Tylywoch ~ 17

 Tylywoch ~ 17 Galyx Captive I 

By Len Morgan

   Weilla harboured bad feelings from the moment she watched Galyx head towards the Palace.   But, he was obviously in control of the situation, because the guards were following him, not leading him.   He could of course have slipped away from them at any time and they could never have caught him, but that was not his plan…   She came to a decision. 

“How many Tylywoch are there in the city?” she asked. 

“Three Quads, not including ourselves,” Galt replied.   He was interrupted by a knock at the door [3 fast, 2 slow, Pause, 1 slow, 2fast,]; they dowsed the lights and waited the required 30 seconds...

.-…-.

Galyx was escorted into the small guard room by Captain Vadeem and, four members of his patrol.

“So Vadeem, perhaps now you can tell me what is happening here?” he said hopefully, but received no reply.   There were small holding cells beyond the guardroom, he was searched thoroughly and the contents of his pockets were confiscated.   One cell door was opened, he was bundled in and the door locked behind him.

“Come on now Vadeem, talk this through with me…”   The lights were extinguished and the outer door slammed shut with finality.   After a few minutes, he realised they were not returning and he was alone.   He felt irritated by his inability to provoke Vadeem.  “Curse you Vadeem!” he yelled and kicked the door, but he didn’t feel any better.   Vadeem was annoyingly incorruptible, which was why Galyx had chosen him in the first place, but he’d been unable to learn anything of value despite stage managing his own arrest and spending long hours of inactivity in this cell.   

Vadeem knew Galyx of old, they were rivals and opposites but there was respect on both sides.   At least Galyx had the presence of mind to use his old papers, identifying him as a captain in the imperial guard.   He explored the cell cursorily; using a strip of wire from his belt he satisfied himself that he could pick the lock.   Then rested for a number of hours. 

He flipped.  Reduced his metabolic rate to subsistence level, and became one with the dark. Laying against the wall out of the direct line of sight, so he could see but not be seen and ensuring his night vision would not be compromised.   Using his heightened senses as long range warning devices he was able to monitor any movement outside the guard room.

His mind measured time like a metronome, he knew they had left him alone without food water, or any form of stimulation for more than six hours.   His training sustained him.  He knew that after such treatment, the normal untrained mind would be begging for activity and would soak up any offered form of stimulation, like a sponge.   This knowledge would be used to manipulate a captive, but he knew something about his adversary and would use it to his advantage.

He smiled, as footfalls halted at the outer door, and after a few moments, a key turned in the lock.   Galyx screwed up his eyes so that light would not impinge on his retina, whilst flattening himself against the wall his feet fitted into rings he’d discovered six feet above the ground, that were intended to hold chains.   Three men entered, there was a momentary pause then he heard the familiar voice of the Surbatt sergeant.  

“Is this your idea of a joke?   The door is unlocked.”   He gave it a shove with his boot, “He’s not here!   Where have you taken him?   He’s needed for interrogation by chancellor Wilden…” 

“Huh, the Blutt émigré?   What authority has he got to interrogate a Cheilin citizen!” Vadeem demanded. 

“By order of Emperor Taleen.   The Emperor decides these things, and his decisions are beyond the questioning of mere mortals like us.   I want him and I want him NOW!” 

“Can you see him in the cell?   This is where we left him to cool his heels, you and me both!   If you can’t see him he isn’t here and therefore you cannot have him.   I’ve a good mind to incarcerate you for twenty-four hours, to teach you proper respect for my rank.   If you ever demand anything of me again, I will cut you down where you stand and no man will hold me to account.”

 

“Very well Captain, I apologise for my unwarranted disrespect, my orders are direct from the Emperor himself.   You have until morning to produce him, then I… The Emperor will declare you an enemy of the state and you will be dealt with accordingly.”   He turned stiffly on his heels and slammed the outer door testily.

 

“He’s a worm captain, but he’s right.   Galyx means trouble for us both, we could hand him over and honour would be served…” sergeant Lakei counselled.

 

“Honour?   Handing over a brother officer, a valued drinking and sparring partner, to those murderous vermin.   You do know they have likely killed the Empress we are sworn to protect and serve?”

“But the Tylywoch…” 

“TYLYWOCH SHIT!!!”  he ranted.   “The man talked as though Taleen had already been elected Emperor, and I let it pass without comment?   Lakei, we’ve been through a lot of hard times together, what possible reason would the Tylywoch have for such an action?   What would they gain from it!”  He shook his head in exasperation.   “They more than any have a vested interest in preserving continuity, by ensuring the well being of the Empress.   Their very existence is at stake…” 

“You really think it's a conspiracy?” 

“Quite so Lakei…” the tirade was cut short by a slow hand clapping from within the cell.   

“You can come out now Galyx, we have bread sausage cheese, and wine.   Let us eat like civilised men, and I will tell you what I’ve learned since last we met.”  

Sweeping the detritus of previous meals from the table Vadeem replaced it with a red table cloth, untying it he revealed the makings of a promising breakfast, to which sergeant Lakei added two bottles of fine red wine that he’d been keeping at the correct temperature in his blouse front.   With a flourish he produced three beakers from the overlarge patch pockets of his coat. 

“Lock the door please Lakei.” said Vadeem sitting at the table.   The three men ate heartily in silence washing down the food with wine.   Lakei poked the final sliver of sausage into his mouth, drained the dregs of the last bottle, and tossed it over his shoulder with utter disregard, into the growing heap on the floor. 

Galyx smiled, “Glad I’m not the housekeeper,” they laughed. 

“I’ve learned from our brother officers who are not of the 9^th clan, that they are disturbed and unsure how to proceed…  These Barracks are only ever used for over-spill, usually during festivals,” Vadeem explained “so you shouldn’t be troubled by too many visiting guards.   I’ll meet with our fellow officers tomorrow and pass on the message that the divine light still shines.” 

“Best not let it go beyond us just yet, if the Surbatt get wind of it they will redouble their efforts before help can arrive from outside,” Galyx explained.

“Of course your right, each clan is represented by an honour contingency, whilst the 9^th has an army outside the gates.” 

“Be sure to tell only those you trust implicitly, and only if it’s absolutely necessary.  They should know, tell them to await our call before taking action."

They continued the discussion for about an hour, then without imparting any new knowledge Vadeem and Lakei returned to their own quarters leaving the door unlocked.  They also left Galyx an ample supply of food and water, in case their return was delayed.   They shook hands, not knowing if they would meet again, then he was alone. 

 He left the cell to search the guard room. He found clothing in various chests, he chose something in his size then ate well before reconnoitring.   Outside he found a corridor with identical cells in either direction.   Some were locked, some open, but all were empty.   Returning to the cell he’d chosen as his base, he explored in the opposite direction with similar results.   He called softly at locked doors, getting no reply.  

Then he heard a troop of soldiers approaching, he decided to make himself scarce, ducking into a convenient unlocked cell. 

(to be Continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 

A Rengay

 A Rengay

By Robert Kingston

This piece is a collaboration between myself and an American poet based in Kentucky.

It is called a rengay. A six verse poem where each poet responds to the other’s verse. This one was recently published in Drifting sands, a haibun journal based in the U.S that encourages a worldwide contributory audience. The theme (prompt) focuses on the state of our planet and the human species.

copyright Geoff Pope & Robert Kingston

AUNT MABEL’S EASTER SURPRISE 2

AUNT MABEL’S EASTER SURPRISE 

 Richard Banks

       Aunt Mabel was an elderly lady of ample proportions who no matter the occasion was always to be seen in what my father described as her widow's weeds. Having once come to our house with a bunch of daffodils for my mother I assumed that these must be the weeds to which my father referred but when the expression continued to be used, flowers or no flowers, I eventually tumbled to the fact that he was referring to the unrelenting blackness of her attire. To me she resembled a black cloud and as her visits to us twice coincided with heavy downpours of rain I became convinced that Aunt Mabel and rainy days were never far apart.

