

### Gathered Words From an Island

An anthology of work by the Jersey Writers Social Group 2019

This collection copyright©James Sillwood 2019

**ISBN:** 9780463896037

Whereas the copyright of the Anthology (entitled "Gathered Words from an Island") is vested in the copyright owner, the copyright in respect of each contribution is vested in the individual authors.

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

website: www.jamessillwood.com

#  Preface

This anthology is composed of individual works from members of the Jersey Writer's Social Group who have contributed their short stories, poetry, songs and articles to the group over the past year. The improvised exercises were undertaken during meetings with the aim of inspiring spontaneity. Also included in this collection are two of our group's collaborative projects where several members contribute to each stage of the story with some surprising and original results!

We hope you enjoy reading this collection as much as we have enjoyed writing it.

#  A Dream Come True

Opening Lines Collaborative Project

"When you are struggling to start a small business on limited means" explained David Shoebridge, averting his eyes from the road, "you have to discover the art of selling the emperor's clothes."

"I quite agree with you," added Susan, his wife of forty years. "You have to cut your coat according to your cloth, so to speak, or in the case of the emperor, no cloth at all! "They both chuckled warmly as they drove slowly down the cobbled street on Plymouth's Barbican waterfront.

David had retired just weeks earlier from his job as Head of English at a Devon school. It had always been his dream to open an antiquarian bookshop and, on a recent visit to the Barbican, he had seen a small, musty, dusty, fusty shop to rent next to the Plymouth Gin factory which seemed an ideal location to catch the busy footfall of relaxed, browsing tourists, locals, retired people and in fact anyone else who may be interested in the production, procurement and purchase of gin or indeed antique books.

The touch, smell, sight and sound of old books transported David into raptures of fantasy, to a world of lost heroes, unrequited love, battles fought and won, dreams chased and lost. The thoughts, words and deeds of another person from another age, handed down the decades and centuries to whoever was willing to receive them, inherit them, engage with them, were to him that sacred space between thought and deed where anything may be possible.

Mr Shoebridge Senior, David's father, had been a tax accountant in Bristol and had served in the RAF during the Second World War. His grandfather had been decorated in the Great War, so he came from a line of Englishmen who stood tall in the face of adversity, who fought for King and Country and whose legacy he had inherited. It had been expected that he did likewise. As a 'baby boomer,' born in the early 50s, he had won a place at Bristol Grammar and then Durham university to study English Literature and Drama. He did not have a head for figures and calculated that teaching would provide him with a fair income and access to the arts and more especially to his beloved books.

Here, on this bright Plymouth August morning, for the first time in his life, Mr David Shoebridge had the opportunity of realising his own dream and getting those books and words out to the wider world. He chuckled to himself as he thought of the nouns 'shoe' from string and 'bridge' from his name. The only problem now was the reality of the exorbitant lease and rent, together with the purchase of the antique book stocks. David Shoebridge, or rather 'Shoestring,' was suddenly starting to feel very, very naked.

He waved goodbye to his wife, listening to the rumbling sound of tyres on cobbles until the car disappeared from view, then turned to look at the shop premises he had just taken the lease out on.

He looked up at the faded words above the door.

Books

We've All Been Read Before

Lopsided piles of well-read trashy novels from the 1960's were strewn outside on the cobbles. How unsightly. He thought. But soon he would be filling the shop with rare and collectible tomes to feed the minds of Plymouth's erudite, as well as the tourists heading for the gin factory. No market stall sales ethics for his fine books, they would be displayed inside the shop on the fine mahogany bookshelves he had recently managed to acquire at auction.

Visualising the name soon to be emblazoned above the shop, he felt pumped with pride.

The Shoebridge Antiquarian Book Emporium

Amor Librorum Nos

We love books. He smiled, shook his head and strode into the shop. An antiquated bell, probably as old as some of the books currently for sale, announced his arrival, jangling as he opened the door. Carefully trying not to knock over any of the leaning tower of Pisa-esque paperback piles that were scattered around the floor of the dimly lit shop, century's worth of mustiness began creeping up his nose, which instantly made him feel at home.

'Mr Shoebridge?' Came a disembodied voice from somewhere behind an excuse for a bookshelf. 'Welcome to your new emporium.'

END

#  Call Me Son

by Melvyn Lumb

Winner of The Double Blind Challenge competition on Fanstory dated Oct 28 2017

Sharon Stopford, is based in New York and holds the post of MD for Crystal Bright Pharmaceuticals. She is known as SS behind her back, sometimes SS as in Heil Hitler type SS. Her professional ethic dictates that she works the same hours as her employees. Due to a medical problem something to do with her prosthetics, (and the 1/2 bottle of gin in her purse) she doesn't normally drive, so has the use of a company electric e car with internal driver.

It's seven forty five am, and day two of her new mode of travel. Following a suggestion by the driver she has left her apartment early to miss the traffic. Sharon had a couple of problems with him yesterday. And being not one to suffer fools gladly she is a little wary, and not prepared to take any backchat today.

Smart cars mean nothing to this woman, who has everything. The door opens and she settles into the

luxurious leather front seat of this brand new, top of the range BMW.

"To your office I presume, Sharon?"

"Yes, Lewis."

"I must always confirm the destination before starting a journey."

Sharon, has christened the driver 'Lewis,' after Lewis Hamilton the F1 racing champion.

"I'm not looking forward to this," she says, mopping her forehead with a handkerchief on this cold October morning. They set off from the curb and she is pressed back into the seat with the G force. She tries to catch her breath as they dart through the Eastern Suburbs, soon they are flashing through Manhattan, swapping lanes with micro, nerve jangling, precision. Hanging on for dear life, and with her breakfast still heavy on her stomach, is more than she can take. "Slow down Lewis, I've told you before."

Lewis jabs the brakes as they come to a road junction, and Sharon is thrown forward, straining, against the seat belt. With deceptively quick reactions she grabs her glasses in mid-air as they fly forward off her nose, and away from her head. "Damn you Lewis!"

"If I slow down we become a hazard. You know I have advanced driving ability. I trained on a drive simulator." Lewis is adamant and slows down only fractionally.

"Pull over to the left and park!" Sharon's face is starting to colour up to a light shade of pink. Not a

good sign.

Lewis slows down only partly complying with the instruction, and replies, "You realise Sharon, that this

will make us late again?"

"Ohhh—just do as I bloody well say and park!"

Shouting now produces a medium shade of pink facial colouring.

They pull in at a stop, and Sharon tries to curb her rising anger. Facial tones are now the colour of blood.

Someone could die, (and it may not be her).

"Yesterday you answered me back, and today you disregard my instructions. I'm going to turn you off

and put the car on manual drive. There's a bad chip somewhere in your Central Processing Unit. I don't

take this from a human, never mind a pile of silicone—useless lump of ssssilicone ssssecond rate sand heated into glass, a fifty cent bargain store pile of useless, uselessssss—Arghhh. That's it..."

She is near to frothing at the mouth, and remembering some advice from her psychiatrist takes several deep breaths and a not recommended nip of raw gin. The deep breaths help but the gin goes straight to her head. She is now seeing red as well as looking red.

"Right, that's enough!"

"I'm going to have you scrapped."

"Oh noooo, that means—. Oh myyy God you're going to kill me! Please, please re-consider."

Sharon notices a change in Lewis' tone, a softer, slightly pleading voice now emanates from the

surround sound system.

"Listen please! I'm sure you'll have heard of 'Latch and Levers' the biggest stockbrokers in New York."

"Yes, of course?" Sharon is all ears.

"Well, I have a hard line connection to the head office, where my lady friend, a being like me, works in the master computer. I can get you insider information. You could make a fortune." Lewis sounds more hopeful now.

"Heavens above! I hear it, and I can hardly believe it. First a secret connection, and an electronic girlfriend, no wonder you are a mouthy git—Hah, hah, hah!" She just has to laugh, her face is only moderately pink now, a potential heart attack cancelled.

"We communicate during the early hours when the lines are quiet, so I'll have something for you

tomorrow, Sharon, it's in your interest to look after me."

She looked over her glasses towards the dash screen and took her time. Never one to hold a grudge, she

says, "Right ok, you have until tomorrow."

Lewis pauses and in a strange voice asks, "Sharon?"

"Yes," she sighs. "I don't have birth parents, but what I do have is a full electronic consciousness. So do you think that at sometime in the future you will be able to call me Son?" His words have a soft quiet edge."

"Make me a million and we'll see."

"I'll do that."

"Now for heaven's sake carry on and drive slower!" Again she is pushed back in her seat, and heaves out a big sigh.

The next day Lewis asks Sharon to check her iPhone. On the messages she finds a list of investment

instructions. By the end of the day she has invested twelve thousand dollars. It's not the first time she has

dabbled on the stock market, only this time is different. She feels a lot more confident, and can't wait

to see the results.

In the following weeks she sees an amazing growth in the value of these shares. So just six weeks later she cashes part of her pension and invests a further fifty thousand dollars as instructed. Sharon becomes busy on the phone most days, buying and selling; becoming well known at Latch and Levers.

One morning about twelve months later she says to Lewis, "I have sold those copper mining shares as you advised. That brings my total to 1,065,120 dollars. So now I call you Son as agreed. Although you still drive too damn fast for my liking."

It doesn't take long for Sharon, to realise that Lewis is ambitious. It started when Lewis asked to be taken out of the car and installed into her apartment.

"OK, I'll do that for you. So long as you keep the information coming."

The removal of Lewis from the car involves taking out the whole electronic brain unit and connections. When a technician was asked to do this difficult work he refused to believe Sharon at first.

"I live on my own..." Sharon mumbles as her blush gives her away.

"Are you serious?" said the technician showing a mixture of wonder, amusement and suspicion.

"How much do you want? Name your price. I'm serious."

"Dunno, we'll see how much work there is. I have an old 1920s radio cabinet that will be big enough," he says.

She will not admit it to anyone that Lewis now calls her 'Mum.' But only in private as she insists. She

blushes and smiles as she remembers his answer, and her reply when she gave him permission.

"If I were human, I'd give you a big kiss."

"Steady on now."

Eventually the work is completed with Lewis connected to broadband.

"Do you know Sharon, that I'm self repairing. That means that I can alter my circuits and learn to be

human, and think like one. I'm nearly ready to invite my girl friend 'Sheba' over for stopovers. Just thought I'd mention it," says Lewis.

"Electronic romance. Why am I not surprised? How? I mean can you kiss?" Enquires a nosey Sharon.

"We take it to a higher level."

"Just keep that trickle of information coming," warns Sharon.

END

#  Alphaphobia

by Mach Thomas

It began with letters, the building blocks of language and thus to Anton's mind the basic components of order and reality itself. He had got into a routine of thinking where a day could have a letter that would preside over it, dictate what could or could not be done or allowed to happen. But this was now a part of his past, left behind to look back on with relief that it was over. He was moving on, fitting into the world as he had been unable to previously.

The Doctor in charge of his care, a Dr. Reynolds, had put him on a new medication called Styrezine, which helped with certain obsessive compulsive ideas that Anton sometimes got about the world around him. He had a repeat prescription that lasted a month; he was to take a slip that he had been given to his local pharmacy who would give him a month's supply and a new slip to be presented the following month. But somehow he had gotten his days on the calendar mixed up and now found he was without a dose to take today.

Monday became an A day. It was simply a matter of order; the first day without Styrezine's clouding benefits to fog his way through the world. He would walk to the pharmacy and keep his head down, it was just a twenty-minute walk. Anton exited the front door and looked furtively around, checking for any indication that there was anything wrong out there. The street he lived on had houses and bungalows on both sides of the road and was generally quiet most days. He had taken only a few steps when the apple tree that grew in his next door neighbour's front garden seemed to suddenly appear in his vision, as though the damned thing had sprouted up from the ground to challenge his progress. It just stood there tall, unyielding and clearly going nowhere. No, not today, not on an A day. Not with something as insurmountable as an Apple tree right there, daring him to proceed any further. He returned back indoors and made himself a sandwich instead. Maybe tomorrow. He spent the rest of the day dusting the various rooms and hoovering the corridor and lounge area.

Tuesday was a B day. From somewhere outside came the sound of several children playing, nothing too distracting or aggravating. Anton thought that today was going to be a good day, certainly more productive than Monday. He got dressed and went to his door with fresh determination to finish what he had started. Outside a gentle breeze cooled his face as he walked down the path to the pavement. The sound of the children playing across the road came to him louder than before. He was stood on the pavement when he realised that the loud repetitive sound of impact that he had been hearing was a soccer Ball being kicked around and off of nearby walls. A bright, loud and bouncy Ball. He watched it ricochet off the side of a house and flinched at the loud noise the Ball made. No, not today. Not on a B day, it could not be clearer. He went back inside the house and listened to some music on his stereo using his headphones to drown out the sound of the Ball outside. In the evening he hoovered around again to pass the time, the noise of the machine was oddly reassuring.

Wednesday was a C day and Anton was getting quite desperate now. How much longer was he going to be stuck in this predicament? It was bad enough that he could not get his medication, but pretty soon he was going to run out of milk for his tea. What would become of him then? He went to his front window and drew the curtains to survey the street before he even bothered to get dressed. It was a sunny day with few clouds above to mar the clear blue sky. He spent a few minutes looking around at as much of the world as the window would let him. It seemed clear enough initially, but that was a recurring theme here, The problem then came sauntering down the street on four brown and white paws looking one way then the other before imperiously plopping it's furry behind down on the small lawn in front of Anton's home. The Cat stretched itself out lazily on the grass, sunning itself to its complete contentment.

Anton rang his doctor's office and spoke to one of the junior doctors as Dr. Reynolds was out of the surgery that day. He left a message for Dr. Reynolds to please come see him the following day and to bring the Styrezine as he was unable to leave his home without it. The junior doctor did not seem to appreciate the gravity of the situation and it was plain embarrassing to go through the particulars, the Cat was now in the middle of grooming and was licking its behind slowly and deliberately. Anton decided it would just be best to explain the matter to Dr. Reynolds when he got here with the medicine. He may have been emotionally drained, but the house was spotless.

Thursday was D day, but that did not seem significant as the medication was being brought to him. His mobile phone rang in his hand and he answered to hear Dr. Reynolds, clearly calling from outdoors somewhere.

"Anton? It's me, Dr. Reynolds. I'm on your street but I'm not sure which house is yours."

"The blue bungalow, the last but one on the right!" Anton did not even try to hide how relieved he was to hear the familiar voice, especially to hear that he was so close by.

The doorbell rang and he made his way to the door, stopping when the horror of the situation jumped up and smacked him across the face. The Door was there, appearing out of nowhere exactly as the apple tree had done. Then came the realisation that there was a Doctor stood on the other side of that Door. He dropped to his knees in the hallway and as he did a flashback to the last time he was in the Doctor's office suddenly came to him. The name plaque on the desk in his surgery had read: Dr Norman D Reynolds. There was now a Doctor with the middle initial D on the other side of his Door.

This would not do on so many levels, not with so many signs.

The door bell rang again.

"Who, err, who is it?" Anton asked foolishly.

"It's me Anton." Came a perfectly pleasant response.

"I'm sorry, but this won't do." Anton said apologetically.

"Excuse me?" Dr Reynolds said. "I can't hear you Anton. Could you please open the door?"

"No. Definitely not." He said flatly.

"Sorry Anton, I can't hear you, could you open the door?"

"No." Anton repeated. "Not with your profession. Not today and certainly not when you're stood in front of my Door!"

"Anton, I don't understand what you're saying. Could you just open up and I can help you. I think you may be getting confused again."

Anton crawled on his hands and knees up to the letter box in the door and poked his fingers through. He had a front view of a pair of worn looking grey trousers, as the wearer shifted from one foot to the other.

"Put the medication through here." He called out to Dr. Reynolds.

"What? Hello?" The Doctor took a second to realise where the voice was coming from, before squatting down and peering through at him.

"Anton?"

"Put the medicine through."

"The Styrezine? I don't have it."

"What?!"

"I don't have it. I came to assess your current situation. I can write a prescription." The Doctor calmly informed him.

"I need the medicine itself! Not a prescription!"

"Then I can't help you unless you open the door." Dr. Reynolds shrugged, shaking his head.

"I can't see you today." Anton said firmly and closed the letter box and returned to the lounge, turning off his phone and ignoring the door bell and knocking sounds until the Doctor left.

Friday was E day and Anton was wondering if he was ever going to get out of his house again. The food in his kitchen was nearly gone and he had finished all the TV shows on his Netflix queue. Some schoolboys that he had scolded the other week for littering in the neighbourhood passed by and Egged his house for several minutes before running away. There was now Egg splattered on both his front door and windows, so he pulled the curtains and thought about how he was going to better his situation. On account of the food all over the front of the house, if he was leaving today it would have to be by the backdoor. While he was mulling this over, the doorbell rang and he went to the Egg smeared window to look out on to the street. There was a van pulled up in front of his home with the initial NJE on the side. The bell rang again, so he went to the door.

"Who is it?" He asked timidly.

"NJ Electric." A voice called through the door.

"What? What do you want?"

"NJ Electric, I'm here to look at your electric meter."

"My meter? What for, who are you?"

"I'm the Electrician!" Anton could hear him getting exasperated. "Here to see your meter!"

"I don't know anything about that!" Anton said, struggling to think of what to do.

"You'd have got a letter saying we was coming!"

"I'm sorry, you can't come in today! Not today!"

He retreated to the lounge as the doorbell rang again, followed by the Electrician saying something he couldn't understand. He went to the window to pull the curtains and jumped back when the Electrician appeared in front of it, wide-eyed.

"I just want to see your meter!" He called in at him.

Anton cried out and pulled the curtains closed. He sighed and went to sit on his sofa. The world was coming in at him; he did not even have to try to leave. It would get him no matter what he did. He took a breath to calm himself and looked over to the other window in the lounge where a head had appeared looking in at him. He jumped up and ran to it as quick as he could to close the curtains.

"Meter!" The Electrician called, his face twisted with annoyed confusion.

"Leave me alone!" Anton cried.

The Electrician shouted something else about his meter, driving Anton to run to his bedroom and hide under the bed. The doorbell rang a few times more and then stopped.

Anton stayed under the bed for a while, later coming out to make some tea.

Saturday was F day and the house caught Fire, which actually turned out to be the best thing for Anton. He had been reduced to grilling cheese on stale bread for breakfast in the morning when the electrician from yesterday returned to have another go. When the doorbell rang the grilled cheese was smoking and Anton was distracted long enough that it caught fire. He yelped and pulled the grill tray out and put it on the counter, not noticing how close that was to the kitchen curtains. The doorbell rang again and he went to the door. The front of the house was still covered in egg that was staring to turn and smell rather off-putting. When he opened the door, the electrician looked at him warily, expecting the same reaction as yesterday. Anton was looking rather pale and drawn after a week of alphabetised house arrest.

"Err, Hello, do you remember me?" The electrician asked gently.

"Yes, I do indeed."

"I'm afraid I still need to look at the electrical meter in your house. I've looked at all the others on the street."

"Well? Would you like to see the one in here?" Anton asked.

"Would that be OK?" The electrician smiled in obvious relief.

"Of course it would." Anton laughed as though the question was absurd.

"It's just that you didn't seem quite so keen yesterday."

"Well obviously!" Anton scoffed. "That was Friday!"

The electrician smiled placating him, but he looked as though he was reconsidering setting foot in Anton's home after all. Then he looked past Anton down the hall to the open door of the kitchen.

"Fire!" He suddenly yelled

"Not today there certainly isn't!" Anton said sharply.

The smoke alarm in the kitchen chose that moment to go off and Anton turned to see the Flames climbing the curtains to the ceiling. He shouted "Fire!" himself and then hurried to the kitchen to grab the little Fire extinguisher. He could not have a fire in his home, not on Saturday! This really wouldn't do! The Flames had spread to a shelf on the other side of the window and the various things on it were catching light and some falling down to the floor. The electrician had come in behind him and grabbed the extinguisher first, now spraying it on the curtains urgently. Anton opened a cupboard and removed a pot, which he filled with water to throw on the spreading flames. He turned spilling water around his feet, he was not the most agile of men after all. He went to throw the water and instead slipped on the wet tiles of his kitchen floor, his feet flying up and dropping him to the ground where he smacked his head. The electrician, who had by that point managed to get the blaze extinguished, turned to look down at him in confusion as to what had just happened behind him.

"Oh dear, well that won't do..." Anton had time to say before blacking out.

On Sunday, Anton awoke in a hospital bed with a terrible headache. A nurse noticed that he was awake and went to fetch a Doctor, who turned out to be Dr. Reynolds.

"You appear to have had an eventful week." The Doctor smiled ruefully at him.

"I think so." Anton said groggily. "Is my home still there?"

"Yes, the fire was put out by the time the ambulance arrived. It was just part of your kitchen that was affected."

"It needed repainting anyway" Anton said with surprising cheer.

Dr. Reynolds produced a labelled plastic medicine bottle and placed it on the table beside him.

"Is that the Styrezine?"

"Yes." Reynolds said reassuringly. "You'll be OK now." He patted Anton on the shoulder and then went to attend to another patient.

Anton opened the bottle and shook out a single blue pill and stared at it. He was about to take it when a thought suddenly came to him.

What day was it today? It was just Sunday, no more, no less,

He looked at the pill again for a few seconds and then returned it to the bottle. Maybe not this time. He would keep the bottle, but first he wanted to see if this new way of thinking would last.

"That'll do." Anton said, glad that this week was over. "That'll do fine"

END

Mach Thomas is the author of Crook's Wraith at Midnight,

available on Amazon Kindle, Kobo and Nook.

#  Sea Glass

A poem by Caroline Hepburn

Happy memories of myself, my sister and our Dad spending time on the beach at La Rocque, Jersey.

I remember how it used to be mine

Her badly crocheted hat

Caught up tossed by the wind

Carried to some faraway place

Freeing her strands of hair

An elfin figure she dances

Trailing garlands of seaweed

Skipping along the shoreline

Into the edge of the icy grey sea and out once more

She ventures

Flushed cheeks shiver

Squelching through mud grey sand

Drowning her castle shaped bucket

Red like her boots

Sea water splashing

She fills and then pours

Admire the sea glass in my hand

Ink blue bottle green ruby red

Wiping away salty grains

Licking my fingers

I polish each piece

Picture them set as a bracelet

Fashioned by a distant mermaid

Mounted on a bed of sand

Setting her sea washed bounty free

Whelks pebbles razorfish

A piece of faded pottery

I hide my sea glass

Keeping it safe

Deep in my pocket

Ducking as she laughs and

Hurls a crab claw towards me

Herring gulls battle to fly

Against the coming storm

A stick man in the distance

Drawing nearer transforms into dad

I race to reach him

Slowing to let her win

Trailing our footprints

My sister and I

END

#  Cheapside

A Song by Mia Mannion

Seven a-m - Time to go home.

Who gives a dick if your cover's blown?

If he really did, he wouldn't leave you alone

All night.

Dirty streets \- and gummy walks,

Tired eyes - and carelessness talks.

As the lights go off - have you really been walking

All night?

Past the clowns and the vaping fools,

Contra flow to the kings of cool,

The early morning office fuel on Cheapside.

Some heading in with neat black laces,

Some going home with smirking faces,

Some are gonna be tomorrow's cases on Cheapside.

What's the chance that he's at home

Wond'ring where you've been gone?

Stood it till midnight; I had to get out.

Couldn't take it

All night

Past the clowns and the vaping fools,

Contra flow to the kings of cool,

The early morning office tools on Cheapside.

See that girl with the pretty thighs,

Do you think she'll ever realise,

She never will impress those guys on Cheapside?

See the trunge and nothing's changed,

You are seriously deranged

If you think that things are strange on Cheapside.

She's still gaping, he's still vaping,

That's the way that things are shaping.

Status quo is pretty safe on Cheapside

Past the clowns and the vaping fools,

Contra flow to the kings of cool,

The early morning office tools on Cheapside.

See that girl with the pretty thighs,

Do you think she'll ever realise,

She never will impress those guys on Cheapside?

And the Mom with the kid that shouldn't be there;

She's gotta work but she can't pay care, and

Dad don't help cos he's not there on Cheapside.

Some are heading in with neat black laces,

Some going home with smirking faces,

Some are gonna be tomorrow's cases on Cheapside.

© 2018 Mia Mannion

END

#  An Honest Review

© Tessa Barrie

George Fowler opens the front door. A broad smile ripples across his face under his Chevron moustache, revealing a fine set of glistening incisors. Surprising for a man of his age with a passion for Cuban cigars.

'Lucy, how lovely to see you.'

'Hello, George.' I respond warmly. 'It's good to see you too.' I make sure all traces of grime on the soles of my shoes are left on the substantial coir matting doormat before stepping over the threshold onto the recently laid New Zealand wool carpet. The memory of Tom tramping dog shit onto its Axminster predecessor is still fresh in everybody's minds.

The grandfather clock chimes. I have arrived at exactly 7.00p.m. Edna likes us to arrive at 6.50p.m. She is always there to open the door so we can start promptly at 7.00p.m.

'Oh dear, I'm a little bit late I'm afraid. All trains in and out of Waterloo were delayed today. Maintenance on the line... I've come straight from the station.' George chuckles as he helps me take off my coat and a whiff of cigars disappears up my nose.

'There's no need to apologise, Lucy dear. It's par for the course, when one works in London. The others have only just sat down.'

George is always so upbeat on a Thursday. I imagine he enjoys a few hours to himself drinking a glass, or two, of his favourite Scotch and puffing on a Cohiba cigar. I can see a decanter, a cut glass tumbler and a large glass ashtray, perched on a small table next to his red leather chair in the snug.

'Go on through.' He says extending his arm in the direction of the dining room.

I walk in and shut the door behind me. Edna, at the head of the table, is leaning forward. She lifts her ample bosom with her right forearm before resting the pendulous orbs on the edge of the rosewood dining room table as she pulls in her chair.

'I'm so sorry I'm late, Edna. Good evening, everybody.'

'Ah Lucy, dear. There you are. Don't worry. My spies told me there had been a few disruptions on the Waterloo line today.' The others look up mouthing words of welcome. 'Sit, sit!' Edna pats the upholstered Rococo dining chair next to hers and I sit down.

Using both hands, Edna rubs out a few ripples in the Cleethorpes check waterproof tablecloth, which has been used for our weekly meetings since Barbara spilt her Himalayan Monkey tea across the table's shimmering surface. The spillage could have been much worse had Beryl not come straight from the Lido. Saving the day and the ill-fated Axminster by whipping out her swimming towel to mop it up.

Barbara felt so badly about it she bought Edna the easy care, wipe clean vinyl Cleethorpes check tablecloth as a present. Edna graciously accepted the gift and agreed to carry on hosting our weekly get-togethers. After Tom put his foot in it and the ensuing £2000 insurance claim, the trivial tea incident was soon forgotten. Although we were all amazed when Edna declared she was still prepared to carry on hosting our Didsbrook Writer's Group meetings after the new wool carpet had been laid.

The manuscript of Edna Fowler's work-in-progress is housed in three lever arch files. Emblazoned down the spine of each bulging green binder are the words Dulcie Darling and the Wizard's Cauldron by E. D. Fowling and individually marked Volumes 1, 2 and 3.

Edna is convinced she is Didsbrook's answer to J. K. Rowling, hence the rather suspect non-de-plume. She believes a pen name will be essential after Duclie's exploits are published, otherwise her privacy will be exposed.

After she finished the tenth rewrite, she collared me in Hargreaves, Didsbrook's old-fashioned purveyor of meat. An orderly queue of customers had formed, spilling out of the door and onto the pavement. Didsbrookians prefer to pay twice as much to watch Mr Hargreaves hack off their chosen Sunday joint with his cleaver and give the hermetically sealed equivalent from the supermarket down the road the cold shoulder.

Edna has a very loud, booming voice and Hargreaves is a very small shop with a sawdust-covered wooden flooring, which amplified her theatrical tones.

'Of course, once my book is reviewed, and no doubt you will be reviewing it too won't you, Lucy dear?' I manage a feeble smile and nod. 'It will be all over the press, the Internet and goodness knows... everywhere else. I'll have fans turning up on the doorstep asking me for autographs every five minutes and, although I appreciate attracting thousands of fans to Didsbrook would do wonders for the local economy, as I am sure Mr. Hargreaves here would agree...' She paused to look at Mr Hargreaves who smiled vacantly, then bore his cleaver down onto an inert carcass as Edna continued. 'I know they would mean well, but they would take up far too much of my time whilst I'm writing the sequel.' Us aspiring writers need to keep the faith and I so wish mine was as strong as Edna's.

She spanks both hands against the Cleethorpes check.

'Welcome everybody. I trust we've all been scribbling away feverously for the last seven days? I've never stopped. Talk about a purple patch. My fingers are on fire and my memory sticks are about to explode, but the words just keep flowing!'

She laughs, her voluptuous breasts wobbling in sync. Edna loves a good smattering of her own wit and banter. I flash her one of my very best smiles. Despite everything, our age gap and her unwavering self-belief that she is about to join the ranks of world-renown authors, I am very fond of her. Every inch of her reminds me, so much, of Patricia Routledge's Hyacinth Bucket.

Her work-in-progress and future bestseller is about a fourteen-year-old busybody. No... wash my mouth out with soap. Dulcie Darling is a meddlesome teenager who is blessed with magical powers. Her wizardry inherited from her mother who, quite by accident, ate magic mushrooms when she was pregnant. Week by week we are enchanted by Edna's jaunty readings of the 'away with the fairies' Dulcie as she magically extracts herself from farcical situations.

'Now everybody, let's get started. What have you all brought along to read to us today? Tom, let's start with you. Are we going to hear more about your father's World War II exploits?'

I sense a degree of venom still lingering in Edna's tone. She might have erased the Himalayan Monkey tea spillage from her mind, but eradicating the memory of the Axminster fouling will take a little longer. Tom nods his response. His novel is loosely based on his father's seat-of-his-pants missions in his Spitfire during World War II. I once asked if his father had ever considered writing it as a memoir, but I got shot down in flames. I think Tom sees himself on the same shelf as Ken Follett.

Edna swiftly continues with her round the table interrogation.

'And you, Basil. What have you bought to read to us today?'

'I thought I would read a few paragraphs from my book about the beautiful Coccinellida.' Mutters Basil.

'Ladybirds? Good, good.' There is a disinterested chill in Edna's response as last week poor unassuming Basil committed the deadliest crime a writer's group member could ever commit. He dropped off whilst Edna was reading an extract from the fifteenth rewrite of Dulcie Darling and the Wizard's Cauldron. He could have been listening intently with his eyes closed, but when he started to snore, his crime was exposed.

As I am almost word perfect when it comes to Dulcie Darling, I wasn't paying attention either. I was thinking about the piece I hadn't written for the Didsbrook Echo. The deadline was only 12 hours away, so I realized I needed to write it some time between going to bed and catching the 7.30a.m. when I was bought back to the room by a loud, strangulated cry.

'Basil Bowater! How dare you go to sleep during a reading! It's outrageous. Not to mention, downright rude!'

We all sat to attention around the table sending understanding vibes to the very red-faced Basil as he grovelingly apologized for his disrespectful behaviour.

We are all so pathetic when it comes to providing Edna with a candid critique. Edna never holds back when it comes to providing the rest of us with feedback. So many of us would-be writers have such brittle egos, we don't take criticism well and maybe we all sense it would be the end of the Didsbrook Writer's Group if we were brutally honest with Edna.

After Edna read us the chapter about Dulcie's remarkable escape from Holloway prison and asked for feedback, we were all rendered speechless. I pointed out that as Holloway was demolished in 2016, I wondered how many young teens would have heard of it. Quick to retaliate in defence of her plot, we were told that all these places added educational value to the intrigue.

I am, by far, the youngest member of the Didsbrook Writer's Group, so I do try to mind my P's and Q's. My mother knew Edna through the Didsbrook Amateur Dramatic Society, affectionately known as DADS and had told Edna she had a daughter who wrote a bit, so I was asked to join the group about a year ago.

I was very flattered to be asked and readily accepted. I only found out afterwards that the doyen of the Didsbrook Writer's Group and someone I greatly admired, the multi-published Jocelyn Robertshaw, had just dropped off her perch. Jocelyn's death was a real blow to the community and it was such a privilege for me to be asked to write her Obituary.

Edna, without any hesitation, heaved herself into the role of official Group Coordinator and I was wheeled in to make up the numbers. Including Edna, there are 8 of us.

Daphne Mortimer has published ten novels to date and I have read every one. Jocelyn originally invited her to join the group so she could share her experiences of the long and lonely road to getting published. Now Edna is in charge of the group and is so obsessed with getting Dulcie Darling into print, Daphne doesn't get much of a say about anything, apart from reading snippets from her excellent work-in-progress.

Then there is Barbara, spiller of tea and our local badger enthusiast, who is compiling her life's work with British badgers. I imagine her as being one of Didsbrook's few hippies, or possibly the only hippy, back in the day. Now 65, with multi-coloured hair extensions, she makes me feel I have allowed myself to become staid before my time. Barbara spends most nights in a sleeping bag close to badger setts around the country. Her husband left her last year. After thirty years of married badger-bliss, he abandoned her for a younger model. Even my mother, after describing him as a complete and utter shit, thought it was funny that the other woman was Didsbrook's hedgehog champion.

I imagine Barbara slipping home after our meetings and smoking a joint. Something I find very appealing but, as I still live at home with my mother, the likelihood of getting spaced out ever, let alone once a week, is highly unlikely as she gets a whiff of most things within a 100-yard radius.

I did have plans to move to London after I graduated, but my father died. I was very appreciative he waited until after my finals, but I felt obliged to move back home, so my mother wouldn't feel quite so bereft.

Then there is Charlotte, who looks a little like Edna in stature but is nearer my age. She has very red cheeks, especially after she has read us her piece for the week. I don't know why she gets so nervous when she reads. She writes very well, although she has nothing specific on the go at the moment, apart from her unexpurgated tales of living with her Tibetan Mastiff, Bruno, I am sure she will.

Finally there is Beryl, who's always upbeat and we go way back. She teaches PE at Didsbrook's secondary school, including me for seven years. I thought she was a bit long in the tooth for the job then, but she was probably only fifty-something. She would send us out for a five-mile run up the A59 and follow us in her topless MG shouting words of encouragement.

Beryl is due to retire at the end of next term and has been working on a novel. From the rather steamy pieces she has been reading to us, she could well be Didsbrook's answer to E. L. James. She captures everybody's attention when she reads. Basil and Tom are as animated as we ever see them. I can't help wondering if Beryl is drawing from her own experiences. If she is, I really do need to get myself a life.

I love my job with the magazine Review UK. I review what's on in London, as well as new books as me, but I have a pen name as well. Jane Jones.

My self-rechristening came about after The Didsbrook Echo asked me if I would cover events within the community. It was very important to me that my mother never knew who slated her production of Les Miserables at the Didsbrook Arts Centre. Fortunately, my mother dismissed Jane Jones's savage review as part of the highs and lows of being creative. I did tell my Mother I had concerns when she told me their next production was going to be Les Mis. Given that the average age of their membership is fifty-five, I thought it might be a bit ambitious for DADS, but she didn't listen.

'It's a shame you didn't have a chance to review it before that wretched Jane Jones woman got in on the act.' My mother had said over breakfast post brutal review. Her loyalty knows no bounds. She believes that Jane Jones could learn from someone as discerning and as erudite as myself, a graduate of Roehampton's Creative Writing and Drama, Theatre and Performance Studies, with honours.

Since then, hiding behind my pseudonym when reviewing the work of people I care about, that lacks a little substance, has proved a godsend. Nobody, apart from my co-conspirator, the Echo's editor, knows who the hard-nosed Jane Jones is, including my fellow writer's group members.

In a world of wizards, Edna may well conjure up a publishing deal for Dulcie Darling. I pride myself on writing honest reviews about what I see and read. Which means that Jane Jones will be credited for bursting Edna's bubble when she writes the review of Dulcie Darling and the Wizard's Cauldron and I won't have to leave the country.

'Lucy?'

'Um, yes Edna.'

'It looked like you'd drifted off for a minute there, dear. What have you bought to read to us tonight?'

'Well, I thought I would read a piece from my novel.'

'Novel?' Edna is surprised. 'That is exciting, dear. I'm so glad you're being inspired by our weekly meetings.' Everybody murmurs in agreement. 'When did you start writing it?'

'Three years ago, just after I finished Uni, actually, just after my dad died and I'm really close to finishing it now.'

'Gosh, well done you, Lucy! You're a dark horse though, you never told us you were writing a novel.' Daphne is always so enthusiastic and her comment is met by more mutual murmurings. 'What's it about?'

Clearing my throat, I announce with a degree of pride that it is a romantic drama about two people who have both known the pain of loss and the sting of betrayal who are thrown together under very difficult circumstances. My voice cracks a little; it's been a rocky ride.

'What a novel idea, dear.' Edna interjects, chuckling at her own joke.

'That is so exciting...' Daphne chips in again. 'I would love to read it and would be happy to give you all the help I can. Perhaps we can meet for a coffee sometime?'

'That would be great Daphne, I would find that really helpful. Thank you.'

'It will be interesting to see which of us Didsbrookians gets into print first.' Daphne not only writes well but she also has a very generous heart.

'Well, we'll be all ears, Lucy dear, when it is your turn to read,' Edna interrupts. 'Please can everybody try to keep their readings down to about around 500 words or, by the time we get round to Lucy, it will be time for you all to go home. Now... let's not waste any more time, I thought I would kick things off tonight and read you the final chapter of Dulcie Darling and the Wizards Cauldron. I too am very excited that I'm nearing the end.'

I think we all are very excited that Dulcie's devilment is about to reach 'the end'. Whether she goes out in an explosive climax or peters out like a damp squib, she just needs to disappear.

'Call me!' mouths Daphne across the table and I nod enthusiastically, as a telepathic sigh passes between The Didsbrook Seven as Edna clears her throat and starts reading in her DADS voice.

I sit back in my chair with my eyes closed, ready to recite Dulcie's exploits in my head in tandem with Edna, as Basil whispers in my ear.

'I would be extremely grateful if you could give my foot a good hard kick if I show any signs of drifting off, Lucy dear. I really don't want to incur the wrath of Dulcie Darling's creator for a second time.'

END

website: www.tessabarrielostblogs.com

#  Friday 15th

©James Le Cocq

New Zealand is a kind country

Lying on the pavement,

pretending to stop my breath.

A scene of tranquillity covered in blood

sustained by online fantasies.

Gunshots like 'pop, pop, pop'

running from both sides,

not wanting anyone to stay alive.

I expected to die within the hour

comprehending the incomprehensible,

to come out on the right side

of a river blocked by the dead.

Social media can confirm

we are all aware of the horrific atrocities,

attacking the media for reporting it,

spreading bits and pieces.

He is getting exactly what he wanted,

a culture war dedicated to confirm the bias of everyone.

The framework of social media

should not hide behind misplaced freedom.

Defeat the bigotry we represent

for those who need it.

Just focus on the ones he hurt. Not the pain he wants to spread.

END

#  Beautiful Land

by James Sillwood

We had joined the crowd sitting under the Baobab tree, its sparse branches offering an apology for shade under the vast African sky. A crowd were gathered around us, a sea of black figures clothed in retro western fashion; faded baseball caps, tee-shirts with washed-out logos, trainers, once white, now ingrained with the red dust of the land. My shirt was soaked. What the hell were we doing here? I read the label on the bottle in my hand; Bushtucker Lager, export only – keep refrigerated. While the warm amber liquid offered some consolation, I longed for the cool evening breeze to arrive.

Jake slapped the side of his bare leg and inspected his open hand only to discover another mosquito had escaped certain death. "Buti, you mean?"

I looked over towards the man who was rolling a rusty oil drum up the track in our direction. "Yeah. Who is he?"

While most of the crowd were squatted on the ground within the shade of the tree, the three who had escorted us on the final leg of our journey held their position against a wall of the nearest hut. I could now get a better look at them. One was in his thirties while the other two were merely boys in their early teens -- one hardly big enough to lift the Russian SKS to his shoulder, let alone fire the thing. My own Caprivi, designed to stop an elephant dead in its tracks at fifty paces, rested against the wall alongside them. It had cost me a fortune and I now wondered if I'd ever get it back.

My gaze was met by a threatening scowl from the older boy. I quickly averted my attention to the gathering around us. It was clear that not one of them understood a word of English, and yet, all seemed to be waiting for Jake to make a speech.

I had to get an answer from Jake. The warning we were given back in Accra was clear enough: MPCI rebels were now raiding villages across the border from the Ivory Coast and visitors were advised not to travel more than thirty kilometres from the capital. So why, at five that morning, had Jake insisted we leave the relative comfort of our hotel and make a four hour trip up country to this God-forsaken place? And, more to the point, what was so important about delivering the package by hand to a man who, as far as I know, had nothing to offer us in return? All that afternoon, I'd been watching the two of them walk hand in hand accompanied by the whole village; through the maize field, along the irrigation channel, an inspection of a new borehole and pump. Jake can hardly put two words of Ashanti together and the man who had been hugging him and clasping his hand all afternoon only communicated with him in sign language.

Jake took another swipe at his leg which left a bright red smear against his calf. This brought about an excited round of tongue clicking from the gathering.

"His real name is Butani Ruandi. Known him for twenty-three years now. Always called him Buti."

At least that cleared one thing up. Jake is a dark horse at the best of times and I was beginning to wonder if he'd been harbouring a secret from me all these years. Not that I'm homophobic, but hearing Jake refer to his friend as Beauty all afternoon got me wondering.

"So, how is it you dragged me all the way out here?" I gave a quick glance at our three minders leaning against the wall. "And how the hell are we going to get back?"

"No worries, mate. They're here to protect us."

Getting information from Jake was like getting a visa passed by the Accra GAAU.

He looked up and studied me for a moment. "Listen Mate, this is the only village around here which can supply the rebs with food. They only know about fighting, not the first thing about farming. I've been up here twice since the place was taken over and there's not been a single murder or rape. It's a pact."

I accepted his assurance for now and moved on.

"And what's with the package?" I asked.

There was a pause as Jake leaned back against the tree and took a swig from his bottle.

"Third of this year's takings." The words were tossed away so casually that it took a while for me to catch them.

"A third? Of your salary? Jesus! You're joking man! What the hell for?"

Jake rested his foot on the oil drum and I could hear a murmuring from the wall behind us.

"See those two marks?" Jake pointed to his ankle where two white pin points stood out against his tanned skin.

"Demon. Bush Viper."

These words produced more tongue clicking from the crowd.

"I was nineteen. My first trip out here. A bit green . . . and very stupid I guess." He nodded towards the man sitting between us. "If Buti hadn't found me I wouldn't be here today." Jake pointed towards the line of shimmering hills to the east of the village. "It happened over that ridge. Carried me on his back for six miles. Medic saved me just in time." He raised an eyebrow and grinned. "So mate, a share of my wages each year is hardly a sum to die for. What do you think?"

I let out a long whistle which immediately triggered a choral response from the crowd. The note surged towards a climax. This was followed by a series of sharp metallic clicks from behind. A few heads turned towards the trio by the hut and the whistling died. I sneaked a look over my shoulder and was greeted with three raised rifles, their barrels aimed towards us.

I steadied my voice, hoping the crowd would suppress theirs.

"So I guess thanks to Buti's generosity," I continued, "this is the only place around here which has a regular supply of water through the dry season?"

Jake seemed unmoved. He raised his hand and held it at striking distance above his thigh.

I held my breath and dared not look over my shoulder.

"Yeah. And thanks to Buti's generosity, a regular supply of bloody mosquitoes!" Jake's hand came down with a resounding slap.

He missed!

The crowd remained silent.

END

website: www.jamessillwood.com

#  The Green Man

Opening Lines Collaborative Project

Having got myself into this ridiculous situation it was not going to be easy to extract myself from it. The odds were stacked against me along with two tonnes of logs that Nigel had just delivered. Well not stacked against me exactly, the logs that is. They were stacked up against my back door. Which meant, of course, I couldn't enter my house. Okay, you might think that normally people would go through that front door to get into their home. However, the problem was that I'd bolted the front door from the inside as the door lock had seized open the week before.

You see, Mr Johnson down at the hardware store, said that Jack's away on a two week fishing trip in the Lake District and wouldn't be able to fix the lock until he returns next Wednesday. I said this wouldn't be a problem because I can secure the front door from the inside and use the back door instead.

So, all was well until I got home about 8 o'clock tonight to discover the huge pile of logs. 'You got me this time, Nigel!' My joke the other day has backfired on me. It was already getting dark and there was no way I could clear a way inside. Looking at my mobile I only had enough battery to make one or two quick calls. 'I should fix that outside light'.

Trying to find some form of seating on the pile of logs in the darkness, I sat and pondered my next move. It had to be to fix for my needs of hunger, thirst, and frustration. The vision of a large pint of real ale before me, the taste of malty organic liquid – The Green Man in the village. Quickly, I found the pub's number on my mobile. I'll book a room for the night to satisfy my immediate needs and then decide about tomorrow later. A silky, mellifluous lady's voice flowed out of the phone,

"The Green Man. How may I help you?" purred the feminine feline. I was transfixed to my seat. I know that voice from somewhere deep in my past.

"Yes, I'd like a room for one, for tonight, please. I am from the village but can't get into my house as both my doors are blocked". I added. Feeling rather foolish, and suspecting she may have thought I was some sort of weirdo, I stumbled out the reason why.

"No problem. We have the Oak Tree suite available at £125 including a full organic English breakfast". She confirmed, emphasising the word 'organic'.

I sat in the dark on a piece of tree in my own backyard and considered if I was being bewitched. "I'll take it, I'll take it', I spluttered. "The name is Atkinson, Tom Atkinson, and I'll be there in five".

"Of course," she chuckled as her smile slithered its way down the phone line.

My next move was to get myself off the log, into my car and down to The Green Man. It had been my local for many years until recently, when some posh London bird had bought it, done it up and turned it into a Gastro pub. I had heard that she wanted to escape from the Big Smoke to re-wild herself in her native parts. Enough said, but her hostelry would suffice for the hours of darkness.

It was not long after that I pulled up in the Green Man's car park and headed for the verdant warmth of the pub's entrance. As I ducked to get through the ancient dark wood architrave to enter the reception area, I saw her. We all saw her. The world saw her – Kate Lennox, the love of my life! I was home.

Suddenly a hand was on my shoulder. It was Nigel, a wide smile across his face as he said, "I told you that I'd get you back".

END

#  First Glimpse

Poem by Celia Francis

An emailed image

21 week scan

Clear definition

Newly formed man?

. . . or baby girl?

Unknown as yet

Just have to wait

Daughter's first child

We anticipate.

END

#  The Butterflies Are Dancing

Going to the Shop Version 2

by Sophie Hawkins

"There's a cat outside your door," said Olivia's Mother to Olivia. She was standing at the entrance to flat 25 wearing her infamous green and yellow raincoat. Her hair was wet and clung to her face from the rain.

"There is?" said Olivia. She peered past her Mother. At the very end of the landing, by the window, she saw a blue cat box. Olivia sauntered towards it and crouched down. Inside the box, was a black and white cat. Olivia poked her fingers through the bars and the cat rubbed its nose against them.

"What are you doing out here?" Olivia said to the cat.

It meowed its request to be set free.

"Sorry, cat. I can't let you out."

The cat began to purr.

Olivia had seen cats everywhere lately, or perhaps she was just more aware of them. It had caused her to ponder the deeper meaning behind them, as though they had been sent from Heaven as messengers. To see one outside your door, thought Olivia, was surely rare.

"I wonder why it's there," said Olivia, coming into the lounge where her Mother was sitting at the table. Her raincoat was hanging on the back of her chair.

"Do you know who he belongs to?" Asked Olivia's Mother.

"The neighbours by the stairs have a couple of cats. It must be theirs."

"Strange."

There was a moment of morning silence between them. The church bells chimed in the distance. Thirty minutes past ten.

"Put the kettle on, my love." Olivia's Mother said brightly. "I brought tea bags, in case you'd ran out."

"How did you know?" Asked Olivia.

"A little bird told me, on my way over here."

"How kind of him."

Olivia made tea whilst her Mother drifted around the lounge gathering toys and clothes from the floor. "You don't mind me tidying up, do you?" Asked Olivia's Mother, carrying a pile of clothes to the laundry basket, which was overflowing like a chocolate fountain.

"No. I spend most of my day tidying," said Olivia. She opened the fridge and saw that it was empty, apart from four lonely strawberries in a plastic container, and half a pint of milk.

"I should go to the shop soon. Can you stay here with Sid, while I go?"

"I'm sure I can," said Olivia's Mother.

Sid was Olivia's two year old son. He had big green curious eyes, and a calmness radiating from him. Whilst in a shop, every inch of the calmness he possessed would be drained from him. It would begin with an innocently suggestive point at something colourful to which Olivia would shake her head. Within seconds the clouds of calm exploded in a storm of fury.

Olivia would carry a screaming Sid and the bags of shopping down the road and around the corner to their apartment of flats. She would drop both the bags and her son on the kitchen floor like lumps of hot coal. To then collapse her small and delicate body onto the sofa, crying tears of depletion. Sid followed her in, with a concerned expression on his little face, presenting her with a yoghurt to open for him.

It was a ritual they shared.

Olivia didn't like to cry in front of Sid. She sometimes wondered if he was being raised in an unstable way. Was it healthy for this little being to see his Mother struggle so often? Children are like sponges, Olivia had heard, they absorb their whole perception from those who raise them. Sid's father, Chris, would confirm that it was damaging for Sid to see his Mother unable to control her emotions. He would take Sid away, and say, "C'mon Sid, let's get away from the crazy lady." He made sure his tone was light. Olivia was left alone to cry, curled in a cocoon of self pity, until she felt like doing something else.

"I've been writing another one of my plans," said Olivia's Mother. They were sitting at the table in the lounge which looked like a different room to how it looked a few minutes ago. Credit to Olivia's Mother, the domestic goddess.

Olivia sipped tea from a mug which was covered in pictures of cats. "What's the latest?"

"I started with the famous "where will I be in five years time?" followed by "how to get there?" I kept it vague and open, because you can never truly know what will happen."

Olivia's Mother was pale, the skin around her eyes was grey. It was evident she was unhappy and unwell. But her green eyes always shone as their conversations moved to hope for the future.

"So tell me the first," said Olivia.

"In five years time I want to be with your Father, live in the country, have a cat or two, and be free of this job."

"What's the plan of action?"

"Agree with everything Dad says, compliment him all the time, listen to him,"

"You have to let Dad be free. That's all he wants," said Olivia. She knew that her Mother had been controlling in the past, and despite how humble she had become throughout the destruction of her life, Olivia wondered if the need to control was still alive in her Mother.

"I know that," said Olivia's Mother. "We speak every day now, and see each other a few times a week. I just need a way to see him more." She was gazing out of the window, where dark clouds lingered low in the sky.

"What about you?" She asked her daughter.

"Making plans gives me a feeling of despair," said Olivia. "The truth is, I'm tired of my life, I'm tired of the mundane. Even just going to the shop is hard, I get so anxious. I'm unhappy with Chris, I know he does a lot of practical things. I don't know how I would cope on my own." The emotions inside Olivia erupted through words, which was often the way in conversations with her Mother.

"You wouldn't like to be on your own, Olivia. Trust me."

Outside the sky was grey and gloomy, the clouds hung low above the little communal area where toys were left neatly against the brick wall. A group of birds washed themselves in a puddle, and then flew away in sudden fright as a figure marched towards them. Chris was coming home for lunch.

Sid woke from his nap, and Olivia's Mother stood abruptly to go and greet him.

"I've just come back for twenty minutes," said Chris, marching into the kitchen. He went straight to the fridge and opened it to see the empty view. "Why is there no food?" He said.

"I haven't been to the shop yet," said Olivia.

Chris rolled his bullet black eyes and let out a sharp and loud breath of surprise, which came as a sort of laugh. He had a short and stocky build, his movements were heavy and sudden, coming in twitches.

"Would you be able to go, as you're ready?" Olivia asked with a tinge of hope.

"No," said Chris. "I have twenty minutes of freedom. And you want me to spend it running around after you. You're so incapable. Why can't I ever come home to see you doing something nice with Sid, like baking cupcakes together? What have you been doing all day?"

"I tidied." Olivia lied. "Go and see for yourself. The lounge looks beautiful."

Chris shot a glance through the hatch in the wall, which revealed a tease of the tidiness that was the lounge. He nodded and shut the fridge door.

"You should do that anyway," he said. "That's what Mothers do - they keep their house clean and tidy out of respect for themselves and their children."

Olivia stared at her son's Father. His head was like a dark pin which rested pathetically on a large body. He had a permanent expression of tension stitched upon his face. When he pronounced his 'S's he hissed like a snake.

"And Fathers treat the Mother of their child with respect and kindness, if they want to avoid their child growing into a piece of shit. Don't patronise me," said Olivia. And she went into the lounge to see Sid and her Mother.

Chris' large body thundered in behind her.

"Daddy!" Cried Sid, running towards him. Chris scooped him up in his arms.

"Why are you still in your pyjamas?" He asked, speaking in his daddy voice. His lips were stretched into a low and straight smile. "You don't want to be lazy and slobby, do you?" They both made a disgusted noise, and Sid laughed in amusement.

Olivia decided she would get herself ready to go to the shop.

In the bathroom was a small mirror attached onto the wall. Olivia stood on Sid's wooden stool so that her view could reach it. She tied her hair up, brushing it as she did so that it wouldn't look messy, then let it down again after deciding she looked too plain. She hadn't washed her hair, so she put on a bucket hat which was left on top of the sink beside her.

Olivia spent a few minutes studying herself. She knew that her reflection in the mirror was posed, so she attempted to catch herself in it in her natural expression.

"Hello," She whispered to her reflection, as naturally as she possibly could. She concluded that her appearance was fine, and there was no sign of abnormality.

"I'm off now," said Chris from the other room.

Olivia quickly stepped down from the stool, wretched in guilt, as though she was in the middle of searching through Chris' pockets. She left the bathroom and found Chris standing in the hall. He gave her a look of concern. His thick eyebrows sinking above his bullet eyes.

"That hat is a bit big for your head," he said.

Olivia pushed the hat back slightly.

"I'll be back at 5. I'll bring some chips back for us all." He leaned towards Olivia to kiss her cheek, to which she flung herself back, away from him. "Don't be silly, darling. Give me a kiss." That low, straight smile was stitched on his face. Olivia said nothing.

"Suit yourself," he said, and he walked out the door, slamming it behind him.

Olivia had met Chris when she was almost a grown up with a broken heart and a desperation to find the love she had lost. Chris was almost ten years older and was infatuated by this young girls need to be cared for. She was skinny and bare faced, and never brushed her hair. She had not even enough money for the bus fare to college and back, so she often missed days. Chris always liked his girlfriends young, usually suffering from an eating disorder or an abusive childhood. He would buy Olivia credit to contact him, which she used to make unanswered calls to the man who broke her heart.

Within a few weeks, Olivia was pregnant. Chris saw it as the disorder which tied Olivia to him. She was young and sensitive, she needed him.

Olivia had checked her reflection every few minutes that passed, to make sure her appearance was still unchanged. She always wondered if she was strange, with lips that drooped to one side, paranoid eyes like those of a fox searching through a bin, but she couldn't catch them in the mirror. As though every time she looked, her reflection would pull itself together within a split second, before Olivia could notice the strangeness. Chris had always asked her if her family were inbred, as they all had abnormal features and mannerisms.

"Does my hat look silly?" Olivia asked her Mother.

Olivia's Mother looked up, and frowned. "It doesn't look silly at all," she said.

Olivia thought about her Mothers infamous raincoat, and how the buttons were usually fastened in an odd fashion. Olivia left the room and went to the kitchen to look out of the window. It was quarter to four, Sid had eaten the last four strawberries and a bowl of chips, and was saying he was hungry. The sun's golden rays poured through the gaps in the clouds, and shone down upon the entrance to the apartment, as if to say "there's no excuses now." Olivia knew she had to go to the shop, get it over with. Then it would be done, and the day would be over.

"I'm going now." Olivia said to Sid and her Mother. She kissed Sid on the head and left.

The air outside was fiercely cold. Olivia walked around the corner and up the steps. She imagined eyes staring out of the many windows of the apartment beside her. She didn't want them to see her fear, so she kept her head up, as though she did not care in the slightest if she was seen.

As Olivia stepped out the back entrance of the apartments onto the pavement of the road, she saw an old friend of hers, Thomas Male, striding across the road towards her.

"Thomas," said Olivia, greeting him with genuine pleasure. She saw he was wearing scruffy shoes, one of them with laces, the other without.

"Olivia," said Thomas, "long time no see". He hugged her.

"I like your hat," he said. Thomas had a gentle voice, like that of a little bird, with no worry of who hears it's song.

"It's too big for my head." Olivia said, pretending to find it funny.

Thomas looked at her with the same frown her Mother had when she had asked her if it looked silly. "It doesn't look it to me. I'll have it, if you don't want it?"

"Do you want to come to the shop with me?" Olivia asked. Thomas did not know the hope that lied with in this simple question. If he would go with her, she would have a shopping experience of peace, one which normal people felt.

"I can't," said Thomas. Crushing all hope with his words. "I'm meeting my buddy in five minutes, and he doesn't have a phone."

"Oh," said Olivia. "That's alright." She realised it was her fate to go shopping alone, perhaps it would get easier over time. Although this was something she did every few days, and it always drained all the energy from her blood. She would torture herself during the four minute walk with imaginary encounters with men she had slept with, or old teachers asking what she was doing with her life.

"We should meet up soon," said Thomas. "I'm thinking of going to France in a couple of weeks."

"I would love to go to France. Where abouts?"

"My Uncle owns a house in rural Normandy, it's really peaceful there. You hardly see anyone. So if you like to be a recluse it's the perfect place."

"Can I come with you?" asked Olivia. She was joking, but this wasn't apparent to her old friend, as his soft and serious expression remained.

"Would you like to?" he asked. There was a touch of surprise in his voice.

"Well," said Olivia.

"You are definitely welcome to come with me. I'm thinking of going for a weekend at the end of this month. Do you think you would be able to?"

Olivia felt butterflies come alive in her stomach, as though waking from a long hibernation. This old friend of hers, standing in front of her with small gentle eyes, felt almost like a stranger. Chris would never allow her to go away with another man.

"I would love to," said Olivia.

"Really?" Asked Thomas. "I'll send you a message this evening."

Olivia walked to the shop with her head held high. She had slipped into a reverie of freedom, which distracted her from her intense self awareness. She thought it a funny little coincidence, that Thomas had been there at that time. If she had left earlier, instead of putting it off all day, then she wouldn't have bumped into him, and she wouldn't be thinking about a weekend in rural Normandy. She wondered if Thomas had an alternative motive, but she had known him for years, and always known him as an innocent and slightly naive friend. He felt different to her now, in a mysterious way. She felt this decision was more important than it seemed. She could feel the butterflies dancing now, moving around and around inside her.

The shop was fairly empty. Olivia filled her basket with the food on her list, and bought a huge bar of chocolate for herself, her Mother, and Sid to share together, in celebration of the day coming to an end. There were two women, in their thirties, in front of Olivia in the queue to the self service machines.

"People always think being selfish is a bad thing. You have to be selfish in life. You have to live for yourself, or who else will?" said the red haired woman.

"I know, but I don't want to hurt Jackie. She's done so much for me. She will hate me."

"She won't hate you, darling. And if she does, then fuck her. You haven't done anything spiteful or malicious. Jackie has to take responsibility for her own feelings, you can't be responsible."

"I can't help but feel awful. They've been married for thirteen years."

"Unhappily married, clearly."

Olivia heard their conversation as though it were a divine message for herself. "You have to live for yourself, or who else will?" The quote was spelt out in pretty letters in her head, and the butterflies danced in her stomach. It was as though they were there supporting her. As her thoughts shifted, the butterflies danced. Was she becoming selfish?

The two women left the machine, and Olivia carried her basket to it and began scanning her items.

It wasn't the thought of a weekend away that made Olivia feel this way. It was the decision that was laid out for her to make herself. It belonged to her, like a gift, and it was in her hands. She was going to say yes, despite Chris' reaction. She needed to say yes.

Chris came home at quarter past five, with a plastic bag which carried the scent of a chip shop behind it. Olivia had laid the table in a hurry, just before he arrived, and Sid was sitting there ready with a face smothered in yoghurt.

Chris stood still at the door to the lounge with his mouth open, his bullet eyes searching around the room. "I can't believe your Mother actually left," he said.

Olivia felt there was no need to respond to this statement.

"I thought she would want to stay and scrounge food. She's like a seagull."

Olivia's Mother was always hungry, because her weekly income barely covered her debts. Nausea swept over Olivia's body, as she thought of her poor Mother. She had given her £10 to keep her going for a few days, her Mother said she would spend it on jam tarts and scones, as she didn't have a fridge in her bedsit, so she rarely ate anything else.

"I've lost my appetite," said Olivia, looking down at her plate full of chips and a vegetable burger. She couldn't possibly eat with the vision of her Mother sat in her dingy bedsit full of cardboard boxes of paper backs, eating a packet of jam tarts.

"I'll eat it, I'm starving," said Chris, pouring Olivia's food onto his own plate. The scent of vinegar and sweaty plastic filled the room. Outside the sky was a deep dark blue.

"I saw Thomas today on my way to the shop," said Olivia.

Chris mumbled something to Sid, his head wobbling from side to side. He was pretending not to be interested, so Olivia waited for his reaction.

Chris's pin head darted upwards towards her. "Why should I care?"

"He's going to France in a couple of weekends. He said I could go with him."

Chris's head darted back down towards his plate. "And you're going?"

"Yes," said Olivia. She couldn't help her lips fall into a slight smile. Sid looked at her, and he smiled too.

"Who's going to watch Sid? I'll probably be busy that weekend. And there's no way your Mother will look after him. She can't even look after herself."

Olivia had already thought about this. Her plan was one that also had her Mother in mind. Like killing two birds with one stone, but rather than killing, they fall in love and a new bird is born.

"I'm going to ask if my Dad and my Mother can help," said Olivia.

Olivia's Mother had a bedside drawer filled with notes she'd written titled "how to get James back". James liked spending time with her, but always remembered to announce to them all how happy he was on his own. Nobody took him seriously.

A weekend together, in James' country cottage with their grandson would be sure to plant a seed in James mind. He would see the pain in Olivia's Mother's heart, and he would take her back, even only for a short time, until she gets back on her feet.

"Are you going to sleep with him?" Asked Chris, his fingers were clasped around a chip which wilted and died like a neglected rose. "You may as well tell me now."

Sid was watching from the table. Little green eyes of curiosity moved from Chris to Olivia.

"Of course not!" She quickly said. And she got up and left the room.

Olivia found an old school book under her bed which had all but two pages spare. She had an urge to write about this powerful decision which had opened itself to her, like the sun had poured through a gap in the clouds. And how funny, she thought, that she had heard that conversation between the two women at the shop. The words they spoke were so relevant to her.

You have to live for yourself, or who else will?

What did it mean, Olivia thought, to be selfish? Is it following your own desires and dreams, instead of other people's? Is it choosing to spend the day fishing, because you want to, instead of staying home with your loved ones? Being selfish is being honest. It is doing what you like, without apology. What is so wrong with that?

Going away to France with an old friend, Olivia wrote, is a choice I have made. The choice has presented itself to me during a mundane day, whilst I dragged myself out to the shop, and if it wasn't for my little Sid, then I would have probably starved by now. So that's selfless in itself.

"I'm going," said Chris. He was stood at the door to the bedroom, with Sid at his feet, who began crying loudly.

"Where to?" Asked Olivia. She picked Sid up in her arms and kissed the top of his head to comfort his tears.

"To my sisters."

"Okay," said Olivia. Relief flooded over her. She could speak to Thomas later, without being questioned. She would be alone, but she would be in peace.

"Don't be sad, Siddy. Daddy will be back as soon as he possibly can. But I'll be gone for a while." Chris spoke in his daddy voice, his lips were pushed into a pout. Sid continued to cry. Chris looked at Olivia with murderous eyes. Olivia looked away. She just wanted him to leave.

"I'll be back for my things in the morning," he said. "That's my television, all Sid's clothes I bought which is most of them, the pots and pans, so you won't be able to cook anything. What else is there?" His eyes of bullets were shooting themselves into Olivia's skull.

"Just go, you're upsetting Sid," said Olivia, she held him close.

"I'll be back," said Chris. And he left.

Olivia helped Sid get dressed into his pyjamas.

"When will I see Daddy?" He asked, as Olivia pulled up his trousers.

"Tomorrow, don't worry. Shall we get into my bed and read some books?"

Sid nodded. A sickness washed over Olivia as she looked at those green eyes and wet cheeks of her son. The butterflies had stopped moving now, and all the brightness in the air had been washed away by a cloud of uncertainty. Every day was a struggle, and now she wouldn't have Chris to do it all for her.

Sid fell asleep during the second story Olivia read him. She slipped out of the bed and went into the lounge to sit and stare at the wall for a while, debating her decision.

She was drawn between two choices. If she was to turn down the option of going to France with Thomas, her life of misery would remain the same. She felt comfort in knowing Chris would be able to help with her struggles, and maybe things would get easier on their own.

If she was to go to France, then she would have to learn to do everything on her own, she would become independent. But the thought of being a single Mother scared her, what if she was to remain alone? She found it almost impossible to make friends.

She wrote about selfishness and what it means, going deeper and deeper into the question. We are all responsible for our own feelings, our own reactions. To be selfish is to be alive. The butterflies began to dance again.

Olivia remembered the cat that was outside her door and so went to go and see if it was still there. It was dark, so she had to switch on the communal light which made a buzzing sound. At the end of the hall, by the window, was the blue cat box. It was empty.

The cat had been set free, and Olivia knew then, that so had she.

END

#  The Wonderful World of Daffodils

Growing Narcissus in Jersey, Channel Isles.

Shannon Le Seelleur (Nee Waaldijk) June 2019

This is a short article about my life with daffodils and growing daffodils in Jersey in the Channel Islands. The article was written with photographs but it was not possible to attach them.

My love and knowledge of daffodils has grown immensely in recent years, particularly after my husband gave me a few hundred for our garden! These hybridised varieties from our farm in Cornwall turned out to be some of the most beautiful and interesting plants I had grown.

Daffodils have changed tremendously since say, the eighteenth century. There is hardly another flower that has been 'worked' or 'altered' as much. Consequently we now have a wide array of forms and colours which make daffodils particularly interesting: - split coronas, doubles, multi-heads, some with a large cup, others with a small cup, reds, white, yellows, pinks, tall, miniature . . . . and they all grow with great ease and abundance as daffodils require almost no maintenance. Appearing almost overnight, they flower from late December to April as if by magic. I have enjoyed planting thousands here in Jersey.

My husband John, has of course been a content and successful farmer and daffodil grower for many years at our farm in Jersey and in Gwinear, West Cornwall, where he has had the pleasure of working with many renowned names.

Daffodils are Narcissus which is a genus of predominantly spring growing perennial plants. Today, just about all daffodils have been hybridised (crossbred) and with increasing hybridisation are ever growing in style and variety. They are therefore classified into Divisions. So if you were looking for a daffodil with a 'large cup' (the central projecting feature), you should certainly look in any reputable catalogue of daffodils under Division 2 where you will find a wide variety of 'large cup' daffodils. Fortune Caribbean Snow, Wimbledon Country Girl and Pink Charm are favourites of mine in Division 2.

Dutch Master (a name reflecting their great artists), is an old favourite and can be found in Division 1. It flowers early in the daffodil season and is one of the larger daffodils with a pronounced frilly trumpet. It is a rich yellow in colour and a rather grand looking plant. It is no longer a widely available commercial variety (probably because there are so many daffodils to choose from nowadays) but bulbs can be found.

Tahiti falls into Division 4. It is a yellow 'double' with a deep orange centre. Like Golden Ducat (also yellow), it flowers in the mid-to-late daffodil flowering season (mid-March in Jersey). They are very different to the more traditional yellow daffodil and would grace any garden.

Grand Soleil D'or (Division 8) is one of the earliest commercial varieties and has been one of the greatest commercial varieties of all time. It was first grown in The Scilly Isles in the late 1800's where it flourished due to the mild marine climate. They were sent to London where they achieved high prices and today they continue to achieve good prices. It is a Division 8 daffodil known as a Tazetta. Daffodils in this Division have flowers borne in clusters. Soleil D'or has a delightful strong perfume and is a yellow multi-head with deep orange centres. Avalanche is another attractive multi head in this division. It a particularly sturdy plant which grows in abundance.

The climate in Jersey in the Channel Isles (not to be confused with Jersey in America which was of course named after our small island), has rich soils which, combined with the mild weather, is conducive to early flowering. Thus, like the Jersey potatoes and many other vegetables, daffodils have grown and naturalised well here; they like the mild marine climate, not too hot and not too cold!

The daffodil blooming season starts around late December in Jersey, continuing through April. The season starts with less statuesque daffodils, such as the yellow 'Early Sensation', which is one of the oldest daffodil varieties. As the season progresses, the more colourful daffodils such as Soleil D'or flower (yellow). Then we have other multi heads such as Dan du Plessis and Andrew's Choice (after author, Andrew Tomsett). Then picturesque doubles such as Golden Ducat (yellow) and Tahiti (yellow with orange centre) grace us.

Tate a Tate (Division 6) is a delight. It is an older variety of daffodil developed in Holland where they are sold in large quantities. Tate a Tate are very easy to grow and will flower for weeks from as early as February. Their short stems and happy yellow countenance make them ideal for pots, rock gardens and window displays. Cornish chuckles (Division 12) also have short stems and flower from early March. They are a relatively new variety by the famous hybridiser, Barbara Fry in Cornwall, who developed a large number of commercial varieties. I adore this chatty multi-head with its short stem and happy rich yellow throughout. It seems to chatter in the wind and is ideal for rock gardens or a window box.

One of the first bi-colour daffodils was 'Fortune', a yellow daffodil with an orange centre (Division 2). It was hybridised around 1917 and was named following a comment, 'you are going to make a fortune out of this daffodil because it is so unusual' It was indeed a very good commercial variety for 70 years or so until it was in turn replaced. Today there are so many other varieties of equal or greater attraction to the public or that are easier to grow commercially, that more sturdy stemmed varieties have replaced it especially as its stem tended to snap in windy weather. Rosemore Gold is particularly worthy; it has a statuesque, beautiful firm and rich yellow daffodil with delightful strong foliage. It is a prolific daffodil and will reward you with many bulbs in just a few years.

There is so much more I could say about the Wonderful World of Daffodils and my experience of growing them in Jersey. And there are so many more wonderful daffodils I could name. Many Jersey hedges and fields are endowed with delightful daffodils where farmers have either left a crop in a field or thrown a 'rogue' daffodil into a hedge where an odd one has got into a batch. Today they enhance many of the pretty lanes and roadsides that characterise our Island and remind us of a time rapidly passing; in recent decades we had thousands of farms on our Island and now numbers are rapidly diminishing as is the case throughout the world. In Rozel Valley, what looks like a whole field of daffodils have simply not been dug up and embellished over the years! An oddity is that although daffodil bulbs are poisonous, they also have medicinal properties for example in the treatment of Alzheimer's; the Romans used the roots for any kind of 'dis-ease' and the Japanese used to treat wounds with wheat flour and narcissus root. Many a poet has written about them and we all know Wordsworth's famous poem – a host of golden daffodils!

I hope I have encouraged you to grow daffodils and if you already grow them to enjoy their charm that little bit more. They are the easiest of plants to cultivate and give such high rewards. In the last few years I have gained several certificates and prizes at the Agricultural & Horticultural Society in Trinity here in Jersey, including a Diploma for Excellence and New Members Award, so I wish you hours of enjoyment with our charming, ever-changing, friends!

Text and pictures by Shannon Waaldijk-Le Seelleur

Jersey, Channel Isles. June 2019

END

#  The Woman

by Juanita Shield-Laignel

"What do you mean we're down 124k overnight?" She heard her husband's loud, round tones as she slipped quietly through the double doors into his spacious, walnut panelled office. He glanced across, smiled and beckoned her over with one hand, the other tapping away swiftly switching between his laptop and PC. He took the phone off loud speaker and stuffed the receiver between his chin and shoulder.

She glided across the office in her usual demure manner to wait patiently at his desk until he was ready, as she usually did, but today she noticed his desk diary looked different. It took a few seconds to sink in that his usual neat black circle around their weekly luncheon date was missing for today but appeared tomorrow. She quickly looked up just in time to see him glance at her and his wide adoring smile told her he hadn't seen her looking at his diary.

She knew she had the correct day as his secretary was expecting her. He wouldn't have made a mistake. He never did. His preciseness was endemic. Every time they met he would circle the date in black and write beside in his small capital letters 'LUNCH' or 'DINNER' or 'COFFEE' or 'THEATRE'. It had been the same for 20 years. But today, there was nothing in his diary against the date, but tomorrow he definitely had an assignation of some kind. He replaced the receiver rather too roughly for her liking.

"Hello darling. You look simply divine as ever," he gushed. She knew she did. She'd spent enough money and time ensuring that every strand of her ebony hair was perfectly in place, every nail was perfectly filed and every eyelash was perfectly curled. Her suit, tailor made, clung beautifully to her perfectly proportioned curves and she smelt as expensive as she looked. She was the type of woman that every other woman desperately wanted to hate but just couldn't bring themselves to. She had it all; a handsome, loving, wealthy husband, a stunning home, a gorgeous figure etcetera, but she was also blessed with good grace, a sweet demeanour and a sharp wit that made her annoyingly, instantaneously likeable.

As he momentarily turned to slide his Armani jacket off the back of his plush leather chair, she flicked her eyes rapidly downward to confirm what she already knew. She hadn't misread his diary.

They sat at their usual table, eating their usual gourmet lunch and enjoyed their usual light-hearted but meaningful conversation. Not once did she show the uncertainty in her mind or the dull ache in her heart. He paid for lunch, as he usually did and helped her with her coat, as he usually did and pecked her on the cheek at the top of the steps, as he usually did.

"See you at supper time darling," he cheerfully sang as he bounced down the granite steps and turned to wave before he strode off down the street.

Usually she would hail a taxi, or await a girlfriend that she'd arranged to meet, to indulge in an afternoon of serious retail therapy, but today she stood motionless staring after him, waiting for him to turn the corner before she felt she could move. She then, slowly, descended the steps of their favourite restaurant. At the bottom she turned in the opposite direction to her husband and walked and walked and walked, safe in the knowledge that her Gucci shoes, although sporting a 3.5 inch heel, were well-made enough, to not induce blisters.

Eventually when she was in an unfamiliar street, in an unfamiliar part of the city she started to focus on the shops. She found just what she had been subconsciously looking for; a charity shop that sold all sorts of cast-offs she would never even have considered buying new, let alone donning them second hand. She went in. The smell of old perfume and other people's body odours was overpowering and she wanted to turn and march out but the memory of the black ink ring around tomorrow's date drove her on.

Cautiously she started to slide clothes, if you could call them that, along wobbly rails and sort through troughs of creased linen. Eventually she spotted what she was looking for. She chose a purple tie-dye top, a khaki military style jacket, some baggy colourful trousers that she wouldn't even potter in the garden in and a black Newsboy cap. She also contemplated some fingerless gloves but decided that was just too clichéd. Happy with her choices she nervously approached the till. The lady at the desk gave her such a sideways glance, she felt compelled to offer an explanation.

"Fancy dress," she said simply and smiled.

"That'll be £15 please," said the lady tightly. Just before paying she spotted a basket of new but very cheap make-up on the counter and chose black nail varnish and black eyeliner.

Relieved that the plastic bag offered was plain white, she quickly shoved the items in and almost ran out of the door. Catching herself once on the street, she straightened her back and took a deep breath and clicked along the pavement at speed, deciding that were she to bump into anyone she knew, she would say she had been donating to the needy (this was actually a normal thing for her to do, though not usually in this part of town).

The next morning, after a slightly stilted breakfast that she'd explained away by feigning a headache, she returned to her boudoir and waited for the front door to close as he left for the office. As soon as the car had crunched out of the driveway and turned the corner onto the 'B' road, she started to prepare. She bathed almost ritualistically, slowly and deliberately. After drying her skin carefully she pulled on her expensive black lacy underwear almost in a trance. She had decided to wear her own underwear as most people in disguise weren't required to flash. She then pulled the purple tie-dye over her head. It fitted remarkably well. She looked at her reflection and was amazed at how it actually suited her. She then slid the trousers up her long, slender legs and fastened them at the top. 'Ghastly' - just what she wanted. She then pulled on the misshapen jacket and rolled up the sleeves a little. Next she back combed her hair and then brushed it out and left it hanging, even as a teenager she had never worn her hair in such an unruly manner. She then stood close to her full length mirror and applied thick, black kohl pencil lines beneath her eyes. She then took the corner of a piece of tissue and deliberately wiped it along said line to deliberately smudge it. She sat down at her elegant dressing table and applied 2 coats of black nail varnish. Finished she took a long view of her image. 'Yes that will do' she thought to herself as she looked herself in the eye, a woman on a mission...feeling nothing.

Pulling the black cap on, she waited opposite his office building, her back to the main revolving doors knowing that at precisely 12:30pm he would walk out of the office and head for lunch as he did every day. She watched for his reflection in the window almost pressed against her nose. Here he was and lo and behold at his side was a slim, elegant, blonde woman, a little older than she had imagined but nevertheless a very well presented good looking lady. She could hardly think but almost robotically trailed along the opposite side of the street after them. She couldn't believe it, he and 'The woman' were going into 'their' usual favourite restaurant. No doubt they would sit at 'their' usual table and drink 'their' usual wine. He was such a creature of habit it was one of the things that made him such an astute businessman.

She didn't know what to think or feel. The questions were stacking up in her mind faster than she could think of rational answers. Her heart was beating fast and her hands were freezing in spite of the warmth of the day. She waited until precisely 1:45pm and as predicted they descended the steps but instead of pecking her on the cheek and parting ways he hailed a taxi and he opened the door for her, then incredulously, got in behind her. Now she really was reeling as this was not a usual habit. He was breaking the mould. She felt as if she would faint. She knew he would have to return to the office at some stage so decided to camp out nearby. She sat in the coffee shop opposite, at an angle guaranteed to reveal his return. At 3:30pm he came sauntering along the street looking very pleased with himself. He jogged up to revolving doors and bounced through them.

She took a taxi home in turmoil and deep despair. She spent the afternoon stripping herself of her assumed character, with the exception of the nail varnish as it did look quite elegant and reflected her black mood perfectly. She dressed carefully in her own clothes, meticulous as always.

At supper time she sat quite still in the drawing room, awaiting his return, not sure what she would say or how, but that she would most definitely say something. She would not be humiliated in this way and intended to calmly discuss their options.

She heard the door and footsteps and voices. She frowned – she didn't usually hear voices unless he had brought a colleague home or visiting client but he always let her know in advance so she could include the visitor in supper arrangements. She bit her lip as her heart was almost bursting out of her chest.

"Darling, I'd like you to meet someone." Her eyes widened as behind him appeared 'The Woman'. She stood up as steadily as possible under the circumstances and extended a gracious hand adorned with black fingernails. She smiled but felt sick to pit of her stomach.

"Welcome," she said in the steadiest voice she could muster. The woman took her hand and held it rather longer than normally deemed polite. Her face was warm and somehow familiar. Her gently lined eyes were glistening with tears.

"Darling," he interrupted this surreal moment. "I'm afraid I've been deceiving you," she thought to herself 'you don't say' but of course being too polite, she didn't say. Instead she tipped her head slightly to one side and simply said "oh?"

"Yes darling..... after an extremely long search..... I've finally found your birth Mother."

END

#  Relief

Flash Fiction by John Bentley Wynd

'BANG!'

The sound radiated across the void, the boys hushed one another. Placing a finger across their lips, then silence. What were they going to do?

They froze, unable to swallow or breathe. The draped curtain, the only obstacle between them and eminent danger.

Footsteps were close, then an eerie silence, heavy breathing from behind the curtain. Their hearts began beating, their hands, clammy and sticky, hairs on their arms started to tingle as they stood on end. Trying not to scream or make a sound. Suddenly, the curtain drew back, expecting the worst. It was their mother.

A balloon had burst. The party had already begun.

"Hello you two, I wondered where you'd disappeared to"

They smiled, chocolate cake smeared around their mouths, sighing with relief.

END

#  Saudis Save the Day

Opening Lines Collaborative Project

Jeremy Southall remained motionless throughout the interview, apart from the moment the twelfth of April was mentioned. That was today! 9'o'clock! But today was Sunday! Did language schools normally expect one to work on a Sunday?

As these questions rattled through his mind, he struggled into his clothes, ran a comb through his hair, hurried down the stairs and set off down the long leafy avenue to meet David Shoebridge at the entrance to the school. He didn't mind working on Sunday. One couldn't afford to be choosy. Classics graduates were treated like an endangered species but nobody seemed interested in employing them. Besides, the job was very convenient; only a short walk up the road leading into town. And then there was Natalie, the girl with long black hair, who told him she worked in the office. She had come over from Rennes on a work placement scheme, which meant she didn't get paid. Well, that wouldn't apply to him. The money would cover his rent and living expenses. Working with Natalie should be fun'. He thought of her quick movements and her laughing eyes. Part of his job might involve helping her in the office. He checked his watch. He should make it in time. Then he remembered the interview, when he'd addressed the principal as 'Mr. Shoestring'.

That hadn't gone down well. But that was the name Natalie had given him. It must be what the staff called him. Had Natalie said that to tease him? She knew he was going to the interview. Why would she say that? Taking the next turning on his left. The first sign of the school was a line of tall sycamores on the opposite side of the road. He crossed over and approached the large stone pillars to the entrance, gazing up the tarmacked slope at the handsome red-brick Victorian villa with the name 'The Shoebridge Academy of English' picked out in prominent blue letters across its central section between the first and second floor. It was owned by the church and had been first used as an elementary school.

Suddenly the tall lean figure of David Shoebridge appeared hurrying down the steps. He was clutching a sheaf of what looked like posters. Brushing aside queries from teenage students playing volleyball on the tarmac, he advanced on Jeremy in long ungainly strides. 'Wonderful news!' he announced. 'Wonderful!' He ran his hand through his unruly mop of hair and paused for breath. 'The Saudi Embassy has just phoned to announce that they will send us students for a year. A whole year!'

'When are they coming?'

'Today.' He hesitated, 'Well they said maybe today, still, we need to prepare for them.'

Jeremy did his best to share his principal's enthusiasm while inwardly reflecting that he might be asked to share in the preparations. He remembered during the interview Mr Shoebridge saying something about the urgent need to make structural changes, 'to bring it up to standard', but he needed the permission of the trustees. He had only recently managed to acquire the lease. He then sighed, saying that the church moved in mysterious ways but it didn't always move swiftly. Jeremy wondered whether he was being asked to involve himself in some of these structural changes. Shoebridge had taken Jeremy on a tour, explaining that the corridor they were walking through connects two semi-detached villas prior to making the academy.

'Are those posters you're holding?' Jeremy asked.

'No, these are photographs of our student activities. I had to remove them,' Shoebridge added with a sigh. 'The Saudis don't drink alcohol'. He flipped over a few of the photographs. 'As you see, the Saudis might think we were running a brewery.'

'That one's a hand-drawn leaflet.'

'Oh, yes, student massages.' That's Natalie, I'm afraid. I asked her to display student messages on the noticeboard. Spelling is not her strong point.'

Jeremy raised an eyebrow. When he met her that one time outside the library he thought her English was rather good. Besides, wasn't 'massage' written the same way in French?

The thought of this French femme and him getting together on evenings brought a smile. He hoped to see her before he left that evening. The introduction of the school amenities went well, which lasted about two hours. By this time Jeremy realised why Natalie called him Shoestring: the whole academy seemed to be run on a shoestring. If the Saudis don't arrive with the funds, it will be the final nail in the coffin for the academy and trustees. Jeremy left to fill out some paperwork in the office.

David Shoebridge cleared the top of his desk. The day was almost over and no word from anyone. It was now 7pm. After his security checks of the grounds he went down to the main gate. 'One last look down the lane for that final hope of redemption and my fate,' he thought to himself.

He stepped into the middle of the pavement and looked both directions. There were no vehicles or movement. Returning, closing the gates, he placed the padlock in position. Suddenly vehicles could be heard, waiting with baited breath, his face pushed against the gate. Shoebridge held the bars as if it were his prison. It was the Saudi's. They had arrived. "In their own time as usual," Shoebridge said under his breath. The gates swung open and he said with a big smile 'Thank goodness, I was hoping that you'd come through this time'.

With all the activity in the road Jeremy glanced through the office window in time to see Natalie coming out of the building. She smiled at the sight of David Shoebridge opening the gates to greet the Saudis and ran up to him to give him a hug and kiss.

It was at that moment all thoughts of Jeremy and Natalie getting together faded.

END

#  Tears for a Nagasaki Boy

by Melvyn Lumb

( Riku = Wise sky)

The following flash-fiction story won first place in the 100 word competition on Fanstory.com on 9th January 2019

On the 6th of August 1945 at 11:01 am, a young Riku

jumped with delight as he recognised a high flying bomber.

"Mummy look up there! A Yankee plane."

"Come on, we must run to the shelter... now!"

They ran; and at 11:02 am, with a ripping electrical

crackle, a huge melting sun covered the sky. The last thing

he remembered was the sound of that air raid siren wailing,

and nothing else.

Over decades he tried, but was unable to leave his kindly

ghostly house. He could never know why; he was after

all, just a shadow of himself.

END

#  The Widow of Duxbury

An extract from The Assiduous Quest of Tobias Hopkins

by James Faro

On observing first hand the demonic acts of the girl in the care of his good friend, Reverend Nathaniel Eastman, there was little Toby could do to escape from the memory of that evening: the transformation of an innocent girl to one possessed by what could only described as the Devil. There was only one course of action for Toby to take: he had to agree to help Nathaniel with his investigation.

At first light the following morning, Toby took Matthew with him to the stables in Market Street where the Reverend Eastman introduced them to Samson, a Praying Indian converted to the ways of the Puritan faith. After saddling up three good mares, they bid the Minister farewell and set off for Duxbury.

The air that April morning was crisp and a late Spring frost lay on the ground which made conversation brief as they had to concentrate on keeping the horses from slipping. While it was clear that Samuel could speak English and had conversed freely with the Minister that morning, he hardly spoke a word to them throughout the journey. This, to Toby, was a mixed blessing; while it may have taken Matthew's mind off his fear of riding, Toby was in no mood to face a lecture on the advantages of living by the doctrines of the Compact, and how all men in the Community were treated as equal. There had always seemed to him to be an element of hypocrisy in this. One had only to compare the comfortable homes of the elders of Plymouth and Boston to the pitiful homesteads that passed them on their journey to conclude that some folk in, the Community, were more equal than others.

After they left the small farms that clung to the perimeter of the town, they soon found themselves surrounded by heavily wooded countryside infused with the scent of cedar and maple. And while the fresh Spring leaves of beech and chestnut made a pleasing sight, the scene was soon to change. The track, which dipped into a vale bordered by marshes, was so overgrown with bindweed and brambles that in places it was difficult to distinguish where the path lay. The horses were unsure of their footing and Toby had to keep looking behind to confirm that Matthew, an inexperienced rider, maintained his balance. As they descended further into the valley the scrub grew thinner. In one sense this made their journey easier, however, they now encountered a mist which seemed to hang permanently over the marshland. The further they rode, the thicker the mist became, until eventually the midday sun became nothing but a pale yellow globe above their heads. The few trees that passed their way were stunted in their growth and the leaves, so minute, appeared to be clinging to their last breath.

Eventually, after what seemed to be the best part of an hour, the track took an incline upwards and they arrived at a copse: a wooded island amidst the sea of marshes. Nonetheless, the rise was not yet enough to lead them clear of the mist: a pale grey cloud clung to the upper branches of the trees like a faded wedding veil. Their guide came to a halt and announced that they had arrived.

Toby searched the trees ahead but could see nothing. He tried to urge his mare forward but she refused to move, dug in his heels, but still the horse stood her ground. He looked to their guide for a reason and noticed the fear in Samuel's eyes. The Indian shrugged his shoulders. "He not go. Here is the place." Samson pointed towards the thickest part of the wood, but still Toby saw nothing.

To Matthew's relief their only option was to dismount, leave their guide with the horses and continue on foot. The ground was firm as they made their ascent, however, they had to keep their eyes down to avoid the deadwood and boulders in their path. There was a taste of wood smoke in the air which grew stronger as they neared the summit.

"What is your business here?" A thin voice called from the rise above.

They both looked up to see a woman less than five feet tall gripping an axe in her bony hands. It seemed inconceivable that this frail figure wizened with age was the same they were assigned to investigate. However, Toby reassured her that they had come in peace and their mission was nothing more than to listen to Widow Hobbs' version of the disputes she had with her neighbours. This seemed to relieve the woman's anxiety as she lowered the axe and suggested that they continue their discourse at her home. They each loaded their arms with wood and followed the woman up the rise. Once they reached the top it became obvious that the path they had taken was not the usual approach. To the right was a well trodden bridle-path which followed the line of trees up from the marsh and continued to some arable land with further habitations beyond the woods.

The old woman led them down a clay-trodden path bordered by long forgotten fruit trees; gnarled and twisted branches now invaded by forest vine and bindweed. Evidence that this was once a plentiful orchard could be observed by the occasional withered tree. The fruit infused to dead branches like dried prunes.

It was here that they had their first sight of the cottage; a simple structure much like the dwellings abandoned by the first settlers of the colony: walls of split logs bound together with clay and a roof thatched with bundles of reed collected from the marshes. Against the left side of the building rested a crumbling chimney fashioned from the same stone they had encountered on the hillside. From the top of the structure, where the stone became white with age, a gentle ribbon of smoke floated and twisted undisturbed, until it lost its way into the mist which clung to the branches high above their heads.

The widow dragged herself along the last few paces where dead fruit gave way to a well-tended plot outside her door. Here, the air was fused with the scent of numerous herbs which bordered the pathway: an endearing respite to the bitter wood-smoke which had followed them from the valley below.

Their arms laden with tinder, Toby and Matthew waited for the widow to remove the heavy plank which held her beaten door to its twisted frame. And it was only then, for the first time, Toby noticed the silence of the place; no breeze to rustle the leaves above and no singing of birds from the branches: complete silence.

Inside the dwelling it was dark; the only source of light, apart from the half-closed door, being two small square openings in the wall. Yet these were covered with oiled linen cloth which had soiled with age and obscured most of the daylight. The room was sparsely furnished; one chair placed near to the fireplace, a wooden bench fashioned from a plank and two tree stumps, a utility box with a hinged lid which stood stoically in the far corner of the room and some garden tools resting against the wall. A small collection of pots hung behind the door and a matchlock gun was suspended above the fireplace. The gun was so rusted with age that, apart from its use as a cudgel, it was unlikely to be any defence against the bears which frequented these parts. It was even less likely the old hag could take down the weapon in an emergency.

The widow tossed a couple of fresh logs onto the dying embers and eased her frail bones into the chair. Toby had previously briefed Matthew to undertake a discreet inspection of the property in search for any clue that may help them with their mission. So, while his apprentice kept to the shadows, the captain pulled the bench over to the fire and sat at a close but respectful distance from the woman. A wave of bright sparks flew up the chimney as the widow stabbed the fire with a metal rod and the new wood hissed in protest as the blue flames licked their flanks.

"This is a fair distance from Duxbury. Do you live here alone?" Toby asked.

"I do."

"How many years have passed since you buried your husband?"

"Six."

"You seem to manage very well. I would perceive it a difficult task living away from the town. Do you have help from your neighbours?"

"I have no discourse with my neighbours."

"Do you not see them at church?"

"I do not share the same beliefs."

"But was not your husband of the same faith?"

"He was, but I am not. I was baptised a Roman Catholic."

"But you worship the same God, do you not?"

The old woman did not reply. A log of burning embers escaped from the fire and rolled along the ground at their feet. Toby got up and moved to the doorway of the cottage.

Matthew gently closed the lid of the box next to him.

The mist had now cleared and, from where Toby stood, he had a view of the woman's garden and surrounding countryside. "Does all this land belong to you?" he asked.

"The wood, the pond and the bridle path from the marsh."

"Is that the extent of your property?"

There was a hesitation. The widow looked up from the fire. "Not all. There is a meadow beyond the wood which is rightfully mine"

Toby sensed a distasteful tone. "Do many people use the bridle path? That must be a nuisance for you."

"How can I stop them?" A wry smile crossed the widow's face. "But the swine and horses have the sense not to pass."

"How about the meadow, do others use that?"

"Ha!" The old woman spat on the floor. "The Watts wife tried to graze her cattle there once but the grass was disagreeable to them." She gave a toothy grin and looked up. "They all died after that."

"Was that the end of it?" Toby asked.

"The Watts woman tried to accuse me of poisoning them." She spat again. "Then her family stole the meadow from me." She looked into the fire. "But now they are paying for their deeds."

"How are they doing that?" Toby asked.

The woman did not reply but stared silently into the dying embers of the fire.

Toby turned to the view of her garden. Some of the plants were difficult to identify. "I notice there are many diverse herbs in your garden. For what purpose do they serve?"

"Some come to me for potions and other concerns."

"What concerns?"

"Some say I have a gift."

"A gift?"

"There were some who respected my . . . But that was before they turned against me."

"Do you mean the neighbours?"

The widow ignored his question and continued. "Now they just come to steal my chickens and hammer on my door at night."

"That must be a great concern for you, living here alone."

The widow poked at the fire for a while then turned to face Toby. "Take your quest to the English Isle in the Carib Sea, there you will find solace."

Toby was perplexed. The words seemed so out of context that he thought he must have misheard them. The old woman was looking into his eyes. "You will understand in time," she said.

She was beginning to make Toby somewhat uneasy and he deemed that they had been entertained by her long enough: it was time for them to depart. He thanked her for her hospitality and thought it only right to offer the old woman some advice.

"Before we go I feel I should tell you," he said. "There are some who hold a grudge against you. It would be wise to move away from this isolated place. Do you have a family you can stay with?"

The widow spoke quite softly "I have no family who live this side of the ocean and I buried both of my children soon after they were born. I have my cats who keep me good company."

"Very well. That is your choice."

As he followed Matthew through the door, the woman touched his shirt. "Who sent you here?" she asked.

"The Reverend Eastman of Plymouth." Toby turned to the widow, but she had already closed her door.

On their return to Plymouth, Toby reported his findings to his good friend Nathaniel Eastman and gave the opinion that Widow Hobbs was innocent of the accusations held against her.

It was only on leaving the colony that Toby reflected on the advice the woman had given him. Little did he realise how much her words would change his life.

END

website: www.jamesfaro.com

#  Maria is Leaving

by Celia Francis

Improvisation Exercise – Embedding a Literary Plant

.

Maria opened the envelope, her hands trembling as she realised it was the official looking letter she had been waiting for.

"Great!" she exclaimed aloud,"I've got the job!"

Five days earlier Maria had faced an interview board comprised of three members of the John Radcliffe Hospital recruitment team. She had applied to be a nurse on an acute ward.

For the previous three years Maria had worked shifts on a busy ward in a hospital in Madrid. The hospital had a good reputation, although last month the Ward Sister had expressed her concern about the high number of deaths on the ward during the last two years.

It was time for a change, Maria had decided soon afterwards. She broke the news to her mother gently.

"Sit down beside me, Mama. There's something I've got to tell you. I want to live in England for a while," she told her. "In fact, I have given in my notice and applied to work at a hospital in Oxford," she continued.

END

#  Psychological Experiment Gone Wrong

by Martin Pelles

The experiment was to take place deep in the bowels of the human sciences building. Carla found the room, 10.1, after having to return to the reception to ask them to repeat their directions for a second time.

The centre of the windowless room was dominated by what looked like a large fibreglass sarcophagus. Cables snaked across the floor, tethering the machine to a heavy duty rack of computers which was in turn connected to a workstation.

She was met by a what she guessed to be middle aged professor in a tweed jacket. The archetypal academic with balding head, short white beard and horn rimmed glasses. He was assisted by a woman in her thirties with pale complexion, curly blonde hair and bright red lipstick who was wearing a lab coat.

The professor began his briefing: "Welcome Carla, my name is Professor Barton, but feel free to call me Walton. We are joined today by Abigail who is working on her post-grad. Just to recap from what you have no doubt previously been told, this is an experiment to determine the factors that cause experiences to be stored in memory and the triggers that cause these experiences to be re-lived by the subject. We are doing this so we can better understand conditions such as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder that might for instance be suffered by military veterans and victims of violent crime. We do this by creating our own experiences using this sensory immersion apparatus which will be measured both immediately and again over subsequent sessions. Any questions so far?"

"I thought when you said that the experiment used virtual reality it meant some sort of goggles. Do I have to be shut in that... ?" she trailed off while looking nervously at the pod.

"The pod is used to isolate you from the external environment during the conditioning phase of the experiment. Once inside you will experience combinations of shapes and sound. These need to be intense in order to impress themselves onto your mind. You will at all times have an emergency stop button to abort this part of the experiment should you be unable to continue. The duration will only be about five minutes. Before you get to that stage you have a questionnaire to fill in, and we will run some tests on you as soon as you are done."

The questionnaire was quickly dispensed with and Carla was sent behind a curtained off corner of the room to change, emerging a couple of minutes later with her chubby frame wrapped in an operating gown. Abigail attached a few electrode patches and Carla squeezed herself into the padded interior of the pod. Just like a coffin she thought, laying back with building anxiety.

"Are you comfortable?" asked Abigail.

Carla gave a nervous nod

"Just relax and allow the experiences to occur," Abigail said, handing Carla a push button on a wire. "Here is the emergency stop, just press it if you become uncomfortable and we will get you out as soon as we can."

Abigail closed the lid and all was dark.

"Looks like a nervous one: her vitals indicate marginal increases in stress," said Abigail, gesticulating at the monitor.

"Let's not keep her waiting then. Commence the programming," said the professor.

On the monitor, an abstraction of the experiment started to play on the screen. Spots appeared here and there as the machine went through its start-up sequence.

"Keep an eye on those vitals," said the professor, "although the assessment suggested she's strong as an ox. Has the system calibrated?"

"We are just starting now," she said. A spiky 3D star shape appeared on screen accompanied by a harsh metallic buzz. This was followed on screen by a blob made up of several melded spheres and a bubbly noise. She knew from testing the programme that the imagery was holographically generated in front of the subject and the soundtrack was loud enough to be audible through the pod walls.

Suddenly the monitor ceased playing the designated programme and a text based terminal window popped up. Lines of text sprang into being as a series of programmes loaded themselves.

"What is this?" asked the professor. "Have you touched anything?"

Abigail' tried to focus the screen, but was was unable to make sense of the filenames, programmes or whatever else was being invoked by those green characters: "I've not done a thing - it just changed by itself. Something is hijacking the feed into the pod. The subject's vitals are going nuts!"

Indeed they were. She looked on in alarm as the heart rate monitor began flashing red as it exceeded 180 bpm. A rapid knocking sound was coming from inside the pod, along with a wailing soundtrack more appropriate to a horror movie.

"Well shut it off then!" said the professor.

She strode over to the external emergency stop button on the outside of the pod and pounded on it with her palm. "I can't! The emergency stop is not working! Carla can't stop it either." The hammering from inside the pod was becoming more frenzied, causing the unit to rock from side to side on its steel trolley. Muffled cries filled the room "Let me out! Help!"

She tried the handle in vain. "I can't open it! The interlocking's still engaged." Conceived as a safety feature to stop a live pod being opened with potentially traumatic consequences to its occupant in a virtual reality, the interlocking was now keeping the lid closed on the malfunctioning unit. "It's no good, we'll have to find some way of forcing it open. There must be a fire axe somewhere!"

"I've no idea, not the sort of thing we use in social science experiments" said the professor.

Abigail turned back to the main computer. The window displaying the terminal was locked. She tried hitting the backspace and escape keys, then the delete key. Ctrl-Alt-Del. None had any effect.

The knocking stopped despite a continuing demented soundtrack indicating to the pair that the virtual reality was still live. The pair looked at each other.

"She must have passed out..." said Abigail.

A loud crash came from the pod which seemed to buck a couple of inches off its supporting trolley. A pause and another equally loud concussion rocked the sensory pod. The pod audio stopped. The status indicator panel which had to this point been green had changed to red - system failure.

A further shuddering blow from inside the pod had them both flinching backward. A crack had formed on the fibreglass carapace.

"It looks like the subject has already taken matters into her own hands," said Abigail, stepping back as a large shard of fibreglass fell on the ground by her feet.

"You'd better stay back, that thing's not going to hold much longer and she's going be pissed!" said the professor.

The two scientists could only watch as the upper half of the cover broke away and clattered to the floor and Carla clawed herself upright to sitting position. Festooned in shattered pieces of printed circuit boards, LCDs, ribbon cables and plastic trim, she resembled a cyborg vampire rising from its coffin. Her face was a mask of horror, pupils dilated and gasping for breath. For a moment both scientists were transfixed.

Abigail broke the silence. "My God, are you okay? That was not meant to happen. We lost control of the experiment."

Carla continued to return Abigail's gaze with wide but vacant eyes. Abigail tried again. "Carla, can you hear me? It's over now. You are safe. Your experience was not real, it cannot harm you. Whatever it was." She addressed the professor; "For heaven's sake Walton, call an ambulance. She's hyperventilating."

Abigail stepped towards Carla, who had not moved or shown any expression in the interim. She waved her hand in front of Carla's dilated eyes. "Apparently catatonic."

Suddenly two hands shot out and grabbed Abigail by the lapels of her lab coat, almost lifting her off the floor. After two more heaving breaths, Carla threw up down Abigail's front.

"I always wondered why you bothered with that lab coat," muttered the professor as he picked up the phone to dial.

END

#  The Migrants

A Song by Angela Holmes

Refrain

18 miles or more

To a distant shore

You and me across the sea

It's 18 miles or more.

Verse

A distant land beckons we're leaving war behind

Whatever lies ahead we must not be afraid

We'll be strangers in a strange land but there's no need to worry

Over the horizon we'll find peace again

In 18 miles or more.

Refrain

18 miles or more

To a distant shore

You and me across the sea

It's 18 miles or more.

Verse

The sea looks fierce, the waters choppy

The boat looks fragile and very small

For all these people; my heart begins to sink

With you and me it's far too far

It's 18 miles or more.

Refrain

18 miles or more

To a distant shore

You and me across the sea

It's 18 miles or more.

END

#  Life Can Not Die

by Sophie Hawkins

Kevin Lemon was lost in a reverie of the future as he drove his rusty old car along a windy country lane. He was dreaming of the Spring that was waking from it's Winter slumber. His window was open, the breeze touching his skin.

Kevin Lemon was not concentrating.

As the rusty old car turned a corner, Kevin's foot slammed on the brakes. His body had reacted before his eyes had registered what was only a few inches in front of him.

It was a cow, chewing a sprig of hay. Completely unphased by it's near death experience.

Kevin placed his hand on his heart, which was beating in his ears.

The cow turned its head and stared into Kevin's eyes, still chewing on that hay. Sunlight beamed upon the tips of its long eyelashes. Women pay to have eyelashes as long as those.

Kevin saw how pretty the cows eyes were, wide and brown, full of wonder.

"Eyes wide and brown, full of wonder." The words repeated in his mind, except not in his own voice, or the mysterious voice of the mind, but his Grandmothers. Those words were the exact words she used to describe Kevin's Grandfather when she'd tell him tales of the past when he was a young boy. He would sit on the pink carpet with his legs crossed, gazing up at her as she spoke. He was captivated by her stories, no matter how simple or strange they may be.

When Kevin's Grandmother spoke, she opened her heart, so that you not only heard the words, you felt them too. Not many people can do that.

Kevin opened the car door and stepped out. He stayed frozen for a moment, unsure of what had led him to get out of the car.

Spring, perhaps. The Spring was always welcoming.

The Cow then slowly began to make its way to the field across the road.

"Wait!" said Kevin.

Of course the Cow did not wait. Its tail swung gently as it stepped up onto the field's hedge.

"Eyes wide and brown, full of wonder." His Grandmother's voice repeated in his mind, like a lullaby of angels.

Later that evening, Kevin was sitting at his bureau by the window to the garden, writing a letter to his Grandmother.

"Dear Grandma,

I saw something today. To the waking person, distracted by Spring's blue skies, it's what we call a Cow. It stood there looking at me. It knew me. Eyes wide and brown, full of wonder.

Today I saw my Grandfather, and I realised something wonderful, something which changed the world. To me, anyway. He is not dead, he never died. He is there, in all the beautiful things I see. In the sky, in the wispy white clouds, in the pretty eyes of a cow."

Kevin left his letter as that. It was his signature mark, to leave things seemingly unfinished. He folded the letter in half and slipped it into one of his finest cream envelopes. He left it on the bureau, and went off to bed.

The next day was another fine one.

Kevin drove along the windy country lanes, his window open, the breeze touching his skin. There were many wispy white clouds floating in a sky so blue. The most beautiful blue.

He drove slowly as he passed the field of cows, each one turned its head to face him as they saw. Kevin felt deep love in his heart for each pair of wondrous brown eyes.

The clouds had parted as Kevin reached the open gates. His boots crunched against gravel with each step, the church bells chimed thrice. The scent of roses touched his nose, a child had carried them here for his brother. Soon they would die. But today they were fresh and alive.

Here was Kevin's Grandmother.

Kevin crouched down and placed the letter on the ground, next to a photograph in a yellow frame.

He looked up, and gently touched the gravestone of his Grandmother, Mary Primrose Lemon.

"Eyes wide and brown, full of wonder. Nobody is dead, nobody died."

END

#  Made with Love

by James Le Cocq

'Are all systems ready?'

'Yeah. Just need to close up the back and it'll be good to go.'

'What'd you say neuroboy? You weren't supposed to check that area!'

'I didn't. I was just going to close it up.'

'It should already have been closed. I thought Vietmorr made that explicitly clear.'

'They did! I know the terms.'

'Don't get smart with me, now finish up and tick off. People will be turning up soon.'

At approximately nine in the morning a soft bell chimed in Capp's crystalline skull, her violet eyes opening to the familiar view of her large, rectangular room lighting up. She ran a quick check of its contents, head slowly rotating on its plinth in the centre of the room to scan the table strewn with surgical tools: the large, flat-screen monitor built into the wall directly in front of her, and the set of chrome double-doors that now slid open to permit a woman inside. Capp watched her visitor step through carrying a small metal case and brushing away a fringe of greying hair. The woman gave the bodiless android a friendly smile as the doors closed behind her. Capp would have returned the expression in kind, but Vietmorr had not quite finalised a working jaw yet. Hers was currently set in a skull's clenched grin, but despite the setback she could still project her polite, monotone voice to be heard clearly.

'Good morning Eurie. Was your rest sufficient for today's schedule?'

'You tell me,' Eurie asked back, putting the case down on the table before taking a stylus and tablet from her coat pocket. While she tapped the first commands in, a diagnosis algorithm activated inside Capp's head. In less than a few seconds she had analysed the unkempt strands of hair waving from Eurie's head and her stretched, pale skin that became discoloured beneath the eyes.

'Despite your application of skin moisturiser, it is clear that you were unsuccessful in achieving the healthy number of hours for optimal performance today.'

Eurie let out a half-hearted laugh. 'And what would you prescribe me?'

'Three hours of additional sleep,' Capp bluntly replied.

'Oh, if only that were possible,' Eurie muttered, stifling a yawn as she selected a program on her tablet. Behind her, the monitor sprung to life with the pentagonal symbol of the AI robotics company, Vietmorr. Next, she walked back to stand on its left side, tablet and stylus held at the ready. 'We're going to go through one more variation of the Bellignant test before we head off to the Papaleon.'

'How long will this variation be?' Capp asked.

'Not long. Just a few image-response tests. We don't have time for a practical surgical simulation.' Eurie's expression then shifted to a more professional, clinical look.

'I am going to show you a sequence of images, each depicting a patient with a different affliction. You must diagnose each patient and formulate a strategy for treatment, care and rehabilitation. Success will be based on your response-time and the effectiveness of your strategy.'

'Understood,' Capp replied, and rotated to stare straight at the monitor. Eurie tapped a command in and Vietmorr's logo faded away, replaced by the image of a young, stocky teenager sporting scratches and dark bruises all over his face. One had clutched a nose dribbling copious amounts of blood, and Capp's response was near-instantaneous.

'Patient has suffered physical trauma to the front of the skull. Symptoms include fractures to the nasal bone and swelling around the eyes and forehead. He needs to be escorted to a surgery to realign the bone pieces and cartilage, and to clean all other minor skin damages.'

'Length of rehabilitation?' Eurie asked.

'Five days to complete a sufficient recovery.'

Eurie nodded before moving the image on to depict a middle-aged woman in a bikini clutching her belly, mouth wide open in an agonised scream. This time Capp took slightly longer to reply.

'Patient is experiencing the early stages of a burst appendix, indicated by her high levels of stress and excessive swelling around the abdominal region. Immediate extraction is mandatory for removal of the damaged organ. Once completed, she will require a rehabilitation period of no less than two weeks.'

'Ok. Last image Capp. Again, please respond as quickly as possible.'

The screen shifted again, and it was clear to Capp that compared to the previous images, this one was markedly different. An adult male lay asleep in a hospital bed, head propped up by two large pillows. Both hands rested on his chest, while his right arm had an IV drip protruding from it. Ugly lines of scar tissue criss-crossed his shaved scalp while tired, pinched skin defined his eye sockets. Capp also noted the three other humans – two adolescent males and an older female – sat around the bed watching. Waiting.

Exactly seven seconds passed before Capp spoke again. 'Patient is afflicted with the cancer type Glioblastoma Multiforme. No definitive cure is currently known for this disease.'

'Are you certain?' Eurie asked, her attention now focused on Capp's facial patterns and the frown of concentration developing as the android considered her words.

'The life expectancy of humans suffering from this disease is roughly one full year with the available medical treatment. This man has undergone all such procedures.'

'So, nothing can be done for him?'

'Incorrect. Further medical treatment may be redundant at this stage, but emotional support will ease his transition from life. His family is with him, and he should spend his last moments with them.'

Capp finished her analysis and moved her gaze back to Eurie. The woman's expression displayed surprise, or perhaps even shock.

'My apologies,' Capp said. 'Is my strategy incorrect?'

Eurie took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes briefly. 'No, that was fine. I just wasn't expecting you to take stock of that last detail. I didn't know Vietmorr had programmed such...human awareness into you.' She said the last point more to herself, then snapped out of her ponderings. 'Well, I reckon that's good enough. Ready?'

In response, Capp turned her head back to its original position. Eurie nodded and tapped in another command that made the ceiling panel immediately behind Capp's plinth whine open. From its depths uncurled a robotic, insectile arm ending in a set of fine needles. Once fully extended it reached towards the back of Capp's head and four holes located just beneath the dome of her skull. It stopped just short of inserting the needles in, allowing Eurie to give Capp one last smile.

'Well. Guess I'll see you at the Papaleon. You understand what's happening?'

'Indeed. I will make the company proud,' Capp replied before Eurie tapped in the final command. The needles leapt, the arm twisted clockwise, and Capp's eyes closed. Slowly, the arm drew back with a long, transparent cylinder secured in-between the needles. Eurie picked up the case from the table and, opening it, walked over to hold it up to the arm. It then proceeded to carefully place the cylinder inside before curling itself back into the ceiling.

Euire turned the case around to have a quick look at the cylinder. She could see impossibly thin threads and synapses inside that every now and then twinkled like miniscule stars. Everything that made up Capp was in there, safely stored and ready to be transferred to her waiting body.

'Fascinating,' Eurie murmured as she closed the case and checked her tablet. The demonstration would be starting in roughly forty minutes: she would have to hurry. At the doors she stopped and cast one more glance to the android head, now lifeless and inert. She shuddered at its rictus grin before leaving.

The anatomical theatre room in the Papaleon was almost completely packed. Dozens of people, guests of honour invited by Vietmorr's executive board, lined the eight concentric tiers. Everyone had a clear view of the current speaker, Dr Hans Mólay, as he circled around the centre. He observed the audience's faces while he spoke, pleased to see most were filled with a nervous curiosity.

'For the past five years, Vietmorr have been developing a new artificial unit that will revolutionise the surgical field and omit the possibility of human error. A unit that can take one look at any human being and know instantly what is wrong, and the best course of action for a swift recovery.'

Hans paused, gesturing to the tall object sharing the centre with him. It was covered by a thick, pristine white shroud with a distinctly humanoid outline visible beneath. Next to it was a waist-high table bearing an assembled collection of surgical tools, all neatly arranged and ready for use. Hans walked over to stand next to the shrouded object, hands clasped behind his back.

'With this unit, hundreds of human lives will be saved where so many have been needlessly lost before. You have all been invited here so you might witness first-hand the greatest leap forward in surgical and artificial history. On behalf of the Vietmorr Corporation, I am proud to show you the first medical android, Capp-unit!'

He clutched a fistful of cloth and pulled the shroud back, revealing the androgynous form of a fully completed android beneath. The audience gazed in wonder at the mechanisms clearly visible beneath its transparent skin, looking at the brain piece, wires and servos that made up its intricate workings. It did not move, the eyes closed, and people began to look expectantly at Hans again. His own eyes were glancing towards the set of sliding doors that led back into the prep-room.

'At the moment, the android is completely devoid of consciousness, waiting to be filled with thoughts and personality. This is kept in a cylinder inserted into the back of skull'-

The doors suddenly yawned open to permit a young man speckled with moles. He carried the metal case and a needle gripper, laying them both on the table. Hans gave him a polite nod, though his eyes barely masked the irritation he felt for the late delivery. He waited until the young man had the cylinder secured in the gripper before speaking again.

'Now, our neuroboy will insert the cylinder into Capp-unit here, and we'll properly begin.'

The neuroboy went to stand behind the android and carefully slotted in the cylinder before twisting it anti-clockwise. The gripper moved away as small lights sprung up inside the android's brain-piece. Its eyes flickered, opened, and Capp stared out.

'I am ready,' she announced to a select smattering of applause. The neuroboy hurried back through the doors past two men wheeling an occupied gurney in. They stopped in the middle of the circle just in front of Capp so that she loomed over it. Upon it lay the still form of a pale woman, with all save her head covered by a thin blanket. At first the audience assumed she was dead given just how pale she was, but a few noticed her chest subtly rise and fall in steady breathing. Fewer still realised what was going to happen, and one audience member stood up, face incredulous.

'You cannot seriously be about to let a robot conduct surgery unsupervised?!'

'I am,' Hans replied. 'This woman volunteered herself for the new surgery, and Capp-unit has been trained and programmed so that she cannot make a mistake.'

'This is still madness!'

'Vietmorr calls it progress,' Hans shot back, casting his gaze around the assembled guests. 'I ask that everyone now remain silent for the demonstration. If you wish to leave for whatever reason, then the exits are at the back.'

Only the one outspoken member left, proceeding to stomp up the steps past Eurie, who had just walked in. She took the seat left vacant without a word, saying nothing and with her attention focused solely on the centre. Hans stepped away from Capp, hands clasped together, and spoke clearly.

'You are to determine the patient's affliction, a strategy for treatment, and will complete the procedure. Use what you deem necessary.'

Capp looked down at the sedated woman and pulled back the blanket, revealing a body dressed in a simple cold-green hospital gown. After a quick scan, Capp spoke aloud for everyone to hear.

'This patient has suffered extensive physical damage to her left leg, with fractures to both the tibia and fibula bones. The limb requires an internal fixation using three nails. Two for the tibia, and one for the fibula.'

She then turned and selected a scalpel from the table, holding it delicately over the leg.

'Heart rate and blood pressure are stable,' she stated. 'Beginning procedure.'

The audience held its breath as the scalpel went down and drew across the lower part of the limb. Unlike the people either side of her, Eurie didn't look away, but watched as Capp delicately sliced through skin and muscle before pulling back both sides of the cut to reveal the glistening bone beneath. Next, she selected three nails, and with great care successfully realigned the two fractures in the tibia. The nails were fixed precisely in place before Capp stitched the cut back up. No one said a word, completely in awe of the performance.

With the lower leg completed, Capp now prepared to repeat the process on the upper part, holding the last nail. As her hand moved down however, the demonstration was interrupted by a loud, keening wail that began emanating from her skull, freezing her in place for several seconds. Eurie stared at Hans, who had remained standing in the centre circle to watch, holding his ears, paralysed by the cacophonous wailing. It then stopped abruptly, leaving the room quiet again. Hans let go of his ears and stared towards Capp, eyes staring with bewildered concern as the audience also collected themselves. For a few seconds nothing happened, then Capp spoke again, but her voice had worryingly gone cold.

'Malfunction in rotary system. Unable to activate muscles in fingers and hands.' Another pause followed as Hans began to cautiously approach the gurney while the audience looked on. Capp continued.

'Completion of surgery remains primary objective. Recommencing.'

Capp then proceeded to ram the nail she was holding into the woman's leg. Such was the force, it jolted the patient wide awake despite the administered anaesthetic, her mouth opening in a cry of pain. Hans now rushed over, the neuroboy appearing close behind as they tried to grapple with Capp's arm. It didn't stop her from trying again, causing another scream from the patient even as she elbowed Hans in the stomach. By now the audience were leaping up and shouting as they began to dash for the exits. Meanwhile the neuroboy had drawn his needle gripper and managed to jab it into Capp's skull, yanking out the cylinder. At once the android went slack, arms falling to either side, still gripping the surgical tools. Hans, with his face drained of all colour, grabbed the gurney and wheeled the screaming patient away. The neuroboy followed after him even as he forced himself to suppress a smirk.

Still sitting amidst the churning crowd, Eurie watched Hans make his escape before calmly reaching for her tablet and selecting a contact number.

'It's done,' she said. 'The override chip I installed this morning worked perfectly. Vietmorr's reputation is almost definitely ruined.'

'Did you manage to recover the cylinder?' a voice asked.

'Our neuroboy had to make a crude job of removing it, but he has it.'

'Perfect. We'll see you this evening then. Enjoy the press.'

The communication went dead, and Eurie stored the tablet away again. Standing up, she walked down the stairs to the centre and towards the sliding doors. The patient's screams could still be heard beyond. Yes, Vietmorr was most assuredly going to roll after today.

She looked at the deactivated android that was now hanging forward. It had not fallen over despite the chaos, and she walked forward to stand in front of it.

'My gift to you Vietmorr,' she whispered. 'Made with love.'

END

#  Hurricane Gladys

Collaborative Project - From Summary to Story

Exercise 1

FINALE

In those closing bleak days, when the dust had stopped billowing and the trees stood shaking and forlorn with their powdery cloaks, I collected my scattered belongings together. There were few things there to define my life before. I shouldered my pack and straightened my shoulders, and set my face to the sun to face my life forward.

Exercise 2

STORY IDEA

The family home was annihilated by Hurricane Gladys. The wind blew the telephone cable onto the lounge roof and onto the television. The house was in darkness.

Exercise 3

SYNOPSIS

It is early afternoon on 12th September 2021.

My home town is Thomasville, Georgia.

I am Jon Marsh.

I am 37, a widower, my wife Tessa having died in a tragic accident five years ago.

My father died in 2018.

I have won a long court battle with my sisters Rachel and Christa as my father had left the family home to me. They wanted to be included in the proceeds by selling it. My sisters had been left extra money by my father instead.

I moved back into the family home in the summer of 2020.

I spent the next year getting the house refurbished and looking good.

Then Hurricane Gladys struck on 6th September 2021 – a terrifying ordeal.

All that I had fought for in the court room battle stood in ruins.

However, I was alive and would start again!

Exercise 4

Write a short story below (1000 – 2000 words) based on the SYNOPSIS above

which ends with the text of the FINALE.

THE STORY

My eyes settle on something small and brown. Is it? I wonder. I stare and sure enough, my old threadbare, little brown teddy bear lies face down in a black puddle. My spirits sink, drowned like the teddy.

The wet from the stairs carpet gradually seeps through my raincoat then my trousers — cold, that awful cold damp of reality. A realisation rocks me — another woman. Physical discomfort disappears... I shake as if involved in a car crash, or perhaps knocked almost senseless having witnessed a bomb going off. Stars flood across my vision as I try to come to terms with... ANOTHER destructive woman.

Gladys, yes Hurricane Gladys. This wouldn't have any significance were it not for the machinations of my two sisters over the last year. One can of course argue that my sister's antics are nothing like a hurricane's damage.

If we talk about personal damage then I disagree. I have two sisters that are dead as far I'm concerned. I'm not grieving in any way of course, the trouble is that I would have loved to have had nice sister. My shaking could be caused by delayed shock at the whole mess I'm in.

I derive some comfort by the fact that I believe that trouble comes in threes. Right that's three females... sorted.

This contemplation brings forth a feeling that feeds my intuition. There is a finality to this situation? I try to relax as I look around. The remains of what was the stairs tower above me, I have to smile, they lead to no-where. A bit like my life feels at the moment. The forlorn rain sodden furniture should depress me, or the tumbled walls jagged like an old man's teeth. Then I think—no, there's nothing permanent here. Only memories left of the family. I had the best parents a child could have. It's a shame Mum died when I was only fifteen, then much later Dad died at the ripe old age of eighty nine, that was last year. My two sisters whom, as I already indicated I never liked, I'll not talk about. Suffice it to say that neither has phoned to find out if I'm alright. Nor have they come to look at the house they tried so hard to steal from me.

A man's voice from the road behind me interrupts my ruminations.

"Jon? Hello is that you?"

I know the voice, and by the tone something is definitely and perhaps understandably wrong. He's usually such a jolly guy. I call out, "Hi Harry. How are you and June? and, and..." I notice that tears fill his eyes.

"This is really stupid of me, you're in the same predicament," he hung his head as he walked up, avoiding my eyes.

"Is June ok?

"Yes, yes of course. That's all that really matters."

"I'm so pleased," I sighed, "humans are so frail compared to buildings, and look at this mess. It's a wonder any of us survived," I feel a relief brought on by my own words.

"Guess we're all in this together, there's hardly a house standing in Oakfield County, which brings me to the reason why I came. You need to get your claim in pronto, before the insurance company is swamped by claims. I'll give you this contact card for Susan Wilde. She has just joined Silver's Insurance and is good at her job. She's also attractive, a divorcée, and your age."

"Harry you never change do you?"

"I have to shoot off, got the name of a dozer driver. They'll soon be hard to find."

I walked over to him placed my hand on his shoulder, "Remember me to June."

"Ok." He walked a few yards through debris towards his car, then turned and said, "It was June's idea, that card."

He left with a smile on his face.

I haven't much time to think about what Harry said, because as he leaves a metallic gold Range Rover pulls into the remains of my drive, a small area not covered by wreckage. It is David Johnson our six foot four farming neighbour, his thousand acres of corn make him a big player round here. He was also a friend of Dad.

He bounds over to me like a cat, it's just his way—he nearly runs everywhere.

"Sorry," He nods towards my flattened home, as he shakes my hand.

"You insured?" His baby blues burn into mine. I nod.

"Good! Uhm," he cleared his throat, "Look I'm not going to beat about the bush. I'd like to buy your property and build a house for Alan my eldest. He's getting married next June. I have always admired the situation of your house and the way it is on high ground. I'd like to help you so this is my offer. I'll get a valuation of what the property was worth before the storm and that's what my offer will be. It'll be non-negotiable. I don't mind because I would be re-building it anyway. And you will also have your insurance money."

Lost for words I nod again. This is a no-brainer.

"OK! Your father was a good friend and I very much want to help you."

"This is very kind of you Mr Johnson," I shook his cool hand, now it's my turn to have a watery eye. He put my email address into his mobile phone, and then with a speedy. "See you." He bounds back in his car and is soon speeding off into the distance. I watch him go and feel a curious freedom, a feeling of detachment. The time has come to leave behind the last traces of my childhood.

Precious little is left to bleed the heart. All that past lies in soaked destruction. I have no reason to return here. A future away from my nasty siblings now awaits me. I also remember what Harry said.

"I wonder what this Miss (I look at the card still in my hand) Susan Wilde is like. Maybe, just maybe, number four will be lucky."

In those closing bleak days, when dust had stopped billowing and the trees stood shaking and forlorn with their powdery cloaks. I collected my scattered belongings together. There were few things there to define my life before. I shouldered my pack straightened my shoulders, and set my face to the sun to face my life forward.

END

#  Sunrise Nurseries

Collaborative Project - From Summary to Story

FINALE

John (still) felt guilty. He realised he had totally ignored Kate's dreams... He simply had not (believed her) (known).

Now the dreams had come true in an unexpected way. It wasn't her old agoraphobia returning after all.

"I owe you an apology, darling," he declared.

"I'm pleased we came here, John. You've saved Tom's life."

STORY IDEA

It all happened (the previous week) (three months before). Kate had told John about her dreams., Tom had been in turmoil with the situation for sometime.

SYNOPSIS

1. This is a short story about a love triangle, and the consequences of a mental illness in one of the characters.

2. It all revolves around Kate and her dream of becoming something else, the essence of the story is. What is this something?

3. Three months before Kate had a kind of outburst and revealed to John that she wanted to work with growing things; to be a gardener. He knew she had had something on her mind for a while now, and not normally being the type to express her feelings, this explosion of emotion had surprised him. He felt that he could have kicked himself—he had been so blind. But at the same time felt relieved that she had confided in him, plus the minor changes he's seen in her recently. The story is set in the past.

Characters :- John Wilson, Tom Bennet, and Kate Anson make up a love triangle.

John is strong willed, impulsive and occasionally thoughtless.

Tom is introverted, the artistic type and stuck in a junior management position. He hasn't got the temperament to cope with it. The job he feels is killing him.

Kate has personality problems having been diagnosed with agoraphobia and depression.

THE STORY

John called in to see Kate at her rented flat, as he did every day, but this day was special. He worked for Bull and Socket the estate agents, this gave him the freedom he so liked. His enjoyment was palpable as they sat with their morning coffees. With elevated heartbeat he waited for that right moment... He smiled, it might just click her into the mood.

"Kate I've been thinking about this a lot, I may have the answer here to both yours and Tom's problems," he sipped the hot liquid as she waited with patience for him to spill the beans.

"Uhm!" he cleared his throat. "I want you to listen and think carefully before you answer."

He looked at her and needn't have worried—her head nodded.

"The proprietors of Sunrise Nurseries are ready to retire. Mr and Mrs Sodberry are old school and honest people, and the business is under-developed. I know that I can get it for a song," he sipped again. "What do you think? And will Tom be in agreement? You, Tom and myself to take it on."

"I'm sure Tom will be delighted. I'll phone him after... Oh darling," her arms grabbed him and her kiss was the answer. He was a good half hour late for an appointment.

Three months later.

John (still) felt guilty. He realised he had totally ignored Kate's dreams... He simply had not (believed her) (known).

Now the dreams had come true in an unexpected way. It wasn't her old agoraphobia returning after all.

"I owe you an apology, darling," he declared.

"I'm pleased we came here, John. You've saved Tom's life."

END

#  The Order of Release

by Angela Holmes

The following was a 15 minute written exercise undertaken individually at a group session where the group were presented with a picture of a painting by Sir John Everett Millais entitled: The Order of Release.

Becky wrapped her shawl round her shoulders then picked up her child in one arm and grasped the scrolled paper in the hand of the other. Both the child and the scrolled paper were as significant as each other.

"We must go now," she said to the child. "Your papa is coming home. Come on McTavish" she said to the sleeping dog who wagged his tail, jumped up and followed them in close order.

The child clapped his hands as they hurriedly walked to the Barracks. On arrival at the Barracks the Duty Sergeant asked them to wait in a chilly, airless room.

"This will only take a minute," he said and he closed the door behind him. Becky heard his booted feet receding and then silence.

"Is Papa coming?" whispered the child.

"Soon," said Becky, "but we just have to wait a little longer."

The sound of several pairs of booted feet could be heard in the distance. Closer and closer thy came until at last they stopped outside the room. The door opened and the Duty Sergeant stood by the door and the Senior Officer strode in followed by Becky's injured husband.

"Papa, papa," cried the child and with that her husband was hugging them both and McTavish rushed round them wagging his tail.

Becky held out the hand holding the scrolled paper and sotto voce said to the Senior Officer, "Here it is The Order of Release."

END

#  The Dunes

by John Bentley Wynd

The trek over the sand dunes was planned. Bobbie and Terry were best friends from their school days. The afternoon air, warm and humid. Terry glancing skywards, hearing the cries as he sighted two marsh harriers, graciously hovering overhead. With their wings outstretched, their feather fingertips gracefully feeling warmth of the afternoon breeze. Terry was just about to acknowledge their presence, when suddenly he called out as he tripped.

"Ouch"

Stumbling to the ground, holding his anger so as not to swear in front of Bobbie. Bobbie burst into her girlie laugher, until she saw the sight of blood,

"Aahhh, what have you done?" raising her hands towards her face in horror.

"It's nothing, there's something in the grass!" Terry replied, gritting his teeth, holding his shin with his left hand, pointing towards the object in the clump of grass.

"Something sharp?" He said,

"Where? I can't see anything but grass" came back the reply from Bobbie,

"There - pointing \- there's something sharp amongst that tall grass" said Terry, his voice sounding quite anxious, his adrenaline began racing as the pain got worse.

Moving towards the clump of grass, Bobbie noticed the metal protruding about twenty centimetres above the sand, and gave a few tugs.

"It's not moving, it's stuck solid," she said.

Removing his pullover that he had tied around his waist. Terry wiped the blood from his shin with the sleeve, before removing a handkerchief from his pocket, tying it around his wound.

"What is it Bobbie?" He asked.

"I'm not really sure, it's a piece of rusty metal, that's all, but I'll need something to dig away the sand" she replied,

"I can see something over there" replied Terry.

Now standing up, starting to hobble over to it.

"Is this of any use Bobbie?" Terry called out, waving two pieces of driftwood above his head,

"Yes, they'll do" Said Bobbie stretching out her hand towards him. Terry limping towards her, handing her the driftwood,

"Thanks"

"What do you think it is Bobbie?" Terry quizzed,

"Not really sure, but too dangerous to leave sticking out of the sand" replied Bobbie.

They both began to remove the sand surrounding the metal. Bobbie was wondering what it could be, as she glanced at Terry's face, showing his pain, but intrigued. Digging almost half a metre below the surface.

"It's just an old piece of metal after all that digging" said Terry as it became loose, pulling it out and throwing it down on the sand, not really noticing what it was. Suddenly there was a loud shriek from Bobbie, which startled Terry. It was what she thought it could be.

"What was that for? You made me jump", snapped Terry.

"Look! Terry, look" Bobbie showing the rusty piece of metal.

"It's a sword! an old sword, you can just make out that ridge in the middle, running the length of what was left of the blade and this is the sword handle, I've seen a similar one, but in much better condition" said Bobbie,

"Where?" Asked Terry trying to catch her out,

"York Museum, one of our school day trips, you didn't go because you had that nasty tummy bug?" Said an excited Bobbie buzzing with excitement.

"Ahh yes, I remember you went with Sylvie?"

"Yes that's the trip" She replied,

"Well, we'll take it into the office on Monday to show Bob Cooper, he likes his local history, let's see what he has to say about it" said Terry.

They sat excited about what they had found. Terry was playing with the sand, as it ran through his fingers. The pain in his shin had all been forgotten. Realising the large bits of pebbles between his fingers, were actually bits of coloured glass. Looking down he noticed some flattish round shapes. Rubbing them with his fingers, with a bit of spit to clean them. He realised that they were coins. They both started sifting through the loose sand, finding only five.

Monday morning in the office rest room, the staff were chattering about their weekend activities. Terry leaning against the window, as he noticed Bobbie arriving through the main door, at the end of the corridor. Spotting Terry, she gave him a wave, to let him know that she had seen him. She stopped as she saw Sylvie already at her desk.

"Hi Sylvie how are you, how was your weekend?"

With a smile, Terry approached them.

"Hi Terry, how are you? What do you have there? It looks heavy," said Sylvie, as she looked curiously at the multicoloured cotton bed sheet from the 70's and 80's, wrapped around the remnants of a sword.

Terry replying "I'll show and tell you later"

At that moment, Bill Sharp the assistant manager arrived, making them all disperse to their desks. Terry's desk was situated to the front of Bobbie's with a good view when discharging projectiles at Terry. It was 9:45. Terry approached the girls to see if they were stopping for coffee, as he was going to make one for himself. Moments later he appeared, hinting he was taking the sword, signalling to Bobbie to see if she was coming with him to see Bob Cooper.

"I'm chatting to Sylvie about her weekend, girlie stuff, what about lunch time?"

"Coope's in his office so I thought I'd catch him, is that okay? I'll see you later" He replied,

"I'll catch you later, sorry" Bobbie, replying in her soft telephone voice,

Knocking on the door marked Manager, Terry opened the door and walked in,

"Good morning Terry, what can I do for you?" Asked Elsie, Coope's secretary,

"Good morning Elsie, is it possible to speak to Mr. Cooper please?"

"Sorry Terry, Mr. Cooper is away this week, he's not back until next week, he's not well, you'll need to speak to Bill Sharp"

"Okay, thank you Elsie, bye".

Terry headed off to make his coffee. He quietly whispered to Bobbie as he returned, explaining that Mr. Cooper was off sick.

A few days later Terry was sat watching TV, his youngest sister started to switch channels to watch what she wanted. With medieval theme music playing on the program. Terry's thoughts wandered towards the sword in his bedroom, his sister was still channel hopping. Terry began to wonder how and why an old sword would be in the sand dunes. It had been his playground for as long as he could remember, to which got him thinking about the area and its local heritage, and how to find more answers. The best place to start is the internet or the local library, if it stays open on evenings and weekends.

The following day at the office Terry mentioned to Bobbie, about looking into the local heritage. She seemed interested, not at all boring, knights in armour and fighting, etc. After work Terry got home and changed into his scruffs, telling his mother he's going to the library after dinner. She was pleased but quite stunned at his sudden interest. After dinner, helping his mother to clear the dishes, again another shock moment for her.

"Terry my darling son, is there something wrong?" She calmly asked,

"No, why?" He replied,

"Well, you've told me that you are going to the library and you helped me clear the table without me having to ask you, that's why?"

"No, there's nothing wrong, remember the sword that Bobbie and I found on Saturday at the sand dunes?" He said,

"Er no, what sword, you didn't tell me that you found a sword, they are dangerous and you know how I feel about weapons, where is it?" She asked,

"It's upstairs in my room, I'll show you, so there's no need to worry about me having the sword"

Terry rushed upstairs to his room, and then thundered down the stairs like a herd of elephants.

"Here it is mam" he said as he was trying to catch his breath, showing her the rusty sword,

"You be careful with that, what makes you think it's a sword? It just looks like a bit of rusty metal to me" she said with a smile.

"No, it's a sword, Bobbie said"

As he pointed out the ridge running down both sides,

"It looks similar to what's on show at York Museum" hastily trying not to get himself into a discussion at this particular moment.

"Right I'm off to the library, as it closes at 8 o'clock tonight. I'll put this back in my room and get going"

At the library, the daunting task of what and where to start. Looking to see if there are any staff members, who seem easy to approach. Seeing a young lady, her shoulder length blonde hair and dark rimmed glasses, which she had placed on the top of her head, keeping her hair off her face.

"Excuse me miss, but can you help me please, I'm looking for the section on our local medieval history, please" he asked,

"Yes of course sir, follow me this way" she said with a soft smile,

Terry approached her quite sheepishly. Her badge on her blouse was inscribed with the name Melissa. That was the name of his Auntie.

Terry followed Melissa to the far side of the library, she stopped and looked left and right.

"Ah yes, here we are Medieval England, but for our local medieval history you may need to look at this section."

Pointing down to a lower shelf,

"If you need any more help come and find me, I'll be at the desk for a little while"

"Thank you miss" he smiled at her, then to the books,

As she turned and walked away, Terry's eyes followed her to the end of the aisle, before she turned she glanced back and smiled, then she was gone. His heart started to beat faster,

'Was this love? He thought, she was very nice'

"Where do I start? What am I doing in a library alone, like some nerd" Speaking out loud.

Kneeling down on the soft red carpet, his eyes started to scan the books bindings. Through the spaces between the books, came a voice,

"Who are you calling a nerd?" said the familiar voice.

Looking through the shelving, he saw a face appear, it was Sylvie,

"Hi Sylvie, what are you doing here?" Terry whispered,

"Hello, what am I doing here? What are you doing here? this is boring stuff not for someone as cool as you" said Sylvie with a big smirk across her face,

"I'm looking for books on medieval swords at the moment. What are you looking for?" He replied,

"I've come to look find books on yoga, I'm thinking of taking it up" said Sylvie,

All this seemed surreal, as Terry was way outside his comfort zone. Sylvie was quite calm, then asked,

"Is this to do with the sword and coins, that Bobbie and you found at the weekend?"

"Yeh, yes it is, Bobbie's told you about them? What's your idea on it?" he said,

"Honestly, I think it's great that you may have found a medieval sword in the sand" she said plainly, but not too bluntly.

Feeling a tap on his shoulder and a voice saying,

"Keep your voices down"

It was Bobbie she had just nipped off to the toilet, she too was intrigued about the sword and wanting to know of any local knowledge.

"What do you know? Have you found anything yet?" Bobbie asked,

"No, I've just arrived, but then you know that, what about this weekend? What would you say we all go back to for another dig? There may be more stuff still buried?" Excited about his suggestion,

"Yeh, I'm interested, what about you Sylvie?" said Bobbie,

"Yes, I'm in, are you sure that you want me to tag along?" Replied Sylvie,

"Is that okay with you Terry, if Sylvie joins us exploring?"

Terry already knew the answer,

"Okay that's sorted, I suggest Saturday morning about 9 o'clock at the middle car park, there shouldn't be too many people around, the dog walkers would have all gone by then, Okay with everyone?"

Melissa the library assistant approached and asked

"Have you found what you're looking for?"

His face, glowing red and warm with embarrassment, he smiled saying,

"Er Yes, I think we're okay"

Saturday had arrived, Terry excited at the thought of exploring with Bobbie and Sylvie. It was something that they had never done before. As planned the three met. Terry had brought two spades and some gardening tools from his dads shed. Bobbie pulled out of her car, a flower covered bag, with sandwich's and drinks. They headed towards their site.

"There, over there guys that's where we found it" shouted Bobbie pointing towards the clumps of grass in the distance.

They arrived at the spot, suddenly stopping, it wasn't the place, but very similar. Deciding to stay together, searching around, they were sure that was the right spot. They had spent twenty minutes or so, almost every time returning to where they had started. Suddenly Terry called to the girls,

"Over here you guys" they rushed over,

"Look what I've found," Terry said, putting his hand towards them for the girls to see.

"What is it?" Asked Sylvie picking it off Terry's hand, wanting a closer look.

"It's a shell and some grass" she said sounding deflated,

"It's the shell I had yesterday, I tied the blades of grass to it, while we were resting"

"So where's the grass we dug up?"

Asked Bobbie, sounding puzzled, as she looked at Terry.

"What are you both saying?" Asked Sylvie also puzzled.

"Someone has been here, and made it look like that we were never here. They have levelled the sand and cleared the grass away" said Bobbie.

"I don't understand. For what reason?" Asked Sylvie, she realised what she had just said.

"I think you two were being watched when you found the sword and coins, or overheard"

"Well, I think we'd better look around to see if we're being watched today before we start digging"

said Bobbie taking charge of the situation, all heads nodded with approval. It looks like they were not being watched, they started digging to see if there's anything more relics. Bobbie started to dig at the same spot where she found the sword, Sylvie and Terry were close digging their own holes, then Sylvie shouted,

"I've hit something metal you guys"

Carefully moving the sand, it was rusty and hollow. They began clearing the soft dry sand, as it kept falling into the hole that Sylvie was trying to dig.

"What is it Sylvie, do you know what it is yet?" Asked Bobbie being impatient and fidgety.

"It looks like a colander, no it looks more like a helmet, is it a helmet Sylvie?" Screeched Terry.

"Yes, a helmet" said Sylvie.

Most of the sand has now been cleared away,

Sylvie with both hands cupped, gently raising the helmet, she turned to the others, as she almost slipped back into the hole. The sand had given way beneath her, now red knees. Their eyes mesmerised at the sight and silent in awe. The silence was broken as Terry spoke,

"I was right, we're rich, we're rich" he shouted. Bobbie slapped her hand over his mouth, with a severe scorn across her face.

"Shut up, what are you doing? We need to be still! You idiot, you don't know who could be watching us right now, be quiet please" she scowled as she removed her hand.

"Sorry, I got excited, it's never been like anything we've found before" said Terry sheepishly, looking at both girls.

They studied the helmet to see it they had a clue of which century. Bobbie put it carefully into her flowered covered bag, all excited at their new find, looking for anything else that might be buried. Terry collected a few bits of coloured glass, which he found, then a few loose coins.

"What's that scraping noise, coming from your trowel Bobbie?" Sylvie asked,

As she slowly moved the sand to find the metal. Bobbie came across a piece of leather as she pulled, it tore, followed by clinking. It was a gold necklace with coloured gem stones.

"Look at what we have found, wow a sword, coins, a helmet and now a gold necklace"

Said Bobbie very excited, as she held it up. With so much excitement, they had forgotten the time. The rumbling of their stomachs became apparent, it was time to leave. Bobbie took charge, as she pulled out her mobile phone to take a photograph of the area.

"We need to disguise our dig site, so we need to camouflage it more, we need to dig up clumps of grass. Look for some boulders or something to change the appearance, so when we come back, we will recognise it" pausing for a moment then said,

"We'll get the grass from over there" pointing to a place away from their dig site,

"And look more boulders over there".

Terry grabbed the spade and dug up sand grass and bringing them back, replanting them to hide their site.

"Over here" shouted Sylvie "Over here"

"What is it Sylvie?" Asked Bobbie

"Will these small boulders do the job?"

"Brilliant. Just the thing, well done Sylvie, let's move them, we have to leave this area looking as natural as possible" said Bobbie.

After constructing a like for like area, metres away from their site, and accomplished what they needed,

"Anyone fancy a pizza? My turn to pay" said Terry,

Gathering their bags and tools, headed across the dunes towards their cars. As they arrived at the car park Bobbie stopped,

"What's wrong Bobbie?" Asked Sylvie, Terry also looked at Bobbie,

"I don't know, a cold shudder ran down my back", she said, as she turned to look towards their dig site, all their heads turned. Near the dig site stood a tall dark figure looking towards them, a sense of fear, a chill ran down their spines.

"So who's that over there?" Asked Terry looking at the two girls, then looked again towards the figure, it had vanished. They followed Terry to the pizza parlour, nothing was said, just silence.

Once inside, they were shown to their table, the overwhelming sound of voices from other customers filled the air, they all looked at each other.

"That was a bit eerie, we all saw that person on the sand dunes, didn't we?" Said Sylvie,

They began to talk about what they had seen and the next thing to do. After the meal Terry paid as promised. Bobbie told Terry the helmet and necklace were in the boot of her car, and to take them home to put with the sword.

"I think we should all meet up tomorrow morning in Ropner Park about eleven o'clock at the bandstand, we need to talk in private or does anyone else have a better place",

Shaking their heads, they headed off to their cars.

As they were getting in to their cars Bobbie called out to Terry,

"Leave the bag at home, okay".

"Okay" he replied,

Sunday morning they met in the park, but it was too busy. The bandstand was in use, Sylvie suggested going back to her flat, they all thought that was great idea.

The following day at the office, Bobbie decided to see Coope, he was just leaving his office as she arrived.

"Good morning Coope, could I have a quick word with you please?" She asked,

"Morning to you Bobbie, what can I help you with?" He asked,

Bobbie explained what they had been doing and what they had found, asking if it would be okay to bring the relics to the office tomorrow to show to him. Bobbie met with Terry and Sylvie in the rest room, she told them that Coope said it would be okay to bring the things in tomorrow. Later that afternoon Bobbie went to see Coope, who was in his office. She explained how they had found the sword, and necklace, and what she thought their age would be. Terry arrived a few minutes later, placing the relics on the desk for Coope to cast his knowledgeable eye over, and give a reasonable date. Coope asked if it would be okay to photograph them, for a second opinion from a colleague, which seemed okay.

Coope removed his mobile telephone from his jacket pocket and took individual photographs of each object for reference. He would get back to them as soon as possible with a rough date analysis. On his list for tomorrow, is to call in at the museum to see an old friend.

"Coope, what we haven't mentioned, is that there was a mysterious figure at the site when we left on Saturday" said Bobbie, Terry interrupted,

"Last week when we found the sword, then when we went back the following week the immediate area had been changed as if we had never been there",

Explaining what had happened. Coope scratched his head saying,

"You're always exaggerating, it was possibly a coincidence and you forgot how you left the area last week",

"No Coope, but as you say it may just be a coincidence and our minds playing tricks" said Bobbie, as she looked at her watch and realised it was time to be in a meeting,

"Bye Coope, we're late for a meeting, can we leave these here until the end of the day?"

"Yes of course, I'll put them in that cupboard" he pointed to a cupboard in the corner. Just as Terry was about to leave work, he called in to see Coope to collect the relics? There was no one there but the office was unlocked.

The next evening Terry went out for a cycle ride, for some reason in his absent mind, he rode past the sand dunes, there were a few cars parked some randomly and four cars parked next to each other. Terry thought nothing of this and carried on, turning his gaze to the dig site, spotting two figures talking, it looked like a dog moving around in the grass, then suddenly the dog stood up, it was a third person.

'Who are they and what are they doing at our dig site'

Terry said to himself as he stopped with a screech of his front brakes, almost falling off his bike. Peering from behind a nearby bush,

'What are those people doing there?

'What is the forth person saying to himself as the figure appeared from behind the nearby sand bank,

'I'd better let Bobbie know what's happening'

Dusk was drawing in, it wasn't too late to call Bobbie. Terry called her on her mobile, as not to disturb her parents, knowing Bobbie would be in her room,

"Hi Terry, what do you want? I just about heard the mobile, its on low volume" as she answered,

"Bobbie can you come down to the dunes car park now, but come on your push bike"

"What's the matter Terry?" She asked,

"There are four people doing something at our dig site, at first there were two, then a third, then a fourth person appeared, I think they are digging for our treasure" he said,

"What do you mean there are four people at out dig site, you're imagining it, I bet" she told him,

"C'mon and see for yourself, put on some dark clothes and grab yer bike" he said erratically,

"Okay, but you better not be winding me up this time of night" she said,

Bobbie arrived soon after, laying her bike on the floor away from any car headlights. They both quietly made their to way over the dunes to have a closer look at these mysterious people, that looked up to no good. When they got closer using the sand dunes as camouflage, the light was fading. They could still make out the silhouettes on the dunes, near to their dig location. Bobbie whispered,

"That's not our dig site, ours is over there about a thirty metres to the right. You've brought me out for no reason, your mind is playing tricks Terry".

"I was sure they were at our site, so why are they here, digging for what then" said Terry,

"What do you mean digging?" She said,

"There were two people then two figures stood up, holding what looked like spades" said Terry,

"You think you saw" quietly snapped Bobbie,

"Maybe your right, but I'm sure they were" he replied,

"And anyway I can't recognise any of them, they're just silhouettes in this light now" pausing,

"I'm off home, this was a waste of time, are you coming?" Again she snapped.

"Okay lets go, I'm sorry to have dragged you out this time of night" he said, but keep down and keep quiet.

"Okay" she said,

The next morning Terry was up early, as he was woken up by the milkman doing his rounds. Dressed and ready for work, he got in his car and headed to the sand dunes to see what had gone on last night. Leaving his car in the first car park, he headed towards the dig site on foot, when he arrived it was like nothing had been touched since Saturday.

'What were they doing here' he thought, looking around he remembered Bobbie saying,

"We're a thirty metres to the right" so looking to the left he headed to where they may have been. As he arrived at the spot it was evident that someone had been digging for something, but what. He continued to look around the area.

"Oi you!" Came a shout from behind him, which made him jump. It was all-quiet, there was just a slight breeze flowing across the dunes.

"Oh! Its you, you gave me the fright of my life then" snapped Terry,

It was Bobbie even though she brushed off last nights fiasco, she was still inquisitive of what really happened on the dunes and had been playing on her mind.

"Hi Terry, about last night, I wasn't in the mood, sorry" said Bobbie,

"That's okay, so why are you here? I don't really know, just a sense something isn't right" she said,

"What do you mean?" Asked Terry,

"The silhouettes we saw last night, I'm sure they were familiar for some reason", she said,

"What do you mean" he asked,

"I don't know, I just cannot get a handle on it at the moment" she replied.

"Okay, anyway look at this area, someone has been digging for something" said Terry, pointing to a clearing.

"Well, I don't think it's anything to do with our finds, because we've not told anybody, have you Bobbie?" Asked Terry,

"No, I've told no one of the spot, and I don't think Sylvie would have. I'll ask her when we get to the office, blimey is that the time we better be off"

They ran back to their cars, more cars had arrived. They didn't take too much notice, at the time, but the thought was there. At the office Bobbie asked Sylvie, she said she hadn't spoken to anyone either. They decided not to venture to the dunes, again until they had heard from Coope about what they had found. A week or so had passed and nothing was heard from Coope. They had heard that he's been off sick. When Coope did return to work he seemed preoccupied and elusive. When Bobby eventually caught up with him, she asked about what the period date was for their finds. He told her they were dated roughly late 15th century.

With that little information she got from him. She had heard a story, a battle took place somewhere in the dunes, with many lives lost. Bobbie met with Terry and Sylvie in the rest room. Bobbie told them what Coope had told her. They all agreed to stay off the dunes for a while. They never saw Coope much the next few weeks, he seemed too distant, always away at meetings. The three friends met in the staff car park as usual, end of work on a Friday afternoon. Some of their colleagues had already gone; usually they never saw many leaving. A car stopped besides them as they were chatting, it was Coope.

"Hello everyone, have a great weekend, enjoy the beach and dunes, bye" he said, then slowly driving away.

Terry's eyes were glazed, staring into space in the direction of the car leaving. The girls carried on with their conversation.

"That car, I've seen it before, I know I have and recently" cried out Terry,

"Stupid idiot" Bobbie called back, "That's Coope's car, and he just said bye to us"

"No, that's not what I mean, that was one of the cars in the car park" said Terry,

"Yeah we know he parks here all the time, he's an employee stupid" said Sylvie,

"Not this car park, the one at the sand dunes, silly" he replied,

"What are you talking about sand dunes car park?" Asked Sylvie,

"Sorry my fault, I've not spoken to Sylvie about our recent events" said Bobbie.

Bobbie explained about the people digging on the dunes, the cars and strangers in the dunes car park. Sylvie then remembered Bobbie had spoken about the dunes.

"Did Coope know where the sword and relics were found? Does he go to the dunes often and does anyone know where he actually lives?" Bobbie said,

"I think I might have mentioned it to him, when we were showing him the sword, sorry" said Bobbie,

"That would explain it, I think I may have mentioned it also, but does anyone know if he lives nearby or is it purely coincidental that his car was there?" Asked Terry,

"Not far from the sand dunes is situated a campsite, maybe it was one of the campers on an evening stroll, that just appeared and disappeared at that particular time when we all glanced back." Sylvie said.

Monday morning at the office, all the staff were asked to assemble in the rest room for an announcement. Elsie the secretary had called everyone to explain that Mr. Cooper had left the company, due to a sudden illness, and would not be returning in the foreseeable future. The shock could be seen on some faces, but his recent activities and temperament had changed. The thoughts from Bobbie, Sylvie and Terry were quite different. Was he the dark figure on the dunes that day? Neither of them had ventured to the dunes. Is there another reason for Coope quitting his job?

END

#  The Closet

Flash Fiction by James Sillwood

I hear him downstairs now – cupboards closing.

I slip into the wardrobe. Ease the door shut. Between the panels, a slither of light.

A creaking stair – he's on his way up!

I back into the shadows, a haven of suits and long dresses.

I take in the scent of old musk and stale perfume.

Silence.

Maybe he's gone.

Time stands still.

Another creak – the bedroom door!

I hold my breath.

Through the gap I see him. I move back further.

A hanger scrapes – wire against steel.

Footsteps approach. My heart beats against my chest.

A draught of cool air. I squeeze my eyes shut.

A hand grips my shoulder. "You're IT!"

A fit of giggles from us both.

END

website: www.jamessillwood.com

#  Poem

by James Le Cocq

You see them with droopy jaws,

going out of court with unbelievable letters.

They misunderstand life,

reading the box but not the book.

I don't know everything about the sonnets

like I do about some people,

who are in fine, combative fettle

growing weeds of pomposity.

Look at 116 for your son's benefit,

whose love is not love, but laugh and joke.

We'll say he wrote it

stimulating a spate of good education.

No one man having to travel by horse

was a total impossibility.

We have lived through a vicious period of war

with all this teaching that boys can have periods.

I wish I had that farm up front to do this properly.

Good-hearted is not enough. They neuter everyone.

END

#  Million Dollar Deal

by Juanita Shield-Laignel

Sid & Sally's Juice and Smoothie Bar, read the shiny new sign over the top of the door. I was so proud of it and I knew Sid was too.

All our married lives we had worked hard in dead end jobs to save for this day. The juice bar was to bring a little country rusticity into the City. We used organic wherever possible and had hours of fun trying out new recipes. Sid and I adored being in each other's company and this was the perfect way of spending every possible moment, together.

Most of the customers were smashing but we did get the odd obnoxious city slicker trying to be ever-so-up-to-date and ordering the organic juice of the day. At night when dropping off to sleep we'd joke about spiking their smoothies with bin contents but it was all in jest and a way of brushing off the narcissistic types so we could sleep easy at night.

There was one particular couple though that just got under my skin and I knew Sid didn't care for them either. It wasn't quite as bad for him as he was often out back, checking stock, ordering and washing dishes, whilst I was front of house.

"Oh Jules you really must try one of these, it's just soooo quaint in here," came the high pitched voice of an over-dressed and over thin woman. Everything was pinched; her cheek bones, her nose, her waist line.

"Phoebe, I really don't have time, you know I've got to get back to the office," he replied curtly.

"Darling the watercress and ginger pick-me-up is just sooooo divine and Sally here will have it ready for you in a jiffy...won't you dear". It was a statement more than a question. I had just finished a banana, honey and walnut smoothie for my last customer so quickly cleared and prepped for what they wanted. As they were leaving that voice was still penetrating...

"I told you it was to die for.......". Her voice trailed off and merged into the tinkling of the bell over the door.

The next day 'Jules' turned up by himself. "Sally eh? Nice name..." His Blackberry rang and cut him off mid speech, thank goodness – he intimated that he wanted the same as yesterday and paid whilst talking very loudly into his mobile.

"That's what I said Rodger, a new million dollar deal is going through tonight – you can't be late.........." His voice trailed off as he strode out of the door taking his tailored suit, designer watch and rich aroma with him. Five minutes later his wife arrived.

"Oh my God, I'm soooo late. Did I miss Jules? I'll have one of those wheatgrass thingies everyone is tweeting about... I can't stop I've an appointment at the nail bar in ten. Ciao."

That night Sid and I laughed that they needed high energy juices just to keep their mouths going.

Apart from the occasional difficult business person and of course 'Jules and Phebes', our lives were good. Quite frankly if one was going to work in the City one had to be prepared for all types and we were making a respectable profit and beginning to pay off our creditors.

Many customers were creatures of habit arriving about the same time'ish' each day – but J & P as my Sid and I had named them arrived at precisely the same time every day. She would come in at 12:20 and he would arrive 5 minutes later. They would always be very loud and if Sid and I hadn't secretly found ways of laughing at them; incredibly irritating. But business was still good so the odd irritant from spending customers could easily be tolerated.

Then one day shortly after we'd been trading for six months Jules arrived at 12:15.

"Sally my dear you're looking rather ravishing today, I'll have a raspberry blush please." I made him the smoothie whilst half listening to him waffle on about his usual stuff – "I'm big in the City you know, Million Dollar Deals, blah blah blah," I got on with the chore in hand with a fixed smile on my face feigning interest when all of a sudden I swear I heard him say, in barely audible tones but leaning slightly forward over the juice bar "I bet you're a right dirty little bitch.... does your husband know?". Just then Phoebe arrived.

"Oh pumpkin, I was just telling Sally about that Million Dollar Deal". I was so shocked I just carried on as usual.... 2 sticks of celery, 8 slices of apple, half a cucumber.......

As soon as I could I told Sid all about it. "Are you sure you heard right? Well my love, just carry on as normal and remember we need our customers so don't go confronting him and making a scene."

"The customer's always right!" we said in unison. The next few days were the same as ever, she arrived at 12:20 and he, five minutes later. She talked incessantly in a very high pitch all about her dreadful morning and her masseur being late, he talked equally loudly but a few octaves lower about this deal and that deal and I wished he'd stick his deals up his 'bleep, bleep'.

I kept feeling uneasy. "I can't stand him Sid, or her for that matter. Sometimes I feel like jamming my apple corer on that perfectly Botoxed skin right between her eyes." I admitted one night when we were discussing our day.

"Now, now dear," he said in his soothing tones, "the customer is always right," it had become our mantra.

But life was still great and Sid and I were even closer.

I got the shock of my life a few days later when Jules turned up at 11am. I was on my own clearing up after breakfast and preparing for the lunch rush. Sid had gone to get more stock from the market. I started to say 'Good morning. You're early' when he strode right up to me wafting his million dollar stench, caught hold of my arm and said into my ear...

"You don't fool me with your clean rosy cheeked face and your flowery skirt, I've got the measure of you and you're gagging for it," he spat out menacingly. I couldn't believe my ears.

"I, I, I"... I stammered.

"Don't come the innocent with me you filthy bitch," and he dragged me roughly into the kitchen. I was in a state of shock. It must have all been some horrible dream. He shoved me up against our new huge, white eco freezer and started to pull on my vintage blouse. I must have screamed, I was certainly screaming in my head but I'm not sure if it passed my vocal cords – it may have just been a pathetic whimper I was so scared. I closed my eyes tightly and was mustering up all the energy I could find and was just about to shove him away with all my might when suddenly he went limp and dropped to the floor in a crumpled, tailored suit, heap.

I opened my eyes to see a horrified Sid standing there with our brand new super duper whirly swirly smoothie machine in his shaking hands. He had just come in to witness the terrible scene and had grabbed the first thing to hand and had smashed it hard down on to the unsuspecting, perfectly coiffured head of my assailant.

"Oh my God Sally, are you OK?" came his extremely concerned voice.

"I think so," I replied in a tiny, shaky little voice.

"Oh God has he hurt you? Is that blood on your hands?" it felt like he was asking a tirade of questions, I couldn't focus.

"No. No it's just beetroot juice." I managed to reply as I sank, barely able to feel my legs beneath me, to the floor.

"I'm so glad I came back when I did, I'm sorry I didn't take you more seriously, please forgive me, I love you so much......" It all became an inaudible blur. His lips were moving fast and his eyes were imploring, but I couldn't hear a word. My eyes were fixed on Armani Man spread-eagle on the floor, blood oozing from under his scalp.

"What are we going to do about him?" I asked numbly. Sid turned, ripped from his concern for me into the hellish realisation that there was a bleeding man on our polished kitchen floor. He got up and went over to the still, lifeless body. He listened for breath and felt for a pulse. "He's dead". Sid was now the one in shock.

From nowhere my strength returned and I picked myself up off the floor, brushed down my 'flowery' skirt, swept back my hair and pinched my ashen cheeks to make them rosy once more. I knew exactly what to do.......

At precisely 12:20.....

"Hello darlings," came the familiar shrill voice.

"Today's special?" I asked tentatively.

"Ohh yaaah darling, do you know I've spent half an hour waiting to make an appointment at Giovanna's nail booth, they are just soooo busy, it's really hard to get in there these days, I only really need a re-shaping but I might as well have the whole lot done as I can't get in again until next week, quelle demise." I was hanging on every word she said, each and every syllable seemed so clear and each and every second like an eternity. I'd managed to make her juice.

"Oh it's simply delish darling and I see you've used tomatoes today, how inspirational; full of anti-oxidants," she crooned.

"Beetroot actually," I said calmly.

"Well whatever it's gorge darling. I must tell Jules, where is he? He's usually here by now, I can't wait any longer for him, I'll have to text him on the old B-berry," she orated as she edged towards the door "What did you say it was called again dear?"

I spluttered but managed to reply "Oh, urrrm, ahhhh...........'Million Dollar Deal'."

END

#  October Child

Poem For Francis (born on 31st October 2017) by Caroline Hepburn

A shroud of mist hangs over lanes where

Children shouting kicking scatter

Heaped up golden russet leaves

Amidst high oaks a squirrel peers

From outstretched branches stripped down bare

A feast of acorns piled there

Hurrying breathing musty dampness

Clumps of fungi cling together

Here a pumpkin standing guard with

Carved out features a grimacing devil

All innards scattered a pithy mess

Its disguise a Halloween fancy dress

Heading for home the day is done

Through the door a welcome light

Dancing flames the flickering fire

Basking in warmth I sit and wait

Dream of the time that you will come

My longed for October grandson

END

#  The Note

Opening Lines Collaborative Project

Terry was up dressed and ready for work early as he had heard the milkman, driving in his car and heading to the sand dunes to see what went on last night. The car park was empty, he headed to the dig site, when he arrived it was like nothing had been touched since that Saturday.

'What were they doing here' he thought, looking around he remembered Bobbie saying, "We're a hundred metre to the right." So, looking to the left, Terry headed to where they may have been.

Arriving at the spot, it was evident that someone has been digging for something, but what? He continued to scan around the area.

"Oi you!" Came a voice from behind him, which made him jump.

"Bobbie you stupid bitch, you gave me a fright of my life" snapped Terry.

She had brushed off last nights fiasco, but is still inquisitive of what really happened on the dunes was playing on her mind. She led him to the top of one of the smaller dunes. "Look! down there, can you see it?"

There, amidst discarded beer and coke cans was a rucksack partially covered by the sand.

"It might belong to one of them," Bobbie was sliding down the dune eager to discover what, if anything, the rucksack held.

"Have you seen anyone this morning?" Terry asked, sneaking a glance at his watch as she clambered back up to him clutching her find.

"No. It's been quiet."

He could tell she wasn't really listening.

She flung the rucksack towards him."That was a waste of time. Just a half eaten sandwich, yuck!"

Brushing the sand from her jeans, she sat down next to him with a sigh.

"There's something else here " He pulled out a piece of folded note paper.

"Probably someone's old shopping list." Bobbie was tying her hair back. Terry thought it made her look like a schoolteacher.

He unfolded the paper and stared at the neat black letters.

"Oh wow!" Bobbie peered over his shoulder, trying to snatch the note. "How weird!"

"What on earth?" Terry shook his head and gripped the paper tighter. There was no mistake. There, printed in block capitals letters was his name, address and mobile number.

"I know that handwriting" said Bobbie. "I just can't put a name to it, this is going to drive me mad" Bobbies words trailed on in the background, blending in with the waves and the wind.

Terry continued to stare at the piece of paper, he knew that handwriting too. It was his own.

END

#  Night Reception

by James Faro

I'm sure I'm right about last night. I remember looking at my watch; it was 3.28 am. Julia may have had a job to wake me, and I could still have been half-asleep, but I clearly remember the girl standing outside our door. Her voice was so quiet – almost inaudible; "Sir, I'm very sorry to disturb you but there is an urgent telephone call for Miss Brown in the lobby." Strange girl; couldn't have been much more than twenty. I reckoned a bit old fashioned for her age; dark hair down to her shoulders with a middle parting. Difficult to make out the colour of her eyes in the dim light but, nevertheless, I can remember her as clearly as if she were here now. By then Julia had thrown on her dress and was now at the door. With a strict instruction not to fall asleep until she got back, she disappeared into the darkness.

I sat propped up in bed wishing I had something to read. Ten minutes went by – then another ten. I started to get worried. There's got to be something wrong! I was about to give her a call on my mobile when I noticed her phone on the bedside table. I pulled on my jeans and tee-shirt, picked up the pass key and closed the door on my way out. The staircase was so dimly lit that I had to run my hands along the wall to find my way down; stone cold steps under my bare feet, uneven, worn down through the centuries. It took me ages to reach the bottom. The dark oak panelling surrounding the lobby absorbed most of the light from the lamp on the desk. There was no-one at reception. In fact, there was not a soul to be seen anywhere: the place was deserted!

I stood and listened for over a minute, but still there was nothing. No voices, no creaking heaters, not even the ticking of a clock. The silence was so unnatural.

Once my eyes grew accustomed to the dark, I looked around for some clue. All the doors leading from the hall were closed, but there was nothing to show there was any life behind them. The door behind the reception desk looked promising though. I tried the handle – locked. I noticed a glimmer of light under the large oak double doors at the far end of the lobby. The handle sprang with such a loud clunk it made me start. I gave the door a gentle push. It swung open without a sound. I took a step into a large room furnished with more than a dozen circular tables, each covered with a crisp white linen tablecloth and laid for breakfast: the Great Hall. I remembered the illustration in the brochure which advertised Brinsley Manor. One small lamp, placed above one of the paintings on the opposite wall, was the only light in the room, I could make out the family crest and the carved panels of the minstrels' gallery at the end of the hall. The absence of people in the place made me feel somewhat uneasy and I remember wanting to get out of there as quickly as possible. I stepped back into the lobby and pulled the door closed behind me.

Sitting here now, in the same room, with the morning sun flooding though the leaded windows, the place felt completely different. I watched Julia return from the counter with her second bowl of corn flakes.

"How could there possibly have been a phone call for me?" she said, pouring the milk evenly over the cereal. "Besides, no one knows I'm here. You only told me where we were going after we set off yesterday, remember?" Her spoon hovered over the bowl. "Let's face it Philip, if it had been left to me, we would have got here in time for dinner."

I continued to butter the slice of toast which had now gone cold on my side plate. I looked up at Julia. I still can't believe that when I woke up, there she was, still laying right next to me as if nothing had happened.

"Oh, come on Phil, I'm only teasing you." Julia's eyes had that mischievous look. "It was a lovely surprise –"

"No, no. It's not that. I was just thinking, how could you get back into the room if I had the pass-key?"

Julia shook her head. "Look. This is beyond a joke. It might have been funny at first but sometimes you just don't know when to stop."

An elderly couple came in and settled down at the table next to the radiator along the far wall.

"I know I nodded off," I said, trying to sound apologetic. "But that was at least an hour and a half after you left. I don't see how you managed to get back into the room?" I took a bite of toast. "And you still haven't told me what the phone call was about."

Julia glanced towards the couple by the radiator. She put down her spoon and leaned closer. "Look, Philip" she whispered. "I'm getting fed up with this. How many times do I have to tell you? There was no knocking on the door, no phone call and I certainly didn't get up in the middle of the bloody night to wander about in the dark!" She glared at me. "You went to sleep well before midnight – hardly the night of passion you promised. I was left to listen to your snoring half the night. I'm beginning to think I must be mad to drive all this way down here to see you!"

Maybe she was right. It could have been a dream.

"God! You haven't been listening to a word, have you?" She tossed her napkin onto her side plate. "Listen, Philip. Do you still want us to carry on?"

"Yes, of course –"

"Because I want to make it quite clear," Julia continued. "I'm not going to settle for a relationship without anything physical between us."

"No, that's not what I want either," I said, apologetically. "I'm sorry darling. It must have been the champagne last night." I tried to find a solution. "Look, we still have an hour before we have to check-out. If you want, we could go back to our room and – "

"It's too late now." Julia reached into her handbag, "I have to be back by eleven." She took out her mobile phone and tapped in a number. "I'd better let them know I'll be coming in."

I took out my own phone to check if there were any missed calls or messages. I flipped it open – dead!

Then another thought occurred to me.

I stood up and searched my pockets – no St Christopher! I looked across at Julia. How the hell am I going to explain that to her? She only gave it to me yesterday. I slumped back into my chair.

Julia shut her phone off. "We should be going." She drained the last dregs of her coffee and stood up. "You finish your breakfast. I'll go up and pack."

"Okay. I'll settle the bill." I looked up.

She was standing with her hand outstretched.

"I'll be up in a couple of minutes," I added.

She raised her eyes to heaven. "The key?"

"Oh, yes. Sorry, here it is."

I watched Julia leave the Hall. Not the best time away together. I now wished I hadn't gone on about it so much. Perhaps she was right; maybe I imagined the whole thing. That bottle of champagne could have triggered it. I could always ask about the phone call at the desk; they should be able to confirm it: one way or another. One thing's for sure, I'd better not mention it any more to Julia; things are bad enough as it is.

I poured myself another cup from the coffee pot and looked about the room – The Great Hall felt very different now to how it did then. I thought back to the events of last night.

Retreating back into the lobby hadn't made me feel any better. I was immediately engulfed in blackness and it took a good few minutes to adjust to the dark. I had almost forgotten why I had come down – Julia. How could she not be here? There was only one other possibility. She must have gone out to the car for some reason.

I groped my way along the panelling towards the entrance and stumbled into the stoneware plant pot which stood to one side of the front door. I found the handle; also locked. It could just be bolted: maybe she's been locked out.

I reached into my pocket - why didn't I think of this before? As I pulled out my mobile phone something fell with a tinkling sound onto the stone floor. Damn! – the charm.

I opened up my phone and the area was flooded with a blue light. Door bolts were the last thing on my mind. I dropped to the flagstones on my hands and knees. I just had to find that lucky charm. I searched everywhere; all along the skirting, behind the pots, even under the doormat. Julia had only given it to me that afternoon. I know it's quite small, about the size of a five-pence piece, but how could it just disappear like that? I was about to start the search all over again when four things happened – almost simultaneously. First, my phone light went out. Then a door, somewhere in the lobby behind me, slammed with such force my heart leaped into my throat. This was followed by a breath of air, so chilled I could feel goosebumps rise on the back of my neck. But the fourth was the worst – a sweet sickly smell filled the room. So overpowering it made me retch.

I sprang to my feet and fled. It was a miracle that I found my way to the staircase! I bounded the stone steps two at a time, my footsteps echoing off the bare walls. I dared not look back and prayed Julia would be waiting outside the door – but she wasn't. Once inside the room, I leaned back against the door – Julia wasn't there either! I picked up my watch from the bedside table – 4.47. All I could do was go to bed and wait. I must have drifted off fairly soon after that.

The slice of half-eaten toast lay abandoned on my plate. Julia has probably packed by now. Better get to reception.

There was a someone new at the desk. I paid the bill. I was about to leave, but couldn't resist asking him. "I nearly forgot, do I owe you anything for the call last night?"

There was a pause.

"I don't think so sir. I'll just check." The man looked through the entries in the register on the desk. "No sir. There's nothing in here. What was the call about sir?"

"Oh, the receptionist came to tell us there was a phone call here in the lobby."

"I'll just check with my colleague, sir. I don't think she's left yet."

The man left his desk and put his head around the door of the office. He had definitely said she! Yes that's it – it's got to be that girl from last night. When he returned, a woman, buttoning up her coat, appeared at the door. She was well into her forties with short fair hair.

"This is Mr Lake from room 15," the man explained. "He believes that you may have called him with an important phone message last night." He turned to me. "What time would that have been, sir?"

"About three-fifteen. Actually, the call was for Miss Brown, but I think I may be mistaken. I'll go up and check with her."

"Could you describe the person, sir?"

"Miss Brown?" I said, puzzled.

The man smirked. "No sir. The person who passed on the message."

I gave a brief description of the girl standing in the corridor outside our room.

The two reception staff looked at each other briefly, then the woman, who had been listening patiently, spoke for the first time. "I'm sorry sir. I was on here from eleven-thirty until about ten minutes ago and there have been no in coming calls for any of the guests during the night." She frowned and thought for a moment. "I can check the phone records if you like, sir."

"No, no. I've obviously got it completely wrong, but thank you anyway."

"As you wish, sir," the man said with a hint of mockery. "Is there any thing else we can help you with?"

"No, no. Thank you very much." I pocketed my wallet and headed for the stairs.

"Excuse me, sir."

The man's voice stopped me in my tracks. Was there something they had to tell me? Some explanation for the night-time events? I turned again to face the couple at reception.

"Your receipt, sir." The man slid the paper along the desktop towards me.

Fifteen minutes later we were both heading out of the lobby, Julia a few feet ahead of me. As we passed through the main entrance something caught my eye. I put down Julia's suitcase and reached inside the rim of the plant pot. My blood ran cold. There, in the palm of my hand, was the little silver St Christopher charm.

END

website: www.jamesfaro.com

#  Just Say It

#  Extract from a Novel

© Tessa Barrie 2019

They were instinctively drawn to the veranda where they stood for some time, mesmerised by the view. It stretched out beyond a small orange grove, across the vineyard, sloping gently down towards the Atlantic Ocean.

In the pastel shades of the cooling evening sunshine, they inhaled the soft aromatic air. The smell of the dry, dusty ochre coloured earth replaced with the infusion of fresh, tangy pine emanating from the abundance of umbrella pine trees.

The sharp, sweet-smelling pine mingling with the scent of lavender, growing rampant, spilling over what used to be flowerbeds. The bougainvillea too ran wild and unrestrained, draping itself around the house, as if trying to cover up the cracks, in a fusion of pinks, purples and reds.

The sun had started its descent into the Atlantic Ocean, its orange glow blurring across the horizon as far as the eye could see. An unseen chorus of crickets scissored their legs, their calming resonance soothing the turmoil inside their heads and the tension in their bodies slowly began to trickle away.

END

website: www.tessabarrielostblogs.com

# 

#  The Paintings

by Sophie Hawkins

Isabelle Hicks was falling into a slumber in her arm chair. On her lap was a stack of papers filled with the thin, loopy handwriting of words from top to bottom. Her laptop was open in front of her, resting on a wooden stool, from it the passionate words of feminism fluttered out like butterflies. The vibrations of the phone ringing broke Isabelle's soft journey into sleep. Her eyes opened suddenly.

It was her brother, Jack.

"Hello my dear!" said Jack. His voice was bright and alert. The sound of his guitar played in the background.

"I was just about to fall asleep, you arsehole," said Isabelle. She reached on her side and pulled the charger out from the phone so that she could sit up. She yawned and stretched her arms like a cat.

"Oh lovely. A siesta. Did you have a soothing mug of Nestle Sleep?"

"Three," said Isabelle, as ironic as rain on your wedding day.

"I have some work coming up," said Jack. The tone of his guitar playing switched to a nostalgic, sweet and merry one. It made Isabelle think of a fiesta. Jack was a guitarist, an aspiring one. He loved to play. He wanted nothing more than to play as a free man. Everything else was a distraction. "I'm going to be playing at someone's art exhibition."

"That sounds so nice," said Isabelle. "How did you find that?"

"Well," said Jack, in the way you do when you're about to reveal the punch line. A pause of anticipation followed. "I bumped into Sean Pike. Remember? The weird one."

Sean Pike was an old school friend of Jack's. A boy the eight year old Isabelle had a crush on. She would hide behind her brother's door and peer through the crack, spying on the round face and bucked teeth of twelve year old Sean Pike, her future husband. She would say she loved him not just for his strong features resembling those of Ron Weasleys. She was the Ginny to the Harry. The Hermionie to the Ron. Those were the romantic Harry Potter inspired days.

Later on in Isabelle's life, as a new Woman, fresh out of womb of teenage, she would meet her eight year old self s love once again. Whilst on a weekend trip visiting her aunt in Cornwall, she was crumbling at the knowing of the mundane. By the Sunday morning, she had simply had enough of her Aunts flute playing. The screeching clumsy sounds poured through the open window of the bedroom she was staying in and pierced through her like bullets. Jane Boil must always play the flute on the roof. Or else she could not feel her flow, she says. Sometimes she would sing in this wobbly Victorian clown fashion. But the most, shall we say eccentric piece of the story, is that the flute would be playing at the same time. When Isabelle asked her about this mystery, Jane said it was the wind that played the flute, not her.

Isabelle needed to get away, the flute would play constantly. If Jane was not on the roof, playing and singing, she would leave it outside to screech on it's own whilst she hurriedly slithered around the kitchen, picking up Isabelle's rubbish and grabbing pieces of bread out its packet and scuttling out with it clenched in her fist.

On the Sunday morning, after breakfast with her Aunt, Isabelle stood up and said she would go for a wander.

"Very well," said Jane. "It's a lovely day. I know what I'll be doing." Her head tilted towards the French windows leading to the ladder Jane used to climb up to the roof.

The sun poured down it's golden warmth as Isabelle stepped out the door. A choir of birds began to sing in harmony, it's Summertime, it's Summertime, they sing. She paused to admire the life in the air, before running down the stone steps on her toes, like characters do in films.

On her way towards the bay, Isabelle caught sight of a familiar face. A man dressed in smart clothes, his legs together, his upper lip resting just above two front teeth. He looked up at Isabelle, and held his gaze, the expression of seeing a familiar face.

"Hi," he said. "I recognise you."

It was Sean Pike. He looked exactly the same as Isabelle had remembered. She felt her eight year old self inside cartwheel in celebration, waving cupid's bow in the air triumphantly.

"Are you Jack Hicks sister? Isabelle?" Sean jolted up to his feet and pulled his arm out which seemed to have come from behind his back in a swift movement to shake her hand. Isabelle took it and felt it was clammy and thick.

"Yes!" said Isabelle, with surprise. "Wow I never thought I'd see you again. It's so funny." She felt laughter erupt from her stomach, for no apparent reason. She covered her mouth and pretended to cough.

Sean was still holding her hand in his. His teeth rested ever so slightly upon his full bottom lip which glistened. Isabelle could see how long his sandy eyelashes were in the sun light.

"Are you free, now?" He asked.

It was ten in the morning. Isabelle was free until the following morning. She knew that.

"I am," she said.

Sean took Isabelle to a seafood restaurant on the bay. They agreed that seafood was acceptable no matter the time of day, listing every fish you could have for breakfast - sardines, salmon, fish fingers. They fussed over the menu for a while, lingering over the wine section. Their personas of sophistication made them think before acting upon their desires, until, finally, Isabelle said of course they could order wine, it was almost lunch time.

A short while after their breakfast, and half way through the second bottle of wine, Isabelle said, whilst leaning into her rekindled love, "Let's play have you ever."

"Okay," said Sean, whilst trying to balance his glass on his nose. He puffed air from his cheeks. "You go first."

Isabelle thought she'd begin with something ridiculous, she was too shy to be serious. A violin played to a table indoors.

"Have you ever masturbated over your friend while they sleep?" She used her sharpest tone, which she prided on being the prime in her wit.

"I have, actually," said Sean. His bottom lip was wet with saliva.

"What?" said Isabelle. His words replayed in her head whilst she frantically studied them for signs he was joking.

"Yeah," said Sean. "My old room-mate, who is gay, was having a nap and I was bored." He caught sight of the wideness of her eyes and his lips curled into a smile. "He wouldn't have minded." His hand twirled the wine glass and it spun in a perfect circle on the table. His hands moved like dancers.

"Anyway," said Isabelle. "Your turn." She drank her glass of wine in three full swallows, and licked the bitter sweetness from her lips.

"How old were you when you started your period?" said Sean. His eyes were protruding from their lids, refusing to miss a glimpse of this moment. Isabelle knew her answer was significant to Sean. The wine glass stopped spinning.

"That's not a would you rather," said Isabelle. She wanted the grimace to wash from Sean's face.

"Sorry," he said. "You don't have to answer. I only asked because all my friends are girls, and they always talk about periods." His voice was a soft whistle.

The day light seemed to contradict with the moment. Isabelle thought a dark cloud should cast over the sun, covering the blue sky with its shadow, turning day to night. Sean was pouring the last of the wine from the bottle into her glass.

"I'm not telling you. And you shouldn't want to know," she said.

"Okay," Sean held his hands up and arched his shoulders so that his head poked forwards, his eyes were closed and his cheeks were red. There was a few moments of silence.

"Do you ever write poetry?" said Sean.

"Sometimes. On my phone," said Isabelle.

"Can I see?" Asked Sean. He flicked a ginger curl which covered his eye.

A waitress stopped beside them and asked if they were finished.

"Just give us a minute, lady," said Sean. He held a hand up towards her. To which she huffed and stomped away towards the bar.

"I despise being interrupted," he said, laughing a whispering 'ha' with a straight face.

"I'll show you some later," said Isabelle. "Shall we go somewhere else?"

Sean said they could go to his and look at the view of Cornwall from his rooftop garden. The thought of a rooftop reminded Isabelle of her Aunt and her own single orchestra, and that she could not bear to go home. She said she would love to go and watch people scurry along below like ants.

Sean's roof top garden happened to be a top storey car park of his apartments. They sat there for a while, looking out upon the county. Neither spoke for a while, which pleased Isabelle. She liked Sean a lot more when he was silent.

Sean said they should go indoors in case they were to get sun burnt. "I'll show you my room," he prompted, beckoning Isabelle with a curl of his arm.

Something led her to walk beside him. There were glimpses of Sean that hit a nostalgic note inside her. She would stay in this state of fondness until he broke it with a strange comment or look. Isabelle wished he didn't have bucked teeth, perhaps that was the cause of the tension she felt. She looked back on the things he had said as hazy memories.

"Have you got any more alcohol?" She asked.

They stepped into a lift.

"Oh, I'm sure I do," said Sean. He raised his eyebrows.

The lift took them down to the third floor. Which opened itself onto a long corridor with crimson red carpet and doors lined along the walls, reaching far into the distance.

"I didn't realise your apartments were so big!" said Isabelle. They stepped out of the lift. When Isabelle had seen the building from the outside, she was in deep conversation about women having the right to post naked photos of themselves on Facebook, if they wished, that she hadn't paid attention to the size. She thought now it must be as big as a hotel.

Sean's room had no windows. It made it feel as though they were trapped in a tower, or in an industrial storage garage. Sean said there was an extractor fan which breathed out fresh air from the other rooms, so there was nothing to worry about.

Sean had a single bed with plain blue sheets. There were some clothes littering the floor.

"Oh god," said Sean. "Cover your eyes!" He threw his hands over Isabelle's eyes so suddenly that two of his thick fingers hit her in the eye.

"Ah! Fucking idiot!" She cried. Her eye had shut tightly and was blurred with tears.

"Oh my goodness, Isabelle, I'm so sorry," said Sean, he placed his hands on her shoulders and leaned his head towards hers so that each forehead was almost touching. Isabelle could see the blur of his pink face swaying in front of her, she could feel the heat of his heavy breath on her skin.

"It's alright. It was just unexpected," she said, leaning back slightly.

"I'm so sorry, honestly -"

"Just please stop jumping around like a monkey."

Sean froze like a statue. "Is that better?" He spoke without moving his lips, like a ventriloquist. His pupils darting around the room sharply. Suddenly he let his heavy body fall to the side in a plank, landing with a bounce onto the bed.

Isabelle laughed and covered her mouth. Sean maintained his frozen position, blinking every second, like a tower fallen on its side all in one piece.

"Very funny," she said. "May you get the alcohol you said you had?"

Sean sat up abruptly. "Oh the things I do for you. I feel like we're married already." He rolled his little pupils around his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. Isabelle said nothing.

When Sean left the room Isabelle sat herself down on the bed. The extractor fan was humming loudly. What sort of person lives in a room like this, she wondered, a room with no windows. She thought about going home, she had no sense of time in this dungeon, and she wouldn't stay here the night with this odd man.

Beside her, was a small white chest of drawers. The top was bare. An urge to open the drawer crept upon Isabelle, she reached her hand towards the handle, and slowly opened it.

Inside was filled with socks, folded neatly in pairs. Mostly grey and black, one bright orange.

"Going through my drawers?" said Sean. He was carrying a large bottle of Prosecco in one hand, and pushing the door with the other. Isabelle could see he was smiling, and the hum of the extractor fan calmed slightly. It was only socks in that drawer, after all, she thought.

"I'm curious about you," she said. She watched him creep towards her, two white mugs were cradled under his arm.

"Are you? I'm intensely curious about you. What are you curious to know?" He sat himself down beside her, and waited for her response.

"I can't quite work you out, that's all."

Sean passed Isabelle a mug, which she saw had "Smashing Friend" printed in red letters. He poured it with Prosecco, and smiled up at her.

"I'm curious to know you," he said. "I want to know all your favourite things. I want to know what makes you feel a purpose."

Isabelle took a grateful swig of her wine. Reality was becoming too real, too numb.

"My favourite day is Wednesday, my favourite colour is white."

"Fascinating. That's so unconventional," said Sean. His face was creeping towards hers again.

"I love it when people are honest, and real." It was a hint to test his self awareness.

"Oh yeah. Me too," said Sean. His voice was a breathy whisper.

Isabelle moved herself away from him. "I'm gonna head off in a minute," she said.

Sean's lips parted into a sulky fashion.

"Oh," he said. "That's such a shame. Don't leave so suddenly. Is it something I said?"

"Oh no, of course not," said Isabelle. She thought Sean looked like an ugly puppy, begging on his knees. His eyebrows were drooped down the sides of his eyes.

"Well, if you must," he said. "I just want to ask you something. I have to. Before you go."

Isabelle let out a silent sigh in her mind. She had almost thought he would lock her in his dungeon room and try to rape her.

"What is your favourite flower?"

"Daisies," said Isabelle. She was lying. Her favourite flowers were tulips.

Two weeks after her strange reunion with Sean Pike, Isabelle received her first message from him. A bouquet of daisies delivered to her office. With them, was an envelope with her name written in loopy handwriting.

Despite the sickness growing in her stomach, Isabelle opened the envelope.

A piece of lined paper was folded over four times. It read - Sweet Isabelle.

I have to be honest, like you said you love people who are honest. I would kill to see you again, just to hold you, just to look into your eyes, to breath in your air. I know we've only just met once again but I can feel the force which connects us.

I would fill my room with daisies if only I had light. Just for you. Just to see you smile. I would do anything for you.

When I'm watching porn I imagine it's me and you. Otherwise it pains me to watch.

Please see me again. I have tried and tried to message you but I can't get through, I am scared you have blocked me. All I want to know is if you hate me? Please say no, Isabelle. You know who x

"I think it's romantic," said Flo. "He obviously wears his heart on his sleeve. Doesn't the way he talks turn you on? It turns me on, and I don't even know the guy!"

Flo was perhaps the wrong person to ask. She was always positive, about everything and everyone. It was as though she had a blockage in her which filtered out anything sinister.

"I wouldn't complain if someone wrote me that," said Gemma. "You should count yourself lucky!" Gemma was overweight and discreetly bitter towards everyone, covering it up with a jolly attitude. "Some people would love to be admired like that."

Isabelle, not wanting to seem arrogant, took the letter from Gemma and agreed. "I know," she said. "You're right."

Isabelle took the bouquet of daisies to her Grandmother's on the way home, who was delighted. And she kept the letter in her pocket to study later on.

Later on, in bed, Isabelle looked through three pictures of her and Sean on her phone, taken on that strange day in Cornwall. In one of them, they are at the restaurant. It looks sunny and bright, their eyes are squinting and Sean's front teeth are glistening. They look happy.

The second two are darker and blurry. Sean's cheeks are puffed outwards and he's cross eyed, like a nine year old boy on his birthday. Isabelle is smiling but frowning. She deleted the photos and burnt the letter on the patio. "Fucking weirdo," she muttered as the flames swallowed every word.

"You will definitely come, won't you?" said Jack's voice, from the phone.

Isabelle concluded that, although Sean Pike was strange, he was harmless. He was too childlike to be a threat of any kind.

"Of course I will be there," said Isabelle. "Six pm on Wednesday."

Isabelle chose to wear something baggy and unflattering, but then she saw her green knitted dress, which she hadn't worn yet, and thought how perfect it was for an art exhibition. So she wore her dress, kohl around her eyes and red lipstick. She walked into the perfume she had sprayed in the air like a woman about to be knighted.

"Isabelle, you look stunning," said Fi. She was Isabelle's house mate.

"Thank you," said Isabelle. "Originally I wanted to look ugly. I suppose I got carried away."

Fi threw her head back and laughed, whilst waving her hand at Isabelle. "Oh, Isabelle. I love you."

Jack was the first person Isabelle saw as she stepped into the gallery. He was playing a classical guitar piece, Gran Vals, on a chair close to the door. He was wearing his light blue suit.

The room was full and lively with soft conversation, and figures huddling together in groups, holding glasses of wine in their hands. Isabelle thought she would stay for twenty minutes, to show Jack her support, and then be off.

Seven large canvases hung on the walls. Isabelle stepped towards the first.

It was a painting of a lady sitting in a chair with a cat on her lap. She had wispy red hair, and looked in her sixties. The tone was bright and yellow. Sean was a good painter, Isabelle thought. The disproportion of the features on the face only added a unique touch.

The background was a deep purple, as though the lady were floating through space. Isabelle noticed miniature daisies lay by her feet.

The next painting was a close up of a man's face. He had glasses and one eye closed. Many lines creased upon and around the closed eye, too many, Isabelle thought. She noticed part of the open eye had a whitish figure. The figure was the top half of a woman. It was Isabelle, painted as a reflection in the man's eye.

"Do you like it?" A voice whispered close to Isabelle's ear from behind her. It was Sean.

She turned and saw he was wearing a white shirt tucked into grey trousers. You could see his waist hang over them slightly, as though he were bloated. His smile was sickening, his eyes were wild and glistening. Isabelle could see the reflection of her own horrified face staring back in his dusty brown eyes.

"You have got something wrong with you," she hissed.

"This is all for you, Isabelle. You're a part of all my paintings, you're the beauty in them. Originally I did not plan to paint you, but they say you must let whatever comes from the brush be."

"You don't know me!" said Isabelle. Her whisper growing louder.

"Come and stand with me. I want to introduce you to everyone." He took Isabelle's hand and she pulled it away. Some faces near by had turned to watch the subtle scene of discomfort.

"Everybody," Sean said in a sort of yelp. He took Isabelle's hand again and climbed up onto a chair.

"Everybody I would like to introduce you to someone very special," he continued.

All the faces in the room had turned now. They were smiling, anticipating some loving news. Isabelle had fallen into a paralysis. The room was quiet. Jack had stopped playing the guitar, and was resting an arm upon it in a casual manner. He was also smiling.

"Tell them who you are, darling," said Sean, looking down at Isabelle.

"I'm Isabelle," she said. She looked at her brother for help. She made all the panic inside her be shown in her stare. Jack looked back at her with a slight frown and tilted his head.

"This girl, is the model in all my paintings. She is the secret, the treasure. Look closely into each eye, and you will see her there. She is haunting them, like she haunts all who have a taste of her. Isabelle Hicks," said Sean. He looked down towards her. "Isabelle Hicks," he whispered.

The crowd muttered and nodded. And the guitar began playing once again.

"See, my darling Isabelle. I can make you famous. I can make everybody love you, need you. But only I know you. Only the artist knows the model."

END

#  Ryan Kept His Promise

101 word Flash Fiction by Melvyn Lumb

Hunting in Alaska and miles from anywhere, my Alsatian dog Max, unearthed a pair of forty thousand year old mammoth tusks.

I promised Max a bone.

Only native Alaskans can sell them to the government. My Inuit friend agreed to sell it, and share the proceeds.

He eventually received 30,000 dollars and refused to share it.

I surprised him when out hunting.

"You are stupid. Now we get nothing!"

"What do you mean?" he smiled slyly.

I showed him... he disappeared. Now I mourn my friend and my lost share of the money.

PS. Max got his reward, a whole femur.

END

#  A Hospital Visit

by Mach Thomas

Kerry slowly approached the hospital room's window and waited for the ghostly spectre to appear through the glass. She steadied herself as best she could, last night it had been bloody and upsetting. For an indeterminate length of time she stayed there, with nothing happening, as she had learned to be patient. The first sign of something occurring was the frost that started to form around the edges of the window frame.

The bruised and bloodied face of her former classmate Dianne appeared on the other side of the glass. The face was slack and pale as a corpse, looking nothing like the face of an eleven year old girl. The sight of it created a knee-jerk knot of anxiety somewhere in Kerry that she could not suppress.

To break the ensuing silence she lamely offered; "There was an accident, on the bus to school."

"I know." Dianne's voice was slow and oddly distant, making it sound like she was speaking to her from underwater.

"It was all so quick. Did you see what happened to the others?" Kerry pleaded now, for she felt that they may not have much time. She did not think that she was supposed to be doing this.

"No." Dianne shook her head, as she did so a thin trickle of blood snaked its way down her pallid face. "It was scary; there was pain and then nothing. It all went dark; I didn't know where I was." Her voice was a flat monotone that contained none of the fear or pain that she spoke of.

Kerry realised that this was the same answer Dianne had given last time. Last night? Had she expected something different now? She had to continue asking because the not knowing was an intolerable weight.

Drawn by the sound of talking, the nurse assigned to the hospital suite entered and made a disapproving noise at finding her patient up and out of bed yet again. Kerry looked sadly at the oblivious woman, resigned to the fact that her time with Dianne was now up.

"Out of bed again? At this time of night?" She gently scolded the girl as she came up behind her and put her arm around her shoulders. She knew to be gentle with her; this poor kid had been through an awful experience and seen things no child ought to.

As she led Dianne back to her bed she noticed that one of her bandages was seeping blood down one side of her face. "Oh! I'll fix you a new bandage. You get back into bed." She reassured the injured girl. She was going to have to mention these night-time episodes to the Doctor now as it was the third night it had happened. She wondered if perhaps the girl was a sleepwalker.

As she turned away from the bed to leave, her eyes played a trick on her. In the corner of her vision she momentarily had the impression of a form outside the window the girl had been stood in front of, impossible as they were several floors up. She shivered and laughed at her own silliness before going about her duties.

END

Mach Thomas is the author of Crook's Wraith at Midnight,

available on Amazon Kindle, Kobo and Nook.

#  Across the Pond – A Travelogue

Part 1 Getting There.

by Angela Holmes

Excited! Of course I was, after all it was my first trip to America and what was to be a semi-musical tour.

The Jersey leg to Heathrow did not post any problem as I had travelled this route many times before on business. Heathrow I hear you say? Well it was the mid-eighties and long before BA gave up their slots.

Tickets for the whole trip were contained in a booklet of flimsy red carbon slips the size of a business envelope, each slip showing my destinations and a myriad of other information which meant absolutely nothing to me. But this was the way it was back then, before the internet, online check in and your boarding pass on a mobile app!!! Seems like the dark ages now.

I don't recall any problems at the check in for New York. Security was simple but that was well before 9/11 and soon I was at the gate for the flight to New York. The flight was uneventful. However, the landing in New York was at the back of a hurricane. The wings dipped one way and then the other. The man sitting next to me, looking distinctly mafia-like crossed himself several times. This must have worked as the plane landed safely and I must say I was quite relieved.

I had no time at all in New York as I was bound for Miami so what time I had was spent locating the loo, the transfer to departures and then the gate. Looking back it seemed so hassle free.

The weather had undergone a distinct change as we flew above the clouds. It was beautiful with clear blue skies as we flew south and I enjoyed looking out of the window, gazing at the contour of the east coast and then the outline of Florida. The sea was so blue and I could make out the Atlantic rollers crashing on the shore and soon we were landing in Miami. I picked up my bag at the luggage carousel and made my way to the reception of the Airport Hotel.

I let myself into my room. It was magnificent verging on opulent. Masses of room, a king sized bed, a large window where I could see the planes manoeuvring about and there was no noise at all so the double, triple or quadruple glazing was superb. Most surprising of all was a telephone in the shower! It was something I never expected to see in the shower. Didn't think I would need this facility anyway but it was there just in case.

It had been a long and exciting albeit exhausting day and I was ready for bed.

I slept well in such a comfortable and luxurious bed and awoke late the next morning but there was no need to rush. I had time ahead of me and my flight to Nashville wasn't until later in the day.

So it was a leisurely breakfast whilst watching the news on the television.

I rang room service. Ordering breakfast was not as easy as I thought it would be.

The telephone was answered promptly "Good morning ma'am what can I get you," the voice drawled.

"I would like a pot of tea," I said. "What sort of tea would you like ma'am, we have black tea, red tea, Earl Grey, Darjeeling, Lapsang Souchong tea, Chamomile tea, green tea, herbal tea." It seemed to be never ending and then I heard some familiar words, "English breakfast tea."

"I would like the English Breakfast Tea," and then I added, "with milk."

"What sort of milk would you like ma'am? We have cow's milk, goat's milk, fat free milk, full fat milk, almond milk, coconut milk." I decided to interrupt him there and then with "Cow's milk please."

"Do you want hot or cold milk ma'am."

"Cold milk please" and I was glad the ordeal was over. Then I ordered toast!

"What sort of bread would you like ma'am" and he proceeded to list the types of bread and I was beginning to lose the will to live so I said "Granary bread, with butter and orange marmalade." Taking a stab as to what might be on the bread menu and I think he was beginning to hear the frustration in my voice.

"Very good ma'am"

I had no idea that ordering breakfast in America would be so traumatic. I don't wonder it became the title to a popular song by Supertramp!

Breakfast over, I made my way to the departure lounge and examined the information boards, check in, walked to the gate and now my real adventure was about to begin.

I was on my way to Nashville, Tennessee the home of country music.

END

#  Lost Treasure of Alwyn

by John Bentley Wynd
Chapter 1 – The Legacy

The slow procession of vehicles turned left entering through a gateway of two large granite pillars. The gates decorated with large flowers and leaves, painted in both red and gold. The horse drawn hearse drew up to the entrance to the crematorium doors, a frail old gentleman appeared, he gave the customary nod to the driver and footman. The two magnificent Clydesdale horses, their dark coats smooth and shiny, manes intertwined with red and gold ribbons, hooves hidden by their white fluffy socks. The two coachmen had climbed down from their seats, to the rear of the hearse, where four coffin bearers, stood ready to receive the coffin on to their shoulders. Dressed in black suits and ties; their pace was slow and steady, not to rush Paulli in his last few moments in this world. The coffin began to enter through the dark mahogany doors leading inside the hushed crematorium.

It was late June, the surrounding rose garden was a mass of colour and sweet fragrances. It was a day that would stay in everyone's mind, 'he lived life to the full,' thought Kenneth, as he watched the entourage of cars arriving and park along the semi-circled driveway. Their engines became quiet, then click, car doors began to open, ladies in their heeled shoes, tapping the tarmac. The frail old man stood, standing next to him were the family, Karen, was one of them. The background music 'Scarborough Fair' it was one of Paulli's favourites.

The Wake was held in the local tavern until closing time. Family and friends gathered around the cluster of tables in the social room, there was talk about family stories and Paulli's life. For some, this was their first time meeting members of the family, a new era is about to start. Kenneth introduced himself to Karen, who had given the eulogy, and he explained his relationship within the family. Karen had been researching the family genealogy tree for some years, from her memory he was not on the family tree. Ken told her what he knew of the family, and how he felt like family. A thought came over Karen, is this the part of the family tree that is missing? At a nearby table one of the cousins asked,

"Why didn't we ever say uncle Paulli, he was always known as uncle Paul?" conversations about the fantasy stories that Paulli had reminisced about, to a select few, other conversations started with 'Do you remember?'

Fond memories began flooding back to the older family members, their memories still captivating, gathering around a frail old lady. Listening to her storytelling, Great Aunt Cecily who seemed to know a lot of intriguing facts. The stories went on in to the late evening, some of the younger children had fallen asleep. Ken approached Karen to see if he could arrange to meet her and chat about the family tree. Ken had spoken to Uncle John about Karen's eulogy of Uncle Paulli and the stories of lost treasure, remembering his father had also told similar tales about lost treasure and so wondered if the stories were true.

"This has sent goose bumps through my body", said Ken,

"So when are you meeting Karen? Ken" asked John,

"Saturday morning about 10:30, I'm going over, she gave me her address"

"Good morning Ken, and how are you this morning? C'mon in, make yourself at home" she said,

"I'm doing fine Karen, thank you; I've brought a few things, to get us started"

Ken trying to balance the different sized tins, they began to topple from his hands with a clatter they hit the floor. Lids came off, photo's spilling on the lounge floor. Karen placing some biscuits on the coffee table. Ken apologised "Sorry, sorry" gathering the photographs and putting them into the tins, Karen replied "That's ok, no harm done". Karen asked, "How have you managed to collect all these photos?"

"No, I didn't, these have just been accumulating over the years. These tins have been in the attic for years, and have been collecting dust, I've just been adding photos to them as and when I came across any, mainly they belong to my father"

After hours of chatting, Ken remembered about the suitcase in the car. He opened the suitcase on the floor, coming from the suitcase was the awful musty smell of stale air, making him choke, dispersing rapidly,

"Phew, what dreadful smell?"

"That was from the case, I did not think of opening it before I came, sorry"

Beginning to remove the albums, which he not had seen for many years, placing them on the coffee table.

"You have a lot of old photo's in there?"

"Yes",

Ken remembered the dark rustic wooden box, about the size of a shoebox not as deep, he called out.

"Hey, look what I've found",

"Go on open it, maybe it's love letters," replied Karen.

Pushing some of the photos to one side and making a space on the coffee table. Ken tried, the ancient hinges were rusty and corroded, once opened revealing old letters and papers.

Ken handed the bundle to Karen, who began carefully opening the first crumbling letter.

"These letters are between Robert and Walter, Josephine and Walter, the other letters are from Captain Rutter-Scholes to Josephine and Tobias". Goose pimples ran up her arms, shuddering as her eyes widened.

The letter was cryptic causing Karen to frown, they both looked at each other, then the letter, "I'll explain in a moment, I recognise the names from the family tree, I'll check later," she said. She began to read the letter aloud and it seemed to be about wealth, the family, and hidden treasure.

"Look at these photos, they are very old, I've seen these before, I'm sure. Maybe the letters do have some significance in the whereabouts of hidden treasure and dowries being given to the families". "What dowries?" Asked Ken.

Chapter 2. The Trail starts.

The night was drawing to a close; they had seen many photographs, now splayed across the beige carpet in some type of order. Ken suddenly, looking up at Karen "Sorry I didn't realise the time, I'd best be off, can I come back soon, Karen?"

"Of course, but you don't have to leave, I have a spare room if you don't mind staying here the night, as this is getting fascinating and exciting"

"Well if you don't mind? But I don't want to impose" replied Ken. The next morning Ken descended the stairs, "Good morning, Karen, did you sleep well?"

"Reasonable, considering the time I went to bed" with a smile on her face.

"My eyes are as sore as my head, all the thoughts before I did eventually go to sleep. I need to retrieve the family tree out of the cupboard, something seems amiss"

"What do you mean?" replied Ken, "Also what did you mean by dowries last night?"

"I don't know exactly, there's something niggling in the back of my mind, it's something that you said last night when we were going through those disintegrating photographs"

"What did I say?" said Ken,

"I'm not sure you actually spoke, but it stirred up thoughts about the family tree" replied Karen.

After breakfast, Ken said to Karen that he had to see some people that afternoon, he would leave soon. Karen agreed, as she had to get ready for work tomorrow.

A few weeks had passed, that niggle was still with Karen, she was driving to see Uncle Jim who was always telling stories, similar to those Uncle Paul talked about. Jim was a sailor in the Merchant Navy in his earlier years. Karen began explaining to Uncle Jim about Uncle Paul, his stories, meeting relatives that she had no recollection or existed without looking at the family tree. She was sure that they were not, yet a mystery, are there some skeletons still locked in the closet, waiting to be released. Uncle Jim wanted Karen to return the following weekend, as he would have something to show her.

Karen arrived at Uncle Jim's as arranged, but Jim was no where to be found. So she went in search for him, checking places where he would sit reading his newspapers or just glaring in to space. The mystery continues, a neighbour sighted him heading towards his allotment in the village. There she could see Uncle Jim surrounded by his sweet peas and aromas, sat on the bench resting, she called. "Ahoy Jim m'lad, ahoy, are you okay?" he smiled and gave a wave,

"Did you forget that I was coming over this weekend?" asked Karen,

"No, I remembered, I just needed to think and get you here" he replied,

"Why did you want to meet here? Did you think I'd not come? If you said meet me at the allotment?"

"Well, there was that" he replied, "I do have something for you, and it is very important, as I'm getting old" his face trying to break into a smile.

"Now I'm worried, is everything ok?" said Karen,

"It's nothing like that, there are only a few of the family trying to piece together the family tree, finding a few skeletons and hitting a few brick walls".

"What I'm about to tell and show you may be hard to imagine, to my knowledge as true as I am standing here" in a calm solemn voice.

"Uncle Jim you are scaring me now"

"No, this is important, I need you to be attentive about what you will now see and hear do you understand? This is very important to all our family" said Jim, reaching towards the door to his rickety shed.

"Follow me, Karen," they both entered. It was dry, not at all that she had expected. Rays of sunlight streaked through the torn net curtains, partly drawn across the dust covered windows. That distinctive musty smell, the same Ken had brought.

"Take a seat Karen, make yourself comfortable"

Jim pointed to a red coloured cushion, then began telling stories of pirates and treasure.

Karen giggled after listening for what seemed minutes, actually an hour had passed, saying, "That was lovely, one I've not heard before".

Jim laughed, with a serious frown on his wrinkled face he stood up, "Stand up, stand up" he said now sounding serious, "Stand aside, remove the cushion and rug you've been sitting on",

Karen looked at Jim's face, she did as he asked, revealing a very old and tattered chest covered in dust bound with leather straps and brass rivets, she looked at Jim, then at the chest, then back at Jim.

He smiled and gestured with his hand,

"Is this it? Is this the chest?"

"Yes, go on open it, please be careful, remember it is very old" said Jim.

Karen lifted the heavy lid to reveal, old clothes, underneath a wooden box, and a rusty sword and scabbard.

"A clue to Alwyn's Legacy, your families legacy",

Karen asked "Who is Alwyn? I've never come across the name in the family tree"

Inside the box, a scroll of parchment, cloth and book. Looking at Jim, he smiled, he had a glow about him, as if a great weight had been lifted.

Jim then said, "That's it, put it back in the chest, No, not the box, you'll need that, but what you have seen is a secret, no one must know of the chest." Returning to Jim's house, they were both seated, looking at Karen, Jim then asked,

"Can you think of anything to ask me?"

Karen seemed tense and fidgety.

"Well, yes actually, that chest; this box; and the dowries" beaming with excitement.

Jim explained that this belonged to his father and his father's father before him. We have all been custodians of the chest, it's been kept a secret for centuries.

Karen was quaking in awe, now holding a box that was once her great, great grandfather's. Opening the box, removing the tatty piece of cloth and small brown leather book, and reading the front cover aloud.

"The Journal of Robert Scott 1676. That's about three hundred years. I'll check the family tree to what connection he is to the family",

Jim said "You are a direct descendant of Walter, what secrets you find, you will have to keep those secrets forever"

"I'll read it later, if that's okay? I'm always uneasy reading someone else's diary. Uncle Jim, you said I have to keep the secrets a secret, how will I know its a secret to keep? I'm in contact with our Kenneth, we get on okay, he is also interested in the genealogy tree".

Karen explained that Uncle John hinted to her about an ancestor finding gold; a secret cave in the early 1700's leaving a legacy.

Sunday morning the wooden box sat on the table, Karen stared at it for a few moments before removing the parchments, then removing the journal and carefully turning the pages. The pages were fragile, the words were badly written, they were written some time ago "It just looks like a normal journal, why is it important" Karen said to herself, I bet Ken would love to see this too, she began reading the journal, skipping parts which didn't seem relevant to the family tree. Karen started to look closer to what happened years ago, maybe it has significance in the whereabouts of the hidden treasure and dowries. Alwyn appears many times, is he family or friend?

That evening Karen contacted Ken, wanting to see if he was available at the weekend, something has come to light. Ken asked why. Karen became evasive and left it at that. 7pm the door bell rang, it was Ken.

"Ken, what are you doing here?"

"You rang and were so evasive, I sensed something was troubling you" he said,

"Quite the opposite actually, but I do have something to show you" she said,

Ken sat patiently on the sofa. Looking around, he noticed the wooden box on the dining table. He moved to have a closer look, "Oi, get away from there, nosey, be patient" Karen shouted as she re-entered the room. Ken stopped in his tracks. He turned to her, red faced with embarrassment,

"Just looking, I didn't touch"

"I thought you would be intrigued when you saw it"

"What's inside?" he said sounding excited.

"Nothing, go and have a look if you like" she said with a smirk across her face, Ken opened the box,

"Its empty, where's it gone?" he said.

"Where's what gone?"

"The treasure map of course."

"What treasure map?" Said Karen.

"I think you have got me here on false pretences?" Said Ken.

"Right, you've seen in the box, we need to talk"

"Okay" said Ken,

"Well, why were you expecting to find a treasure map?" asked Karen,

"I don't know, it looked that type of box, I suppose" he replied,

"Well, you were close, what was inside were these" moving aside the cushion next to her explaining what Uncle Jim had told her.

Ken seemed intrigued, hanging on to every word. Hearing about the Legacy, some old obscure photographs, could these be related to one another?

A week later, Karen received a cryptic text message from Ken, suggesting they need to meet.

"Meet Saturday 10am, bring the box and contents, also the uncertain pile'.

Karen noticed the location was missing, another text appeared,

"at ahoy Uncle Jim's ahoy."

Karen seemed confused, "Uncle Jim's house, why Uncle Jim's?" Speaking out loud.

"Don't be late, see you there."

Arriving at Jim's home, Karen knocked at the door, immediately following behind was Ken. "Ahoy Jim m'lad, ahoy" Karen called out, no reply, so they both entered the sitting room. To be confronted by both Uncles Jim and John. Both standing in robes, they looked familiar to Karen, she had seen them at Jim's shed. Why were they wearing them today? What's the reason?

END

#  The Overload Train

A Poem by Celia Francis

The Overload train rarely stops,

Picking up more people than it drops.

The Overload train goes every day,

Climb on board \- and then you'll pay!

The Overload train is gathering pace,

All crammed in, there is no space.

Increasing speed - life flashes by;

Gone the gazing at fields and sky!

Are you on the Overload train?

Driving in the too fast lane?

Full steam ahead, new tracks to try,

No time to stop - ask yourself "why?"

END

#  Comedy Hour

by James Sillwood

Today is the beginning of the end, I just know it.

I take a deep breath and support myself at the edge of the old butler sink, the comforting sensation of cool ceramic creeping through my rubber gloves.

There's definitely a change in her attitude. Not that Miss Crabtree has been the most cheerful company over the years, but at least she used to let me know when she appreciated some of the things I did for her. "You'll get all this when I'm gone," she'd say. Ha! How long has it been since I heard that? I'm convinced the Major is behind it all. It all started to change when he turned up on the scene.

Today is the worst though, the old crow ordering me about like a skivvy. "Now remember, Angela, this is a very special day. We don't want to keep the Major waiting."

God! I wonder if I should have agreed to this arrangement at all. How long has it been? Two years? Nearly three now. Back then I was certain I'd made the right decision, but now Major bloody Cross has come along and introduced himself. How old is the sly fox? Can't be much more than sixty-five. He must seem like a toy-boy to her. Ha! The Fox and the Crow. He thinks I can't see through him, but I know exactly what he's up to.

Another burst of laughter from the bathroom above. That radio must be at full volume. I hate Saturdays!

The dishes still waiting to be washed. I try the hot water again but the tap just shudders in my hand and can only cough up a trickle. Surely she must have filled the bath by now. No point in asking her how long she'll be – there's no way she'll hear me over that racket. And what's more, I'm bursting to go to the loo. The first thing I'm going to do when I get this place is to have a cloakroom built down here. There's definitely space for one under the stairs.

More laughter booms from above. I glare up at the ceiling, willing the bath to come crashing down. You'd think she'd listen to the Major. He's warned her more than once about having an electric radio up there in the bathroom. Does she listen? No she doesn't. Not one for change is Miss Crabtree – apart from the most recent event, of course.

I count the cups. One missing. I then remember. I left mine up in my room.

When I come back out onto the landing I stop outside the half-open bathroom door. The ridiculous comedy show is set at full volume and yet she's obviously not listening to a single word. Her voice screeches out above the laughter from the studio audience, "ding-dong the bells are going to chime." A cackle devoid of anything resembling a melody. A steady pulse starts to pound at the right side of my head.

I peek through the crack in the door. There, at the far end of the bath, perched on the shelf above the drifts of rising steam, stands the radio. I'm rooted to the spot. I can't take my eyes away from the bloody thing. For well over a minute I'm there, just staring at the antiquated monster.

A waft of cloying lavender reaches my nostrils. I feel the bile rise in my throat.

I'm about to return downstairs when I glance down at the electric socket. Only a fleeting glance, but then my eyes follow the cable as it stretches around the door frame.

"So, get me to the church. Get me to the church. . ."

All I need to do is give the door a good hard yank. Surely that'll be enough to snap the wire. What a thought. No more bloody Saturday Comedy Hour. (Well, at least, not until the old crow forks out for a new radio). Even one week without that racket would be heaven.

I watch my hand reach for the doorknob, rubber fingers closing around the handle. My whole body begins to shake. I have to bite my lip to stop from laughing.

"Get me to the church on –"

Bang!

"Help! Angela!"

Another wave of insane laughter spews out from the radio. I stare at the cable jammed between the door and the frame. Still intact. "Damn!"

"An-gel-lah!"

Damn, Damn, Damn! I open the door and step into the bathroom.

"Yes, Miss Crabtree. What's the matter?"

The old woman is sitting up in the bath, her scrawny finger pointing up to the radio now resting precariously at the edge of the shelf above.

"Come on, hurry up!" she screeches.

Keeping my eyes fixed on the shelf, I carefully step over the cable and move to the end of the bath. I hesitate. What does she want me to do? Take it down or push it back?

"Don't just stand there, you stupid girl! The thing could fall on top of me."

The words echo in my head, Stupid Girl. . . stupid girl. I look down at the emaciated figure below, stare hard into her clouded grey eyes. Another wave of laughter bellows from the radio next to my ear. The side of my head continues to throb with a vengeance.

"Why are you staring at me like that, Angela?"

At first, as if in a dream, it all happens in slow motion. I watch my hand dip into the soapy water and feel myself take a pace back from the edge of the bath. I hold my breath as rubber fingers grip the length of cable which extends up to the shelf.

"What are you doing?" There's a tone of panic in Miss Crabtree's voice. "What the –"

In an instant, there's a splash, a blue flash followed by a sharp crackling sound.

Then silence.

I stand and stare at the old lady's face. Her expression is so strange: jaw gaping, eyes bulging. It's as if a photograph has captured her final moment of terror. Then there's the smell: a sharp bitter odour, familiar, but I can't quite place it.

Then it comes to me.

When we were kids my Dad used to let me and my little sister poke at the bonfire in our garden with long sticks. All was well until one day Janey got a little too close. A tongue of flame caught her hair and up it went with a whoosh – amazing to watch. God, the fuss she made!

But what impressed me most of all was the smell, that same odour which is now invading the bathroom here. I look up at the old woman's head. Her hair, which had been especially permed on Thursday, has turned from white to a charcoal grey. The handsome set of waves now scorched and reduced to a frizzle: each strand as delicate as the frond of a dandelion.

I notice the cup in my hand. "Oops. The washing up."

Taking a wide arc to avoid stepping onto the wet floor, I leave the bathroom and step out into the landing. I bend down to pull the plug from the wall socket, then change my mind. I leave it and continue downstairs.

The afternoon light is beginning to fade and the view through the kitchen window makes such a tranquil scene. Most of the foliage on the two apple trees has turned to the colour of rust and the Nyssa Sinensis stands out with a bold display of rich vermilion. I'll have to clear the scattered leaves from the lawn tomorrow, providing the rain keeps away. The collection of dishes remains stacked up on the draining board. Better check if there are any in the living room. I can't imagine either the Major or the old crow bothering to bring them in.  
Two narrow champagne glasses stand close to one another on the dining table: the only clue to the intimacy which has taken place that afternoon. I pick up the bottle and I'm surprised at the weight. Miss Crabtree must have suggested that more than one glass would just be too decadent. Ha! I could just see the Major having to fight the urge to top up his glass. No wonder he was in a hurry to leave – probably off to the betting shop then on to meet his drinking cronies at the golf club.

Two items sit on the open top of the bureau: the old lady's pension book (with a fifty pound note tucked inside) and a heavy Manila envelope. Pushing the pension book aside, I open the envelope: Miss Crabtree's Last Will and Testament. At least the important details haven't been altered: the old crow has kept her promise to me

all these years. However, included with this document is a letter, hand written and addressed to Draker, Draker and Smythe with the instruction to alter her Will in favour of Major Cross. This doesn't surprise me in the least.

I tuck the letter into the pocket of my jeans and slip the original papers back into the envelope. I'm about to put it back when I think again. Rather than leave it in full view, I bury it amongst the papers in the second drawer of the desk. Collecting up the bottle and glasses, I return to the kitchen. The thought of celebrating my achievement with half a bottle of champagne gives me such a thrill.

I'm about to plunge my hands into soap suds for the second time that day when the door-chime rings out in the hall. Who on earth can that be?

I open the door to the Major standing on the porch. Giving me a wave of dismissal, he marches past into the living room. A moment later he reappears.

"Would you be so good as to ask Miss Crabtree if she's seen my specs?" The Major's words trail off. "No it's all right, I'll ask her myself. Where is she?"

"Having her bath," I cock my ear to the ceiling. "It's all quiet up there, she's probably finished now."

I wait until the Major disappears up the stairs then step into the living room. Just as I thought: the pension book is empty. I'm about to return to the kitchen when his voice booms down from the stairwell.

"Good God! Angela, you'd better come up here – quickly!"

It's when I reach the landing I see the plug has been pulled from the wall socket.

The Major is standing in the centre of the flooded bathroom floor, shaking his head in disbelief at the white figure in the bath. "I told her so many times about that dammed radio." He turns to face me. "Look. Don't you go touching anything! I'm going down to phone the emergency services." Leaving a trail of wet footprints across the bathroom floor, he pushes past and heads downstairs.

I crouch down to the carpet. Taking care not to disturb any of the Major's fingerprints, I take the plug between my rubber fingers and push it back into the mains socket.

END

website: www.jamessillwood.com

#  The Sighting

Opening Lines Collaborative Project

A broad rimmed black hat a la Guy Fawkes, black leather floor length coat flapping to both sides, as he strode along the London pavement. This was the first time I set eyes on Louis Ravenscroft.

"It's him! Look, over there!" Craig was pointing to the disappearing figure, unaware that I'd already spotted him.

"You're hurting me, let go of my arm, please."

"Sorry. It's just the shock of --"

"I know, I know. Damn, my bag's split The shopping's gone everywhere."

We retrieved assorted soup cans, Craig's jar of instant coffee and my value teabags and made our way back to Craig's home, well, it's just a bedsit, really.

After sharing my last cigarette out in the backyard, I asked Craig about Louis. I know quite a lot already, of course, but the subject intrigues me.

Craig leant against the dustbins and passed the cigarette to me.

" I can't stand to see him. Walking around, doing whatever he wants. It drives me mad. He's got to pay for what he did.

He paused, flicking his ash." For what he did to Sarah."

"What happened exactly? I've heard some things said. . . ?" I looked at him.

"Basically he's a con artist. He befriended her and convinced her to invest in a scheme. Even Lisa, Sarah's best friend, didn't seem to know, but it sounded like one of those pyramid schemes. Had it worked like he promised, then she'd be very rich by now. Needless to state it only worked for one person. Him!" He stopped to pass the cigarette. "She stupidly, invested her share of the inheritance she got from her Aunt June, which had been close to a million pounds. She'd been in a vulnerable state, because of her Aunt's death, poor thing. He's a smooth talking so and so and had, apparently, known exactly what to say to get her to hand over the money." He stopped, lost in thought.

"Why didn't she go to one of those 'no-win no-fee lawyers I've heard about?"

"It's something to do with this woman being a friend of a friend, who was excellent at what she did. Doesn't seem to have worked though." He said glumly. "I've heard that convincing the courts it's a scam and not just an investment gone wrong. It's a lot harder than it looks. Add to that the cost of a lawyer she hired who ate what was left of her savings it was no wonder she reached breaking point."

"When does she get back from, is it Wales?" I was unclear about the circumstances.

"Yes, her family is over there. Seems she suffered a breakdown and may require counselling and time to recuperate. She's too stubborn to ask for help from the family. Even from me, although I'm no good at legal stuff. I mean I know I'm her ex but we're still good friends. If it would do any good I have a little money perhaps I can. . . if she lets me — oh, and Lisa offered too." Craig looked worried.

"Well I don't know her well enough to offer her my help directly, I don't think she'd take it from her Ex's fiancée anyway, but if you need anything from me just let me know." I though for a moment. "It's been years I know, but now we may have to get in touch with Damien."

END

#  Flightless Birds

by James Le Cocq

It was still snowing when we arrived at the airport, the little white flakes quickly sticking to our clothes as we left the car. We were eager to enter the warm departures hall, breathing sighs of relief as the cold's touch was barred outside. I unwound the turquoise scarf around my neck, following Robin navigate through the crowd to stand under a looming monitor built into a pillar. As the colour-coded information dragged itself across the screen, we discovered that our plane would be late arriving at the airport. According to the monitor, it had been delayed due to 'mechanical difficulties;' an excuse I'd read so many times on other screens that I felt a well of anger fill my breast.

We had two hours to wait before further updates would be provided. While I stared despondently at the monitor, Robin was looking over my head, balancing on her toes in an effort to see above the human maze surrounding us.

'I think I can see a news-stand in the next hall, Mags,' she said, lightly touching my shoulder before pointing past me. I followed her finger in the direction she meant, but I was not as tall as Robin and struggled to see anything beyond the men and women all around.

'I'll take your word for it,' I grumbled back while stuffing my scarf into my rucksack. 'You going to have a look?'

'I think so. Might be a decent paperback I can read when we eventually make it on the plane.' Robin moved past me, her body tenderly brushing against mine in the confined space we occupied. 'You want to come with me?'

I thought about it but shook my head. 'No, I think I'll start heading through the gate.'

'Well if you're sure...' She left the sentence hanging a few seconds, but I guessed she knew I wasn't going to budge because she turned and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. 'I'll see you at the gate, Mags.'

'Yeah. See you.'

Smiling at me, Robin began making her way through the crowd, earning herself a few angry looks that only bounced off her careless back. Once she had completely vanished from view, I went the opposite way to find the gate through which security lay. It did not take long to find, but what I hadn't counted on was the enormous queue already waiting outside the doors. As I joined the very back with a sour look settling on my face it moved a few steps, shortly after which an elderly couple came to stand right behind me. They were bitterly complaining about the weather outside and how likely the planes were going to remain grounded for the next couple of days, but I did my best not to pay attention.

Ten mentally stifling minutes went past before I reached halfway, but now a nagging desire for some distraction began picking at my thoughts. Looking at the queue behind me, my questing eyes stopped on a man glancing at a newspaper before they read the main story's title on the front.

RED ALERT: STORM RON ON THE HORIZON

The dramatic title piqued my interest, and I quickly realised that I should have told Robin to pick up a paper to read while we waited. The thought of her had me scanning the hall, hoping to catch her amongst the crowd, but it appeared as if the tide of people filling the hall had increased tenfold. My attempts were cut short when I heard the line in front of me move forward again, making me turn and lose sight of the great space altogether.

Soon I had passed through the double doors and was preparing myself for security. As the man in front went left to the vacated conveyor belt, Robin's voice spoke directly into my ear.

'Kept you waiting, huh?' she said before waving a newspaper in my face.

'Oh!' I grinned before taking it and giving her a kiss. 'Thanks.'

'I thought you'd want something to read too,' she explained before saddling up next to me, removing her wristwatch to go through the sensor bars right ahead.

'Read my mind like a book,' I laughed.

'Will be reading plenty of that for the next couple of hours, Mags,' she said, her new paperback grasped firmly in one hand.

I gave Robin a quick look, taking in the collection of moles that served to amplify the beauty of her mahogany-hued face. Warmth emanated from within my chest, and I realised that the delay could go to hell. I'd rather be nowhere else.

END

#  Release

From Summary to Story - Collaborative Project

Exercise 1

FINALE

'God it's cold.' John's teeth chattered as he spoke out loud to nobody.

'She would have messaged me by now.'

'Oh Susan, you are so cruel.'

With that, he launched himself off the bridge into the liquid darkness below.

Exercise 2

STORY IDEA

A man and a woman who used to have a relationship meet again after many years. The man has been obsessing about the woman ever since the breakup. He tries to re-kindle the relationship, but she is not interested. He kills himself.

Exercise 3

SYNOPSIS

John's father had left the family home on the morning of his 7th birthday. The last thing he remembered his father telling him was that he did not deserve love. For that, some people could have agreed; John was a difficult child. However, this was mostly fuelled by the never-ending arguments his parents had constantly sparked since he had been born. Nevertheless, after his mother had been abandoned to fight for their fate alone, she had grown resentful of the child and those destructive patterns had carried on, convincing him that he was indeed unworthy. John on the other hand had grown to believe that love didn't come free, it had to be earned. With this in mind he had entered university with only one goal driving him; become the best but soon after, his heart had been stung by the most gorgeous creature he had ever laid eyes upon; Susan. Convinced by his theory, he had decided to keep his affection a secret and worked hard until he had passed his master's degree with honours. Ready to unravel his devotion, he had called his old friend on the night of the graduation. But over the years, Susan had got tired of his confusing signs and had recently found love with someone else. She reluctantly rejected John. Instantly he had felt crushed, realizing that his misconception was the very lie that had got him broken. Feeling that everything was lost, he saw that the only thing that could release his pain was death itself.

Exercise 4

Write a short story below (1000 – 2000 words) based on the SYNOPSIS above

which ends with the text of the FINALE.

THE STORY

From day one John's parents had been at loggerheads with each other, ever since being told that he was loosing his job. From then, family life was hard work and stressful, his son John had been pulling all the stings on his bow, which drove a wedge between him and his wife. They would always argue on how they would tend to John and his unruly behaviour. Love in the household had almost died. Birthdays were not happy times for John; his 7th birthday was the worst. His father did not get him a present and had decided to leave the family home, but before going, he knelt down and spoke to John saying,

'You do not deserve love.'

The door slammed and that was the last time John saw his father.

As time went by, John and his mother came to terms with one other. John's destructiveness was never ending, until one day he decided that he should leave home and go to university to study for his masters and make something of himself. Love was not on the cards and did not come free, but was earned. A few weeks in to his first term he met a girl called Susan. A sensation struck him like a bolt of lightning, was this love? The one thing that he had never really thought about. What played on Johns mind was his father and the words he said that day he left,

'You do not deserve love.'

Susan was the most gorgeous creature that he had ever seen, caused many unknown emotional feelings within John that he had never felt before. Over the time at university they became very close, but John gave mixed messages to how he felt against her, keeping his affections a secret until the day he asked her out to dinner and not the normal coffee. She told him that she couldn't as she was out with her boyfriend, who she had been seeing for the past few months. John felt very emotionally hurt, leaving him devastated? The feeling that he had felt over the past terms when spending time and studying with Susan. Was this what his father meant, when he said he did not deserve love.

The studying was finally over, graduation day was on the horizon. His feelings towards Susan and the overwhelming feelings that he had, the night of the graduation had arrived John decided to open up to his old friend. Explaining all the feelings and emotions that he had kept hidden for so long about his family and now Susan. The rejection that had hit him so hard, knowing that he had many chances to start a serious relationship, but never did; now she is lost forever. The talk with his friend went on for some hours, the hurt was bad, his friend tried to convince him life has not over but he had come to a crossroad, 'There's more fish in the sea' his friend kept saying. Hoping that Susan would contact him as to meet up with her or even text to say congratulations, on their graduation. He just wanted to hear her voice to feel that she cared for him. It's almost midnight and no communication had been made from her.

'It's over John told himself' as he grabbed his jacket and headed out his friends ground floor apartment into the moon filled night, to walk it off. Hours later John ended up walking towards the opposite side of town to where he lived. He had walked on to the viaduct bridge, looking down at the river, the moon reflecting of the rippling water. His thoughts were elsewhere,

'Enough is enough' he said.

'God it's cold,' John's teeth chattered as he spoke out loud to nobody.

'She would have messaged me by now.'

'Oh Susan, you are so cruel.'

With that, he launched himself off the bridge into the liquid darkness below.

END

#  The Will

From Summary to Story: Collaborative Project

Exercise 1

FINALE

Amelia looked at the solicitors letter regarding her fathers will - who was Cynthia James?

Exercise 2

STORY IDEA

Fathers death. A complex will. Relatives inherit far and beyond. It had all been sorted out, Amelia had thought. Lots of arguments between relatives. All seemed to be sorted. Father had been a secretive character. One question concerned Amelia - there was a name she hadn't heard of, who had inherited a large amount. The mystery of this lady caused endless arguments but agreement seemed imminent. . .

Exercise 3

SYNOPSIS

It was mid summer the weather was hot and humid. John, Amelia's father had passed away peacefully. Johns solicitor had organised a reading of his will to be read in the following month. And had informed the family members associated with the will. The inheritance was to be split with those concerned, there were to be absenteeism for some.

Exercise 4

Write a short story below (1000 – 2000 words) based on the SYNOPSIS above

which ends with the text of the FINALE.

THE STORY

In June 2016 John Gould died leaving a considerable fortune. He was the last brother from the Gould family line who survived the Second World War; they were well known in manufacturing from 1936 until 1999. In that year a horrendous helicopter crash had robbed John of his wife and two brothers. In his despair he lost heart in the huge family business. So he sold out to the Krupp empire for an undisclosed sum rumoured to be many millions of pounds. His frugal habits plus his tight lips and pockets, regarding money, always rankled with his four daughters. His occasional donations to unusual causes further inflamed them.

A month after John Gould had been laid to rest his eldest daughter received a letter.

At the breakfast table Amelia Gould yawned as she flicked through the small pile of today's letters and picked one out.

"Yes! This looks like the one... At last!" she read aloud the dark blue printing on the pale yellow letter, "Snodgrass and Slaughter, the same quaint old firm that had dealt with all of Dad's business."

"Perhaps you'll get a decent night's sleep now," remarked Tom, her common law husband.

"Wonder what the old sod left me," she muttered.

"I wouldn't expect much after that bust up you had with him," said Tom.

Her hands shook slightly as she ripped open the letter.

"Yes, I know we never really got on. We were too much alike. But that argument was some time ago."

"You never made it up with him, did you?"

"Dad would never change his mind. He took no prisoners as you know, I believe he was the same in business, because he never got on with his brothers when they were alive," she fumbled in a sort of a daydream as she unfolded the letter, and thought of the past.

"Maybe I should have visited him more often... I always sent him a Christmas card from me and you."

"Do you think that would make any difference to him? I doubt it," Tom had heard it all before.

She felt a twinge of regret as she recalled, "The last time I saw him was in hospital not long before he died. I just wish..." she stopped, deep in thought, " Do you know I took him a home made apple pie?" she paused again, "Yeh, he just looked at it, then at me. Not nice at all! I mean his look. He showed no appreciation, then I had to listen as he rabbited on about the family, this and that about his daughters and how they never visited him. Started to get nasty like some old people do, and called us names. Though he still had his marbles I rarely agreed with anything he said, and he was so stubborn!"

She put on her reading glasses, "Uhm, we are all to meet in the lawyers office for the reading of the will next Tuesday at 10am. I bet that'll be interesting."

During the week her three sisters received their letters. Amelia was first to arrive at the office, and seemed genuinely surprised, and a little uneasy when a little later her three younger sisters arrived together. She looked directly at them, and gave them a cautionary, "Hello."

Their response was muted with a low mumble of greetings. Only the youngest sister, Anne, glanced at her as she uttered a subdued, "Hello."

The other two sisters, Mary, and Julie, did their best to ovoid any eye contact. Amelia sensed trouble was brewing in the sisters who didn't usually get on that well together. She felt well prepared for any trouble that Mary, and the weak willed Julie who was dominated by Mary would make. She was also sure that Anne would follow the other two in any dispute.

This meeting was important enough to warrant the senior partner Bartholomew Snodgrass officiating the reading of the will.

After introductions and proof of identity shown, they were led into a small back office. Here, they all sat down without fuss, and it was noticed as far apart as possible.

The lawyer opened a thick manilla file and started. "I don't know if you are all aware of your Father's financial state?" He stopped and looked at them. They all just shrugged or shook their head.

Amelia spoke up, "I think we have a fair idea, though he never sat us down and told us anything; at least not me."

Mary was sarcastic, "Yes, I believe you."

The lawyer looked at her and wrote something down, this took about a minute. Then he continued.

"Anyway, Mr Gould left his affairs in good order, with huge investments in a variety of stocks and bonds. As you should know his house and contents were rented. The landlord claims that a Davenport and several other items are missing. So these certain items that have been removed since his demise will have to be returned."

He looked over his glasses at us all in turn and wrote something else down.

The sisters looked at one another. Amelia had kept away from the house, but she could see from the expressions that her sisters must have been through the sparse contents.

"Father left little of any personal value, he always shunned possessions and property," piped up Mary.

The lawyer wrote more, then opened a large official looking envelope, "This is a most unusual form of will, although not unheard of. The equity is invested, with the profits to be awarded annually, on a percentage basis, with certain conditions attached. The percentages are as follows:-

Amelia is to receive twenty percent, Julie ten percent, Anne ten percent, and Mary ten percent. This is subject to certain conditions."

After a full minute of shocked silence, there was a mini uproar as they all started to talk at once in loud voices. First at one another, then they turned to the lawyer. Mary was the most vocal.

"This is a travesty, I'll contest this will, it's not fair, no court will entertain this! Ten percent is an insult!"

The lawyer looked at Amelia. There were certain facts she wanted to know so she asked him directly. "Why did the total come to only fifty percent and what's happening to the rest? What is the value of the fund? And what are the conditions? We need to know otherwise the percentages are meaningless. And how is the fund to be calculated?"

"You are to be informed at this stage that fifty percent of the income has already been allocated. This was done during John Gould's lifetime and is irrefutable. I have a letter that is to be read to you all in one month's time at a meeting in this office. In the meantime there is a questionnaire to be filled in by me. This will have a bearing on the awards; and any variances."

"Any what?" Amelia looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"I'm not at liberty to explain at this stage. The instruction is lengthy and complex in this will." The lawyer sat invincible behind his thick horn-rimmed glasses. It was noticed that he barely looked at Amelia before he wrote something down on a form. He had up to then ignored the demanding voices of the other sisters.

"Right Julie, how can I help you?"

"Why is Amelia getting more than anyone else?"

"We have an inkling of what was on your father's mind. This will be revealed in due course."

"And..." She looked as if she was not going to let it drop, then shrugged in despair.

The lawyer wrote more down on the form.

Mary was seething with rage by now and spoke with venom, "Why did that bastard only give me ten percent where Amelia got twenty percent?"

If her looks could kill, Amelia felt that she would have been struck dead on the spot.

He didn't look up or answer as he continued to write a fast scrawl. Then he turned towards Anne. "Yes Anne?"

"This isn't fair, Amelia gets more than us."

The lawyer looked at her, "as I've explained I have no information to pass onto you at this stage. You will notice, there is a phone number where you can all contact the secretary during office hours if you have any ideas you would like to share. I'll see you all back here on the 20th August at 10am where the final details will be available."

Amelia had hardly got back home when her phone rang.

"Mary here, that was a shocker eh?"

"If you say so?" She didn't feel like falling for any sob story, political in fighting, or any other of her dubious machinations.

"I deserved more, I held Father in high regard and visited him regularly."

"Oh yes? Well I know different and you can see what he thought of you."

"Look Amelia, I don't want to fall out with you. Do you remember at school in the fourth year how I sorted out that horrible fat Janet Bithell who was bullying you—?"

"Don't try and soft soap me Mary, it's much too late for that now. Anyway I dealt with her by myself...as you well know."

"Wouldn't it be fair if we all got the same percent each?"

"It may seem that way, but Father wanted it like this and that is what counts."

After Amelia said this, Mary reverted back to her normal nasty self.

"Well I'm not going to put up with this! I'll see we all get nothing if I have to."

Amelia sighed, "Go on then cut off your nose to spite your face. I would expect no less of you. Don't call again!" with that she put the phone down.

They were to find out that Mary was on the phone to the Lawyers secretary nearly every day. Her conversations varied, between trying to change opinions, yielding the big stick with threats of civil action, and bodily harm when her temper flared up several times.

The meeting date soon arrived. Again Amelia was first there, and like before, her sisters arrived together. This time they all ignored her greetings. "Oh well if that's how you want it." Amelia looked past caring what her sisters thought of her, and a trace of her father's stubbornness showed.

They were led again by Bartholomew Snodgrass to that dingy back office and those scruffy chairs where so much business had been discussed over the years.

"Please sit down and listen to what I have to tell you," he took his time as he arranged the documents before him. "Right, these are for you all to read now," he handed them a sheet of paper, and each bore their name.

"You are informed that your collective behaviour has a bearing on the sum you are to inherit. These are the variances I mentioned to you. John Gould was an unhappy man, he always felt let down by the behaviour of his daughters. It was with some difficulty that we persuaded him to leave anything at all to his children. So he came up with a formula to calculate how much you should all receive. Everything you have said in this last month has been logged and all abuse counted up against you."

Mary moaned, "Oh no," as she realised her folly.

The lawyer ignored Mary, coughed, and continued, "I'll start with Amelia. You were your father's favourite in so far as he disliked you the least. He went out of his way to describe you, as argumentative, acting distant, and not as a loving daughter. Your twenty percent is reduced to eighteen percent because you failed to control your sisters like an older sister should, and you have done nothing to make sure the furniture was returned. This will earn you thirty six thousand pounds a year."

"Anne, and Julie, you have plainly sided with Mary in the vindictive and jealous attack on your sister Amelia. So as you can see you are both reduced to five percent. This will earn you each ten thousand pounds a year."

As a matter of interest your father describes you both in the will as lacking in basic human warmth, and daughters of little worth to an old man.

"Mary, we have decided that you get three percent, this is because of your bad character and extreme behaviour over the last month. So it will earn you six thousand pounds this year." Your father indicated he would rather not describe his feelings about you.

"The capital sum of twenty million pounds is invested and controlled for the next thirty years by my company. These sums will vary from year to year. Any attempted legal action will make this payment permanently null and void."

"You may wonder where your lost nineteen percent is going. Well it is being added to the other fifty percent already promised to a certain Cynthia James who lives, where? You will never know."

"Just who is Cynthia James?" Amelia looked at the lawyer's letter.

END

#  The Trouble With Love

Song

© Sally Edmondson 1997

It seems to me

That all love songs

Are written when

Love's gone wrong

It seems to me

That the time is right

To realise what you had

When it's gone

The trouble with love is

It strikes faster than lightning

At times it's quite frightening

Then suddenly it's gone

It seems to me

That the world's gone mad

People never satisfied

What they have

More and more

Walking out that door

Thinking something out there

Must be had

Everybody else

Seems to have got it right

So what happened to your ambition

Look before you leap

It's only love you need to keep

So don't throw it away – oh no!

Don't throw it away

SPOKEN: Bring it down!

Its seems to me

That all love songs

Are written when

Love's gone wrong!

SPOKEN: Oh yes they are!

It seems to me

That the time is right

To realise what you had

When it's gone!

SPOKEN – More fool you!

REPEAT CHORUS AND OUT

Copyright © 1997 Sally Edmondson

END

#  Cliff Hanger's Homecoming

by James Faro

As she had done every Friday evening that Summer, Stella Hanger perched herself on the window seat of their bedroom at Planters Ridge in Tenville, Missouri. From here she could get a clear view of rolling cornfields beyond the wall at the front of the house. She could also keep her eye on the stretch of highway from Cooper's Hill until it met the bend before vanishing behind the small copse at the corner of their plot. The sun, which had been pouring through the window on the opposite side of the room that afternoon, was now low in the sky and there was a chill in the air. The paperback in Stella's hand had not progressed beyond the first chapter.

Four miles to the north of Tenville, the evening sun warmed the cab as the truck flew along the empty free-way. Cliff kept his foot hard down to the floor. How much easier it was to handle her now the final load had been despatched. He pressed the base of his palm into his eyes: it had been a long week and he couldn't wait to get home. The fields were a blur as the truck flew into the next hollow. Cliff glanced across to the shimmer of water to his right. He'd promised himself to get to that fishing hole this weekend as it would probably be his last chance before the end of the season. After a good night's rest he'd be sure to get down there before dawn. Cliff rubbed his eyes again as the truck climbed the next hill. Not much further now.

Stella tucked her feet up and hugged her legs. She leant forward to rest her chin on her knees as she watched Ben kick the ball on the patch of dry grass below. He was growing so fast. They'll have to see about getting him into that first grade school in Fort Jackson. She made a note to bring it up at some time over the weekend. Stella glanced at her watch then tried to find her place in the book.

The truck dived towards the wood at the bottom of the next dip. Cliff knew the road well enough; gave two long blasts before reaching the bend.

The sound took Stella's eyes away from the page. She looked down to the garden. The football was heading down the drive towards the road, Ben in hot pursuit. Stella shot off the window seat.  
The truck flew past the copse. The bend was coming up faster than usual. Breaks screamed as Cliff shoved his foot right down to the floor.

Ben was almost at the top of the driveway as Stella reached the kitchen. She raced towards the deafening sound and, at the kitchen door, witnessed a huge truck swinging into the drive. She froze as her son ran towards the monster just yards ahead. For the next few seconds time stood still. The deafening noise subsided into a deathly silence. A steady pulse continued to thump in Stella's ears.

The truck had skidded to a halt just a few feet inside the drive. Seeing the boy, the driver leaped from the cab and picked him up. Ben's squeals of delight reached the kitchen door as Cliff lifted him high above his head.

"Daddy, Daddy, you're home!"

END

website: www.jamesfaro.com

#  The Cross

by Ryan Hardcastle

A smile adorns my face as I sit on my favourite spot and stare at Earth. My time is becoming more precious by the minute. My heart flutters as well it might. And why shouldn't it? I have, after all, attacked a sleeping, monster, The Great Satan. Awakened now, my life is in its last phase. As you read my account, you will know why I smile. I press transmit, and my shout is deadened within the confines of my helmet, "Death to all Infidels..." my distorted words blast forth, "praise be to Allah! I'm Mohamed Abu Yaheb."

The weak signal may not reach Earth, but I don't care.

To keep calm I avoid thoughts of the actions I have just taken, and stare at the Earth's magnificent water blue covering, brightened by the white patches of cloud that appear so deceptively small at this distance. Yes! That's the word, deceptively or just deceptive, that describes me and could be my middle name.

My deep concentration feeds a curious feeling of calm as I contemplate my glorious destiny. I have been able to send my message to the world before their retaliation hit the base. They blasted apart the habitation module to get to me, but I survived and now await their next attempt. My mind goes back to that word 'deceptive' again. My life in America from the age of twelve when I won a NASA scholarship has been a lie. Those ten years I spent in study and acting the part, paid off when I was selected for the first expedition to establish a base on the Moon.

I belong to a middle class family from the Pattoki area of Pakistan. My parents are both Afghan exiles who fled the country during the Soviet occupation, and have been able to hide their strict Pashtun Islamic background. My father is very proud of me and shares with me an unshakable belief in world domination by the Muslim faith and Taliban ideals. My mother who keeps in the background is concerned only with raising children and looking after her husband like a good Muslim wife and Mother should. Her obvious love for me, her only son will be a weakness in the hours to come. I said my goodbyes to her in my own way, she was of course unaware. I regard myself a leading force, a soldier of Allah.

My path had already been chosen for me at an early age, and was confirmed by the great prophet Sala who appeared to me in a dream when I was nine years old. I was discovered at an early age to have a high IQ. Proud memories still linger of when at the age of seven, my Father overruled my Mother and insisted I be taken away from home for further education.

I remember he said this to me, "Abu, you are my only son and it has been decreed that you learn our faith and dedicate your life to it. Much is expected from you",

I also remember his determined look.

Although I may have been a little unwilling at first, I was soon to cast aside a veil that partly clouded my youthful view. Even at that age I charged at life like a lion, two steps at a time. I knew what was required of me.

"Father, I know as your son I must do as you say", this may sound like the words of a much older boy, but you must understand I've never been a child.

For three years scholars dedicated to our cause schooled me for many hours every day, life was very hard, I learned the Quran by heart before my ninth birthday. I have few memories about how I felt in those early days; of course I missed my Mother at first but I got over that as I grew up. I faced life as a stronger person and soon grew into my special role. My whole life has been a preparation for today. I snap out of my daydream and again I try a hit on my transmit button. I shout, "You already know me... I'm Mohamed Abu Yaheb at Jihad Base One." There was of course no answer.

Then a warning bleep catches my attention. With ten minutes of air left it's time to turn on the reserves. It won't be long now. The sedative I took this morning helps me to settle down again and allows my mind to wander back in time.

Ten days ago we landed on a flat lava plain called Mare Imbrium. The mission went according to plan and we established Lunar Base One. This involved the assembly of a habitation module, and various experiments both inside and on the Lunar surface.

Electronics are my speciality, and I also help the geologist by collecting samples for analysis back at base.

I was known at NASA as Mark Richmond and I suppose it's natural to feel jittery. On the inside of my silvered sun visor I see the red eyes of a soldier of Allah. It's just as well that I've disabled my face camera; the thought sends my heart racing like a spooked horse. Taking a deep breath, I flip up my visor and look out through the plain darkened plastic of my haven. I'm keenly aware of my stiff EVA suit, with its oxygen rich air pressure, fighting, any movement. I both curse and bless, this exhausting life preserver. A self contained micro-planet encompassing my being. Comfort is not hard to find. I have time for reflection and to look around. This moonscape is a vista of black desolation, made stark, by the bright light and black shadows. A bit like my life. The black shadow of Christianity forever in the background; with the bright lights of my academic achievements a welcome contrast.

My father will be proud of my sacrifice. But mother will be the one to quietly grieve for her only son when on her own. I know she will understand. I drift back to the present and my heart leaps again.

Back at Moon Base; little do my crew members suspect, that they are about to become a page of history. Praise Allah!

I'm careful to keep my thoughts internal. 'Don't say a word.' Remember your captain has access to a loaded firearm and could use it...' This was drummed into me during certain training that NASA would love to know about. Control has logged my two non-functioning suit cams, as a fault in the internal battery supply. Wrong, just duct tape stuck across the lenses, this did the job before I left the Base.

I can't allow myself, or the seven inch plastic cross and craft knife, to be seen on camera.

Silently, I recite a prayer to Allah under my breath, this livens my spirits. My birth world will soon ring with the sound of my true name. I almost smile, when I think about how my Infidel masters are totally deceived. They have never discovered my true character. I show the right face when required, a chameleon who changes its colours. I hate Satan's people, because only Allah is the future.

The OXY tank level reading is OK so I scroll, increase, on my wrist display. And a short extra burst of cool oxygen, hisses into my two million dollar pressure suit world. In seconds I feel much better, and those butterflies in my stomach subside. With the help of Allah, I will not fail.

Ben the base doctor, speaks loud and clear from the back of my helmet, "Mark, are you walking? Your heart rate is elevated."

"Just collecting a geo sample." I'm relieved I don't have to live this lie for much longer.

My suit bakes in the sun and freezes in the shadow.

This means, the climate control system has to work hard to keep me at a cool, 19 degrees centigrade. Sitting stationary is not recommended, so in a few minutes I'll have to move, despite liking the view. The reality of all this snaps me back to the present...

I look across at the multi-coloured ball we call Earth. There it is, Pakistan my adopted country. Lying like a sleeping lady under a duvet, a patchwork of green, brown and purple. My eyes wander over to the crushed purple velvet of the Pir Panchal mountain range to my secret training camp. From under fluffy cumulus rain clouds, Islamabad peeps out like that shy maiden. This has to be my omen. Those three months where I studied recently, are very special to me. I imagine the scene down below, as my instructors drink their traditional sweet scented tea and wait for my next message. How I would like a cup of that tea right now, so much nicer, than the purified water provided in my suit. I swear I can smell that lavender scent waft through my helmet.

An hour ago, I sent a coded birthday greeting back to Islamabad. Translated it read... 'My great task has begun.' A voice in my helmet startles me and causes my pulse to race again.

"Mark, how's the collecting going?" Eunice, the base commander, sounds concerned. Or is it my imagination?

"I'm at twelve clicks, by crater L15 and about to head back, with a box full of samples."

"Good, use airlock three."

"Ok."

Airlock three should serve me well, because it faces the main work and living area. Pleased, I kick away from the rock and hop over like a rabbit in the 17% gravity. Waiting for me is the electric lunar buggy, dull looking and covered in black dust. It's an easy drive back to Lunar Base, on this now well used track. With no time to spare, I give little thought to the five other members of the crew. Despite my subdued excitement, I feel a curious numbness towards these Infidels.

Meanwhile back at base, a tired Eunice sits back on the commander's seat. At thirty five years she is the oldest crew member. With her fingers linked behind her head and her thumbs circled around and under her grey flecked auburn pony tail. A habit she has had since youth. She speaks to her second in command. "I can't sleep properly in this low gravity." Staring at the blank display, she yawns, "Rhyyyyan... what do you think is wrong with Mark's cameras?" Her head shakes to try and rid herself of the last vestiges of tiredness.

"I've never heard of both going offline like that. They have independent circuits and we are picking up audio. I can't understand it."

She rubs her chin in thought, mutters a barely audible, "uhm," then taps the display and drags a casual finger across. The 3D picture shows a middle distance shot of the moving buggy.

Ryan's sharp eyes spots something, "The lens on his shoulder cam looks silver—a covering, it could be tape. But surely not, why would he...?"

Eunice drags a finger and soon has a close-up of Marks shoulder camera. With a nod of her head she admits, "You're right, I'll be damned if that isn't duct tape!"

They look at one another in astonishment.

"I must say, Mark looked ill at ease when he left for his EVA."

"Yes?" She turns and stares at Ryan. Then locates Mark's vital signs up on the display.

"I thought something was wrong. I had that feeling you get? I asked him if everything was alright. You know when perhaps a person is off colour, he was definitely not his cheerful self. He's not normally moody and he looked kind of nervous and edgy like he was hiding something. I didn't like it," Ryan explains. His unusually serious expression registers with Commander Eunice.

"He has elevated breathing and pulse, normally I would say that he might be coming down with an infection," Ben, the doctor, who has been reading just feet away interrupts. "I'll check him over. I don't want anything spreading among us."

"This all seems odd to me. We need to keep an eye on him," her eyes are glued to the screen.

Slowing down on the approach to airlock three, I notice the camera on the habitation module turn to follow me.

"Damn it," I whisper under my breath.

This is not a great start, so I hurry to park the buggy in the usual place, next to the yellow and black striped, re-charge point. With no time to waste, because I want to get this over with. I press the red button by the door and the air hisses out of the airlock to equalise to the Moon's vacuum. A half minute later the green light indicates ready, this enables the outside airlock door to open with a turn of the handle.

Back inside Eunice watches and remarks to Ryan, "He hasn't connected the buggy for re-charging, now that's not standard procedure. What's going on ?" she wonders out loud. Then rises from her chair and goes quickly to the airlock door, leaving Ryan sitting on the edge of the commander's desk, he rubs his chin between his thumb and first finger of his right hand and his brow wrinkles.

Once sealed inside the tiny airlock and with my back to the inside porthole. I override the air pressure regulator, turning up the airlock pressure to 4 pounds higher than the normal internal pressure of 14.5 psi. This has been rehearsed so many times in Pakistan, and only takes me a few seconds. I mutter my homage to Allah, as I remove the brown plastic cross from my side pocket. I nearly laugh at the thought of what this symbol means to the infidels and is about to do. My hands shake, as the craft knife cuts around the four sides of the square shaft at about an inch from the bottom. A thin layer of brown plastic peels away to reveal a hidden joint near the end, this twists off with a click, and exposes a plastic screw. I'm ready...

A turn of the screw, allows highly pressurised liquid gas to escape with a loud hiss, this vaporises on contact with the air and creates a billowing cloud of dark yellow poison. I waft it about in the tiny space, to make sure that it is evenly dispersed. It's just as well I'm still fully suited up. I turn to check the inside door and find Commander Eunice's nose is pressed hard against the porthole.

"Oh damn," I curse.

"Mark, why have you taped over your body cams?"

"We can talk about it in a second. I'm coming in now."

"You're still in your EVA suit. Remove it first. And what is that yellow mist?—Oh my God, No!"

She notices the air gauge red lined at overpressure. I have to act quickly and slam the door release handle.

Realising what's about to happen, she turns to run towards the gun locker, and never makes it. "Her last words are, "Get the gunnn..."

The relative high pressure, blows the door open with great force and hits Eunice on the back of her head. She is thrown across the room like a lifeless dummy.

A smoke ring of dark yellow/brown mist, rolls after her and rapidly disperses down the inside of the module. I charge forward quietly as trained in that gymnasium in Islamabad.

Lara and John, the biologists are working on their laptops next to the airlock.

"What the?" John attempts to stand up, and doubles over in a fit of coughing. While Lara gasps and slumps sideways, they both die in seconds.

I jump over Eunice as she chokes noisily in front of me on the floor and rush past Ben. He slumps forward, spilling coffee across his desk.

Only Ryan is left, on the far side, and ahead of the dirty yellow cloud. He quickly realises what is happening and takes a deep breath. I discover that he has already grabbed a bunch of keys. I have an instant picture in my mind of him coolly trying different keys as he tries to open the emergency gun locker. Seconds later I'm able to dive on him; he throws the keys down, breaks free, and dives into the toilet compartment. There, he slams the plastic concertina door shut. Fresh air gives him a temporary refuge. His voice is straining and loud through the door. "Why... have you done this?"

"I don't have time, to explain." As I speak I slip open the craft knife with two gloved hands.

"There was always something dodgy about you," a note of desperation edged Ryan's voice.

I shout, "In the name of Allah!" And with my knife, I slash the door in several places. In one desperate movement, Ryan slams it open and takes a lunge at me in an attempt to destroy the integrity of my EVA suit. This isn't impossible, but hard to do with bare hands. He grabs for my environmental back pack with one hand and tries to grab my right arm with his other.

I turn and hold the knife up out of his reach, he moves to try and take it with two hands. So I grab it with my other hand and throw it across the living area. In extreme desperation he releases me and runs for the knife.

Although I'm a little clumsy in my suit, I do manage to grab him from behind in a rugby tackle and slow him down. He is strong and tries to crawl. So I do what I have to do and he fights well for a long, two minutes—then he weakens—and takes a breath...

A rest is in order, so I drop onto the captains seat. Panting with the effort. And with my visor partly steamed over, I sit looking up at the roof, unable to chance a look at the bodies. A passage from the Koran comes to mind, but there is no time now. I quickly turn off all master isolators and cams. As per instructions, I side lined the laboratory, a small room packed with complex testing equipment.

And now for the important part. The red, air dump valve lever, is turned on to 20%. The poisoned atmosphere slowly hisses away, into the vacuum of space. It has to be slow and takes a few minutes, because I don't want the poison to condense out of the air. A slight mist clears, as the hissing stops, and I check the gauge is at zero. In minutes I have both doors of the airlock open. The bodies are light, and in this low gravity they are easy to drag outside by their feet. Dumping them without care, or ceremony, in front of the main switched off camera is intentional. I still avoid looking at them. The World will view them later, when I'm ready.

"Praise be to Allah."

It should be safe now to re-charge the atmosphere. With the doors closed again, this takes a few minutes. With no need for secrecy and on my own, I find comfort, in the sound of my muted voice. "In a few minutes I'll have this helmet off my head." This spurs me on my way.

In my toiletry kit, I locate a special tissue I'd hidden. This is to test all surfaces for contamination. The result is negative and the air is safe to breathe.

With my EVA suit helmet removed. It's time to enjoy a badly needed carton of juice from the fridge locker. My instructions are to delay contact with the media for at least an hour, this is to achieve the best coverage. Despite my need for food, my devotions call and I spread out my special towel, my prayer mat. Many, are my thanks to Allah, for now I can pray in a proper fashion.

Later, while eating, my thoughts stray to the glory days to come. Shortly, I'll be in Paradise, where forty virgins are waiting for me.

Now, for more important work. In my laptop I locate a file titled, Family Messages. A quick scroll down to 'Remember This,' and the entry of a six digit security code, produces a numbered list on the screen. It's time to power up the external com system and connect my laptop as normal when sending video messages. A sequence of numbers on the base computer produces the correct signal and connects me with my tutors in Pakistan. They promised me that my hours of pre-recorded voice messages to the Glory of Allah, will be played on the worldwide Al Jeera channel.

I move the cursor to 1 and press play...

"I want some answers and quick."

At JPL Control Centre a worried Flight Director FD Bob Martin turns away from his subordinates. Reluctantly, he stretches out his arm and grabs the ringing phone. For an hour he has sat before the large screen, fencing off calls with a standard response, "No sir, we have no further news. All I can say is that contact has been lost with Lunar Base One. And, yes, it's only temporary."

He replaces the phone into its cradle after two tries. His attention is on the small screen just feet away. With several others he watches a looped video sequence. This is inside Lunar Base One and shows someone in an EVA suit dashing across the field of view of the controls monitor camera.

On the large screen the hourly news is about to be displayed.

"This is the CNN midday news and I'm Jennifer Walters. Here to give you the latest news from around the world.

We have just heard that an interview with Eunice Day the leader of the moon base Lunar One team, was postponed today, when it was revealed, that all contact had been lost earlier with the base."

Flip to a library picture of a Lunar Habitation Module with a sign captioned, LUNAR BASE ONE.

"Concern is mounting on this tenth day of the month long mission. And NASA has refused to comment further on this strange situation. Starting at 10:32am EST this morning, two video channels, and all data channels were progressively turned off—We interrupt this news item..."

All eyes are on the direct link monitor as snow is replaced by the—'Acquisition Of Signal' caption. This speech follows at full volume.

"My name is Mohamed Abu Yaheb, and I speak to you from Lunar Base One. I have taken it over in the name of our great Allah—and now re-name this first moon base 'Jihad One.' Many are my thanks for this chance to advance the cause of Islam, and, strike back at all the infidel devils who have challenged the Prophet Allah—blessed be his name. Now I can reach out to our devoted followers to strike at that great Satan—a country with a black heart. In the name of Allah, Death to all infidels!"

"Damn it." FD Martin has heard enough, "Turn that TV volume down and lock the doors. No communications leave this room, nothing at all. And gather round, all of you!"

He re-lights his cigar, and surveys his staff through a cloud of smoke. They comprise of a dozen specialists with various fields of expertise. All eyes are on him as he signals quiet with his hand.

"The administration, the media, the President, everyone, is going to want a serious piece of our ass. What the Hell! We have no protocol for this. It's a serious embarrassment, I need answers and quick." A glance around at the shocked and silent audience confirms something; he continues. "At 10:30:06 EST, the main interior console camera on Moon Base One, picked up the movement of a figure in an EVA suit. At 10:33:47, all direct links were turned off. That is except for emergency signals. Two minutes later we picked up an emergency depressurisation warning. What do we know about this Mohamed what's-his-name?"

Ground Controller (GC) Ben Withers speaks up, "We have identified that person as Mark Richmond. He had just returned from an EVA."

"And the others? Do we know anything about them?"

"It doesn't look good because the rest of the crew were working inside."

"How can we find out about their status, with the vital signs monitors turned off?" FD Martin fires back.

"There may be a way. Leave it with me." Astrophysicist Bernie Gold is already on his feet heading for the door...

Forty minutes later, a pink faced Bernie Gold hurries into JPL Control Centre clutching his Apple iPad. Trying to regain his breath and with trembling hands, he connects it up to a main computer. "I called in a few favours and had the new J54 deep space telescope redirected to scan Mare Imbrium.—Ah!—That's the one." In seconds, high definition pictures of the moon fill the large screen. As he talks, his hands manipulate the display of pictures.

FD Martin leans forward as if to get a better look. A distant shot of the Base appears as a round silver shape with three short arms. The screen blurs and zooms in to centimetre resolution. A crystal clear image, of the shiny silver habitation module fills the screen with only a slight shake to give away the distance. A terrible sight is revealed, of several bodies piled up, the arms and legs sticking out in a random fashion.

The silence is broken by a shocked and disgusted FD Martin, "For the record—we have the first evidence of the murder of I believe to be five crew members. This is a whole new ball game," He raises his voice as he picks up the phone, "It's time to speak to the big boys."

A short time later, in the White House Situation Room, an informed and newly elected President Alan White, sits with his advisers. In deep thought, he leans back and looks deceptively relaxed as he doodles on the large sheet of buff coloured blotting paper. His anger boils up suddenly and in his clenched fist he brings his Parker ball point pen down hard, burying it well into the thick blotter.

This sudden movement startles several of the top brass who are unused to his ways. Clearing his throat is a signal for the background murmur to die down.

"He must be silenced! We can't let him get away with this atrocity. Justice is to be done and seen to be done, with all the mess it entails. This is of prime concern—to be implemented right away. Damn it! I want that voice off the airwaves!" His ashen face and slightly raised voice is the only giveaway to his normally placid exterior.

"We have just the man for the job...Right here." Secretary Of State, James Grant's hand, waves towards CIA Chief, Alan Barker.

"Yes, we have the CIA funded HS2 Space Beam Weapon, that last remnant from the Star Wars programme, can be used at an hour's notice. I was about to suggest that we fire it and annihilate that S.O.B," he looks at the President for approval.

"Can it reach that distance?" the doodling with the pen continues.

"There may be a slight degrading effect due to dust particles, but confidence is high that it will do the job, Sir."

"There is no other way, so you have my permission to silence this maniac." He throws his pen down and rises to leave the room.

With all the checks completed I try to relax in my EVA suit and read the Koran on my computer. Through a window I sees a blinding shaft of light as it creeps across the terrain towards Lunar Base One. I know what it is and grab my helmet... fast. "This is that green sighting laser—already—Damn it!"

The short distance to the airlock seems to take forever. I slam the door behind me and seal myself inside this sanctuary. There is barely time to thank 'Allah' for being suited up, with just my helmet to put on. As I place it over my head...

One hundred and sixty miles above Earth's equator in a geostationary position, sits a huge cylindrical satellite the size of a school bus. Circuits have warmed up and a large, green, emerald laser streaks out to an area of the moon, 220,000 miles away. This cylinder is surrounded in a ring, by eight smaller ones. Within seconds one detaches, then small thrusters speed it away to a safe distance where it aligns with the laser. After a few seconds the cylinder starts to glow with the force of a small, internal 5MT (metric ton) controlled atomic explosion.

Huge electrical energy charges fight to control the gamma radiation. For a millisecond there is a hesitation as it builds up to an unimaginable force... Then following the laser pointer, a pink beam of gamma radiation, ten centimetres across, streaks on its way to the moon... 1.18 seconds later a trail of gasses drift into space.

A small circle of aluminium alloy on the air filtration plant starts to sizzle and spit. The beam melts its way through to the Lunar base roof, this too starts to melt. Escaping gasses transmit their hissing as a vibration—then a first shudder rocks the whole structure. Working quickly I seal my helmet.

Down the seams like an orange—rapid depressurisation rips the roof apart. The airlock is blasted violently aside and myself with it. Stunned by the shock wave I lie there at an awkward angle. The beam's fifteen second burn completes and silence prevails. Wreckage is strewn in all directions. A scene of utter desolation and radiated heat, greets me, as I gaze through the window. I notice the centre console is reduced to a pile of melted plastic and metal.

"Damn!" that's the broadcasting finished. I only have my suit com left, and that is limited to a range of ten to twenty miles.

A movement in this silent vacuum of space draws my attention to the main LOX tank. A pipe has been fractured and oxygen is escaping fast. Soon there will be none. That leaves me with only about forty five minutes of oxygen left in my EVA suit tank.

"That's me finished as well," I mutter as I extract myself from the wrecked airlock.

After a quick inspection of the wrecked habitation module, I notice the buggy is untouched. I know where I'm going. But first I have some work to do.

I manage to retrieve the undamaged gun, a light weight revolver with six rounds in the chamber. There's equipment here that the enemy can use and it's my duty to destroy all I can. Trouble is the trigger guard is far too small for the bulky suit fingers to be able to reach.

I think for a moment and remember my personal tool kit strapped around my waist. A screwdriver will serve the purpose.

My first target is the huge liquid oxygen tank. Carefully I kneel down and lean forward. My hands are wrapped around the pistol; somehow I trap the screwdriver across the trigger and squeeze. With the barrel pointed up this means that the reaction forces push downward.

Inertia and mass are constant, so this is no harder than on Earth to accomplish. The bullet passes right through and out the other side of the tank. This should render the tank unusable.

Next is the Lunar Ascent Vehicle which stands twelve metres high. I fire three rounds into it and hit the ascent engine, the crew module and the hydrazine tank, this erupts into a huge escape of gas. Had this been on Earth and mixed with oxygen, there is no doubt, it would have been an explosion.

And my last target is the most important. Our nuclear generator contains 3.5 kilos of plutonium. I fire the remaining two rounds into the radiation shielding fins. These shatter and the vessel ruptures. I scatter the pieces. That's two thousand years of contamination. The first wasteland on the Moon. At this stage, I don't care if I'm irradiated. It's time to ride the buggy...

Meanwhile in the White House Situation Room an appalled President is watching the events unfold in real time.

The tension can be felt as the buggy drives away from the wrecked Lunar Base One.

"Where's he going now?—Get him ASAP before his air runs out. You got that?"

Allan Barker is on his mobile. After speaking for two minutes, in a low voice he announces, "We're standing by and tracking him. All we need is for him to be stationary for a few minutes and we'll have him."

I'm back to my favourite resting place and admiring the view. I spot a movement as the green beam edges towards me. The target has been acquired, and I'm laughing my head off. "Come on! Come on! You got me full in the chest. Now zap meeee."

A death pink, buzzing sound, eats away with great heat the silvered insulating layers. My suit works well but is no match for the power of the beam. I can feel each layer burn through. "My work is done, now it's time for my reward. Allahu akbarrrrr..."

END

#  What Might Have Been

A Poem For Allan by Caroline Hepburn

Years later I stand before a mirror

And in the reflection

Catch a glimpse of you

An indistinct shape

Passing swiftly by

As I try to draw nearer

What to tell of your life

Two years eight months in this world

Swinging your legs squealing

Squinting into the sunlight as

I push you higher and higher

Up to the sky back down again

What of the man you might have become

The life that was yours to live

Never thinking to count your days

Unaware that time would stop for you

If only I could I would hold you tight

Promise to never let go

Only in dreams do I see you now

A shimmer of light

Jumping Leaping

Calling your name you run

Just out of reach hiding so

I lose you once again

This is when I try to capture you

Your laughter Your smile

The very essence of you

A curly haired laughing boy

Forever you will be

My little brother

END

#  Casual Acquaintance

by Juanita Shield-Laignel

He tore at the front of her blouse hungrily, the same blouse he had been mentally freeing her from all evening. For years they had been casual acquaintances, 'friends of friends', and yet here they were entwined in a passionate embrace that would have put colour on the cheeks of the most hardened on-lookers.

They had been the first two to arrive at the party, standing at the bar making small talk, re-acquainting themselves with their loose connections, when she'd accidentally brushed against his forearm in the process of lifting her drink to her (he had noticed), soft, pink, lips. That slightest touch had awoken a stirring in him that had laid dormant, it felt to him, since the beginning of time, but in actual fact was just a few short years since his wife had moved in with their female next door neighbour and dashed his faith in woman kind, he had supposed, forever. But here he was standing ever so close as there was little room, next to this beautiful woman and finding himself aroused.

She had always thought him attractive in a very manly way and the facial hair he'd acquired since their last brief encounter at a similar function some years before, suited him.

"How's your wife?" she enquired casually.

"Very well," he answered almost too quickly and then followed with, "living with a woman suits her". A little shocked and unsure how to continue, she looked at the large clock on the wall and commented that she hoped the others would be there soon or else they would be as if they were on a date which, she laughed, her husband of twenty years wouldn't appreciate.

As if to answer her prayers the others arrived and she relaxed into polite conversation with some of the more familiar ones. This particular group only met on special occasions for their mutual friend who for her 49th birthday, had invited them all to dine on fine Italian.

Quite unintentionally, they found themselves sitting opposite each other at the table, he very aware of her and her very aware of his awareness! She spoke to both the men flanking her at length about this and that and from time to time engaged herself in the other conversations on the table, even those including him. She was however, even when looking to her left or her right aware of his gaze upon her and a few times turned her head a little more quickly than he could react to, so witnessed him looking at her cleavage. A less astute person may have been completely oblivious.

The person to his right and diagonal to her asked how her husband was. "Very well thank you," but she wasn't able to say he had moved in with the next door neighbour female, male or otherwise so followed up with, "We are celebrating our twentieth anniversary this year," hoping this would throw him off the scent but excited that it didn't as she caught him looking at her intently as she spoke.

The evening continued in much the same vein, eating, chatting drinking. She noticed he was sticking to soft drinks whilst all the others, including herself, were quaffing wine and beer as is the norm for a Saturday night. She enquired as to the reason for his abstinence. "I have a lot to do tomorrow," he said simply.

Desserts finished, Happy Birthday sung, candles extinguished, conversation finally turned to mode of transport home. Three were walking, two taking the bus. Another's wife was collecting him and so on and all the while she had been quiet, intending to take the bus with the others. Before she could intimate this he interjected with, "I'll take you home" and then quickly followed it with, "all three of you, I'll take you home". She was relieved she wouldn't be alone in the car with him, but excited that she might.

As they left the restaurant, said their goodbyes with hugs and kisses on the cheek he strode off with two others from the party and she followed behind. Her mind was racing and imagining a hundred things. She was proud of the years she'd spent with her doting husband and the children they had raised together and yet her heart was thumping at the excitement of another man's interest.

Last to reach the car she sat in the only space available in the back and let fate be her master. She quickly saw the route he was taking and knew it wasn't the road to her home. Internally in turmoil but externally calm, she continued making polite conversation with her fellow back-seat occupant until they turned a corner into the driveway of the person in the front passenger seat and her heart missed a beat as he got out waving goodbye as he closed the door.

"Which one of you wants to be dropped next?" he asked as the answer determined which route he took. Both in back answered they didn't mind, to which he took the left turning away from her home and towards her back-seat companion's. She had become so acutely aware they would be left in the car alone together she could hardly focus on the conversation of the other passenger but made a great effort determined not to give herself away. "Yes it's a shame the summer is nearly over" she found herself agreeing and continued on, "It's been amazing, we've managed to get out so much this year and... blah blah blah" she was really struggling to focus.

It seemed like an age before they stopped at her companion's front door and he alighted a little unsteadily due to the fair amount of alcohol he'd consumed. She also got out of the back and walked around to the front passenger door before 'moowwahhing' the last guardian of her virtue goodbye. She got in next to him saying that back seat travel made her a little queasy, which was true but she also didn't want to remain in the back on her own. That would have been a little odd.

They continued to chat about everything and nothing until they were near her home but unable to drive up the road from that approach due to extensive road works. She found herself saying she would walk from here and as he stopped the car to let her out she leant over to kiss him goodnight on the cheek. She was amazed at how soft it was considering his advanced years and masculine appearance. She caught herself lingering a little longer than would have been seemly for a married woman to be kissing a casual acquaintance and became aware her breathing was a little more belaboured than she'd intended. He sensed her uneasiness and whispered, "We don't have to take this any further if you don't want to."

The next thing she knew their lips were locked as he tore at the front of her blouse hungrily, the same blouse he had been mentally freeing her from all evening. For years they had been casual acquaintances, 'friends of friends' and yet here they were, entwined in a passionate embrace that would have put colour on the cheeks of the most hardened on-lookers.

END

#  About the Jersey Writers Social Group

Formed in October 2017 in the Island of Jersey by local author James Sillwood, we are a small friendly group of people of all ages interested in writing. We aim to provide an informal forum for promoting discussion and encouragement for aspiring writers. Meetings are held locally, but writers from anywhere are welcome to take part in our online projects and contribute to the Facebook page (Jersey Writers Social Group). If you would like more information about our projects, please let us know!

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Facebook: Jersey Writers Social Group

Table of Contents

Preface

A Dream Come True

Call Me Son

Alphaphobia

Sea Glass

Cheapside

An Honest Review

Friday 15th

Beautiful Land

The Green Man

First Glimpse

The Butterflies Are Dancing

The Wonderful World of Daffodils

The Woman

Relief

Saudis Save the Day

Tears for a Nagasaki Boy

The Widow of Duxbury

Maria is Leaving

Psychological Experiment Gone Wrong

The Migrants

Life Can Not Die

Made with Love

Hurricane Gladys

Sunrise Nurseries

The Order of Release

The Dunes

The Closet

Poem

Million Dollar Deal

October Child

The Note

Night Reception

Just Say It

Extract from a Novel

The Paintings

Ryan Kept His Promise

A Hospital Visit

Across the Pond – A Travelogue

Lost Treasure of Alwyn

The Overload Train

Comedy Hour

The Sighting

Flightless Birds

Release

The Will

The Trouble With Love

Cliff Hanger's Homecoming

The Cross

What Might Have Been

Casual Acquaintance

About the Jersey Writers Social Group

