MY POO

By June Druce

I have written about all kinds of things

Even about a snail and his house

I have written about a frog on his lily-pad

I have put pen to paper about a mouse.

And now I am going to write about my poo, no less

A special poo, to be exact

It must be special because the doctors have saved it

And sent it to a lab to get data and fact.

They think it is clostridium difficuli

What a name to give a poo

I bet he never thought when he appeared

He would be named, what a posh name too.

I feel sorry for all the other poos

They just get washed away

My clostridium difficuli poo

Will be remembered to this very day.

So, to all the poos, that go down the pan

Your brief entrance was for a short while

But my one will go down in history

I am so proud, it makes me smile.

 

June Druce 16 March 2022

Tylywoch ~ 09

 Tylywoch ~ 09 Coming of Age III 

By Len Morgan

“Weilla, you have been assigned to the personal bodyguard of the Divine Light, Empress of Cheilin. for the next two years, you will protect her from harm, and if necessary lay down your life to ensure her survival.   You are no doubt aware that the very existence of the 13^th Clan is dependent upon her continued wellbeing.   If the ruler of the Empire dies from other than natural causes, events will be set in motion that will end only when the last of the Tylywoch is dead.  We will be hunted down and destroyed, with every Clan's hand, set against us.” 

“Why have I been chosen to carry such a burden?” she asked.

“Our other available generalist is Galyx, who is to take over the duties of Aldor  until such time he returns from his current mission…”

“But, Aldor is dead!”

“Not so…”

“Meillo my mother died believing…”

“She died of an incurable disease.   She knew he lived, but was not able to keep the sickness at bay any longer, she took both secrets to her grave.” The counselor looked deeply into her eyes. 

“You, Galyx, and the members of this council are the only ones who know that he lives.   His life is in your hands, do not repeat it outside these walls.

“Thank you for sharing this with me,” said Weilla.

“It is not shared for your sensibilities,” said Galyx, “we need to know this to fulfill our function.”

“I know that, but thank you anyway,” she said.

“You will leave together at noon, speak to no one, take with you only what is necessary for the journey, and to enable you to accomplish your mission in the Eternal city.   The journey will take you two weeks.    On the journey, Galyx will teach you the necessary protocols and court etiquette, that will enable you to fit in.   Any questions?”

They looked at each other and shook their heads.

“May chance never be a factor,” said the supreme counselor ritually.  They bowed formally and left the council chamber. 

.-...-.

Their journey to the Eternal City was unhurried, but not without incident.   At noon on the fifth day, they stopped to eat and train.   As they sat discussing the finer points of her new position, two travellers stopped nearby.   They watched as the men carefully unloaded their horses, one took a bucket to the stream for water as the other fed and groomed each beast in turn.   Weilla noted that one horse was sweating heavily and seemed distressed with colic.   When the second man returned, and the horses were watered, she expected them to eat.   Instead, they knelt, facing in an east-ard direction in a prayer posture.   Finally, they unpacked their food and ate.  

The elder of the two men smiled in their direction.

"Can we offer you anything?" he asked.

"Thank you no, we have eaten sufficient for our needs," Galyx replied politely.   "Is there anything we can do for you?"

"Thank you no.   Unless you happen to be in possession of a simple emetic, our pack horse is suffering possibly from something he has eaten."

"I have some small skill with healing," said Galyx, "If you would allow me to view the beast at close quarters?"  

The old man beckoned him to join them.

Galyx took some of its sweat on his fingertips and sniffed.   He touched it on his tongue.   "Her stomach is heavily distended, it's hard and bloated, an emetic would not work fast enough in this instance," he said, speaking his thoughts aloud, as he did when teaching.   He felt around her girth as he did so until he found the spot he was seeking.   He drew back his arm and hit it with a blow of some force, and the animal toppled over onto its side.   The young man ran in pushing Galyx away and taking the horse's jaws in his hands.

"You've killed her you oaf!" he exclaimed angrily.

"Do not stand there," Galyx warned, as a rumbling sound came from deep in her bowels.   All at one the animal jumped to its feet regurgitating most of the contents of its first stomach straight into the concerned young man's face.   This was accompanied by a sharp whip-like crack, and the vilest soup exuded from its other end.   Galyx and the older man beat a hasty retreat, the young man was not so lucky, the foul stench took his breath and left him reaching like the unfortunate beast.   Weilla smiled as she watched him hurry in the direction of the stream.

"My thanks traveller, I think you just saved its life," said the elder man offering his hand, "We are Maliq and son.   It was indeed fortunate for us that we stopped here.

"It is always good to practice one's skills, without use they atrophy," Galyx explained.

They continued their journey just as Maliq the younger returned from his prolonged bath.   The horse was back on its feet and breathing easier.   Maliq the elder offered food to his son and returned their wave as they left.

Invariably, they camped beneath the stars, rather than be recognised in some local inn.   They preferred to remain nameless and anonymous, the last thing they wanted was to arouse the curiosity of local authorities.   So, they were in the habit of stopping early and moving well away from the side of the road so that Galyx could coach her on court etiquette, and the best ways of dealing with the local populace.   In addition, they needed to maintain their physical and mental edge for combat situations and to centre themselves spiritually.

They engaged in an hour of hand-to-hand combat, in a rotation of set situations, individually and as a pair.   When their routine was completed, they made their way to the stream and bathed.   As they returned to the road, they heard voices and moved closer… 

"Their pack horse is heavy ladened see how it's sweating up?   There are only two of em, I'd say the three horses alone would be worth a few bruises, ok lads, let's take em!"

There were eight rough-looking men, four with swords, two cudgels, and two bowmen.

 "Let's do it the easiest way possible, you two shoot the riders, we'll finish them off and grab the horses."   The bowmen moved towards the road, Galyx and Weilla moved in parallel with them, closing the gap as quickly as possible without being seen.   As they flexed their bows, Weilla realised they may still not be close enough to make an effective intervention.   On impulse, she pulled out her signal mirror.   A switch flipped inside her brain and increased the flow of blood through her arteries, she began moving at super speed along the tree line at the side of the road.   As she closed on her targets, she flashed a beam of light into the eyes of the lead horse.   The beast reared up and bolted, the other two followed suit.   The bowmen had lost their clear targets and hesitated.   In that instant, the horses had passed by.   Weilla and Galyx plucked the shafts from the taunt bows, delivering vicious kicks to delicate parts of their anatomy before their presence could be detected.   Efficient percussive strikes to the forehead silenced them permanently.  The whole action lasted less than six seconds.   The bowmen were only vaguely aware of them, their victims and the other six members of the band knew nothing.   As things turned out, it looked as though the horse shying had kicked the bowmen prior to running off.

(To be Continued)

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 COURAGE IN UKRAINE

 

By Rosemary Clarke

We hear you, Amelia

From your bomb shelter cold

By the looks of the footage

You're not very old.

But with all your bravery

Lift up your voice

Keep showing the people

That they have a choice!

The Ukrainian people

In shelters are cowed

But you will not find

One head that is bowed

They play and they dance

They write and they sing

And give hope that we help them

New life we must bring!

While governments flounder

With red tape and rules

Ukrainian children 

Can't even have schools!

The UK must step up

And so must the rest!

We're supposed to be powerful

We in the West!

Instead we ignore it

Or do little more

While the likes of Amelia

Are freezing and poor

We should be ashamed

Of ourselves and our ways

For peace in the West

Will see former days!

If we do not help

We leave it in vain

For peace for the world 

Will be smashed once again!

You glance at this poem

Get on with your time

Forgetting this message

Is really a crime!

Ukraine is not really

So far away

But, get on with your life

And ..'have a nice day'.

Copyright  Rosemary Clarke

 

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