By Robert Kingston
The colours are the first thing I remember, followed swiftly by
the sizes. How at times we would sift through the tin seeking to find a fix.
My younger brother, much to mum's disapproval thought to taste one once, through
his nose. I'll spare you the recovery details....
Copyright
Robert Kingston
By Lynne Dellow
Trixie looked up at the setting Sun and knew
that shortly her mother would leave their comfy den, which was situated under
an old garden shed, and go looking for food.
She was often out all night but always returned with something juicy for
Trixie and her three brother cubs.
Her mum sometimes
relied on the old lady, in whose garden they lived, to provide scraps, but they
hadn't seen her for several weeks and wondered why. The following day it became
apparent when Trixie awoke to find the shed slowly falling apart. What was
happening and where were her mum and brothers? She looked around what remained
of the shed and, realising she was all alone, 
ran outside. Terrified she made
her way to the end of the garden where she found a hole large enough to squeeze
through. She climbed the steep slope and found herself on an old railway embankment.
Seeing a family of foxes hiding nearby she tried to join them, but they snarled
and looked so menacing she ran off in the opposite direction. She was so frightened
and, breathing heavily, knew she couldn't go on much further. Fortunately, she found a
space in the fence and, squeezing herself through the narrow gap, and lay in some
long grass. Then exhausted she fell asleep, hoping she'd found a safe spot.
***
Sally was busy in her garden.
Although she lived alone she quite enjoyed her own company. Until recently Beth
had been her companion, She was a Springer Spaniel,
who followed her everywhere. On summer evenings they often sat on the patio,
Sally always drank a glass of wine and watched the Sunset and Beth would lay
contentedly by her side, She wiped a tear away when she thought of her passing. She sighed but as she started watering the
flowers, a slight movement caught her eye and made her stop, In the unmown
grass lay a pathetic looking fox cub. It stared at her but seemed unable to
move. It obviously needed help so Sally put down the can, walked into her
kitchen, looked in the cupboard and found a tin of dog food, which she opened
and gently mashed. She placed a quarter on an old plate, half filled Beth’s
drinking bowl and took them to near where Trixie was laying. She then returned
to her bungalow, hoping the cub would survive the night. The next morning she found it
in the same spot and was pleased to see the food was gone.
Many Moons passed by and a strange friendship developed
between the two, It took a while but once Trixie knew she was safe she became
braver. She’d sometimes make her way to Sally's backdoor and lay on
the doormat, Sally had a catflap fitted
on the shed door and put Beth’s sleeping basket inside.
Then one evening Sally was sitting on the patio, Trixie
appeared and lay a few feet away. Sally
smiled and, looking at the setting Sun, raised a toast to her dear Beth. Trixie
too looked at the fast disappearing Sun and thought of her mum and brothers.
She wondered what had become of them, hoping they'd found someone as loving as
she had.
Copyright Lynne Dellow
They watched the sunset every night, as they’d done for quite a
while
so content to be together, it did so make you smile
just the two of them as always, a regal Darby & Joan.
Their youngest now had flown the nest, leaving them alone,
now with just the two of them, the time went rather slow,
how busy they had once both been, not so long ago.
They now had time each evening, to watch the setting sun,
a radiant end to a lovely day, that enhanced the night to come
Nocturnal birds and animals they knew, would soon now be awake
as the sun did slowly disappear, beyond the silver lake.
They always felt quite hungry when, daytime turned to night
they could now dine away from home, and stay till it got light
so off they went the two of them, to find their favourite place,
The old barn by the river, it did so suit their taste.
In the golden glow of sunset, so picturesque and nice
the tawny owls then flew away, for their supper of field mice.
Copyright
Sis Unsworth
(To Be Continued)
Copyright
Len Morgan
By Len Morgan
(To be Continued)
Copyright
Len Morgan
Peter Woodgate
The landing craft gave one last blast from its anti-gravitational propulsion before settling, softly, on the planet’s surface. The two crew members had been sent down to confirm that, despite all the pre-trip calculations, the planet appeared unfit for colonization.
They looked out of the small viewing area before adding a “superheat” guard to their already well equipped suits. They then approached the air lock which would allow them access to the outside world.
The trip had been sanctioned with the expert knowledge that this planet would almost certainly be suitable for colonization. It was within a system where the sun was of an ideal size supporting several planets and that this one was of an ideal distance from the centre.
Although several million light years away, due to the revolutionary “warp plus” invention, the crew would be awakened from their hibernated sleep after just one hundred years. When this happened the anticipation and excitement felt by the crew was crushed when realizing the actual status of this planet. It was calculated to be about 4.5 billion years old and should have been in an ideal period of stability. They were horrified then to find a barren, orange shaded landscape of peaks and valleys, stretching as far as the eye could see with uniform monotony.
The
two crew members climbed out of the landing craft and viewed the scene.
The
sun blasted down on the landscape with pitiless uniformity turning peaks into
bright orange and valleys into a murky brown. It was terrifying yet beautiful
and both felt immense loneliness.
They took some samples from the lifeless
rocks and sand and ran them through their analysing computer. The results were
somewhat mystifying as they showed the present condition had happened with speed,
Seventy to one hundred years was the estimation. It was a puzzle as to what
could cause such a calamity and as they ignited the engine that would take them
back to the mother ship they left Earth with heavy hearts.
Copyright Peter Woodgate
by Richard Banks
He laughs, and I wonder if he has lost all
reason.
We have dinner at eight, after which we
retire to the rooms we have been allocated. My window overlooks parkland, the
dark shapes of trees shift gently in the breeze; a fox calls and I wonder if I
too will become vermin to be hunted and made no more.
I change into the pyjamas that have
been provided and try to sleep, but my brain is buzzing with everything that
has happened. Three o’clock comes and goes and I’m still awake, half past three
it’s the same, but four I don’t remember and, without seeing the dawn, I wake
up to find the sun shining through the curtains and making patterns on the
wall. It’s eight thirty. I dress and descend the main stairs to the hall where
I find Jones peering at a painting in a gilt frame. He seems to have slept
better than I have and looks all the better for it.
“Any news?” I say. He informs me that
there’s none that matters. On TV the normal programmes are showing and the lead
story in news bulletins concerns a Royal wedding.
“The calm before the storm,” I say.
Jones nods in a way that suggests he may know more than he is letting on.
“Cheer up,” he says, while there’s life
there’s hope. Let’s have breakfast.”
Jones evidently believes that every man
under sentence of death deserves a hearty meal and by the time we get round to
dinner he’s onto his fourth. During the day the house has filled up with
people. Jackson, the political activist, I recognise along with a few others
but Jones tells me there are also twelve MPs, two former Ministers, and a High
Court judge.
At nine-thirty we pile into a fleet of
dark windowed cars and make our way to the meeting place. Consistent with our
status Jones and myself are in the last one and consequently the last to
arrive. When we do we find everyone else out in the open, anxiously observing
the sky above. There’s ten minutes to go; Jones runs back past the line of cars
and vomits out his last meal, and probably the one before. A few others do the
same, but the rest hold their ground, calmly waiting for whatever comes next.
The Runes are nothing less than
punctual and at 11pm exactly their craft appears on the horizon and within
seconds is overhead, a hundred metres up. It is almost circular in shape but it
glides not spins. There is a double row of amber-lit windows through which the
movement of dark shapes can sometimes be seen. A hatch opens up in the belly of
the craft and an object drops slowly to
earth. It lands without appearing to fully make contact with the ground.
“So what’s happening?” I ask. It’s a
silly question, a negotiation is taking place; if I think
“And will that work?”
“Well now, did it work with the Danes?”
The lesson from history is only too
clear. Even worse, we don’t have the Government on our side. If the Runes do
agree can we deliver what we offer?
None of this is making sense. We’re
playing a poor hand with riches that are not ours to give, how can this be
doing well?
“HG,” I mutter and Jones looks
similarly baffled. If
“How goes it?” calls a voice from the
crowd.
“The worse bloody negotiation in
history,” shouts
*****
There
were many like me who were at a loss to understand what
It was as the scientists predicted and
in the following days the alien ships began to fall to ground. That this caused
huge devastation with the loss of over five million lives can not be denied, or
minimised, who would want to, but the rest of us, 7.9 billion at the last
count, have survived, our lives unchanged but never more valued.
Jackson was only one of many who
contributed to their deliverance, but maybe no one was more important than the
author, HG Wells who foretold that any ‘War of the Worlds’ would be decided in
our favour by bacteria that our immune systems, over many centuries, had
reduced to a minor irritant. Given the Runes technological superiority, it is
unlikely that they would have been unaware of this danger to themselves in our
atmosphere, a danger, however, not present in the airtight interior of their
own craft. That’s when another literary device was remembered and made use of,
the Trojan horse, which took the unusual guise of
The negotiation was, of course, a farce
and our delegates soon exposed as impostors with an ill defined offer and no
lawful authority to offer it. Having enraged the Runes, and been threatened
with several life ending interventions likely to sully the décor, they were
more than grateful to be shown the door. Indeed, had there been the alternative
of an open window their return to earth might well have been more rapid than it
was.
Seven years later the story of the
Runes has been told and retold many times, often by heads of Government
claiming a major role in their defeat. According to
THE
END
