Two NewYear Haiku

 

From Robert Kingston

 

 

old year’s night 

the clatter of pots and pans 

louder than ship horns

 

 

Happy new year to one and all! 

 

 

new year’s day

a robin sings

from the same branch

 

 

Copyright Robert Kingston

Jamie ~ 7

 Jamie ~ 7  Midnight strikes

 By Len Morgan

That night, three groups went out foraging, but only one returned.  The following night he accompanied one group, there were five in the party, so Jamie stood back as a lookout.  He watched as they passed a large upholstered armchair midway across the room.  A shadow extended from the chair briefly then was gone, and there were only four in the party.  The shadow returned, Jamie blinked and only three remained.

“Back!” he yelled.  They turned and ran, but the shadow struck a third time, and only two remained.  It struck again instantly and again so fast it was a blur Jamie couldn’t believe what he'd witnessed.

  Catching sight of an enormous black paw raking towards him, he turned to flee.  He felt a stabbing pain in his tail.  He frantically gripped the lip of his hole and hauled himself in; leaving a blood trail in his wake.

A younger, leaner, fitter cat the humans called ‘Midnight’ had arrived.  They were already learning what that meant.  Several days later, Fuzzy Whiskers went out through the cat flap and never returned, while ‘Midnight’ licked her lips in expectation of many more mousey morsels.

Midnight was not particularly evil, she was so incredibly swift, an instinctive hunter who loved to kill.  Oh, it was nothing personal of course, she was quite indiscriminate.  Just as happy killing birds in the garden, mice in the house, or any living thing that crossed her path.  She met her match with a pack of three Chihuahua’s next door at No. 15, she would give them a wide birth in the future.  For most of the day, she would sleep motionless in that old upholstered chair.  Her luminous yellow slits of eyes, lazy and unfocussed, totally disarming.  She always kept her glossy black pelt meticulously clean, with every hair in place.  She would see an unsuspecting movement in the corner of her eye, and she would act instantly. 

Midnight! The bringer of death had in one week decimated their population.  She had produced more mouse corpses than both the electric fence, gas, poison, and old FW, combined.  So the mice took to traveling through the cavity walls, making their appearance close to their food source.  Even so, the unwary continued to fall prey to the Black Assassin.  There she sits, meticulously preening herself with a silly grin on her face.  Confident in the knowledge that, dogs withstanding, there was nothing that could match her speed or vision, day or night!

“Something must be don’t!”  Grumbled the disgruntled and discontented surviving members of the group. 

“Jamie is our leader.  It’s time he did something about Midnight.”

“But even if he gets rid of her tomorrow, there will be a younger replacement within days.” Kibbie reasoned.

“But, something has to be done…” 

Jamie was at a loss. He didn’t have a clue what they could do about Midnight.  She roamed the house physically or with her sharp senses day and night, her toll on the mouse population was unremitting.  In her short time at 17 Cedarwood the mouse population was reduced by a third.  Many of his own family had gone missing, they had fallen foul of the c-a-t.  He could scarcely bring himself to think of her for fear of invoking her presence.

The humans were the key, they could get rid of her, as they had Fuzzy Whiskers.  He felt anger thinking of all the beautiful young mice, whose short lives were ended prematurely because…

“That animal!” 

There was nothing the mice could do to stop Midnight.  But there must be a way…  Maybe something that directly affected them would bring about her demise; maybe something that affected their own young one…

.-...-.

“I’m sorry Sean, that cat is far too eager to kill, indiscriminately.  We had the house sanitised a year ago, and there is no evidence of re-infestation.  Yet she continues to spread multiple dead things on the back doormat, mice, frogs, birds.  It’s so upsetting for Malissa, she is very impressionable and she’s afraid to come into the kitchen until I first check it for dead things.”

“But, it’s a cats nature, they are hunters June, that’s why we got her in the first place.  To keep down the rodent population.”

(To be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

  ANNIE TURNER

by Richard Banks 

Annie was not in love, of that she was sure. Love was something that happened to young people, other people’s children, not a forty something woman married to a man twenty years her senior. She had once loved her husband and the embers of that love still remained, but only the embers, the excitement, and passion were gone. She told herself that love was unimportant, just a phase, the consequence of a biological process soon to expire.

 

    She had much to be thankful for, a comfortable existence, a tolerant, undemanding husband, and yet life seemed lacking, incomplete. She was only halfway through her life and yet it seemed over. Other women of her age had the consolation of children. She had none. Her life was empty, without purpose. There had to be more, she reasoned. She needed more.

 

    Had she been able to define the ‘more’ she so desperately sought, a solution to her unhappiness might readily have been found. The absurdity of her situation appalled her. How could she find what she lacked, if she didn’t know what it was? Where should she be looking? Would she know ‘it’, if she saw ‘it’?

    To her surprise, the answers to all these questions were waiting for her at the Lambeth College of Further Education. Her enrolment there for pottery classes was merely intended to fill her Monday mornings, her highest expectation was that she would make a half-decent vase. Then, the mystery of ‘it’ was solved.   

    ‘It’ was six foot, two inches tall, twenty-six years old, with the complaisant good looks of someone well used to admiring glances. ‘It’ was Mario, the potter, their tutor, made in Napoli and temporarily seconded to the college under a teacher exchange program.

    He had come, he said, “to improve his English and to teach the art of pottery, the Neapolitan way.” He smiled broadly at this revelation and paused as if inviting a round of applause. Contenting himself with the nervous simpers of some of the younger ladies in the class, he proceeded to expound the “ancient mystery” of Neapolitan pottery in a peculiar fusion of several languages that rendered the mystery safe from discovery.

    Mario concluded his discourse with an expansive wave of a muscular arm and asked his audience if they had any questions. “You ask, I answer,” he added, for the benefit of those unfamiliar with the questioning process.

    Annie had several questions that she thought best kept to herself. She wondered if the tattoo on his upper arm extended onto his shoulder and why a man with such a luxuriant head of thick, curly hair had none on his chest. While her view of his chest was restricted by the buttoning of his shirt, the pedant that hung from his neck appeared to be resting against nothing more than smooth, brown skin. Perhaps, he shaved it like he shaved his chin, she conjectured, or maybe he ….  Her train of thought was abruptly halted by the sound of Mario’s voice.

    “Mrs Turner, you have question?”

    She adjusted her gaze upwards to find Mario’s dark brown eyes gazing quizzically into hers.  She realised this was the time for quick thinking. She needed a question, a really good question, preferably something about pottery, something that would impress him, attract his interest. “Will we be using real clay?” she said. The alarm bells in her head told her this was not enough. “I mean, I mean… will we be using the real clay of Neapolitan Italy?” Yes, that’s it, she thought, that will do. The stares of her fellow students suggested that it did not.

    Mario, however, appeared to be giving the question serious consideration. A troubled expression clouded his face. He took a deep breath and shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “I ask same question. How can you make Neapolitan pot without Neapolitan clay, but man up the stairs say too expensive, we have clay, London clay, use that. It not the same I tell him, but he no listen. What can I do? How do I teach you the Neapolitan way? It no possible, yes?”

    Annie attempted to shake and nod her head at the same time. Finding the sensation unpleasant she decided to use her voice. “No possible, absolutely,” she said. “I mean, you can’t make a cake without eggs.” She pulled a face to further express her disapproval.

    Mario reflected on the relevance of the cake and eggs. Fearing his students were about to desert him for the cookery class next door, he flung out his hands in a desperate appeal for their support. “It will not be easy. You think it not be done, so do I, but we try. We try together, yes?”

    Annie managed to suppress a whoop of approval. Wow, she thought. What an emotive subject pottery is. Who would have thought it? This was her road to Damascus moment, a call to arms, her chance to attempt the impossible, to upset the odds and come through triumphant. On second thought, if that wasn’t worth a whoop what was? The exuberant cry that escaped her lips was echoed by several other ladies. The single male student was unmoved and looked wistfully at the door.

    Mario observed the animated faces of his students and concluded they would be continuing in the class. He seemed near to tears. “You make me very happy. I make you happy. After tea break, we make pots together. Good pots, strong pots. You and me together, yes?”

    Annie felt a pleasant little shiver pass through her body, she curled up her toes to stop it escaping. Pottery with Mario was obviously going to be an experience not to be missed. She pictured herself at the potter’s wheel with Mario reaching around her to steady the pot she had started, but which was teetering out of control. His hands on her hands, guiding them, caressing them, as the pot again spun with symmetrical precision.

    Her daydream was interrupted by the realisation that the other ladies were filing out the door en-route to the canteen. She rose to join them. Mario stood by his desk, waiting to lock the room. He was smiling, looking towards her. Was he thinking what she hoped he was thinking?

    “Mrs Turner,” he said, as the last lady left the room. “Thank you for what you say. It is good you are so enthusiastic. Maybe you also interested in this?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a twice folded slip of paper, which he pressed into her hand. “We talk later, yes?”

    Annie smiled what she hoped was an assured, sophisticated smile. Play it cool, she thought, as blood came rushing to her cheeks. She retreated to the ladies’ toilet and locked herself in one of the cubicles. For a few moments she dared not look at the scrap of paper she was clasping in a clammy hand. What had he written? She took a deep breath, unfolded it and discovered a leaflet, with Mario’s name in bold capitals. There was smaller lettering below. She held it up, until all the printed words were in focus. ‘Mario Pozzuoli’, she read, ‘Personal Services for the Sensual Woman - discreet and confidential.’ At first she was horrified, then embarrassed. She pulled down the lid of the toilet seat and sat down.

    Annie stared blankly at the cubicle door and then again at Mario’s leaflet. She wondered if he also provided services for disconcerted women. The thought raised a smile, then a giggle.

    “The young rascal,” she murmured. Whatever made him think she would be interested in… The thought remained unfinished. Of course she was interested. Hadn’t she been drooling over him like a teenage groupie. So the young man’s favours came at a price. What didn’t? Could she blame him. Could she blame herself if she… That pleasant little shiver returned. She had only to say yes. Why not? she thought. It would not be love, of course, but who needed love, it had let her down too many times. The emotional helter-skelter was no longer for her. She needed something steadier, uncomplicated. A chance to play, to take pleasure without the lows that love always brought. She slipped Mario’s leaflet into her handbag. For the first time in a long time she knew what she wanted, what she needed, nothing could be plainer.

    Annie joined her fellow students in the canteen. She bought a coffee and sat down beside a woman she had spoken to at the beginning of the class. Mario was there, seeking eye contact, waiting for her to communicate her agreement with a knowing smile or an unobtrusive nod of her head. She decided to keep him waiting until the end of the class. How good it felt to be in control.

Copyright Richard Banks

Cheilin Saga ~ 32

 Cheilin Saga ~ 32 Abbey at Samishaam 2

By Len Morgan

“How fare you,” asked the father Abbot.

Aldor sighed, “Another Conjunction has come and gone and Bedelacq’s brood still remain on the eastern shore of the Stalbech.”

“It is good to hear that.”

“What of his Brides, the ones we are holding?” Aldor asked.

The Abbot’s face wrinkled in a frown, “it will take time,” he replied.   “The main problem is, their bodies are not of this time.   When he withdraws his power from them their physical body ages rapidly they shrivel and die.   The first four are already gone only, these five remain, Efelel amongst them.”

“Are any yet ready for return to this world?” Aldor asked.   Two could be rehabilitated but of course, their bodies are gone,” said the Abbot.

“Show me,” said Aldor.

He was led to the roof garden, where five globes rested in cups atop their individual posts set in the middle of a pleasantly aromatic herb garden.   Aldor sniffed appreciatively.

“It aids concentration” the Abbot explained.

Aldor smiled.   A brother, clothed in the red habit of their order, sat cross-legged before each globe meditating intently.   Which is Efelel? He gazed over the shoulder of her observer, at swirling deep black clouds.  

“That one, Efelel, I’m afraid is beyond redemption, she rages against the universe.   It’s been more than a month and the clouds are darker than ever.   We really should be considering releasing her to return to the wheel…”

Aldor gazed intently into the globe; his face became fixed.   The clouds slowed visibly in their race, then gradually, they began to clear.   He plunged down and down, down into the darkness plumbing their depths.   Just as he began to doubt his senses, he heard an embryonic scream.   It reached down into his depths churning his innards, causing retching nausea, his head spun and he began to freefall.   The scream repeated, much closer this time, momentarily he thought to flee, but this was not the physical world, where could he go?   Then without warning the beast attacked, with fiery breath, tooth, and claw.   The pain was very real.

“Aaaah!   He cried out in anger recalling his own incarceration.   The beast retreated.   He saw a feint green glow, to one side, and moved towards it.   As he drew nearer he saw a young female child, within the glow, and a menacing green dragon towering over her.   Its tail curled around her many times, marking her as its possession.

 

“Approach at your peril,” the dragon warned, belching flame and acrid smoke in his direction.   The child’s wide blue eyes beseeched him soundlessly, but her words popped into his mind.

“Please release me from his clutches,” she begged.

Aldor looked at the dragon he was conjured from her own mind so he thought to deal with it without too much trouble but, when he felt its breath he beat a hasty retreat.   Fortunately, it showed no inclination to chase after him, contenting itself to stay close to its charge.   He cursed his arrogance; he hadn’t even taken the trouble to discover her birth name, before entering the globe.   Now he discovered there was no mind for him to read, least none he could enter in his present state.

“What is your name” he called out.

Her answer was drowned by the volcanic roar that issued from the beast.   He returned towards the green glow under cover of the black smoke and in its centre was the girl, still encircled by the dragon; she looked to be twelve or thirteen.   She had straw coloured hair and bright blue eyes sparkling with intelligence.   She was slim and waife like, giving the impression of being resigned to her fate, he detected an overriding melancholy.   She looked at him and as their eyes met waves of sadness and loss flowed from her to him.

“Help me,” she implored.   The beast's grip tightened around her waist forcing a gasp from her lips.

He realised as he had never done before that it was Bedelacq’s creature and not of her creation.   His forehead began to throb, he rubbed at the distraction, and it seemed as though he had rubbed a scaling from his third eye; the jewel.

“You have no weapons that can harm me,” the beast mocked.

In answer he visualised his sword; his alter ego.   As it materialised the beast blew a stream of green flame in his direction.   The flow increased steadily but Aldor pierced the stream with his sword and the heat was dissipated.  

“Then you will not be afeared to leave the child in order to deal with me?” he said.

The creature detached itself from its charge and swept rapidly towards him.   Aldors forehead opened fully to reveal the imbedded jewel.   The beast roared and attacked.

The flames became more intense a glaring white lance.   Aldor stood calmly, ignoring it.   The beast stopped and stood in disbelief.   The jewel turned a deep violet and returned the flames it had ignored; beam after beam of blinding blue light the beast stood against it briefly and then it was gone.

Aldor rubbed his forehead and turned, away from the globe, breaking contact.

“It’s clearing, there’s a young girl inside, she is smiling, and speaking,” said the priest.

 ‘She was a child of thirteen, all memory of her association with Bedelacq had been wiped away, all they lacked was a body of the appropriate age.

He heard her thanks repeated in his mind, ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ ’but, he was already gazing into the next globe.

(To be Continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 LOSS

By Jane Scoggins 

It’s upsetting when you lose something you value, isn’t it? And it’s not always about monetary value. Oh no, it can be of sentimental value or for its usefulness. I know, because I lost something recently that was important to me. I've hunted high and low, but to no avail. I tell myself to put it behind me. It’s not as if it is a diamond down the plughole or granny’s wedding ring. No, I tell myself, stop fretting about it. It's gone and that’s the end of it. But I really do miss it. 

I am usually a pretty sanguine sort of person. You know, nothing much gets me down and I don’t sweat the small stuff, and in the light of things these days, this is small stuff. But I guess that like so many people in these strange times I have been affected in unexpected ways. And the last eighteen months or so have been strange haven’t they? Of course, I am talking about the Covid 19 virus that we were hit by back in January2020. It spread across the country and in fact the world in a way never known before. It made people very ill indeed, the hospitals were full to bursting and many thousands of people died. Not just people who were vulnerable or with existing medical conditions. Not just the frail elderly, but younger apparently fit people too. The government called upon the best scientists to develop a vaccine at double quick time. But even with the vaccine jab rollout, we were not at all safe and the numbers of cases escalated weekly like wildfire. We were all instructed to keep two metres apart from others, wash hands all the time, use antibacterial hand gel, wear face masks, avoid meeting with groups of friends and even family outside our immediate household. The mantra became Hands, Face, Space. Things got worse. Next came PM Boris Johnson’s difficult decision to announce a lockdown.  No gatherings, pubs and restaurants closed, weddings and holidays postponed, churches closed and funerals attended with only a handful of people. Babies born without Grans and Nan’s.  Uncles and aunts did not see them for months afterward. Huge restrictions of the flow of people coming into the UK and leaving from airports. Quarantine and Covid testing increased With these stringent rules in place and the increase of vaccine rollout a bit of progress was made, and some restrictions were gradually lifted. But with the lifting, another wave of Covid and then the identification of a new strain, Delta, we were back to semi lockdown. It has been a horrible roller-coaster for the whole nation, the whole world, and with another new more transmissible strain Omicron, recently we are all on our guard. Because even if you get this virus and are unwell but not needing hospital care, you may still be affected for months on end by what has been called Long Covid with ongoing illness, fatigue and lack of taste and smell. We have all had our lives, work and activities cut back to the bone and this has been a struggle. I feel for those who have not coped at all well with the restrictions, isolation, and separations.  So, after all that outpouring, what has that got to do with what I have lost?

According to the famous designer and artist, William Morris, all our possessions should be either useful or beautiful. Well, my lost possession was both beautiful and useful and greatly valued in the last year. It was a face mask made of beautiful silk fabric, with three layers to fully protect me from viral germs. It had the most comfortable elastic to go behind my ears. Believe me, I have tried a variety of face masks and this one was the best of the best. Useful and beautiful, I could have worn it all day if needed. Isn’t that so silly of me? Please don't laugh.  Strange times have made most of us re-evaluate what is important. And that has to be about keeping safe from Covid and treasuring and protecting our own health and wellbeing and that of our family and friends. For we have been harshly reminded that life is precious, and we don't know how long we will have each other. That face mask had become a symbol of safety. I am on the hunt now for another one that will have all the same qualities. Keep well, keep safe my friends; the danger is not at all over.

 

Copyright Jane Scoggins

 The Real Santa

By Rosemary Clarke 

Hi, there fellow readers & writers,

 Did you know that there really is a Santa Claus and he lives in the North Pole Alaska!  He used to be a police chief and became a child advocate for abused children who called him Santa.  The people of Alaska have once again voted for him as Mayor.

Jamie ~ 6

 Jamie ~ 6  Hero’s Return

By Len Morgan 

The Young ones looked on in horror and disbelief.  They were tearful, how would they break the news to the others…  To Kibbie…  Turning their backs on the scene, in the flap Kibbie’s ears had turned white, she gazed out into the tall grass.  Her ears turned pink once more because there, just ten feet away, stood Jamie a broad grin on his face.  He gestured for them to be silent as he walked slowly towards them, leaving FW frantically seeking through the long grass wasting his time in a fruitless search.

“Always change direction as soon as you are out of his sight, or hide motionless.  Always give FW the respect he is due, never make the mistake of thinking you can outsmart him, he’s bigger and cleverer than you think.  Forget it and you will become his lunch.”

Kibbie smiled and kissed him brazenly, “run along now,” she said ignoring the fact that she was only a few months older than them.

The following morning, he took it upon himself to brief the scavenging parties before setting out in search of food. “Finally, on no account nibble!  If you do, there will be a trap, poison. Or the cat waiting for you on your next visit, maybe all three.  Take crumbs, lumps, or whole pieces of food, and your presence will go undetected then you will be able to return again and again.  If you are unsuccessful others will return with enough for all.  Never be lazy and pick scraps from the floor, they don’t get there by accident.  If you ignore this rule, it may cost you your life and the lives of those you share with.  The only exception to this rule is the food in FW’s bowl, but be sure somebody is on the lookout for him at all times.  Okay!  Off with you…”

.-…-. 

Kibbie & Jamie quickly produced a litter, and then another.  Several groups moved on at the appropriate times, and all was well at 17 Cedarwood Terrace.  Sadly Barnabus passed peacefully sometime between his fifth and sixth year, and Jamie became the oldest surviving mouse.  Yet Frizzy Whiskers was old even when Barnabus was young as he never stopped telling them.  It was true that FW had been in residence forever, but of late, Jamie had noted a marked slowing down and a tendency to sleep longer, Ever since the fence was removed and the smell of gas cleared from the air, the younger foraging groups began treating FW with disdain, passing unnecessarily close.  Jamie cringed, FW hadn’t slowed that much.

Then, without warning half a dozen mice disappeared in a single night.  Life wasn’t so easy anymore, mice all stayed below ground the following day.  Late in the afternoon, Jamie took a cautious peek.  Seeing nothing untoward he slipped into the kitchen to discover two bowls of cat food…

 

(To be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan