For The Love Of Dad 

Jane Scoggins

 He looked like he had had too much to drink. He was slumped against a tree when Jim and Tony walked by on their way to the fishing lake one Saturday morning. The brothers had grown up going fishing with their Dad. Now in their forties and Dad recently passed away, they liked to continue the tradition.  They hadn't seen each other for a couple of weeks so were engrossed in chat when they passed the man. They'd been young men themselves who had often drank too much on a Friday night. They had not paused their conversation but had glanced and made their own similar assumptions. A young man nicely dressed and wearing good shoes sleeping off a heavy evening’s drinking propped up against a leafy tree, head down, on a warm Saturday morning. Jim and Tony set up their camping chairs and propped up their rods ready to prepare the bait. They were the only two fishing that morning and soon settled into almost silent companionship. It was a couple of hours before Jim said he was hungry. He’d left his sandwiches in the car so headed off to get them. He passed the young man still sleeping. On the way back he decided to check if he was OK. 

  ‘You OK mate?’ No reply. He tried again a bit louder. ‘You OK mate?’  

Still no reply or movement, so he bent nearer and touched his shoulder. The young man’s head remained bent forward into his chest. Jim gave him a gentle shake and the man slid sideways and the movement turned his head. His eyes remained closed. His face was pale and Jim wondered if he was breathing. He felt a sense of anxiety about what he might have discovered. He ran halfway around the lake to where Tony was sitting quietly and still, his eyes intently on the water and the end of his rod where he thought a perch was about to bite. Jim’s noisy arrival put a stop to that and Tony looked up annoyed. Jim breathless and afraid told his brother he thought the man they had seen was dead. Hardly believing this could be true he nonetheless jumped up and ran back with Jim. Tony agreed that he thought the man was actually dead, and fumbling for his mobile phone phoned 999 for an ambulance, and the police.

The ambulance arrived within 20 mins and very quickly established that the young man was indeed dead, and had probably been so for quite a few hours. Jim and Tony felt sick with guilt but were reassured by the paramedic that the man would have been dead before they arrived that morning. The police took their statements and seeing how upset they were suggested they pack up their fishing gear and head off home before forensics arrived.

 When Julia heard on the news about the unidentified young man that had been found dead near the fishing lake she thought about a family that would be grieving. She had lost her father in a car accident and knew what terrible grief from an unexpected death felt like.  It was only recently that she had allowed herself to start having fun again. One of her friends had persuaded her to go with a group of girls on a Hen weekend in Manchester. Eight of them including the bride, Ella, had booked the whole thing 3 months before the wedding. Arriving by train on a Friday they had the whole weekend planned. Champagne cocktails at the bar before dinner and then to sample a couple of nightclubs. Saturday they planned a lie in before an afternoon shopping and then to a big nightclub venue where Magic Mike would be performing with other male stripper’s. None of the girls had ever seen male strippers and were looking forward to it. Sunday afternoon after brunch and champagne they would head home. The first club on Friday night was not to their liking, so they moved on to Zoom. Much better, and by 10pm it was buzzing, crowded and lots of fun. Two long bars that ran either side of the club with white leather topped bar stools, and an array of colourful bottles on the illuminated glass shelves. The young barmen competed with one another to put on a show of mixing, shaking and pouring exotic cocktails to the bevvy of girls sitting on or crowded round the bar stools. Julia and her friends had never seen anything like it and loved every minute. They sampled a number of cocktails in-between dancing on the underlit glass dancefloor, with the glitterball revolving its rainbow sparkles over their heads. When their eyes met on the dance floor Julia was instantly attracted to him and they spent most of the evening dancing together.  He asked for her phone number and even though she lived many miles away they agreed to meet up again. The rest of the weekend was exciting and wonderful and the girls had a great time together. On Sunday evening Mark phoned Julia and asked to see her again. Over the next weeks, they met regularly somewhere in between where they both lived on the train line. They had great days out, Mark brought her little gifts and was very attentive. Julia started to fall in love. On one occasion he came to meet her with a friend in tow. She thought it was nice that he wanted her to get to know his friends. When he went to the gents and then to order some drinks he said to Julia ‘Entertain Michael while I'm gone will you?’  He was gone a while. Mark’s friend took the opportunity to sit closer to Julia and make a pass at her, telling her he thought she was gorgeous. Julia was shocked when he slid his hand up her leg to the top of her thigh. She moved away quickly and Michael smirked. When Mark came back nothing was said and Michael left. When she told Mark about it he just laughed it off. 

  ‘I would have been happy for you to give him a bit of a kiss and a cuddle. I don't mind sharing you’ Julia didn’t much like the sound of that but thought she was being a prude, and taking it too seriously. Men had come on to her before, but now she was with Mark she didn't want to deal with that anymore. It took her some time to realise the truth, and she was shocked. At first, she cried but then decided she was strong enough to deal with it. She met with Mark a couple more times before telling him it was over between them. He had become quite possessive and didn't like the idea of losing her. Julia knew that he would want to see her again and wouldn't be happy to let her go. He told her he would come and see her and ask her to explain why.

He came, she made a meal and they drank wine. When he went into the bathroom she knew he was taking cocaine. It had taken her some time to realise the extent of his drug use. And that he was a supplier and a controller of underage vulnerable girls and boys for prostitution and as county lines carriers of drugs across the country. He was trying to involve her in carrying drugs and share her with other men. He had spiked her drinks, and later realised she had been raped. She knew she could not easily if at all extricate herself from this man without danger to herself. So she had stolen some of his drugs over the last few meetings. She added them in high doses to his food and drink when he was already under the influence of cocaine. Later in the evening, she suggested they take a walk down by the fishing lake. It was getting dark and there was no one about. The drug cocktail was taking effect. When Mark became unsteady he sat down under a tree. Julia watched as he convulsed. She withdrew and watched until she thought he was unconscious. With gloves on, she searched his pockets and removed everything that could connect her to him. She put his roll of banknotes in his inside jacket pocket and bag of cocaine and amphetamines in another inside pocket. She waited in the bushes trembling until she heard him vomit and then the sound of choking. When all was quiet she checked his pulse with a gloved hand and went home under cover of darkness. Nobody came forward and the verdict was misadventure from a drug overdose of a habitual user. Case closed. Julia’s Dad had been mowed down by a drink and drug fuelled driver who had smiled in court. He had been given a three year sentence. If she was ever found out, she reckoned on two years for good behaviour. That was a price she would readily pay for Dad.

 

Copyright Jane Scoggins

KamiKazi… 

By Len Morgan 

   Carlie punched the air, “Yes!”  She’d just won ten matches in a row, and the crowd roared their delight.   In just three days she’d won the ‘human Drone pilot’ world championships.  She’d beaten ten contestants in single combat.  She’d also won the Pairs.  

   Now came the final challenge against the winner of the AI class.  The top Artificial Intelligence contestant was Majik.  It was just another game, that Carlie didn’t expect to win, AI had won ‘Final Conflict’ 10/0 over the last five years, and Majik had won three years running.  So, there was no shame in coming second. 

   She’d been so confident she could win, that she spent her downtime analyzing the attacks employed by all the AI competitors, but Majik in particular.  Majik was swift and ruthless, but Carlie detected a little predictability in the attacks.  The more she played the video clips the more she felt it would be possible to win!  However, Majik won the ‘Final Conflict’ 7/3.  Carlie felt deflated, she'd fought her best fights but she was just not good enough.  She brightened up when she realised she was the first human ever to beat Majik in competition mode. 

   She visited the restaurant area but left in a hurry after being mobbed by fans, wanting selfies and autographs…  

“If you’ll follow me I think we can escape this attention,” a young man in uniform led her into a private room. They sat at a convenient table, where a waitress left them with a pair of ornate looking menu’s.  

She gazed at the prices in disbelief, “I can’t afford anything listed here.” 

He smiled, “My name is lieutenant David Crosby.  Your meal will be on the RAF, we have a proposal for you but whatever you decide you can walk away without obligation.” 

“I could, if I knew what you were talking about…” 

“Let’s order and eat first.”  They ordered and ate in silence. “More wine Carlie?” 

“Please.  Let’s sit over there,” she indicated a snug seating area near the window.

“An unidentified group from the Eastern block have infiltrated our security and have intercepted and destroyed a number of our surveillance drones.  Once could be luck, twice coincidence?  But, it happened again yesterday…” 

“Was it a missile or a drone that attacked?”

“It was a drone, but the attack pattern didn’t match with any AI profile we’ve ever met.  The nerds are convinced the attack was from a drone driven by a human operator.” 

“Then they should be able to identify its origin.” 

“They have a general location, within a three mile radius.  We tried sending in a killer drone, but it was shot down before it even entered the area.  We need to fight fire with fire; we need a piloted drone and a pilot who’s better than him.  You are our best hope!” 

“When will your next drone be launched?” 

“According to the schedule I’ve been given, tomorrow, at noon.”

“I need to get some quality time piloting that drone.” 

“You’ll do it?” 

.-…-. 

Eight hours later, Carlie felt she had mastered the drone.  “I want two drones David, one with an AI in control, preferably Majik and one with dual controls, Majik and Me.  If it goes according to plan, I could override Majik if necessary…” 

She reviewed the unsuccessful drone flights a dozen times each, I think I have his measure she thought, his mode of attack and techniques put me in mind of ‘IvanO20’ he nearly beat me in the semi’s six months ago. I think your gook is a pilot with the handle ‘IvanO20’ and he's good."

“You know him.  But, can you beat him?” 

“I’ll have a damned good try…” 

“There’s something I didn’t tell you Carlie, one of the best drone pilots in the RAF, Guy Overton went up against him.  He destroyed our drone and honed in on Guy’s location…” 

“Did he…”

“Guy is in intensive care, we don’t know if he will pull through.”

“Wo~ah this is starting to sound serious, if he can locate me can you locate  ‘IvanO20’?”

“We can pigg-a-bak on his signal and locate him as soon as he attacks our AI drone.  But, be warned, I’ve looked him up, he is the Russian drone champion…” 

“I know, I beat him in ‘The World’s’, but my life wasn’t on the line then.” 

“We’d understand if you changed your mind.  Is there anything you want that would persuade you to stay?” 

She thought a while, poured herself more coffee, and took one of the fancies from the tray on offer. 

“I think it would be nice to learn to pilot a real jet, what would you say to that?” 

“Mmm, you know it would take you three years to graduate flying school…” 

“And…?” 

“You would still have to do basic training first.  Are you sure that is what you want?” 

“That’s what I want.  Look on the bright side, I may lose the fight…’ 

“There is that…  I’ll see what I can arrange.” 

.-…-. 

“You’ve been enrolled provisionally in an ‘RAF fighter training program’.  It’ll cost the taxpayers a fortune because I’m convinced you can nab Ivan.” 

“Will I be in a position to take him down?” 

“Of course, as soon as we have his coordinates they will be sent to the drones navcon.”  Do you want to eat first?

“No, I fight better on an empty stomach, let’s go!”

She strapped herself into the drone pilot’s seat, and both drones took off on their pre-planned route.  She would interfere as little as possible, letting them both behave as standard AI-driven drones.    

Two hours later as they approached the area where they thought Ivan0 was located, a third drone appeared in the sky.  

“So you return for another lesson in drone fighting ‘GuyFox’!  I’m gonna give you another beating…” 

“Ivan, is that you?  This is ‘Carlie.  Guy won’t be coming anytime soon your last drone followed his carrier signal and crashed on his location…” 

“I didn’t know, they never told me it was for real, he was an excellent opponent, he was almost as good as you…” 

Majik's drone zero’ed in on Ivan, Carlie tried to take over control of the drone but failed. 

“Ivan, get out of there, you’re about to be bombed for real!”  Seconds later, there was an explosion and the contact was broken.  

“He never knew it was for real, I’ve taken out an innocent man,” she thought as she closed down her connection. 

That evening she was in a low state, “how could I have been so gullible,” she thought. 

Then her Laptop announced ‘YOU HAVE MAIL’:

Thank you for the warning Carlie, I got out just in time.  I was up for taking out spy drones, but not harming fellow DP's, No sport in that! I plan to resign from the ‘Counter Espionage Program’.  So I’ll see you in the ‘Worlds’ next year.  

Carlie smiled, so she wouldn’t be going to the ‘RAF fighter training program’ after all, but she’d made a new BF in Ivan0. 

 SANDIE

By Bob French

I don’t know why, but I suddenly started to think about Sandie, a girl I had met in the Pink Toothbrush night club last time I was on leave in Rayleigh. I grinned at the memory of some of the antics we had gotten up to, and when we started to dance to some of the Garage and Street music, we fell about in stitches.  Exhausted, we retreated from the blaring music and jostling bodies of the dance floor to the tranquillity of the bar, where she told me to “keep up the dance classes.”

I told her that I was involved in travel.  She replied that she was a nurse and we exchanged telephone numbers.  Suddenly the night was over and I agreed to walk her home.  We talked about where we had grown up; she went to Fitz whilst I told her that I went to Swain. She lived just opposite Sainsbury’s supermarket down by the Weir and when we kissed good night on her doorstep I asked if I could see her again.  She smiled with her eyes and spoke softly.

          “I have your number.  I’ll let you know.”  That was the last time I saw her and that was nearly four weeks ago. I still think of her.

          I suddenly came to my senses as the distant horizon slowly started to change into a hundred shades of dawn and shadows started to appear.  A cold breeze cut across the wadi where our platoon lay hidden, spraying us all with a fine sand that stung our faces.  We had been making good progress until one of the forward recce blokes gave the hand signal to warn us that there were Taliban in the vicinity.  That was at 02:45 hours this morning.  Since then we had lain still; not moving.  When you are laying in the cold desert in total silence with your nerves ready to snap, you start to search your mind and ask yourself a lot of dumb questions, but I remembered what the Sergeant Major told us before we left our forward base. 

“Listen Up, when you’re out there waiting, do not start to think about things like ‘what am I doing here’.  It’ll screw you up.  Just keep your mind on your patrol tactics. Got it.”  So I did my best and started to think about Sandie.

Like Jake, my best mate, this was my first patrol in Afghanistan and the first time we had come into contact with the Taliban. The patrol routine was that every ten seconds or so we would look at our patrol leader, Sergeant Mike Hawthorn, for instructions.  But so far he, like the rest of us, had quietly sunk into the desert floor and watched and waited.  As dawn slowly brought light to a new day, he raised his hand.  He didn’t look back at us or say anything.  His three fingers pointed to his left meant that me, Jake and Muffin were to be ready to move in that direction.  He then raised four fingers and pointed to the right.  The suspense, waiting for the thumbs up to move was nerve-racking.  “I’ve never been this scared.” I whispered, knowing that Jake couldn’t hear me; ‘I never shot or killed anyone either,’ I thought. My heart was going like the clappers.  I felt the sweat running down my face and back and my leather gloves felt decidedly damp inside.

All of a sudden, he raised his fist; the sign to get ready, then up went his thumb and all hell broke loose.  The noise was deafening. Jake and I screamed at the top of our voices as we scrambled to our feet and rushed forward to our allotted covering positions.  I had started to fire my rifle before I even saw the enemy.  Then, as I skidded down the side of the wadi, I saw them for the first time.  Eight of them; were all armed with AK47 rifles.  Jake was screaming beside me as we went rushing in toward them.  I felt the zing and crack of rounds whizzing past my head, then a sickening thud, but I rushed on, thinking that if I was hit, I was damn well going to take one of them with me.  As I rushed in, someone to my left caught my eye. My training and instinct taught me to react and I turned; pointed my rifle and fired.  It hit the man in the chest, spinning him backwards like a rag doll.  It was over in seconds.  

Then there was total silence again. Sergeant Hawthorn quickly gave hand signals to effect a wide perimeter cordon and men started to silently scatter. When I looked around for Jake, the patrol medic was kneeling beside him trying to stop the bleeding whilst Muffin was beside him on the radio calling for medivac support.  My heart sank.  I wanted to go to him but Corporal Tavish grabbed my shoulder and nodded to my position.  He leant forward and whispered.

“Don’t worry kid, he’s in good hands.”

In no time at all the sound of the chopper could be heard thudding over the horizon.  After a mini sand storm, it had landed and bodies were rushing towards Jake and our patrol medic.  Then the radio crackled into life.

“Victor Lema 55.  You have bandits approaching your position. ETA approx 15 minutes, repeat 15 minutes. Out.”  Sergeant Hawthorn yelled above the noise of the helicopter to pull back to protect it.  He then pointed to me and three other men to act as stretcher bearers.  As I knelt down beside Jake, I heard the paramedic giving instructions to our patrol medic and instantly recognised her voice.

“Sandie?”  She looked up, recognised me and smiled.

“Sorry I didn’t get back to you.  Been a little busy.  How you been keeping anyway?”  And smiled again.  She then seemed to ignore me as she started to inject a drip into Jake's arm and give rapid instructions to one of her team. We anxiously waited whilst his wound was being dressed and Jake was stabilised.  I kept thinking ‘time was running out.’ Then we heard it.  That blunt crack of the AK47.  The Taliban were here.  It was time to move. The sand around us started to spurt up as bullets peppered the ground.  Sergeant Hawthorn rushed forward to the paramedic and leant into her face.

“No time to wait, let’s move.”  As he stood up a bullet tugged at his shoulder webbing.  He just spun around and emptied his magazine into four men who were foolish enough to break cover and rush at him. 

We carefully lifted Jake up and started for the helicopter just as it revved up its engines to create a sand screen for us.  We must have been about ten yards from the backdrop when I felt a sledgehammer hit me in the back of my leg.  It spun me around and I screamed.  The last thing I saw was Sandie quickly filling my place on the stretcher and vanishing into the back of the helicopter.

I gradually came around to the smell of antiseptic, bright lights and murmuring voices.  I tried to swallow and realised that I had a mouth that tasted like a Turkish wrestler’s jock-strap.  I made a feeble attempt at sitting up, when someone spoke to me.

“Ah, I see we are awake.  How do you feel?”  I was about to tell her exactly how I felt, then realised that she was a Lieutenant in the Queen Alexandra’s Royal Army Nursing Corps. My mind was starting to fill with hundreds of questions and I tried to speak but found that I couldn’t. The nurse seemed to sense what I needed and gently helped me sit up and made me sip a little water.

“Where am I?  What happened? I croaked. The Lieutenant stood and started to pull back the privacy curtains.  She spoke as she moved.

“Your patrol was ambushed by the Taliban during a helo’ medivac.  As you carried your friend out, you were hit.”  She turned and gave me a gentle smile.  “One of my girls, Lieutenant Sandie Bickford, went back for you and carried you back into the helo.”  I didn’t speak.  I felt choked up.

“Is she alright?  Can I see her?”  My eagerness made me feel excited and I could see the Lieutenant looking at me, then she gently sat on the bed and held my hand.

“I am sorry.  Sandie was hit three times during your rescue and died on the way in.  She told your Sergeant Hawthorn that you were to ”keep up the dance classes.”

 

Copyright Bob French

Dibbs

 PUTTING ON A SHOW 

by Richard Banks                                        

                                                           

Dibbs sits his hind legs on the pavement next to Benny and peers eagerly at the steady flow of people coming from the direction of the station. This he senses will be a good day. After a long winter and an insipid Spring, the first warm day of the year has finally arrived. 

         The punters are in a good mood, glad to be out, to feel the sun on their faces, and although not quite Summer bare shoulders and legs are also to be seen. In the winter they scurried from stall to stall buying what they needed before returning to the warm comfort of their homes. Today they are at their ease, unhurried, ready to browse and be generous. 

          The main beneficiaries of their largess today will be the market traders, but those whose only utility is in triggering the altruism of others are also hopeful of turning a profit. In this respect, Dibbs and Co have a rival in an elderly lady rattling a tin for the Red Cross. Benny mutters aggressively at her and Dibbs joins in, baring his teeth and barking like he’s about to go for her throat. After holding her ground for a few seconds and finding no one coming to her aid she moves several shop fronts along to the pavement outside Marks & Sparks.  

         Benny isn’t the first con man Dibbs has worked with and he’s far from the best but having smeared his face with cement he looks ready for the graveyard. Who can resist him, especially when the nutrition of his doggie friend seems more important to him than his own well-being. To illustrate the point Harry who works in the burger bar at the back of where they sit will come out with a bog standard burger and give it to Benny who despite his unhealthy appearance insists on feeding most of it to Dibbs. In return, he makes big, doggy eyes at Benny full of pathos and unconditional love which Benny in his uninspired way tries to reciprocate. Time this right when people are looking their way the result is likely to be a deluge of coins and the odd fiver or two. Happy days! 

         At half past eleven they give it a go. Cindy buys the burger and on slipping Harry a few quid he makes a big show of bringing it out and handing it to Benny who pretends to be pathetically grateful. 

         “Don’t you worry, mate,” bellows Harry in a voice that can be heard on the other side of the square. “I’m not going to walk by and let you starve. Ex-army are you?” 

         Benny nods his head in acknowledgment of his never-was past.

         “Thought so, can always tell. One day a hero and the next you’re on the scrap heap. What sort of people are we that don’t look after our own.” He strides back to the burger bar shaking his head at the shortcomings of his fellow countrymen. He’s really rather good and few can resist this sudden and unexpected assault on their conscience. Coins are flying from every direction and if Benny and Dibbs don’t keep their eyes shut they’re likely to be going legit for the white stick brigade. 

         Cindy passes by and smirks. She provides the wheels that gets them to the big events. She’s also the brains of their little enterprise and sets-up the stunts that draw attention to them. Right now she’s off to buy a new dress, she’s off clubbing tonight. At half one she’s back and we do the whole burger thing again. This isn’t just a good day, it’s the best ever. Everyone’s happy except some clod on the far side of the square who passes out, and falls face down on the pavement. Cindy goes over to take a look. An ambulance comes and goes. She returns, via several stalls, and Benny asks her what’s up.

         “Nothing much,” she says, “just that Bosnian woman selling the Big Issue. As thin as a rake, gawd knows when she last had a square meal. It’s her own fault, of course; doesn’t know how to work a crowd, no props, no patter, nothing, not even a mangy dog. No idea at all.  Bloody immigrant!”

The End.

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 Four haiku from Rob

 

By Robert Kingston

 

The following haiku appeared in the February edition of time haiku. A small British journal that reads and accepts most Japanese genre poems. Enjoy!

 

roadside reeds

the driver in front lets out

a huge plume of smoke

 

sun through fog

a seal surfaces

in a swirl of swarf

 

cock pit spider

dangling its thread

in the wind

 

thundering on

the Mallard disappears 

into itself 

 

 

Copyright Robert Kingston

DHSS ADVICE

DHSS ADVICE NOTE 338

Thanks to Richard Banks for the submission

In a recent survey conducted by Age Concern, street watching was found to be the favourite recreational activity of 63% of pensioners in the seventy to eighty-nine age group. The same survey, when  extended to people of non-pensionable age, also found that the visual intrusions of elderly neighbours cause more social friction than any of their other behaviours, including cat poisoning and witchcraft.

      The purpose of this circular is, therefore, to advise practising street watchers, and those about to take up this hobby, on how it can be carried out while at all times maintaining peaceful relations with the observed.

Tip 1

      All watching should, if possible, be unobserved. If someone doesn’t know they are being watched they have no reason to complain. Place a large pot plant in the watching window and sit behind it at all times. Camouflage jackets intended for jungle warfare can be purchased from many High Street outfitters and provide excellent concealment for those parts of the watcher likely to be visible on either side of the plant. If it should be necessary to peer over the plant, the wearing of a Christmas wreath on top of the head is also recommended. While many experienced watchers also apply face paint, it should always be removed when undertaking other activities, such as shopping or family visits. Forgetful pensioners prone to senior moments beware! 

Tip 2

      If your efforts at concealment should prove unsuccessful, maintain your surveillance operation by methods not requiring direct interface with the necessary window. The positioning of several large mirrors on the wall opposite the window will allow you to observe the street - and all those in it - while keeping your back to the said window at all times. While this has proved to be a satisfactory method of observation for many watchers it suffers from the disadvantage that reflected sunlight is a contributory factor in 4.2% of road accidents during the summer months, June to August. Ensure that you are adequately insured, otherwise claims for damages could make your little hobby more expensive than a second home on the Algarve.

      An option preferred by an increasing numbers of watchers is closed circuit television (CCTV). Installed ostensibly for reasons of security, cameras enable the watcher to view on-street activity on his or her television in a room not fronting the viewing area. It has the additional advantage that all passing movements are captured on film, enabling the replay of particularly interesting sequences.

      While static cameras provide only limited coverage of passing cars and pedestrians, much of the equipment presently on sale has one hundred and eighty degree vision enabling extended time viewing over distances of several hundred yards. However, beware! Modern day cameras are more collectable than much of the property they are installed to protect. Many go missing only to reappear outside the homes of bargain seeking watchers.

Tip 3

      The brazen approach. Make no secret of the fact that the street is constantly within your field of vision. Acknowledge all those passing with a cheery wave or a thumbs up sign. If challenged be ready with one of the following explanations:

i) I am a bird watcher undertaking a survey for the Wildlife Trust. To back up this claim you should ensure that several books on British birds are easily visible to anyone peering through your window from the other side.

ii) similarly, nocturnal observations can be justified by a professed interest in astronomy. Again, make sure that the necessary books are to hand, and that you have sufficient knowledge of the subject to identify at least three constellations. An additional advantage of methods i and ii is that they provide convincing explanations for your use of optical equipment, such as binoculars and telescopes.

ii) alternatively you can claim that you are a member of the Neighbourhood Watch, and that your watching activities are an essential part of the fight against crime. To prevent being outed by genuine members of the Watch, those favouring this approach should seriously consider joining that organisation.

Tip 4

      Outside activities, such as car washing and gardening, also provide excellent opportunities for street watching. Make good use of peripheral vision, and avoid excessive pruning of trees and bushes. Remember that although your neighbours may admire the cleanliness of your car, your readiness to wash it more than six times a week may arouse their suspicions.

Tip 5

    Street watching for periods in excess of nine hours a day has been identified as a category two psychiatric disorder requiring many hours of expensive therapy. Don’t let your obsession become your therapist’s goldmine. Join a branch of Snoopers Anonymous. Break the habit and take up a less harmful hobby, such as cage fighting.

For further advice and information see the DHSS website:dhssweirdthingsbestavoided. 

 

Submitted by Richard Banks

Tylywoch ~ 23

 Tylywoch ~ 23 Swordsmith IV 

By Len Morgan 

   For three days, Jax lay, pale and silent, in the arms of death.   Terrek was beginning to fear the worst, when suddenly without warning the young man took a deep and very noisy breath.   His eyes shot open, and he stared angrily at Terrek.   "You have killed me," he cried in a mortified voice. 

"Obviously not!"   Terrek grinned stupidly, "Thank goodness you're still with us, it has been so long I was about to call the mortician, you almost had me worried," he answered slapping Jax playfully on the cheeks. 

"You stabbed me!" said Jax undeterred.

"Don't carry on so, I did what had to be done?" he countered defensively.   "The fluid in the syringe was a viral blood plasma modifier.   It will reprogram your genetic code, making it a hundred times more efficient.   It's self-replicating, and will eventually reprogram your blood.   In time all your other cells will be changed, improving your physical, mental, spiritual, and emotional state…" 

"What is this gibberish you're spouting?" 

Terrek continued undeterred.   "For every fifty years you live, you will age but one, you'll become healthier stronger and faster.   Your brain capacity will increase.   Over time, you may eventually even become normal - but I don't want to raise your hopes on that…" he dodged a sluggish roundhouse punch.   "Take it easy young fellow, you've just slept for three days non-stop.   Your body is already changing."    Taking a knife from the forge racks and before Jax could stop him he slit his own arm.   Squeezing the cut flesh together he held it for twenty seconds, when he released his grip, it was already in advanced stages of healing.   In minutes there was a thin scar, in half an hour it was totally gone. 

“That’s Witchery!” Jax stood back…

"Wounds heal a hundred times faster, mortal wounds are as pinpricks, short of cutting you in two, separating the parts, and burying them on opposite sides of a hill, any damage to your body will repair within days.   You could lose a limb and regenerate it in the same time.   It will seem as though a mist has cleared from your mind, something that has hitherto prevented you from using it correctly, as if something was deliberately inhibiting your thought processes, preventing your mind from evolving.   Whilst at Ordens forge, you will have experienced heightened perception, and an increased potential to learn.   But, it will be as nothing to what is to still to come." 

"So, what is the downside?" Jax asked. 

"Downside?   Did you not hear what I just told you?   Do you think you have a choice? There is no going back…"

"It all seems just too good to be true.   Often life has its own little checks and balances, tradeoffs…"

"Your hair will turn grey like mine, you can't have children, your eyes will turn blue like mine, you will become increasingly desirable to women and…"

"Wait!   No children?"   His face told a story.

"It is not impossible, just less likely.   The genes are so radically altered that you would have to find a woman with similarly altered genes, a converted woman, it isn't impossible just unlikely."

"Don't you think you should have given me, a choice, a chance to say no?" 

"No!" Terrek answered.   "If you'd said no I would have had to kill you, we cannot afford to let outsiders know about us, that would be an unnecessary complication; you never showed any inclination to father children..." 

"I need to be alone," said Jax I need to think.    He sat for an hour saying nothing, Terrek moved away leaving him to his thoughts and waited patiently.   Finally, he stood up and turned to face Terrek.

"I can't explain it," said Jax "but I have to leave, I have to get away from here for a while.   I have to seek out Bianne wherever she may be regardless of cost." 

"That is a perfectly normal healthy reaction but, I must impose one condition before you do so" Terrek answered quietly.  

“What!” Jax shook his head. 

"You must create a repository for your alter ego, an elemental to be your confidante and conscience, strong enough to contain and sustain you in the years to come.   It should be any inanimate object we of the sword traditionally create a blade.   Now you have been made, you must fuse all you have gained - the knowledge, know-how, experience, the power, and the magic - into a blade that will do your will…" 

"I don't know if I could just now…" Jax began doubtfully. 

"I am afraid I could not allow you to leave without doing so," Terrek replied gently but firmly, a hard edge creeping into his voice that would not brook refusal.

Jax stared at him surprise registering on his face.   Several minutes passed.

Terrek stared back equally determined, placed a hand on the pommel of his sword, and said "This is not negotiable."   His eyes had become bright with flecks of orange and yellow.

 Just as it seemed they would come to blows, Jax said “I’ll do it.” He nodded and smiled conveying acceptance.

"You will need a familiar to protect you, guide you, and centre your life force.   It will take you but three days to accomplish the task if you forego sleep.   During that time the forge will be exclusively yours."   Slapping Jax on the shoulder good-naturedly he left the premises without another word, locking the doors behind him. 

.-…-. 

Towards the close of the third day, Jax viewed the blank steel blade critically, now sharpened and tempered.  It still required final hardening, a hilt, a guard, decoration, and furniture.    He cast his eyes up, outside the tall barn like doors, routinely left opened when the forge was fired up, the sky was cloudless.   He raised the rough blade to the sky chanting, a litany in a strange unworldly tongue, words of power, words of magic, shards of something else, something nonhuman that would unleash the fury of the elements.   At his final utterance, the world became quiet and still as if holding its breath.    Lightning burst forth from the clear blue firmament.  Randomly striking and enveloping the base sword and the man holding it, as if it were a life raft in a raging sea.   Living ribbons of coloured flame lingered seductively fibrillating, caressing, the singularity who is their familiar.   Great gouts of sinuous green blue and white fire burst into being, fed by bolt after bolt of lightning, licking tongues of flame assail and bath the seemingly immutable figure.   Randomly lashing and binding him to the rampant sword, blackened now from the continual assault, yet both the sword and the man remain.   Black, like the depths of the darkest ocean; the blade absorbed instead of reflecting light and, whilst in motion, become invisible to mortal eyes. 

"AAAAAARRGGEEAWWMMMAAA" his yell a bestial defiance, in answer to the heavens grumbling moodily, as if resentful at being rudely awakened.   An hour later the rumbling had subsided, Jax supine on the unyielding floor slept in a deep trance like state.  

Terrek gazes upon the creation with silent respect, proud of what his newly made journeyman had accomplished.  

He'd witnessed the thunder and lightning and knew he would have to contain his impatience for at least another few days.

Now, he would readily admit the wait had been worth it - three days in the forging, two for chasing and gilding, then the creation of furniture - hilt, hand guard, sheath, and belt.   Jax would then have imbued the living blade with his physical personality - thrusting it through his own torso and withdrawing it, inflicting what to a normal human would have been a mortal wound - that must have been painful. 

He'd seen the flashes of coloured lights, for several minutes before darkness returned.   For a second time, Jax sank into a trance-like state lasting a further two days.

As he slept, Terrek returned to the forge and crafted a matching dagger from the remainder of the strange black metal.   He ritually anointed the blade with his own blood by stabbing it into his chest.   When it was completed, he crafted a sheath to hold it. 

                                             .-...-.

He awoke ravenous.   Terrek had prepared him a sumptuous meal, which he devoured without uttering a sound.   Then he gathered his personal belongings, and took tearful leave of his mentor.   No longer a boy, he was not yet a man, whilst being far more than a man, he had things to do, big things, he did not need to explain.

This, Terrek understood, "It is as it should be," he said nodding a reflective but warm farewell to the new Swordsmith.

(to be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan