In the year of our Lord 1603 

By Barbera Thomas 

13 men secretly gathered in one of the dark taverns in London Town.

The main speaker was Robert Catesby who seemed to have commandeered the group.

These were catholics sharing the same hatred of King James 1st but also knowing that at anytime King James 1st’s guards could come crashing in and arrest them all, firstly breaking curfew secondly being a Catholic which in a mainly Protestant country would always be treated with suspicion.

Robert Catesby wasn’t from London, as were several others of the would be traitors.

But each had one goal, to blow up the Houses of Parliament, kill the king and replace him with the Spanish king.

During the evening the men were given their jobs.

One of those men was Guy Fawkes,

recently recruited, soon after coming to London.

 

Unlike the other men Guy Fawkes had been a soldier in the army against the Netherlands and also knowingly spoke openly against King James 1st who he wanted to replace with the King of Spain.

 

He had knowledge and technical knowhow of placing gunpowder he was seen as a bonus among the men gathered there.

The date was eventually decided would be the the 5th November 1605.

 

As they scuttled away back to their homes

Guy Fawkes lingered behind.

As Robert Catesby was clearing away he glanced up and saw Fawkes standing there.

Between them there was an instant bond for here was a man willing to die for the cause.

Robert Catesby was well known to both Parliament and king for his views against both and was monitored regularly.

 

Robert Catesby immediately made Fawkes his second in command.

 

On the night of the 5th it had just stopped raining which was a relief to the collaborators as during the weeks before, barrels of gunpowder had been brought in and stored beneath the Houses of Parliament these were bought through a tunnel that had been dug out by Guy Fawkes (who had changed his name to John Johnson for whatever reason only known to him) the property was owned by Catesby which he had required for the sole reason of his men to climb through un-noticed to the bowels of Parliament.

 

But the deed was not to be as unknown to the other 12 men, there was one man who had doubts and anonymously sent a letter to William Parker 4th Baron Monteagle Catholic member of Parliament.

On receiving this terrible letter and not fully understanding its full meaning, the Baron immediately rode to London and handed the letter to a Member of Parliament none other than Cecil, the then Earl of Salisbury whereby the Gun Powder Plot was thwarted.

 

Below is the letter that saved both the King, Parliament, and the country:

 

“My Lord, out of love I bear to some of

your friends I have a care of your preservation. Therefore I would advise you, as you tender your life to devise some excuse to shift your attendance at this Parliament; for God and man have concurred to punish the wickedness of this time. And think not slightly of this advertisement but retire Yourselves into your country where you may expect the event in safety for though there be no appearance of any stir, yet I say they shall receive a terrible blow this Parliament; and yet they shall not see who hurts them. This counsel is not to be condemned because it may do you good and could and can do you no harm; for the danger is passed as soon as you have burnt this letter. And I hope God will give you the grace to make good use of it, to whose holy protection I commend you 

Action was taken, instantly.

The Kings army was sent below the cellars of Parliament immediately but all they found was Guy Fawkes, he was arrested on the spot and dragged out into the open, taken to the Tower of London and tortured for days until he confessed, then taken to the old Palace yard of Westminster and as he climbed with great difficulty up the stairs Guy Fawkes suddenly threw himself off the scaffold and immediately died from a broken neck thereby escaping the terrible ordeal of being disembowelled whilst still alive. Although his body was disembowelled and sent to the 4 corners of the kingdom after death. 

His partner in crime had been urged to abandon the plan but chose to ignore the advice days before.

But once he had heard that Guy Fawkes had been discovered, he galloped as quick as he could back to his country home in Holbeche joined by some of the 13 would be assassins.

 

It was decided that each would stand their ground where they stood, against the might of the Kings men and their weaponry.

 

The Kings men arrived and both Robert Catesby and his men fought gallantly side by side.

He and another papist took the full blast of a cannon ball.

 

Robert Catesby’s family, although shocked, secretly collected the body, but this was discovered and while making preparations for the funeral, the Kings soldiers rode up dragged Catesby’s body out on the ground then disembowelled and hacked the head off which was taken and put on a spike to be displayed on the highest part of the roof in the Houses of Parliament in Westminster square London for all to see as a reminder that that is what happens to enemies of the crown.

 

People were shocked and when the 5th of November came round the next year 1606 an effigy of Guy Fawkes would be paraded throughout the streets of London.

When it became dark bonfires were burnt as a reminder of what could have happened but thankfully thwarted surprisingly through an anonymous letter.

To this day the tradition carries on with the added bonus of fireworks.

 

Chants were sang:

Remember, remember the 5th of November

Gun powder, treason and plot. For there is no

reason why gunpowder treason should ever be forgot

 

Also I discovered a poem named: 

The night Poem

Guy Fawkes, ‘‘twas his intent to blow up

King and Parliament

Three score barrels were laid

Below To prove old England’s other-throw

By God’s mercy he was catches

With a dark lantern and lighted match,

Holler boys, Holler boys, let the bells ring

Holler boys Holler boys

God Save the king

 

Halloween 

A small child asks her Mother a question.

“Why do children wear witches and wizards clothes and knock on neighbours doors on Halloween night carrying pumpkin buckets asking the question “treacle or treat”

If it’s treat we would be given sweets but if they choose treacle we have to recite a poem or song” 

The mother thought for a while and then told the child that in ancient times there were people called “Pagans” these were people who believed in different Gods who were sun worshippers and the devil

Their beliefs through the decades were transformed into folklore of the unknown and fear of the dead.

“Yes Mother” the young child asked

“But that still doesn’t answer why we dress up on that night”

The mother tried to explain without frightening her child.

“The belief was that if people dressed up in strange clothes, they could chase away bad spirits from their homes”.

This day in our calendar is the 31st October also known in the holy bible as “All Souls’ Day “ where it was believed in ancient times that bad spirits would visit the homes that they had once lived in.

That’s why people dressed up to frightened the spirits away.

It was believed that the souls that died in sin would forever be cast away in purgatory, This means souls were forever restless.

By you and other children going from house to house you are frightening away these spirits.

The sweet treats that you have now are to make sure you do not visit their house again.” 

The child then put on her scary makeup and put on her witches dress picked up her sweetie bucket and set off with her friends to visit her neighbours houses.

This made me think about both Robert Catesby and Guy Fawkes as their souls did not have the churches holy sacraments, in a christian funeral or burial from any Father of the Cloth therefore in the believers eyes forever in purgatory.

I would like to think that both their families would have prayed that their relative be forgiven for all their sins and ask God for forgiveness and contrition so to allow their restless souls to enter the kingdom of God

“Only our maker knows”

 

Copyright Barbara Thomas

 

 Riddles 19

 

By the Riddler

 

The Riddler has two puzzles for us today:

 

No 1.  What flies when it’s born, lies when it’s alive, & runs when it’s dead?

 

No 2.  Who makes moves when seated?

 

Keep em coming Riddler

 

 

A GUILTY SECRET

By Richard Banks

“Have you heard the news?” Mason speaks in a hoarse whisper that he don’t want anyone else to hear. He’s scared, no mistaking that, and for a few moments so am I. After all, when you’re locking-up at night, your back towards the street, the last thing you want is for someone to be creeping-up behind you, maybe gun in hand and about to demand everything you’ve just put in the safe.

         “Damn you Mase! What the heck are you doing? It’s 2am. You trying to give me a heart attack!”

         “It’s happened again.”

         In another place, another time I would be asking him what has, but it’s only too obvious.

         “Who is it this time?”

         “Lorna.”

         “Lorna Ruiz?”

         “Yes, of course I mean Lorna Ruiz. Who else do you know called Lorna?”

         He’s got a point. In a two bit town like Bylow, population 934, and decreasing, the only other Lorna would likely be her mother but she’s not around and maybe never was. For once in his life Mason’s right, that’s not what I should be saying.

         “Same as before?” I ask.

         Mason’s startled by the roar of a Chrysler 300 that’s speeding towards us before braking and turning left at the cross. He’s desperate not to be seen so we go around the corner. Into the side way that’s almost cellar black. What he’s got to tell me, he says, is for my ears only. He needs a favour and if he can ever do the same for me he’ll be glad to do it. After all, that’s what friends are for. Don’t I agree?

         I’m not sure I do but it seems I have no choice but to hear him out. At first he tells me nothing I won’t reading in the late edition of the Clarion. Lorna’s been found on waste land, ten miles out of town, throat cut ear to ear, just like numbers one to three. This he knows because he was pulled over by a cop he once knew in High School. Mase is only a hundred yards or so from where she was discovered and the cop’s asking him what he’s doing there and where he’s been.

         “And that’s when you told him you were with me.”

         “Sorry, Jimmy.”

         “So where were you? With a broad?”

         “Why a broad?”