         My aunt being a widow was easier to understand. She had been married briefly to a man named Bert who was killed in WW1 forty-one years to the day before I was born. My birthdays were therefore a reminder to her of a tragedy from which she never really recovered. It is said that at my christening she shed enough tears to fill the font. 

         She was, of course, my Great Aunt who was usually invited to family gatherings that also included her brother, my paternal grandfather, but after he died her visits became less frequent due, partly, to her moving into residential care. Although she was still reasonably mobile and clear in her thoughts and conversation my father’s acquisition of his first car, a Hillman Minx, made it more convenient for us to visit her rather than the other way around. This we did with great regularity, four times a year, our visits seldom lasting more than an hour although to me, deprived of my playthings, they seemed a good deal longer. Nevertheless my presence did on occasions provide her with a certain melancholy pleasure for she had begun to perceive in my appearance a resemblance to her late husband. Indeed I so raised her spirits that her usual expression of sad resignation sometimes gave way to a smile that also brought an unexpected gleam to her dark brown eyes.

         It was in the early Spring of 1968 that my father declared that our first visit of the year to Aunt Mabel was to take place on Easter Sunday but that it was not to include me. I was still recovering from the measles and although no longer infectious was not, due to my remaining spots, allowed out beyond our back garden. I was, therefore, left in the care of my fourteen year old sister who, once my parents were gone, disappeared into her bedroom to play records. This was fine by me and I set-out my soldiers on the living room floor confident that the ensuing battle would not be disrupted by the intrusion of unwanted feet.

         I was nearing the conclusion of the Battle of Little Big Horn when I became aware of an interested spectator in the form of Aunt Mabel. As she had not rung the front door bell she must, I thought, have gained entry to the house through the side door which in those days was closed but never locked until evening. She regarded me with a smile that by the standard of her past sad glimmerings was almost radiant.

         “Have the soldiers won?” she asked.

         I explained that this was Custer’s last stand and that he and the seventh cavalry were soon to be wiped out by the Cheyenne and other tribes.

         Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “Then, Harry, it’s just as well I came when I did. I tell you what, let them have a truce for awhile, I have something to tell you. Come on now, sit down next to me on the settee. It won’t take long and as it involves the giving of a present I’m sure you’ll find it time well spent. And if Mr Custer has his wits about him he might very well slip away unnoticed.”

         I was about to explain that the battle actually happened and that there was nothing I could do to save Custer and his men when I noticed that she was reaching into her handbag presumably for the gift she had mentioned. A moment later the battle was all but forgotten by the sight of a yellow tin bearing the words, ‘Colman’s Mustard’. My face must have registered both surprise and puzzlement although as I was behind it only Aunt Mabel would have known this for sure.

         Don’t worry,” she whispered, “there may be something different inside. Shall we see?”

         I nodded vigorously and through unblinking eyes watched as she lifted the lid to reveal some crepe paper within.

         “Oh dear,” exclaimed Aunt Mabel, “I hope there’s more than paper in there.”

         For the first time, I realised I was being teased and that Aunt Mabel had a sense of humour that was as mischievous as it was unexpected.

         “Go on reach inside, see what you can find, but be gentle it’s very precious.”

         I inserted the fingers of both hands and almost immediately felt the smooth, cool object within. I raised it up and having discarded the paper still clinging to it saw an enamel egg. I should have been disappointed - after all what use was an enamel egg to a boy who spent most of his spare time playing soldiers or football - but I wasn’t, far from it, and Aunt Mabel observed my reaction with evident satisfaction. She had judged me well. I had a soul that, despite my childhood obsessions, could be touched by the alluring appeal of fine art, and that egg was, without doubt, the most beautiful object I had ever seen.

         “Let me tell you about it,” she said. “Have you heard of Peter Carl Faberge?”

         I shook my head.

