The last Straw

By Janet Baldey

With the dishwasher chuntering softly in the background, Celia wiped down the kitchen surfaces, then stood watching as the rays of the setting sun reflected shards of light from the marble and chrome. She looked around, her lips curving into a smile; her dream kitchen, finished at last.  Too big for two, of course, how she wished she’d had it when the children were small.

         Her smile faded and her face resumed its usual expression of mild discontent.  Untying her apron, she decided that a glass of Merlot might improve her mood and she wondered what was on the box.  If they were lucky, perhaps there’d be something they’d both enjoy, although that was unlikely.  She and Tom seemed to have developed wildly different tastes recently and she wondered if that always happened after thirty years of marriage.  They didn’t seem to have anything in common now and sometimes it seemed that, over the years, they’d said
everything there was to be said and their reason for conversation had evaporated. There were no childcare issues to sort out, no juicy bits of office gossip to relate, no work problems to discuss and sometimes the sound of silence in the house was deafening.  Her lines deepened souring her face even further.  How she wished she’d never left her job.  She never really wanted to but Tom had nagged her until she agreed.  “We’ll travel the world” he said, “we’ve no ties now. We’ll empty our bucket and have a whale of a time.” Then, Covid arrived and they were marooned. Gradually, their world was shrink-wrapped to the house and garden and it was then, when they were at their closest, that they’d started to drift apart.   

With nothing much to say to each other, during that time they’d watched a lot of telly and Tom had become increasingly concerned about the plight of the planet.  Now, even though restrictions were easing, he refused to set foot on another plane - or boat, which, he said, were just as bad.   “Sorry love, we’ll have to think of something else. Maybe, we could take up hiking.”  Celia had shuddered and that had been the end of that conversation. 

                                                ***

         Tom was slouched in his favourite armchair, reading a magazine, when she walked into the living room.  He jumped and closed its pages. He looked shifty, she thought, as if he had something to hide. She decided to probe, although she didn’t expect to learn much.

         “What are you reading?”

         “Er..nothing much, just a gardening magazine.”

         Predictable, she thought. He knew very well she hated gardening and would immediately lose interest.  Well, she’d play along with that for now.

         “Do you want a drink?” she said, heading for the bar at the far end.

         “No thanks love.  I’m going out in a bit.”

         “Again?  You went out last night.”

         “Well, you know, these guys….the pubs got a quiz evening and they want me to make up a team.”

         She snorted, quickly covering it up with a cough.  She knew very well he wasn’t going to the pub.  Purely out of curiosity, after he’d gone out one evening, she’d strolled to the Spotted Bull and it had been practically deserted.  To make quite sure, she’d gone inside and ordered a lemon and lime.  Choosing a hidden corner, she’d kept watch but there’d been no sight or sound of a boisterous group of men in any of the bars. It was then, she started wondering just where he did go. Perhaps he had a mistress.

         “Is it the Spotted Bull again?” she asked filling her glass to the brim.

         “Yeah.” He said and she wasted a few drops of Merlot, as her hand shook.

         “Well, good luck,” she said,

         After he’d gone, she poured herself another glass and sat sipping it as she looked around her room.  It was just as she’d planned and in the dim light of the Tiffany lamps, it looked at its loveliest.  Originals on the walls, dark green velvet drapes sweeping down from the ceiling to a polished oak floor puddled by bright rugs.  A room to be proud of she thought as she relaxed back on her dark cream recliner.

         And then, of course, there were her animals.  Her expression softened as she looked at the glass cabinet, hand-made to her own specification. There was the pink satin elephant, complete with tasselled howdah that she’d bought in India. The perky French bulldog she’d got in Paris, the Chinese panda, a trio of monkeys and more, all basking under tiny spotlights.  They were her family now, she thought and not a speck of dust on any of them.  Tom had wanted a real dog once, but her foot had thoroughly squashed that idea.  Nasty, dirty, creatures dogs, with their muddy paws, loose hair and loud barks.  Her animals were much better, no trouble at all.

         The thought of trouble immediately brought her thoughts back to Tom. What was he up to?  It must be another woman, after all, that was the usual scenario.  She remembered countless tales from her office days, of sad sacks of wives past their best, who’d been left high and dry when their spouses had run off with younger versions. She gritted her teeth, that wouldn’t happen to her, not if she had anything to do with it.  Blood thrummed through her veins and suddenly restless, she jumped up.  She needed to defend herself, if he was up to something.  She needed proof and now was the ideal time to look for it.  First, she’d try his study.

         Her hands trembled as she rifled through the drawers in his desk finding nothing but bills, receipts and that stupid story he was trying to write.  Very soon, the room looked as if a tornado had hit but Celia was still without any evidence although the scrawled words, Eunice expected at 3 pm. made her heart pound for a second before she realised he meant the storm.

         Bedroom, she thought, I’ll go through his pockets. She was on his third suit when she struck gold. As she shook out his tweed jacket something glinted and fell to the floor.  In an instant, she’d swooped and scooped it up and with a mixture of vindication and grief she recognised it for what it was.  A blonde hair, so coarse it was obviously dyed. Her legs suddenly lost all strength and she fell onto the bed.  How could he?  Did thirty years of devotion mean nothing to him.  Had she cooked and cleaned for him all that time only to be thrown onto the scrap heap?  And the house. Her lovely house. She would be forced to sell it and live in some dingy flat while he jaunted around with his new squeeze.  It really was the last straw. She didn’t cry often but soon salty tears were running down her cheeks. Then, quite suddenly, an idea sprang into her mind.  It was so detailed, so fully formed, that it was as if the devil had been standing behind her and had bent and whispered in her ear.

         She knew exactly what to do now but first she must ring her daughter.  She would put her up, she knew she would. After all, she had a five bedroomed house with a pool and room for a pony. Then, she must rescue her animals, pack her jewels and a few of her favourite clothes.

         At last, she was ready.  All she had to do now was to get what she needed from the garage.  As she ran down the stairs to its inside door, she realised that she could have made her way there blindfolded. She knew every inch of the house, almost as if its brick and cement dust had seeped into her veins. There was the door to the room that they never went in any more.  It was too painful. As if cocooned by time, only cobwebs gathered where her youngest used to play. Grief, ever present, waited in the wings threatening to overwhelm her but resolutely she rushed on. Now she was in the corridor where the girls had kept their bikes before the garage was built. She could almost see their skeletal frames glinting dully in the dim light and remembered her nagging voice.  “Don’t throw them down like that, you’re making black marks on the walls and just look at those muddy tyre tracks.”  If only she could take back every unkind word she’d ever said. Dirt washes off but some things never do.

         She had to hunt a bit before she found what she wanted. The garage was in such a mess. Tom was so untidy; she’d have to speak to him.  Suddenly, the realisation that it wouldn’t be necessary almost stopped her dead but firming her lips, she carried on, spraying petrol around and coughing as the fumes caught in her throat.  She stopped when she thought it was enough, groped in her pockets and for a panicky moment realised she’d forgotten the matches.  But the Devil was present and guided her to an ancient box of Swan Vesta’s that had fallen to the ground.  She fumbled it open and struck a match, it flared at once but for a moment she stood looking around at the jumble of memories inside the garage.  At that point the Devil must have lost concentration, because she realised she couldn’t go through with it. There had to be some other way. Tom, for all his faults wasn’t an unkind man. She stood thinking, match in hand, quite forgetting the flame eating away its stalk.  Suddenly the spark bit and she screamed, dropped the match and screamed again as bright orange fire sprinted in all directions. She whirled, trying to stamp it out but the flames were hungry and much quicker. Out of nowhere a wall of flame raced up the door, cutting off her escape.  Dirty grey smoke billowed and Celia started to cough.

 

                                                  ***

Whistling under his breath, Tom wandered back from the village. As he did, he brushed whisps of golden straw from his clothes.  He felt both satisfied and fulfilled and so glad he’d taken the course in wheat weaving.  He was sure that Celia would love her present, three horses plaited from straw gleaned from the fields around their house and perfect for her collection.  She’d been a good wife, he thought and although he rarely showed his feelings, he really did think the world of her.

         It was when he rounded the corner and started up the hill that he first noticed black smoke curling into the dusk.  Someone’s got a good bonfire going, he thought and then frowned as he saw flashes of scarlet. That’s got out of hand….’  Almost immediately, the realisation of where it was coming from hit him with the force of a wrecking ball.

“Celia” he bellowed and started to run.

         Copyright Janet Baldey      

        

 

 

         

Tylywoch ~ 08

Tylywoch ~ 08  Swordsmith I

By Len Morgan

   The spindly ten-year-old grew in confidence and in strength, pumping the bellows in Terrek’s forge.   As years passed his shoulders broadened and he grew taller.   At thirteen, he had no problem passing himself off as seventeen.   He learned to speak Meyam like a native, also to curse and swear in five languages but discretely depending on the company he was in.  He also learned his craft, quickly and well.   How to hammer and temper hot metal, and read the colours on its surface when the metal was heating or cooling.  He learned to create specialised steel mixtures with different uses and purposes in mind and to test blades on the corpses of dead animals and executed criminals.   He became skilled as a swordsman, testing himself against his master until Terrek could no longer defeat him with ease.   The fighting kept them fit, proving Terrek’s blades, confirming they were second to none.   His craftsmanship was in great demand, by the rich the powerful, and the infamous.   As Terrek’s Apprentice, Jax was a valued and respected associate.   His business acumen came to the fore early, and he communicated well with people from all walks of life, encouraged by his patron.   He had rare qualities in one so young, he instilled confidence and trust and had a highly developed sense of responsibility.   Terrek was often happy to leave day to day business transactions in Jax’s hands, freeing himself for the skilled work of producing weapons.

Hartwell, was a vibrant walled city in the feudal Meyam kingdom.   Terrek’s forge was situated at the eastern gate.   Jax frequently travelled around the city delivering commissions to clients.   Usually, he kept to the main thoroughfare, being wary of street gangs, who claimed many of the streets in ‘the Cobbles’ on the outskirts of the city as their own territory.  Large area’s of the city were therefore considered no-go areas to someone of Jax age.

Jax had recently returned from a trip to his home town Sudoren, with fresh supplies of carbon, and other ores available in the Sabre Tooth range.   Terrek asked him to make an urgent delivery to one of their more important and influential patrons. It was late in the day, but he knew Terrek would not have asked had it not been important. The ‘Grande Highway’ was still quite busy, so he walked it without fear.   He was about fifteen to twenty paces behind a fashionably dressed young lady in her late teens.   As she started to cross an intersection with one of the many small side streets, three rough looking youths surrounded her, and hustled her struggling and protesting into the side street,   little more than an alley.  She tried to scream, but a hand was clamped firmly over her mouth muffling her cries.   Jax leaned his wrapped commission carefully against the wall of a building and gave chase.   He saw one of the attackers snatch her purse, while two others held her arms.

 “Hey!   Take your hands off that young lady!” he bellowed loudly with as much confidence as he could muster, and without hesitation, he chased fearlessly into the fray.  They dumped the girl unceremoniously onto the ground and all three turned to face him.   Much younger, and with absolutely no experience of street brawling, he unwittingly allowed two of them to trap his arms, whilst the third grabbed his money pouch.   Though younger, he was much fitter, by the nature of his work, his speed and strength were also telling factors.  He struggled violently, shrugging off the two, hitting the third full in the face even as he snatched his pouch.  The other two quickly recovered, grabbing him again, bundling him hard against a rough stone walled building, with bone jarring force that would have flattened any other thirteen year old.   Jax grunted like an angrily boar, planted his oversized feet against the wall and pushed hard.   His surprised assailants found themselves crushed hard and painfully against the opposite wall with spectacular effect.   One slumped to the floor, the other moaned supporting himself groggily against the wall.   A well aimed kick to the groin brought him to his knees.

“Look out!” the young woman shouted a warning.

Ducking as he turned he side stepped the third man, coming in low with head down, a knife in his hand. As the man lunged he grabbed the knife wrist, a hank of lank hair and shot his knee up hard into the mans face, hearing a loud crack. He knew the man’s nose was broken even before he sprawled headlong into the gutter and lay still.

Picking up his pouch and the young woman’s purse, he grabbed her hand.  “Lets get out of here,” he said, leading her back into the main street.

“There’s one of them!   He followed her into the alley…” yelled a nearby store keep.

“Unhand her young man.” Yelled a sergeant of Militia, his men came up behind Jax as he let go of her arm, they restrained him, he didn’t struggle or try to argue.

“The footpads who attacked me are in the alley.” Said the woman breathlessly, I dread to think what they might have done to me. Without this young mans help they would have been long gone.  He may well have saved my life by his brave action, coming to my aid.”

“Get Them!” the sergeant ordered, his men snapped instantly into action.   “Do you require an escort lady Bianne?”   He asked with genuine concern.

“Thank you, but I would ask this young man to accompany me.   Would you mind?” she asked turning to Jax.

“It would be an honour lady Bianne.” He replied with a smile.

“You have the advantage on me…”

“I am called Jax” he said picking up his bundle from where he’d left it. 

“If you have business to attend to I wouldn’t dream of keeping you,” she said.

“I am at your service lady, where are we going?”

She smiled warmly, “Box Lane No. 37.”

He looked again at his delivery note.   “It would appear we were destined to meet,” he said “My delivery is to a Colonel Cantro – 37 Box Lane?”

 

“Fathers new swords!   Then you are a Swordsmith?”

“Actually no, I’m apprenticed to the Swordsmith.” 

“But, at such a young age to be entrusted with such an important commission…” she said.

They smiled and walked on together.

 

(To be Continued)

 

                                                                                     Copyright Len Morgan 

TAKING THE PLUNGE ~ (Part 2 & Last)

by Richard Banks           

         “Watch me go will you. Say a prayer while I'm falling. Can you do that mate?"

Sid replied that he didn't know any prayers. Anyway what good would prayers do if Danny fell on someone and killed them. That wouldn't get him into heaven. It was a pity they weren't on the twentieth floor. From there Danny could see the ground more clearly and aim himself towards an empty space.”

         “But we ain't on the twentieth floor and even if we were the windows don't open. It's now or nothing.”

         Sid hastened to reassure him that this was not the case. “Use the cradle why don't you. It’s all set up for the window cleaners. Go down in that. Once you're on manual you can go up and down as you want. Come on, follow me, I'll show you how it works.”

         Danny did as he was bid and without further encouragement climbed into the cradle that rested on the roof in the shadow of a winch to which it was attached. Setting the cradle free from its mooring Sid lowered it over the side. “Okay son?” Without waiting for a reply he proceeded to condense the induction course for window cleaners into a few well chosen pointers. “Pull that rope to go down and that one for side ways. See that button there? Press it twice and you're on manual. If you keep it that way they can't use the winch to bring you back up. Tell you what, I'll phone up London Radio and tell them what you're up to. There's no point in you taking the plunge if no one knows why you're doing it. Better still, I've got another idea. Hang on there, won't be a tick.”

         Sid hurried off to the storeroom and returned almost immediately with a large tub of paint and a brush. “Here you are. On your way down you can write a few slogans on the side of the building, 'Down with Capitalism', 'Up the workers', that kind of thing. It will take them weeks to scrub it off. That will teach the bastards. Go on my son, pull that rope and you're on your way. That's it, keep it going, you're on your way.”

         Enthused by the inventiveness of his machinations Sid marched with renewed vigour  towards the storeroom and the maintenance lift within. Deactivating the override control he descended uneventfully to terra-firma.

         His departure from the building coincided with Danny's arrival on the 39th floor. Having mastered the down rope he now pulled tentatively on the sideways one and on finding it fulfil its function decided to write his first slogan on the metal panelling that underlined each row of windows. In deference to Sid he daubed 'DOWN WITH CAPITALISM' in large letters that almost halved in size as he endeavoured to squeeze his message into the available space. Having learnt the advantage of shorter, pithy slogans he descended two more floors and wrote 'GLOBAL SUCKS' followed by two exclamation marks. For the first time he was aware that people inside the building were looking out at him, taking photographs, laughing, shouting out things he could not hear. He lowered himself to the next floor where another row of faces seemed equally enthused with what he was doing. In case anyone was unaware of why he was out there he set to work on another slogan that read 'UNFAIR ME SACKED' followed by three exclamation marks. He was debating with himself whether to add a fourth when the approach of a helicopter bearing the distinctive livery of Capital Radio ensured that Danny's protest was now a media event. It hovered in the centre of the square while a man inside took photographs for the station's website. Having maintained their position for several minutes and observed nothing more dramatic than Danny giving them a clenched fist salute they departed back to the station's heliport with a highly coloured account of their observations.

         Danny was about to check the news channels on his mobile when a brief recital of 'All Right Now' by The Free informed him that he had a telephone call. The air waves crackled with an energy he mistook for electricity. He greeted the caller with a brusque, “yeah.”

         “Hi there, is that Danny Barker?” The voice was female and business like.

         Danny responded with another, “yeah.”

         The caller continued. “For the avoidance of doubt are you the Danny Barker in the cradle outside the Global building? Don't answer that Danny. Just give me a wave. My name's Geena Geal. I've got an office on the south side of the square over McDonald's. I'm at a window looking up at you. Can you see me Danny? I'm waving at you. Can you wave back. That's great. It really is you. Good! Now whatever you do don't hang up. I'm your new best friend so listen to what I'm going to say, listen carefully Danny. You and me are going to make a great team. Now, here's the pitch. You've been sacked, you're emotional – I mean who wouldn't be – and you're going to end it all by jumping out of the cradle you're in. How much do you owe Danny, one hundred grand, two hundred, a million? That's peanuts. Stick with me and you'll be back in the black big time. What do you say, Danny? Do I have a yeah?”

         There was a silence for the insertion of Danny's yeah. Instead he asked a question. “Who the hell are you?”

         “I told you, Danny, I'm Geena Geal. I'm a personal representative, a publicist. Kind of like Max Clifford except that I'm better looking and on the right side of prison. You're big news Danny and where there's big news there's big money. Trust me and all your troubles are over. Do we have a deal?”

         “What's in it for you?”

         “Fifteen percent Danny and I don't charge on the first twenty K. How generous is that. Can't believe I'm making you such a great offer and all you got to do is say one little word. I'm waiting Danny. For the second time do we have a deal?”

         Danny considered his options. There were two. He decided to go for the least painful. “Yeah, yeah, okay.”

         “That's A star Danny. Great to have you on board. For the record everything we've been saying has been recorded so we now have a verbal contract. But that's good Danny because the next time I phone it will be to tell you about all the lovely money you're earning. Money that's going to set you up for the rest of your life. So no more nonsense about diving, but that's our secret, Danny. Just you and me, no one else must know otherwise you, my friend, will be yesterday's news. This will only work if you can convince everyone watching – and Danny there's going to be millions of them – that you really mean to do it. So look miserable but kind of crazy at the same time. Ever see Jack Nicholson in the Shining? Of course you have. Be like Jack will you; mad eyes, long stares, you know the thing. You're centre stage, Danny. The theatre's filling. Now give them a performance to remember!”

         Danny tried to insert another yeah into the conversation but was too late, Geena had hung up. He peered down at the Square and observed a large gathering of ant size figures. Were they really watching him? The people at the windows were. So, if they wanted a show a show they would have. He lowered himself to the floor below and after subjecting his new audience to a long, menacing stare began writing 'TOO CRAZY TO LIVE'. In order to reinforce this message he turned away from the building and after signalling he was about to jump took off his jacket and allowed it to parachute with unexpected velocity to the ground. For the first time he could hear the voices of the crowd: their cries of horror, a surprised gasp when they realised it was only his jacket, the screams of a few who saw not the jacket but the man himself. For a few seconds there was silence then nervous laughter as the jacket hit a parked car and set off its alarm.

         On the next floor he wrote '666', the number of the Apocalypse and then, as an afterthought 'NOT JUST ME'. He was reprising his stare when the sound of The Free in his trouser pocket alerted him to another call.

         “Geena calling. Is that the crazy guy on the 34th floor who's live on channels 3 and 5? You're doing great Danny, the viewing figures are going through the roof. Now, here's your reward. Zedco are paying thirty grand for an ad on the next floor down. Write their name in mega big letters and follow that with their logo. It's a sort of upside down question mark. If you don't know it Google it but make sure you get it right. Have you got that?”

         “Yeah.”            

         “Good. After that drop down three floors. There's a guy there from the Star who wants to interview you. They're paying fifteen grand, plus another five for a copy of your suicide note. He's already got a copy so don't waste time writing one. It's a photo opportunity too so give him your best crazy stare. Ruffle up your hair, Danny, it's too neat. We need crazy hair to go with your crazy face. Do it now. That's great, Danny. Now two more things before I hang up. One, I've been talking to Global. The bad publicity you've been giving them has sent their share price crashing. They need everyone to know that it's all been a terrible mistake and that you're back on the payroll. They've offered you a pay rise too but I told them to stick it where the sun don't shine.”

         “What?”

         “It isn't enough Danny. You're worth more. I've told them that nothing less than a seat on the board will do. They're thinking it over but they know they don't have a choice. Now last but not least I've had a call from O'Malley the bookmaker. He's taking bets on whether you're going to jump or not but the big money is on the spread betting, mainly on the floor you're going to jump from, but since you tossed your jacket overboard they've also started taking bets on the next thing you'll be throwing out. Most of the money is on you're shirt so throw down a sock or shoe. That way O'Malley cleans up big time and we get fifty grand. Understand?”

         “Yeah.”

         “Good. So it's Zedco first, then interview, then throw down something that's not your shirt. After that there'll be more signs to write but I'll tell you about them later. Got to go, Danny. Speak soon. Bye.”

         Sensing that time was money and that Geena would soon be back on the line with another list of tasks he endeavoured to fulfil his existing commitments with a minimum of delay. In this he was assisted by the newspaper man who after taking Danny's photograph and asking him his name and age declared that he was going to do what Star reporters normally did and make it all up. Ignoring the Company's Chief Executive who had unexpectedly followed the reporter to the same window Danny descended yet another floor for the throwing of what he decided would be his handkerchief. In order to encourage a late run of bets on his shirt he slowly unbuttoned it to the waist before pulling the handkerchief from his trouser pocket. In case anyone mistook this for his shirt he blew his nose on it before sending it floating gently towards the Square where the crowd were resisting the efforts of the police to disperse them. He was treating his audience to another demonic stare when The Free announced the arrival of further instructions.

         “It's me again. Got another deal, Danny. The best yet. A cool million. Now this is what you have to do. Remember what I was saying about the spread betting? Well, O'Malley wants you to jump from the 26^th floor.”

         “What me?”

         “Yes you Danny.”

         “Have you gone crazy?”

         “No Danny, I'm not crazy. It's a good deal. Yes I know it's risky but just think about it. There's a large fountain right below you. You're probably thinking it's no more than the size of a postage stamp but it's at least forty foot across. It's full to the brim, Danny. Splash down in that and you'll have O'Malley's million and the same again in endorsements. This is mega, Danny. It don't get no better.”

         Danny expressed his opinion that jumping from the 26^th  floor was no better than suicide. He was done with that. He would throw his underpants over the side if that raised a few quid but as for jumping, forget it. “Get me more ads to write will you. There's another thirty floors to go. That's got to be worth half a million. Let's stick to that.”

         “Sorry, Danny. That's not an option. If you don't dive O'Malley's set to lose twenty mil. Either you do it or he'll take you out where you are. He's not joking, Danny. There's a man here with a gun big enough to kill an elephant, telescopic sights, the lot. He's taking aim Danny. This time he's only going to shoot the cradle. Hold tight!”

         Danny felt the bullet hit the cradle. He examined the holes defining its arrival and departure.

         “Are you okay, Danny?”

         “Shit! Of course I'm not okay. Have you gone crazy?”

         “It's not me Danny. I told you, it's O'Malley. Now listen Danny. The man's going to shoot again. This time he's aiming to put a bullet six inches from your right ear. He's doing it now, Danny. Don't move. Whatever you do don't.... aahh! Are you okay? Of course you are, you're still standing. You must be okay. Now listen, Danny. You've got no choice. Go down to the 26th floor that's three below where you are now. Jump from there at 12.33. That's four minutes from now. If you don't jump the man will be shooting, to kill. If you try phoning anyone, the police, anyone, he'll shoot. He means it, Danny. If you want to live you're going to have to make the jump. Aim for the fountain. Remember it's a million plus if you make it. Go on Danny, you can do it.”

         Danny returned the phone to his trouser pocket. His head was full of strong emotions that were overwhelming his capacity for rational thought. He had gone from despair to hope, almost euphoria, now he was back where he started, except that he wanted to live. Geena also wanted to live but she was a witness. The man who shot him would surely have to shoot her. He pulled on the rope that took him down to the 26^th. Below him the sun reflected benignly in the clear blue water of the fountain. If he was there in the water, safe and sound, his troubles would be over. Could he make it? It was a chance. What other chance did he have?

         He resolved he would do it well. It was going to take courage, a cool head, but he was equal to the task. He had seen the cliff top divers in Acapulco. For a few moments in time he would be like them: arms and fingers out wide, then pointing down at the target area, head steady, eyes wide open, body and legs in a straight line that must not overbalance. Was there time to undress? He thought not. Time only to kick off his shoes and lean over the side of the cradle so that his body was evenly distributed between cradle and air. Almost without thinking he wriggled his body forward and felt his stomach and hips slip over the side. He was falling now. Like the divers in Acapulco he was calm, in control, focussed on his target, watching it grow ever larger until it seemed impossible to miss. His only fear now was the water itself. He could not swim. After immersion would he float or sink? Another thought told him that drowning was not an issue. Only yesterday he had seen children in the fountain. They hadn't drowned, the water was no higher than their waists. It was okay. He was going to make it. A further thought  otherwise but had no time to pass on its concerns.

         The screams of those who saw him fall were reinforced by the screams of those who kept looking and saw him land. For a few moments the rapid displacement of water upwards, then down obscured the shape within that on landing was pulled back into the air, arms outstretched like a footballer celebrating a goal. Someone shouted that that he was moving, he was alive. The cheers of the crowd were joined by the music of The Free. It was 'All Right Baby, Its All Right Now'. The  lyrics repeated, repeated again, kept on repeating until the expiry of their twenty second time span.

         Unheard by the crowd a single voice requested the caller to leave a message on voice mail. The body in the fountain was lying face down untroubled by the swirl of water that still gave it motion.

         The caller hung up without leaving a message. The crowd fell silent. At 12.34 in Global Square there was nothing more to say.

 

The End.

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 Waiting for Spring

 By Sis Unsworth 

The first day of Spring, I heard the news,

It may blow away all those dark winter blues.

Alas, as I peered through my window that day,

the whole world seemed dark, gloomy and grey.

No sign of the sun, to shine from on high,

or fluffy white clouds to grace a blue sky.

There were some early flowers to brighten the earth,

and a blackbird a singing for all it was worth.

But still it was cloudy, dismal and grey,

no real sign of spring, on that dull dreary day.

Then in my diary, I saw a new date,

What it had to convey was, we all have to wait.

“Vernal Equinox”, that heralds in spring,

Third Sunday in March, is when it begins.

So I’ll wait for that day, with anticipation,

to light up our lives, and cheer up our nation.

If life is uncertain, as the experts all say,

then I’ll patiently wait, for the first spring like day.

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

Tylywoch ~ 07

Tylywoch ~ 07 Coming of Age II

By Len Morgan

Times passing brings changes for all, both physical and mental, for good and for ill.

Aldor had been assassinated, whilst leaving the Eternal city it was a routine mission on behalf of the empire he loved and held so dear.   Meillo bore his loss stoically but shrank to a shadow of her former self.   Weilla visited as often as she was able when training permitted, but not often enough.   Each visit produced evidence of continued and inevitable decline in Meillo’s health.

Galyx called Weilla one morning, to inform her that Meillo had returned to the wheel of life and no longer breathed the mountain air of Abbalar.   

It was a simple traditional Burial.   The day was grey. There was continual drizzle but just as they approached the graveside the rain ceased and the sun came out.   By the time they had covered her remains, the sun was gone again, and the drizzle resumed.   She looked down at the newly turned earth, the ‘Natural Disasters’ flanked her protectively yet still she felt alone.

Galyx seemed to read her thoughts, he tapped her forehead.   “She is here.   You can talk with her whenever you wish, just close your eyes and call her name; she will come to you.   She will be as you remember her best, as you would choose to remember her, healthy, and in her prime, and in your mind, she will never age.”   He walked away, followed by her friends, she stood alone her eyes closed, a smile on her face.   Her lips moved silently but no sound came forth.

Time passed, Weilla worked hard and learned well, but her General classification was not revoked.   Galyx had once been responsible for teaching them all skills, he now relinquished that role, becoming more a friend, confidante, and mentor to them.  They all now had specialists teaching them, masters in their chosen discipline, men and women pre-eminent in their fields.  Weilla missed the grind of constant repetition and practice sessions, being now only required to learn new techniques and innovations.   She was not the best in any of her classes, but neither was she the worst in any.   Since the others were learning one discipline only, this earned her kudos amongst her peers.   From being the butt of jokes, she soon became respected, even by the training masters; who were notoriously impossible to please. 

At the time of testing, it became apparent what a Generalist was expected to accomplish.   Each quad, in turn, was sent to fulfill a task, which could only be completed with the full cooperation and involvement of all its members.   The three quads tried in turn and failed to accomplish the task.   Weilla was expected to attempt it alone.   She arrived at the test area, and the chief invigilator explained what had to be done. 

“You must reach the center of the village, with every hand set against you, and retrieve a purse of gold from the top of a twenty foot pole, set upright in the ground.   You must remove the prize from the top of the pole with your own hand, you cannot simply knock it off.   I will fire an arrow into the air; you will not be touched, hampered, or hindered in any way until it touches the ground.   The task is not impossible, but only two have so far reached the centre of the village, none have yet claimed the prize.   I will loose the arrow at your command, and you have thirty minutes to complete the task.” 

“Loose!” she called immediately.   Then, instead of running for the centre of the village, covering as much ground as possible before the arrow struck the earth, she elected to follow the path of the arrow.   She had obviously taken full control of her body because she covered the ground with incredible speed.   As the arrow reached its zenith and started its descent, she was waiting below with a hollow log in her hands.   She caught the arrow with the wood, holding it high as she strolled into the village square, not a hand was lifted against her.   She reached the pole and saw immediately it had been greased along its entire length and was not climbable.   It was however a new addition to the centre of the village, which prompted further investigation.   She removed the soil stones and rocks from its base, to reveal that it was fastened to a metal plate fixed firmly to the ground.   One side was hinged; the other was fixed with a large hasp and padlock.   She removed a strip of metal wire from her belt and used it to pick the lock as Soren had taught her.   When the padlock was removed, the pole fell to earth with a heavy thump, and she was able to retrieve the purse from its button.   She handed the prize to Galyx her mentor and stabbed the arrow into the ground before the examiner’s, to rapturous applause from her friends.   All cheered wildly with delight.  They had all at some time tried and failed to accomplish the task.   Few had even guessed at its solution. 

“What were your thought processes?” asked the invigilator.

“To stop the arrow striking the ground, then to retrieve the purse.” She replied without hesitation. 

He shook his head and smiled “Simple, clear tasking, executed in the blink of an eye" he said.   “Most uncommon sense well done!   But, you’ve left us with a real headache, we now have to create a new task for future students," there was general laughter at this.   "Congratulations to you all!   We are very pleased to welcome you as fully fledged Tylywoch agents” he called aloud, to which the students cheered enthusiastically as the gathering came to a close. 

.-…-. 

There were celebrations that evening.  Weilla was introduced to rice wine for the first time in her life with predictable results.  Her expectations did not match up to the reality, and she arrived at morning muster, much the worse for wear and totally unprepared for what was to follow:

   She was given another potion to drink, and her task was explained to her.   She would be sent into the Sabre Tooth Mountains to climb Metti Takka, the highest peak in the range.   At its summit stands a tall thin spur of rock known as the needle.  

“You will climb the needle, travel through its eye, and retrieve a package from within.   You will then seek out a 200-year-old mystic who dwells nearby.   You will present him with the package.   He will then return you to us, but, you must bring back a part of him with you.” 

The potion made her drowsy, causing her to sit down and close her eyes momentarily to steady her head before starting her journey. 

.-…-.

By sundown, she had completed half the journey to Metti Takka.   She lit a small fire with the meagre kindling she had gathered on her journey and prepared to cook a lean mountain hare she’d caught earlier in the day.   As the meat roasted on the spit, she poured boiling water onto a few of the green tea leaves from her utility pouch.   She inhaled slowly savouring its piquant aroma, then drank deeply, allowing the hot astringent liquid to warm her from within.

“Is there sufficient for two?” a mild voice enquired from close by. 

She continued her cooking without looking up, so as not to appear surprised, and answered “Yes.   If you come in peace…”

“And if I do not?”

She turned to face the voice, “In that case, we fight, and to the victor the spoils.” She spoke unhurriedly but with confidence in a quiet measured voice that informed her visitor, she was not bluffing.

“I come in peace.” The visitor assured her, and stepped from the shadows into the illumination of the flickering fire glow.

“Do I know you?” she asked sensing a familiarity about the presence.  

“Do you?” answered the young boy.

She squinted and looked straight at him through the flames “Jax, is that you?” she said in surprise.

“Do you want it to be?” he answered with a smile, then suddenly the figure wasn't Jax anymore.

“Weilla, I feel so alone, so empty without Aldor” said Meillo’s shade; she would never have revealed her feelings in such a brazen manner.

“Use your brain, not your senses, this is a wraith” said Aldor's voice in her mind.

Suddenly her mind cleared.   She looked deep into the emerald green eyes, watching the interplay of yellow sparks on the orbs of the wraith; as it closed rapidly with her.   She unsheathed her blade and slashed through its body in one swift movement.   Quick as she was, the apparently solid form shimmered like the fire.  

“I’m still here it said solidifying briefly, shimmering into and out of the veiled world.

“Reveal your true self, I will not commune with a ghost!” she said firmly.

“You may not like what you see.”

“Beauty hides a surfeit of ills!   Reveal yourself or be gone.”   The wraith wavered again, becoming fuzzy then solidified as a thin waif-like girl with a face scarred and deformed, she tentatively approached.

“ If you lead me to your remains I will bury them so your soul will be at peace.”  Weilla offered with compassion.

“Thank you,” said the now tearful spirit.   “Finish your repast first.   I have waited a score or more years, a few more minutes will not matter overly much, You are the first solid I have spoken with since falling.”

Weilla finished her meal and followed the wraith to a boulder strewn area at the foot of a crumbling cliff face.   “How came you to inhabit this wild and desolate place?”  

The spirit stopped and pointed to a pathetic heap of cloth rags and bones.  “I was sent to climb the needle but fell from this face.   If you climb further, beware the white rocks.”

Weilla gathered up the exposed bones and moved them away from the cliff.   She dug a shallow grave in the soft earth and interred the remains reverently adding a short prayer to the gods.  She patted the mound firmly so the soil would remain in place.   “Before you go, reveal to me your likeness.” She said. 

The wraith's face changed, even as she began to fade for the last time.   The countenance that Weilla gazed briefly upon was her own.   Then she was alone once more.   She had thought to climb this face, but now took against it.   She smiled in gratitude and gazed down once more at the mound.   There was no mound, only unturned virgin grassland. 

The storm wailed incessantly like the cry of a  banshee seeking her lost offspring.   The bite of a sub-zero wind felt like the mortal wound from a snow troll.   But was as nothing, to the snow blasting effected by minute grains of razor sharp ice crystals impacting every exposed skin surface at between fifty and sixty miles an hour.   Small red scratches covered her face, the blood turning to ice on contact with the air.   Weilla clung doggedly to the needle, one hundred and twenty feet above the ground.   Hanging by broken fingernails lodged in cracks no wider than craquelure she clung to a 110-degree overhang reaching out desperately for the next handhold.

“Got it!”  she yelled triumphantly.    Hauling her tired body over the lip, to hang there suspended for what seemed like minutes, giving respite to a body pushed far beyond its capacity to endure.   In reality, she took only seconds before moving on.  To give up was not an option.   She pulled herself into a shallow crevice, that afforded some respite from the storm, as she eased her body in close to the face, she realised there was an opening just above, it seemed at first to be just a darker surface, she climbed in. 

“It never stops…” 

Weilla peered deep into the gloom, unable to adjust her fuzzy vision to the total darkness, or fully defrost the frozen surfaces of her retina.   She reached out with her sixth sense, but could identify only her own aura.   Had she heard a voice?

“I’ve been here a week, waiting for the storm to abate, so I can find my way down.   Do you have any food to spare?   I haven’t eaten in four days.” 

Weilla felt in her belt pouches, they were now only half full.   She lit a tallow, and looked around their refuge.   Opposite the opening, there was only loose shale and rock rubble.   “Here” she said placing a handful of seeds nuts and dried fruit into the grubby outstretched hand.   She looked at her own, they were indistinguishable, as was their apparel.

“There’s nothing above…”

“Is this then the eye of the needle?”  Her companion nodded.

“Do you have the package then?” she asked.

“There is no package,” the girl laughed mirthlessly.  “Don’t waste your candle.”

“If this is the eye of the needle, the crevice should pass all the way through,” she pinched the candle flame out, and returning it to its pouch.  She moved closer to the scree face, and began to dig with her hands, “Help me move this she called out to her companion.   Removing her knife from its sheath, she used it to prise larger chinks between the rocks.   They worked at it together without the need for further discourse, then a sudden slip of the rock face revealed dim light on the far side, and the storm entered the still gloomy interior.

“It’s no use, there is no way through.   A large boulder is blocking the way, it’s too large to roll past us or for us to squeeze by it,”  her companions despair evident.

“If we can’t pull it inwards, we must push it outwards.   Push on three,” she commanded “1..2..3….Push…”   Slowly it began to move.   “Again” she yelled.   They strained sinew and fibre, and nearly fell to their deaths below, when suddenly it was gone.   They were hit now by the full force of the storm, and were almost sucked from the eye like cork from a bottle.   Taking another quick look around and finding nothing, she made a decision.   “Come on, we can get down this side. It’s a steep slope but there’s no overhang” she shouted into the fury of the storm.   They left their refuge and went out into the full force of the elements. “DOWN!” she yelled 

.-…-. 

A hooded figure in white robes met them at the foot of the needle.   He walked away from them and gestured for them to follow.   They walked without speaking for some considerable distance in silence because of the continual howl of the storm. It appeared they were heading for a lean-to structure of rustic timbers, utilising the rock outcrop as its rear wall.

Weilla could not recall entering it, but enter she did.  The figure removed his hood and cape, revealing his near white linen undergarments.  His face was finely lined tanned and weather beaten.  The log fire was banked high filling the deceptively large space with unaccustomed warmth.   His thick white hair looked like virgin snow, taking on a coppery sheen in the reflected light of the fire.   Weilla gazed into his intelligent green eyes.  “You are the one I am seeking.” It was a statement, not a question.

He smiled in reply, a warm all enveloping fatherly act.  “You’re as beautiful as your mother.” He said.

Somehow she knew he was not referring to Meillo.   She became conscious of her companion, now dressed similarly, and standing beside him.  Their arms interlaced in an uncommon show of intimacy, they embraced, and moved closer to include Weilla.   She join them, it seemed the right thing to do.   Then she embraced them and bathed in their all encompassing presence, she was happy, and for the first time in her life she found herself crying.   Her mind was awash with foreign feelings, and unaccountable emotions yet it all appeared quite natural.   She clung to her parents fondly, lest they disappear.   She felt their warmth, their protectiveness and their pride in the person she had become without their guidance.  Most of all, she felt their staunch and uncompromising love. 

After a while, she slept…

.-…-.

Weillia opened her eyes and gazed at Galyx’s concerned face.

“You’ve been in the trance state for almost a day.   The others all returned within hours.   I have been charged to bring you to the counsel chamber now that you are awake.   We are all eager to discover the outcome of your journey.”  He helped her to her feet and led her into the adjoining chamber.  The counsel chamber was a large circular building standing alone in the centre of the village.  Six ancient counsellors sat on cushions, facing into the centre of the area where she now stood alone.   The supreme counsellor spoke on behalf of them all.

“You were sent to retrieve a package, to confront a sage, and to bring something back with you to this counsel.   Did you succeed?” 

She stood in silence for a few moments then she smiled, and answered “Yes.”

“Would you please reveal to us what transpired?”

She told her story simply without frills.   They conferred for a long time in low unhurried tones.   When they again took their positions the supreme counsellor requested that she retire to the guest chamber to bathe eat and relax.   They would speak with her in the morning after they had deliberated further.

She cast a look of concern towards Galyx, as they withdrew.   “Did I say or do something wrong?” she asked.  

He smiled at her but didn’t reply.

 

(To be Continued)

                                                                                                                m By Len Morgan 

UNDERPANTS

 UNDERPANTS ~ (From Next)

By Peter Woodgate

Another pack of underpants

Oh, whatever Next

There’s eight in all and nicely packed

But I am quite perplexed.

For shown, on each, are animals

Clear against the colours bright,

I guess that I must act each one

Be it day or night.

So, should you hear me roaring?

Don’t get too alarmed,

It’s just the lion on my pants

So you will not be harmed.

And should you notice my long neck,

There is no need to laugh

Or no need to wind it in

It’s just the tall giraffe.

Should I be monkeying around

Or swinging on a tree,

I haven’t lost my marbles

It’s just the ape in me.

Some days I may show signs of spots

My face it will be peppered

Not to worry, they’ll soon go

It’s just the stealthy leopard.

Perhaps I’ll be a magician

And quote Abra Cadabra

You may see stripes before your eyes

Relax it’s just the zebra.

Of course some days I’ll blow my horn

And act as if I’m cross,

My pants will feel uncomfortable

It’s that moody rhinocerous.

At times though, I will be so cute

Like a fluffy, cuddly, cat,

I’ll run on four but stand on two

Can you guess? Yes, a meercat.

No doubt, someday, another pack

But please not a shark with fin,

I’ll  dream that he is eating me

Because I cannot swim.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 

 

 TAKING THE PLUNGE  (Part 1 of 2)                                             

by Richard Banks                   
            

Danny lost the will to live on the 07.21 train to Liverpool Street station. This was not the fault of the train or the company responsible for its operation. Indeed the train was almost on time and doing a passable imitation of an intercity express. Nor was it the fault of the mobile phone which texted him the information that he had been sacked. The cause of his unhappiness was clearly Global, or to be precise, The Global Equity Investment Corporation who despite making an annual profit of one point three billion dollars had embarked on a round of staff cuts. That these cuts were described as efficiency savings was no consolation to Danny who was told to report to reception and that under no circumstances was he to seek admittance to his office on the thirty-third floor.

         He wondered how much redundancy money he would receive and long it would pay the mortgage on the Docklands apartment he had bought for himself and his fiancée, Tanya. She would not be pleased to hear the news of his dismissal. As the daughter of a Russian oligarch she was used to having money and spending it with a liberality that was especially pleasing to the high fashion couturiers of Regent Street. So far the money she had been spending was Danny's but once certain administrative difficulties had been resolved concerning the transfer of her father's allowance her income would be several times larger than that of her intended husband. Indeed she was hopeful that on their marriage her father, being a particularly affectionate and indulgent parent, would double, or maybe treble what she had previously received. After all she was her father's only child and it made no sense for him to be less than generous when on his demise she would inherit the entirety of his vast estate.

         Danny reflected on his good fortune on finding a wife whose voluptuous good looks were even more important to him than her undoubted wealth. Nevertheless it was comforting to know that another source of income would shortly be available to make good the substantial expenditure of recent months. He decided to text Tanya with the news of his dismissal and on doing so received the message: 'Very funny, ha ha', followed, almost immediately, by another, reading: 'You are joking aren't you?' He replied to the effect that he was not joking and that this was the most unfunny thing ever to happen to him. He had a mortgage and wedding to pay for, mega debts on credit cards and less than two grand in the bank. Would she contact her father and get him to send some of the money he had been promising.

         The rapid interchange of texts paused and Danny witnessed the coming and going of several stations. He imagined Tanya emailing or phoning her father and making the necessary arrangements that would save him from bankruptcy. Her reply came as the train was pulling into Liverpool Street; for a moment he thought it had hit the buffers. In less than one hundred words and the capital T that ended her text, Tanya exploded what was left of Danny's life. How, she asked, had he allowed such a 'ghastly thing' to happen. Had she known he was nothing more than a financial chancer she would never have consented to be his wife. Their engagement was over. She would, if he insisted, return the ring but as the apartment was registered in their joint names she would expect half of whatever it was sold for. Her solicitor was Grimdyke & Downward to whom all future communications should be sent.

         At first he could not believe what he was reading but the words on the screen showed no sign of changing. Tanya was no more a part of his life than his fellow commuters who had deserted the train for their desks in the City. With the uncertain instinct of a dazed lemming he followed the last stragglers through the ticket barriers. From there it was only a short walk to his office in the high rise building known as the Beanstalk. On entry his identity card was scanned and cancelled by a security guard who ensured that he join a queue of discarded humanity shuffling towards a help desk. Large envelopes were being handed out and the recipients escorted through the nearest exit by black suited bouncers normally found in local clubs. The news was filtering back along the queue that the company was offering severance pay of one week's salary for every year worked. 

         Danny calculated what would be coming to him and found it to be no more than a splash in the ocean of debt he was surely going to drown in. The hopelessness of his situation overwhelmed him, his body shivering with cold on a summer's day. He was a winner, a go-getter. This shouldn't be happening to him, but it was. Somehow he had lost everything that mattered. His confusion turned to anger, anger at the company, anger at Tanya, anger at the world and everyone in it. How dare they do this to him. His life was over, not worth living. Well, so be it. If he was no better than a dead man his death would be his revenge. He was a lion; he would go out with a roar.

         His plan was a simple one. First of all he had to run as fast as he had ever run. There were forty, maybe fifty yards between him and the executive lift that provided the Company elite with an uninterrupted journey to their offices at the top of the building on the forty-third floor. The doors to the lift were open. If they were still open when he reached them he could ascend rapidly to the forty-third floor and from there onto the roof where he would end his life. His descent would take only seconds. After that his pain would be over. The bad publicity for Global would be their pain, one they would have to live with. As for Tanya – no he dare not think of her.

         Breaking ranks he ran towards the staff lifts. The regulars on security would be expecting that. It had happened before, former staff returning to their offices to download client details. The  guards by the lifts were reinforced by other guards who abandoned their allocated positions to form a defensive shield. They braced themselves for Danny's charge. Instead he swerved away from them and raced full tilt towards the executive lift. On reaching it he pressed the up button and watched the doors close in the face of the one guard able to run as fast as himself. He wondered if there would also be guards on the forty-third floor but, when the doors opened, the corridor outside was empty. He hurried along it and up the two flights of steps that led to the roof. All that was left was for him to hurdle the low balustrade wall on the front elevation of the building and let gravity do the rest.

There was no place in Danny's plan for Sid but as he ran towards the edge of the building he realised he was heading towards Global's longest serving maintenance worker who was sitting astride the wall. He cantered to a halt and not knowing what to say announced his presence with a cough. The trance like gaze of the maintenance man shifted from the urban landscape beneath him onto Danny. On finding the suited figure of a middle ranking trader he adopted an expression appropriate to the continuance of the class struggle.

         “Oh, it's you,” he said recognising Danny as an occasional drinking partner at The Magpie. “What do you want?”

         “Sorry Sid. Didn't mean to disturb you but you're in my line of fire so to speak. Would you mind moving over a bit?”

         Sid replied that if Danny was also intending to throw himself off the top he had three other sides on which to do so. This was his side. He had got here first and would not be leaving it until he was good and ready.

         Danny considered the other elevations and found them unsuited to his purpose. Beneath them were only narrow streets. Few would see him go down there. No, if he was to do this thing properly it had to be off the front of the building into the windswept piazza known as Global Square. At its centre was a statue of Global's founder, O J Stilkenburg. With any luck he would hit the ground in front of it. The significance of his action would be clear to everyone. The stain he made would be scrubbed clean but never forgotten. But if this was to happen it was necessary to jump from the spot now occupied by Sid.

         Danny glanced impatiently at his watch. Security would be on their way up. He could feel them coming. If he was going to jump it had to be now. In an attempt to expedite matters to their mutual satisfaction he approached Sid and sat down beside him. He addressed him in the brisk no-nonsense way he closed stock market trades.

         “Look here mate we ain't got much time. Give me your arm. We'll go over together. You and me, together. Are you ready? Yeah? On the count of three.  One..two..”

         Sid responded by wrenching his arm from the loop Danny had made. To make his intentions    even clearer he stepped away from the wall towards the storeroom that occupied the centre of the roof.

         “What's the matter, mate?” Danny's voice expressed surprise then anger. “Lost your nerve?”

         “So if I have. That's my business not yours. You do what you want, I'm off to the boozer. I've got a cheque to spend.”

         “That won't last you long. Then what?” Danny answered his own question. “The dole. That's what you got coming. You'll never find another job, not at your age.”

         Sid tried to snap back but the only words he had were of loss and humiliation. He would keep those to himself, his emotions he could not. He had been in the Company's employ for thirty seven years, risen to the grade of Senior Maintenance Officer with authority over others. His job told him who he was, what he was, separated him from those who had no work and no prospect of work, people he despised. Now he was no better than them. He should be angry, defiant, instead he was crying. For the first time since primary school he was crying.

         Danny had no tears but was troubled by those he had helped bring about. His last moments should surely be better than this.

         “Sorry mate, I was out of order, way wrong. Here's a tenner. Have a drink on me. In fact have the whole damn wallet. Just do me a favour, will you?”

         “What's that?”

“Watch me go will you. Say a prayer while I'm falling. Can you do that, mate?”

 

Copyright Richard Banks