By the Riddler
The Riddler has two
puzzles for us today:
No 1. What is taken
before you can get it?
No 2. You enter a
room. Two dogs, four horses, one giraffe
and a duck are lying on the bed. Pigeons
are flying over a chair.
How many legs are on
the floor?
Keep em
coming Riddler
By
Jane Goodhew
ZEMBLANITY is the inevitable
discovery of what we would rather not know. “As she pushed open the door, she
knew that she would discover him in flagrante and herself in zemblanity.” William Boyd
In a world full of information, it seems strange not to have heard the
word Zemblanity before being asked to write a story about it. The opposite serendipity is popular for the
way it sings from the tongue and conjures up all that is beautiful and wondrous
to life. Now try to imagine the very
opposite an event which brings misery and gloom, disaster, distress but instead
of turning away, you embrace it as if it were serendipity!
That is exactly what we all did and each in turn laid bare our soul as
we recounted the tale of our very own Zemblanity moment. For me it was just the other day, the weather
had been bizarre, to say the least, one moment hot sun and the next torrential
rain, hailstones, wind that would knock you off your feet and so cold but
nothing could have stopped me that day, not even the weather as it was my fate,
I had seen it in the stars and in a
dream and I needed to know if it would be fulfilled of if I could alter
destiny.
The skies grew darker and anyone with sense had remained indoors but
with a bright yellow raincoat and shocking pink wellington boots looking more
like something out of a candy store than a geriatric perhaps I should have worn
purple, I put my best foot forward and left the house into the oncoming
storm. My heart was beating so fast I
thought it would leap out of my chest or come to a sudden halt before the
allotted hour. Then hot tears began to
stream down my face as I realised that this could be my final walk not just
along this road, the last time I would see my neighbours not that I knew many of
them. I put my head up, wiped away the
tears that had become intermingled with the raindrops and a strange smile
crossed my face as I imagined it was a beautiful summers day which as it were
August it should have been and as I turned I realised too late that I should
have looked right instead of left before stepping off the kerb into the road
straight under the wheels of the oncoming bus.
The driver would not have had time to see me and certainly not to stop,
the sheer horror on his face filled me with guilt, what had I done to him let
alone myself?
People rushed out of their houses as they heard the sickening thud and
screech of tyres, but nothing could be done.
Zemblanity therefore was true.
When people entered my home, they would have found an envelope and in it
this story which one of you has kindly read out for me, you see I thought I
could defy the gods and if only I had looked right, I could have.
Copyright Jane Goodhew
By Richard Banks
It’s
7am, the sun’s shining and I’m packed and ready for the taxi that’s coming at a
quarter past. Could anyone be more ready? I doubt it. The sooner I’m out of
Drislow the better. No disrespect to the folk still living here but the town’s
a dump and always has been. It was a dump in the 1800s when the first ironworks
were built and now, twenty years after the last one shut down, it’s still a
dump.
The old timers say that the air’s never
been as clear as it is now, that the smoke from the chimneys used to make blue
skies grey and every cloud black, but with the mills went the jobs the town
depended on. No wonder half the people who once lived here have left. As for
those who remain, most are unemployed while a fortunate few, including myself,
have work at Fareland’s new packaging and distribution centre, made possible by
Government grants and low business rates. ‘A hundred new jobs,’ was the
headline in the Gazette, ‘a major step in the regeneration of the town’. What
they didn’t mention was that the company only pays minimum wages on zero hours
contracts.
I suppose I shouldn’t be complaining,
it’s better than nothing, and because the firm never seems to have enough staff
there’s always plenty of work for those ready to turn up at any hour of the day
and do long shifts. And no one puts in more hours than me which is how, for two
weeks in the fifty-two, I get to swop Drislow and Fareland for the Spanish Costa’s
or the
The front door bell rings, two sharp
blasts. It’s Ross, an old mate from our school days. He use to be Bar Manager
at the Blackbird before it closed. Now he drives a cab, his own car. He does
most of his business in Brum where he also picks-up and delivers packages.
What’s in them no one knows, not even Ross. It’s cash in hand, so no questions
asked. When you’re struggling to make ends meet that’s the way it is.
I put my suitcase in the boot and we’re
off past the old back to back factory houses and into the High Road where the
closed down shops are beginning to outnumber those still going. Ross says that
the bank will soon be closing. For him this is good news. The nearest branch
will soon be five miles away. For those without a car it will be him or the bus
that will get them there. I close my eyes as we near the old factories on the
edge of town, windows long broken and stripped of anything of value, including
the lead in the roofs. The rain pours in which is bad news for the dossers that
sleep there. I count to thirty, that should do it, and sure enough we’re past
them and out into open country. I’ve escaped, the holiday’s begun and I
couldn’t be more chuffed.
This year I’m in a four star hotel in
Montura. It’s not far from Torremolinos where I was a few years ago, but
Montura, so the travel agent says, is better, classier. I should be paying
twice as much as I am, but the guy who did, cancelled only a week ago so I’m
his last minute, cut-price replacement. It’s full board and cheap drinks for
guests, so I won’t be short of spending money in the bars and clubs of which,
I’m assured, there are many.
Ross drops me off at the airport where
I check-in and wile away the time to take-off in MacDonalds. It’s a good place
to check-out the unaccompanied talent. By the time the plane’s ready to board
I’ve sussed out two going to the same resort but a different hotel. This is the
third time that Kerry and Ella have been to Montura. It’s a great place, they
say and there’s this really cool club called Roscoe’s where they go most
evenings. “Sounds fun,” I say, “see you there.” Whether we do depends on who
else we see and speak to in the next day or so. Even if we don’t meet up none
of us are likely to be short of company.
The plane takes off on time and lands
just after mid-day. The holiday rep greets us in the arrival’s lounge and we’re
bussed-off to our hotels in Torremolinos, Fuengirola, and finally Montura. The
girls get out at the Alfredo while the rest of us are taken on to the Presidente
where we retrieve our cases from the luggage compartment and form a line in
reception. There’s a dozen of us and I’m at the back of the queue. Well, why
rush, especially if it puts me behind two platinum blonds who are definitely
worth some serious chat-up time. But I only have five minutes at most, so
there’s no time to be lost. As a conversation starter I give them a hand with
their cases. The one with Rita tattooed just beneath her shoulder blades tells
me her name is Gemma. “Not Rita?” I say. “No,” she replies, “that’s Rita.” She
giggles and points to the other girl who has Gemma etched on her shoulder.
I’m confused, and it’s showing. Worst
still they’re laughing now and it seems I’m the butt of their joke. Gemma
hastens to reassure me. “Sorry, no offence,” she says, “but we’re an item;
actually we’re on honeymoon.” She holds up her hand so I can see the gold band
on her ring finger. I say congratulations and do my best to make small talk
until they reach the reception desk. They collect their key card and follow the
porter to their room.
The receptionist turns her face towards
me and I hand her my booking form and passport. She looks surprised and after
staring blankly at the form tries to find my name on the list she’s been
ticking off. “One moment, sir,” she says. “I need to speak to the manager.”
This is not looking good and sure
enough when she returns with said Manager it doesn’t take them long to decide
that there’s been a mistake. Not only am I not on the list but their last four
star room has just been allocated to Rita and Gemma. The Manager proffers his
apologies and when I tell him that’s not good enough he agrees and upgrades me
to their only five star room. He regrets that it has a double bed and not the
single I requested, but hopes it will otherwise meet with my approval. He
summons a porter who shows me into the Executive lift and we zoom up to the
sixth floor where we step out onto a deep pile carpet that seems too good to
walk on. I can’t wait to see my room, and when I do, I’m not disappointed, it’s
got a fridge full of booze, Sky TV, a Jacuzzi in the bathroom and a balcony
with a view across the bay. If this isn’t paradise it’s the next best thing and
all I need now is to meet that special someone for the best holiday romance of
all time.
The porter’s evidently a thought
reader. “There’s a pair of binoculars in the cupboard,” he tells me. “Very
useful for locating friends on the beach.” If this was a three star room he
might also be giving me a wink and telling me about a young lady he knows who
would very much like to make the acquaintance of a young man like myself. But
this is a five star room and, in keeping with my new found status, he assumes
my sights will be set higher than the local pro. I give him the equivalent of a
tenner and he departs looking less than impressed with my generosity. Who cares. If that’s not enough I don’t want to see
him again. The next time I shell out that much it will be on someone a good
deal better looking than him.
It’s still only 3pm. Time enough to
shower and get down to the beach. The girls with the deepest tans are the most
appealing but they’re the ones who’ve been here the longest and will soon be
back home. Best to check out the pastier ones before the competition gets there
first.
It’s always difficult to know whether
to stick or twist on the first day and after meeting Abby from
“Actually, it’s Dean,” I say, but it’s
evident, even at this early stage, that if Faisal says my name is Ollie then
that’s what it is. Anyway, what the hell, all I’m going to do is have a drink
with the guy, talk some football and get back to that red head.
(To Be Continued)
Copyright
Richard Banks
Sis Unsworth
We
are running out of time, is what I hear them say.
The
ice caps are all melting, pretty soon they’ll slip away.
The
forests are diminishing, the wildlife’s going too.
Some
say that it’s apparent, and there’s not much we can do.
We
are running out of time, and Brexit’s still not done,
just
like headless chickens, we’re forever on the run.
The
roads are always packed, with people in a hurry,
We
are running out of time, the meter needs more money.
I’d
like to write much more, and continue with this rhyme,
But
I have a writer's meeting, and I’m running out of time
Copyright Sis Unsworth
THE CURSE OF THE
By Bob French
Ann Henderson sat at
the foot of her grandmother, spellbound, as she listened to her
mumblings. It was the first time she had heard the story that most
of her relations, thought was an old wives’ tale.
“Be
aware of the curse, I tell you. If it wasn’t for Henry, none of this
would have happened to us.”
Ann
looked up into the wrinkled old face. “Sorry Grandmama, what do you
mean, ‘if it wasn’t for Henry? What did this Henry do that was so
terrible?”
 |
Ann
not knowing what she had said frowned, “what is Sow-in Samhain?”
“Tis
the same as Allhallowtide child. The Days of the Dead.”
It
was just before Ann’s twenty-fifth birthday whilst sheltering from the rain in
Rayleigh Library that she picked up a book about ‘tracing your ancestry,’ a
subject that had pricked her imagination many times since that time, eighteen
years ago, when she had listened to her grandmama talk of the curse placed upon
the Henderson family.
She
found a seat made herself comfortable and started to
read. Within a few hours, she was hooked; borrowed a few books on
the subject, and she made an appointment with one of the family history
researchers who operated in the library. As she went to leave one of the ladies
who had also taken up the hobby explained that she should get in contact with
as many of her living relatives as possible as it would save her hours of
unnecessary work.
It
didn’t take her long before she received replies from many of her relatives
who made up the five branches of the
Even
after four weeks of raising false hopes and coming to dead ends, she concluded
that she was still a novice. It also became clear that she was impatient and
easily frustrated, something her mother had told her on several occasions. Some
evenings she would be glued to her laptop searching for past relatives well
into the early hours and coming up with nothing.
Her
mind was invariably preoccupied with the research she had done the night
before, and sometimes she would arrive at work, not knowing how she drove down
the busy A12 to
In
time, the family tree started to take shape and after a grueling six-hour stint
one cold, wintery October afternoon, it suddenly dawned upon her that nearly
all the eldest children of three branches of the Henderson’s had died before
their time.
She
stared at the screen for a while, trying to understand something that was
nagging her, but she was exhausted, so closed her laptop and decided to have an
early night.
Early
the following morning, she was woken by a phone call from her mother to say
that Cousin Mary had passed away during the night from alzheimers. She was
fifty-two. Ann had never known Cousin Mary, so thought nothing of it, but made
a mental note to update the family tree, then rolled over and went back to
sleep.
* * *
Lengo
Stomerwitch, a 35-year-old Polish heavy goods driver had just landed at
Harwich, having driven across Europe during the night, and decided to stop just
outside
Driving
in the opposite direction was Ann. She was tired and running late
having gone back to sleep after her mother’s dawn phone call. As she
moved quickly along the outside lane, her mind drifted back to the moment when
she thought she had an epiphany. She tried to recall what it was, but weariness
and frustration quickly took over her. Then it began to rain.
Lengo
Stomerwitch, swore at the English weather as the rain increased and his
visibility started to fade. He was tired and needed to rest, but he
knew that if he did not reach
Ann,
was deep in thought. Something was there, staring her in the face,
but what was it? Then it came to her. She was the last
eldest child of the fifth branch of the
As
the rain thundered on the roof of her car, the noise around her increased.
She leaned forward and turned up the radio. All around her horns were
starting to blare; large trucks and cars were slowing down, but Ann kept her
foot on the pedal. Then she heard the DJ wish everyone, “a happy Trick or Treat
or Allhallowtide if you are into old witch’s tales.”
Then
it came to her as the bright lights of something very large came crashing
towards her on the wrong side of the road.
It
was the last day of October; Halloween. She was the last of the eldest children
of the
Everything
around her shook; her windscreen shattered; her seat belt wrenched at her neck
and shoulder and she felt the car start to tumble through the air, then a cold
still silence settled around her. After a few seconds, the light in
her eyes started to fade.
Copyright Bob French
Have you ever thought how it was celebrated in earlier years?
Pre: WWI, WWII, before the Korean conflict? Before covid...
The Indian Summer
By Sis Unsworth
We
had an Indian summer, that took us by surprise.
The
colours of this autumn, are enhanced before our eyes.
Lovely
dry warm afternoons, the sun in all its glory.
The
nights beginning to draw in, but that’s another story.
People
in their summer clothes, adorn the parks and streets,
packed
tables outside restaurants, and queues waiting for seats.
Nature
looked quite puzzled, not sure of anything,
The
sky so blue, the earth so warm, it surely can’t be spring?
the
Indian summer now is gone, seems it just moved on,
Nature
now is less confused, awaiting winter's song.
Then
on the weather forecast, someone mentioned snow,
so treasure all your memories, of that lovely autumn glow.
Copyright Sis Unsworth
