Cheilin Saga ~ 09

 Cheilin Saga ~ 09 Bluttland I

By Len Morgan

Mawgwar was ‘the Premier Bride of Bedelacq’; and the most senior; his favourite and most intimate human receptacle.   He maintained better relations with her than with any other of his brides, even though at first appearance they all seemed to be about the same age, but they were not.   Bedelacq was able to maintain the human form in an unchanged state for hundreds of years; it was not possible to do so indefinitely but, if the process was started early enough, he could allow them to remain frozen in time, without ill effect for centuries.   He chose for them to be forever sixteen and in the full bloom of youth, and at their most attractive to males.

Occasionally a female body would show signs of deterioration and become harder for him to maintain, in a stable state, for any length of time.   He would allow the body to die, and with it the occupying spirit; or as in the case of Mawgwar, his faithful follower, he would allow her to choose a fresh young form from amongst her handmaidens.   There were four; when Bedelacq informed her of her impending demise, she chose without hesitation, announcing that Sherveice would become Mawgwar.   Though the new form was young, the switch was immediately apparent, as soon as it had taken place; the eyes of Sherveice grew dark and dangerous, revealing the true effects of Mawgwar’s seven previous transitions.  

Sherveice, was under a misconception that automatically, with her new body would inherit the power.    She made the mistake of issuing orders as though she were ‘the Premier Bride’.

“What do you think you are at girl?” Mawgwar screamed.   “You aren’t even a bride yet, I chose your body because that one is dying and you are the least of my minions.”

“No it isn’t true, say it isn’t…?”   Sherveice croaked through unfamiliar lips.

“Go enjoy what little time is left to you, return to the place of your birth and arrange your affairs.   What you do is of no concern to us.   Begone!” Mawgwar laughed malevolently.

.-...-.

Hierarchy!

To a man, all Blutt Priests and Generals can trace their formative years back to Blutt Central, to humble beginnings as slaves to the rulers ‘the Brides of the Bedelacq’; no matter how high they rise they know there is no escape from the collar and leash.   Instinctively they all defer to ‘the Brides’, Bedelacq’s personal representatives on Abbalar.  They make edicts, dispense his justice, and rule supreme,  throughout the land in the name of Bedelacq.

   General Mawld was taken from his parents, by the seekers, as a child, with seventy other boys and an unknown number of young girls, who were imprisoned in three carawagons, and hidden away from the light of day for the duration of their journey.   The boys were herded like cattle, on a nightmare journey, fed starvation rations and reduced to eating anything that came to hand, or mouth, in order to survive.   They were herded around, aimlessly it seemed, for close to three months becoming lean and gaunt in the process.   Their numbers dwindled daily until only thirty-five remained alive.   Only then did the seeker priest turn them and head to the capital, Blutt Central. 

On arrival, they were pressed into service as slaves to ‘the Brides’.   Life was still hard, their rulers strict and unpredictable ensuring their survival was uncertain but, they consoled themselves with the reality of receiving better quality and regular food.   During the next five years, Mawld served four Brides, being passed from one to another for assessment.   He would be uprooted in the middle of the night and led away without explanation, he came to realise that they did not need to give him one, he was required to obey any and all…   He came finally into the possession of Mawgwar, who retained him for six weeks, together with five others.   He learned early that to gain respect he had to be stronger than the others, and make them fear him, which he did reluctantly at first until he became an automaton.  

                                                    .-…-. 

A Conjunction occurs twice a year, when Vexen, the red moon, dominates the night sky by eclipsing Veinen, its smaller and more distant blue neighbour.   At this time Abbalar is bathed in blood-red light; for a period of seventeen minutes.   At this time, the Bluttlanders are whipped into a blood letting frenzy, by their priests, in the name of the one god Bedelacq.   For a brief insane interlude all the laws of humanity are suspended and they behave in a manner that would shame the vilest beasts.

Half an hour prior to ‘the Conjunction’, a hundred and twenty young men were led into the ‘Arena of Blood’.   Each was issued with a short stabbing weapon and a singlet of either orange or green.   These were to signify the teams they were allied to; the issue was completely random.    Becoming a thinly disguised excuse for the carnage the conjunction unleashed.   Further divided into units of three, they faced up and awaited the moment of the conjunction.   The light changed from lavender to violet to brown to red, and they attacked.   Their attackers and one of their own was killed swiftly, and the survivors turned to face the next group.   They were joined by a survivor from another group, and they fought again, Mawld fought until all who faced him were dead.   When the Conjunction had passed, a horn sounded bringing an end to the slaughter.   He looked towards the brides and their handmaidens and saw the blood lust reflected in their eyes.   Bloodied and bright-eyed, with tears and the excitement of battle, while fight fluids were still coursing through his veins he suddenly felt mortified, what had they done?   He looked around counting just thirty-four survivors, including himself, more than two-thirds of their number had died to provide those ghouls with entertainment; suddenly he felt sick.

As the survivors left the killing field their weapons were taken from them and inspected.  

They were separated into two groups.   Mawld was allocated to the larger group, with twenty-two others.   The group with twelve members was led back into the arena, and set to work, dispatching the wounded hanging the bodies by their heels and beheading them.  The blood drained into buckets until fully exsanguinated, then the bodies were piled onto four horse draws carts, and taken to be burned.

“How were we chosen,” Mawld asked a soldier.

“Their blades were not bloodied,” he answered with a wry grin.

“What will happen to them?” he asked.

The soldier shrugged and looked away.

Mawld and most of his group were seconded to the army, as officer cadets.  After a few months of training, they were sent, as young sub lieutenants, to lead seasoned troops into battle on the opposite face of the Sabretooth range.   This was during their ill-conceived and abortive attempts to gain a foothold in Southern Dalacia to the North of Bluttland.    Despite it ending in failure, Mawld distinguished himself in battle and returned as a veteran captain.   When he went north again, during the second campaign, his commanding officer was cut down in an ambush.   He took command rallying the men, who were on the point of retreating and led them in a rout that enabled Bluttland to establish its first permanent foothold in Dalacia.   He was mentioned in despatches and received a field promotion to Major.   He was now recognised as a talented officer, fast tracked for promotion, and recalled to Blutt Central for further training, and indoctrination, prior to further elevation.

Colonel Mawld returned to the front to take up a new post, and to find that morale had plummeted again in his absence.    There were daily desertions and many others were close to fleeing.   He called the men together and asked them to send representatives to put forward their grievances.   He promised he would do his utmost to redress the injustices.   A particularly aggressive representative refused to accept this and it came down to angry words, face to face, and more.   The man-made the mistake of drawing his sword against Mawld, who despatched him out of hand showing his contempt by wiping his blade on his victim’s cloak.   Then he repeated his promise and made eye contact, with as many as possible, daring them to doubt him.

  Mawld was true to his word.   In two months he totally reversed their fortunes.   He established good relations with some of the local farmers, buying their produce, at a fair price, and helping them to plant their fields in the absence of their young men; who had been pressed into service with the Dalacian Army.   One of his own troopers was accused of raping a local woman.   When the man openly admitted the act, Mawld had him publicly executed.   The farming communities could see that Blutt Laws were for all, not just the occupying force.   In just a few weeks he had set up a mobile establishment of three dozen young professional women, from Bluttland, the harassment of local women ceased from the day they arrived.   The next, and most unexpected, development was the recruitment of young local volunteers for a second cadre the Madame found that she was turning girls away.

Everybody it seemed was happy with the situation, everyone except a hard-line priest named Roffal, who thought they should be rounding up the local populace and sacrificing them in the name of Bedelacq.

“You ought to be gathering subjects for the next conjunction, not pandering to their whims!   These people are our enemies; you are fraternizing with them, helping them farm their lands, giving then succour.   You are a fool Mawld, they will turn on us.   Our only real friends are our own kind…”

“Priest!   We are in a foreign land, a hostile environment, we need their cooperation much more than they need ours.   If we impose our rituals and beliefs on them they will certainly turn against us, and make our job that much harder.   I am in command here and you will hold your peace,” said Mawld.

