MOON STRUCK

 THE MOON 

 by Richard Banks

No one can quite explain why the moon is so important to Simon, why it fascinates and troubles him in equal measure. His mother will tell you that it started on a stiflingly hot summer’s evening in the early years of the First Republic when he was put to bed in a Moses Basket on the verandah of grandfather’s Highgate villa. The sun had set and, in the gathering darkness, a west wind gently stirred the Florida palms at the bottom of the garden. While this was greeted with weary sighs of relief from the fifteen adults and children there gathered, the most recent addition to the family Caine was still too hot to be consoled. Bent on tearful protest the child had no intention of stopping until he saw a rising moon, larger and brighter than any moon had a right to be. And, while no one knew why this should be, there was no doubting the evidence of many eyes. 

         What Simon saw and thought that evening we may never know; at fourteen months he was unable to say. Many years later he thinks he remembers but having been told the story of the big moon so many times he can not be sure whether his memories belong to himself or the story tellers. His subsequent recollections, however, are definitely his. There are many, too many to count. They are the consequence, indeed the reward of over forty years of moon gazing. 

         Each image he carries in his head. Every feature of every image is as precise as the moment he saw it. He could download them into a Mindstore but there is an intimacy about his seeing which he feels should go no further than himself. There are mysteries in its light, secrets that one day will be known only to himself. He must look and learn, look and learn, but unexpectedly his learning came in the listening. 

         In the silence of a long winter’s night, he received the revelation that gave voice to what he had previously only seen. At first, he was unsure whether he had heard anything at all, the sound was faint, scarcely audible, fading into silence before returning for a few moments more. Instinctively he knew that the moon was speaking, this was what he wanted to believe but that the scientist within him could only accept if there was proof. There must, he reasoned, be a correlation between the shimmering variations in the moon’s radiance and the sounds he was hearing. Would one give clarity to the other or would their interaction only give rise to an additional level of complexity? He wasn’t sure. Who could be? He only knew that his own memory bank was unequal to the task ahead. He needed the help of technology to survey sound and vision, to process the data passing through it and find the correlations, if not the meanings, of what was being said. The machines, however, would only take him so far, only he possessed the empathy that could transform knowledge into understanding. For now that empathy told him only that something was wrong, that the message he was receiving was a desperate cry for help. Was the Moon in danger, about to tumble from the sky?  

         There were men on the moon, mainly miners drilling deeper and deeper into its cratered surface. Were they also to perish? If so, they had only themselves to blame. What right had they to be there, to defile and exploit what should be honoured and revered! 

         The first men on the moon gave hope of better things. They came in awe as if to hallowed ground. Had they, on landing, found a collection box they would gladly have paid for the few bags of rock and soil they departed with. They came to learn, not exploit. The miners, however, had no altruism, no souls to fill, no motive for being there but to dig deeper and deeper for the minerals that made them wealthy and their employers more powerful than any nation state. Free from the tiresome regulation of life on earth they dug ever closer to the beating heart of the moon, suspecting nothing, knowing nothing, hearing only the relentless progress of their drills. 

         But Simon did hear the Moon and, one day, would understand everything it said. For now, the machines he had purchased were processing the data that flowed through them every moment of the day. Far from being an endlessly repeated SOS the message being transmitted was complex and structured in a way that suggested its purpose was to inform and direct.

         Was he the only recipient? If so he dare not fail.

         The first word was deciphered in less than a month, ten more in the following week, simple words, a few less so, then the first sentence, short and cryptic referring to an action hidden in a complexity of bewildering detail. This was no ‘message in a bottle’ cry for help to be answered by whoever intercepted it, this was one side of a long conversation between Moon and planet Earth. While the Earth’s transmissions could neither be heard or seen they could sometimes be inferred from the Moon’s own signals. Otherwise the Earth’s contribution to the great matter being discussed was received and understood solely by the entity to which it had been sent. Only the miners might have heard the Earth, but, as the Earth well knew, they were too busy drilling. 

         The unexpected discovery that the Moon was not seeking the help of himself or any other member of the human race undermined every good intention with which Simon had armed himself. It transformed him from a potential saviour to an eavesdropper afraid of what he might hear. The Moon and Earth had secrets to share, secrets that neither party had sought to make known to mankind. If Simon continued to listen what would be his function? If this was a game of sides could he be loyal to both? Paralysed by indecision he allowed the machines to continue their work, slowly but steadily deciphering the Moon’s transmissions, revealing frequent references to air and earth and the changing of both. Was this the solution to global warming? In time everything would be clear and he would know what to do. Until then he must keep a watching brief. He must look and learn, look and learn.                                                                 

                                            *****

The Moon, tired, and irritated at the incessant drilling of the miners, puts aside its primary task to examine an oscillation in its signal that is traced to a listening device on a part of the planet’s surface much settled by the dominant species. The knowledge that mankind is listening and might already be aware of the intentions of Moon and Earth raises serious concerns that would be more serious had the detection of other receivers indicated the involvement of national Governments. As of now only one, or a few human beings, have been listening, and not for long. Even so, this is a situation that can not be allowed to continue. Mankind is dangerous and surprisingly able. None of them must know of what is to come.

         The Moon considers its options and selects one painful to itself. Tearing from its body a boulder the size of a space truck it is tossed clear of the Moon’s atmosphere and aimed at Earth where, on impact, it destroys not only the receiving station but most of London. The rest of the world will be left untouched until the designated day when the co-ordinated onslaught of fire, earthquake and volcano will render the planet devoid of life for many millions of years. 

         This will be the fourth epoch of living beings to perish. It has lasted longer than the others, too long. It will be followed by a closed down world, a time for Moon and Earth to rest in fallow sleep before waking to nurture the beginning of new life. 

         Will the age that follows be better than those preceding it? The Moon thinks not, but knows that it will be different, fascinatingly different, unpredictable and imperfect like those before. In time it too will promise much, achieve much, before becoming unfit for any good purpose. When hope has vanished and there is only despair it too will be destroyed so that the Planet can live. 

         But that is yet to come. For now, it is the living things presently on Earth that must be swept away, along with the few thousand men on the Moon who without supplies from Earth will perish within months. There can be no sympathy for man, for what he has become. Touched by genius each one is tainted by demons that burrow deep within.     

         The Moon looks down, sees all, knows all, and says a sad goodbye to those who gently moon gaze. They, at least, deserve a better fate.

 

The End.

 

Copyright Richard Banks

Tylywoch ~ 24

 Tylywoch ~ 24  Captive II

 by Len Morgan

   They had to break down the door to Vadeem's rooms, both he and Lakei were trussed like turkeys, both would have preferred continued bondage to the company of Glamhorten, beautiful as her eighteen-year-old body was, but their choices were limited.

"Look at me!" she commanded and Vadeem knew just how limited his choices were.   His eyes were drawn to hers like lodestone to iron.   He felt his free will leeching away and realised, that her age was an illusion, but her eyes could not lie.   He tried to avert his gaze but she had him like a candle flame holds a moth.   He realised his chances of survival were slim, her eyes seemed to grasp him physically, he was hers and she knew it.   She smiled without emotion.   He felt an itch inside his skull, it seemed to slither around inside his skull cold and slimy, but it moved as though it were alive.   He shivered involuntarily.   He scratched at his head and face sweat breaking out on his brow, he began to drool, exhibit terror, while making pitiful animal noises and cries.   He felt ice water trickle down his spine, as a primordial scream filled his being, shattering his mind, his thoughts, memories, and values;   sundering them in all directions like shards of ice.   She snuggled contentedly into his mind like a new born kitten, it was warm and embryonic.   He shivered and cried, shaking spasmodically, as she reassembled the shards of his memory in the order of her choosing.   She licked her lips.  "Kiss me!" she commanded inside his mind.   He could taste and feel her soft moist lips, smell her sweet breath, and yearned to please her in any way she commanded.   His life would be unfulfilled until she asked…   He cried like a new-born child, which is what he had become, her child.

Lakei saw what she had done with Vadeem in just a few moments, and determined it would not happen to him.   He hurled himself at her with an angry snarl but after three steps felt an irresistible force pushing him to the ground.   He came to his knees, but never felt the force of the cold steel that cleaved through his left shoulder, cutting to the waist.   He was dead before the cut was completed.   Vadeem smiled with contentment as he wiped his bloody sword on Lakei's tunic before sheathing it.   "How else can I be of service mistress?" He asked with a pleading look, all free will gone from his eyes.   She completely lost interest in men when that happened, it seemed such a shame to have to dominate them in that way but it was the only way to be sure of their loyalty.

"Go find Galyx and bring him to me, take the guards with you." She commanded.

Vadeem snapped to attention "yes mistress he said bowing.   "You three with me!" he yelled as he turned away from her.

"The girl?" she said aloud…

Wilden jumped to attention and signaled to a sergeant at the door "you and your men, with me now!"  As he left she was scolding the remaining guards.

"What are you waiting for?   Get that carrion out of here!" she kicked Lakei's corpse. 

She returned to her bed-chamber and the mind of Taleen.  She continued speaking to him directly; mind to mind. 'It may be taxing dear heart but, you must keep it together!   The future of the religion is dependent upon your actions over the next few weeks.   If you take the Cheilin Empire we will have a springboard from which to launch our assault on the rest of Abbalar.   Our future will then be assured.   Our army of occupation is even now, decamping on the other side of the river Stalbech at Tain Point.   They will cross by sailing craft at the appointed time and with stealth will take and hold the forts at Ricc, Sticol, and Teel.   

Then, with luck they should also be able to take Stokk, Bago, and Foldic,' dots lit on the map in her mind, 

Then Bedelaq appeared, in a green haze.   'We will then control the whole of the eastern region, and be ready to march on the lands occupied by the 1st & 2nd Clans who will not be expecting an attack from without.   We then move on to take the 11^th and engulf the 12^th and 10^th from either side and from within for they will surely capitulate against superior numbers.   We then cut off Northern access from the 3^rd & 8^th who will sue for terms.   We then assimilate the 4^th 5^th 6^th & 7^th in succession over the next few years, whilst continuing to pour in reinforcements from Bluttland.   We then spread out from the centre mopping up the forts in isolation as we go, striking North at the Huren, Kurdik States, and the Meyam, then beyond.   There is no limit but it all hinges on you!"   She felt Bedelacq's presence leave her as the sickly haze dispersed she visibly relaxed.   But, she did wonder, at his ultimate goal the whole of Abbalar?  Then What... 

(To be Continued)

By Len Morgan

 Haiga from Rob

By Rob Kingston 

A few haiga from my IG page.

Enjoy!

 

The third one was a paint-off between myself and an eleven year old nephew.

 

The second is a bruise/scar from an op before my main one.

 

The first is self explanatory.

 

 Little Women

Janet Baldey

Mary knew it always snowed at Christmas.  Even now, her fingertips tingled as she remembered scratching away at the ice crusting the inside of her window until there was a hole just big enough to peer through.  Pressing her face against its frostbitten surface, she’d stare up at the sky until she saw the first tiny flakes break away and float towards her.  Once they reached the ground, the delicate crystals seemed to disappear but Mary knew they were just in waiting, icy arms outstretched until their sisters joined them.  As soon they would, a multitude, swirling to earth, falling one upon the other until they smoothed the hard angles of the houses with a chilly blanket.

         For hours she’d crouch watching, her thin arms shielding her body against the draughts knifing through the rotting frames.  At last, stiff with cold and dazzled by the dancing snowflakes, she’d slip to the floor and lie, arms and legs outstretched, waiting for her sisters to join her.

         As soon they did.  Chattering and scolding, they flocked into her room and pulled her to her feet.

         “Foolish child.  ‘Tis mid-winter and you are wearing but a cotton shift.  When will you ever learn, you goose.”

         Beth rubbed her frozen limbs while Meg stripped off her tattered petticoat, her delicate fingers recoiling from the grimy rags.

         “Oh, my word.  How did you get to be so dirty.  And just look at your bruises.  I do declare, I have never known such a clumsy child.  Quickly, get the Arnica please, Amy.”

         The girls then turned their attention to the dismal room.  Jo put a match to the fire and slowly, the temperature rose as the flames chased ribbons of smoke up the chimney.  With much clattering and banging they hauled a tin bath to the front of the fire and soon silky water was floating away Mary’s grime and soothing her bruises.  Ignoring the hard rim of the bath, she lay back and closed her eyes.  As she relaxed, the chatter of her sisters faded.  She had lain like this before.  As now, water had lapped around her but then the warmth of the sun had been heavy on her eyelids and there had been the cry of seabirds circling above.  With a sudden swish, a curtain was drawn and the memory disappeared.  She was in the bath and the cries she heard were the sound of her sisters’ voices.

         “How thin Mary is.  I can count every one of her ribs.”

         “Marmee must make her some of her special broth.”

         Mary thought of her beloved Marmee.  She visualised her face with its curving smile and soft blue eyes wreathed in a network of laughter lines.  She was so lucky to have a mother like her.

         Because, some mothers weren’t like that.  Some mothers had faces that were scored by slashing lines and had eyes that glared; the eyes of wild beasts loosed from the jungle.

         Mary whimpered.  She took a deep breath and thought about Marmee again.  She remembered how soft Marmee’s hands felt as she brushed her hair, coaxing the golden curls into ringlets and drawing them back with a scarlet ribbon.

         But some mothers’ hands weren’t soft.  Some mothers had hands that were hard and when they were swung at you, they felt like wood.  These mothers hands didn’t smooth your hair, they grabbed it and pulled it in hanks from your head and your blood felt warm and sticky as it trickled down your forehead. 

         Mary jerked back her head and whimpered again, louder this time.  She opened her eyes to see her sisters crowding around her, concern plain upon their faces.

         “Don’t be sad Mary.  See, we have a pretty dress for you to wear.”

         Meg drew her forefinger across Mary’s cheeks, wiping away the tears and patting her face with a towel.

         “You realise it’s Christmas Eve, don’t you?  We’re going to have a feast and Jo has written a special story to read to us over dinner.”

         “But, best of all my dears…..”

         Marmee stood in the doorway, her faced was flushed and wisps of tawny hair escaped from beneath her bonnet.  She waved a slip of yellow paper like and mediaeval pennant and smiled at the group of girls.

         “……your father’s got leave.  He’s coming home for Christmas.”

         Her sisters shouted with delight and clapped their hands.  Mary stood up, water streaming down her body, her heart bursting with joy.  Father was coming home.  She saw him standing in front of her, his legs planted slightly apart as sturdy as oak trees, his teeth gleaming as he smiled.  She would dart towards him and bury her nose in his greatcoat, smelling his special aroma, a mix of tobacco and wood-smoke.  How safe she felt in the shelter of his arms.  How lucky she was to have a father like him.

         Because, some fathers didn’t smell of tobacco and wood-smoke.  Instead, they stank of beer, sweat and old dirt and they didn’t make you feel safe.  Instead, you listened with dread to the sound of wood creaking as they climbed the stairs. 

         This time, Mary didn’t whimper, she screamed.

***

         The scream erupted out of her mouth, causing heads to swivel in her direction.

         “Who’s that?”

         Betty jumped, almost dropping the syringe.  She let out her breath; the new Matron had crept up so quietly that the hairs on her neck prickled.

         “It’s Mary in bed five.  Poor soul, she’s having one of her turns again.  This’ll quieten her down.”

         Matron’s eyes narrowed.

         “Is she written up for that?”

         “No. Mary’s special.”

         “Nurse, you know the rules.  There are no exceptions.”

         Betty shook her head.  “She’ll not settle….”

         Another wail, jangled their nerves.  Matron turned and stalked down the ward.

         A grey straggle of Mary’s hair clung to the pillows as she whipped her head from side to side.  Her mouth opened and closed and with each lament she drew a ragged object closer to her.

         “This bed’s a mess.” Matron rapped, eyeing both it and the occupant with distaste. “And what’s that?”

         “It’s her book.”

         “Her book!  It’s disgusting.  And what’s she doing with a book?  I doubt if she can even read!”

         Betty’s face flamed but angry words clogged her throat as she watched Matron wrench the book out of Mary’s grasp.  Mary howled even louder and her arms rose as she clawed at the air.  The sound swept around the high-ceilinged room and echoed along the corridor until it reached a thick oak door.  The man on the other side raised his head, then threw down his pen.  Rising, he crossed over to a window and stared at the thick, yellow clouds oiling their way across the sky.  His lips pursed; it wasn’t snowing yet but it would be.  Mary was never wrong.  He wondered who was on duty.  He hoped it was Betty.  The gargling cries continued, dying, then rising in jagged spikes.  Dr. Palmer left his office, his footsteps quickening, as he strode down the corridor and entered the ward.

         “Is everything under control, Nurse?”

         At the sound of his voice Betty turned, relief varnishing her face.

         “Matron’s taken Mary’s book, doctor.  She says it’s unhygienic.”

         “Matron’s quite right, Nurse.  Excuse me, matron. One moment….”

         Gently, he retrieved the book.  Catching hold of one of Mary’s flailing arms, he pressed it into her hand.

         “Chlorpromazine please, nurse.  I’ll write it up myself, later.”

         Matron stood motionless; a grim stalagmite dressed in blue.  Dr Palmer looked at her.

         “Matron, we’ve not met before.  Let’s have coffee.”

         He turned and led the way to his office. 

         As the percolator bubbled, Dr Palmer cast covert glances at the woman.  He noticed how she sat, bolt upright as if wired to the chair.  He sighed, she looked tough; for Mary’s sake, he hoped she had a heart.  With a cup in each hand, he turned and with an effort, softened his expression.

         “I know exactly what you’re thinking Matron.  Bloody consultants.  They don’t have to carry the can for rising infection rates.  Yes, I know it was wrong of me to interfere, but you’re new here and there are things you can’t be expected to know.”

         He walked to a cabinet and drew out a bulging set of case notes, almost as tattered at Mary’s book.

         “If you could just look through these notes, I’d be grateful.  They’ll explain a lot.”

         Reluctantly, the woman started to flick through the pages with impatient fingers but as the seconds stretched into minutes, the rustle of paper slowed and her expression changed.  At last, she spoke.

         “These go back fifty years.”

         “That’s when I first met Mary.  I was a very new houseman.  It was a snowy Christmas Eve when they brought her in, very much as it is today.”

         They sat listening to the icy spatter of sleet against the windows.  Matron forced her attention back to the notes.  With growing unease, she realised they were bringing back memories she’d tried hard to forget.

         “It sounds as if she was in a bad way.”

         “Little more than skin stretched over bone and what flesh she had was black and blue.  X-rays taken later showed numerous healed and healing fractures.  She was barely alive and we didn’t hold out much hope but she clung on.”

         “What had happened.”

         “We never found out.  New tenants heard scratching noises coming from a seemingly deserted house next door.  They broke in to deal with what they thought were rats.  Instead, they found a pathetic mite between six and ten years old.  She was lying in a filthy room without heating or food.  The only thing she had was the book you saw tonight.  Did you notice its title?”

         Matron nodded; when she was a child it had been one of her favourites.

         “When she was well enough, we asked about her family.  Her answers threw us right off track.  She said her name was Mary March and she lived with her mother and four sisters but neither the police nor social services could find any trace of them.  It was a while before the penny dropped – Mary had retreated into fantasy; it was her way of coping.  In her mind, she was a member of that idyllic family depicted in the only book she owned.”

         Trying to ignore the ice settling around her heart, Matron looked at the notes again. 

         “There’s a gap here, of about six years….”

         “Yes.  As soon as she was well enough, she was discharged to a foster home.  She went to live with a couple who lived on the coast.  They grew very fond of her and she loved living near the sea.  Everything seemed to be turning out fine.”  He swallowed.  “When she was fourteen, she was struck down by a massive stroke.  A blood clot, the legacy of too many beatings we guessed, had broken away and found its way to her brain.  She’s been here ever since and will be, until she dies.”

         Matron glanced up and saw the look on his face.  She felt herself shrivel as she read his mind.  He thought she was unfeeling, but he was wrong.  The truth was, she and Mary had more in common than he would ever know.  Her mouth opened but then closed, knowing there was a barrier between them that nothing could breach.  She got up but just before she left the room, she turned and looked directly at him.

         “There is no reason for you to worry doctor.”  Without another word, she left the room.

***

         That night, just before she went off duty, she visited Mary again.  The skies had cleared and the bed was bathed in moonlight.  As she looked at the sleeping woman, her stomach churned as she remembered the silent, empty days of her own childhood.  There had been no violence, but she bore witness that beating was not the only way to destroy a child.

         On an impulse, she bent and kissed Mary’s withered cheek and whispered.

         “Give my love to your family, my dear.”

         Mary stirred and smiled in her sleep.  Tomorrow they would go skating on the lake with Laurie and in the evening she and her dear sisters would decorate the tree.

Copyright Janet Baldey      

        

        

          

        

         

 

For The Love Of Dad 

Jane Scoggins

 He looked like he had had too much to drink. He was slumped against a tree when Jim and Tony walked by on their way to the fishing lake one Saturday morning. The brothers had grown up going fishing with their Dad. Now in their forties and Dad recently passed away, they liked to continue the tradition.  They hadn't seen each other for a couple of weeks so were engrossed in chat when they passed the man. They'd been young men themselves who had often drank too much on a Friday night. They had not paused their conversation but had glanced and made their own similar assumptions. A young man nicely dressed and wearing good shoes sleeping off a heavy evening’s drinking propped up against a leafy tree, head down, on a warm Saturday morning. Jim and Tony set up their camping chairs and propped up their rods ready to prepare the bait. They were the only two fishing that morning and soon settled into almost silent companionship. It was a couple of hours before Jim said he was hungry. He’d left his sandwiches in the car so headed off to get them. He passed the young man still sleeping. On the way back he decided to check if he was OK. 

  ‘You OK mate?’ No reply. He tried again a bit louder. ‘You OK mate?’  

Still no reply or movement, so he bent nearer and touched his shoulder. The young man’s head remained bent forward into his chest. Jim gave him a gentle shake and the man slid sideways and the movement turned his head. His eyes remained closed. His face was pale and Jim wondered if he was breathing. He felt a sense of anxiety about what he might have discovered. He ran halfway around the lake to where Tony was sitting quietly and still, his eyes intently on the water and the end of his rod where he thought a perch was about to bite. Jim’s noisy arrival put a stop to that and Tony looked up annoyed. Jim breathless and afraid told his brother he thought the man they had seen was dead. Hardly believing this could be true he nonetheless jumped up and ran back with Jim. Tony agreed that he thought the man was actually dead, and fumbling for his mobile phone phoned 999 for an ambulance, and the police.

The ambulance arrived within 20 mins and very quickly established that the young man was indeed dead, and had probably been so for quite a few hours. Jim and Tony felt sick with guilt but were reassured by the paramedic that the man would have been dead before they arrived that morning. The police took their statements and seeing how upset they were suggested they pack up their fishing gear and head off home before forensics arrived.

 When Julia heard on the news about the unidentified young man that had been found dead near the fishing lake she thought about a family that would be grieving. She had lost her father in a car accident and knew what terrible grief from an unexpected death felt like.  It was only recently that she had allowed herself to start having fun again. One of her friends had persuaded her to go with a group of girls on a Hen weekend in Manchester. Eight of them including the bride, Ella, had booked the whole thing 3 months before the wedding. Arriving by train on a Friday they had the whole weekend planned. Champagne cocktails at the bar before dinner and then to sample a couple of nightclubs. Saturday they planned a lie in before an afternoon shopping and then to a big nightclub venue where Magic Mike would be performing with other male stripper’s. None of the girls had ever seen male strippers and were looking forward to it. Sunday afternoon after brunch and champagne they would head home. The first club on Friday night was not to their liking, so they moved on to Zoom. Much better, and by 10pm it was buzzing, crowded and lots of fun. Two long bars that ran either side of the club with white leather topped bar stools, and an array of colourful bottles on the illuminated glass shelves. The young barmen competed with one another to put on a show of mixing, shaking and pouring exotic cocktails to the bevvy of girls sitting on or crowded round the bar stools. Julia and her friends had never seen anything like it and loved every minute. They sampled a number of cocktails in-between dancing on the underlit glass dancefloor, with the glitterball revolving its rainbow sparkles over their heads. When their eyes met on the dance floor Julia was instantly attracted to him and they spent most of the evening dancing together.  He asked for her phone number and even though she lived many miles away they agreed to meet up again. The rest of the weekend was exciting and wonderful and the girls had a great time together. On Sunday evening Mark phoned Julia and asked to see her again. Over the next weeks, they met regularly somewhere in between where they both lived on the train line. They had great days out, Mark brought her little gifts and was very attentive. Julia started to fall in love. On one occasion he came to meet her with a friend in tow. She thought it was nice that he wanted her to get to know his friends. When he went to the gents and then to order some drinks he said to Julia ‘Entertain Michael while I'm gone will you?’  He was gone a while. Mark’s friend took the opportunity to sit closer to Julia and make a pass at her, telling her he thought she was gorgeous. Julia was shocked when he slid his hand up her leg to the top of her thigh. She moved away quickly and Michael smirked. When Mark came back nothing was said and Michael left. When she told Mark about it he just laughed it off. 

  ‘I would have been happy for you to give him a bit of a kiss and a cuddle. I don't mind sharing you’ Julia didn’t much like the sound of that but thought she was being a prude, and taking it too seriously. Men had come on to her before, but now she was with Mark she didn't want to deal with that anymore. It took her some time to realise the truth, and she was shocked. At first, she cried but then decided she was strong enough to deal with it. She met with Mark a couple more times before telling him it was over between them. He had become quite possessive and didn't like the idea of losing her. Julia knew that he would want to see her again and wouldn't be happy to let her go. He told her he would come and see her and ask her to explain why.

He came, she made a meal and they drank wine. When he went into the bathroom she knew he was taking cocaine. It had taken her some time to realise the extent of his drug use. And that he was a supplier and a controller of underage vulnerable girls and boys for prostitution and as county lines carriers of drugs across the country. He was trying to involve her in carrying drugs and share her with other men. He had spiked her drinks, and later realised she had been raped. She knew she could not easily if at all extricate herself from this man without danger to herself. So she had stolen some of his drugs over the last few meetings. She added them in high doses to his food and drink when he was already under the influence of cocaine. Later in the evening, she suggested they take a walk down by the fishing lake. It was getting dark and there was no one about. The drug cocktail was taking effect. When Mark became unsteady he sat down under a tree. Julia watched as he convulsed. She withdrew and watched until she thought he was unconscious. With gloves on, she searched his pockets and removed everything that could connect her to him. She put his roll of banknotes in his inside jacket pocket and bag of cocaine and amphetamines in another inside pocket. She waited in the bushes trembling until she heard him vomit and then the sound of choking. When all was quiet she checked his pulse with a gloved hand and went home under cover of darkness. Nobody came forward and the verdict was misadventure from a drug overdose of a habitual user. Case closed. Julia’s Dad had been mowed down by a drink and drug fuelled driver who had smiled in court. He had been given a three year sentence. If she was ever found out, she reckoned on two years for good behaviour. That was a price she would readily pay for Dad.

 

Copyright Jane Scoggins

KamiKazi… 

By Len Morgan 

   Carlie punched the air, “Yes!”  She’d just won ten matches in a row, and the crowd roared their delight.   In just three days she’d won the ‘human Drone pilot’ world championships.  She’d beaten ten contestants in single combat.  She’d also won the Pairs.  

   Now came the final challenge against the winner of the AI class.  The top Artificial Intelligence contestant was Majik.  It was just another game, that Carlie didn’t expect to win, AI had won ‘Final Conflict’ 10/0 over the last five years, and Majik had won three years running.  So, there was no shame in coming second. 

   She’d been so confident she could win, that she spent her downtime analyzing the attacks employed by all the AI competitors, but Majik in particular.  Majik was swift and ruthless, but Carlie detected a little predictability in the attacks.  The more she played the video clips the more she felt it would be possible to win!  However, Majik won the ‘Final Conflict’ 7/3.  Carlie felt deflated, she'd fought her best fights but she was just not good enough.  She brightened up when she realised she was the first human ever to beat Majik in competition mode. 

   She visited the restaurant area but left in a hurry after being mobbed by fans, wanting selfies and autographs…  

“If you’ll follow me I think we can escape this attention,” a young man in uniform led her into a private room. They sat at a convenient table, where a waitress left them with a pair of ornate looking menu’s.  

She gazed at the prices in disbelief, “I can’t afford anything listed here.” 

He smiled, “My name is lieutenant David Crosby.  Your meal will be on the RAF, we have a proposal for you but whatever you decide you can walk away without obligation.” 

“I could, if I knew what you were talking about…” 

“Let’s order and eat first.”  They ordered and ate in silence. “More wine Carlie?” 

“Please.  Let’s sit over there,” she indicated a snug seating area near the window.

“An unidentified group from the Eastern block have infiltrated our security and have intercepted and destroyed a number of our surveillance drones.  Once could be luck, twice coincidence?  But, it happened again yesterday…” 

“Was it a missile or a drone that attacked?”

“It was a drone, but the attack pattern didn’t match with any AI profile we’ve ever met.  The nerds are convinced the attack was from a drone driven by a human operator.” 

“Then they should be able to identify its origin.” 

“They have a general location, within a three mile radius.  We tried sending in a killer drone, but it was shot down before it even entered the area.  We need to fight fire with fire; we need a piloted drone and a pilot who’s better than him.  You are our best hope!” 

“When will your next drone be launched?” 

“According to the schedule I’ve been given, tomorrow, at noon.”

“I need to get some quality time piloting that drone.” 

“You’ll do it?” 

.-…-. 

Eight hours later, Carlie felt she had mastered the drone.  “I want two drones David, one with an AI in control, preferably Majik and one with dual controls, Majik and Me.  If it goes according to plan, I could override Majik if necessary…” 

She reviewed the unsuccessful drone flights a dozen times each, I think I have his measure she thought, his mode of attack and techniques put me in mind of ‘IvanO20’ he nearly beat me in the semi’s six months ago. I think your gook is a pilot with the handle ‘IvanO20’ and he's good."

“You know him.  But, can you beat him?” 

“I’ll have a damned good try…” 

“There’s something I didn’t tell you Carlie, one of the best drone pilots in the RAF, Guy Overton went up against him.  He destroyed our drone and honed in on Guy’s location…” 

“Did he…”

“Guy is in intensive care, we don’t know if he will pull through.”

“Wo~ah this is starting to sound serious, if he can locate me can you locate  ‘IvanO20’?”

“We can pigg-a-bak on his signal and locate him as soon as he attacks our AI drone.  But, be warned, I’ve looked him up, he is the Russian drone champion…” 

“I know, I beat him in ‘The World’s’, but my life wasn’t on the line then.” 

“We’d understand if you changed your mind.  Is there anything you want that would persuade you to stay?” 

She thought a while, poured herself more coffee, and took one of the fancies from the tray on offer. 

“I think it would be nice to learn to pilot a real jet, what would you say to that?” 

“Mmm, you know it would take you three years to graduate flying school…” 

“And…?” 

“You would still have to do basic training first.  Are you sure that is what you want?” 

“That’s what I want.  Look on the bright side, I may lose the fight…’ 

“There is that…  I’ll see what I can arrange.” 

.-…-. 

“You’ve been enrolled provisionally in an ‘RAF fighter training program’.  It’ll cost the taxpayers a fortune because I’m convinced you can nab Ivan.” 

“Will I be in a position to take him down?” 

“Of course, as soon as we have his coordinates they will be sent to the drones navcon.”  Do you want to eat first?

“No, I fight better on an empty stomach, let’s go!”

She strapped herself into the drone pilot’s seat, and both drones took off on their pre-planned route.  She would interfere as little as possible, letting them both behave as standard AI-driven drones.    

Two hours later as they approached the area where they thought Ivan0 was located, a third drone appeared in the sky.  

“So you return for another lesson in drone fighting ‘GuyFox’!  I’m gonna give you another beating…” 

“Ivan, is that you?  This is ‘Carlie.  Guy won’t be coming anytime soon your last drone followed his carrier signal and crashed on his location…” 

“I didn’t know, they never told me it was for real, he was an excellent opponent, he was almost as good as you…” 

Majik's drone zero’ed in on Ivan, Carlie tried to take over control of the drone but failed. 

“Ivan, get out of there, you’re about to be bombed for real!”  Seconds later, there was an explosion and the contact was broken.  

“He never knew it was for real, I’ve taken out an innocent man,” she thought as she closed down her connection. 

That evening she was in a low state, “how could I have been so gullible,” she thought. 

Then her Laptop announced ‘YOU HAVE MAIL’:

Thank you for the warning Carlie, I got out just in time.  I was up for taking out spy drones, but not harming fellow DP's, No sport in that! I plan to resign from the ‘Counter Espionage Program’.  So I’ll see you in the ‘Worlds’ next year.  

Carlie smiled, so she wouldn’t be going to the ‘RAF fighter training program’ after all, but she’d made a new BF in Ivan0. 

 SANDIE

By Bob French

I don’t know why, but I suddenly started to think about Sandie, a girl I had met in the Pink Toothbrush night club last time I was on leave in Rayleigh. I grinned at the memory of some of the antics we had gotten up to, and when we started to dance to some of the Garage and Street music, we fell about in stitches.  Exhausted, we retreated from the blaring music and jostling bodies of the dance floor to the tranquillity of the bar, where she told me to “keep up the dance classes.”

I told her that I was involved in travel.  She replied that she was a nurse and we exchanged telephone numbers.  Suddenly the night was over and I agreed to walk her home.  We talked about where we had grown up; she went to Fitz whilst I told her that I went to Swain. She lived just opposite Sainsbury’s supermarket down by the Weir and when we kissed good night on her doorstep I asked if I could see her again.  She smiled with her eyes and spoke softly.

          “I have your number.  I’ll let you know.”  That was the last time I saw her and that was nearly four weeks ago. I still think of her.

          I suddenly came to my senses as the distant horizon slowly started to change into a hundred shades of dawn and shadows started to appear.  A cold breeze cut across the wadi where our platoon lay hidden, spraying us all with a fine sand that stung our faces.  We had been making good progress until one of the forward recce blokes gave the hand signal to warn us that there were Taliban in the vicinity.  That was at 02:45 hours this morning.  Since then we had lain still; not moving.  When you are laying in the cold desert in total silence with your nerves ready to snap, you start to search your mind and ask yourself a lot of dumb questions, but I remembered what the Sergeant Major told us before we left our forward base. 

“Listen Up, when you’re out there waiting, do not start to think about things like ‘what am I doing here’.  It’ll screw you up.  Just keep your mind on your patrol tactics. Got it.”  So I did my best and started to think about Sandie.

Like Jake, my best mate, this was my first patrol in Afghanistan and the first time we had come into contact with the Taliban. The patrol routine was that every ten seconds or so we would look at our patrol leader, Sergeant Mike Hawthorn, for instructions.  But so far he, like the rest of us, had quietly sunk into the desert floor and watched and waited.  As dawn slowly brought light to a new day, he raised his hand.  He didn’t look back at us or say anything.  His three fingers pointed to his left meant that me, Jake and Muffin were to be ready to move in that direction.  He then raised four fingers and pointed to the right.  The suspense, waiting for the thumbs up to move was nerve-racking.  “I’ve never been this scared.” I whispered, knowing that Jake couldn’t hear me; ‘I never shot or killed anyone either,’ I thought. My heart was going like the clappers.  I felt the sweat running down my face and back and my leather gloves felt decidedly damp inside.

All of a sudden, he raised his fist; the sign to get ready, then up went his thumb and all hell broke loose.  The noise was deafening. Jake and I screamed at the top of our voices as we scrambled to our feet and rushed forward to our allotted covering positions.  I had started to fire my rifle before I even saw the enemy.  Then, as I skidded down the side of the wadi, I saw them for the first time.  Eight of them; were all armed with AK47 rifles.  Jake was screaming beside me as we went rushing in toward them.  I felt the zing and crack of rounds whizzing past my head, then a sickening thud, but I rushed on, thinking that if I was hit, I was damn well going to take one of them with me.  As I rushed in, someone to my left caught my eye. My training and instinct taught me to react and I turned; pointed my rifle and fired.  It hit the man in the chest, spinning him backwards like a rag doll.  It was over in seconds.  

Then there was total silence again. Sergeant Hawthorn quickly gave hand signals to effect a wide perimeter cordon and men started to silently scatter. When I looked around for Jake, the patrol medic was kneeling beside him trying to stop the bleeding whilst Muffin was beside him on the radio calling for medivac support.  My heart sank.  I wanted to go to him but Corporal Tavish grabbed my shoulder and nodded to my position.  He leant forward and whispered.

“Don’t worry kid, he’s in good hands.”

In no time at all the sound of the chopper could be heard thudding over the horizon.  After a mini sand storm, it had landed and bodies were rushing towards Jake and our patrol medic.  Then the radio crackled into life.

“Victor Lema 55.  You have bandits approaching your position. ETA approx 15 minutes, repeat 15 minutes. Out.”  Sergeant Hawthorn yelled above the noise of the helicopter to pull back to protect it.  He then pointed to me and three other men to act as stretcher bearers.  As I knelt down beside Jake, I heard the paramedic giving instructions to our patrol medic and instantly recognised her voice.

“Sandie?”  She looked up, recognised me and smiled.

“Sorry I didn’t get back to you.  Been a little busy.  How you been keeping anyway?”  And smiled again.  She then seemed to ignore me as she started to inject a drip into Jake's arm and give rapid instructions to one of her team. We anxiously waited whilst his wound was being dressed and Jake was stabilised.  I kept thinking ‘time was running out.’ Then we heard it.  That blunt crack of the AK47.  The Taliban were here.  It was time to move. The sand around us started to spurt up as bullets peppered the ground.  Sergeant Hawthorn rushed forward to the paramedic and leant into her face.

“No time to wait, let’s move.”  As he stood up a bullet tugged at his shoulder webbing.  He just spun around and emptied his magazine into four men who were foolish enough to break cover and rush at him. 

We carefully lifted Jake up and started for the helicopter just as it revved up its engines to create a sand screen for us.  We must have been about ten yards from the backdrop when I felt a sledgehammer hit me in the back of my leg.  It spun me around and I screamed.  The last thing I saw was Sandie quickly filling my place on the stretcher and vanishing into the back of the helicopter.

I gradually came around to the smell of antiseptic, bright lights and murmuring voices.  I tried to swallow and realised that I had a mouth that tasted like a Turkish wrestler’s jock-strap.  I made a feeble attempt at sitting up, when someone spoke to me.

“Ah, I see we are awake.  How do you feel?”  I was about to tell her exactly how I felt, then realised that she was a Lieutenant in the Queen Alexandra’s Royal Army Nursing Corps. My mind was starting to fill with hundreds of questions and I tried to speak but found that I couldn’t. The nurse seemed to sense what I needed and gently helped me sit up and made me sip a little water.

“Where am I?  What happened? I croaked. The Lieutenant stood and started to pull back the privacy curtains.  She spoke as she moved.

“Your patrol was ambushed by the Taliban during a helo’ medivac.  As you carried your friend out, you were hit.”  She turned and gave me a gentle smile.  “One of my girls, Lieutenant Sandie Bickford, went back for you and carried you back into the helo.”  I didn’t speak.  I felt choked up.

“Is she alright?  Can I see her?”  My eagerness made me feel excited and I could see the Lieutenant looking at me, then she gently sat on the bed and held my hand.

“I am sorry.  Sandie was hit three times during your rescue and died on the way in.  She told your Sergeant Hawthorn that you were to ”keep up the dance classes.”

 

Copyright Bob French