         “Because that’s what you do on a Saturday night. For goodness sake, Mase, tell the cops her name and the motel you were at. Don’t even think of trying to protect her good name. Even assuming she has one, it’s not worth the two thousand volts that could be coming your way.”

         “Can’t do that man, it’s Carla.” 

         “You’re kidding! Mase, do you have a death wish? Whatever possessed you? She’s Tony Pescaro’s girl, big Tony, enforcer for the Bandini family, but then you already know that.”

         “Which is why I said I was with you. I’m sorry, Jimmy, I had to say something, couldn’t tell him I’ve been on my own all evening. How suspicious would that be? No, buddy, if you don’t back me up I’ll be chief suspect, I know it. I need an alibi, and one that sticks.”

         “Mase, this isn’t going to work. I was behind the bar. If I saw you so did a hundred other guys but none of them did. I’m sorry you’re in the shite but saying you were here isn’t going to work.”

         “No, Jimmy. Now listen to me, I’ve got it all figured out. I wasn’t in the bar. You took a break, went back for a smoke and saw me there trying to get cigarettes out of the machine, which as we know is broke, so you got some from the storeroom and I paid you in cash.”

         “And this was when?”

         “Eight pm. According to the cop, Lorna was found at nine, no more than an hour dead. If I was here at eight there’s no way I could have done it.”

         As alibi’s go it’s probably the worse I’ve ever heard. Also, he’s only got the cop’s word that she died around eight;  initial estimates of death, even by those qualified to give them, are often wide of the mark. But then it matters not. He’s not needing an alibi; there’s no evidence against him. Mase’s only problem is in being in the wrong place at the wrong time. His fingerprints and DNA are not at the crime scene and once it’s established that he was in Houston when murder two  took place he will soon be well down their list of suspects. This I should be telling him but I don’t; he’s in a panic and listening to no one but himself. So, it’s agreed: I saw him at eight, an hour into my shift, sold him two packets of Ryman and he departed saying he was going to burn some gas before driving home.

         Alibi agreed, he heads back into the glow of the main street lights and, after furtive glances left and right, hurries off to wherever he’s left his car. I give it five before returning to mine. The next day it turns out that Lorna wasn’t murdered at eight but two hours earlier when Mase, pre date, was in a diner. He’s even found the receipt in the back pocket of his jeans. He’s in the clear and, with the cops tight lipped and short of anything resembling a lead, there’s nothing to be done but speculate which of our Southern belles will be next. But not for long. The good folk of Bylow have organised a meeting to which all the abled bodied men of the town have been invited.

         It’s a call to arms and within an hour the Bylow Defence League not only comes into being but is given its marching orders. We’re organised into eight platoons whose mission is to parade about the town after dark with all the firepower we can muster. As none of the murders have been in town it’s by no means clear what good this is going to do, but everyone feels better for making the effort. Four guys who haven’t volunteered are now under surveillance and followed everywhere they go by another four guys who wear camouflage jackets that don’t exactly blend in to the urban terrain. It’s a farce and when someone accidentality gets shot in the butt the cops impose a curfew that’s probably not legal but at least keeps the womenfolk indoors after dark.

         This is bad news for the bar I run for the Bandinis who use it to launder some of their ill-gotten gains. They aren’t best pleased that we have to close at seven each evening but, as I say, what can I do about it? They’re the ones with the power, and the ear of every crooked politician in the county. Why don’t they get the curfew lifted? It might take a bribe or two, but nothing that can’t be made good in a few weeks. But they have a better idea which is probably why Tony Pescaro is at the head of their delegation. He wastes no time in telling me what’s on his mind.

         “No murderer, no murders, no murders, no curfew,” he says with an indisputable logic that won’t have escaped everyone else in town. As to the how bit he hasn’t come here short of a plan, and whether I like it or not, I’m in it.

         “So, who do you think did it?” he asks.

         “How should I know?” I say, feeling like the room’s closing in on me.

         “Maybe you don’t,” says Tony, “but you will have a better idea than most. I mean you’re behind the bar serving guys booze until they can hardly stand up. When that happens they get indiscreet, let things slip they wish they hadn’t said, odd little things that a smart guy like you will pick-up on. OK, so no one’s going to confess all, but someone, sometime is going to say a little bit too much and this is the place where it will happen – maybe has happened. So, who’s your money on, Jimmy, give me a name, three names, more if you have them. I’m all ears.”

         “Tony, I hear what you’re saying, guys often bend my ear in the early hours. Sometimes their wife’s been giving them grief, sometimes it’s the boss, sometimes it’s about money. I don’t want to hear it, but I’m the barman, it’s my job to listen and let them get it off their chest. I’ve heard it all, ten times over, but no one, absolutely no one, has given me any reason to think they’re a killer.” 

         But Tony’s not taking no for an answer. If I don’t know who it is, and he never thought I would, I can, at least, point him in the direction of someone who fits the bill: someone with a grudge against women, a wife beater, some weirdo who don’t fit in and no one likes. All he needs are some names. His plan, such as it is, is to abduct whoever I say and beat them within an inch of their life. If they happen on the right guy it’s problem solved, he gets what’s coming to him and everything gets back to normal.

         “And if you don’t get the right man?”

         “Then we let him loose to tell everyone in town what these hooded men did to him, and why. The way I see it, by the time we’re down to number three on your list the real murderer, if we don’t have him, will be hot footing it out of town to some place far off where he’ll be safe from us and free to start again. But that’s not our problem. Ours is to get the curfew lifted, so let’s start with a few names.”

         “I’ll need to think about it,” I say. This is a chance to settle one or two scores but as Tony’s idea of a good beating sometimes winds up being a homicide this is something I don’t want to get involved in. But that’s supposing I have a choice?

         Tony senses I’m less than keen. “Tell you what, Jimmy, I’ve got a name of my own. We’ll put that top of the list which means that for now I’ll only be needing two names.”

         “Who’s your man?” I ask.

         “A guy called Mason Brady. Perhaps you know him, a friend perhaps?”

         “Yeah, I know him. Wouldn’t call him a friend. Just a guy who does odd jobs about the bar. Why do you think it’s him?”

         “Information from someone who knows. Something of a ladies man is our Mr Brady. Tries it on when the girls don’t want it and then cuts up rough.”

         I want to tell him that Mason isn’t like that. He wouldn’t swot a fly, but if I make too much of it that won’t go well, either for him or me. But why do they think it’s Mase? It don’t take long to figure. He’s broken-up with Carla like I told him to and now she’s getting back at him like the viper she is. If I’m to keep Mason safe I need to give Tony exactly what he wants, three prime suspects, all of them far more likely to be their man. So, that’s what I do: two ex-cons with a history of violence and a bar room brawler who’s crazy on coke. I write down their names and say where they can be found. Tony smiles and shows his appreciation by thumping me on the back in a way that makes me think that sometimes he does this with a butcher’s knife.

         Have I done enough to protect a friend? I’m not sure, but most of all I need to look after myself. It’s time to empty the safe, pack a suitcase and drive far, far away to a place where I’m not known and won’t be found. Perhaps this time I’ll be a George or Henry, a good fit for a guy coming up to forty. Jimmy was good while it lasted, a likeable sort of name for a regular guy that no one had a bad word for; a better name than the two before, but they all served their purpose.

         Tony never spoke a truer word when he said his crew would scare-off the murderer, but even he will be surprised how soon this is going to happen. So, it’s goodbye Bylow and hello some place else.

         Maybe I’ll wind-up somewhere near you. But don’t worry, America’s a big place and I’ll be holding off for a while. Will you see me coming? I doubt it, no one else has and no one ever will. It’s a whole new canvas and I’ll be colouring it red. Ready or not I’m on my way!                                                  

           Copywrite Richard Banks                    

PICASSO (ACROSTIC)

 PICASSO

(ACROSTIC)

Peter Woodgate

 

Concluding that the world of art

Used naturalistic images

Because the masters showed him so,

Irregular lines and shapes and colours

Surged from his mind and onto canvas,

Modern art had left the womb.

 

Riding on a wave of eccentricity

Unparalleled in critic’s eyes,

Lay the product of an inchoate vision

Expressing abstract thoughts

Symbolic of the man.

 

Oh, that we could understand

Kinetic brainwaves on the move.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 

Bitter Sweet Revenge

Bitter Sweet Revenge 

By Sis Unsworth

Valerie stood motionless in the doorway. A deep black cloud seemed to slowly devour her, like an early morning mist that appears from nowhere.

 She had been in a good mood when she arrived that morning. She loved her job as a carer at the Bluebell nursing home. The handover from the night shift had gone smoothly, all had gone well overnight.

The staff nurse had informed them of a new arrival, a Mr's Benson who had arrived the previous evening. She was in room 36, and would they all make themselves known to her. 

Valerie had been quite busy that morning, so it was just before lunch when she arrived at room 36. There she stood when a strange shiver went down her spine, as Mrs Benson looked up and smiled.

Something about her looked familiar, she looked just like a little old lady with a friendly smile on her face. Why then was she feeling this way about her? Trying to pull herself together, Valerie smiled, introduced herself, and welcomed Mrs Benson to the Bluebell nursing home. It was when she turned to leave, that something caught her eye. It was a photo on the bookshelf.

With a deep feeling of foreboding Valerie picked it up. “Who is the lady in this photo?” She enquired.

“Why that’s me!” Mrs Benson replied. “That was me when I was young, I haven’t always looked like this,” she laughed.

Valerie recognised the woman in the photo, it was her old school teacher, known then as Miss Hayden, or ‘the dark witch’ as they all called her. Slowly she replaced the photo, so the dark witch must have been married, who ever would have married her, Valerie pondered. She caught her breath muttered a few words and retreated from the room. 

All Morning she reflected on her discovery, ‘the dark witch’ had ruined her last year at school. All the girls had hated her, she seemed to love to humiliate them, especially in front of the boys. The cane was still in use in schools at that time, and the dark witch did not hold back from using it. Valerie decided not to tell the other carers, if they knew how she felt about Mrs Benson they might report her. However, she was burning inside for revenge which she was finding difficult to control. What made her more angry, was all the other carers thought well of Mrs Benson, saying what a kind old lady she was. This really infuriated her. Somehow she would make the dark witch show her true colours. She began by making Mrs Benson wait for everything when she was on duty. Valerie made sure she was always last to get her tea or receive her mail. Always last to get her meals or last being put to bed.

However, nothing seemed to annoy her, and the more Mrs Benson smiled and thanked her, the angrier she became.

It all came to a head one afternoon. Staff nurse was sorting out the medication, when she was suddenly distracted. Valerie took advantage of the situation; she took some tablets and slipped them into her pocket. Later, she dissolved them in Mrs Benson's tea before she left to go home. 

Valerie didn’t sleep too well, realising what she had done. She hurried to work the next day, and was first of her shift to arrive. The staff nurse was waiting for her. “Mrs Benson has had a bad night, she was quite sick,” she explained. “We have sent for the Doctor, and informed her next of kin who is her brother. He is waiting in the lounge. Would you go and keep him company? We have given him a cup of tea.” 

Valerie obeyed in silence realising the consequences of her actions. Reaching the lounge she found an elderly gentleman who introduced himself as Mr Hayden. “I am Mary’s Brother,” he explained.

“Sorry to hear your sister is poorly, she seemed alright when I left yesterday,” Valerie felt a wave of guilt pass through her. 

“I’m worried about her,” he said. “She moved here to be near me when her husband passed away. She is such a lovely girl, we get on so well, unlike her twin sister, we don’t get on at all!”

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 

 

  

IN MEDIO TUTISSIMUS IBIS

 IN MEDIO TUTISSIMUS IBIS

(ACROSTIC)

By Peter Woodgate

Lonely shadows shift and merge

Enhancing comfort to our souls,

Grey is white amidst the dreams

And we have reached those distant goals.

Loosen up you hypocrites

Inhibitions thrown away,

Show the world that we mean business,

Eventually we’ll have our say.

 

Can you keep ignoring facts?

Ask yourself “can it get worse?”

Nothing ventured, nothing gained,

Needlessly we face the curse,

All our lives are touched with sorrow

Bearing scars formed by the lie,

In medio tutissimus ibis

Sic transit gloria mundi.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 

MOVING ON

 MOVING ON

By Peter Woodgate 

Glad we were

To leave behind

Those dingy rooms,

The peeling paint

And musty smells.

 

The old, cracked mirror

On the wall,

A picture of the king

And another that was made

From cockle shells.

 

The stairs,

That echoed daily,

With the thunder of our feet,

Would fall silent

With perhaps a creak or two.

 

And the mice,

Unwanted company,

Would be free to roam the rooms,

Undisturbed

And admiring the view.

 

Our brand new flat of concrete,

Had everything,

Three bedrooms and a bath

And balconies, with views

Out front and back.

 

Electric lights,

It smelt pristine,

Fresh painted walls,

Nice shiny floors,

Oh, what then did it lack?

 

Alas;

Our spirits lingered

Where bygone friends

Trod one by one,

Apprehension in that promised land

For we were moving on.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate