Have a lovely Christmas and a happy new year everybody.
From Rob Kingston
world famine
the billionaire’s loose change
rattles the bucket
bee hive
each cell
its own summer
Blithe spirit, Museum of literature award (runner up) December 2023
post football
rain soaked scars all over
the pitch
And one for Christmas.
Christmas morning
a trail of paper follows
the dog
THE HAUNTED HOUSE 2
By Bob French
He stood in front of the old decrepit three-story
Victorian house where he'd grown up with old Uncle Bill and Aunty Milly.
A flickering street lamp cast shadows across its facade, telling those who
wanted to know, that its days as a grand house were over.
"Is this place haunted
dear?"
John gripped his wife's hand. "Of course not,
it's just old."
They stood very still in the cold evening wind for a
minute or two, then she asked the question. "We sold our lovely house in
the suburbs for this? Are you sure it's not haunted?"
"Of course not."
"Then can you tell me who that
faint white face in the top left window belongs to?"
“I don’t know, but let’s get inside out
of this cold.”
As they approached the front door, it suddenly
creaked open, causing them to stop.
After a while, they slowly climbed the
steps into the dark interior of the house. The sound of the door slamming
behind them sounded like thunder.
“Oh God John! what the hell is going
on?”
They stood perfectly still allowing the
dank smell of age to surround them.
A door slammed up-stairs causing them to
jump.
“Come on Brenda, we have to find out
who’s in here?”
Holding hands, they hurried up the
stairs and along a dark corridor.
“Look!” At the far end of the corridor,
a dim light shone under the door.
The silence was shattered as the muffled
sound of several police and ambulance sirens sounded outside.
Then the door at the end of the corridor
slowly opened allowing a faint light to illuminate a figure that moved forward
them.
“John, Brenda, welcome. We have
been waiting for you.” The figure seemed to fade back into the door.
John and Brenda followed it until they
became aware of others in the room.
“Dad, Mum, Uncle Bill, Aunty Milly. What
are you doing here?” Then he heard Brenda gasp, “Mummy, oh my god,
Mummy.”
A hundred yards up the road from the old
Victorian house the emergency services were surrounding a badly smashed up BMW
which had left the road at speed. A Medic approached the police sergeant.
“Sorry, but they are both dead.
They were John and Brenda Coventry from Billericay.
Copyright
Bob French
By Len Morgan
It’s Thursday, half-day
closing, I can tell. She’s getting all
excited.
She's putting on her war paint, Lippy, Rouge, and a dab of chanel No5 behind her ears.
There was a time when she would do that for me, now it’s for somebody else.
Is it platonic? I doubt that. She was ever the warm passionate woman.
It’s been three years since I left, but as yet she hasn’t moved on.
But, she has to move on! It hurts me to see her tear-stained face, day after day.
It’s a testament to our love that she lasted this long, and I know she will never forget me.
But, at the weekend they will spread my ashes by my beloved
The Begining...
By Jane Goodhew
He stood in front of the old decrepit three-story Victorian house where
he'd grown up, with old Uncle Bill and Aunty Milly. A flickering
streetlamp cast shadows across its facade, telling those who wanted to know,
that its days as a grand house were over.
"Is this place haunted dear?"
John gripped his
wife's hand. "Of course not, it's just old."
They stood very still in the cold evening wind for a minute or two, then
she asked the question. "We sold our lovely house in the suburbs for
this. Are you sure it's not haunted?"
"Of course not."
"Then can you tell me who that faint white face in the top left
window belongs to?"
“You’re seeing things, my dear, its just the light shining in the window,
lets go in and start making it our home”.
That was two weeks ago and since then I am beginning to think that maybe my wife was correct in thinking this house is haunted and there is someone other than the two of us living here. It’s little things like flowers appearing in a vase on the table yet neither of us put them there. Floorboards creaking in the night long after we have gone to bed. Lights being left on although we know we have turned them off. Yes, there is definitely someone else in this house and before too long I intend to find out who it is.
I know a priest and although I don’t believe in exorcism, I think he
might be able to help us come to terms with these unexplainable events.
Father 0’Donnel was prompt, and his arrival couldn’t have come at a better time for it was Halloween. We asked as many questions as we could about the history of the house and its occupants prior to my aunt and uncle but there was nothing spectacular. The usual married couples with children who had then moved on to downsize. None had ever complained of feeling that the house was haunted although they suspected because of its age that there would have been at least one death. People in the Victorian times tended to die at home and often in childbirth so would have been young.
Father O’Donnel left without giving us any clues as to what was happening
within our home. It did seem to be a benevolent spirit not malevolent. So we decided we could accept
it and make it part of our forever home.
Copyright Jane
Goodhew
Jane Goodhew
I might have known with my luck lately, what am I saying; lately? Don’t I mean for centuries, or it seems that way so why would a fortune cookie wish me good fortune in love, money, or luck and yes you guessed, it didn’t, it foretold what could be my demise and told me to get out post haste.
Don’t be ridiculous you’re thinking how a cookie could know what will happen to you or anyone, it can’t but perhaps it can put the idea into your head, and you will react accordingly viewing everyone and everything with suspicion. Walk around a ladder instead of under and then get knocked down by a bus or whatever…. Anyway, it isn’t Friday 13th that was last week.
I would not go along with this, after all, I have always considered
myself to be extremely lucky especially in comparison to for the moment those
in the line of the last few hurricanes or forest fires or worn torn countries
or those hit by famine or lack of clean water or those in need of a McMillan
Nurse. Just watch the adverts asking for
money and you will see how lucky you are but then isn’t there a saying not to
compare yourself to others or you will become bitter, twisted and vein or words
to that effect.?
The sky outside the restaurant is continually changing as it naturally does and deep silver-grey clouds sit amongst pink, that foretells a beautiful day tomorrow but had this happened yesterday I might have believed it, after all it did look as if the end was nigh.
The sky had been flat and dark and menacing and a bright blood reddish orange orb sat in the sky, it couldn’t be the sun for you could look at it and it did not seem to hurt your eyes (but then of course only time would tell if it had) and this ’orb’ it was so round it looked like the harvest moon but it was daytime? Was it not? Even the birds were confused as it was more like dusk or was it dawn when they either went home to roost or left home looking for food but although they at first flew in formation with military precision they were not sure which way to go so seemed to circle and hover whilst the leader of the squadron decided. Whilst they just circled and hovered as the wind blew harder and the by now milk a magnesia sky was replaced by blue and the real sun now sat not directly south but had moved to the west where it would settle for the evening. Life as we and the birds knew it had been resumed so forget the cookie and its forebodings, I am off to meet that stranger and talk to all and sundry after all we have already had my Zemblanity moment, for you see I am a ghost.
The cookie had been correct but it got the wrong week!
Copyright Jane Goodhew
Rayleigh Mount
By Sis Unsworth
A
haven is nestled in the center of town,
a
place to escape, when you’re feeling down.
The
changing seasons bring, visions to behold.
From
the clear glow of spring, to Autumns' pure gold.
The
mysteries of nature are, too diverse to count,
Blend
with pure harmony, in our Rayleigh Mount.
The
image of life we all like to see,
a
sanctuary for wildlife, abundant and free.
But
fear is restrictive, when you go there alone,
I’ve
heard some avoid, going there on their own.
Scared
for their safety, in that secluded place,
the
Mount would be empty, if fear had its way.
They
should feel protected, then people would stay
if
there were park keepers, protecting the mount,
It
would be used more, on every account.
It
may banish fear, and help others to see,
the
beauty of nature, so natural and free.
But
sometimes it's better, the devil you know,
To
save Rayleigh Mount, from being a ‘no go’.
They
have to save money, that may well be true,
If
we can’t pay Park keepers, what else can they do?
I
look to the future, and in my mind's eye,
I
see it protected, by drones and AI.
Copyright
Sis Unsworth
By Richard Banks
It
was seventeen years ago that I first came to
It had to be the right house in the
right street; not one or the other - both. While I was not hopeful that my
quest was about to end I at least had the consolation of a sunny morning in
April that had finally shrugged off winter and was slowly, but surely, warming
the air about me.
The corner into Wyburns Avenue unfolded
slowly, no sudden turn, rather a slow unwinding, with a grass verge on one side
of the tarmac pavement and a high privet, interspersed with laurel, to my
right. With the view ahead restricted by the hedge my first sight of Wyburns
was of a concrete road pleasantly aglow in the sunlight and, beyond it, a
corner bungalow next door to two post-war semi’s. OK so far, but could it be a
yes?
What came next, as I finally turned the
corner, was probably going to make-up my mind as to whether this street was a
contender or a definite no. What I saw next was a cherry tree, pink
sprays of blossom against a blue sky, a light breeze silently trembling it’s
wide spread branches. There were two more to come and further along, on the other
side of the road, two stately sycamores on a grassy corner that none-the-less
had room for a road that I later discovered looped around to join up with
itself.
My tree count extended to an oak as
high as the sycamores and, like them, beginning to clothe its winter skeleton
with a first scattering of leaves. There were other much smaller trees in some
of the front gardens, along with bushes, large and small, some in bud but for
now preceded and upstaged by daffodils, yellow trumpets silently exulting in the
miracle of Spring.
Some of the gardens contained people,
tending flower beds and lawns while others were washing cars on paved
driveways; one of them, having ventured beyond his garden gate, was mowing the
grass verge outside his house.
This was a road that people liked
living in, took pride in. A black and white cat was crossing the carriageway
at a leisurely pace, knowing that there was little or no traffic and that the
chaffinch it was stalking was only too aware of its approach not to flap its sheeny
green wings in ample time to escape. A nest in one of the sycamores testified
to the existence of other, larger birds, presently unseen. There would, I felt
sure, be squirrels, no doubt a fox or two.
I was hooked, and as I drew level with the house in the leaflet I was fervently hoping that this was not going to be the wrong house in the right place. That would have been cruel, but then how could a neat, well maintained house called Holly Lodge with stained glass windows in the front door be cruel? No, that could never be.
Copyright Richard Banks
