Haibun
By Robert Kingston
Do you
know that feeling? Sure you do! You start off from one room with an aim, only
to be distracted along the way by a telephone call. Putting down the receiver
you set off with a different intent and carry on your day. Later, given cause
to go back to the room you set off from originally, you discover the thing
you’d forgotten.
cold day
a crow in the rear view mirror
returns to the roadkill
By Peter Woodgate
Oh mummy, I’ve been told today,
Protests, they must cease,
We can’t allow disruption,
Though carried out in peace.
This Earth in danger lies,
For those we look upon to lead
Are blind, just close their eyes.
And mummy all those laws proposed
To ram deep down each throat,
Remember, were it not for them
You wouldn’t have the vote.
It appears you just want to
appease the crowd
Against those you think are
hollow,
Oh mummy I’m eight years old
today,
But oh, what of tomorrow?
Copyright Peter Woodgate
By Sis Unsworth
Mary was a reader, and
loved to spend her time,
with
articles, haiku, and very often rhyme.
Mostly
she loved Flash fiction, she read it when she could,
it
helped keep her brain active, and made her feel so good.
Novels
were too long for her, she couldn’t concentrate,
to
find out how it ended, Mary couldn’t wait.
Flash
fiction was the answer, it suited her just fine,
she’d
read one in the checkout queue, when she was last in line.
A
journey never bored her, she never made a fuss,
and
always had one with her, when riding on the bus.
She
took them to the doctors, in case she had to wait,
they
always come in handy, when her takeaway was late.
But
her favourite time to read, was when the clock struck nine,
when
she could read Flash fiction, with a very large red wine.
Copyright
Sis Unsworth
By peter Woodgate
If only I knew then
what I know now,
A time before these lines
were chiseled on my brow.
Knowledge, oh you come too late,
we can’t regress, that is our fate.
A wasted youth in many ways,
As all the minutes hours and days
turned into years of tender bliss,
Oblivious of just what I’d miss.
It was just I against the world,
my future it would be unfurled.
No thought for others, just my dream,
a common trend, so it would seem.
And when, I fear, that I will cease to be,
before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
I will look back on errors now I see
And think, why was I so insane.
Copyright By Peter Woodgate
By Richard Banks
While
regretting his unintended enlistment Sebastian was nonetheless heartened when
he was issued with his uniform consisting of a camouflage jacket and a peaked
cap that Mr Dyson insisted he wears the right way around. Learning that the
three stripes on the sleeve indicated that he was Mr Dyson’s second in command
he was still further encouraged by the deference now shown to him by his fellow
residents, even those with better cars than his own.
After several days in which they
practised marching and saluting they moved on to target practice in the woods
where they nearly shot a squirrel and Mr Pry tripped over a tree root and had
to be carried back to his car.
Fully trained, or as trained as they
were ever likely to be, Mr Dyson issued a martial command that ‘Lethal Outcome’
was to begin on the following Friday. Accordingly, Sebastian and the rest of the number one platoon took up their position, under cover of darkness, on Mr
Simpson’s garage. Steeling themselves for the battle to come the gallant
defenders waited for their enemy who duly arrived at 11.30. Aiming the searchlight at the masked men entering their road Mr Dyson gave the order to fire
only to find that Mr Jones, their designated gunner, was on a comfort break.
Urged by their leader to take his place, Sebastian hurried forward and
delivered a rapid burst of gunfire that struck a bush producing an indignant
meow from a cat sheltering beneath it.
The advancing foe armed with nothing
more than a dustbin lid and a stick to beat it with, broke off their war cries
and after a chaotic attempt to find cover were urged by their leader to, “get
the ---- out of here!” While “it” was not defined the invading force responded by
running back the way they had come, surviving another volley of bullets from
Sebastian who somehow manage to shatter two street lights and a satellite aerial.
Fearing a feigned retreat Mr Dyson
ordered his troops to stand fast while peering through night vision binoculars
and muttering darkly about a further attack. On learning of the likely
resumption of hostilities Mr Jones, who had just rejoined his comrades, retreated
once again to the bathroom in order to retrieve his glasses. On his return, a
bright light in the sky heralded the arrival of a helicopter that hovered
overhead while a police van screeched to a halt outside Mr Patel’s shop.
Observing the arrival of twelve armed officers, the Greenacre Action Force
greeted their comrades in arms with a resounding cheer that nonetheless saw the
comrades take cover and point their weapons at the gallant defenders.
Sebastian, fearing that he would be their first target, acknowledged them with
what he hoped would be interpreted as a friendly wave.
Encouraged, if not entirely reassured
by both cheer and wave, a man with a megaphone cautiously emerged from behind a
wheelie bin to demand their unconditional surrender. He was, he assured them,
Superintendent Ernest Nabber, a name he had every intention of living up to, and he
was at the head of a force of elite marksmen, with telescopic sights, who had
been practicing only the week before. The SAS were on their way and the RAF,
not to be outdone, had jet fighters massing over the Thames Estuary. All
resistance was futile. Their only choice was death or incarceration under the
1824, Overthrow of the State Act.
Mr Dyson advanced to the edge of the
garage to assure him that no such thing was intended. They were on the side of
law and order, “just like themselves,” and that the police should be pursuing
the hooligans who had been rampaging up and down their street on a nightly
basis.
The Inspector replied that had they
complained to 101, their call operators, Molly and Eric, would have been only
too pleased to offer them counselling or send them any one of a number of
really useful leaflets. But they, ungrateful citizens of this Sceptred Isle,
had chosen to walk on the dark side and perpetrate the very worse of crimes,
which was to try and enforce the law themselves. This made the police look
really bad and could not be tolerated. He therefore had no hesitation in
bringing down the full force of the law against them, and any law would do. He
only regretted that hanging and quartering had been discontinued. As for the
hooligans of which they complained, they were no more than Mr Watts and his
employees making a rumpus in order to boost sales of their security equipment.
This he had known about for weeks and fully intended doing something about next
week, or possibly the week after that. In the meantime, they had more pressing
priorities, of which the overthrow of the State was now top of their list. If
they did not surrender he would have no option but to unleash the destructive
might at his disposal.
Mr Dyson considered what Churchill
might have said at this moment. Deciding that, “OK Gov, it’s a fair cop,” was
something that would not have passed his lips Mr Dyson frantically searched his
mind for the words that would save him and his confederates from imprisonment
or certain death. Concluding there were none or at least none he could think
of, he turned to his comrades and raised up his arms in a gesture of despair
that unfortunately was not dissimilar to the signal to fire. Sebastian’s finger
tightened on the trigger and as the gun fired, almost without him knowing it, a
volley of bullets came forth the other way striking him, and then the others,
with mortal effect.
In his death throes he heard the
chiming of a bell and hoping that he may have been, ‘saved by the bell’ opened
his eyes to find it so, himself in bed and Margo downstairs in the hall talking
to the man who had come to read the meter. But, when wearily closing them
again, he knew not which was the real world and which was not. Only when he
opened them again would he know. Could he open them? That would indeed be the
test. It would not be easy. He needed to rest a few moments, to gather
strength. All that was required of him was to count up to ten, open his eyes and
all would be well. There was still hope, but on reaching five his counting
stopped.
The End
Copyright Richard Banks
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:
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 21st 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
