Cassandra Goodyear exists, or if they do they don’t have a birth certificate or pay tax.

      “End of story,” says the guy. “This lady doesn’t want to be found. Get over her.”             

      Three months later and she seems like a dream, perhaps she was a dream. Then the world goes crazy, she phones, leaves a message on voice mail. Can I meet her in Broad Street across the road from the café? She isn’t sure what it’s called, only that it has a neon light in the window that flashes pink and blue.

      So here I am racing across town trying to get to Broad Street by five-thirty. I arrive on time but she’s not there. When was she ever on time? Snow’s falling and I’m regretting we’re not meeting in the café. Ten minutes later it’s getting dark and snowflakes the size of fifty pence pieces are turning everything white, including me. That’s when the dog starts barking and she finally shows up.      

      Didn’t see the connection at first. I mean dogs often bark, sometimes at the moon, sometimes just for the hell of it. Life’s too short to be wondering why each time. Anyway the dog was a side show, the focus of my attention was on Cassie, on her face. She’s smiling, like she’s glad to see me.

      “Hi,” I say.

      I wait for her to say something. Instead she throws her arms around my neck and kisses me like she means it. Some of the snow on my head falls down onto hers. She laughs.

      “Where the hell have you been?” I ask. I’m glad to see her but angry at the same time. I need an explanation and it had better be good.

      “Sorry George, I know I should have left you a note but there wasn’t time. Hardly had time to pack. Anyway I knew you wouldn’t miss me for a couple of days.”

      “Okay,” I say, “I’ll let you off the couple of days. No problem. None at all. Just satisfy my curiosity about the rest of the time. It’s been three months Cassie, where have you been?”

      She looks bewildered, dazed. “What’s the date?” she whispers.

      She can’t be serious, I think, but she is.

      “It’s the eleventh of February. You left on November fourth last year. That’s fourteen weeks and five days. Shall we start with week one?”

      “It’s complicated,” she says. “Have I ever told you about space-time continuums?”

      This is a question deserving an angry response, but I say nothing. I don’t even raise an eyebrow. My silence makes her nervous. She takes a deep breath.

      “George you deserve a really good explanation and I really wish I had one, but as I say it’s complicated. If you want to know what’s happened, you’ll need to speak to a really brainy person like Aunt Lucy.”

      “Then why don’t we go and see her,” I say. “As long as she talks in sentences that make sense I’m sure we’ll get on like a house on fire.”

      Cassie goes quiet. She’s in a corner and she knows it. It’s time to put up or shut up. She puts up.

      “Okay George if you really want to meet Aunt Lucy that’s what we’ll do.”

      She grabs my hand and pulls me along the pavement towards a telephone box. We go in. She dials a number, twenty digits at least and replaces the receiver.

      “We’re in luck,” she says. “Transmission ends in ten minutes, we’re out in two.”

      “Shouldn’t we be strapped in?” I ask. I’m being sarcastic, of course. Normally she’s sarcastic back but today she’s not taking the bait.

      “George, please be quiet and do what you’re told.” She unwraps a toffee and presses it into my mouth. “Now close your eyes, suck the toffee and try not to fall over when things start shaking.”

      And start shaking they do. It’s like the most gut wrenching fairground ride that’s ever been invented. If I could scream I would, but my head is fast spinning like it’s no longer attached to my neck. I prepare to die, then the shaking stops. Cassie says I can open my eyes. I do. We’re in a box but it’s not a telephone box. I should be wondering what kind of a box it is, but I’m past caring – all that matters is that it’s not a coffin. There’s a metal bar. Cassie pushes down on it, the door opens and a dog barks.

      Outside is a place I don’t recognise. It’s nearly dark and gas lights on wrought iron lamp posts are giving out a dim, yellow glow. Across the road is a café, not unlike the one in Broad Street. An old car that should be in the London to Brighton rally pulls up on the cobbles outside. The driver takes something into the café, comes out, drives off.

      I’m thinking that this must be a film set or an historical re-enactment. I tell myself that it’s not for real, but deep down I know it is. It’s weird and getting weirder. A man in a silver jump suit and shoes that glow in the dark is running down the street. He stops outside the cafe, peers in the window and waves furiously at someone inside. He shouts, something about being back, but no one’s taking any notice.

      “What’s that all about?” I mutter.

      Cassie sighs. “George, even if I could explain, you wouldn’t believe me. Let’s go and find Aunt Lucy.”

 

Chapter 2

 

What happens next? Would anyone like to have a go at writing chapter 2?  1,000 - 1,500 words.

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 Inspiration

By Sis Unswoth

Tim needed inspiration to elevate his plan,

to combat global warming for a better world for man

No more flying holidays, he would always stay at home

along the Southend pier, they now would see him roam.

But, he needed inspiration, to help him to get started,

he had to give it all he had, and not just be half-hearted.

Someone had suggested, he should give up his car,

he pretended not to hear that, as it was a step too far.

He could always buy a bicycle or even take a bus,

but all that waiting in between, he didn’t need the fuss.

No more plastic bottles, he’d recycle all his waste,

he tried to be a vegan, but he didn’t like the taste.

He couldn’t give up bacon, and he loved his Sunday roast,

And breakfast wasn’t quite the same, with tomatoes on dried toast.

If he had inspiration, he was sure he could succeed,

to leave his carbon footprint, would be his one good deed.

But all thoughts of inspiration really had to wait,

as he tucked into a juicy steak, they’d just put on his plate.

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 

A BITTER TASTE

By Peter Woodgate 

I look at the barmaid through an empty glass

As the last drop of liquid slides down my throat

I fumble through pockets each side of my jeans

Finding them empty I turn to my coat.

I manage a smile as I find some loose change

And thumping the glass down I ask for another,

She gives me a smile and replies with the words

“You’ve had enough darling, go home to your mother”

Everyone knows that I’ve had a big row

My wife’s kicked me out and I’ve gone home to mum

All I have left is to visit the pub

And drown all my sorrows, one after one.

But hang on a moment, that girl in the corner,

She’s wearing a blouse with pink and white lace

I stumble toward her, my luck may be in,

It’s then that I trip and fall flat on my face.

So to all those poor fellows who know what it’s like

To feel so dejected, their lives full of woe

Don’t bother with women, they just give you grief,

Stick to the booze, but drink nice and slow.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

Personal Well-being: 01

  Personal Well-being: Peppery, Dry Gritty Eyes?  

   

   By Barefoot Medic

 Many of us work long hours, frequently late into the night, in front of a glowing computer screen.  Is it any wonder that we suffer from dry sore eyes?  We don't blink enough; we don't take frequent breaks, so we are our own worst enemies.  There is another growing breed who suffer from the same symptoms, the 'games players' who can't or won't pause that game to take a break for fear of being eliminated. 

 You need eyewash to keep your eyes healthy.  The finest eyewash is freely available & costs nothing.  It is your own tears; if you are able to cry at will then you'll never suffer from sore eyes.  Unfortunately few of us have that ability.   But, a good substitute is 'Saline', slightly salty water.   The main problem is not the constituents, water & salt, but the quantities of each required to mix 'false tears'.  Well, it’s your lucky day:

1.    The foolproof method I use is to mix a supersaturated solution of salt. Add a teaspoonful of table salt to a small quantity of boiling water.   It's important to stir vigorously and add further salt until there are undiluted crystals remaining; this is a supersaturated solution of salt.  Pour the liquid into a dropper bottle, (available at most chemist shops)' taking care not to transfer the un-dissolved salt.  Allow this to cool.

2.    When you need to wash your eyes out, fill a standard eye-bath (20ml) with very hot water:

·    Add 6 drops (less than 1ml) of supersaturated solution into the hot water and stir well.  Leave it to stand for a few minutes.

3.   Everybody's eyes vary ever-so-slightly so the solution may need fine-tuning but, it will be within +1 or -1 drop. Start with 6 drops of saline if your eye feels raw add a 7th drop of saline this will be the required mixture for your eyes in future.  If there is too much salt your eye will feel itchy.  If this is the case, discard the eye-bath contents & start again adding one drop less.  Ideal for tired eyes and irrigating dust, dirt, or an eyelash from your eye. 

    One small dropper bottle will last a month or more and cost a few pence, or two packets of salt from McDonald's.

   I have used this remedy effectively and with confidence for 'forty years'.  It was recommended to my mother, by the surgeon who removed her cataracts.  He maintained this simple salt & water solution is closer to natural tears than any of the proprietary brands of eyewash.  

Warning:

This remedy has been used by me with no ill effects, however, be advised that you try it at your own risk.   If in doubt consult your physician.

 

 

A POEM FOR ALL THOSE DOG LOVERS

( sent to me from a friend in San Francisco)

  

DOGS AT LIVE OAK BEACH SANTA CRUZ

BY ALICIA OSTRIKER 

As if there could be a world

Of absolute innocence

In which we forgot ourselves.

 

The owners throw sticks

And half-bald tennis balls

Toward the surf

And the happy dogs leap after them

As if catapulted-

 

Black dogs, tan dogs,

Tubes of glorious muscle-

 

Pursuing pleasure

More than obedience

They race, skid to a halt in the wet sand,

Sometimes they’ll plunge straight into

The foaming breakers.

 

Like diving birds, letting the green turbulence

Toss them, until they snap and sink

 

Teeth into floating wood

Then bound back to their owners

Shins wet, with passionate speed

For nothing,

For absolutely nothing, but joy.

 

From Peter Woodgate

Abbalar Tales ~ 28

 Abbalar Tales ~ 28 Captivity 1 

By Len Morgan

'After all this time I will finally get to meet Kaffeit and settle unfinished business from nine years ago,’ Aldor thought.     He smiled inwardly, he would also get to avenge Ghorik his old swordmaster and teacher, whose advice on combat was 'fight to win'.    He lay on a hard horsehair mattress in a detention cell at the guards’ blockhouse.   He was alone and allowed his mind to wander.

.-…-. 

He gazed deeply into two hard flinty eyes.   He was seven again and could hear the yells of encouragement from his peers.   They were baying for blood.   His, or his opponents, it didn't much matter to them.   Since receiving the challenge from Kaffeit, he had trained diligently and hard for a month.   The older boy was nine; he was not only bigger and stronger but fast and agile too.   If he was caught by Kaffeit's heavy stave he would certainly know it.   He had no illusions; boys and men had died from injuries sustained in such, so-called, friendly contests.   His opponent had weight and age advantage, he was the school bully, he delighted in calling out boys younger and weaker than himself; relentlessly humiliating them in single combat.

   They knelt facing each other, engaged in the ritual of combat, each breathing deeply and easily, one eye on games marshal Ghorik, who would signal the start of the contest, one eye on the opponent.   Ghorik glanced at Caliph Endrochine without moving his head.   Their eyes engaged.   Endrochine nodded once.   The flag dropped.

   The elder boy charged in twirling his stave about his head yelling confidently like a bear with a toothache.   The younger boy stood his ground until his opponent was almost upon him.   As the stave flew towards his head he ducked beneath it sliding between the other boy’s legs, slapping his testicles with the flat of his hand as he did so.    Momentum carried the bigger boy on a few paces before he crumpled up in a heap.   His battle roar changed to a howl of pain, as he dropped his stave, clasping his hands to his groin.

"Bastard!" he screamed in anger as uncharacteristic tears flooded his eyes.

Little Ahle loved the applause.   He paused to take a bow. Several of them, as the crowd went wild.   He should have been pressing home his advantage by beating his opponent senseless.   Instead, he had underestimated the older boys’ recuperative powers.

Kaffeit rose quickly and rushed Ahle from behind.   Only at the last moment did the cries of alarm register, warning him of imminent disaster.   He ducked instinctively a moment before the stave scythed his legs from under him.   He gazed up in surprise into those hard murderous eyes.   The lead tipped stave smashed into his solar plexus, a textbook move, his stomach was afire.   He curled instinctively into a foetal position folding his arms around his head and rolled but, a glancing blow to his throat collapsed his windpipe.   As he struggled to draw breath another solid blow hit him firmly between the eyes.   He never felt the subsequent tirade of blows and kicks that incapacitated him for three months.   For a further three, he walked with a limp, aided by crutches, at one time it was thought he would never walk again.

By the time he recovered sufficiently to return to his training Kaffeit had moved on.   He accepted a junior commission in the Border Rangers, fighting on the disputed border with Bycroft, to gain valuable combat experience.

.-…-. 

He awoke, hours before dawn.   He exercised his limbs, and when he was warm and glowing he exercised his mind.   He sat meditating while the sun came up.   He felt relaxed and eager to renew his acquaintance with Kaffeit and settle that old score, once and for all.

The tradition was for matters of honour to be settled at dawn.   So, as the sun rose he sat facing the cell door, concentrating his energy, on a single purpose.   Then, as the sun rose higher and nobody came, his impatience got the better of him.   He cast his mind about to discover what was happening.   He tried to contact Captain Vascelli but without success.   He entered the minds of a series of guards, none of whom had any knowledge of a duel, only that a murder had been committed the previous evening.

"Guard!" he shouted through the bars of his cell.   "I would speak with your captain if you please."   He called every quarter, without remit, until finally, a captain tapped impatiently on the bars.

"What is it you want!" he asked.

"I should like something to eat and drink and some news of my pending duel with Kaffeit.   I also need to speak with captain Vascelli."

"The good captain is now well on his way to the disputed territories with Bycroft.   He is apparently in disgrace for not killing you last-eve instead of wasting the headsman's time.   There is no duel planned, not for a man of foreign extraction, especially after such a heinous murder, done in this very palace.   You’re to be beheaded at sundown as prescribed by law, neither food nor water will pass your lips in this life…"

"There are witnesses who will attest that I went to the rescue of my employer who sustained an unprovoked attack from the guard who died.   My master Asba Dylon will so attest.   The man attacked me after the challenge was issued.   I avoided his attack and he fell awkwardly, his death was accidental…"

"Asba?   That puts a different complexion on things.    He was my guarantor when I enlisted in the army.   I'll see what I can find out," he said in a more sympathetic tone.   "Guard, get this man some sustenance immediately."

.-…-. 

"I insist you let me pass, I need to speak with my clerk, who is being detained wrongfully for murder.   I am Asba Dylon chief counsellor of this city."

"I know who you are sir, but this is a military matter," the sergeant began…

"I need to know what is happening to him, he saved my life!   I want answers and quickly and if I do not get them I shall convene a council meeting.   Neither the city or the Regent can survive long without funds…"

"Are you threatening the Regent of Corvalen sir?"

"Of course not, quite the contrary, I am concerned that nothing should happen to impede the flow of funds that have been promised for the upkeep and administration of this city.   Instability of any kind has a tendency to tighten purse strings."   He looked into the sergeant's uncomprehending face, "when were you last paid sergeant?"

A look of understanding transformed his face.

"I need to speak with somebody in authority who can advise me.   Captain Vascelli assured me no harm would befall that fine young man who is even now languishing in your prison.   For the sin of protecting his master against an armed brute twice his size.  He saved me from a terrible beating and, almost certain death, at the hands of that animal.   The guardsman launched a completely unprovoked attack on my person yestereve, a giant of a man.   Yes, my clerk attacked him, with words to shame him into relenting, and was in turn attacked for his troubles.   He avoided the giant's lunge and the man fell badly and broke his neck, and that was that.   The boy did not launch a single blow."

"One moment counsellor," the sergeant disappeared for a few moments, returning with a list which he consulted critically, "name of Aldor?"

"That is correct," he nodded.

"To be beheaded at sunset."

.-…-. 

For as long as he could recall his father had stood tall, flanked by his three eldest sons.   Fazeil was the elder, Jervez the soldier, Paveil the administrator and diplomat.   He was the third son.   Jervez had died the same evening their father Endrochine, returned to the wheel of life.   He recalled the pact, made between the three brothers at their father’s insistence.   So that when the inevitable happened the two younger brothers would support Fazeil who, they all agreed, should rule in their father’s stead.   Jervez was a fool, his men made a clumsy bungled attempt to assassinate Fazeil, judging by the look on his face as he was dragged away he would have made a better actor than an assassin.   Paveil had almost felt sorry for him, but he also found himself imprisoned, as a result just as a precaution.   According to Fazeil it was unavoidable; now six months had passed.  

  "My sons, your resolve is good and honourable, and in the best interest of the state; may you be granted the courage to carry it through.   I shall depart this world momentarily, knowing a blood bath has been averted; together you have the experience and strength to control the others and impose this revolutionary new regime on them all.   They will all of course be under house arrest for the duration until your affirmation a year from today.   All those, high born, and in positions of authority, are required to swear fealty to you, Fazeil.   Both your brothers will provide you with the support required to ensure a stable regime.  

 "It is important that our enemies do not perceive weakness.   Swear to this, on your honour," Endrochine commanded, producing strength from somewhere, raising his arm to be clasped firmly by each in turn.   He died shortly afterwards, peacefully, with an unaccustomed smile on his face.

(to be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

  

Witches and Warlocks

 Witches and Warlocks from the Glen 

Peter Woodgate 

I am hypnotized as I watch them,

on breezy summer days,

witnessing a frantic dance

their hands held high,

to grip the cord that links

the group’s manic displays.

Round and round, they go,

whirling and twirling

as garments flap,

to the tune of the wind.

Souls released from human frames

reach for the sun,

and it’s healing powers,

to drive away

unwanted showers.

A ritual of freedom,

for those witches,

and the warlocks,

from the glen.

but, their freedom

will soon be over

this I ken.

I check my watch

yes, it is time,

to take the washing

off the line.

Copyright Peter Woodgate