KARMA

Peter Woodgate

 

I can see when I shut my eyes

For all that mist called life

Obscures the truth within all things,

Creating stress and strife.

 

Within our minds data exists

Revealed when sight’s obscured,

Thoughts are sought within our souls,

And tension then is cured.

 

Each day that dawns, a problem,

Exists to bring us down,

A puzzle that needs solving

It’s then we need our crown.

 

It glitters with a horde of gems,

Each one will shine a light,

Upon the answer that we need

To win each daily fight.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 HOME WORK – FLASH FICTION:

RODDY’S SECRET

By Bob French

Little Jammie looked up at his father’s running medals and asked.

“Daddy, where did you get all those medals from?”

Roddy answered without thinking.  "That when he was young, he used to be a very good runner.

“Is that why Uncle Henry calls you flasher?”

This time Roddy thought for a minute, then nodded.  But buried deep in his memory were the events leading up to Jilly’s 21^st fancy dress birthday party. It was on a Friday, which was his swimming class night; something he didn’t want to miss.

On that night, someone had stollen his clothes from his locker, so Roddy had to improvise and on the way out he stole an old raincoat.  His wet trunks were uncomfortable, so as he moved through the evening streets, he removed them.

As he passed Jill’s house, friends had seen him and dragged him into the party.  It quickly became obvious what his fancy dress was and after several drinks, he was obliged to open his raincoat and from that moment onwards, he was known as flasher.

Not only did he come away with the prize for the best fancy dress, but Jill, who he later married and to cover his nick-name, he took up running and became rather good at it.

Copyright Bob French

 

Nightjar (tribute)

 Nightjar

 

I can’t say I knew her, even though she travelled through my body as if there was some kind of cosmic allegiance. Often on nights of insomnia, I would don my earphones, lay back on the sofa, and let her flow.

 

a rendition

Mandinka drifting through 

the undergrowth 

 

 

RIP Sinead

 

By Robert Kingston

THE CHIMING OF THE BELL 3

 THE CHIMING OF THE BELL      [Part 3 of 4]

By Richard Banks

At 7am the following morning the sound of scaffolding being unloaded from a lorry by Fred and two other men sent bedroom curtains aflutter and those of a sensitive disposition reaching for their ear plugs. An hour later Sebastian came out to observe progress and having received Fred’s assurance that all was “tickety-boo” set off for Mr Patel’s corner shop. He had got no further than number 26 when he came across Mr Sharpe, secateurs in hand, deep in conversation with his next door neighbour, Mr Pry. Pausing to acknowledge Sebastian’s presence, and forecasting a fine day ahead, Mr Pry wasted no time in quizzing Sebastian about the work being undertaken.

         “An extension?” he asked, fearing that this was the start of home improvements likely to last for many weeks ahead.

         Informed that it was only the fitting of CCTV and burglar alarms, Mr Pry was at first relieved and then puzzled. “Had a break-in then?” The thought of this happening sent an icy shiver racing down his back, and regions further south. He stared down at the crazy paving about his feet, half expecting to see it coated with frost.

         On learning that he had not been burgled, but that, “it was far worse than that,” both men visibly paled as Sebastian informed them of the impending tidal wave of violent crime about to be unleashed on their previously tranquil street.

         “But what about the Police?” said Mr Sharpe, struggling to remember when he had last seen a policeman.

         Sebastian described Margo’s unavailing attempts to summon assistance before proclaiming, that like the ancient Britons abandoned by Rome, they must look to their own defence, or relocate to Cornwall. As for himself, he intended to stay and, once the electronic shutters he had ordered were in place, he and Margo would be safe from all who would do them harm, at least while they stayed indoors.

         Taking his leave of them Sebastian continued on to Mr Patel’s shop where he filled up both of his bags before returning home. To his surprise, Mr Sharpe and Mr Pry were now part of a larger group, and another, still larger, had gathered outside his house and, grim faced, were deep in discussion with each other and Fred. Walking swiftly past them so that his purchases of frozen foodstuffs should not spoil he entered his side door to find Margo and half a dozen ladies of the Mews gathered around their kitchen table. Noting that Sebastian had been stocking-up on foodstuffs and loo paper the ladies on their leaving lost no time in hot footing it to Mr Patel’s shop, within a day he'd sold his entire stock, despite raising his prices by 200% and selling his last pack of ‘Comfort Tissue’ for thirty pounds.

         In the week that followed Greenacre Mews was a hive of activity as Mr Watts and his expanded workforce readied house after house for the onslaught to come. On work finishing at dusk, the street’s residents locked their doors and apprehensively settled down in front of their TVs to view CCTV footage of their front gardens and the road beyond. Although not as action packed as the average Tom Cruise movie they were understandably perturbed by the sight of masked desperadoes running up and down the Mews shouting and setting off car alarms that often rang throughout the night.

         After a week of such disturbances, the sleep deprived residents of the street were seldom seen before midday when they would emerge timorously from their houses for a quick dash to the High Street shops and back. To their surprise they found the streets beyond their own to be surprisingly normal with no sign of civil disorder beyond a crack in Iceland’s window caused by a disaffected customer not receiving his senior discount.

         Concluding that the situation might not be as hopeless as first thought Mr Dyson from number 36 delivered a leaflet to every house in the street announcing the formation of, ‘The Greenacres Action Force’. Echoing the sentiments previously expressed by Mr Watts he announced that it was now time to take the fight to the enemy. Only when they had driven their tormentors back to Basildon, or wherever they came from, would they be able to claim the right of all true Britons to live in peace and get a decent night’s kip. He had hired the Scout Hall for an extraordinary, special meeting at which he would reveal his master plan that he was sure would bring, “peace in our time and for all time to come.”

         Warming to Mr Dyson’s message of hope a large crowd assembled in the Hall with at least thirty more peering in through the windows that lined each side. Addressing his audience in Churchillian fashion he revealed his plan for the setting-up of a machine gun post at the top of the street on the roof of Mr Simpson’s garage. The gun and ammunition had been secured from an undisclosed source along with searchlights that would be used to illuminate their assailants before their shooting. Asking for a show of hands from all those wishing to volunteer, Sebastian was the first to do so, although he had only intended to scratch his head. Emboldened by his example, a dozen more volunteers raised their hands and ‘Operation Lethal Outcome’ became the worse kept secret in Greenacres Mews.

 

(to be continued)

                         

Copyright Richard Banks 

 

 

A haiku to fill a void.

 

By Robert Kingston 

 

pillow talk 

 

a heartbeat walks

 

through my ear

 

Decorating 2

 Decorating

Jane Goodhew

 Decorating must be one of my pet hates as it is never ending rather like ironing.  No sooner have you finished when another room needs doing or the immaculately ironed shirt gets creased the minute it enters the wardrobe.  This was a necessity as mother-in-law was coming to stay and no way could she be expected to go in there as it was.  Peeling wallpaper pre-war edition and paint that was that dingy brown that seemed so popular back in 1930s. 

So off she went to Perfect Homes in the hope that inspiration would go with her for right now she had not the slightest clue of what she was looking for.  Floral always seemed to brighten up a room with white paint on the skirting board and maybe a plate rail for all those ornaments that she had accumulated over the years.  Volunteering at a charity shop didn’t help because there was so much temptation, and she was very weak when it came to saying ‘No’.  Anyway, she had arrived and so went straight to the books with various designs and textures, and it was then that a voice boomed’ Emma’.  Just her luck an old school friend who she hadn’t seen in years, nor did she really want to.  ‘Hi’, she said in her most cheery voice, ‘fancy seeing you here’.  Without a chance to protest she had been whipped off to the coffee shop and Esther was gushing forth 20 years’ worth of useless information of her life in the Sussex countryside.                                   

After what seemed like an eternity Emma said her goodbyes and went back to the wallpaper books. The page had been left open at a rather catching floral design and Emma decided that was the way to go, so next stop the paint section.  That was much easier and so with tins of white satin and enough brushes so others  could assist her she made her way to the exit.

Once the car was unpacked and the decorating material in the spare room she went to the kitchen to make a much needed cup of tea.  No sooner had she sat down when the phone rang. It was her mother-in-law saying she was arriving a day or two earlier and would that be okay.  It seemed it was a fete accompli as she had already booked the train tickets.

It was going to take a miracle to have everything ready in time especially if the phone kept ringing.  This time it was Esther, but what she had to say bought a huge smile to my face and an even bigger sigh of relief.  Esther was an interior designer, and she needed a blank canvas to show off her talents at transforming a room into something spectacular. So it was, the next day a gang of workers appeared and set to work, within 2 days the room was finished, even the plate rail. All I had to do was put the ornaments in place and make up the bed and all would be fit for a queen. Her husband could not believe the completed and totally renovated room. He was more than happy and knew that even his mother could not find fault, though she would try.

D-day arrived and Cecelia was shown to her room, her face was a picture for she could not contain her delight at such a charming room for her to spend a few days, in fact it was so lovely she may be tempted to stay longer.

 

Of course, Emma did not let it be known that the room had been decorated by a team of professionals, after all the wallpaper was her choice and the colour coordination of the bedding had finished it off to perfection.  Tea was served in the conservatory and congenial chatter made the time fly past till her husband came home.  Tonight, they were going to the theatre to see A Midsummer Nights' Dream and then a meal so it would be late when they returned. A cup of hot chocolate and bed. Emma slept soundly satisfied that the day could not have been better and even Cecelia had nothing but praise. So, the day drew to an end, and suddenly decorating did not seem so bad ater all.

 

                                           

 

Copyright Jane Goodhew

THE CHIMING OF THE BELL 2

 THE CHIMING OF THE BELL  [Part 2 of 4]

By Richard Banks

Reasoning that the bell may merely have malfunctioned Sebastian departed at 8am to his near neighbour, Mr Watts, the owner of a firm of electricians, who was only too happy to dispatch his best workman, Bert, to conduct a full MOT of the bell from the point of pressing to the box of chimes over the under stairs cupboard. His employer’s confidence in him was fully justified when within minutes he located the fault. On enquiring of Sebastian how long he had had the bell and receiving the answer, “five years,” Bert sighed wearily, stating that it was a sad reflection on the makers of modern bells that their products seldom gave good service beyond four years. Indeed, at worse, they sometimes overheated causing fires. In his opinion, the only safe and sensible thing to do was to fit an entirely new bell, a Bexo Elite, that they not only had in stock but could fit that very afternoon.

         The offer gratefully accepted, Bert returned as promised and after twice sampling the delights of Margo’s premium blend tea departed in the early evening with a cheque for £400. The Elite was indeed a wonderful bell with a choice of one hundred ring tones and an illuminated bell press that although limited to a choice of fifteen colours could be programmed to flash on and off, like the lights on a Christmas tree. Deciding on a non-flashing pink they further decided, at Margo’s insistence, that the ring tone should be the Alleluia Chorus in honour of St Vera, their rock and protector, who had now restored to them the gift of undisturbed slumber.

         While Sebastian was grateful for St Vera’s help in the threshing of the bushes he had not forgotten the unkind blow she had inflicted on his toe. Nevertheless, if Margo wanted the Alleluia Chorus it was all the same to him, as long as he didn’t have to listen to it in the early hours of the morning. Convinced that this would not be the case he climbed the stairs that evening to their bedroom where Margo was already sleeping. Placing head on pillow he had no sooner closed his eyes than he too was asleep and resuming his journey up the Thames.

         On a tranquil summer’s evening the becalmed river was reflecting the moon and stars above. The world was a wonderful place, and he was about to burst into song with Louis Armstrong when either Louis’s mobile or Hopkins’s began to play another tune that, although in keeping with the general mood of celebration, contained worrying echoes of the waking world. To make matters worse the boat he was in hit a mermaid who was now shaking him vigorously by the arm. “Wake up,” it was saying and, as he opened his eyes, the mermaid, who was the spitting image of that new girl at the Bank, turned into Margo. The transition although not pleasing, was as nothing to his horror at the sound of many voices alleluia-ing.

         “Do something!” screamed Margo.

         Sebastian tumbled out of bed and tried to decide what he should be doing about what. Was the new bell also malfunctioning or, as first thought, were they under siege from malevolent bell ringers? Or could it be that he was still dreaming and that St Vera was now exacting her revenge for the indignities of the previous night. If so she was certainly giving it a good go but as his head cleared and the bell rang again it was the threat of intruders that caused him to charge over to the window and peer down onto his driveway. As before there was nothing to be seen and, after descending the stairs to assess the situation at ground level, he returned to bed.

         “Is everything all right?” asked Margo, more in hope than expectation.

         “It is now,” said Sebastian, “I’ve turned the damn thing off.”

         After a fretful night’s sleep, Sebastian departed again to the home of Mr Watts to complain that the new bell was no better than the last one. He was about to turn the corner out of the Mews when he almost collided with Mr Watts who declared that he was on his way to see Sebastian. It had happened to him, he spluttered, who could believe it, but seeing was believing and what he had seen he never thought possible on the law abiding streets of their dear town.

         “What’s happened?” asked Sebastian, struggling to keep pace with the rush of untoward events.

          Mr Watts attempted to reply but was assailed by a sudden breathlessness, apparently brought on by the events he was unable to describe, Sebastian insisted that he return home with himself for a restorative mug of strong brew tea. Having downed two mugs and three cream cakes Mr Watts found himself sufficiently recovered to tell all. His doorbell had also been rung. It was midnight and he had just finished his accounts for the week when the sound of Cliff Richard singing ‘Congratulations’ discordantly coincided with the striking of his hallway clock. Being only a short distance from the door he quickly opened it to find four burly figures, dressed head to foot in black and brandishing pick-axe handles. On issuing threats, in language that he would rather not repeat, they then seized his cash box, making their get-away in a car, even blacker than themselves. There was a bang that was surely a gunshot and Mr Watts had slammed shut his door which he dared not open again until this morning, when he had set out to warn Sebastian that they were both under siege from a dangerous gang of malignant bell ringers. As to their wider remit he had no certain knowledge, but could only speculate that it involved the total overthrow of law and order. He had, of course, phoned the Police who promised to send someone ’round the following week, but clearly, this might be too little too late. If they were to remain safe in their own homes they had no choice but to fend for themselves and, if necessary, take the fight to those who oppressed them.

         “What do you have in mind?” asked Sebastian, who was beginning to acquire some of Mr Watts’s former breathlessness.

         Mr Watts, who was now recovered to the point of cheerfulness, wasted no further time in announcing  ‘Operation Makesafe’ involving the fitting of burglar alarms and closed circuit television. Fortunately, he had exactly the right equipment in stock and, putting all other work aside, would install it in both their homes no later than the following evening.

          “But will that stop them breaking-in?” 

         Conceding that they were only a deterrent Mr Watts thanked Sebastian for drawing attention to the need for additional measures. As he was no doubt about to suggest they would also be needing electronically operated grills for all ground floor doors and windows. These were more difficult to procure - present waiting times being three months or more - but because of his many contacts in the trade he could guarantee their delivery and fitting within a week.

         “But how much is all this going to cost?” said Sebastian struggling to take in the new reality of life in the outer suburbs.

         Mr Watts assured him that it would not be as expensive as perhaps he feared. As Sebastian was a valued customer and dear friend he would, of course, do the work at cost price. Sebastian should view his very reasonable charge as an investment that in an increasingly lawless age would enhance the value of his house by 50%, if not more. Anyway, to be discussing cost was almost an irrelevance when what was at stake were the lives and well-being of older householders like Sebastian and Margo who would surely be robbed and murdered by those who, once in, could be expected to show no mercy.

         Margo who had left their front room to make further tea returned at the mention of her name and, on Mr Watts repeating his dystopian vision for suburban life, she implored her husband to act without delay and give Mr Watts the down payment he would be needing to commence operations. Interpreting this as a command he dare not disobey, and, further advised by Mr Watts that, “sixty thousand would do it for now,” Sebastian abandoned all belief in a rational world and inserted his debit card into Mr Watts’s machine.

 

(To be continued)

Copyright Richard Banks