A haiku by me

Robert Kingston

 

long day

a toddler’s eyelids

fight the darkness

 

By Robert Kingston

 

Recently published in Blithe Spirit, Volume 35/ number 2

A rengay by an American friend and I.

Robert Kingston / Carole MacRury

 

Dust Covered Clock

 

curio shop

a Jack in the box

ready to pounce

 

what’s one more

tarnished silver spoon

 

in a dark corner

the taxidermist’s

laboured smile

 

looking for love

a vintage teddy        

with a torn ear

 

questions ring out about 

the vase’s provenance 

 

still on the shelf

a dust-covered clock

that lost its chime

 

Robert Kingston / Carole MacRury

 

Recently published in Blithe Spirit, Volume 35/ number 2

  

 The Last Word

By Jane Goodhew

The weather was abnormally hot for the time of year instead of an average 23C it had remained in the high 30s even at night it had not dropped below 26C.  They were not complaining it was why they travelled abroad especially at this time of year when in the UK the weather was becoming cold and wet and the nights were drawing in so they seemed to be in perpetual darkness.   She hated the dark days of winter and would love to be able to live permanently in the sun but in reality that was unlikely to happen.

They decided not to spend the days just going to the beach or by the pool, tempting as it was just to laze in the warmth and enjoy the sight of blue, blue skies and be thankful for the occasional breeze.  They got up early and by 8.20 am were on the first local bus to Varna 100km away.  As she sat on the bus looking out the window she noticed a young man sitting on a bench, his head in his hands and a look of total despair and rejection on his pale face.  She wondered what could be so bad to make someone who was only in his mid-twenties look so lost and as the bus pulled out she realised she never would and also that it really was none of her business.

The miles passed and the bus continued to climb the steep road until it reached the top and the view was spectacular, fields, woodland and in the far distance the sea.  What more could a person ask for?  The sound of a snore told her, as it would seem her daughter preferred to sleep than to enjoy the scenery but at least she was there and had not refused to go with her.  Nearly two hours later they had reached their destination but had not a clue what they really wanted to do as although they had done their homework and looked up on Trip Advisor ‘things to do in Varna’ she had completely forgotten any of it so they just wandered.  They started at first at the shopping mall as it was next to the bus station but there was nothing of interest so they moved onto the many streets that led???? Exactly were did they lead as instead of remaining on the main routes she kept taking shortcuts in the direction that she believed must lead to the coast.  They did not really want to go to the museums or to the Opera House and although Emma had mentioned the beach prior to leaving the hotel as someone had told her of Golden Sands which was meant to be one of the best beaches in Bulgaria when we started to walk in the direction that the sea must be in, she started to complain, but I ignored her as I think it was all part and parcel of her being on holiday with me.

We stopped at a café well we actually stoped at 3 as the first two were either not suitable or we were just ignored as the other customers were young mothers with noisy children so we decided to move on.  The third was a small place frequented by locals, on the corner of a back street, a young boy and his mother sat eating and laughing at something the other had said.  A very young girl came to give us a menu, the only snag it was completely in Bulgarian and the girl try as she might could not understand that we just wanted a drink and some small snack.   She went away with a smile and came back with a lively, older girl who had been to London and could speak some English, so we were sorted and enjoyed a cup of coffee and blueberry cheese cake before starting on our way.

Emma was becoming more irritated by each passing moment as we walked further and further yet seemed to get no nearer the sea just one dead end after another.  Her phone informed her that she had walked 12,000 steps, not that that meant anything to me and anyway walking is good for you although perhaps not in this heat and not when the last dead end seemed to drop down onto a motorway!   The consolation prize was that the sea could be seen in the distance so keep positive and walking.

Finally, we found a tourist information and were shown the correct directions to get us to the beach and just in time for lunch we found the ideal restaurant right on the sandy beach, overlooking the crystal clear, turquoise sea and unlike our resort not completely taken over by sunbeds and umbrellas.  The cost of the afore said at 28 Lev per day would be an unnecessary extravagance when there were so many places to explore and public transport reliable and cheap.  Once again we seemed to be invisible as waiters went to other customers and continued to ignore us, that is until I helped myself to a menu.  It had the desired effect and the most charming as well as tall, dark and yes, handsome waiter with a smile that would melt the hardest of hearts asked if we were ready for him to take our order.  If I were 20 years younger I would be more than ready but back to reality, we both ordered and then just sat back and watched as the world went by and we appreciated the end result of our long walk.

A few tables down were a glamourous middle aged couple; they sat and ate in silence barley looking at one another or at the beautiful surroundings.  If one were a cynic you might assume they were married as for so many once that ring was put on your finger all the sweet nothing whispering and long, lingering looks seem to vanish and be replaced by a stoney silence.  She was made up immaculately, as if she were going to the theatre, her dress was pure silk in a pale lilac with a long scarf draped over her delicate shoulders.  He was in a light coloured day suit not the way one would dress to be literally down on the beach but more at one of the expensive restaurants high up on the cliffs overlooking it with a far reaching view to capture the sunset over the horizon and watch the moon and stars as you sip your wine late into the night.  She looked up at him and a sad expression crossed her face as she put down her knife and fork and reached across at him and holding his hand whispered into his ear.  He pushed the chair back with such force and he turned and went but before he did he could be heard saying ‘Morte’.   He did mumble something else but it could not be heard and he was gone.  She tried hard to look as if nothing had happened, the waiter came and put the chair back into place and took away the plates and returned with her desert of a simple fruit cocktail.

Sometime later the waitress went across to ask if she required anything else or would she like the bill, it was then that the silence and peace was disturbed by a shrill scream and the waitress cried out for assistance.  Something terrible had happened to the lady, people went over to see if they could help and eventually an ambulance arrived but nothing could be done, the lady in lilac was dead.  We all had to remain where we were so that we could tell the police exactly what we had seen or heard, I remembered quite clearly her husband's final words but then I also recalled as her head had been lifted up to see if she had choked on something, a wasp had flown out.  Therefore, the verdict anaphylactic shock.  What an ending to a day out. 

 

                                          

Copyright Jayne Goodhew

 THE  MURDER OF FANNY ADAMS

By Barbara Thomas

On scrolling through Hampshire Constabulary History I came across this article:

Although many think that the murder of children is a modern curse unfortunately, this has been happening for centuries.

There was this infamous case concerning the murder at Alton in Hampshire, of a “Sweet” Fanny Adams, aged 8 years old.

 

The murder took place at Flood Meadow on Saturday 24^th August1867.

The child was not only murdered but decapitated then brutally

Mutilated, her body parts spread over a wide area.

Even by Victorian standards this was a horrific murder.

The murderer, a Mr Frederick Baker aged 29, had been arrested

Within hours of the discovery of the child’s body.

He was discovered with blood-stained clothing. Also, damming evidence

 was found in an entry in his diary “Killed a young girl”

Involved in the arrest were Superintendent Cheyney and PC George Watkins.

Baker was tried at Winchester Assizes in December of that year.

The defence introduced evidence of a history of violent mental illnesses in Baker’s family, but he was still found guilty.

It took the jury only 15mins to reach an unanimously verdict.

Baker was publicly hanged on Christmas Eve the very same month, outside the County prison at Winchester and was watched by 5,000 spectators (mainly women)

This was swift justice indeed.

Also this was to be the last public hanging at Winchester, although hanging continued through to the 1960’s.

A detailed book entitles, SWEET FA THE TRUE STORY OF FANNY ADAMS, written and published by Peter Cansfield.

Many of the buildings still exist except for the Police Sation.

LAW, CRIME AND HISTORY (2013)

Scrolling through I came across an article connecting “Sweet” Fanny Adams and Sarah’s Law.

This article contains two cases of female murder, modern and historical. Where both victims have become household names.

There was ‘written iin the print “PRESS”’ an intent to explore how similar cases resulted in the divergent use of victim’s names and how the names of both victims become emblematic and exploited by the press.

Sarah Payne was abducted and murdered by a man with previous convictions for abducting and indecently assaulting another young girl.

Sarah’s mother fought and won and took it to the Houses of Parliament and it became known as “Sarah’s Law” which became a child sex offender disclosure scheme, which enabled members if the public to ask the police whether an individual (e.g a neighbour or family friend) was a convicted sex offender.

Although it is a fact that the names of the murderer’s were often more remembered than the names of their victims, this was not the case with Fanny Adams or Sarah Payne, but how each one is remembered differs remarkably.