         “Well, he was a very gifted craftsman, a jeweller and goldsmith, who made all sorts of lovely things for the Czar of Russia and other royal people. In addition to everything else he did for the Czar, each Easter he would make him an egg, like this one, which he decorated with gold, silver and precious stones. They are wonderful works of art that if sold today would cost the buyer many, many thousands of pounds. Yes, you may well open your mouth in disbelief. However, I mustn’t raise your hopes too high, this is not a Faberge, but it’s the next best thing. This was made by one of his pupils, who in 1912 set up his own studio in Antwerp, Belgium. He soon became successful in his own right attracting many well to do clients, including a Duke and several Earls. So, you see you have something very precious that today can only be found in museums and private collections. That is all but this one, and for that, we have to thank your great uncle Bert.”

         “Is that the Uncle Bert who was killed in the war?”

         “Yes dear, he was my husband, although not for very long. We married in 1916 just before he left this country to fight the Germans on the western front. We should have waited until the end of the war which was only two years later but we weren’t to know that at the time. We were young and in love and in far too much of a hurry to wait. We honeymooned in Yarmouth for three days, which was all we could afford, and a week later I saw him leave this country on a big ship from Portsmouth harbour. I thought I would never see him again but three months later I did. He arrived, unannounced, at my parents’ house, where I was still living, on the day before my twenty-fifth birthday. It was the best present I ever had, the only one I truly wanted but he was determined that I should have something really special to commemorate an event which was as important to him as it was to me.”

         “And that’s when he gave you this egg,” I said, anticipating her next line. “It must have cost him an awful lot of money.”

         “Well, not quite, but it did cost him his tobacco allowance for two weeks and for someone who loved his pipe as much as he did that was a high price to pay. You’re looking puzzled, dear boy. Let me explain. Your great uncle was allowed a quantity of tobacco each day which he gave to another soldier in exchange for the egg. How the soldier came to be in possession of it is a mystery we will probably never have the answer to, but in war, many things are lost and found, or more likely looted from damaged houses.”

         “The thought that I might be in possession of stolen property, at last, became too much for me and, several years after the ending of the war, I took the egg to the Victoria and Albert Museum in London and tearfully confessed all, although I had little to feel guilty about. That’s when I found out who the maker was and that, as I suspected, it was worth a good deal of money. I thought they were going to take it away from me, and for a while they did, but after a month it was returned to me by the Director of the Fine Arts Department, no less, who said that a bill of sale existed for the egg but that the purchaser could not be identified from the records of that time. Therefore unless someone came forward who could prove their ownership my assertion that it had been purchased legally, if somewhat irregularly, was sufficient title in law to make me the owner.”

         “I should have been happy, sold it at auction and used the money to buy myself an annuity that would have provided me with an income for life, but I didn’t. A pity, especially as Bert would no doubt have wanted me to do so. Instead, I kept it on my dressing room table as if it was a religious relic. You see, I couldn’t bear to be parted from it. Indeed in my depressed state of mind, it would have seemed like a betrayal of Bert if I had. It was, of course, a huge mistake. Miserable as I was I should have come out of mourning after a year and made the most of my life, but I never did. Life became a terrible burden, and only now it is over am I able to feel the way I once did. Your parents think I’m a dreadful old hindrance; they have done their duty by me but derived little pleasure from my company. I hope, Harry, you will think better of me. At least you now have the egg, so take good care of it. And if anyone tells you it’s not yours tell them that’s it’s written in my will. Any questions? No? Then I had better be getting along. I could be leaving by the side door but if you close your eyes and don’t peep I can be on my way a little more quickly. I have an important engagement in two minutes time and I don’t want to be late, not after fifty-one years.”

         “You mean you’re off to see Uncle Bert?”

         “I think so, dear, I certainly hope so. Shut your eyes and wish me luck.”

         I did. On opening them again I realised I had not thanked her for her gift, but by then she was gone.

         An hour later my parents returned from the care home with the news that Aunt Mabel was, in my mother’s words, ‘passed over’. By then I had finished the Battle of the Little Big Horn and placed the egg at the back of my games drawer. My father seemed very gloomy about his aunt and was not at all pleased when I was not.

         I said nothing about Aunt Mabel doing some of her ‘passing’ by way of our house - they would never have believed me. As for the egg I kept quiet about that too until the reading of her will when I said that she had already given it to me during one of our visits to the care home. As the will said nothing about its likely value and I was equally reticent on that subject my parents assumed that it was an inexpensive bauble which, after a brief inspection by themselves, was soon forgotten.        

         Twenty years later I sold the egg to the V&A for a good deal less than it was worth and invested most of the cash I received in a new Hillman for my father and a house for myself and the girl I was about to marry. If I had any regrets about the sale they were few in number because by then I was an Assistant Curator at the Museum and therefore able to see the egg on any day of the week that I wanted. More importantly it could also be seen by the many thousands of visitors that every year passed through our doors. It was, I thought, both the right and sensible thing to do, and as I have yet to be struck by lightning I can only assume that Aunt Mabel thinks so too.

                                                                             Copyright Richard Banks 

Tylywoch ~ 16

 Tylywoch ~ 16 Return to Hartwell

 by Len Morgan

When Jax returned to Hartwell, he entered the forge and quietly watched as Terrek put the final touches to a fine ivory-handled stiletto blade. 

Terrek broke the silence, “I read your notes while you were gone, didn’t have much else to do, business was slack and there was nothing pending...”

“So stop crabbing around, get to the point!   You didn’t like them?” 

“On the contrary, your ideas for mechanisation show insight and imagination.   The work was harder without you so I built a few of your devices.   Your use of gears,” he turned to a large mechanical hammer, raised by foot power, and the new double sided ladle running on tracks and able to be poured with one hand, “It pours smoothly without any splashes or spills producing very few bubbles or imperfections.   They are a triumph; I built them but could never have done so without your drawings.”   He smiled in welcome.   Jax returned his smile, he was tired but glad to be back home. “Your time at Ordens Forge was well spent?” 

 “Yes.” Said Jax quietly. 

“Then why did he not complete your initiation?”

“On balance, he said the things you have taught me outweigh the knowledge he was able to impart, so the honour should be yours.” He smiled again.

“The pompous old ass!” said Terrek with a grin.  'The boy has aged more than six weeks' he thought, his eyes have seen things that humans ought never to see.   He gazed up into the night sky, throwing his mind out into the void they both now knew existed out there.   This time, he didn’t feel so lonely.   This time he was conscious of a shared secret that would bring them closer together even when apart.   No matter how far Jax chose to roam, and roam he would, he had no choice!   “Come on in…” he stumbled over the inappropriateness of ‘boy’, “Jax, welcome home – partner.”  They hugged each other warmly.   A voice in Terrek’s mind said, ‘It’s good to be home and to find you well.   But, why did you not warn me?’ 

“It’s a family taboo!   If I had warned you Orden would have known, he would have been angry beyond words!    You wouldn’t want to experience the wrath of a Jellonan, even at this distance.   I understand you took the oath?”  Jax nodded.   “It’s not the kind you should break lightly!” he said with conviction.

“But, I was never really given a choice…” Jax began.

“You made your choice when you signed articles of apprenticeship!   Read the small print.   Remember, you can now commune with like-minded artisans throughout the universe.   You have access to hundreds of thousands of minds if the need should arise, if you have a question, they will provide a solution.   You took the oath!” he put his arm around Jax in the way of a comrade.   “I have been alone too long, we are so far beyond normal smiths, more so than a fresh apprentice is from a Grande Master Craftsman, with a lifetime of achievement to his name.”   He looked up to the sky and waved his arm in comic presentation, “they are all out there on other worlds, with different chemistries, some so far above us that they are like gods, but they are not!”

“Orden?” 

“He is a conduit, he is the one who binds our minds together he enables us to join with them.   If you wish, you could spend the rest of your life communing with them, exchanging views and ideas.” 

“But I hear and I see nothing…” 

“Because you have not yet been finished.   Orden gave you something for me?” 

“He did” said Jax and he drew the golden stiletto spike from its sheath.   Terrek took it from him and stabbed it deep into Jax’s heart.   Jax stared back in disbelief, at the only man he would trust to act in his best interest and down at the hilt of the blade now protruding from his chest.   He looked into the smiling face of Terrek, his vision blurred as he felt the icy cold fingers of death taking a hold on him.  "Why?" he asked with a hurt and betrayed look in his eyes…

(To be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

THE CURSE OF RICHARD PARKER.

THE CURSE OF RICHARD PARKER.

By Bob French

          The two young boys sat frozen to their chairs, mesmerised by the old pirate who sat opposite them in his crinkled old oil-skin coat.  His rugged sunburnt face made darker by the shaggy white beard that partially hid a large scar that ran down the side of his face.  Everything about him smelt of the sea, but what frightened the boys the most were his eyes; they were a deep bluey-green; the colour of the sea. 

          The windows of the old tavern rattled as the wind howled past the coast of East Tilbury and rushed on down the estuary towards the City of London.  The old alehouse ‘The Ship’, was a frequent drinking hole for those who made their living from the sea, and during the summer months, the place was always packed with fisherman, customs men, and of course pirates.  What drew them to this desolate place on the coast was the ale and the huge fireplace that when lit, created strange shapes on the walls and fired sparks out onto the stone cobbled floor with a sharp crack.

          An old grandfather clocked chimed somewhere in the shadows of the alehouse as the old pirate looked down at the two boys.  He never smiled or joked.  To him, life was a serious matter, not to be fooled with. Then he began; his voice was gruff and harsh.

          “I recalls,” the old pirate leant forward as though about to whisper the location of a hidden treasure.  “That it were a cold and windy night as we pulled out into the estuary.  It were right choppy and the harder we pulled on them oars the more the sea fought us.” He suddenly leant back, gripped his leather tankard and drained it then slammed it down on the table, making the two young boys jump. After he had dragged his sleeve across his mouth he leant forward again and in a hushed raspy voice started talking.

          “The Master’s Mate was an ‘ard man, but fair mind you.  His name was Richard Parker and ‘e didn’t like landlubbers; that’s the name we gives to those poor fella’s that were nabbed by the Press Gang.  Un each time we got a new batch a’board, he’d treat ‘em ‘ard, so they understood what wus expected of ‘em.”

          “Now on this ship was an officer, by the name of Jethro Wilkinson, who didn’t like Parker on account of him coming from a common background un ‘im bein’ an officer thought he acted ‘bove his station.  So one night he goes and tells the cap’m that Parker has stolen a watch belongin’ to one of the gentlemen landlubbers. The cap’m ‘as his birth searched and finds the stolen watch.  Parker should ‘ave been flogged, but the Cap’m respected ‘im so he court martials him instead, then discharged ‘im from the Navy.  Broke ‘is heart it did.” 

          The old pirate looked up and smiled at the young girl as she leant across the table and placed another tankard of ale down in front of him.  When she left, his face turned serious again as he stared at the young boys.

          “Now Parker knew who had set him up and just as he was leaving the ship he approaches Lieutenant Wilkinson and stared him right in the face and says:”

          ‘I curse you and your family, un those who come after you, un I condemn all those of your kin that takes to the sea to everlasting shame.’

          As the old pirate looked up, an ice-cold gust of wind suddenly rushed around the alehouse as someone came in from the cold.  The two young boys jumped at the unwelcome intrusion and quickly held hands for courage.

          ”Of course Richard Parker was a professional sailor and it weren’t long before he joined up again. But things had changed since he was a sailor; the wages were now very poor and the food not much better, so Richard Parker starts a protest and after a month he’s got several ships crews protesting.  Now the Admirals weren’t havin’ nothing to do with him and after about three weeks they catches him, and on the 30^th of June 1797, they hangs him from the yardarm just out there in the estuary.”  The old pirate took another swig from his tankard. 

“The story goes that Lieutenant Wilkinson died on the way to India, on the very same day, of scurvy.”  No one spoke for a minute, then the old pirate cleared his throat and looked sternly at the boys.

          “Like all sailors, they burries Parker at sea, right where that wreck is.”  The old pirate turns and points out of the window towards the estuary.  The two young boys rush to the window and stare at the two masts that protrude from the churning sea.  As the boys concentrate on the grey waters swirling around the sunken masts they hear the old pirate start to talk again and quickly return to their seats.  As they sit, he quickly glances around behind him, then leans forward.

          “Some say that them shadows that dances on these walls are those of Richard Parker’s ghost.” The two boys quickly look at the strange moving shadows and move a little closer to each other.

          “In 1944, during the last war, a cargo ship, the SS Richard Montgomery, was carrying thousands and thousands of tonnes of explosives.  Un on the afternoon of the 30^th June it anchored out there in the estuary.  The Officer of the watch, so they says, was a Lieutenant Jonathan Wilkinson and, for some strange reason, the ship dragged its anchor and drifted right onto the Great Nore Sand Bank and sticks fast.  No one could understand why it had happened, but Lieutenant Wilkinson was court martialled and sent back to America in disgrace.” 

          “Now the people who were in charge had a big problem on their hands.”  The old pirate nodded in the direction of the sea.  “They ‘ad a sunken ship rottin’ away with thousands of tonnes of high explosives on board. After several months of talking it were decided to unload her; so a plan was made to unload her; but the sea was ‘avin’ none of it.  Some say it were the curse, but half way through the operation she splits in two, so they ‘ave to leave the rest of the high explosives on board.”

          “To this day the curse of Richard Parker still hangs over us all, particular the Wilkinson family.”  The old pirate lifts his tankard and takes another long swig of his ale, then belches, much to the amusement of the two young boys.

          “It don’t end there.  A few years back a Mr Malcolm Wilkinson, a big shot in American airport construction started to invest millions and millions of dollars in the new Thames Airport Project.  Everything was going swell, according to his press release, until someone told him about the sunken ammunition ship, the SS Richard Montgomery.  After lots of tests, the experts finally told ‘im that if the Montgomery were moved in any way she’ll blow and the damage to the coastline and several hundred miles inland would be catastrophic.”  The old pirate’s eyes twinkled as he laughed to himself.       “According to the papers, Old man Wilkinson lost the lot and scurried back to America penniless.”

          Just then an unwelcome gust of ice-cold wind scurried around the room, sending the shadows dancing across the wall again.  The two boys jumped at the figures that dances on the wall, then stood up and rushed towards the young woman who had just come in.

          “Mum, Granddad has been telling us the story about the ghost of Richard Parker and the old ship in the estuary that is going to blow up.”  She smiled and leant across and kissed her father on the forehead.

          “Thanks for looking after the boys Dad, I hope you haven’t been filling their heads with nonsense?”

 

Copyright Bob French

  

A haibun from Rob

Tunnel Vision

By Robert KIngston

Fred was a ferret that in my view belonged in the wild. That’s not to say he wasn’t, six days a week he resided in a hutch in the garden.

One Saturday, having plucked up the courage to tag along for a workday, I watched as, upon release, he weaved through the undergrowth to a nearby warren.

Asked to watch the entry hole whilst my sibling tracked to one beyond a mound, I stood ready to grab whatever surfaced.

 

last touch ...

a moon-shaped scar

on my thumb

 

Copyright Robert Kingston

 Aunt Mabels Easter Surprise 1

By Sis Unsworth

Aunt Mabel called at Easter, we couldn’t believe our eyes.

Just to see her standing there, was a great surprise.

Grandad nearly tumbled, and had to hold the gate,

Grandma, wanted smelling salts, she feared that she would faint.

Mum and Dad stood staring, their mouths were open wide

Our tom cat he arched his back, and scurried back inside.

Aunt Mabel she was standing there, a smile from ear to ear,

“Aren’t you going to ask me in, don’t keep me standing here!”

She made a real grand entrance, looking rather smug,

she laughed and said, “don’t I look good?” and gave our Dad a hug.

“Do you think I look much younger?” she then began to gloat

and smiled as she removed, her classy faux fur coat.

“Look I’ve lost five stone in weight; I’m always at the gym,

It’s years since you last saw me, so admit I do look slim.

I’ve bought a whole new wardrobe; this is a size ten frock,

I expect you are all speechless, because you’ve had a shock.”

Grandad was the first to speak, and slowly shook his head.

“The reason that we’re all surprised, we all thought you were dead!”

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth