THE SHAPE OF THINGS UNTOLD 2

 THE SHAPE OF THINGS UNTOLD (part2 & Last) 

By Richard Banks

Kevin walked up the garden path closely followed by O’Shea who insisted on carrying his rucksack. The front door was ajar and on Kevin tentatively pushing it open a few inches they peered into the gloomy interior of a hallway lit only by the open door and the skylight above. Three interior doors that might, if open, have provided further light were firmly shut.

         O’Shea gave the door knocker a rap to make clear their arrival and, when no one appeared, called out, “anyone at home?” The silence that followed seemed proof that no one was. “Strange,” muttered O’Shea, “he’s expecting you, he can’t be far.”

         “Who?” Said Kevin.

         “The odd fellow. The one I told you about who paid me to drive you. Surely you know him?”

         Kevin didn’t know him, any more than he knew O’Shea, who he regarded with increasing suspicion. Perhaps, he thought, this is what he did, attach himself to people coming-off the ferry on the pretence of being sent to meet them. If so, he was definitely up to no good, or was he deranged? 

         “Perhaps we should go in,” said O’Shea. “An open door’s as good as an invitation around here. I’m sure he won’t be long.”

         By way of encouragement, O’Shea eased his way past Kevin and set down his rucksack on the floor beside a wickerwork chair on which there was an envelope. Finding it addressed to himself he wasted no time in peeling it open and finding the bonus he had been promised. “Good man,” he murmured, slipping the bank notes within into an inside pocket of his jacket. It had been a long drive and the young man had been little company during that time. What’s more he was soaked through, with rain or sea he knew not. At least he didn’t smell of piss. Nevertheless he had ponged out the car, filling it with dank, smelly air that misted up the windscreen. He was glad to be rid of him. Only the expectation of his bonus had prompted O’Shea to come into the house, and now that he had it he couldn’t wait to be off. He sensed his fare would also be glad to see him leave, so leave he did, making his exit with as much bonhomie as he could muster.

         Kevin shut the door behind him and took a deep breath. An empty house, with no one to welcome him, was the last thing he expected. He decided to check out each room, one by one. In the absence of the ‘odd fellow,’ he might at least find an envelope addressed to himself. Thank goodness it was daylight, how much worse this would be if it were dark. He began in the front room in which there was a settee, two armchairs, a table and chairs. He took a deep breath. Old fashioned stuff to be sure, all of it much older than himself, but nonetheless the normal stuff of normal people. There was also a wall unit with smoked glass doors through which could be seen glasses and tableware. Around the carpet was a broad corridor of something he thought was called lino which he had once seen in the house of a great-uncle. There was no TV. An open fireplace laid with logs appeared to be the principal, if only source of heating. Everything was clean and tidy, nothing out of place, the brass railing around the hearth almost gleaming in the sunlight now streaming through sash-cord windows.

         He moved on to the next room further down the hallway and found it as antiquated as the first. But this one he liked better, two of its walls taken up with shelves overflowing with books. He glanced at the titles on their spines and found much on music: academic critiques, biographies of composers - some great, some less so, some he didn’t know - and the music itself in hardback volumes. There was also a piano, a Steinway, and on the lid that folded down over the notes an envelope with his name on. He took another deep breath and with fingers all of a quiver extracted the single sheet of paper within. On it were less than ten words, ‘Be back soon. Make yourself at home,’ followed by the writer’s name, ‘Desmond Bonner’.

         Kevin’s heart already pounding skipped a beat; he felt strangely exhilarated and at the same time apprehensive as to what was to follow. His intuition, his ridiculously optimistic intuition, had been right. The man who was his father was still living within the bounds of the parish church where, eighteen years before, he had married his mother. She had never admitted to being married, had never once spoken his name but he had found a copy of the certificate among her papers. Of his father’s life before or thereafter Kevin could find no trace but one clue was better than none and what choice did he have but to give it a try. If anyone had the answers he wanted surely it would be his father.

 

                                                  *****

 

Desmond observed the young man exploring his house. His courage, such as it was, had deserted him and the event he had been longing for now seemed fraught with difficulties. Nevertheless, he had never lost hope that this day would happen. That’s why three years ago he had struck a deal with the man called Badger, who worked on the ferry, that if ever they had a passenger by the name of Kevin Bonner he was to let him know right away on the telephone he had fitted for that purpose. He had promised him fifty pounds for that call and although there was no guarantee that the boy would come he knew that if he did it would be between his fourteenth and eighteenth birthdays. That’s when his own changeling powers had shown themselves, just as it had with his father and the fathers before.

         Of course he should never have taken up with the boy’s mother, he should have contented himself with Aileen or Coleen. They were like him. But he couldn’t help himself, had eyes only for the big city girl from across the sea. He never told her what he was, was too scared of losing her. Then she came to be with child and of course he had to do right by her. That’s when he should have told her what he was, but he delayed, and procrastinated as he always did. Best to tell her after the marriage, he told himself, maybe after the child was born. After all they were to be married for better or worse, that’s what the vows would say. It was the warts and all agreement that all married couples made. And anyway, did he not love her more than any other man. He would make her happy, so happy that when he did tell her it would make no difference. He was a man, above all else a man, surely she would see that, and all would be well. But he never did summon up the courage to tell her and when, three months later, she saw him let slip and for a few seconds morph into that motor cycle, the one he wanted so much but couldn’t afford, the marriage was as good as over and she disappeared to lord knows where with their unborn son, never to return.

         What, he wondered, had she said about him to their child? Not much, he thought. She had said little to him, her husband, before she left; the look of revulsion on her face saying more than words could ever do. So what now was he to say? The young man would have questions, many questions. Probably best to let him ask them and answer as best he could. But some questions he had no answer to, the how and why questions. All he could tell him was that it came down through the generations, that it was a gift as well as a curse and that they were not the only ones. Yes, that was important, he would need to know about the others; there were at least forty of them in the farms and villages nearby. Some of them Bonners, others Leary or O’Brien, two Patterson's and a Riley. They were good folks and when the lad met them perhaps he would be minded to stay for awhile, maybe longer. Aileen and Colleen both had daughters now, pretty girls, clever too. He might take a shine to one of them and they to him. He was not a bad looking boy, as most Bonners were. A chip off the old block, no doubt about that, and judging by the way he had lingered over his books and piano they might have more in common than just their looks.

         But before all that could happen he had to pluck up his courage and stop being the proverbial fly on the wall. Of course he was nervous, this was what he had been waiting for all these years; maybe his only chance to make things right. He would fly down to the front door, change into himself, and pretend he had just come in. What then? Would a handshake be sufficient? Should he call him, son? He had rehearsed all this, and thought he had it right; now he wasn’t sure. Perhaps best just to go with the flow. If nothing else he must show he cared.

         The lad was in the kitchen now. A good place, none better, he would be needing a warm drink, a good meal, and a tot of whiskey afterwards. Was he old enough for whiskey?

         His son! At last he had his son. 

 

Copyright Richard Banks

THE SHAPE OF THINGS UNTOLD 1

 THE SHAPE OF THINGS UNTOLD  (part 1 of 2) 

By Richard Banks 

When Kevin Bonner left his home in the early evening of the summer solstice no one knew where he was headed or why. That he took his passport spoke of his intention of travelling abroad. But when no trace of him was found on the passenger lists of airports and cross Channel ferries the search for him went no further than Cromer where the family had a holiday home. His mother feared that he had been abducted but the orderly manner of his departure indicated that this was not so. He had packed his rucksack with over forty items of clothing and toiletry, plus his wallet which - it was assumed - contained the three hundred pounds he had withdrawn from his bank account. His debit card and mobile phone he had not taken. As the use of these would have revealed the places through which he was bound it seems likely that the leaving of them was no oversight.

         Had he been younger than his seventeen years the police search for him would have been more thorough and details given to newspapers and TV, but as the police sergeant said, he was almost a man and had evidently left of his own free will. Perhaps, he surmised, the young man was anxious about the exam he was due to take, or upset by the lovers tiff that seems to have happened.  Whatever the reason he would likely be back home in the next few days or weeks. The three hundred pounds he had would not last long. If he was still missing by the end of the week his photograph would be added to the police database of missing persons with a request that if located he should be approached to ensure his physical and mental well-being.

         Mrs Bonner was far from pleased. They could at least have spoken to Leila. That girl knew more than she was letting on, and wouldn’t even admit that they had fallen out, but they had. Of this, Mrs Bonner was more than sure. Why else had he returned home early that evening with a face as long as a kite and an expression on it that she took for grief; but not just grief. Did she also see fear and confusion? She wasn’t sure.   

                                           *****

Leila sat on her bed and shuddered. On a warm summer’s evening her body felt as cold as ice. Even now she struggled to believe what she had seen, but what choice did she have? After all, she wasn’t on dope. She saw things as they were, and besides it wasn’t just a matter of seeing, there was also what she had heard and felt. Perhaps what happened was a punishment from God. She didn’t believe in God, but something unearthly had happened and given a choice she would rather that God was the reason for it than Satan. A third possibility occurred to her, that Kev was an alien undertaking biological research on the human race, but even for her this was a stretch too far. She had known him from kindergarten, and anyway, he played violin and piano and aliens don’t do that kind of thing, at least not the ones she had seen in films. Anyhow, it stood to reason he would look different, and having observed him in his entirety Kev was as human as all her other boyfriends. So that left God or Satan, Kev being the human conduit through which one or the other worked their magic - like the turning of him into a violin.

         That this was as much a surprise to him as it was to her was plainly evident from the expression on his face when the music stopped and he went back to being Kev. “Get off me!” she screamed, and he did, falling over the side of the bed onto the floor, where he hastily retrieved his clothes before leaving, his lips quivering as though attempting to say something, but he was too stunned to make it happen. An hour later her parents came back from the cinema and she had to act as if nothing had happened. This she was well use to doing but this time it was different; no one but no one must know, not even the girls at college. Of course, if Kev chose to spill the beans there would be nothing she could do to stop him but it was his word against hers and she would deny all, make it sound as though he was deranged. After all who would believe him if he said what really happened. That would be a one way ticket to the funny farm. No way would he risk that. Best she say as little as possible, even to the girls. They would be wanting to know everything that had taken place but would soon lose interest when she said he was no better than a six. Not worth bothering with she would say dismissively and hopefully none of them would.

 

                                            *****  

 

Kevin’s mood was as black as the clouds filling-up the evening sky; the east wind chasing them along stirring up the sea now buffeting the Pride of Birkenhead. At least it wasn’t raining, he thought, then it was, and he reluctantly joined the other passengers on-deck taking cover in a crowded mall in which there were two fast food restaurants, a pub, and a gift shop. This was the last thing he needed; his nerves were at breaking point. There were too many people, too much noise. For a few moments he was almost overwhelmed by it all, then he saw the toilets and took refuge there locking himself into one of the cubicles.

         The sea was getting rougher, the ferry shifting one way and then another, sending him tottering against the partition wall. He sat down on the toilet lid, peeling-off his rucksack and pushing it against the door. Outside, too close to ignore, the rest of the toilet was rapidly filling with his fellow passengers, who having eaten or drunk since leaving the mainland were now regretting that they had. The cubical doors were opening and banging shut as they either vomited or defecated the half digested food within them. Never had he felt more in need of an aerosol. He pictured the one at home that sat on top of the lavatory system and emitted an odour called Blossom Delight. But no, this he mustn’t do; he had to repress his thoughts because if he didn’t his thoughts sometimes became him and everything got weirder than weird.

         He remembered the first time it had happened. He had been walking in the woods, bird spotting, when he saw a Crested Lark, four hundred miles north of where it should have been, sitting on a tree stump as if offering itself for a photo opportunity. But he had no camera, had inexplicably left it at home. He berated himself for doing so. He always took his camera with him when bird spotting. How could he have forgotten it?  At that moment he wanted that camera so badly that he became it, saw the bird through the viewfinder, but without fingers to manipulate the controls could only watch it fly away. That had been a month ago. He told himself that this transformation had never happened. How could it have happened? No, it was nothing but his imagination, a hallucination, which while worrying in itself did at least make sense. He had been studying hard for his music exam, not sleeping well. It was a warning that he needed to ease off a little, and if he did, all would be back to normal. At least, he hoped so.

         Then it happened again. He was watching Top Gun 2 in his bedroom wishing he could be as cool as Tom Cruise when suddenly he was Tom Cruise, glimpsing him in his bedroom mirror through eyes very much connected to Kevin Bonner’s brain. He tried to keep the moment going but was glad he couldn’t when a knock on the door heralded the arrival of his mother with his laundry. But that was as nothing compared to the catastrophe with Leila. Had he turned into Tom Cruise on that occasion the change would, no doubt, have been much to her approval, not that she seemed unappreciative of his energetic, if inexpert, efforts to open his account. He was almost there when his passion for Leila became strangely confused with his love for the violin and the concerto he had been practising. The look of horror on her face he would never forget. Life as he knew it was over, maybe for her too. What came next, he had no idea. There were different rules now and he needed someone to explain them, someone who had been there, done it, a father figure like the father he had never known, whom mother never spoke of. By the time he got home, he had a half-baked plan verging on the crazy, but any plan was better than none.

         Someone was hammering on the cubical door almost pleading to be let in and Tristan’s overloaded brain was vibrating like a bomb about to explode. He took a deep breath. He must be in control, think nothing mad, no thoughts of bombs, he must concentrate on everyday doing things, like getting out of this awful place. No matter how bad the weather he was better off on deck. He needed to be alone.

 

                                           *****               

 

 

It was raining again, and after parking up in the free car park at the back of the library, O’Shea was now in the Old Port Inn looking out through a bay window at the harbour below. He was to meet a passenger off the overnight ferry and drive him to the old mill house by the river just off the Mundon road. It was an odd sort of place, a brick-on-stone patchwork, a mile from town, and no one knew much about the fellow who lived there and worked the fields nearby.

         He had come knocking on his door the previous evening with a job for the morning. “How much to the ferry and back?” he asked, without so much as a word of introduction. He was, thought O’Shea, a queer fellow to be sure, but on being given a price he paid-up in advance and promised him a bonus if all went well.

          It was not the first time that O’Shea had picked up someone from the harbour. Normally the arrangement was to meet the fare by the lifeboat station, but this one had no idea he was to be collected. He was a young fellow, he had been told, name of Kevin, carrying a rucksack and dressed in a khaki jacket and jeans. It was not much of a description, there would be other young men like that; he would need to be sharp and spot him on the pier or in the terminal building. Once out of there, he could well disappear into the press of folk waiting to meet people off the ferry or board the trip back. This had happened to O’Shea once before and he was determined not to let it happen again. He had written Kevin’s name on a piece of cardboard and would hold it up, shouting out his name just to be sure. The bonus that had been mentioned might be a generous one, no way was he going to risk that.  

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 

ALEXA Part One By Peter Woodgate

 ALEXA Part One

By Peter Woodgate

Guilty!

I have fallen in love with Alexa

Her voice is so sublime,

She does whatever I ask her

No matter what the time.

Even though I’m slightly deaf

She’s able to consume,

My frustrations dealt with

When turning up her tune.

She has tremendous knowledge,

Plays music from my list,

Reminds me of deliveries

So that I do not miss.

Despite my constant asking,

She doesn’t get annoyed,

She’s just pleased to help me

I am so over- joyed.

She doesn’t ask for anything,

As long as she’s plugged in,

And should I fail my daily tasks

To her it is no sin.

In fact, she is, just perfect,

Relieves me of all strife,

I think I’m gonna marry her,

Once I’ve divorced my wife.

 

PS If she sees this I’m in trouble.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

The Haunted House 3

 Aspirations 

By Janet Baldey 

As they rounded the bend, Mr Osmond stopped gratefully and gestured towards the house, visible for the first time.  He opened his mouth.  

          “There we are. Isn’t it grand?” The words came out as a chesty wheeze but sensing,  rather than seeing, the couple exchanged glances, he carried on regardless, his voice gaining strength.  “I know what you’re thinking but visualise it as it could be. With the gardens tidied up and the ivy stripped away. Now look again, at its beautiful lines.  I assure you; you won’t get a better bargain in this part of the country.”

Emily Farquerson glanced at the brochure, refreshing her memory….six bedrooms, two large sitting rooms, a turreted library on the first floor and a south-facing façade. Looking up, she narrowed her eyes and suddenly the unkempt garden with its shaggy rhododendron bushes, faded away and a trim, emerald lawn with islands of rose bushes took its place. 

“But why is it so ….” She was about to say cheap but stopped herself, just in time…” reasonable?”

               The agent shrugged, “the owner specifically asked that it should go to a family.  I think he was remembering his own time as a husband and father and wanted the house to ring with the sound of childish laughter again.”  He sighed, dramatically.  “Sad really.  He never wanted to leave but circumstances….”  He shrugged, leaving the couple to imagine those circumstances.   “Come, I’ll show you the inside.  It needs freshening up but it has bags of potential.”

A gentle smile softened the lines of anxiety on Mrs Farquerson’s face as she tucked her hand underneath her husband’s crooked elbow.  House hunting had been exciting at first but after a while, it became a chore; how wonderful it was that now their search was over.  At last, they’d found the perfect home.  She glanced back at the red-brick Victorian villa with its pointed eaves, watching as the evening sun painted it with amber.   Her smile widened as she imagined the lunch parties and soirees, she would be able to host in its airy sitting room.  On fine days she would open the casement windows to allow the sound of teacups and silvery laughter to spill out onto the lawn. It was fit for the cream of society and what was even better was that at last, she would be the hostess and not a mere guest. She preened at the thought. 

“Isn’t it lovely my dear.  So spacious, a piano will fit well in the main sitting room and the turreted room will make a perfect library.”

Henry Farquerson grunted and his wife shot a look at him, anxious for him to agree with her.  After all, thanks to the legacy he’d been left, they could well afford it.

“Is anything wrong dear?  Just think how good it will be for the children to live in a house like this.   They’ll be able to have their friends around all the time.”  Reading Mr Farquerson’s expression, she realised she’d made a tactical error and added a softener.  “And because the house is so large, we won’t be able to hear a thing.” Her voice quivered, surely Henry wasn’t going to be difficult.

“It’s the smell.” He said at last.  “There must be  a problem with the drains.  We’ll have to get them checked.”

There was no problem.  The drains were fine and after his wife had promised to air the place thoroughly and use a judicious amount of Glade, the sale went ahead.

Mrs Farquerson, was not idle during the wait to move in.  With the help of a fat brochure from Liberty’s, she picked out fabric and colour schemes for all the rooms, paying special attention to Tom’s room.  She decided on light blue figured wallpaper and a walnut bedroom suite.  She half toyed with the idea of art deco before discarding it in favour of something plainer and more masculine.  She thought fondly of her eldest.  Such a fine boy, sturdy and athletic with rosy cheeks and a mop of dark brown hair, he was a son to be proud of. Captured In a moment  of maternal pride, she added a glass-fronted cabinet to hold all the trophies he would be bound to acquire. 

As for Sophie, pink would do.  A gentle, feminine colour as befits a daughter who would surely make a good marriage in due course. 

 

Three months later, Emily Farquerson gazed out of her bedroom window at a mournful drizzle soaking the garden.   Her spirits matched the weather as she ruminated that since they’d moved in everything had gone wrong.  Primarily the smell. No matter how hard their charlady scrubbed, it had deepened.  It now permeated the whole house forcing both herself and Sophie to go around with handkerchiefs soaked in lavender water pressed against their noses.   The expression on Henry’s face grew thunderous and the stench, nauseating at times, put paid to Emily’s dreams of rising in society. There  was no way she could invite anyone to a delicate tea or musical evening, not even, according to the charlady as she gave notice, a stray cat.

She dabbed at a teardrop and watched the rain flood the lawn. At last, it lessened and Emily stirred.  She decided to take herself off for a walk.  Perhaps it would cheer her up. She would stroll to the pier and back, maybe she would see one of her friends and take tea in a café.

Hours later, refreshed in both body and mind Emily returned.  Her friends had convinced her that her problems were mere teething troubles and would soon be forgotten. Her spirits rose even further as she looked at the house outlined against the backdrop of a charcoal-coloured sky. What a fine place it was. 

She noticed that Tom’s room was in darkness, and smiled.  He was obviously in the games room downstairs playing Ludo with his sister, or maybe in the main sitting room, practising scales on the piano.  How lucky he was to have a choice.  But as she grew nearer, her smile faltered.  There seemed to be a strange orange shape bobbing in the window.  From a distance, it looked a bit like a face, except that it had no features.  She stared harder and her smile disappeared completely.  Why, it didn’t seem to be Tom’s room at all!  Glossy, dull brown paint had taken the place of the blue wallpaper, and the shape of the furniture was different, blockier, and more old-fashioned.   Suddenly, her heart started to beat faster and she began to run.  Bursting through the door, she raced up the stairs and threw open the door to her son’s room. 

“Eh, what’s up Mum?”

Confused, Emily froze.  She blinked at her son, who  lay in bed blinking back at her.  She looked around.  Everything was as it should be. The new furniture gleamed in the glow of a rosy fire flickering in the grate,  the dark blue curtains were drawn against the night and pictures of Tom playing sport adorned the walls.

At last, she found her voice. 

“Nothing dear, I just wondered how you were?”

“I’m OK.  Just a bit under the weather and I felt like an early night.”

She crossed over to him and caressed his forehead.  It was quite cool but she thought he was a trifle pale.

She smoothed his covers and tucked him in securely. She would like to have kissed him but didn’t want to turn him into a cissy.

“You have a nice rest dear.  I’ll bring you up some hot milk when I go to bed.” 

Months later, Emily sat at her desk playing with her pen and staring into space.  She was wondering if she really wanted to arrange the first of her soirees.  She was sure the smell had disappeared, she hadn’t noticed it for weeks and both Sophie and Henry had stopped, complaining. She ruminated on the  fact that she hadn’t seen either of them for days. Maybe Henry had disappeared into his study and Sophie was probably in her bedroom. 

Emily thought back to when she’d last spoken to her. It was just after breakfast last Tuesday.  “Mummy,” her daughter had said, “have you noticed how thin Tommy has got.  Is there anything wrong with him?”

To her shame, Emily hadn’t but just at that moment, Tom’s bedroom door opened and he appeared.  Sophie was right, she decided.  He was much thinner, and seemed to float down the stairs rather than bound as he usually did. 

Emily wasn’t worried.   She decided she liked the shape of the new Tom. Before he’d been carrying too much weight and she hated fat boys.  Now he looked more interesting, a bit like a young Lord Byron.  So, she’d reassured Sophie and had gone back to her dream of rising in society.

Since then, she hadn’t seen any of them but didn’t mind at all.   She found that she liked being alone and decided it was because of the house. She had been kept so busy, tending to its needs, and making everything just so. What’s more, she felt and appreciated it.   She didn’t know why she felt this but it was a nice feeling and one that made her want to melt into its walls and become part of it.

 

Once more, Mr Osmond laboured up the drive to the front of the house.  He stood staring at the front bedroom carefully counting the orange-coloured globes bobbing against its panes.

“Good,” he grunted.  “Four of them.  It’s time to produce another brochure.”

He looked again at the house, especially appreciating its new layer of windows.  To think, that once it had consisted of just one storey. Now, he could truthfully describe it as a mansion in the brochure.   He smiled and tipped his hat at the house giving credit where it was due. It was, as they say, a good little earner.

 

Copyright Janet Baldey

 

 

 

 

          

          

 

         

          

 BEDLAM

By Peter Woodgate

Dark the night, so too his thoughts,

ghastly visions and loneliness combine,

then dawn, with all its glory breaks

alas, this fails to calm the mind

of the soul locked in a detached sphere,

just why? The doctors are unsure,

the diagnosis is not clear.

And so, the patient sits and stares,

a blank expression on his face,

sometimes he stands and walks the room

a slow and melancholy pace.

Scrambled numbers on the door

like prison bars restrict the soul,

the body too and will ensure confinement.

Twenty years, to date, I’m told

and find it hard to understand

whilst looking at the world today

I’m fearful, in profound dismay.

I guess this crazy soul, like I

cannot understand just why

mankind is heading into Hell

to leave miasma in the sky,

what fate we face? Just time will tell.

Since Adam first walked on this Earth

mankind has chosen war, not peace

for greed consumes the heart and mind

forgetting that this world we lease.

We have been warned, some will ignore,

it matters not, for rich or poor.

This chap, without a shout,

has shown me what it’s all about

I find, that now, I am like him

and can’t accept the state we’re in.

So, lock me up, think I am mad,

I’ll think of you and will be sad

For this asylum knows the truth,

and all outside are crass, uncouth.        

Copyright Peter Woodgate

  

A 10 line story/Poem from a play

 A 10 line story/Poem from a play

 By Jane Goodhew

  1. The day they met and fell in love their fate was sealed

  2. For what could become of the two whose family loathed with such intent

3. When hostility and killing would follow close behind as jealousy and pomp knew no bounds

4. Oblivious to all but love, they danced as stars sparkled in the dark night sky

not knowing that someone would soon die and he would be banished from the land

5.    But not before the nurse and priest helped them to conceive a plot

6.    And the two lovers kissed and dreamt of a future life as in secret she became his wife

7.      But alas with the turn of events following a further devious plan trying to reunite the warring parents

8.    The message that she was but asleep did not get through and he with the notion that she was dead drank a deadly potion

9.    But she awoke and full of grief kissed his lips in the hope there would still be a drop but had to fall on his knife instead and her life's blood ebbed away

10.  So at least reunited by death and their families united by grief young love would become eternal.

Copyright Jane Goodhew

We Invited Aunt Nellie

We Invited Aunt Nellie

By Sis Unsworth 

Aunt Nellie was an old lady, we heard was on her own

and had to spend all Christmas day, totally alone.

We had our family on the day, but they didn’t make a fuss

so we asked if she would like to come, and spend the day with us.

We did think she had had a drink, as she came through the door,

she tripped on our new carpet, and landed on the floor

we helped her up and she was fine, although she’d fallen flat.

Then when she chose where she would sit, she nearly squashed the cat.

We offered her a Christmas drink, we thought shed like a wine.

She said that she would help herself, that would suit her fine,

she started on the whiskey, then went on the port,

then almost got the brandy, if she hadn’t then got caught.

We all sat round the table, the plates were piled up high,

Nellie ate hers very fast, then sat back with a sigh.

No one wanted Christmas pud, except for Auntie Nell.

Then she asked for seconds with double cream as well.

We couldn’t hear the new King's speech, so loud our Nell did snore

her glass slipped from her hand, and smashed upon the floor

the noise it made woke her up, and she jumped up really quick,

she said she didn’t feel too good, and just then she was sick.

The car came round to take her home, I felt we’d done our best

it really had been busy, but tomorrow we could rest.

We said goodbye, and she did sigh, at that point, I was yawning,

“It has been great,” she said, “can’t wait, I’ll come back in the morning.”

Copyright Sis Unsworth