The term “FANNY ADAMS” has passed into a pejorative slang term whereas SARAH PAYNE has come to be positively associated with greater public sympathy.

First glance suggests very different responses to these “remembered” victims.

The popular use, if Fanny’s name implies this Victorian child victim of such a savage murder was treated as inconsequential, or at worst taken as a figure of humour.

That her name could be used as a euphemism for “Nothing at all” is remarkable and is more striking set against the Sarah Payne case.

In 1869 new rations of tinned beef mutton was introduced for British Seaman. The sailors were unimpressed by it and suggested it might be the butchered remains of “FANNY ADAMS”

The name became slang for mediocre mutton; stew scarce leftovers and therefore worthless.

 

Copyright Barbara Thomas - 26.05.25

 

 

 

Haiga Collaboration by Poet & Painter

 Haiga collaboration by Poet & Painter

Dawn Van Win & Robert Kingston

Both are writers & artists in their own right, but in this work Rob wrote on two of Dawn's canvases to good effect:

 Copyright Poem Rob, Painting Dawn

 SAINT PATRICK’S DAY STORM

By Bob French

It was six o’clock in the evening on Saint Patrick’s Day and those who partied their lives away were already heading into town for the festivities, but the Gods that controlled the weather had taken offense at something, and storm clouds were gathering out into the wild Atlantic.  Low pressure deepened, dark clouds coiled and swelled, pulling winds into a frenzy and setting great waves rising and crashing into each other.

Those who lived off the sea, knew about such changes in the weather and realised that this was no normal storm.  The old fishermen who made their living on the west coast of Ireland had no need for such things as weather forecasts. Their senses told them what they needed to know; whether to launch or beach their ancient fishing boats.

Kelly O’Hara and Jean O’Connell were walking arm in arm towards the bus stop.  They had become best friends since infant school, and been inseparable since the day they left The Holy Cross Roman Catholic Senior School for Girls in County Cork. Everyone thought it normal when they turned up without a boy on their arm for the end of school dance.

Kelly looked up at the dark clouds that had formed on the distant horizon, they were still a long way off and frowned.

“God! will you look at those clouds. I’m thinking it’s going to be a bad night, Jean.”

Jean, wondered if the buses would be running if the storm hit that evening, but discarded her concerns in favour of what the party held for them; after that, who cared. “Och it a long way off.”

Then, with no warning, the early evening skies lit up with bright lightning forks that scarred the dark distant clouds. Both girls screamed as the sound of earth-shattering thunder crashed around them, sending them into a race up towards the bus shelter.

Kelly laughed at Jean and yelled at the top of her voice,

“I thought you said it was a long way off?” But Jean never heard her.

The storm unleashed its fury on the west coast of Ireland. Within seconds, fierce winds and ice-cold rain lashed at the girls, forcing them to sprint the last twenty yards up to the bus shelter.  By now, the puddles that occupied most of the streets earlier that day had gradually turned into shallow ruts and streams of rubbish, dragging and cleansing the gutters and grassy banks both sides of the street, pushing the rubbish that had been discarded by the town’s folk along like a wave, it moved down towards the coast road.

Kelly screamed as she lunged for Jean’s hand, frantically dragging her towards the entrance of the bus shelter.

“My God, that was close.  Another second and I’m sure you would have been dragged down the street, so you would.”

          Even though they clowned around during the last few years at school, they both gained distinction in their final maths exams and were quickly accepted by the manager of the Bank of America in Cork.  Both had understanding parents who readily agreed they could flat share and had put down the deposit for a nice flat on the outskirts of Cork for them.

They had planned on going down to the Blacksmith Arms, their local pub for the celebrations, but had received a personal invite from the manager of the bank to a posh do at the Royal Hotel in Cork. This meant, that instead of jeans and a pullover and their comfortable Dock Martins, a suitable smart cocktail dress, new matching evening bags and shoes, and a hair do to die for was now required.

          They stumbled into the darkened bus shelter panting for breath before unceremoniously landing on the cold stone bench in fits of laughter. The tattered and worn advertisements that stared down at them from the walls of the shelter, boasting that if you applied this cream or ate that food, it would provide a miracle cure.

It was Kelly who had to raise her voice above the noise.  “Jesus, will you look at our clothes, they’re ruined!”

“I’m not bothered about our clothes; will you just look at our hair. We spent the last of our wages on a posh hair-do down at McGinty’s for this party.  Now look at us.  We look like a couple of Kyle Street scrubbers.”

But Kelly wasn’t listening.  She’d got up and moved carefully towards the opening of the shelter. The ice-cold wind had turned the horizontal rain into a hail storm and the sheer force of it nearly sucked her out of the shelter into the path of certain death.

Jean, who had been shivering in the corner of the shelter suddenly lunged towards Kelly, yelling at her as she grabbed her around the waist and dragged her forcibly back into the shelter.

“God Kelly! what are you trying to do?”

As Kelly stumbled back and fell, she screamed as she felt the ice-cold water instantly penetrate her clothes, sending a shock-wave through her body and taking her breath away.

Jean spun around and looked down at her best friend, who was now floundering in knee-high ice-cold swirling water, then screamed at her.

“Kelly! get up, get up or it will drag you out.” 

With extreme effort, Kelly managed to crawl onto the bench and bring her knees up to her chest and buried her face in her hands.

“Be-Jesus Jean.  This looks bad.  Really bad!”

Jean stared out of the shelter and noticed that it had turned very dark and the water level had risen, sucking the litter out of the shelter and into the river that now rushed past the shelter opening and down toward the sea.

Kelly started to shiver, then cry.

“What are we going to do? We can’t walk out of here; we’ll be swept away.”

Jean sloshed her way through the swirling dark murky water and climbed up onto the bench next to Kelly and put her arm around her and pulled her into an embraced, trying to keep her warm.

“So much for attending the Bosses party.  Still, I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t have enjoyed it as I hardly know anyone.”

“You know me, you silly cow. We would have had a few dances, then sat in the corner and got drunk, don’t you think?”  This assumption brought laughter between them, until the cold and fear of what might become of them brought silence.

After a period of contemplation Jean tried to speak with confidence.  “Don’t you worry none. We’ll get out of here, just you wait un see.”

In between bouts of shivering and chattering teeth, Kelly stared at her friend.  “Do you think we are going to die then?”

“Na, don’t be silly, someone will notice we are missing and come and get us.”

“Pity, I fancied Malcolm from CHAPs department.”

Jean forced a smile as she looked at her best friend.

“Really.  When did you have a crush on him?”

“I’ve spoken to him loads of times when he gets a cup of water from the water cooler.”

“You’re a dark horse, so you are Kelly O’Hara.  Did you ever pluck up the courage to ask him out then?”

“No!  Didn’t need to.  But you can talk.  I’ve never seen you take an interest in any of the lads down at the Blacksmith Arms or the bank. Kelley took a quick deep breath as the flowing ice-cold water came over the lip of stone bench in the shelter. then reached out to hold Jean’s hand.

“No, I didn’t need to. I always had my best friend, didn’t I?”

Jean took Kelly’s hand and kissed it gently. “If we aren’t going to make it, I think we should leave something behind to show people we were here.”

“Oh God, do you think we are going to die then?”

No one spoke for a moment, then, with shivering hands, they took off their crucifix and chains and hung them on a nail above their heads.

They clung to each other in the darkness, amidst the heavy volleys of thunder, lightning and howling wind, and the rising raging and sucking ice-cold water that slowly penetrated their young bodies.

No one came looking for them during the night, nor the following day. A wide search party was organised a day later but never found them.  The police sergeant who led the search spoke to the press.

“Though we have not found the girls, we found a crucifix and chain hanging on a nail in the bus shelter on Drombridge Road which has been identified by Mrs O’Connell as belonging to her daughter. The only thing I can think of is they, the young women, sought safety in the shelter but were overcome by the elements, rendered too weak, then sucked out of the shelter and probably down into the Atlantic. I have contacted the Coastguard but there is little hope.

Copyright Bob French

 

 

 The Spring of ‘45’ 

By Sis Unsworth 

The Union Jack so proudly shown,

distracted from the street,

of bombed out shells that once were home,

to folk I’ll never meet.

 

Street parties came, with tables laid,

we danced and sang for more,

what was this peace for which we’d prayed,

I‘d known nothing else but war.

 

A little girl with a pink dress on,

And ribbons in my hair,

Too young to know why we’d fought so long

With a man no longer there.

 

Pictures of him were placed that night,

on a bonfire along the drive,

I watched them burn in the twisted light

in the spring of ‘45’

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth