MY VALENTINE
Peter Woodgate
I dreamt of you the other night
You were a vision in my dreams
We couldn’t touch or hug or kiss
Our spirits intertwined it seems.
Because we are constrained by rules
In ethics, physicality too
There is a limit to our acts
In what we can and cannot do.
But in my future dreams it seems
We could engage our minds as one
To wander through that mystic world
With care and happiness and fun.
Copyright Peter Woodgate
TONIGHTS IT’S MACDONALDS
By Bob FRENCH
Old Uncle Ted had served for over thirty
years in the Royal Navy, and although he was starting to become frail, it had
never dulled his discipline. After his beloved wife Margie, passed away, he
moved in with his daughter, Mandy, and her children, bringing with him a
lifetime of naval habits that amused everyone in the house, especially little
Henry and Clair who giggled at his strange ways, but loved his stories about
those who lived on the sea. Ted was a neat, wiry man with silver hair, a
clipped white moustache, and bright blue eyes that missed nothing. He favoured
pressed trousers, polished brown shoes, a checked shirt, and a navy-blue
cardigan, no matter the season. On Sunday’s he would attend church wearing his
navy-blue blazer and Royal Navy tie. On Remembrance Day he would don his medals
and for the following months he would be the talk of the little village. Every
morning began with a cold shower, a shave, then he’d make his bed so tightly
you could "bounce a coin on it," followed by inspecting the garden as
though it were the quarterdeck. His funniest quirk was his devotion to time.
Breakfast, or ‘scran’ as he referred to it had
to be served at 6 bells, that was 7 am. Lunch was to be served at 8 bells which
was 12 o’clock and supper was to be at 8 bells or at 8:00 p.m. as Ted proudly
announced, "8 Bells into the first dog watch!" He would glance at the
clock on the mantle piece, clear his throat dramatically, then declare,
"Eight Bells! Time to pipe the hands to supper!" Even if dinner was
only a minute late, he would grin, tap his watch, and mutter that standards
were slipping. His routines never changed, but neither did the warmth and
laughter he brought to his daughter's family. Once he had finished lunch, he
would take his plate and cutlery into the kitchen and wash them clean, then
leave to dry. On the week ends when the children were not attending school, he
would invite them to go for a run ashore, which was the term for let’s go for a
short walk around the village -green. Here he would tell them stories of
pirates and those ruffians who made a living off the seas. When Henry asked him
about his time in the Royal Navy, he would create an exciting story that would
discretely drift off what young Henry wanted to hear. Mandy would always ask
him if he wanted to do something different in the afternoon, but he would
always smile at her.
“No, my dear, if you can get a copy of the
Times newspaper, I would be grateful. Once the newspaper had been delivered, she
would arrange the dinner table and spread the newspaper out for him. She would
watch him as he carefully unfolded the paper opened it to page 8, then ask for
a cup of tea. By the time she got back to him he had taken out his pocket-watch
and made himself comfortable.
“Thank you my dear.” Was all he would say, and then he
would start the crossword. Sometimes talking to himself. Mandy would
know that if she came back into the room after 10 minutes, he would be
finished. Only once could she remember that he had been stumped by a
clue and had not finished the crossword. On that occasion he took Mandy and the
children out and treated them to a Wimpy meal with a milk shake.
Uncle Ted quickly scanned the clues, then
started. Mmm, the opposite to noise? 7 down.
Silence. Purpose of a scale. Balance? The old Roman name
for the capital of Britannia? 9 across, Londinium. What piece of
material is awarded for the achievement in Epicurean? Michelin Star. No too
many letters. Blue Ribbon.
Perfect. He gradually ticked off the clues until he came to one
that stumped him. The Latin name for Hedgehog?
He studied the blank wall wracking his
brain for a good two minutes. Then out of nowhere he gave a satisfying grunt. 9
down, Erinaceus. 8 across. Total lack of light? Darkness. What name was the
Irish Monk of the 6th Century better known by?
Uncle Ted grinned. “that’s easy” he muttered to himself. Saint Brendon
the navigator and the saint for sailors.”
“Last clue.” He said quietly to himself. A Phantasmagoria
when moved, a complex pattern of changing scene.
He
felt a shiver of ice-cold air rush through his body. He did something he rarely
did, he started to panic. Then he glanced at the pocket-watch. He
had run out of time. No matter what he did, he could not answer the clue.
Suddenly
the door to the dining room burst open and little Clair came in carrying
something in her hand.
“Look
Uncle Ted. Mummy bought me a super present.” She held up
the Kaleidoscope.
With
a huge grin on his face, he bent down and hugged little Clair. “That’s it. My
deal Clair you are a genius. How did you know?
Hearing
the commotion, Mandy came rushing into the room. “Oh I’m so sorry Ted, I
thought you may have finished.”
Still
laughing, Uncle Ted stood up. “No, it alright. I got stumped on the
last clue until Clair came in and I recognised what she was holding in her
hand. So I still completed the cross word but not in ten minutes.”
“Tonight, we are eating out. I am treating you all to a meal at Macdonald’s.”
Copyright Bob French
Dolly
By Sis Unsworth
The
Country girl has said goodbye, and left the world behind.
Such
energy and love of life, like hers is hard to find.
The
songs she sang, came from the heart expressing real deep feeling,
of
a life from poverty to fame, were always so revealing.
A
sense of humour so unique could brighten up your day.
It
cost a lot to look this cheap, was something she would say.
Lots
of other things she said, I’m sure will still remain
like
if you want to find a rainbow, you must first have the rain.
So
rest in peace dear Dolly, for even though you’re gone,
reflected
in the songs you wrote, your memory will live on
Copyright Sis Unsworth
War, what is it good for? Absolutely nothing.
Edwin Starr 1970
By Jane Scoggins
Words and music thrusting out from Classic Gold. It was the impetus John needed. He packed a bag. Not much, just essentials, enough to tide him over. Did he know what he was doing? Not really, but the bugle had sounded, and as a trained soldier he responded. It felt like an order. Sargent McCray had stood no nonsense. A good soldier could rise from his sleep and have his boots on ready to march in 10 seconds. No questions asked, just obey. Best way, no time to fear.
War, sang Edwin Starr, ain't nothing but a heart breaker, the destruction of innocent lives. Marching purposefully to the bus station, for the coach to Carlisle. Memories of the Duke of Lancaster Regiment. An army friend retired to Carlisle. Shared memories, beers, hot pot made by Maureen. Text messages sent to family at home. Message from Carol in Glasgow.
‘Yes, come and visit. You are halfway here already. Long time no see, big brother’
A coach to Glasgow. Warm sisterly hug on arrival. A drive to Partick. Chat and banter. Two days later, a proper conversation about things that matter. John in tears. Carol comforting. PTSD? Shaking head and smiling through damp eyes.
‘No, I've run away, I've deserted my post. I can't take any more’ Sister looks bewildered.
‘But you left the army years ago’
‘Not the army, I'm deserting my marriage. It's been a war zone for years, and we are both unhappy, but Julie won't listen, won't understand and criticises me day and night, belittles me. Two weeks ago she punched me in the face. I’ve nothing left to give. I'm tired of fighting; this war between us must come to an end, and I'm ending it. I’ve messaged her. She expects me back, but I'm surrendering and walking away from the battlefield once and for all.
Copyright, Jane Scoggins
By Marion Anthony
Here is my attempt at the Challenge. to include all five words in my story
The Appointment at 08:41 & 26 seconds
By Christopher Mathews
“Late again for the school run and a broken
fingernail too, why is my life so unfair! Perhaps I can fit in the nail salon
after dropping off Porcha and Miles, then on to the boutique for my first
appointment. Typical, it’s raining, my hair will be ruined.”
The irony of a black 4.2 litre, top of the
range Land Rover that had never seen a muddy field now stuck in the morning
traffic had entirely escaped Tiffany. Her day was a frenetic schedule of
frivolous and joyless appointments. She had this in common with her circle of ‘friends’,
or were they simply competitors?
She was approaching the busy, town centre
interchange, which is always snarled up with impatient drivers and pedestrians.
Driving at fits and starts through the traffic, she did the arithmetic in her
head “My first appointment is 9:30 so I just have time for…”
Her mobile rang on the seat next to her.
From the corner of her eye she saw it was Jasmin.
“It must be urgent, she normally texts me,
no one about, I’ll just…” She looked down and reached for her phone but at that
moment the lights changed to red and…
At 98, Jack had lived through at least
six different communities in his lifetime, but always in the same house, his
parent’s house, the one where he was born. As a small boy, his town was little
more than a rural village with a distinct Essex character. It was then
swallowed up and became overspill from the Eastend, and later became gentrified
by city traders escaping their frantic London life. Most recently, other people
from all over the world came and setup little outposts of their home countries,
many arriving in small boats. He felt like a man who was now living in a
foreign language film, which made no sense to him. Most recently, his Highstreet
was lined with overstaffed Turkish barber shops, which never had customers.
They all stood in a row with the occasional vape shop and of course nail
salons, the rest were charity shops or garishly signed takeaways. There seemed
to be no ‘real shops’ like a baker’s, butchers or tobacconists anywhere.
“I’ve travelled the world without
leaving my house, I have!” Jack used to say to his old dog Shep. All his
friends were now gone and his children moved away. Today he was clutching a
letter from hospital which read;
Your
follow-up consultant appointment has been arranged for 10:32am on 28th
September. Please attend the neurology department to discuss the results of
your scan, arrive early.
Please
complete the online questionnaire before attending. This can be accessed by
entering your NHS number, username and ID via our online portal which can be
found on the NHS website.
You may
benefit from the advice/comfort provided by our new AI generated ‘patient’s friend helpline,’ via the above
website to help you cope with your condition…
This meant very little to Jack, and
although he read the letter several times, it seemed to be written in a
different language.
He had very few pleasures left in life and
no companionship now his beloved Florence was gone. Ever since he could
remember he had walked to the corner where Mumbles the gentleman’s outfitters
used to stand to buy a paper and a tin of tobacco. It was now a busy intersection, a bewildering
rush of traffic. Like himself, everything Jack owned, was old, tired and slow,
he felt like an old 78-gramophone playing in a 33 1/3rd world. Shep,
his old dog was now much slower too.
Even the news paper made little sense to him, but old habits…
His mid-terraced house in Weaver Street was
like an old leather-bound book in a shelf full of glossy paperbacks. He now
approached the junction with a sinking feeling of apprehension. When he was a
boy, he felt a thrill of excitement here in the heart of the town. In his youth,
this was where the whole town met, everyone stopped as drovers took their sheep
to market through here. Once, one of Mr McGregor’s pigs got loose and ran into
the church! The Blacksmith’s hammer once rang out like a Church bell and the
Town Crier sang out the news. The smell of freshly baked bread once filled the
air, now it’s just car fumes, and foreign languages. On Sundays the whole town
was silent and at rest, but now everyday the same, full of noise. Above the
sound of traffic, costermongers could be heard singing out their poetic chant,
“Three for a Cockney Hen or four for a
Commodore.” A street market was held here every Wednesday for as
long as he could remember. But nothing like what it was when he was a boy.
Mostly, dodgy traders selling tat now. But never ask, where it comes from.
At 08:41 & 18 seconds, the lights
changed, pedestrians rushed across the road like sprinters at a starting
pistol, umbrellas shielding their faces from the stinging rain. Jack hesitated,
slowly taking in the bewildering scene as a pack of strangers seemed to be
rushing towards him. Stepping aside he politely waited before he started
crossing. Too slow, at 8:41 & 26 seconds a screech of car wheels on wet
road, a black Land Rover, an inattentive driver and Jack was…
A crazy man wearing a sandwich board stood
on the corner, his banner, high above his head read;
“…It is appointed unto men once to
die, but after this, the judgment.”
For Jack, that final appointment had
been postponed - for now.
Copyright, Christopher Mathews. September 2023
BEAUTY AND THE BEAST
Peter Woodgate
She is an epicurean
Of that there is no doubt
Wears clothes from posh Kaleidoscope
On the catwalk she will pout.
She has a perfect balance
Up and down the aisle each day
The audience watch in silence
They don’t know what to say.
As each day turns into darkness
She undresses in front of the mirror
In horror she sees the honest truth
There reflected an ugly gorilla.
Copyright Peter
Woodgate