 “Our Lord Bedelacq is most specific.   At the time of conjunction, an offering of blood must be made in his name.   You will do well to remember that” said Roffal.

“Are you threatening me, priest?”

“I am telling you the facts man!”

“If Bedelacq bays for blood, he will receive blood!”   Mawld answered, “just get out of my sight, now!” he yelled dismissively.

   At the next conjunction each army unit sacrificed one head of cattle; a cow, a pig, sheep or goat, and they feasted on the drained carcases afterwards.  

Roffal was not pleased.   He ranted at the perceived insult to God.   “Human blood is what is expected and required at the conjunction, not this…” he yelled in frenzy and tipped the offering bowls over onto the floor, showing his contempt.

Six months on the priest returned to issue a further warning, “Mind my words, General, Bedelacq requires human blood!   Ignore this warning at your peril.”

Mawld went white with anger, “Then he shall have it” he answered, grabbing the priest by the scruff of his neck and drawing his knife.

Roffal squawked like a chicken, Mawld let him go, with a mixture of contempt and disbelief, and watched him scurry from the command tent in terror.   He summoned his officers and informed them of his encounter with the priest, “he may be a spineless coward but, he is very dangerous” said Mawld.

“He is also right,” said Hagg, one of his seniors, “we cannot ignore the wishes of Bedelacq, without courting disaster.   It could place our whole mission in jeopardy.”

Mawld looked hard at the man allowing it to pass without comment, this was a time for straight-talking, but he would be watching Hagg from now on.   “Does anybody else hold similar views?” he asked.   Three men stepped forward.   “You four can leave now and will not be a party to what I have planned; I ask only that you do not repeat anything you have heard.   When they had left he issued his instructions to those who remained.

On the night of the next conjunction, he held his own arm over the offering bowl, and let his blood flow.   Most of his officers did likewise.  Some of the men were also moved to do the same, as well as sacrificing animals as before.

Roffal was livid.   As promised, Mawld had given human blood at the offering and it was given willingly which made it a hundred times more potent, according to the Brides of Bedelacq.

A messenger was despatched to Blutt Central requesting that one of his Brides be sent to witness and put a stop to what was being done in the conquered region of Dalacia.   The priest was a bitter and vengeful man, he would not rest easy until Mawld was in chains and banished from the light of day forever.

(To be continued)

 Copyright Len Morgan

 My Last Holiday

By Rosemary Clarke

To begin with, I asked Len to come up with ideas for me to use as stories, poems etc as I'm fed up with talking about troubles etc, so here is the first:

   I don't know about my last holiday, but being with my niece Nat is always a holiday and so really, I have lots of little ones when I see her.
Because of a bus hitting me and the brain damage it caused I find it very hard to be spontaneous, but following Nat around, I learn things and have adventures finding out about me and the world around me.

Going out with her is never a chore; she's always diving into new shops on the high street or finding unusual things to eat or to wear.

When I'm with her, and I'm not the only one to say this, it's a huge adventure and you always come back with unusual desserts she's found in Iceland, a new band from HMV or a T-shirt  top or some knick-knack from a second-hand shop that looks just right and you'd never have looked at it without her.

Southend, Rayleigh and many other places become better and more interesting for me, but as well as this it's the way she gathers her friends around to help her and others, as she does them; no one is in trouble or upset for long with Nat because you always know that, whatever it is, no matter how bad, there's a solution at the end of the phone.

My last real holiday was about 1991when I still had my neck brace on, but thanks to Nat, it's a holiday just to be with her.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 

Runestones 03

 Runes

By Janet Baldey

         “Do you see that lady over there?”

         Margie followed the line of the Nurse’s pointing finger to where a figure was slumped in a wheelchair. Covered by a brightly coloured blanket, with only a tuft of white hair showing, its sex was difficult to determine but she trusted the nurse’s word.

         “You’d never guess, but that’s Lorna Lane’s twin sister.”

         “What the film star? Can’t be!” Another figure flashed into Margie’s mind, slim and lithe with masses of platinum hair.

         “True, we checked it out. When she’s awake, have a chat. She loves to talk.”

***

         My wretched body might be past it, but I still have all my faculties and I smiled to myself as I overheard their conversation.  It was, I conceded, very difficult to believe but I felt too sleepy to care.  Two heavy weights pressed down on my eyelids, the smell of disinfectant disappeared and the aroma of freshly baked cinnamon rolls took its place as the clamour of the room faded and I fell back into a past that I barely remembered but would never entirely forget.

           My twin and I are half Swedish and when we were young, we always spent Christmas with my mother’s sister in a tiny village just outside Stockholm. Again, I clearly felt  rough wool scratching my chin as mamma buttoned me into my thick winter coat ready for the long journey into the frozen Swedish countryside.

Aunt Saga’s cottage was spotlessly clean and so crowded with old fashioned pine furniture that a journey between rooms was like an obstacle course.  My Aunt was very like my mother, maternal and loving and after our hugs and kisses, she lost no time in ushering us into the warmth of her kitchen where we were revived by strong coffee and gingerbread biscuits.

“Don’t treat us like guests, we’re family.” Mamma always said and very soon, we were up to our elbows in food, preparing the enormous julbard smorgasbord traditionally served on Christmas Eve.

 In Sweden, presents are handed out after dark when everyone is stuffed full of smoked fish, cold and hot meats, salads or the spiced meatballs that were always my particular favourite. But I was a naughty and impatient child and couldn’t wait to get my gifts. I always remember staring out of the latticed windows wishing the remains of the day away.  So, one year while the rest of the family were in the kitchen hoovering up the smorgasbord and quaffing spiced eggnog, I rebelled.  Like a bandit, I crept into the room where the Christmas tree sparkled in a corner surrounded by a huge pile of presents.  My hands fluttering like hummingbirds, I skimmed through them until I found those marked with my name, Ebba.  From their feel, I could guess most of them, books, games, or sweets but there was one that intrigued me.  It was from Aunt Saga and rattled when I shook it.  With a stealthy look towards the door, I carefully undid the wrapping and took a peek. I can still feel the sense of crushing disappointment. The brightly covered package merely contained little pieces of wood with strange marks on them. They looked a bit like five-stones, but I already had those and was bored by them.

It was a dull present and I wondered what Astrid had got.  I stopped and listened.  I could hear the raucous sound of singing, strong drink was obviously being served and it was plain that nobody would notice my absence for some time. So, I searched on until I found it.  Astrid’s gift was shaped like a doll and seemed much more exciting. I hesitated but only for a second, then knowing I shouldn’t but doing it anyway, I switched labels and scurried back to the dining room.

It turned out that my parcel didn’t contain a doll but a fluffy white haired Tomte, a Swedish gnome supposed to guard the household if treated respectfully. Tomte was dressed in his usual scarlet tunic and was way better than scrappy old bits of wood so I was satisfied.  Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as Astrid undid her parcel. Instead of looking disappointed, she seemed curious and looked towards Aunt Saga. With a slightly puzzled frown, Aunt beckoned her into another room but I didn’t give them another thought, I was too busy ripping off wrapping paper.

The years went by and I forgot all about Tomte, stuffed into the back of a dusty cupboard.  But during that time, I noticed something strange. It seemed that Astrid could do no wrong and I could do no right. While my blonde hair darkened to mouse and acne marred my looks, Astrid’s hair shone like gold and her complexion remained flawless.  At school, I struggled, while Astrid romped ahead.  She always seemed to know the right questions to revise and invariably got top marks; it wasn’t long before she became Head Girl. After school, she opted for an acting career.  She changed her name from Astrid Smith to Lorna Lane and always seemed to be in the right place at the right time when choice parts were handed out.   She quickly became famous when, quite by chance, she crossed the path of a well-known film director casting for the female lead in his latest blockbuster. Later, in a blaze of limelight, she married a wealthy man who adored her and moved her to a luxurious home in Hollywood where her star continued to rise.

Meanwhile, I had no luck at all.  I was stuck under a permanent cloud. Just occasionally, the cloud lifted and a weak beam of sunlight struggled through, but mostly I was rained on from a great height.  Fed up with the attention Astrid got at school, I mixed with the wrong crowd and skipped lessons. Instead of studying, I spent my weekends in the mosh pit jumping up and down to the sound of discordant music. My parents tried to stop me by locking me in my bedroom, but what are windows for?  

Of course, I failed my exams and entered the workplace with no qualifications.  Eventually, I found a dead-end job and worked for a pittance under the sadistic control of a fat-arsed pig of a manager. Our hatred was mutual. He called me pizza-face and gave me all the worst jobs and I once put salt in his coffee.

Fed up with my moaning, Dad, who came from England, said that perhaps I’d stand a better chance in London. He still had some connections, so he got me a job as a waitress in a big hotel.  The work was hard on the feet but there was plenty of it and the tips were good. The trouble was, the rents were sky-high so although I only rented one room in a squalid shared house, I still had to paddle  hard to stay afloat. Then the heavens opened again and once more I was drenched.  Covid arrived and the hotel was forced to close. 

Out of a job, no money, the streets beckoned but then the cavalry galloped into town.  After a long and happy life, Aunt Saga died.  I was sad but the legacy she left me soon dried my tears. For the first time in my life, I had money in my pocket.

It was soon after that I met the love of my life.  Tony was tall, dark and handsome and better than that, he vowed he adored me. He actually vowed many things and one of them was that he could make my money grow.

“Your money will be safe with me,” he said.  It may well have been, but how was I to know because as soon as I gave him my PIN number, Tony disappeared. along with the contents of my bank balance.   I learned later that he was already married with a wife burdened with a litter of children somewhere in the depths of Essex.  I can only hope, for the sake of the gullible, that none of his children inherited his criminal gene.

So, then I really did end up in the concrete embrace of London’s pavements and believe you me, being on the streets does nothing for your health, which is the reason I’m here now.

But I don’t want you to think I blame Astrid.  It was my own fault for switching labels all those years ago.  We were reunited recently and after we’d dried each other’s tears, I learned why she’d been so lucky all her life.

“It wasn’t luck.  I’ve got Aunt Saga to thank for my good fortune. Do you remember that Christmas when you got Tomte and I got those bits of wood?  They are called Runestones and she told me how to use them afterwards.  Apparently, only some people can.  You need the gift. Funnily enough, she always thought you had it. You were meant to get them Ebba but she muddled up the labels.  Anyway, casting the Runes is very complicated but I managed it in the end.  Afterwards, every time I had to make a decision or came to a cross-road in my life, I relied on them. They told me what path to take and never failed me.  So, you see, I’ve got dear Aunt Saga to thank for my good luck.”

 “Oh no, Astrid. You’re wrong there.  It’s me you have to thank.” I thought. But I didn’t say anything. I may not have much but I still have my pride.

Recently though, another thought has occurred to me. Perhaps my bad luck was not due to the Runestones.  Perhaps they only work for Astrid.  Perhaps it was because of Tomte. Perhaps Tomte had a grudge against me for leaving him in the dark for all those years with only bits of broken toys for company? But maybe he has forgiven me now ‘cos Astrid is being very kind to me.  After I leave hospital she has arranged for me to stay with her, so I will get to see Hollywood after all.

I do hope I like it.

Copyright Janet Baldey

 The Vanishing Hat

By Sis Unsworth

I had a call from Auntie May, she sounded in a state,

She’d had a wedding invite, and feared she would be late.

My new hat has just vanished, I heard her stricken cry

I’ve searched but cannot find it, however hard I try

It wasn’t in the hatbox, really I could weep,

When I looked inside all I could find, was Tom Cat fast asleep!

I really don’t know what to do, I’ve looked just everywhere,

I’ve searched in all the cupboards, and underneath the stair.

Truly it has vanished, whatever shall I do?

I wondered if I’d left it over there with you?

I said I hadn’t got it, but would help her with the search,

I’d do my very best, to get her to the church.

I drove as fast as I could go, to help her find the hat,

She was waiting with the door open, standing on the mat.

She did look in a panic, and seemed quite in a state,

Oh please quick come & help me, or else I will be late.

I gently took her by the arm, then turned to her and said,

Just calm down and search no more, you have it on your head!!!

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 STAKEOUT

by Richard Banks             

  

On-street surveillance isn’t everybody’s cup of tea. Usually, it’s a parked car job, a building to be watched, people in, people out, everyone, save the postman, to be photographed and logged on audio.

         Easy peasy you’re thinking, and usually, it is. Stay unnoticed and the only problem you have is in staying awake. Get rumbled and you had better drive off quick before someone decides to pay you a visit and lay one on you. It’s happened, so, you’re nothing less than sensible. The car you use is bog standard, nothing that stands out, the doors stay locked, you don’t get out, every few hours you park up somewhere new, never too close to the target, but always close enough to see.

         Do all that and you stay safe and get paid, cash in hand for every hour worked. The real skill is when you don’t have the car. Some streets don’t allow parking during the day, some never, so you have to find another way. If there’s a cafe or pub with good sightlines you use that; nice and cosy especially when the weather’s rough, but you don’t get paid expenses so every pint and sandwich is down to you.

         Sometimes the only way you can do the job is on foot in clear view of whoever you’re watching. That can be a real game of cat and mouse, and as often as not you’re the mouse so you had better be good at what you do. The trick is to blend in, be one of the matchstick men, a figure so familiar he attracts zero attention, a usual sort of man, doing whatever usual men do in that particular street.

         Today I’m on a domestic. The Client’s checking-up on his wife of only six months. He’s abroad on business, wants to know who she’s letting in while he’s away. So far it’s no one except a woman old enough to be her mother, which is good news all round and a quiet life for me. Nevertheless, I’m not taking any chances. Today I’m a hoodie, a familiar sight around here. Most of them are unemployed layabouts with nothing to do but kill time. So, I stood in a bus shelter. Waiting for a bus is not going to attract much attention, especially as some of the routes only come by once or twice an hour. Even if I am noticed no one gets a clear view of my face which means I can come back later and be someone else.  

         The woman comes to the window and peers out. A rain check, or is she expecting company? Apparently neither, she sprays the window with an aerosol and wipes it clean with a cloth. Is this what it seems or is she signaling that the coast is clear? If it’s a ruse then she’s expecting a visit from someone down here near to where I’m standing. A young guy in a suit crosses the road and turns left towards the house. I take a picture on my mobile and ready myself to get another as he goes inside, but he walks past the house and keeps going. And because I’m looking at him I nearly miss the guy who’s coming along behind. He’s up the steps to the front door before I know he’s there. The woman answers the door and he’s halfway through before I get a single shot of her face and the back of his head. This isn’t good, but it’s not a disaster. He has to come out at some point and that’s when I’ll get him full-on.

         Right now I could do with a camera that takes pictures through walls. Second best would be a listening bug but that’s a big bucks job, and anyway it’s against the law. As the client on this job is paying standard rate all he gets to know is who goes in and who goes out, and that doesn’t stretch to names and addresses, only what they look like and how long they stay which is why I need to keep alert and take some decent pictures when the guy steps out.

         Sometimes you get lucky and see something you’re not meant to, a kiss, an embrace, viewed through a window or the front door. No one should be that careless, but it happens. In half an hour it will be getting dark, room lights on and curtains pulled. For a few seconds, rooms will glow with light like they’re a West End stage. Primetime for a snap or two.

         I’m guessing that the first curtain to be drawn will be in the house I’m watching and sure enough as day fades the downstairs lights come on and Mrs G appears at the window looking out. Is she looking at me? something’s caught her eye. She half turns towards the man who’s now in his shirt sleeves. He comes forward, stands almost behind her and peers over her shoulder. A bus pulls up at the stop, blocking my view, blocking theirs. By the time it pulls away the curtain is drawn but I have a photo of them together, a single frame followed by three of the bus.

         There is a single shadow on the curtain, the two of them either side of a thin sliver of bright light where the curtains don’t quite meet. They are still looking. If the man comes out and chases after me there will be time for one last snap before I leg it down the back doubles. The shadow disappears, but the door stays shut.

         All’s well and my stint’s nearly over. In twenty-five minutes when the parking ban ends my replacement will arrive in a black Polo and park up outside the Factory Shop. That done I will get on a 21 bus and head back home. Monique, my girlfriend, is cooking tonight, something special, she says. It’s our first year anniversary. It’s going to be a romantic evening, just the two of us, with a big bash on Saturday for friends and family. She tells me she has a new dress, and I can’t wait to see it on, and off.

         Life’s good, and then suddenly, it ain’t; a police car pulls up at the bus stop. The copper inside winds down the window and tells me to get in the back. It’s PC Greenhough. This is not the first time he’s done this. It’s harassment of course. OK, so what I’m doing isn’t strictly legit but there’s no way he’s going to bring charges against me. He’s got too much else to do, so he gives me what he says is an informal warning, that way he doesn’t have to fill out a hundred and one forms. But next time, he tells me, it will be different.

         “OK, OK,” I say, “there won’t be a next time”. What I mean is that from now on I’ll only do jobs off his patch. We drive on. Where we are going I don’t know but he|’s not going to tell me, so I don’t ask. Anyway, there’s something else I need to know, something that will almost certainly be relevant to the case.

         “Who told you what I was up to? Mrs G, the man?” If it was them, it stands to reason they have nothing to hide from Mr G or anyone else. But if it’s not them, then who?

         PC Greenhough stops the car at a traffic light. “Mr Adams,” he says, “who else?”

         I say I don’t know anyone of that name. “Is he sure?”

         He says he is. The lights change. He turns left into a dimly lit side road, and right onto the gravel driveway of a large house. There’s something familiar about this place, something I should be remembering, but don’t.

         PC Greenhough turns off the engine and gets out of the car. He tells me to do the same and walks me up to the front door. He’s about to ring the bell, but there’s no need. Our arrival has been spotted from within and the door is opened by a large man in a crumpled, grey suit. He looks daggers at me while talking deferentially to PC Greenhough. He says he’s sorry, so sorry to have involved the police again. He hopes I haven’t got into any trouble.

         PC Greenhough says, “no. Just the usual thing, looking in people’s windows and taking photographs. No one’s complained.”

         The man looks relieved, thinks I may not have been taking my medication. Even under supervision it is not always possible, he says, to be sure that it has been swallowed and properly ingested.

         I’m taken into the day room and sat down in my chair. Molly, who I call Monique, sits on her chair, staring vacantly at the TV unaware that I am back. A nurse is preparing to give me an injection. This is not how life should be.

 

 Copyright Richard Banks

                          

Runestones 02

 Runes 

By Rosemary Clarke

You sit on the bus and remember
The Clairvoyant said 'dark times ahead’
Could there be yet more to contend with?
You wait with a strange kind of dread.
What are the 'dark times' that she spoke of
And will you get out alive?
Is it due to global warming?
Will you be the one not to survive?
She threw down the stones so easily
They just seemed to fall from her hand
It made you wonder at the powers
She clearly had at her command.
Is your boyfriend about to desert you?
Or will losing your job be the main?
Will something be sent to hurt you
And cause you unspeakable pain?
The Clairvoyant said she could not tell you
The runes work their mysterious ways
But when would this horror befall you
Was it months or years or days?
One evening the room is in darkness
Oh you really feel a silly nut
She said darkness would befall you
It has, it's a power cut!

 

Homework by Rosemary Clarke

 Cataracts

 By Robert Kingston

I am in a strange place a place I’ve not trod before

My mind is guiding, for my eyes have ceased, I fear they’ll work no more

Blindly I picture the beauty, I have seen, since pass

A glorious orb of treasure, I crave….. Something I had thought would forever last

 

I hear the magical sounds as nature sings its daily tunes

Like a pin to floor the noise it resonates, bouncing,

Echoing, dinning like cymbals and drums, banging at my mind's door.

One sense I am forced to rely on more, to navigate from door to door.

 

I feel the textures of nature and taste the weather

as scents tread through my nasal hair

I trust in the wonders of the universe as I share its daily flair

Colours are now created visions, landscapes I rattle with a stick

If only the privilege of seeing was as simple as the flicking of a switch.

Copyright Robert Kingston