Writer's Notebook

Au revoir

2011-03-16T14:00:00.003+01:00

I'll not be updating this blog any more. But I've not stopped writing. If you go over to http://merewords1958.wordpress.com/, you'll find my latest fiction as well other posts relating to words, language and my life. So this is an "au revoir" and not a goodbye.

Outlaw

2011-03-11T14:57:00.002+01:00

I know Mama didn't really like me sneaking into the saloon. But I also know that once there, she wouldn't send me home. Today was delivery day. That made it easy. I could get in through the hatch and up the stairs when Mama wasn't looking. But I didn't like the mustiness of the cellar, so I hung around until the men were finished and Mama went to check. I sneaked in through the front door and went straight to the corner table. As usual it was empty and I hid underneath. This was one of my favourite places. From here I could see everything – even things the grown-ups couldn't see. I could see the pretty, coloured garters some of the ladies wore round their ankles to get the men to buy them drinks. And I could see how some of the players used to hide cards until they needed them.

Mama soon came back in but I stayed under the table for a while yet. Then I saw Billy Scoopdug sidle up to her. That meant Mama would have her hands full. Once a week regular as clockwork he'd turn up at the bar and push his charms onto Mama. I was hiding in the corner by the counter once and heard him.

"Come on Sal... Ya know that man of yours won't dare show his face here again with the law round. Ya don't wanna stay tied to an outlaw all your life, do ya. Ya need someone to look after ya and the littl'un. A saloon like this ain't a proper place for a lady like you. Someone's gotta protect you."

I hated him for that. How dare he suggest that Papa wouldn't come back again. Mama'd have none him either. She'd listen to his talk with that well-we'd-best-stay-polite smile of hers, all the time filling him up with some yellowy water stuff that made him ill. Then she'd get one of the guys to chuck him out.

Well, seeing as Mama seeing as Mama was occupied I reckoned it safe to come out. The piano was ringing out full pelt and there was some dancing going on, so no one bothered about me. I went and stood besides the piano and old Mr. Powell gave me a wink. It was strange seeing him there, sleeves rolled up, a half-empty tankard on top of his piano, his whole body swinging along with the music. He didn't look at all like he did Sundays when he taught me Sunday School. He was the only one of the church crowd to come into our saloon. Mama had stopped going the day the preacher told everyone how Papa was a vicious outlaw and a good for nothing who'd never know how to reform.

Of course, some of the other people in town thought the same thing about Papa. But for most of us he was real hero. Sure, he sometimes took what didn’t belong to him. But he only did it to help the poor. He never kept anything for himself. And although, he was the best shot in the neighbourhood, he never killed or hurt anyone.

“You have to be a good shot, if you’re gonna do what you have to do without hurting people son. It takes some shooting to frighten people without touching them.”

I gave old Mr. Powell the thumbs up and was about to take a swig from his glass when I was whisked off my feet. It was Aunt Lilli and as she whirled around the floor with me, singing at the top of her voice I saw Mama raise her hands in that helpless way of hers. Lilli passed me on to one of the other girls, hitched up her skirt and started kicking up her legs. Everyone cheered at that; even Mama joined in.

If a silence could come to an end with a crash, then that's what I'd say now. That's the way it seemed to me anyway. The piano jolted to a halt and Lilli collapsed onto the floor. She turned as pale as old Mr. Powell's hair. The girl I was dancing with dropped me. Every eye fixed itself on the front door. I scrambled to my feet. I wanted to see for myself. A large, dark shadow towered over me. A pair of dark boots came towards me and two massive hands grabbed around my waist. I was catapulted up into the air, but I wasn’t afraid now. I’d recognised his tattoos. As I fell back down, I wrapped my arms around his neck and shrieked:

“Daaaaadddddeeeee!”

Silent Permission

2011-01-28T11:42:00.002+01:00

This week's Fiction Friday prompt: “It’s better to be safe than sorry.” Write a scene where this proves to be true for your character.

Richard slung the ropes over his shoulder and glanced up towards the administration block. Guilt? He wasn't sure. He certainly felt no guilt over what he was doing. Last year, he had acquiesced; this year was different. This year he hadn't asked permission, so he hadn't been given a refusal. Not that there could be any doubt as to what Gerald felt about the matter.

To a certain extent Richard could understand Gerald's point of view.

"The slightest mishap... it doesn't even have to be an accident and that would be the end of the school."

He was right of course. And it was probably the best way to run a school. It was Gerald's way of doing things. But Richard was different. Nothing dared, nothing gained, that was his motto. It had almost broken his heart not to take the kids climbing last year. He'd even threatened cancelling the class weekend altogether.

"After all, if the kids aren't allowed to take any risks..." Gerald knew him too well for that to work.

So this year he didn't ask. He knew full well, it would cost him his job if it ever got out. He couldn't even plead coercion on the students' part. You don't just stumble upon a beginner's climbing cliff with all the correct equipment. But he accepted that. His reward would be to see the light in the students' eyes once they'd made it to the top. It was a once in a lifetime chance. Their little school could never afford to send a class to one of these innovative mountain centres that were springing up all over the country.

He packed the last of the equipment into the back of the van and returned it to the car park. The students were already waiting and the kids piled in the moment he stopped. It took them just over an hour to reach the hut. They unloaded the van and were just starting to get kitted up when a small, green coupe came crunching up the drive.

"Look, it's Mr. Sanders," cried out one of the kids. As Richard looked up and caught his eye, he knew the time had come to look for a new job.

Anti-Resolutions

2010-12-31T15:12:00.003+01:00

Like some of my fellow Fiction Friday writers I don't go in for New Year resolutions, so here are some anti-resolutions... things I promise not to do.

I will not mourn over Wales defeat to New Zealand in the Rugby World Cup final by going on a singing spree around every pub in the town. I'll do the singing spree the night before. And please note, I said singing not drinking. For Welshmen the two are incompatible. First we sing, afterwards we pursue other less important pleasures.

I will not sacrifice any roast beef and Yorkshire pudding dishes to Eyjafjallajökull in a bid to appease him and try and prevent a repeat performance of last year's breakout in 2011. The resulting digestion would almost certainly prove to be counterproductive and bring about the cancellation of our holiday in Spain to visit our son who's studying there for one year.

I will most certainly not start living up to my old fogey age by refusing to make a fool of myself at folk dances, sing songs etc.

I will not back away from the annual "sing our anthem before the game" competition before the Wales v France game at our local pub just because my son will not be singing along beside me. Even if the French doubled the 19 people they put out last time, that still won't be a match for me alone. Besides, if the wind is right, we might even hear my son singing his head off in Spain.

I will not give way to pressure to write a trashy, political novel filled with violence, sex and corruption. My imagination just could never do justice to what's actually happening.

Don't Panic

2010-08-18T14:14:00.003+02:00

This week's 3WW words - grimace, phase, stumble.

"Hi, is this seat free? Thanks... Phew glad I got through that safely, last time I was here I stumbled over the top step and fell. My briefcase burst open and my papers went flying all over the departure lounge... Eeeh, do you mind if I smoke."

He followed the eyes of his newest neighbour and victim to the large white sign with a red circle around the circumference. Inside, a cigarette and a thick, diagonal, black stripe.

"Oh, of course. Wouldn't do to smoke here, now would it. I'm Michael by the way, Michael Glasdon."

No reply.

"Aaare you flying for the first time? ... Well, there's nothing to worry about you know. They know their stuff, these pilots. They'll have in Mallorca in no time. Of course, there was that time the navigator left his map at home. We were in the air for three hours before anyone realised we should have landed half an hour ago. It was when I saw the river I realised we were going the wrong way. Still, from there it was easy. The pilot just had to turn the thing round and follow the river down to our destination. So we got there in the end."

"At least, we're not late today. Not that I'm in a hurry but I do so hate waiting round. The worst part's once you get in the plane and are waiting for take-off. They have to put the plane through all these different phases before they let it loose. Mind you, good job they do to. I was in Africa once... didn't check on anything. Fastest take-off and landing you ever did see. We were in the air just one minute and twenty-two seconds. Turned out we were overloaded. Some bothersome official insisted on loading a truck full of goods into the hold. That's why we came down so quick. Perfect landing though. They're so well trained, pilots nowadays."

"Would you like a polo? No! OK. Course, I love a polo myself, love sticking my tongue through the hole in the middle. Nothing like it. Hang on, I'm just going give those kids opposite some... Cheeky little blighter that little one. Offered him a polo and he poked his tongue out at me. Never had anyone give me a grimace like that before. Took the polo though. Mind you, mustn't suck a polo on the place. Dangerous with all that turbulence. Here I was one minute enjoying a nice little suck when my stomach came up into my head and the mind got lodged in the back of my throat. Turned green I did. My wife had to give me a good thump on the back to get the thing out. Said she should do it more often, but I've never had anything stuck since."

"Here, look at the guy over there. There, look. Right in front of the phone boxes. Long grey hair, that's the one. Don't you think he looks a bit suspicious. Better keep an eye on him. Might be a terrorist. Never know, do you? That time I was flying to Moscow they had one. Mind you, never have noticed to look at him. Seemed perfectly normal. But when the police came to get to him, he swore at them in who knows what lingo. That's how they found out, he really was a terrorist. Thirty minutes more and the plane would have gone sky high. Not that anything like that is can happen to us, today."

"No. With you around I'll be quite safe."

"What's that? Did you say something."

"Yes, I did. I said with you on the plane then the rest of us passengers will be quite safe. If anything's going to happen, then statistics dictate that it's going to happen to you. We're all in the clear."

The wink he gave to the grimacing monster opposite was one of great relief at the sight of his panicking neighbour fleeing through the departure lounge as fast as his legs would carry him.

Loud And Clear

2010-08-13T14:06:00.002+02:00

This week's Fiction Friday challenge: The conversation took off when Louise mentioned Bruce Willis.

We had to wait almost ten minutes to get a seat under the parasol protecting us from the searing sun. We could have gone inside or even elsewhere but I was not going to miss my moment of glory. I'd waited three months for Louise to accept to go out with me and I didn't want to hide away from any passers-by.

In the corner I saw some people get up and raced to claim the table. I pulled a seat back for Louise as she approached. She accepted without a word and I took a seat opposite. I was about to say how happy I was to be with her when the Perfect Stranger theme rang out of her bag. Without a word Louise glued her cell phone to her ear. The silence that followed was punctuated only by the occasional shot fired from her lips: a single word or two at best, presumably hitting its target as it took two or three minutes before the next shot rang out. My mind went back to the warning Ted had given me. Something about Louise not being right for me. To be honest I'd not paid that much attention. I wasn't going to let him spoil my afternoon.

Over the next five minutes she shot out another few words whilst the server hovered in the background. I'd already waved him off twice and he was getting impatient. Several times I tried to get her attention before deciding to get her a glass of white wine. I took a nice, cold beer. I stared over the table at the face that had beguiled every member of our class since she arrived in April. The enticing, blue eyes seemed cold and distant today. A flicker of a smile appeared... something she'd heard, or did she notice me staring? It was not a welcoming smile. I raised my glass but again no reaction. It was another few minutes before the next volley rattled forth; louder, more questioning.

"Bruce Willis...?"

Now the conversation took off. Her voice softened. The occasional utterance built up to a steady stream. She was obviously warming to the subject... or to her partner. I was beginning to feel like number three in a proverbial crowd. With nothing to say, I soon finished my beer and got up to order another; just to give me something to do. I sat down again beer in hand. This time she actually acknowledged me, giving a thumbs up sign as she picked up her wine. I stared across at the gentle curves through the tight t-shirt she was wearing. Just an hour ago I'd persuaded myself, she'd worn it for me. Now I realised she had. Those words printed across the back:
My attitude your problem

I got up and fished in my pocket for a few coins to pay my beers. She didn't even look up as I threw them on the table and walked away just in time. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Luap and Annie coming down the street. The last thing I wanted was for them to see me with Louise.

A Kind Way Of Saying...

2010-08-11T18:58:00.002+02:00

This week's 3WW words: joke, leverage, remedy

The jokes were flowing just as easily as the wine was. What more could we ask for: a clear, blue, a three-star picnic table, more than enough to drink, and the prospect of some excellent music ahead. I leant back in my chair, closed my eyes and tried to forget the cloud.

Juliana crept up and put an end to my disquiet with a finger of comté: subtle and fruity With a touch of maturity. I nibbled the cheese down to Juliana's fingertips; with Robert here, I dare not go any further. I wondered if I would ever again have the opportunity...

The fingers returned to wherever they had been previously and I sat up to see her flitting from one guest to the other. Juliana's parties were always special and this one had been perfectly stage-managed. To think that in just 24 hours...

Juliana was an old friend and had been a client long before becoming an occasional mistress. And it hadn't taken me long to catch on to her game. The deal was simple. I kept the bank off their backs warning them only when their spending became critical. And I was a willing player even without the leverage she championed over me. In return, I got invited to all the best parties. I could indulge with impunity.

I watched as Juliana got up to make her usual little speech. She didn't even know it would be her last. Everything blurred as my eyes started to water. This had all seemed so real. Was it just the circumstances that had changed? I tried to work out how to put it to them. Actually, I spent the past 24 hours trying to work out how not to have to put it to them. I clutched at any and every straw remedy that passed through my roaming mind. But the moment I got a grip on one, it slipped away I know not where. So tomorrow, I was going to have to tell them: all about the shareholders' dissatisfaction, the takeover, my getting replaced as manager. Can anyone think of a kind way of saying:

"I'm afraid the first thing the new manager will do is an audit on all our accounts in the red. Bankruptcy is the inevitable consequence."

A Tale Of Two Cultures

2010-07-23T12:54:00.002+02:00

This week's Fiction Friday prompt asks us to pick two established characters from your previous work and tell the story of their meeting. I've chosen Simon, my itinerant Irishman who finally settles down in France and Elizabeth who after a long voyage of self-discovery finally discovered her life was intricately linked up with Africa. Several years later...

When he saw the drizzle outside, Simon began to have his doubts. He turned away from the window and glanced up at the fine grandfather clock in the corner of his salon. Just ten more minutes before the taxi came. Too late for doubts.

He picked up the CD she'd given him when he'd met her at the airport yesterday evening: Mama Etta's Bongo Supreme.

"They're really very good. They're the first band from Dahc to make it onto the world stage."

He'd listened to a couple of the titles, just to say he had, should she ask. He placed the CD in the rack between underneath the Irish Folk section, making mental note to write a label for musique du monde. Strange how some expressions just refused to come to him now in English. The internal phone buzzed: the portier telling him the taxi was on its way. Passing in front of the mirror to straighten his tie, he picked up the bouquet and made his way out.

They pulled up in front of the hotel some five minutes later and before he knew it an apparition in traditional African clothing came racing out of the hotel and opened the door to the taxi. How Simon stared. Her hair was made up in ringed sticks which stood out at angles from her head. He stared and stared not knowing what to think or say. He even forgot to make to make room for her to get into the taxi and she almost had to push him over.

As she leaned across and gave him a peck on the cheek the bouquet of her perfume roused him. He took her hand with not quite his usual eagerness and pressed his lips to it. It was one of the most exquisite perfumes he had ever come across. She was obviously a connaisseur. Was that her one redeeming feature? Maybe things would work out okay. She was certainly a beautiful woman with her tall, straight figure and the fine features of her face. If only she wouldn't stop behaving like a child all the time. She was like a bottle of freshly opened Champagne, bubbling away with all her might as she babbled on at all there was to see. Was there no end to her enthusiasm.

The taxi pulled up in front of the Arpège and Simon scuttled out and handed the Majeur d' the box containing the bouquet. He then opened the door for Elizabeth and taking her arm accompanied her inside.He was acutely aware that every eye was fixed on them as they made their way to the small private chamber he had ordered for the occasion. Would the table-talk revolve around her beauty or her outlandish appearance. Surely, Arpège had never seen anything like it. Was it his fault? Should he have prepared her? But how?They'd only met for the first time yesterday. True her letters had been full of Africa. But never once had he suspected anything like this.

He lead her to their table and pulled the chair out for her, giving an almost imperceptible nod to the waiter. He had scarcely sat down himself when she started.

"Oh Simon, you can't possibly imagine how I feel. It's all so heavenly like in a fairy story. Here in Paris, in the shadow of so much history. And all these wonderful things happening to me. Aaaah, yellow roses! My favourite colour. How on earth could you have known!"

He blushed; whether out her embarrassment at her shriek or due to his stroke of luck with the roses, we shall refrain from enquiring. The waiter returned again, champagne bucket in hand.

"Oh, what's that? I'm afraid I couldn't possibly drink that. I'm not a drinker. Seen to many lives ruined by it. I hope you don't mind, but I really don't drink." Her smile failed to penetrate.

"This isn't drinking, it's Champagne. You can't possibly refuse Champagne."

But it became perfectly obvious that that's what she intended doing and with a sigh he ordered her a bottle of Peregrinet - "Sparkling, if you please," she added.

They chatted a while but somehow life had gone out of their conversation. Could this really be the vibrant lady he had been corresponding with these past months; he'd thought her so charming, so refined. And once they'd exchanged photos, he knew he had to meet her. Where had he gone wrong?

The waiter brought in the dishes for the snails. She seemed puzzled.

"Snails."

"How wonderful." She clapped her hands together. "I love snails." But why all these dishes. What on earth are they for?"

He opened his mouth and was about to give an explanation but thought better of it.

"You ate snails in Dahc? So how did you prepare them?"

"We chop them up in the lettuce, of course. How else can you prepare snails."

He didn't bother answering. Was she really trying to tell him she ate raw snails straight from the garden? She obviously had no idea of how civilised people ate them. He helped her as well as he could. She didn't seem terribly keen on them. The waiter cleared up the dishes and reappeared with the dinner plates and an innumerable number of knives and forks. Elizabeth gave him an anxious smile.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to help me. I'm just not used to all this finery. In Africa everything is far simpler. Most times use our fingers."

Simon stared at her with disgust. Wiping his mouth with his serviette he leant forward:

"Would you please excuse me a minute."

He got up and left the room discreetly. He went immediately to the Majeur d' and whispered into his ear. The latter led him through into the manager's office. Before eclipsing, he paid the bill in full and left an additional sum: "For the lady to take a taxi back to her hotel." He may have been a coward but he was also scrupulously fair.

Humiliation

2010-07-21T12:09:00.002+02:00

Two for the price of one today as I've combined this weeks 3WW prompt (bait, jump, victim) with a writing exercise that appeared Monday one the Write Anything site to write a story in just ten lines as follows:

describe the weather
describe a sound
describe an object
update the weather
describe a piece of clothing/ accessory
update the sound
using the object, write something about the mood of the scene
describe an action or movement using the article of clothing or accessory
describe a physical trait of one of the characters
end with a single line of dialogue

The red of the setting sun almost matched that of his cheeks. A snigger went through the room as he desperately sought to evade those eyes directed at him, the victim. He stared at the large at the pebble in front of him: round, smooth, a little jagged at the edges; the worm-like writing and that one single word - which had him baited. The sun was growing ever paler; he hoped his cheeks matched. The gleaming, red pen, bought for the occasion, remained motionless in his hand. Around him the sniggering had died down, replaced by the sound of concentration and the occasional scratch of pen on paper. In front of each writer, a pebble evoking memories of carefree days at the beach, sunshine, laughter; the nadir of the prevailing seriousness. His pen touched paper, jumping down the side of the page forming the letters C A D U Q U E S. He began filling in the lines of an acrostic when he noticed her eyes settle on him, their sparkle offering a thousand excuses, all the time seeking absolution for the guilt brought about by chance. His smile returned, he managed to pluck up courage enough to mouth the words:

"How about a quiet drink together after class?"

Homecoming

2010-07-19T19:53:00.002+02:00

This morning Jodi published an interesting writing exercise on the Write Anything blog. Here's my attempt to do it justice.

A glimmer of sun broke through the gloom of the drizzle as Ron rounded the corner; fourteen years and not a word from Mum or Dad. The sound of the train pulling out of the station slowly reached his ears. He raised his eyes seeking out the slightest hint of a once familiar rainbow over the family abode; the one he had not called home since the day of the announcement - the cries and the slamming still made him shudder. There it stood in all its splendour but as the rejuvenated sunlight slowly caressed its façade, he realised how much that splendour had succumbed to impinging time and ebbing attention.

A familiar vibration in his pocket: he flicked open his shiny, new cellphone and smiled. A second train rolled through the station - the express down from Swansea: it didn't stop. He glanced up and shivered... still no rainbow; where was he to get the courage from, not even Jan's words had helped.

He propped himself up against the oak tree half way up the road and his fingers began moving furiously. His tongue soon found its way through the pursed lips, much like the train emerging from the tunnel. With one short stab he hit the reply button:

Can't go through with it; coming home.

Small Town Investigation

2010-07-16T14:16:00.002+02:00

This story is inspired by this week's Fiction Friday prompt: Use a McGuffin in your story. McGuffin: An object or person in a movie that has no use other than to drive the narrative forward. (originally coined by Alfred Hitchcock)

It wasn't much of a case. And the paycheck promised to be even smaller. But everyone has to begin somewhere. One day I'd be as famous as Philip Marlowe and Sam Spade, or maybe even all those aristocratic English detectives put together. When that day comes I'll be able to take on whateverc cases I chose. But for now, I take whatever comes my way. Not that this case actually came my way. It would be closer to the truth if I said, I went riding into it. But since I've always been somewhat econimical with truth, then we'll stick by that expression.

I first went riding into Sdoowkcab because one of my old school sweets had sent out what you might call an SOS. Seemed like Annie moved out there soon after she left Homeville and married a local dignitary with a lot of money. He died about a year back leaving her a very rich lady. Well, now she was convinced that someone was after her and she wanted me to come down and protect her. She said, she'd make it worth my while. And when I remembered the good times we'd had together, I figured I knew what she meant by that. But nothing ever came of it. By the time I rode into Sdoowkcab - and yes it was as hard to find as it is to say - Annie was one stone dead woman, and I had myself a case to solve.

I reckoned the best place to start was with the mayor out there. My problem was that I didn't know him nor his office and there was no one about to ask. At this hour, even the saloon had not yet opened up for business. But perched on a pole right in front was one of the strangest looking parrots, you ever did see. He gave a mighty screech when he saw me, but he let me approach no problem.

"Well now, you the only thing round here, huh? ... So, you ain't talking huh. Now if you were a human, I'd consider that somewhat suspicious, but I guess, you're just not a talking parrot. Wonder if you could show me where I can get to see the mayor."

Behind me a door opened and a bucket sloshed it's way onto the hardened earth. Whoever it was threw it had retreated but the door stayed open. I wondered over and just as I did so the parrot gave a sqauwk and flew off above my head. At the open door I called out and a lady appeared.

"Well Maam, sorry for disturbing you like this, but I was just wondering where I could get hold of the mayor of this here town?"

In reply, she signalled with her head above and behind me and I turned to see the parrot sitting on a balcony rail. So the damn thing had understood me after all. As well as that my luck was in because the mayor was in his office and received me at once.

"Well, what can I be doing for you, Mr...?"

"Braak, Sir. John Braak."

I showed him the letter. His eyebrows pulled together as he read.

"I was wondering if you could shed any light..."

"Yes, I can Mr. Whateveryousayyournameis. I can tell you that there's nothing suspicious here and if I were you I'd get out of town as soon as possible. Folks round here don't like people prying into their comings and goings, especially outsiders like you. Miss Annie's death was just an unfortunate accident. We looked into it thoroughly what with her husband having met such an unfortunate death and all that. But we found nothing. Besides, there was no motive. No one here wanted her dead. Why should they?"

Just then, the parrot gave another squawk and planted itself right in front of us on the mayor's desk, flapping its wings.

"Pretty fine fine bird you've got there. I guess a parrot like that could reveal a lot if it could say anything; kinda like a dumb witness."

"Dumb's the word, Mr. It's not uttered a word since I've been here. And it's certainly not mine. Just hangs around town. And now Mr. Ahhh, if you don't mind, I've got..."

But the parrot didn't give him a chance to finish whatever he had to say. With a whoosh and squawk, he went sailing away. It was waiting for me when I got out onto the street and immediately started fluttering away. This time I followed it through the streets and out onto one of the many prairies surrounding the town. He stopped at a small outhouse about a mile out of town. I hadn't a clue why it had brought me here but I figured it wasn't as dumb as people were saying. It had a flair for detective work, so if it brought me here, there must be some reason for it. I went inside and looked around. The place was empty but underneath one of the windows there was a dark blot that looked like it was blood.

"So that's why you brought me here. Is this where Annie died."

The parrot was on the sill and it looked me direct in the eyes. It didn't say a word. It didn't have to. I knew I was on the right track. Together we started to nosing around, digging up a few bits and pieces when the parrot gave another screech and I saw it was picking away at something shiney. I prised it from the ground and saw it was a gold ring. I cleaned it up a bit and examined it carefully. The name Joel was inscribed inside.

Another look at the parrot. "Do you know this guy, Joel?" I put the ring flat on my hand and he took it in its beak before flying back off to town without stopping. But I wasn't worried. We too had developped a rapport. That's the only way you can do detective work. Find yourself a helper and build up a rapport. The parrot was waiting for right in front of the saloon, the ring sitting on the top step. I picked it up and put it quickly in my pocket before anyone could see. I must be getting pretty close to my prey now, so I didn't want to give anything away. I went in, the parrot on my shoulder. All eyes turned on me as I shimmied up to the bar.

"Scotch. Make it a double. On the rocks."

"You, a stranger round here."

"Yeh, just passing through from the east."

"So you won't be staying long then?"

It sounded more like a threat than a question. I obviously must be on the right track. I took my scotch.

"Your health... and mine."

There was a screech from my shoulder and the parrot started hopping round on top of the bar and just as suddenly took off through the open window and out into the street. The barman gave a smile.

"Looks like your partner's cut and run."

But I didn't pay any attention. I was way too occupied trying to figure out what I should do now to hear the shot. And I hadn't a clue where it came from. Not that that really matters now. The shot certainly proved beyond doubt that I was on the right track. It was just a bit too late to do anything about it now.

Forward Or Back

2010-07-14T20:05:00.003+02:00

gentle, praise, vulgar are this week's 3WW words. So settle back for a little allegory this week.

As Alabanzo grew older, he began to wonder whose praise his writing was meant to glorify. His first poems and stories reflected the innocence of the teenager he was: white characters against backgrounds whose shades but occasionally darkened his canvas. Doubtless, a reflection on the simple but loving upbringing Alabanzo had experienced in the small village which wasn't but which could have been called Paradiso. The world seemed so straightforward in those days.

Even when he left home to begin his studies, things hadn't changed much. The worlds he portrayed now contained big, black splodges. Even he could now see that the world of Paradiso was not to be encountered everywhere. Yet light was predominant in his stories, a vaccinating light, protecting and never failing to banish darkness.

At university, his reputation as a writer with talent grew. But, said his teachers, you need to look the world in the eye; most of this stuff is far too sentimental to be of much use. But the girls liked it. And Alabanzo began to like the girls. Passion, desire, and elation rose up from this heart of light lifting him to new dimensions. But alongside such feelings came those of envy, chagrin, anger and obsession as he had to fight to obtain a prize much yearned after. Yet, he couldn't write about any of these. They just didn't fit into any world he could imagine; he had no idea how to represent them.

Salvation came with Doucette. A fellow student she dripped her way into his life, dampening those passions which were threatening to tear him apart. Gentle was the only word he could find to describe everything about her appearance, her manner, her deeds, even the way she had invaded her soul. Not for her the passion others had provoked within him. Here was sweet assurance, benign light, placid contemplation. The world was whole again and Alabanzo wrote with a joy hitherto unfelt.

Their life together followed the regular rhythm of the drum accompanying the onward progression of a tortoise battling its way through the many obstacles on its upward progression. They themselves, however, had very few obstacles to overcome. Alabanzo's writing was received with enthusiasm by tutors and readers alike. And interaction with others made him realise that the world was not quite the paradise he had once thought. His work began to sell and people praised the optimism which shone forth from his pen. He was soon earning a small but steady income and he married Doucette. Once again, all was well in the best of worlds and continued so for many years.

Indeed, it might have continued so for the rest of his life, were it not for the monotony perfection brings. Alabanzo was growing tired of churning out the same kind of work day in day out. He wanted to widen his wings, take in something different. But whenever he went to the bookstore, all he could find was the type of vulgar novel from which he had freed all his life. "Who on earth would read such drivel?" he commented to Doucette one night. She responded with another of her saintly smiles. Monotony soon gave way to a broader dissatisfaction when Alabanzo discovered the drivel, as he put it, was actually selling a lot better than his own work. Not that they needed any extra money, they had more than enough and no desire for more. But the thought that readers were preferring vulgarity to the sublimity he had to offer them was too much. Envy soon found a small chink in his armour and began to lay siege to his thoughts. The resulting dissatisfaction was a severe test he fought hard to counter.

Then came the day of the village dance. Alabanzo and Doucette never spent more than a few minutes together at such occasions. They turned up to show they were not totally cut off from what was going on around them, but rarely gained anything worthwhile from the experience. This year, however, Alabanzo was alone, Doucette having returned to her native village to help prepare her younger sister's wedding. Ever since her departure envy was having a field day with Alabanzo's thoughts, conjuring up various promises of excitement against which Alabanzo had little resistance to offer. In a desperate bid to find some sort of peace of mind, he had considered not going, or, at least just putting in an even more token appearance than usual, or certainly not staying for longer than the first dance. And as he had never liked dancing anyway, the rest would be easy.

And it most certainly would have been, were it not for Tawdria. Tawdria was far from the most beautiful woman in the village. In the cold light of day, few would give her a second look. But done up in her finery with gaiety all around him she was the most hunted treasure

Hiding behind all the modesty she could muster, she held out her little finger to Alabanzo. Just the one dance he thought and then off home. They whirled around the floor and became the object of many tongue among those present. Alabanzo was spellbound when they stopped and was so glad when she leaned over and whispered into his ear. Never had words created such a tempest in his mind. She curled her little finger around his and led him away from the assembly, urging him on with promises of such enchantment. He followed her willingly and they soon came to the edge. She slipped his arm around her waist and soon they were looking out over the cliff into a future that sparkled with exhilaration. Just one more step. But would he go forwards or back?

Kaleidoscope

2010-07-08T18:12:00.004+02:00

Kaldeidscope

Lucy couldn't help wondering if a third of a bullet would kill. That would save her having to chose who would die. She stared at the newspaper lying in front of her. Now or never. The words began to swim around in her mind, the letters kaleidoscoping, creating in her mind new forms but always coming back to that law inscribed in stone which was to govern her day. She'd never been one to set much store in horoscopes, but today was different. Today, it spoke to her heart, urging her to action. The toss of the coin confirmed what she had to do.

The strains of Dany Boy poured out from the loudspeakers above the bookcase. Her eyes rested on Luke's photo, cropped into the top of her mirror. Those sparkling eyes which had sent her such a clear message. How she'd wanted to believe it was meant for her; the champagne of her heart overflowing when she'd realised, it was. The unbound joy as they whirled together across the floor gave way yet again to the letters swirling around before yet again settling on their final absolute form: Now or never. There was no escape.

That grasping bitch, Julie! Why couldn't she keep her hands to herself? What right had she to steal Luke from him? Now she would pay. Finding her would be easy. They'd be at tonight's ball. Where Lucy should have been... in his arms.

She studied the gun in her hand. "A lady's gun...," that's what the man had said. She was glad, he'd asked no questions. But she had just one bullet. "Luke! Live or die? The one bullet decides."

She lifted the gun towards the photo, took aim... and squeezed. There was a shattering of glass as the mirror disintegrated into a profusion of words spewing forth from his lips... worthless words, as unfaithful as his own.

Last night I dreamt...

2010-07-07T15:32:00.002+02:00

Determined. That's how my parents knew me. From my early teens onwards I must have given them a pretty rough time. More than made up for my tepid big sister, who's still never kissed a boy or smoked a cigarette in all her 17 years.

But determination doesn't have to be destructive. I learnt that when I finally learnt that my parents weren't quite the bane I'd always taken them for. True, their ideas are somewhat archaic at times. My dad is still proud of the fact that he never made out with my mum before they were married. But sometimes what they say contains some slight modicum of sense. Actually, and I want to make it clear that I'm not admitting to this publicly, but if I put their advice on the scale of good or bad, it would very definitely lean to one side more than the other.

So, if determination does not have to be destructive, I'm issuing notice right now to all my teachers everywhere... you know who you were because of the acrid taste that rises up whenever you hear my name... I'm going to show you what I can do. Leave school with top marks, off to university and with my degree in the bag it's your jobs I'll be after.

Riddle

2010-07-04T18:06:00.002+02:00

This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is 'me,' begging the question who am I?

She knew, he'd been working on one last project. She knew he'd wanted to keep it secret. "When it's ready," he'd say. There's just so many things going round in my mind, I have to sort things out. The next day, he was no longer. All that was left, were the letters and the safe where the manuscript was kept. At first, she'd wondered whether she should. But how couldn't she? Resistance had never been her forte. But what she saw surprised even her. Not one but five different manuscripts. Each one bearing the same title; each one bearing one single letter for the author's name. It was only when she went back to the letters that she realised what he had done. He had sold his memoirs to five different publishers; a manuscript had been prepared for each one. But this was no fraud; each manuscript was different. Each looked at the world through the eyes of the man she had called husband. Five answers to the same riddle.

Courage

2010-07-03T09:25:00.002+02:00

Henri wasn't sure why he'd stopped to read the notice pasted on the back wall of the bus stop. But having read it once, he seemed to be drawn to it so that even the most casual observer couldn't help but notice this strange compulsion. Moreover, the notice seemed to be haunting him. Whenever anyone said something to him, he stared right through them with his grey eyes, taking up to a minute before acknowledging whatever was said.

Being new to the village I was naturally intrigued by his behaviour. Moreover, Henri was one of the few villagers who hadn't taken me up on my offer of a free 10 minutes consultation - a bid to get my new practice off to a good start.

I myself had taken some interest in some interest in the notice. As yet, I knew very few people here; a barbecue and dance would be an excellent opportunity to go about making some friends. But what did Henri find so intriguing.

It was Annie who filled me in on his background. Seemed she used to do some cleaning up at their house during the better times. 'The better times' was Annie's shorthand for the period before his wife walked out on him. "Ran off with a good for nothing conman who'd persuaded her he owned half the state. Maybe, he did 'n all as far as I know. But he was bad news that guy, that I do know. Walked out on him right on his birthday Doctor, and he's never been the same since. Sure, he did try to get his life back in order. Set up a transport company exactly one year after; got a really good contract from the old steelworks down behind the canal. He invested heavily but they never paid. When he went to court, they declared bankruptcy. He lost everything. Had to move to one of the terraces. Remember I took him a cake the day he moved, bring some birthday cheer and all that. But never asks me to clean now. Never asks anyone anything now."

To my surprise Henri turned up at the barbecue. Judging by the whispers I wasn't the only one surprised. He was standing silently beside the festive pole when the village Mayor clapped a hand on his shoulder:

"Happy birthday, Henri. How are you holding up?" The only reply he got was a pair of raised eyebrows as Henri turned away. He reminded me of a dog we'd once had. Such a beautiful creature, he'd been the pride of the family. I remember I'd have given anything to be allowed to take him off to college with me. But when I came home for vacation the spark had gone out of him. Shortly after the vet suggested... at his age it was only normal.

Henri was still in the prime of life, but the spark had gone out him. He must have been a handsome, imposing man... once. But now, there was just that droop. The music started up and I was pushed along with the masses. A hand grabbed me from the right, another from the left and around we whirled. And as the band started a little jig, I twisted inside and out, from one partner to the other. One, two, three, four, five, six... and I found myself standing in front of Henri. I more or less had to place myself in his arms, so surprised he was to find himself with a dancing partner, but once we got going he led with assurance. My thoughts too were in a whirl but I was glad when he kept hold of me when the music stopped and we set off on a second adventure of the evening.

After the first round of dances the barbecue was lit and Henri beat a hasty retreat before I could say anything. But I could help notice the occasional glance he cast me from across the square. Once I smiled back and I'm sure I detected a brief spark light up his eyes before he turned away.

I ate with a group of people who lived in the same street as me. From where I was sitting, I couldn't see Henri, but my mind kept coming back to him. The moment the band started up and the next dance was announced, I pushed my way through to the edge of the dance floor. There was Henri standing alone by the festive pole. When he saw me, he seemed to hesitate. Would he dare? He took two steps forward but then moved quickly to the drinks table. He picked up a glass and hesitated between the bottle of water and the whisky. I watched with bated breath as our future hung in the balance. I saw him pour and swallow and by the time he'd turned round, I was already in the arms of the young man standing next to me whom I'd asked to dance. The last thing I needed was a man who took his courage from a bottle.

Thirty Minutes

2010-06-27T16:15:00.001+02:00

"Thirty minutes," added Luap as he continued his letter to the life-change fairy. "It mustn't be a minute more; that would be detrimental to our cause. But for thirty minutes..."

Luap closed his eyes and tried to imagine the sights, sounds and smells inside the dressing rooms. The pungent odour of ointment as the players rubbed themselves down. The banter designed to provide an outlet for the big-match tension. The back slapping as the players make their way to the tunnels. And then the deafening roar as the doors open and he jogs out onto the pitch alongside his fourteen or more colleagues and looks up at the thousands of waving dragons, voices raised in song.

Then, the deafening silence. The two teams line up. The first hymn for the visitors, a sign of respect Luap thinks only fitting. Yet he can scarcely wait for the moment which finally comes. Those introductory notes echoing around the stadium and then he opens his mouth and sings his heart out as his soul rises to the highest heights of whichever heaven habours anthem-singing rugby players.

Luap's dream is over all too quickly. The game is beginning. Good job he only asked for thirty minutes, because once the game starts...

His piece finished, Luap reflected a while before again putting pen to paper...

"Dear life-change fairy, should you by any chance be an avid Sunday Scribbling reader, please don't forget me."

Compensation

2010-06-24T18:35:00.002+02:00

For this week's Fiction Friday we have to write about a telepathic parrot.

Most people just do not realise how tough it is being a psychic parrot. To be quite honest, it was something I myself had never thought about until I met Polypus. He came to see me in answer to an ad he'd read in Parroting Away.

“So, you say, you can cure all sorts of psychic ailments, so how about curing me.”

“Well, if you told me what was wrong, that would be a start.”

He fixed me with his eyes, inviting me to share his thoughts. It was only now I realised I had to do with a telepathic parrot; a most interesting case, one I’d never come across before.

“So what is wrong with being telepathic?”

Once again his thoughts came through loud and clear. His problem was not with his capacities but with his incapacities. Or should I say with one particular incapacity. People with psychic powers usually compensate in some other area of their lives. And Polypus’ real problem was that he couldn’t talk. Of course, all parrots are somewhat limited here, but Polypus had special problems. All he could manage were a few unconnected stutters. The tension between his gift and his incapacity took a great toll on Polypus.

“Sometimes I feel like it’s best to end it all. I remember watching a little girl playing. Danger was present and I flew at once to her mother but all that came out was ‘eeehp eeehp!’ She at once sensed the danger but thought it was from me, so she took a swipe at me with her handbag. Then she got up, packed the little girl by the hand and went off. Well, at least she saved her from…”

Poor Polypus really needed help. He was on the border of a nervous breakdown. But how to help him, I’d never had a case like this before. I sent him away telling him to return three days later. In the meantime I had some research to do.

It was the next night that things came to a head. I had just finished some extremely interesting reports by a specialist who claimed to have eliminated telepathic powers in well over half of his patients when Polypus cry of anguish and help came through. I was picking up his vibes loud and clear, so set off at once. Within minutes I was winging my way through the empty streets and it wasn’t long before I could here Polypus screeching, “AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH DDDDDDD NEN NEN NEN.”

I alighted on the ledge of the open window and looked in. What a sight. There was blood everywhere. Several anxious-looking policemen were standing round a body on the floor. And there was Polypus both feet planted on the dead woman’s breast, seemingly pecking away at a hole in the dead woman’s shirt, repeating the same screeching noise I had heard on my way. The moment I alighted he flew up and joined me on the ledge. One of the policemen gave a sigh of relief.

“Thank heaven, we’ve got a rid of that crazy parrot.” But there was more danger than relief in the look he gave us so I thought it best to get away from there as soon as possible. We alighted on the branch of a nearby oak tree. Trying to get some sense out of Polypus, however, proved extremely difficult. Eventually, he calmed down and after a couple of my extra special soul massages, he began to explain what was wrong.
The body on the floor was that of his owner. It seemed she had poisoned that night by her good for nothing nephew who had wanted to squeeze yet more of her savings to fund his many debaucheries. When she refused, he hit her with one of the silver candlesticks sitting on the table. Polypus saw it all. He was the only eye witness.

“But they’ll find his fingerprints on the candlestick.”

“Not a chance. He packed them both up and took them off with him. He went straight to the station and got on the train to London. I followed him and saw it all. And they’ll never find him. He’d been away for months; no had a clue where he was. His turning up was a complete surprise.”

“So he’ll get off scot-free?”

“Not if I can help it, he won’t. That’s what I was trying to tell those policemen, but those idiots couldn’t understand me. You see, he made a big mistake. When he tried to take her money by force, the old lady put up a real fight and he had to bite her in the shoulder to subdue her. That means we can find out who he is. I was reading all about it just a few days ago. It’s something called A D N. It leaves a trace and they can find you, even if no one ever suspected you of being within a hundred miles of the scene. That’s why I was pointing to the hole with my beak. I was trying to explain to the policemen.”

Once again I heard Polypus’ screeching when I arrived: “AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH DDDDDDD NEN NEN NEN.” I stared into his eyes and he was soon calm enough to try and understand what I wanted to tell him.

“Will you really do that… for me?”

“I’ll try,” I replied blushing. Maybe, this telepathy business was going a little too deep. “After all, my old mistress took me to elocution lessons when I was small. I learnt to talk with the most Oxford of accents.”

We flew off together but I managed to persuade Polypus to keep his distance. That policeman looked like he’d lovingly throttle any parrot’s neck he could get his hands on. I flew up to the window. There were a couple of plain-clothes officers

I held my head high, took a deep breath and let out the most perfect rendering of A D N you’ve ever heard, brushing my wing lightly across the teeth marks in the blouse. The two policemen looked at each other with amazement before moving across the room and picking up the phone.

Psychic parrot peeper counfounds murderer

ran the next day’s headline. We were overjoyed and went on a celebratory flight right around the park before ending up in the fountain to cool off. That's when Polypus surprised me by lifting his wing gently over my head. And despite my misgivings over a partner that could read into the heart of one's very thoughts, I said Y E S with my very best Oxford accent.

Au Revoir J-M

2010-06-23T08:57:00.004+02:00

Some seven years ago an impertinent Brit took it upon himself to join a writing group in the small French town he had just moved to. His hope was to get to know new people, to enjoy doing something he'd always been tempted by but never seriously put his hand to, and perhaps even improve his French a little bit.

That was my first encounter with J-M. The first evening did not begin promisingly. Every participant had to write a word on a pebble and pass it on to someone else. I can't remember what I wrote but I cannot forget the word I received. I had no idea what it meant and J-M was adamant. I was not allowed to ask. So I wrote an acrostic using the word and trying to describe my feelings.

Last night after seven years writing together, we said good-bye to J-M. He's moving on to fresher pastures, or should that read trees, after all he is a forester. So my 3WW post this week is a tribute not only to a fantastic writer but also a true friend. And because he loves haikus...

What did you imply
With that prompt, we ask, but you
Just shrug your shoulders

Up to us to tell
Your virtue, not to impose;
Leave us free to create

To find our own voice
Not feigning what we cannot
imitate or bluff

Headline Fun

2010-06-16T19:33:00.002+02:00

No trace of erased meadow phantom

Museum officials are still trying to piece together events that lead to one of our city's greatest art treasures losing its meadow. Officials say they are studying CCTV footage of the room in question but nothing suspicious has been noted. As a result the mayor has ordered authorities to conduct a house to house search of all those known to have been in the museum during the course of the morning. Said a spokesman for the mayor:

"A meadow is hardly something you can keep hidden for a long time, so we are confident that it will soon be restored to its rightful place."

Phantom eraser traced to meadow hideout?

Police say an anonymous tip-off could be the breakthrough they are looking for in the so-called phantom meadow theft. Police raided a country shed in the early hours of the morning after a member of the public complained about 'mooing noises' coming from a man's briefcase. Police using tracker dogs followed the case's progress to the hut - a popular site for partying students and courting couples. The briefcase contained several packets of 'La Vache Qui Rit' - a popular French cheese. A police spokesman admitted that no trace of the meadow had been found in the hut but said a thorough search of the surrounding countryside was in progress and that several members of the cattle fraternity were helping the police with their inquiries.

Artist erased meadow traces with special ink

Peter Alchem, a local art student has been charged with Mr. Alchem was traced after failing to erase fingerprints from a briefcase he used in a failed bid to place suspicion onto local farmers. According to reports Mr. Alchem used a special ink developed by his girlfriend to make the meadow disappear. Unconfirmed reports suggest that Mr. Alchem has now himself disappeared following a visit by his girlfriend. While police refused to confirm these reports the Mayor of Meadowhill berated police promising a very full and public inquiry.

The Eye Of The Storm

2010-06-04T19:40:00.002+02:00

Harley crawled out of his master's office office, tail between his legs. Some 5 minutes later Francis appeared in the doorway. It took an expert eye to distinguish between man and dog, both victim's of the director's sabre-like tongue. Harley watched Francis make his way towards the exit wondering whether it would be safe to try and reclaim his basket underneath his master's desk. One thing he had learnt from the experience. Never again would he attempt to show any sympathy for someone who was evidently not in his master's good books.

As for Francis, he hung about the front of the building unsure what to do. When he saw two of his now former colleagues coming up the street, he crossed the road and slipped into the park. The bench under the oak tree was free. Francis liked this spot. The tree's large overhanging branches always welcomed him with open arms. Today, more sinister connotations came to his mind; the branch creaking under the strain of a rope and the his body mass.

His mind went back to the request... his initial hesitation, his students' enthusiasm and that conversation with Joy.

"It's a fantastic idea. It's right up your street."

"But I don't want to visit Paris. It's just one big, sprawling metropolis. What on earth would we do there? Besides, the students all want a trip which will bring them into contact with English speakers. They don't want hotels and museums. I'd much rather take them to Gensdouce. It's got some beautiful countryside and I could arrange meetings with various groups every day. That would be ideal."

"Well, why not do that then."

"I'm not sure what Ian would say."

"Never mind Ian. It's your students that count. You're doing this for them, not for Ian."

"But he is the centre's director. I can't just go behind his back."

"And you're the best French teacher the centre's ever had. The figures speak for themselves. Just go and tell him what you intend doing and why."

And he had. Ian had not been happy. Not at first. It was all a question of prestige. Compared to Paris, Gensdouce was nothing but a backwater tucked away in the mountains. But for once, Francis stuck to his guns and Ian acquiesced.

"But I'm warning you, if anything goes wrong, I'll hold you personally responsible. French teachers are two a penny round here, you know."

But what should go wrong. Organising the journey was easy enough with Joy's expert knowledge. And she even managed to get them an extra 10% discount on top of the usual group rate. Ian had been impressed. And once the number of participants topped twenty, he had even begun telling people what a great idea he'd had: praise indeed from one of the town's most selfish bastards. And he was even there to film as the group of twenty-five people set out on the first leg of their week-long trip. Everyone was so happy, they'd paid no attention to headline that was soon to throw everything into disarray. Besides, they'd never heard of Eyjafjallajökull before. What harm could he do them.

In the end they'd waited three days at the airport before calling off their trip. And the return was far from the joyful triumph anticipated just a few days earlier. Hardly had the bus stopped, Ian made it quite clear to Francis that he would have to pick up the bill for the flop from his own salary. Francis tried to object but soon realised it was pointless. The disciplinary hearing was fixed for Thursday at 3 pm. But it never met. Realising most of its members kowtowed to Ian, Francis handed in his resignation letter to an astonished and furious Ian. Facing up to this tirade had badly shaken his confidence. But he'd pulled it off. And it had been worth it. Ian's power had been broken. And he would turn up Monday morning for his new appointment without the slightest regret.

Success

2010-06-02T17:15:00.002+02:00

This week's 3WW words: budge, nimble, theory

This is the worst scenario imaginable. I'm sitting here at my desk and I don't know what to write. Does that happen often? Of course not! I don't write often enough for it to be a common occurrence. Not like my brother. He's forever complaining about writer's block and such nonsense. But then, he's forever writing. Me, you can't get me to budge unless inspiration first comes flying overhead and sprinkles a few drops of her precious liquid into my inkwell. I guess you could call it the only-way-to-sure-success theory. And unti now, it has stood me in good stead. Not one of my sure-to-be-published works has come in for the slightest criticism. And I feel they never will. Now for a writer, that's success.

So what went wrong today? Why has inspiration passed by and left me with nothing. I could, I suppose, go into all the reasons for today's failure. But as I'm not any kind of soul-soother and haven't enough parchment and ink to elucidate all the different theories which passed through my head during my most recent bout of staring at the paper then I guess I'd better not. Besides, were I to do so, it would make my fingers almost as nimble as my brother's. And what would that do to my always dreaming of greatness reputation? So please excuse me and permit me to roll back into my furry, little ball for another week. Who knows, if inspiration is still out there, maybe she'll smile on me again. In which case you can read the results in next week's 3WW. But don't bank on it. And for those of you in need of a reading fix right now, you can always try reading one of brother William's plays. They're quite well known and available from all irreputable printers.

Unsuspecting

2010-05-26T18:10:00.002+02:00

This week's words: abandon, gradual, precise

Finding that tie was the last thing I'd expected. But I was even less prepared for Linda's reaction when I got into work. Maybe it had nothing to do with the tie. Maybe she'd had it in for me anyway. The tie had just proved to be a convenient excuse, setting into motion a chain of events which I still have difficulty understanding.

To be quite honest I'd been rather chuffed at finding the tie - a birthday present from my first girlfriend. I'd worn it at my first interview and got the job. Putting it on that morning I felt its magic was bound to rub off. Maybe Linda would at last say yes to that dinner engagement I'd been pestering her over.

In fact, she didn't say a word. She just stood there staring. And when I asked her to type some letters I'd dictated, she fled the office in tears. She still wasn't back when the personnel director phoned about an hour later. In her precise, telegraphic style she informed me Linda no longer wanted to work for me. She was being transferred to customer service. Now it was my turn to blow my top. That earned me a call from the managing director. If I couldn't learn to control my temper, then I could look for a new job elsewhere. I agreed and thanked him for handing me back my freedom, before I realised what I'd done.

I was out of the office before lunch. The personnel director wished me luck in finding a new place; probably suspected I'd come crawling back if I didn't. I shot over to the other side of town before deciding on anything to eat. Couldn't face the prospect of all those questions my now former colleagues just couldn't wait to ask.

So what happened, I hear you ask. I'm asking the very same question, staring into the bottom of my glass for the answer. I hope it comes soon, before I'm tempted to fill up again. I see Julie's reflection in there. The lopsided smile she had whenever she was pleased... like that day she gave me the tie; her eyes, round and black, always looking as if she couldn't quite trust me. And I'd proved her right. Only a coward would have abandoned her the way I did.

As I watched a gradual feeling of familiarity crept over me. I couldn't put a finger on it but it was almost as if I'd seen her somewhere recently. That, I knew to be impossible. They'd invited me to the funeral but I'd not been able face it.

I continued to stare, continued to wonder. The waitress passed once, twice... The third time I ordered another - a double. It would give me more time to think. In the end it stayed untouched on the table as the truth suddenly hit me between the eyes. Julie Wilson... a common name. So common, I'd not once connected her with Ms. Linda Wilson who had been my secretary for the past three months. What had Julie said... her sister had helped her pick the tie out.

Close Encounters

2010-05-19T17:49:00.002+02:00

This week's 3WW words are dread, grasp, pacify.

Dread never had any problems finding a victim. Today was no exception. The moment he saw the somewhat despondent looking man kiss his wife and set off bag in hand, Dread knew he had his catch. There was something about his stooping shoulders which told all. Following silently, he considered his opening move, deciding against a full-fronted attack. Today stealth was called for. A few reassuring words, an arm over the shoulder; just enough to prove his sincerity but far too weak to be of any real help. And once the seeds of doubt were sown, the rest would be child's play. Or so he thought but just as his spidery fingers reached for the jugular, he took a blow to the nose which sent him reeling. For the first time in months a victim had escaped him.

* * * * *

Luap tried his best to look the part as he set off down the street. His wife's words whirled around in his mind like the Mary Poppins carousel they had enjoyed together the previous night. It had been Hatti's treat, designed to take his mind off things. She had succeeded; for a while. Now, it was up to him to show her that her efforts were not in vain. Victory was in sight, but he alone could reach out and grasp it. No one else could help him. He tried his best to keep his head high but before long whisps of doubt began to tangle themselves around his person. He looked round but could see no one. He sat down as the cares began to overwhelm him. It seemed a lot easier than making a fight of things. But just as he was about to succumb Hatti's insistant words came back to him: "Never lie down, only victims lie down." He shot to his feet. And set off on his way again. As he did so, he couldn't help feeling he'd somehow toppled someone nearby. Yet, he was quite alone, of that he was sure.

* * * * *

Hatti couldn't help pacing back and forth in her kitchen. She thought she'd done enough to keep despondency at bay, but as she watched Luap shuffle down the road towards the station that morning, she saw the familiar figure of dread creep up behing him. The worst was that there was nothing she could do to help him. If only... She pulled herself up as she recognised her husband's favourite train of thought. "If only..." How often had she chided him for going down that path? The surest way of opening oneself up to Dread, that's what it was. How fortunate, Dread was not around. Her husband had been the decoy and now she knew he would make it through. All she had to do was wait for the phone call, wait to hear the pacifying words she no longer doubted would come that evening.

Mercurial

2010-05-06T20:04:00.003+02:00

This week's Fiction Friday prompt is: A man aspiring to be a pro bowler loses to his young daughter. I'm afraid I know absolutely nothing about professional bowling so I've taken some liberties with this post, above all transporting it to the UK and the sport of lawn bowling. But the essence of the prompt is still there.

Friday afternoon in the park. The sun sat down on players and spectators alike. Thanks to the now experienced park-keeper and the early morning rain that day, the greens were immaculate. Everyone was looking forward to an excellent evening's bowling. Club championship. First round. 64 of the best bowlers in the club pitting their skills against each other. And for the first time a woman had made into first round. Ginetta had won the junior championship three years running. Last year she had also partnered the club captain to the final of the pairs, losing only to her grandfather and his long-standing bowling partner. Polite applause, the closest thing you'll get to enthusiasm in bowls, accompanied the arrival of the club secretary with the pairings. In his best monotone voice he read out the names, hesitating when he got to the fourth pairing:

"Mercetto Brintini..." He raised his eyes towards Mercetto before adding "... Ginetta Brintini."

Try as he might it took at least three minutes for order to be re-established. This was going to be the game of day. For years Mercetto had been after the club championship; ever since he had been seduced to leave their oldest rivals and come and join them it had eluded. Pairs, fours, mixed pairs... some several times. But never the championship. Never, that is, until the previous year. Fate had smiled on him that year. A storm had brought a postponement of the original date set for the final. The rearranged tie was fixed for the day of Mercetto's 60th birthday. The whole Brintini clan turned out to see him. His opponent had little choice. Win and get lynched or put a brave face on things.

Most people were convinced Mercetto would retire from championship bowls after that. He himself, had no such thoughts. He was the title holder, he was determined to defend his title. Walking towards their rink, a smile on his face, he proclaimed for all to hear:

"The chit will win the first two sets but then I'll wipe her off the green."

Ginetta herself, was delighted to be playing against her grandfather. She was a chip off the old block if ever there was one, but today it was her wisdom which shone through. She simply kept her mouth shut and let her bowling do the talking. Not that that had much to say mind you. Despite her father's best efforts she lost the first set badly. Her length had gone to pieces and she wasn't able to get any real draw on the woods. In the second she faired a little better but still lost, scoring just two points.

Mercetto was exasperated. He walked off the back of the rink and up to the club secretary who was refereeing their game.

"What did I tell you about letting girls into the championship. Girls were born to play girls. They have no business playing with us. They can't even win when you let them." And arms flaying he poured out a torrent of insults against his granddaughter. The referee stepped up and warned but Mercetto continued.

"Mercetto docked one point for misbehaviour," he announced.

"Mercetto docked one point... docked one point. You could dock me a hundred bloody points and I still couldn't lose. She doesn't know the first thing about bowling."

The referee stood his ground. Any more of this and he would disqualify Mercetto. Then he caught sight of the tears streaming down Ginetta's eyes. The girl was visibly shaken by the outburst but in her eyes he also saw the steely coldness of the Brindinis. She didn't need a knight in shining armour to come to her rescue. She could do that herself.

"Play on!" he called out.

Now it was Mercetto's turn to stutter. He lost the next set without winning a single point, before taking six straight points at the beginning of the next. With victory in sight, his smile came back but his bragging had stopped. Which was fortunate for him as Ginetta fought back and won 21 points in a row to take the set. And so the two locked horns for the final battle.

Ginetta took the early advantage and kept it by constantly changing the length of play. She knew her grandfather hated short lengths but by varying it, she stopped him from getting any regularity into his play. But Mercetto wasn't a champion for nothing and once he succeeded in gaining a pointed, played a series of long lengths and began picking up points. But his lead never extended itself to more than one or two points and when Ginetta took two points on a long jack which Mercetto had set up, they were locked at 19-19. What turned out to be the final rubber was fascinating. Ginetta had one wood to play with three woods were clustered around the jack To the onlookers it seemed as if one point, maybe two would go to Mercetto. But the decision would be a tough one and would probably require the measure. Ginetta stepped up to the mat wood in hand. She had two options. Thunder the wood down the rink and try and take out her grandfather's two or try and squeeze through the tiny gap and hope it ended near enough to give her the point. It was the final option she took and a gasp went up from the crowd as the wood drew through the gap coming to a stop just millimetres away from the jack. The point was hers, that much was obvious. The referee stooped measure in hand with Mercetto watching over his every move. But he couldn't fault him in the least. Her second wood must have been almost half a centimetre closer. Mercetto stalked away before the referee even had time to announce the result. Ginetta, a beaming smile on her face turned to acknowledge her grandfather but he was nowhere to be seen. The club captain came up and congratulated her, before leading the referee away into the office. Their deliberation was short and sweet.

The letter, informing Mercetto of his immediate suspension came as he himself was putting pen to paper to inform the secretary of his decision to resign.

Praise

2010-05-05T08:17:00.005+02:00

It was meant to be the third and last time: a triangle of love and joy. Joel hobbled out onto the hotel terrace and looked at the fuming clouds above him. The film of feelings linking him to the behemoth churned away deep within. He saw his wife pulling him up that last little rock, his body vibrant with elation as the two stood on the summit holding his wooden leg high above his head. The repeat performance with his son, much harder with the passing years; the smiles and arms wound around each other as sang out the praises of the creator with all their heart. The music still hummed in his ears. And...

But no, no 'and'. That most cherished of pictures was the one that never was; almost replaced by the one most feared. Joel shuddered. His enthusiasm, her reticence.

"I want this more than anything else."

"I know Dad, but we want to get back down."

It had been a lucky escape. Just a few inches more... He turned his away eyes. As he went back into the room he saw her tranquil body asleep beneath the sheets and muttered a heartfelt thanks to that self-same creator.

Democracy In Action

2010-05-02T07:30:00.003+02:00

It's been billed as the event of the century. 5 long years people have been waiting. Yet now that it's here, it's hard to know what the event really is. Everyone's talking about Thursday, but the real action - i.e. sitting back in my armchair, beer in hand, trying to decide why the man in the centre is not performing as well as he usually does - has long since died away by then.

Of course, we do all participate in the event itself; rushing into the station, pencil in hand, surprised at the long list of names someone thrusts into our hand. We can't be bothered to figure out who they all are. A quick X marks the spot and it's all over. Your own personal record - 27.85 seconds from start to finish, unless of course, you can't remember which name on that long list you really wanted to mark. As you leave the station, there's a somewhat anti-climactic feeling. But at least, you've participated and there's always the next time to look forward to... five years on.

That evening, once it's all over, the excitement mounts again, whipped up by media boys showing us how interest is down, but promising to get us all excited in whatever it was that didn't really interest us in the first place. But in spite of the promised excitement, you fall asleep in front of the T.V. and wake up to find those bloody ***s have won after all. So it's off to work to join your colleagues in the greatest slanging match the world has known.

The real event has begun.

Consolation

2010-04-29T19:37:00.003+02:00

This week's Fiction Friday prompt: “My husband doesn’t know, but he will soon.”

"Okay come on, out with it."

Sheena glances at Olwyn. Her smile barely makes it across the table.

"Now, don't tell me there's nothing wrong. We've been meeting together every week for the last eighteen months and today you don't even seem to know who I am."

The same nervous smile. The same hesitation. She opens up her bag and fishes out a letter, placing it on the table in front of her. Olwyn frowns but waits. It seems to require a tremendous act of will for Sheena to push the letter across the table. Olwyn picks it up just as the waitress brings a second pot of tea. She reads it through twice.

"I see what you mean. Does John know about this?"

"No, but he soon will. We're having dinner with Phil and Bev on Saturday. Besides, there'll be a public announcement next week at the latest."

"Is this going to hurt John's career?"

"I don't see how it can. But it'll be awfully embarassing and..." Her voice fails her. She fishes in her bag for a handkerchief but has to make do with the gold crested serviette sitting on the table.

"I... I just don't know how he's going to take it. John's given more than his career to the institute. It's become his obsession. And he never forced Phil; not a bit. But only I know how proud he was when Phil started to follow in his footsteps. He took him to all the debates. Every meal time one argument or other would be demolished alongside whatever was on the plate. And he did all he could to help Phil in his studies. He spent ages combing the bookstores for Christmas and birthdays... that's what all his royalties went on. Anything he could do, he did. But he never used his influence to get him anywhere. Phil wouldn't have let him, not that he ever wanted to. And the day Phil received his PhD he cried buckets before and after the ceremony."

"So won't he be proud of Phil's achievement? They may be on opposing sides but..."

"Opposing sides! Do you know what this means? Phil will be the lead speaker at next month's congress debate. They're bound to pick him. They won't miss a publicity coup like this. Father and son at each other's academic throat. It'll be the death of John. After all he's done."

Sheena bursts into tears. Not even the serviette can alleviate her distress. Olwyn helps her out into the street and they hail a taxi. As they pass the Swan Hotel, Olwyn looks out the window hoping to catch a glimpse of John on his way to their rendezvous as a tear trickles down her cheek.

Paddy

2010-04-28T09:49:00.001+02:00

This week's 3WW words: depart, ignite, rotten

Paddy had one great love in his life - his love for France. And now dear reader, I can see you smile already. You know or think you know that it was really one of the infamous French demoiselles that had ignited such love. I am sorry to disillusion you but such was not the case. Indeed, it was difficult to say what it was that brought on this great love. It was certainly not those wonderful, holiday weeks spent on golden beaches with his parents, for Paddy had never even visited France. Nor was it a love for the rolling valleys resplendent with overripe vines, their nectar dripping down into the streams below. You see, like most Irishmen, Paddy preferred black heaviness to sparkling white. And as already alluded to, the young demoiselles, be ye they from Avignon or elsewhere played no roll in his love either. So I'm afraid his love for France will have to remain one of those unfathomable mysteries, putting him in line with millions of French - men and women - who themselves show a devoted love to their country without being able to explain why.

But if the reason for this love is beyond us, the fact itself remains as unwavering as ever. And so imagine Paddy's excitement when after many years of longing and waiting chance finally knocked on his door and the opportunity presented itself for him to see his beloved face to face. For weeks beforehand, Paddy could not contain himself. He prepared his journey meticulously. Every morning before breakfast he would devour the latest edition of the Beginner's Dictionary, following that up with a series of entrancing flights in which he would conjure up one image after the other, revealing aspect after aspect of his beloved's character. And in the week before his departure he washed his feet at least three times a day in order to be sure nothing could spoil the sanctity of the soil he was going to touch.

But if Paddy's love for France was immense, his hatred of cars was even greater. And so, as Paddy first glimpsed the terrain his heart had so longed for, he raced onto deck to be the first to disembark and embrace his long lost lover. But before he could do so, the bowels of the ferry opened and out poured a stream of cars all desiring to penetrate each nook and cranny of his heart's desire. Paddy immediately took fright and did the only thing he could do faced with such horror... he ran. He ran and he ran until he finally found shelter in a pokey, rotten, little cellar in the middle of one of the dingiest streets that county had to offer, where he remains to this day.

But if Paddy's love was ardent, it was also true. The moment a speck of light poured through the crack in the wall that served as his window to the world Paddy would begin writing. As the speck became a ray and beat its constant progress across the wall opposite, Paddy's fingers would become feverish in production - eulogies of praise to his lover; eulogies which no one would ever read.

Daydreams

2010-04-21T08:52:00.003+02:00

A quarter past three. Lacy was late - again. Francis' face began to give a good impression of the Icelandic volcano which had taken one cigarette too many. His colleagues kept well clear of him at such times. The minutes ebbed away. Francis picked up the newspaper and flipped through from back to front in under two minutes.

"There never is anything worth reading in this rag."

He'd forgotten it was actually his newspaper; the one that had published his first freelance articles; the one with whom he was at that moment negotiating a large contract. His mind started to wander. He saw himself on top of a podium making his Nobel speech. But the Nobel was only given over to literature. Literature was story-telling. Literature was only for the make-believes of the world. He hated story-telling. Random facts, slanted as you will. That was what true writing was all about. So, he awarded himself a Pulitzer for journalism instead.

He was jotting a few notes on his desk blotter when Janice came up.

"What on earth..."

He glanced up on her and then back down onto his desk. Lacy Scottskin found dead. Journalist arrested. He reddened and tried to give Janice a smile. Just then a head popped around the door.

"Hey folks, heard the news. They just found Lacy down in the cellar. Seems someone swiped him over the back of his head. He's in a pretty bad way."

Janice's eyes widened as she turned back to Francis.

griZZlies

2010-04-16T07:51:00.002+02:00

There could be no doubt about it; Tommy was more than disappointed with the horror charm he dug out of his latest packet of griZZlies. He put the sugar cube on the table in front of him. It certainly wasn't a patch on the traitor's-tongue-tip he'd dug out of the first packet. He'd been overjoyed with that - there had been just 13 different pieces; you couldn't cut up a tongue into much more. A fitting end to a tongue that had belonged to Ally Sagen, his country's biggest ever traitor. The second packet also contained a real find: a Dracula-like fang which took pride of place on his neck. And now nothing but a lump of suger. Tommy looked at the packet. He knew most of the names there and couldn't associate any of them with a lump of sugar. Two names, he wasn't sure of; the sugar probably belonged to one of them.

He quickly buttered a piece of toast and raced back up to his bedroom. Ten minutes later he descended the stairs a little more satisfied. It seems the lump of sugar had belonged to a research doctor who had killed his son. He had been doing some research into warfarin anti-dotes and had prepared a few dozen lumps of sugar to administer to a number of volunteers, including his son who had been the first to swallow one of the lumps. Unfortunately... So

Tommy poked his head through the kitchen door to say goodbye to his mother. Sitting at the table in her new dressing-gown she was enjoying her first cup of tea of the day. Tommy froze as he saw that his lump of sugar was no longer where he had placed it.

Between Two Jobs

2010-04-14T15:19:00.002+02:00

Being a saint was a damn hard job. Never a moments peace. The moment you got one problem out of the way, the barrier reopened and a hundred others fought with each other to be the first across the threshold. People didn't seem to realise that miracles cost time and energy. Of course, it was all the fault of fairy tales. Their compilers always made things seem so effortless. Take Cinderella's fairy godmother, for instance. All that was required was the wave of a magic wand and hey presto, they all ended happily ever after. But real life, even life after achieving sainthood just wasn't like that.

He remembered taking matters up with a brash sounding scholar at a colloquium. The idiot had just presented a paper on Sainthood and Magic in Ancient European Tradition. The guy didn't have a clue what he was on about. Sprite spent the better part of an hour ranting and raving at him without the guy batting an eyelid. He didn't even believe in the beings he was pontificating on!

Sprite knew the race across the line would take another hour or so before reaching its climax. Time enough to challenge Frankie to a quick game of chess express. After all, wasn't it Frankie's constant refrain:

Games lubricate the body and the mind

Inspector Egghead

2010-04-02T12:04:00.001+02:00

This week's Fiction Friday prompt: An April Fools prank gone too far.
It's a long time now, since the famous BBC documentary on spaghetti plantations. Hard to believe that some people really did fall for it. Like Inspector Egghead.

It all started quite by chance. A holiday, a visit to my uncle, a good bottle of wine... a television programme. I say holiday. That wasn't quite true. It was a little more enforced than that. My superior had ordered me to disappear the moment the first headlines started to appear. He'd have given me the sack if he could. But a man who had liberated the kidnapped wife of our venerated Prime Minister could hardly be given the sack; most definitely not by a chief commissioner with high political ambitions himself. Maybe one day, the truth of that little affair, I use the word advisedly, will be told. It was, indeed, my one and only... But I digress.

It started in a small seaside town on the South Wales coast. I had decided to profit from my enforced absence to visit those members of my family who had emigrated to this green and watery land in the early years of the twentieth century. After three months of moving from house to house and then from town to town - I still hadn't seen half of them - my chief's patience was wearing thin. It was time to go home. My brush with the press seemed forgotten, excepting the new nickname they had baptised me with and which will doubtless remain with me the rest of my life.

To be perfectly honest, I didn't have anything against the name Egghead. I take great pride in my bright shiny pate. I wash it every morning and once a month it gets the polishing it deserves at the local barbarian - as you English call him. And as no one told me it was actually meant as an insult, well I encouraged people to refer to me by that name. But again I digress.

So here I was on the first day of April, in this small Welsh seaside town, doing my best keep the rain and the wind off my shiny pate, when I finally found Uncle Pino's café. He welcomed me with open arms, but made sure his very fetching wife, Ginetta, did not do the same; me being just a few more years on the better side of 40 than himself. He introduced me to his favourite customers before he closed the café to make dinner. He always began early Mondays; none of the customers ever stayed beyond 5pm anyway. But the main reason, as he spelt out to me most volubly and with arms racing like a windmill was to further his education. Monday evening was Panorama. Panorama, he explained, was the most Italian of television programmes because it provoked discussion in the café until the next edition came up the week after. Besides, I've learnt an awful lot from it.

So, dinner over but with the wine still flowing we gathered around the small family television only to be astounded by what we saw. This week's subject was nothing other than the Spaghetti plantations of Southern Europe. Pino raised an eyebrow towards me, I shrugged my shoulders but Ginetta wouldn't hear of our turning it off. By the end of the programme it was difficult to tell what was the cause of all the laughing: the idiot English who gobbled down such rubbish like it was gospel; Ginetta who failed to understand how they'd managed to film such unbelievable scenes or the wine whose flow increased in direct proportion to the impossibility of the scenes being painted in front of our eyes.

It wasn't until I was safely snuggled up in bed, that my cynicism kicked in. The British weren't stupid. How could they be? They had a vast colony of Italians come to take up residence here. No! There was something more to this programme than met the eye. I sat up with a start and was dressed and out of the house within five minutes. But what was I to do now. I could hardly go to my bosses and explain to them that I had stumbled on an international plot to flood our cities with some of the most lethal drugs ever produced; with my track record they'd never believe me. Besides, this was my case. No one had even suspected it was nothing more than a poor April Fool's joke. Why let them take all the glory? No, what I had to do, was to infiltrate this organisation. Once inside, I could painstakingly gather my evidence. When I was ready a word to the secret services and bingo I would be in all the newspapers.

Finding the names of those who had collaborated on the making of the film was easy. My problem was how to infiltrate their organisation. The opportunity presented itself some few days later when an advert appeared for part-time workers to help out in an egg packaging plant, owned by one of these crooks. Now that's not exactly being let into the hub of their crime-ring, you might think. And you would be right. But infiltrating would take time. Besides, eggs were indispensable in Spaghetti production. So maybe, this is how I figured, the factory was being used as some kind of a cover-up. It wasn't until I saw one of the workers make a small hole in one of the eggs and suck out the inside, that I understood exactly what was going on.

The eggs were nothing but a foolproof way of transporting the drugs. A few workers - those in the know - would suck out the inside of selected eggs - not too many so as not to raise suspicions - before these eggs were passed on to a secret room where a liquid mixture would be re-injected into each egg. Once cooled the mixture became solid and the drugs could be transported without raising the slightest suspicion.

A few days after this discovery I chanced upon a large cardboard box with the letters BBC stamped over it. Now I had all I needed. My first call was to a the editor of one of our biggest national newspapers. Then I contacted my former chief who somehow didn't sound very pleased that I had suddenly reappeared. But a mention of a drugs consignment passing through his patch within the next few days did enough to placate him.

It was that same evening that the said box was loaded onto one of our lorries for immediate departure the next morning. Again I informed, first the editor and then my boss. I wanted to be absolutely sure that a newspaper crew were there to capture my one moment of glory. And so, shortly before eleven a police escort invited the driver to head into a lay-by and a thorough search of the lorry was made. Myself, I didn't arrive until the search was nearly over, but still early enough to catch the anger of my boss at once again being led down a false alley by his most incompetent element - as he so eloquently put it. It was hard to interrupt him but the moment he finished I explained to him why he had found nothing and how the drugs were actually being transported. Upon which, a look of disdain radiating from his face, he picked up one of the eggs I had pointed out to him and smashed it upon my shiny pate.

And the next day I had my moment of glory when every single newspaper sported a picture of my somewhat soiled face below the headline:

Egghead caught with egg on his face

African Whisperings

2010-03-26T16:06:00.003+01:00

This week's Fiction Friday prompt is: "Shhh… did you hear that?” See what I've made of it below. And if you want, you can even cast your vote in the comments. Who knows it may appear in a subsequent Fiction Friday or in the African Whisperings Anthology.

"The radio's still dead. I've no idea if our message got through."

Djembé looked into Zara’s eyes trying to read what they were saying.

"How ironic!" he sighed.

He didn't need to say more. She understood perfectly. Together they made their way through the copse where their hut stood and looked up out over the river. The sun was already beginning to lean towards the horizon. Just another hour or so and its rays would transform the water into a river of blood. By then it would be too late. They didn’t call for the plane often. Just three times in the seven months they had served this small, backwoods community. But each time, a life had been saved.

They embraced as they looked up into nowhere, willing the small black speck into being, praying for the miracle that would give new life to their own daughter.

Zara began her lament. Her hope had gone.

Djembé turned his back. It was more than he could stand. Then…

“Shhh… did you hear that?”

* * *

Ben placed the phone back on its hook and turned to Seymour.

“I’m afraid they don’t know what will happen. The plane didn’t land this morning because of the fighting to the north. The pilot was afraid the rebels might launch an attack on the plane. It should be back some time this evening. But whether they will risk landing…”

Ben placed an arm round Seymour. He understood. And yet, he couldn’t understand. Seymour had given up the whole of his holiday for that year to come and help the clinic. He’d first cajoled then bullied his bosses into giving him the four weeks at a stretch. His wife had spent the first week helping organise the pharmacy. Then malaria got her and she’d had to return to the capital. And now this. If the plane didn’t land today, Seymour would not be back in time for work Monday morning. Then he’d be out of a job. Why was the world so unfair?

The dinner party was meant to be a joyous occasion; a chance to thank Seymour for what he’d done for them all. They got together anyway, trying to make a go of it. They were well into a new round of Blitz when Ben’s wife yelled:

“Shhh… did you hear that?”

* * *

Passah counted the weeks on the calendar again. 13! Far too long for a man to be without wife and child. He didn’t even know if he’d recognise his child; they change so quickly. But his precious Becca, how could he ever fail to recognise her. Her smile was enough to guide even a blind man. He glanced up at the clock. It could be hours yet. He closed the photo album and got up to go into the store room. There was work to be done. He wanted to have everything ready when they arrived.

Outside, a few of the villagers were already gathering, drums at the ready. No other woman had ever commanded such respect that the whole village ensemble turned out; proof that he didn’t need that she was one special woman. One or two of them had already started woman up. Others called out “Bema” as he appeared. He went into the store room and unpacked the child’s seat from its box, recalling the tears he had shed that evening when they had had to leave. He’d taken quite well until arriving home. But seeing that empty chair set the fountains in motion and he couldn’t stop. As he screwed the chair to the table the tears started again; this time they were tears of joy, or they soon would be.

Picking up his calabash he went out to buy the beignets he had ordered especially. It took him a lot longer than he had planned. Neither of the women sitting on the corner of the street would take his money. It was their contribution to the little ceremony. He argued and bargained to no avail. Everyone wanted to share in his joy. Was that making him just a little jealous?

Back at his concession the drummers were getting into full swing. Some of the women had even started dancing. The village enchantress waddled her way towards him in that typical style of hers and pulled him over to the others. That’s when he thought he heard…

“Shhh… did you hear that?”

* * *

Athous laid down his pen, still not completely satisfied with his effort. Badda came and wrapped herself round him. Her gentle fingers closed his eyelids.

“Are you still not finished?”

“I suppose so. But it could be so much better. I want it to be so much better. This could be my big break.”

“Emergent Publishing African Writer’s Prize. African’s greatest writer!”

“Well, it’s not quite that, you know. It’s just a prize for new writers. But it’ll give people a chance to read me, get me known. If only…”

“Well, there’ll be no if onlys, if you don’t get your act together quick. What is it you’re supposed to be writing anyway. Well, they want to me write a number of different story openings. And then, if I’m chosen I get to develop one of those into a full blown story which they promise to publish. They did the same a few years ago for Chinese writers. And now it’s the turn of us Africans.”

“Well, you’ll better get your manuscript packed and ready. The plane’s coming early this week.”

“What! Athous looked devastated. But it can’t. I’m not ready yet. I mean, there’s still so much to revise. I can’t possibly send it off now.”

“Well, you can go and complain to the President tomorrow. It’s his fault their sending the post plane today. He’s off to visit another one of his African cronies tomorrow. But first, make sure you get that package ready.”

““Shhh, you two… did you hear that?”

Athous and Badda looked up into the blue sky as the silver bird descended. Hovering somewhere between yearning and despair they watched their destiny fly in.

Memory Lane

2010-03-18T22:31:00.004+01:00

Your character doesn’t make impulse purchases, but one day at the market they felt compelled to buy… what?
I'm using this to try and get under the skin of a character I'm working on. Any feedback appreciated

The jazz shops being closed for another half hour or so yet, I decided to wander through the market. Most of the stalls were just beginning to set up. One or two of the traders were standing looking up at the sky, undecided as to whether they should open or not. Of course, to leave now, would invite not a little irritation from the other traders. Much like sailors on a sinking ship, traders who leave a market hardly inspire confidence among the buying public. Solidarity. It had been Dad's A - Z. I saw myself once again, sitting on that high stool just about making it up to Dad's shoulder while he gave me a running commentary on all the goings on. That, of course, was long before that stroke of good fortune which enabled him to progress from a flea marketeer to antique dealer; almost overnight.

I squeeze my way through the narrow alleys trying to distinguish the various smells which begin to lay assault on my nose. I used to play at guessing with Dad. And there's the cheese vendor. Now he is one for the nose. Same old sign in front of his stand: touch, smell, taste. And the young guy's Dad always used to slip me a couple of extra pieces with a great big wink.

"Mister, over here." I turn and meet the brightest smile. A large lady vaunting her wares, holding out an alphabet full of colours; finest cloth for the best of ladies. I'm no longer sure if it's me talking or her. Nothing much changes on the market. The whistling of the loudspeakers and a voice announces the last chance to win a bottle of Baron Dumarrier... Suze's favourite.

How lucky I am to have found in him a second father. I was sixteen when Dad went. I'd have probably got by alone. But it was good to have someone give me a guiding hand. And when Suze invited me to be part of his set-up, I sprang at the chance. To be honest, I think he only asked me because he was a bit disappointed in his son, a somewhat profligate young man who did his best to squander his father's trust. But even after their reconciliation Suze continued to treat me like one of his most trusted friends.

The church clock strikes ten. One of the two shops is bound to be open by now. I push my way through the crowds and try to overhear the trader's banter. At the end of the alley, a small wood-crafter is busy at his wheel; a variety of his creations on the table in front of him. But my eye immediately falls on the three monkeys on the table: Dad's three monkey. I can see them still besides the old shop till. Dad always had them there. He called them his motto. In reality, they were his life.

Three monkeys: the first his hands over his eyes; Dad's voice exhorting me never to close mine to any injustice for the sake of convenience. The second, his hands over his mouth... Dad's favourite: "Never let an ugly word frequent your lips." And if ever I had done, I'm quite sure he really would have taken some Marseille soap to wash my mouth out. And then, the one I could never understand. Hands clasped over his ears, he could never hear no evil. How I used to protest. It's not my fault if people say bad things when I'm there. Am I wiser now? I'm aware of the temptation. But do I flee?

The three monkeys look far nicer than the old chipped ones Dad had in the shop. The craftsmanship is beautiful and the deep rosewood adds a touch of fright to their looks. I cannot resist. Money changes hands. The monkey's are mine. I go off in search of my partitions. And only when I gaze into the shop window do I realise I'll have to put off my purchase until I'm paid next month. Not that I care.

Bedd Gellert

2010-03-14T04:44:00.002+01:00

The book that changed everything is this week's Sunday Scribblings challenge. This may be slightly enigmatic, especially to those unfamiliar to Welsh culture. It's a tribute to those books that set me off on reading, and to one hidden jewel locked inside the multitude of its volumes.

Thick and blue;
In how many volumes?
Memory playing tricks
Never lets me forget
The treasures stored
In Grandmother's bookshelf.

And what's in a name.
The spell is what counts.
A magnetic spell,
Drawing in six year olds,
Captivating sevens,
While never letting off the hook
Those turned even older.

One above all,
My eager eyes caressed,
A lover sought out
Among the crowd
Till hunger satisfied.

A poem, a dog, a death,
In lilting Welsh verse
Despite English words
Bedd Gellert's acts distorted
But himself never disloyal.

For years neglected.
The tricks that age has played.
Forgotten and languishing,
Till one fateful day,
When father and son,
With mother and daughter,
Leaving Snowdon upon
The immortalised village chancèd,
And memory did the rest.

All four the road
to Grandma's bookshelf sought.
That spell now guiding
New strangers to its light.

Bequest

2010-03-12T16:19:00.002+01:00

Taking things into their own hands Kalito and Ramona went through every room in the house. Kalito had the large bunch of keys, the lawyer had given him. But only a few of the rooms were locked. The ones that weren’t, he left to Ramona. Together they turned the house upside, being very careful to leave everything as it was. They didn’t want to alert the authorities to the treasure.

Never had they imagined things would take this long. Not that it would have changed much. They had fooled themselves into a false patience, by not phoning the lawyer once. They could wait until matters were cleared up and the house was theirs. To compensate, they visited the bank manager and arranged a series of consumer credits; modest, at first but growing in proportion to the hunger released by the first taste of fortune.

“Any luck?”

“No. I’ve searched the two double bedrooms and the study and I’ve found nothing.”

“Listen, maybe it’s in the outhouse.”

“What makes you think that?”

“These keys. I’ve checked them all out. The keys opened every door in the house, except the small wooden door at the end of the hall; the one that leads to the outhouse.”

“That was the studio wasn’t it? What on earth would uncle have hidden there?”

“We could find out, if we figure a way of getting in there.”

Never once, had it struck them, that what they were doing was illegal. After all, it would all belong to them one day, as soon as all the paper work was finished. But whereas one day was plodding along at a tortoise’s pace, their debts far outdid the speed of the fastest hare. Desperate measures were called for.

“I think I know how to get in. Remember, I used to spend most of my holidays here. Uncle never used this door. He used to get into the studio from outside. I’m sure he kept the key hidden away somewhere, so that Julio could get in too. That’s why this door was kept locked. Julio could get into the studio but not into the house.”

“So where did he hide it.”

They went outside and turned over every loose stone; a number of nails were hammered into a small board hidden away under the overhanging roof – but no sign of what they were looking for. Even the pot plants in the courtyard refused to yield up anything resembling a key.

“And if we went to see old Julio?”

Which all explains why some two hours later, key trembling in their fingers as they tried to find the lock, they were finally able to penetrate inside the one room in the house, where the treasure could be hidden. It was littered with outdated recording equipment, bookshelves full of partitions and saxophone methods; on the walls hung covers of some of uncle’s favourite recordings and the occasional poster for one of his concerts. And on the table under the window stood a rainbow-coloured saxophone case – their uncle’s trademark.

“We’ve been had,” stuttered Romana. There is no treasure.

Kalito looked at her aghast.

“Not a real one, anyway. Remember what uncle said… ‘To my niece and her fiancé I bequeath, in addition to a third share in the house, the greatest of my treasures.’ Well, there it is. The saxophone.”

A Soap Opera?

2010-03-05T09:10:00.002+01:00

Things seemed perfectly normal until I walked through the door to our courtyard bracing myself for the expected avalanche. Nothing happened. Where were the kids? There, sitting in front of their houses talking, playing, doing the things they did all the time. But what mattered most, they were ignoring me. Until coming to Africa, I had looked upon the Pied Piper of Hamelin as a highly improbable fairy tale with some kind of moral twist. But the likelihood of hordes of children following after one man, however skilful his pipe-playing, had never impressed itself on me.

That changed overnight with my arrival in Africa. Being different draws children like a magnet. And I certainly was different. Every time I went out onto the street, a group of chanting kids started following. "

"Nassara, nassara."

I'd have thought that was evident enough without it having to be sung. But the kids, it seems, didn't. More often than not the group grew into a horde by the time I reached the limit of our quarter, upon which the kids turned and went home leaving me to the relative peace of having a few adults mumble something similar every few minutes.

Even time didn't temper their enthusiasm. I'd been living among them now for almost two years and still had to run this gauntlet, daily. But today? Why was today different. Had it been night, I dare say I would have counted my lucky stars. That's not easy by day, so I just made my way to the neighbour's half expecting a crowd to jump out at me chanting "April Fool... Nassara... April Fool." Nothing happened. Arriving at the table my neighbour had set up in front of his house, I started greeting him. It was only when I realised this greeting was taking far more than the - for a nassara - usual two minutes that a strange feeling came over me. Everyone was treating me like a black man that day. True, I was wearing my jalabah. But that didn't usually make such a difference. I bought a small jar of jam and a baguette and crossed to the other side. Assantah greeted me with a wide grin.

"That soap works very well, neighbour."

I looked straight back at him. The back of my mind began to stir. Yes, he'd offered a special soap just a few days ago. Soap for staying secret, he'd called it.

"I give it to you, and if you like it, you pay me later."

I'd merely smiled at the time, but what if... I stretched out my hand from under my jalabah to pay him. The palm still looked pretty white but when I turned it over... It was only a light black, of course, somewhat like my northern neighbours but nowhere near like the black of the southern tribes who occupied the neighbouring quarters. Still, it was enough for me. I returned Assantah's smile and wandered on. For the first time in my life I was going to discover Africa in-cognitio.

Communication Block

2010-02-07T10:28:00.002+01:00

Message is this week's Sunday Scribblings topic. So, I've chosen three true examples of politicians, whom it seems, just didn't get the message.

The government spokesman put on his best smile. It had been a disastrous night for his party. Now to put on a brave face and bluff his way through. "Well, you see Jonathan, our main problem is not that the public do not like our policies. On the contrary, they do. Thousands are telling us so on doorsteps, up and down the country. It seems to me that the public just doesn't understand the message we're trying to get across.

* * * * *

The French President was visibly annoyed. Should years of negotiations, setbacks, breakthroughs all come to nothing now, at the last hurdle. As France currently held the presidency of the European Union, it fell on him to save the day. He stepped up to the microphone. "People of Ireland, I am calling on you to hold a referendum. The future of Europe is at stake. We need a clear mandate from each member country and we need you to state clearly what you want."

"But we don't need a new referendum. We had one yesterday. We said what we want. We said NO!"

"You don't seem to understand. We have to hear you speak," replied the exasperated French president.

* * * * *

Every single President and world leader present knew what was at stake. This was not the time for words. The public wanted action, so action they would get. Copenhagen would be the last chance. That was why the final declaration was so unequivocal. "We recognise the need for action before it's too late. We also recognise the importance of working together to overcome this problem which threatens our planet. So we have signed an agreement that we will keep meeting and keep talking in order to find a common way forward in this matter. On this we are all agreed."

Exercises In Style

2010-02-05T22:24:00.003+01:00

Instead of continuing the story as the prompt asks us to do, I have tried to rewrite the original two paragraphs in a different style.

Original

‘God damn.’ Eddie Kerne’s voice had altered, from anger to shock. But he shifted back to anger quickly. ‘And what the hell were you doing while he was climbing off the bloody cliff? Watching him? Egging him on? Or having it off with her?

‘He was climbing alone. I didn’t know he’d gone. I don’t know why he went.’ The last was a lie, but he couldn’t bear to give his father any additional ammunition. ‘They though at first it was an accident. But when they looked at his equipment, they saw it had been tampered with.’

Poetic

Do you know my own true son
What it is that you have done?
Such an idiot, I can't believe
That while he died, e'en his wife you did not leave.

Oh but Dad, tis not my fault.
Nothing know I about his vault.
And so, dear reader a lie so white
For once from his lips did alite.

At first, you see, an accident they suspect,
but then foul play still more expected.
For tampered his equipment was,
Thus murder they suspect because.

Humourous

Tampered with, I've never heard anything so funny in all my life. You really want me to believe anyone would take the trouble to fool around with his equipment when all they had to do was leave him to his own means. The man was a walking accident. He never needed egging on, not when it came to doing anything stupid. And I bet all the time that was going on, you were in bed having it off with is wife. Oh, it really is all too funny.

Defamiliarisation

Looking at him you'd think he was vacillating between anger and shock. Yet, as he stood there, straight as a ramrod, emotions in check, with even a touch of relief in his eyes, you'd never have guessed it. That's what made it so difficult to reply to him. I waited almost a full to minutes before blurting the first thing that came into my head. 'He decided to leave me have my way with his wife and go climbing alone. I guess he did so because he loved her. And of course, being an ardent team man, it made perfect sense for him to go off alone. He was always doing it.' After all that even I was unaware as to what was truth and what was lie.

Where Next?

2010-02-03T15:11:00.002+01:00

Orlato adored fast cars, writing articles for punch magazine, avant-garde fiction and sailing with the world's beauties in tow. His luxury yacht was fitted with every luxury imaginable and supplies were flown in by helicopter once a week. Not that he did much sailing though; he left that to his crew. He concentrated on the beauties and his stock of fine wines which inevitably made up large part of his order every week.

Today, however, Orlato had a decision to make. The recent storms had left his yacht in need of some urgent maintenance work. But where to go? The nearest port where the work could be carried out, was Hong Kong. But the articles he had written at the time of the island's handover to China, made that solution impracticable. Although he often visited high-flying government officials, he didn't quite fancy a lengthy stay as guest of the country's security service. He could try heading towards the coast of Africa but if he was persona non-grata for the Hong Kong authorities, then the pirates that infested these waters were most certainly persona non-grata for him.

No, there was nothing for it but to make a frantic scramble back to Europe. His first thought was to head to Germany. There were more than enough workshops who could do the required work, and as money had never proved an object to him, their exclusively high prices were not a problem. Besides, while he was there, he could buy another Ferrari and take it out for a spin on the 'autobahn'. He loved the idea of those long, straight roads with absolutely no speed restrictions. But a quick check on the internet soon put him off that idea. Not only were there no Ferraris available, but the government had had an attack of greenitis and had laid down stingent new measures on road behaviour. You were still allowed to drive as fast as you can. No German government would take to take on that cherished right, but you were no longer allowed to own a car that drove as fast as you liked. And the amazing thing was that no one single German seemed to be distressed over this.

He could, of course, set course for the mother country, good-old England - as very distinct from the sing-song Welsh or the barbaric Scots whose palate had been ruined by centuries of whisky. In England everything was permitted, everything that is except that which was expressly forbidden. But the current government had passed so many new laws, almost everything was expressly forbidden, nowadays. He couldn't even buy a copy of his favourite author's latest novel without having to confront the pungent odour of underground book-stores, nestled deep inside the seedy intestines of the capitol city, far from the watchful eye of the CCTV freaks. No, there was nothing for it. He was going to have to eat his pride and lurch towards France. Not that the legal situation was much better there. Indeed, the French have more laws than all the other countries put together. But the Frenchman has learnt one essential lesson, one he prided them for. For the Frenchman everything is allowed, even that which is forbidden. France was Orlato's kind of country.

Scribbler Ventures Out

2010-01-30T20:13:00.004+01:00

This is the 200th Sunday Scribblings prompt! When I started this blog in 2006, I hoped that a few people would want to write with us once a week. I had no idea it would last this long or that so many people would continue to participate. Thank you so much for continuing to come and play! Is there anyone out there who has done every single one?

Once upon a time Scribbler left the little forest she'd grown up in to visit the widest of wide worlds. It didn't take her long to discover that the world was far greater than the little corner she'd considered not only home but her universe. But very soon she also felt a little lonely. If only... she dreamed, but where was Scribbler to find friends among the bewildering mass of webs she encountered at every step. Besides, all Scribbler could do was precisely that; scribble. So she sat herself down, took out her pencil and scribbled. It wasn't long before a number of people began to drop by. They seemed intrigued with what she was doing. Some showed their appreciation, others asked if they could scribble too. The owner of the pencil store where she regularly bought her scribbling supplies was more than happy and even offered her a table and chair in his shop window. But Scribbler knew that was not the correct place for scribbling and politely went on her way. But soon she began to wonder what it would be like to go a scribbling together. Just imagine, Little Red Scribbling Hood and Her Merry Band of Scribblers. Of course, they would be very philanthropic. Instead, of robbing from the rich to give to the poor, they would merely carry the words away in their head; the owner wouldn't even notice they'd been taken. Indeed, one owner was so surprised to see Scribbler making off with her words, yet leaving them there, she began to dream too. And before too long, they set themselves up in their own little niche, and were offering Scribbling opportunities to the one or two... or maybe that should read ten or twenty, or perhaps even one or two hundred. But then, with 200 prompts to their scribbling names and let's say one new person every week, well that may even mean one or two thousand... who knows. All I do know is that soon there were lots of little Scribbler milestones, testifying to the power of pen, paper or keyboard. And, of course, they all lived happily ever after. At least, this one little Scribbler milestone hopes they do. He would be so sad if ever it were to stop.

Read some more Scribbler milestones here.

Nightmare

2010-01-27T09:42:00.003+01:00

This week's words are: Beacon, Grieve, Kindred

"Are you trying to tell me that we're flying in just 2 hours and your passport is no longer valid!"

"That's right. It expired 4 months ago. But I'm sure the guy checking won't notice."

A beacon started flashing furiously in my mind, a warning things were reaching breaking point. I tried taking long, deep breaths in a bid to stay calm. This was the kind of thing you expected from young kids when you took them on a trip, but not from a 48 year old man.

"And you're identity card...?"

"Oh, that's fine. I got it renewed just before Christmas."

This time I really did start to relax.

"But it won't help much. I left it at home."

Now my breathing began to go haywire. I tried repeating various injunctions about it not being his fault and it might happen to anyone, all the time trying to force myself to stay calm. But that didn't work either. It seemed I began to shout, attracting the attention of an airport security guard.

"Can I be of any help. Sir, are you alright. Sir..., Sir...!"

A multitude of images kaleidoscoped their way around my mind. People urging me to calm down, to keep quiet. Someone said, "Come this way, hurry or you'll all miss the plane; never mind we'll look after him."

I woke four hours later. I was feeling a lot better. A nurse came by and smiled; a kindred spirit if ever I saw one. "So you've woken up. Good to see you've calmed down a bit. That was quite a scare you gave us, this morning."

"This morning? What time is it," I replied trying to get out of bed.

"Now just you get back into bed or I'll have to call the ward heavies. We can't have you gallivanting about after what you've been through. Besides, your friends will not be returning until Sunday."

"Sunday? You mean they've all left."

"Yes. But they only just made it. Your little fit almost made them lose the plane. In the end they were hurried through and didn't even pass security."

Now, I really did relax. What was there to grieve over? Everything was fine and I could look forward to five days of pampering by my very pretty new nurse friend. Good job I wasn't aware that my friends had all just been arrested by the UK police for trying to smuggle one of the group into the country.

Your Desicision

2010-01-24T07:54:00.005+01:00

A poem in answer to this week's Sunday Scibblings prompt "YES"

You know how
Easy it is said, but
Sometimes, regret is harder still.

Yet, often,
Even when you think, you know your mind,
Sneaking round the corner comes disquiet.

You shake it off, it insists.
Evoke a hundred reasons to send it packing;
Suddenly, enlightenment knocks.

You realise struggle spells
Escape from doubt, your mind no longer
Sways.

You answer
Eager
Self-assured

YES

Homecoming

2010-01-22T21:11:00.004+01:00

This weeks Fiction Friday prompt: A woman revisits the neighbourhood where she grew up to find that her childhood home has been condemned.

Sîan once again picked up the letter from the solicitor's, and turned it over and over in her hand. She knew this was the final blow. The house was sold, making her a rich woman. But what did she care for that! Time and again she tried to make sense of the film running out of control through her mind. The first letter from the solicitor, repeated calls requesting she put the house on the market, heated discussions with her sisters, the decision to return home. Finally, the day when she once again set foot on her home soil.

Fifteen years it had taken. She had dreamt of this moment almost every day. A joyous celebration was how it had always been represented in her mind. And indeed, she was glad to be back home. Yet, she had never imagined it being a lonely matter. Her sisters' decided lack of enthusiasm and their unwillingness to travel down to see her were bitter disappointments. Gwyn had even refused to answer the telephone last time she called, hiding behind her ten year old son.

Then came the visit to the rectory. It didn't take long for her to realise it was beyond repair. Condemned, the solicitor had put it, and the word battered away its around her mind whilst she carefully picked her way through the broken floorboards and the undergrowth that had once been their play room. So many happy memories, but someone must have erased that hard disk. She failed to conjure up a single one, not even her father in his study. If it hadn't been for Delwyn she'd have drunk herself stupid that night.

He'd recognised her at once. Called out her name. Come up to her. It wasn't until he brushed his index finger over her cheek that she realised who he was. Time had not been kind to him. He was greying far more than was normal for his 36 years, and his features were ruddy and harsh, doubtless the by-product of years of labour in the local stone-quarry. But a few words sufficed for her to realise that time had not erased his courteous, even generous, manner. She remembered the shy little boy who'd come to hear them sing. Then later, he'd even joined the group. Four years they sang together and were often solicited for various local concerts. Then came her one big chance. No one could refuse a scholarship to the Royal Musical College of Wales. She'd left without so much as a good bye; and regretted it ever since. He walked her back to the hotel that night. And as he ran his finger down her cheek, she saw her sisters' reflection in his eyes as they'd stood there teasing her. She had always asked herself if there was anything in their gentle badgering. Now, she knew.

She invited him to breakfast the next day. He turned up saying he'd taken the whole day off work. This time it was his turn to talk, and she discovered to her amazement he'd become one of the most successful people in town. He'd inherited the quarry from his father and turned it into a thriving business, employing over a 250 townsfolk. But he still lived in the run-down old house behind the scrapyard, though he did admit to having done it up, somewhat. As they were chatting away, the hotel manager arrived with three letters, each from the solicitor. She couldn't help explaining her business there now.

"So, you see either I have to come up with £350 000 by next week or accept one of these offers and get out of here for ever."

His eyes more than his lips asked: "Is there no way you can raise the money?"

"Not by next week. If I had another six months, I might manage it, if..." But that part of her life still lay under a shroud of secrecy.

He excused himself right after breakfast but promised to pick her up before eleven. We'll walk out to the canal and take a boat down to Tonwy. She'd not quite imagined the boat being his boat but loved the thrill she got from standing at the tiller, Delwyn standing behind her, holding firmly onto her shoulders to keep things steady. They'd lunched on a fine old ploughman's at "The Crossed Keys", washed down by a quenching pint of real, brewed by the landlord himself. And when she saw the piano sitting alone in the tap room, she couldn't resist. Another pint of real and the three of them - the landlord also loved a sing-song - were off. They sang all afternoon, going through their old repertoire several times, and even trying out some newer songs. People came and went and were generous with their applause. But not one of them recognised that they had before them half of the foursome who had entertained not a few of them some fifteen years ago.

That night it was Sîan who lovingly raised her finger to caress Delwyn's cheek, hoping that he might... They parted without a word, not even making arrangements to see each other the next day. But, thought Sîan, he knew where to find her.

Sîan slept the next day until after ten o'clock. Delwyn had proved the perfect antidote for her troubles and she was looking forward to seeing him again. The moment she appeared in the lobby, the manager came out to meet her.

"Miss Pryce, your solicitor has been trying to get hold of you, all morning. He wants you to go and see him as soon as possible."

Sîan shivered a little as a cold foreboding came over her. If only Delwyn was here now. She poured down a cup of pretty tepid coffee and grabbing an apple made her way into town.

"Mr. Silkin, will you please explain what all this is about. You said there would be no further developments this week."

"Yes, but I was not expecting an additional offer, and one you can't refuse."

"An offer I can't refuse?"

"Yes, I have received an offer of £550 000 for the immediate sale of your property. At that price I would be failing in my duty if I didn't advise you to accept. True, the bidder wants an exclusivity clause, but he's a respected local business man and even if he had to invoke the clause, it would take six months at the most."

"Could you please explain what you are talking about."

"An exclusivity clause, Miss Pryce, means you agree to forego any current offer on the table. So in the case of the buyer not being able to come up with the money in the required time, he would be granted an automatic extension of six months to find the necessary sum. But as I have already said, the likelihood of that happening is extremely remote."

"Six months! But Mr. Silkin, if you had only waited six months I could have raised the sum needed to restore the property and keep it in our family."

"That I'm afraid, Madam, is beyond my control. You were not able to pay the outstanding bills, so..."

"Mr. Silkin, would you kindly inform me who this extraordinary offer is from?"

"That, I'm afraid Madam, is not possible. The bidder distinctly requested his identity be kept a secret until the contract itself is signed. And now, if you will excuse me, I have a prior engagement at my golf club. Good-day Madam."

Before Sîan was even aware of what was going on, he had disappeared. She slowly got up from the desk she'd been sitting at and made her way to the front door, only to hear the secretary call out:

"Come here, love. I shouldn't really be telling you this, love, but you seem so distressed. The bidder is a Mr. Davies, Delwyn Davies, the man who runs the stone-quarry in town. And if it's any consolation to you, he's a really nice man. Not much to look at maybe, but he's got a heart of gold."

"Yes, a heart of gold," replied Sîan in a daze. "A heart of gold, gold, that's all his fucking heart thinks about; gold, gold, gold and more gold; cold, gold heart; slimy, cold, money grabbing bastard." The office door shuddered behind her.

Sîan left the hotel within the hour. No humiliation could touch her now. She was beyond being moved. Like a worm he had courted and cheated; wormed his way into her trust before wriggling back down into the earth where his wealth had come from. Suddenly, she saw her father standing in front of a gaping whole. His words had both a familiar and a comforting ring to them: "Remember man that thou art dust and unto dust thou shallt return." If only... but she knew she would never find the courage.

The next day she'd gone back to the solicitor's to pick up the remaining documents.

"There you are, my dear. Hope you're feeling a bit better this morning. Mr. Silkin is out right now, but he's left everything here for you to collect. Always his usual efficient self, Mr. Silkin.

Sîan took the envelope without a word. She walked out into the park wondering whether or not to read the fateful words the letter contained. It made little difference whether she read them or not. Yet, she had to know. After hours of dithering she finally took her penknife and slit open the envelope. The letter bore the familiar letterhead blazoned above the terse statement.

Dear Ms. Pryce,

I regret to inform you that our bidder is currently unable to go through with the deal. He has begged me to be allowed to inform you of matters himself, a procedure which while highly irregular, I reluctantly agreed to in light of the very generous offer made. I therefore enclose a further note, the contents of which I am wholly ignorant of. Should they reveal any failing on my part, I beg you to excuse me.

Your's faithfully,

J.I. Silkin Esq.

Sîan examined the envelope once again. It contained one further sheet of paper. With a slight tremble she unfolded this second letter and read:

Dear Sîan,

Now is not the time for keeping up pretences. When I heard of your predicament, I decided, I could not leave you helpless as you seemed. Had I tried to offer you the money needed to cover your debts, you would doubtless have refused me. So I made my way immediately to the offices of J.I. Silkin Esq and made an immediate offer of £500 000 for your property, insisting on an exclusivity clause being written into the contract, in order to assure no other bidder could present themselves until six months after any failure of completion on my part. I am so pleased to inform you, that I am currently unable to complete and that the likelihood of my doing so within the next six months is very small. If at the end of these six months, you are able to raise the money to clear your debts, you are free to do so. It is normal in such circumstances for a penalty of 10% to be imposed up the failing partner. If this sum can be a help to you in paying off your debts, I shall be only to pleased to have been of assistance.

Please forgive me. I'm not much of a writer. But what I really want to say is...

It was Sîan's own tears that had blotched the rest of what he wrote, rendering it unreadable.

Memory Lane

2010-01-17T18:36:00.004+01:00

Entering the museum Lupak felt a little guilty. Was this really going to interest his son. For him it would be a welcome trip down memory lane. As a kid he had spent days on end in this museum. A stranger might have wondered how that was possible. It only had two rooms and the cellar, fitted out to look like an old kitchen. That, of course, was the museum's secret. He remembered the first time he's visited it with his aunt. She was helping out after his parents had moved to this new town. There was so much to do, the three children had been packed off to stay with her for a few days. And today they had all tumbled into her old Hillman imp and up the valley, over the top and down into Morfen. They'd all had lunch in the new house but before returning Auntie Aggie had promised him something special... the museum.

To be perfectly honest, it had not caught his imagination, at first. Not until, they had descended the staircase and seen the kitchen. Auntie Aggie couldn't contain her excitement. It's just like the place your Mam and I grew up in. And off she went on her own trip down memory lane. By the time they had finished the small crowd that had gathered in the meantime, applauded discretely. But Lupak hadn't finished yet. He wanted to know more, and he bombarded her with questions.

And now, here he was with his own son. Would the magic wear off on him? What sort of questions would he ask. Obviously, the museum would have changed. New exhibits, old ones vanished. Yes, there was the old Penny Farthing and Simon's eyes gleamed as Lupak explained to him how he had once taken part in a Penny Farthing rally. But apart from that, Simon hadn't said much. They went down to the kitchen but even that didn't really awaken his interest. Then he saw it. An old wooden box with something like a spiralling loudspeaker on top.

"What's that Dad?"

"Well now, that's something quite special. It's one of the first record players they ever made."

"And what's a record player?"
This week Sunday Scribblings asked to write about "The Good Old Days" and provoked this trip down Memory Lane.

The question took him aback. Of course, Simon was barely old enough to remember cassette tapes. How on earth could he be expected to know what a record player was. He began to explain. Not only the mechanics of the thing, but all about the evenings spent around the fire, listening, laughing singing. The dances they used to have, treading softly so as not to cause the needle to jump and force from them three steps at once. And, of course, the one time when he had gone into the recording studio himself and made a record with his four idols.

"Jim fixed it for me," he said, telling Simon about that old television programme that made young children's dreams come true.

When they went back upstairs, they realised it was already getting dark. And the elderly museum attendant was slumbering away in his rocking chair. Some things never change he thought.

Great Expectations

2010-01-15T10:13:00.002+01:00

[Fiction] Friday Challenge #138:
It took Edgar six months to muster the courage to ask out his dream girl. Their first date is almost over, and it couldn’t have gone better—until he discovers his wallet is missing. Write the scene.

The moment he saw her front door open Edgar checked himself in the mirror. Straightening his tie he slipped his jacket on and descended the staircase. He couldn't believe this was really happening. Six months of waiting, despairing and, more recently, even hoping. Hoping beyond hope? Somehow, Edgar couldn't help feeling he wasn't good enough for her. Even her enthusiastic 'yes', once he'd finally taken the plunge and asked her out, did little to allay his misgivings. Jasmine was no ordinary girl and he was going to have to come up with something special to impress her.

He raced down the stairs and was waiting by the open door as she came up the path. The moment her foot reached the top step he whisked a flamboyant bouquet from behind the door, surprising her just as she leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. He saw her hesitate and at once started to excuse himself.

"Sorry, it's not as..."

"Edgar, stop! The flowers are lovely. It's just, I wasn't expecting any, that's all. Besides, spending an evening with you is worth far more than anything you could give me."

Edgar winced at this perceived put-down. Worth nothing more than an evening out. Clearly, he was going to have to come up with something better. He steeled up his voice so as not to betray the lie.

"Dad has given me permission to use his car. It's a Mercedes C class; the latest model and it runs like a dream."

"But, we're only going around the corner. We don't need to take a car." And hooking her arm into his, she pulled him down the stairs.

Edgar had wanted... but he found nothing to say. How on earth was he going to impress her now. If only it was his success they were celebrating.

"I do hope you can come to my concert, next week. I've decided not to play my audition piece. I'm going for the Bach instead. And afterwards, maybe we can go over our maths together. It makes so much more sense when you explain it to me. And if I don't get my grade up, passing the audition will mean nothing."

"I'll tell you what, I saw this excellent piece of computer software the other day. It's real state of the art technology; it'll make you into a maths whizz. I'll get it for you, if you want."

But she didn't want, and once again Edgar was left to rue his inability to impress her. And as they approached the restaurant he realised this wasn't going to improve his chances with her either, being a pretty run-of-the-mill sort of place. At least, it had a pleasant view over the canal and the old town. That was probably why Jasmine had chosen it. But Edgar couldn't help wishing they were somewhere a little more classy. Opening the door to for her, he gave a little smile and was surprised when she once again took his arm and pulled his towards the steps leading down to the canal. They sat down on the wall.

"Do you know, that's the first nice thing you've done for me all evening."

"What do you mean? I've been trying to impress you ever since you arrived."

"I do realise that. Indeed, it's been quite painfully obvious. But I don't want you to impress me. At least, I don't want you to impress me with what you can. I came out with you tonight because I wanted to be with you. I was so glad when you offered to celebrate together, because I love being with you. You're the one that impresses me, not your expensive suit or the giant bouquet. And as for your father's car..." She slipped her arm around his waist and laid her head on his shoulder. "Edgar, don't you realise I just want to be with you. To talk together, laugh, have a good time... with you! That's all I want."

Edgar said nothing. He just lifted her head and stared at her. But in his eyes understanding was dawning. A few minutes later he caressed her cheek and said, "Let's go in."

"Right," she whispered, "and no more trying to impress me."

"I promise, maybe I can even come with something distinctly unimpressive. I've just realised I left my wallet in my jeans at home. Either we go back home or I'm going have to ask you to pay."

Turning The Tables

2010-01-13T10:37:00.003+01:00

The three words to be used this week: ribbon, zeal, jolt

Dear Friends and Readers,

This is the first time I am exercising my creative abilities to write a piece here. Indeed, when my father asked me to write in his place, I spent ten minutes protesting.

"I can't write. I've never written anything creative in all my life. How can I even begin to do you justice?"

These and other excuses only provoked a wry smile from my father. But he waited patiently until I'd finished, before opening a draw to his desk and pulling out a wad of papers, I soon recognised. How on earth had Father come by them?

"These, young gentleman, are some of the most creative pieces of writing I've ever been witness to. But one thing you should remember. Parents who write excuse notes for the children, never look for such elaborate reasons. They stick with the plain and simple: 'Please excuse Ian's absence from class yesterday, as he was in bed all day with a temperature.' They are far more believable."

I reddened and as my excuses had run out, I acquiesced

As you have probably guessed by now, I am writing to excuse my father who is incapacitated and thus unable to fulfil his obligations towards you this week. I'm afraid he is unable to use the fingers of both his hands due to a sickness contracted whilst playing the piano, last night. It seems as if the dog we were looking after licked most of the keys on the piano during his stay and has since had to be put down after contracting a fearsome virus. Fortunately, such drastic measures will not be necessary for my Dad but he will be out of action for the next few days.

In addition, our home computer has been taken ill. It seems serious surgery is required on what in human body terms would be called the heart. Such surgery is a delicate matter and although we have been able to call upon one of the country's greatest blue-ribbon computer surgeons, it will take quite some time before Compy (that's our pet name for her) will be back to normal.

And finally, I should mention the pressure of seeing work build up as a concluding factor. Dad's desk has become such a mess as paper piles rise, fall and automatically create new piles which themselves follow a similar pattern. And I'm only talking about urgent items. Anything else finds it way into the paper bin without passing by his desk. You can imagine for yourselves how totally depressing this must be. As a result the jolt needed to get Dad going again is sorely lacking.

If you think this concourse of circumstances goes too far, then please accept my humblest apologies for the zeal I have shown in excusing my father. All you have to do is to delete one or more of the above arguments, as appropriate.

Sincerely,

S.(on)O.(f)P.(aul) CHARLATAN Esq.

P.S. I almost forgot to say that in case you are wondering how I have access to the broken down computer, that I am writing this post from a terminal in our public library.

A Wife's Farewell

2010-01-10T17:29:00.003+01:00

Prompt: A woman makes a New Year’s Resolution to make her husband/boyfriend break his resolution within a week. What’s the resolution, and why does she want him to break it?

I suppose you could call it a battle of wills. It's not that I've anything against Fiction Friday as such. And at least writing keeps my husband away from the pub. But when I get home from work on a Friday, then I like to be pampered a little. The last thing I want, is to have to play Rocking All Over The World or something similar, and do a wild strip-tease just to get my husband to look up from the computer and say, "Hello darling". No, I want him to welcome me home with a nice, sweet cup of tea and a chocolate eclair he bought especially for me on his way home from work. After that, a nice slow massage whilst he's running my bath and once I'm done... well, now it's his turn to do the strip-tease. That's what life used to be like until you guys poked your nose in. For the last three weeks when I get home from work, he's been busy writing. Wants to be author..., make a fortune tax-free..., have people come up to him in the streets and say, "Will you sign my copy please?" And all because you guys persuaded him that what he writes, shows promise. Well, maybe it does. I can't be judge of that. But it's ruining my Friday evening. And now he's resolved to participate every Friday for the rest of the year. "Every artist needs to practise, dear." What a load of...!

Well, I've had enough of it. And as desperate situations call for desperate measures, I've had an expert round to fix our computer up with a new password. I can imagine him at home right now, trying to work out what's gone wrong. He's like that. Teaches mechanical engineering but can't change a plug. And when it comes to the computer... Mind you, I'm no better. That's the beauty of it. It will never occur to him that I changed the password.

Anyway, I just wanted to let you know why you won't be hearing from him any more. And who knows, if ever you become Fiction Thursday, then maybe, I'll let him in on the new password. You see Thursday is my evening out.

Sunday Scribblings To The Rescue

2010-01-10T06:26:00.003+01:00

Allie stared at the text in front of her. Four words were underlined. The first three items she soon dismissed. True, they had not discussed them in class, but some students probably knew them anyway. Besides, they were not that important for an understanding of this text. But extreme...; she knew she was going to have to explain that. She checked it up in her dictionary:

extreme: –adjective

of a character or kind farthest removed from the ordinary or average: extreme measures.
utmost or exceedingly great in degree: extreme joy.

So much for the meaning, but how to explain it? Maybe concept questions would help.

Does it describe somthing ordinary or not? (If so, it's not extreme)
Is there an expression even more unusual to describe what is being said? (This answer has to be no if something is extreme)

What it needs is an example, she thought to herself. These questions alone are just too theoretical. But coming up with an example for her multi-ethnic, multi-cultural class was not going to be easy. One man's meat... as they say.

Just then, her computer gave a beep; she had a new message. It was her RSS receiver indicating another post was up on the Sunday Scribblings blog. Allie clicked on the link, glad for the distraction, and read:

In homage to the weather here in the UK, the prompt this week is: Extreme.

But of course, the answer was staring her in the face. No, it wasn't the extreme weather that counted. When she had tried to explain that these weather conditions were most unusual, a number of the students had laughed at her complaints. Damtilla had spoken for them all when she explained that in her language they had 19 different words for snow and the word she used to discuss current climatic conditions was one of the mildest. No, what was extreme was the British obsession with talking about the weather. The students themselves had complained to her about it just a few days ago. It was on everybody's lips. And now even Sunday Scribblings were getting in on the act. What better an example could there be.

Allie quickly packed her things away and headed down the pub. She could do with some refreshment. Besides, she needed to collect some research data on extreme to provide her class with. And when she returned, she mustn't forget her Sunday Scribblings post.

Final Wish

2010-01-02T12:41:00.002+01:00

The doctor's message annoyed him, Not so much the content, nor the fact it had come by phone, That had, after all, been this idea, But why couldn't he stick to the facts. He had just one more month to live, So what! It could have been worse. Besides he'd had a fair innings And. there wasn't much he still wanted to achieve. Why couldn't John just leave it at that. 1 month... Why did he have to add his sixpence worth by adding: "use them wisely!"

Besides, everybody seemed to want to offer him advice when they learnt, he was dying. His two ex's had both reminded him of the importance of putting his affairs in order before.. He knew what that meant but supposed it only fair he did smoothing for them. At least, they 'd had the decency to stop after 'before'.

The priest he'd gone to see to try and get some comfort managed little else than getting a list of songs for the funeral out of him. ''It's good to plan ahead, you see. "At least, we don't have to think about the prayers and the lessons. They're all prescribed by the liturgy." Then stuffing some sort of religious tract into his hand, ushered him out with the promise to come and pray with him in hospital.

His brother's solution had, at least, been more entertaining, But taking his rampaging cancer on a two week luxury cruise was almost certainly not the wisest of ideas.

So what was left for it other than to carry on as usual? Yet maybe? A day had so many experiences, so much to reflect on. Maybe, he needed more time to profit from them: to think, to digest, to prepare, to mould what would happen each day. Yes, that was it. He simply needed more time.

Picking up his diary he went through each day crossing out any entry before 10 a.m. and sketching in a small Rodin like figure every morning.

Anti-Resolutions for 2010

2009-12-30T08:35:00.005+01:00

There's a fun writing game going on this week over at Write Anything, so for ever in favour of killing two birds with one stone, my 3WW piece today is about those resolutions I refuse to take.

I will refuse to tow the party line by being ambushed into staying up until midnight on 31 December, just because everyone else is doing it. If I'm having a good time and want to prolong that, so be it. If not, off to bed and up early in the morning.
I will stop arguing with my friends who insists on buying me a drink when we go out. Indeed, I will refuse to differ with anyone who offers to buy me a drink.
I will refuse to answer anyone who asks me, "Where do you find time to read all those books?" when they see me returning from the library. They have no business meddling in my affairs. A sweet smile will have to suffice.
I will most definitely not refuse the car keys to my children once they pass their driving test. I shall be far too happy to have someone to drive me around whenever I need to go somewhere.
I will not stand in front of a car which tries to park on the pavement. Principles are fine but cars are bigger.
I will not succumb to the pressure to buy one of those hideous, sixty seconds a minute, sixty minutes an hour, 24 hours a day (ad infinitum) "just wanted to check up on how you're doing" control machines - otherwise known as cell phones, or portable telephones, depending on which part of the English speaking world you're in.
I will not score the winning try for Wales in the 6 nations decider this year. At my age, the time has come to bow out gracefully. However, I cannot account for whatever may or may not happen in my dreams.
I shall not succumb to my neighbour's pressure to not sing quite so loudly whenever I pass by his house. Indeed, if he mentions this again, I might raise the decibels ever so slightly.
I shall not get vaccinated against a certain brand of animal flue doing the rounds at the moment, just because the French president is too mean to grant me a few days off to recover should I fall ill.
I shall not resist peer pressure to publish the links to this piece on the 3WW and Write Anything sites.

To Dare Or To Not Dare

2009-12-20T07:17:00.004+01:00

Sunday Scribblings this weeks wants me to have a dare. And since I've been thinking a little about so-called good grammar rules, then I'm daring to slaughter a few holy cows.

It took some five minutes before the obvious dawned on her. She had all he needed in the words of his title. Until taking this class Penny had loved writing. That's why she had been one of the first, to register when the college syllabus appeared. Now some three weeks and several humiliations later her motivation was rapidly ebbing. Something had to be done, and now was the time to do it. "Grammar rules are made to be broken." It took her almost five minutes to write this as she glanced up after each letter to make sure, Mr. Goodwrite was not watching her. Mr. Goodwrite represented the old school; the school that knew beforehand how everything had to be done and never flinched from doing it. Looking at that opening sentence staring at her from the page gave her courage to continue...

"Grammar rules are made to be broken. Thus the question every self-respecting writer should be required to ask himself is whether to courageously dare or to cowardly not dare. Indeed, there are a number of examples of shoddy usage away from which every self-respecting writer has to keep. Should and she fail to do so, the wrath of her teacher down upon her will come. Were she to but realise the ridiculous nature of such rules, there might be hope for her yet."

She looked up. Mr. Goodwrite had started to move towards her. She trembled as she saw the lightening flash from his eyes and the words thundered out from his mouth:

Miss Penny, never forget...

Thou shallt not begin a sentence with a conjunction;
Thou shallt not end a sentence with a preposition;
Thou shallt not split thine infinitives.

Breakout

2009-12-18T20:45:00.002+01:00

This week's challenge is to include the phrase "the nervous grave digger smiled at the guard" somewhere in your story.

They had thought the governor's death would provide them with a welcome diversion. In the end it turned out to be almost the unravelling of everything. Word had reached them well over a week ago that everything was in place. The next burial to take place in the graveyard and they would be out of there. Of course, no one ever expected that burial to be the governor himself.

"What the bloody hell does he want to go and get himself buried within a stone's throw of his office? If ever you catch me out passing away like that, then you make sure they bury me far away from anywhere, I might know." Rocks had been the brawn behind the plan. Three weeks it had taken him and every spare moment, but he'd done it all single-handedly. And he wasn't going to let anything get in his way now. "We change nothing, we can't. That tunnel can't stay undiscovered much longer."

Grayter was more circumspect. He'd only been inside just undert two years, so could afford to be patient. Besides, life on the outside would be just as restrictive as in prison. He'd never be able to leave the island. Still, life on the Bahamas would be a damn side more agreeable than it was in this place. "I say, we stay put. It would be madness to try now. The place will be riddled with police."

"That's why I say we get out today, b e f o r e the police start poking their noses round. Kid's already had orders to dig the grave. He can be finished by five. We get out tonight."

"Are you ready?"

"What a bloody silly question. Ready, I been ready for five fucking years haven't I? And now I ain't waiting a day longer."

"Okay, we'll go." Grayter's voice still sounded nervous. There were still too many things that could go wrong, but he could tell that Rocks would spill if he didn't get out soon. Besides, the last thing he wanted was a showdown with Rocks. "Okay, we go out at eight this evening. Tell the others the coast will be clear from ten. Then get back here and keep and keep an eye out for your waving his jacket; that means everything's ready.

Meanwhile, in the cemetery the solitary grave digger was, for once, glad to be alone. Just a couple more minutes and I'll be through, he thought to himself. Then, give the signal, enjoy a nice beer and off home. The voice from above startled him. But not as much as the fact that the guy looking down was in a prison guard's uniform. Nervous as he was, he looked up and smiled at the guard.

"Not a pleasant business you've got there."

"Ah, I can think of worse. Be the ruin of my back of course, but it keeps me in fags and beer well enough. The digger climbed up and offered his hand to the guard. "Andy Dee. Pleased to meet you."

"Oh, hum Rick Winters, I aah, I work over in the prison."

"Can tell that by your uniform."

"I aah, I just came over because I'm off on holidays this evening. Going to the West Indies with my daughter. But I... I did want to see the old boy one more time before I go, see what I mean. Even if he isn't actually, umm here right now, you know."

"What was he like to work with? Oh, he was a very good boss. Always a kind word for us guards. And he wasn't beyond coming round with us to The Old Bull for a glass when the shift changed like. Yeh, he was a pretty good gaffer."

Andy saw a ray of hope. Well, I tell you what Rick. Why don't you just sit down here and take one of them bottles and drink it to the memory of your boss. I'm sure he'd love you to do that for him. And when I finish down there, I'll come up and join you and we can have one together."

In a flash Andy was back down the hole. He knew he'd have to work quickly now. The last thing he wanted was for this guard to start looking down into the grave before he'd finished. In five minutes, he had the staves and tarpaulin in place, covered them with just enough dirt so nobody would notice and was scrambling back up to join Rick, who in the meantime had taken Andy advice to heart and was already on his third bottle. Andy opened one himself and over the next thirty minutes became unusually generous as he allowed Rick to finish off the remainder of the six pack. As the two of them struggled to their feet Andy called out: "Look over there Rick, that's coming from your workplace, them people waving. That must be your colleagues waving to you, wishing you a pleasant holiday." And taking off his jacked Andy waved back and had the gratification to see Rick follow suit. They'd only known each other for thirty minutes but were already getting on like a house on fire. But somehow Andy doubted this new friendship would stand the test of time. He could already see the headline in the local ragmag the next day:

Mass breakout through governor's grave.
Prison guard's unwitting involvement.

Tables Turned

2009-12-16T13:51:00.002+01:00

Geoffrey tore his tie off the moment he came in; the usual sign that he was stressed. Sally poured him his glass of sherry, anyway. Maybe...

"Sorry love, but no time for that now." He gave her a peck on the forehead. "You know we got placed in the top three in this year's league table. Well, the boss is laying on a big do to celebrate. Several people from the town hall will be there, and we're hoping even the inspector will turn up. Big publicity stunt for the whole school."

"Does that mean..." Sally didn't finish her sentence. Prospects had been always been bleak, and now this. She swallowed his sherry in one gulp and let out a hiccup. Geoffrey turned and began to scrutinise her. His piercing eyes went from the glass in her hand up to her face. She averted his gaze. Why should he see her disappointment? But the tell-tale tear made its way slowly down his cheek.

He moved towards her and watch it snake its way down past the metal frames of her glasses. His finger caressed her cheek. "I know I'm missing your club do, dear. But you can still go. I've asked George to drop by and pick me up. So you'll have the car. You know how sorry I am not to accompany you, but you know I don't get on well with that sort of company. I can never think of anything to say to them."

"You find enough to say to the people you'll be seeing this evening." There was an edge to her voice which warned Geoffrey to be on his guard.

"Come on, dear. We've been through this a hundred times already. I can't help being what I am, and I can't help needing some stimulating conversation when I go out. And your friends are just not up to scratch. Anyway, I have to run. Don't want to keep George waiting.

* * * * *

"Did you have a good evening, dear?"

Instead of a reply he gave her a vague, incomprehensible stare.

"Dear? Geoffrey!"

"What? Oh... You know, the most queer thing imaginable happened to me this evening. Have you heard anything about this crazy ministerial initiative to... 'improve our awareness of third world poverty'. At least, that's how the boss put it. Nothing but bureaucracy gone mad, if you ask me. There we were milling around the tables with all these wonderful things to eat, when the inspector came in and announced no one was allowed to eat using fingers. Then, she produced these bloody metre long forks which were attached to each of our wrists, and said could only eat using these."

"So?"

"What do you mean, so? How the hell do you expect us to feed ourselves with only metre long forks to put the food in our mouths."

"I'd have thought, it wouldn't have been the slightest problem for such an august gathering of intellectuals. I hope, it at least gave you something to talk about all evening."

"Now, there's no need to take that tone with me. Just be glad that at your party you didn't have metre long forks to eat with, or you wouldn't feel quite so cocky."

"Who said, we didn't have them. Ministerial initiatives concern us just as much as they do you and your merry band of geniuses."

"You mean you found a way to solve the problem."

"I'm not sure I'd put it like that. But we did find a way to eat using our metre long forks. We just did what came natural to us."

Geoffrey looked at her dumbfounded. His silence was an invitation for her to elucidate.

"Well, if you must know, all we did was to feed each other."

Brave Goes Shopping

2009-12-13T07:02:00.002+01:00

This week's Sunday Scribblings topic is Brave. I set out to have a little linguistic fun with this topic but then got carried away by my fantasy. Hope you enjoy it, anyway.

Brave decided it was about time to do a little shopping. It had been some time since Brave had been seen in public and a little company would be welcome right now. After all, what was the point of being brave, if there was no one there to appreciate you. Of course, the first thing that was needed was to find someone Brave could personify. Watching the passers-by Brave soon decided to chose to become a man. This would be a much greater challenge as the proportion of female braves was evidently far larger. Having made this decision he walked up to a shop he'd never seen before. It was an intriguing place which sold specialist menswear for different activities. The first floors were filled with items required for various breathtaking and dangerous activities such as scuba diving, bungee-jumping, and even mediaeval jousting. But Brave quickly realised none of these would do, they were all far too adventuresome and so obviously brave. If he was to be a true light in the darkness, he would have to pick something far less obvious. The fourth flour, reserved for professional clothing, provided him with what he wanted. As he stopped in front of the white baker's coat, images of flying rolling pins, all heading for different parts of his anatomy flashed through his mind. His decision was taken. If ever there was an activity designed to show one's bravery, then here it was.

Next he went down to the store's basement which contained an assortment of verbs designed to accompany any activity. He soon found the more obvious ones: kneading, mixing, beating; hesitated over praying before deciding it might come in handy in case of emergencies, before also picking up a few less obvious ones like crying (in case he had to peal any onions), tippling (well-known for its courage boosting properties) and consorting (a cure-all for many a scrape). On his way to the cash desk he even found a packet off 'unusual and assorted adverbs' designed to spice up any regular activity.

Exiting the shop Brave made his way across the road and down the narrow alley leading to the estate agent's. After all, if he was to take to baking, then he was going to have to find a place to do this. He want to look over what was available. The most obvious was simply to pick a kitchen. But Brave was never one for the obvious. As he made his way from agent to agent, each one lauding very volubily (had Brave actually realised that this word was actually his very first creation he would have been very excited, but alas...) the particular object they had on offer, he soon came across a summer camp-site. Surely, this would be an excellent place both to practise his newly-acquired talents, as well as to let his bravery brighten the lives of so many people without his having to boast. In minutes, he had acquired the site and set off for the art gallery where he hoped to pick up several identities for his endeavour. On his way, however, his eyes fell on a small, copper plate advertising the services of the local psychologist. Maybe, he thought to himself, I could pick up a few personal identities here, and then go on to the art gallery for the others.

A quick glance at his watch and Brave slipped quickly through the door. Yes, he was in luck. The psychologist was with a patient and the secretary was still on her lunch break. It didn't take him long to find the patient records on the computer and he left with three identities safely tucked inside his briefcase. The first, was that of one Walter Mitty, whose dreams and fantasies suited brave to down to his toenails. From now on, he would become Walter. The second was that of a young lady who vacillated at the drop of a hat from fervent admirer, to ardent hater. This was Walter's philanthropist streak coming out. If she could only see him at work, then all her pent up hatred would melt away like butter. And he already knew which picture he would buy to incarnate her. He had often walked past this picture of a dark, beautiful lady and it seemed as if her eyes would follow him every time he did so. Nothing more reassuring than that, when you're up to your neck in dough and trying to find the cake tin at the same time. The third identity was that of a little boy who refused to eat whatever was given him. If his parents offered him spaghetti one day, he would insist on carrots and cabbage. Were they to offer him carrots and cabbage, then he would want spaghetti. The ultimate challenge for Walter's culinary skills.

And so we see Walter, striding expectantly (don't forget that packet of assorted adverbs he picked up) towards the railway station, in his briefcase the picture of his beloved Mona and another of a man feeding five thousand people all at once. He was so taken up with dreams of bravery, that he never noticed the screaming sirens, nor the shout of the security guard pointing out to the police that the thief was over there about to escape into the railway station. But he certainly needed all the bravery he could muster as a few weeks later, the judge sentenced him to five years of prison food.

Too Good To Be True

2009-12-11T18:03:00.003+01:00

Jud stood up with the others as a wave of singing swept over him. Even as a kid he'd been impressed by the quality of church choirs. His favourite had always been the black tabernacle choir that used to parade through the streets every year at 'mardi gras'. He'd even been to see them in concert once or twice. But today he had not come for the music; that was just an added extra. Added extra: the phrase stuck in his mind. He was almost ashamed to admit it. It was certainly the last thing he'd expected.

"Whose Brave New World?" the invitation read. It was Julia who'd invited him. For a churchgoer she was quite enlightened. The two had had some very interesting discussions on the origins of the universe.

"I think you'll find this guy worth listening to."

Nonetheless, Jud was prepared for a good fight. Never yet, had he met a pastor willing to concede an inch to what they called, the encroaching atheistic scientists. And usually, their arguments were spurious and as false as the hypocrisy they were claiming to fight against. But tonight had been different. Here was a man who knew what he was talking about. Quiet, soft-spoken, yet with an authority which inspired confidence he put forward his arguments one by one . His approach had been a philosophical one. He had steered clear from the usual scientific arguments, making it clear that he was far from qualified to speak on scientific matters. In that, he was no different from a lot of his forebears, thought Jud, except he had the courage to admit it. What he did do, was to set forth a comparison between an evolutionary and christian world view, finishing with that tantalising question: "Which would you prefer?" Jud felt his muscles tense at the sound of these words, but he was pleasantly surprised when the man stepped down from the podium, with an invitation to all present to share their own views with those around them over coffee and cake.

And for once, Jud found himself beginning to question his own position. How true it was that the Darwinian theory of the survival of the fittest, if left unchecked, could lead to a heartless, uncaring world, a world of every man to himself; not the kind of world he wanted to be part of.

Jud felt a pressing need to talk some more with this man. He had a number of questions he wanted to put to him; things he wanted them to mull over together. But before he could get up, three of the congregation had him cornered and he was led to a table on the other side of the room.

"Can we get you a coffee, Mr..."

"Davids, Jud Davids. And no thanks, I'd prefer a cup of tea if you don't mind."

"I believe we've seen you here before, brother, is that not so?"

"Well, actually, I took part in one of your debates on evolution. But that was quite some time ago. And I'd rather not talk about that right now. I'd really like to ask your..."

"A reeeeeevolutionary. I might have guessed it. We've got just the thing you need to see the light, Mr. Davids. Hey Mitch, fetch over the student guy from the seminary; got someone here who wants to argue the toss over evolution."

"Well actually, all I want is to..."

"Now, you just stay put. Our student pastor will be over right away, and he'll give you all the answers, you'll ever need. And if you still have any questions after that, maybe he"'ll let you say something too. If you ain't seen the light by then that is."

The muscles in Jud's chest began to tighten again. It had after all been just too good to be true.

Anyone Can Write

2009-12-09T19:26:00.002+01:00

Ladies and gentleman, welcome to this week's 3WW writers podcast. Our guest this evening is Clint Knowall, who has just published to great critical acclaim the first of what we hope will be many academic tomes from his illustrious pen. Clint will be talking to us about his life as a writer and also about this week's key words: grave, lithe and offend.

Q. Clint, what made you decide to become a writer?

A. To show my kid brother, there was at least one thing in life I could do better than him. All my life I've suffered from being compared unfavourably to him. It all began with his having been born some three years after me. Because of that he became known as the patient one, the one who would take his time and see things through to a good end. I was the impetuous one in the family. You know the kind; lots of ideas and no results. And ever since my parents were always telling me to try and become a little more like my brother.

Q. So, your brother is also a writer?

A. Of sorts. It all started one day I visited him at our lakeside retreat only to disover he was writing a novel. He'd actually been at it for some three months and all he had was a pretty sketchy plot plan, a character who vaguely resembled our dad (not an original in any sense of the word) and a few odd paragraphs which would fit somewhere into his work. I didn't day much as I didn't want to offend him but there and then, I decided I would show him how it is done.

Q. And you succeeded?

A. Of course, I succeeded. You almost sound like my parents. I'll have you know that success is the one word they'll write on my grave.

Q. So, how many works have you actually published?

A. Publishing is for authors like my brother. Me, I'm a true artist, and like all true artists I'm not recognised by the public at large. That also includes publishers. Most publishers today, do not know what genius is. They turn down the work of a true genius like me, and put some rubbish inside a lithe paperback cover and there you are.

Q. So, is that why you turned to academic writing?

A. Yes well, we all have to pay the bills somehow, even a genius like me. Academic writing was the one way I found to be able to do this without selling my sould.

Q. And what is the title of your latest work?

A. A study in the semantics of rejection letters. Not exactly a fascinating topic. In fact, I only chose it because my tutor insisted I work from original sources. And like all geniuses, I had plenty of material with which to work from.

Q. And finally, what do you think about our this week's key words?

Well, usually I'm as lithe as a snake in getting out of questions like these, but as I don't want to offend you, I'll gave you a truly grave answer.

One Man's Weird...

2009-12-06T07:03:00.002+01:00

Mark has left his homeland to go and live with his parents in Africa. After a week of solitude he meets his neighbour's boy, Sony, and the two soon become friends. After a visit to Sony's house a few days previously, the two boys are now together in Mark's house.

"Is there something wrong? You don't seem very happy."

"I'm just trying to understand what you people eat. Dad says you're a lot richer than we are, and you're certainly a lot bigger. But with plates this size..."

"Well, what size are your plates then?"

"You remember the other day when you were at our house and Mam brought out those peanuts and dates..."

"Yes. Your mother served them on that big tray thing."

"I'm not sure what you mean by tray? Those are our plates. She always serves dinner on them."

"But those things are huge. How much do you eat every day?"

"Well, one of those trays is enough for our whole family. But these small plates, they're scarcely enough to feed one person."

"But they are just for one person."

"You mean, you don't eat together?"

"Well, sometimes we do and sometimes we don't. That depends on how busy Dad is. Usually, it just Mam and me."

"And no one else comes to eat with you?"

"No, why should they? Everyone eats in his own home."

"You white people certainly have some strange ways of doing things. In Africa, no one eats on his own. A meal is the one time of day when we can relax and be with other people. That's why it's so special."

"Well, if you want to see something special, then look at these. My dad made these himself. It was one of the first things he ever made. There's not many people around who use home-made knives and forks."

"I... What..."

"What are you staring at me like that for? You do know what knives and forks are don't you? Look, this is a fork. It's really simple to use. You stick it into a piece of meat and then cut it with your knife. Then you use the fork to put it into your mouth."

"You don't mean to say, you put that thing in your mouth. That's disgusting."

"What's so disgusting about it?"

"Well, you never know who else has already had it in his mouth. We use our fingers to do the same thing. And I know nobody has ever had my fingers in his mouth."

"Well, of course we wash before and after every meal."

"And we wash our hands, too. Every time. But I still wouldn't want to put one of these things into my mouth. It weird."

Question And Answer

2009-12-02T14:16:00.004+01:00

A question and answer for this week's 3ww challenge. And as usual they have to include this week's 3 words: fondle, kick, sumptuous.

Question

Who do you think is currently sitting in front of his computer kicking himself for having been so stupid as to have refused his girlfriend's invitation to a sumptuous dinner and wondering when he was going to get another chance to fondle her silky hair?

Answer

.ww3 s'keew siht rof etirw ot tahw tuo erugif ot gniyrt rohtua detartsurf A

Entente Cordiale

2009-11-29T17:47:00.003+01:00

Game - that's this week's Sunday Scribbling prompt. And ever since signing the Entente Cordiale over 100 years ago, France and England have met regularly for a gaming spree of unparalleled reputation. Luckily, I was one of those asked to cover last year's event for your favourite blog. So read all about it right here.

"Good evening, Prime-Minister, I hope your visit to our magnificent capital has persuaded you that the IOC never makes a mistake?" (15 - 0)

"Well, indeed it has. But to be quite honest I was perfectly well aware of that fact before today. You just have to look at the committee chairman to realise he has enough reserves to survive for three weeks on an English diet." (15 - 15)

"Ah, yes I concede our gastronomy was the weak point of our bid (service fault). That's why we have hired the services of our best French cook for tonight's banquet." (weak second service)

"And what mouthwatering delights are in store for us then?" (poor service return)

"Well, you know we English are game for almost anything. So that's what we're having tonight. Give your ministers a chance to bypass your import embargo on our meat products." (Scintillating volley for 30-15)

"Would you like a glass of wine? (Seeing opponent still reeling from that previous blow below the belt goes in for the kill) It's one of our best brews." (but miss-hits badly. 30 - 30)

"Ah, there's the dinner bell. My butler always makes it ring in that Wagnerian manner for a head of state."

"Yes, I hear Chancellor Merkl found it quite narzistic." (double-fisted cross court return sends opponent scrambling back)

"Well, at least we corrected our attempts at appeasement which is more than I can say for... (returns with a high lob which doesn't have enough depth)

"Well, at least we gave you an excuse for your hasty retreat." (and so is smashed away to the back of the court 30 - 40)

"Since your charming lady seems more than game enough to spend the ni... evening with me, I thought I'd place you next to one of our ravishing young beauties from the foreign office. That's her over there next to her husband. Better keep an eye on him, though. He beat your David Whatisname to a judo gold medal in Beijing." (straight ace - deuce)

"By the way, is your negotiating team all ready for our negotiations tomorrow?"

"No, not quite. They've invited your translation team for a bit of cordial intente at the Hilton after tonight's banquet. But don't worry, they'll be perfectly ready by the morning." (Advantage Miss Paris)

"To be perfectly honest, that's what was worrying me. This match is so important I felt we should dispense with our translation pawns. Like the French I have learnt to make good use of my hands and can always fall back on good, old-fashioned ignorance, in case of any emergencies."

Well, that's a dis... (stumbles and misses and misses a sitting volley - deuce)

And so the head-froeing went on until players, spectators, umpires and even your humble author himself could no longer keep their eyes down. Finally, the match referee put everyone out of their misery by calling out:

Game, set, match and Pulitzer prize, the author.

A Veil Lifted

2009-11-26T19:27:00.004+01:00

This week's Fiction Friday challenge has us sitting down to Christmas (actually it was Thanksgiving but seeing as I'm not American I've changed it to Christmas) dinner when an unexpected guest bursts in upon the scene. I've coupled this with a recent interest I've taken in dedications which we find at the front of so many books.

Janet felt a little overwhelmed as she looked around the oversized room that had served both as living and dining room. How on earth was she going to get everything ready before they arrived. She began to wish Scott was there to help her. He had offered, of course. But he'd been on the road so much these last few months, she'd not wanted to impose another eight hour drive on him. Besides, all she'd have to do was tidy the place up and make room for the bed. The ambulance people would carry the bed down from the bedroom when they arrived with her mother.

Four hours later she put the kettle on to afford herself a small break. The room had been cleaned out and a place made where the bed could go. She had even found a little corner for the bedside cabinet. This was the one secret in her mother's life. It always remained locked and Janet had never succeeded in bringing her mother to talk about whatever it contained. But she knew her mother would not want to be without it.

Some thirty minutes later the ambulance men arrived and not long after her mother was comfortably installed in her new surroundings. Janet sat down on a stool beside her. The time had come for a serious talk. This time things had turned out well. But next time... Janet braced herself. She knew her mother would never leave Scarborough to come and live with them. But if she didn't want that, then they'd have to get someone in. Janet braced herself and was just about to begin when she saw her mother holding out a little key. Janet stared then followed her mother's gaze to the little bedside cabinet. She took the key and placed it in the lock, glancing up to check this was really what her mother intended her to do. She opened it up and drew out a white metal document box. Her mother's eyes brightened as the box was placed on her lap. Her hands trembled as she opened it up and drew out a faded photo album of yesteryear. She looked her daughter in the eyes, inviting her, no entreating her to take a trip into a past which no one had ever talked about.

Yet, all the album contained were photographs of a Christmas party. Christmas 1925 the front cover announced. Her mother had been seventeen, just months before she had broken all contact with her family. Janet studied the photos carefully. It must have been a big party. There were well over fifty people present, and the table spreads must have taken days to prepare. All done by servants, of course.

Janet turned the pages slowly keeping one eye on her mother so as not to miss out on any reaction. Yet, nothing happened. Janet couldn't help feeling that all this was just the preliminary to something greater. It was not until she turned over the final page that she came to a photo she recognised.

"It's..." She hesitated. Only now did she realise she never knew the name of this boy. All she knew was that his appearance at that Christmas party so many years ago had been as unexpected as it was short-lived. She now saw her mother holding a book out to her which she had kept in the box. Janet glanced at the title and turned over the first page. The inscription caught her eye:

To Rose
With love

Her mother's eyes gleamed as they began to reflect one picture after another, telling the events of that far-off Christmas day about which Janet understood but little. Yet fingering the paper of this mysterious book she felt at last this veil was about to be lifted.

Oxymoron

2009-11-25T12:00:00.002+01:00

Where did it all begin?

With his mother? It was the obvious place to start. All those hours spent around the fireplace; the stories she loved to tell; he thrived on her every word. Then there were the regular trips to the town library. He couldn't remember much about how it looked nor the people who worked there: but those books... Little Piccolo, Emil and the Detectives, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. And many many more.

Then there were the teachers. Some only lived on in his memory because of the books they represented: David Copperfield, Call of the Wild, Tom Sawyer. He'd sworn he'd marry Tom Sawyer one day, so pretty she was. Pity she was over twice his eleven years. He wondered if she'd have waited for him to catch up.

Others came and went, but the one who stood out the most was Mr. Carless. The other students mocked him cruelly over his unfortunate name and the oversized bifocals that were his trademark. But two things made him a hero to Mark. He'd introduced the class to Shakespeare, for Mark the beginning of a discovery that still hadn't ended. Then, recognising Mark's enthusiasm he'd made him a librarian, although he was still only in the fifth form.

Other faces came and went. Friends, colleagues, fellow writers: dozens of people who had helped him in oh so many ways.

But the quirkiest turn of irony came from the fact that the one person he hated the most was the one who had done most to push Mark towards writing. Marshall had been a trusted colleague. Three years they had worked together closely. Then the new boss came. Marshall saw his chance. He elbowed his way into the boss's confidence, her bed, and into Mark's office. Any attempt to discuss things with him proved fruitless. He soon found himself marginalised by most of his former staff who knew on which side the bread was currently buttered. Those who didn't play along offered their sympathy. That was worse.

Within the space of just ten months Mark found himself in a basement office, next to the refuse storage, with a rickety desk, an empty filing cabinet and nothing to do. Most would have resigned. That was what Marshall wanted. That way the company wouldn't be liable for severance pay. Instead, he wrote. He'd always wanted to write and had made several attempts at getting his ideas down on paper. It was down in the basement refuge that Mark found the courage and the inspiration he needed. Within six months his novel was finished. Weeks later, an agent offered to represent him. And now, just two years after that fateful arrival he was putting the finishing touches to his manuscript.

Mark had always been one to give everyone his due. Had it not been for Marshall the book would never have seen the light of day. He picked up his pen and wrote the final words he required.

To Marshall
With coldest thanks

When Words Fail...

2009-11-22T06:46:00.004+01:00

The moment Katie entered the office she sensed something was different. The tell-tale sheet of paper peeking out from the side of the desk quickly pointed her in the right direction. The overflowing waste-paper felt distinctly out of place in Sean's half of the office. True, Katie had in the past witness him screw up a piece of paper, which promptly disappeared into the said basket. But such an earth-shattering event had occurred maybe three or four times in the six years they had been working together. And never, had he rejected more than one draft.

Katie found herself drawn to basket. She picked out the was of paper and cast a glance at the top one. Her face wrinkled with a frown as she looked at the next sheet. Slowly, she walked across to her desk. Placing the pile of papers in front of her she began to read. Tears came to her eyes. The words were magnificent, electrifying. Why wasn't he satisfied? Yet, wasn't that typical of Sean? The best wasn't good enough. Only the perfect sufficed. And who was he describing? Sean had never let on that he was seeing somebody. So why such an elegiac evocation of beauty? Whose image had so imprinted himself on his mind?

The thought that Sean might return and find her looking through these papers tore her from her reverie. She picked up the pile and was about to carry it back to the waste paper basket when she noticed the rose sitting on her desk beside the phone. Propped up against the vase was a card from which Sean's bold handwriting proclaimed:

For once words fail me.

In Memoriam

2009-11-18T12:06:00.002+01:00

Accident of time
Our eyes met, Your smile melted
My heart's indifference.

Obscene the heartbreak
caused by one careless moment,
shattering our dreams;

Leaving me alone,
You with a cold brown covering,
Loyal forever.

Confused Messages

2009-11-14T08:20:00.003+01:00

Sandy always turned to the horoscopes first. In the beginning out of habit; it was the one part of the paper her father never looked at. So she didn't have to wait until he'd finished. Later, her interest grew. Not that she started to believe in them. She merely wanted to see how they were written, how precise the predictions were, how they managed to fool people into believing. This morning they gave her food for thought: "Get around today but beware of new acquaintances."

Well, that was alright then. Sandy had a busy day ahead of her. She was due to help out at the club's stall. Selling was her thing and when the club decided they would prepare and sell their own flower arrangements as part of their town's charity weekend, she was one of the first to volunteer. After all, she reasoned to herself, not one of her stories had sold yet. So what was the point in just writing more and more. She'd take a break, wait until something sold. And then... But for now, she could afford to help others a little more.

Sandy did, of course, consider that being on the stall might mean new acquaintances but she didn't believe in all that nonsense anyway. Besides, most of the people with her, she knew already. And she didn't have to get close to any she didn't know.

When she arrived, Jacky already had everything set up and they did a brisk trade until just before eleven when the streets suddenly emptied. Soon they were the only ones left in the town square when someone from a neighbouring store came rushing out and told them to told them to get inside.

"It's just been announced on the radio... explosion in a chemical factory... poisonous fumes." The announcement was somewhat muddled, the woman even more. Jacky made straight for home while Sandy raced into the café on the corner. This was her big chance. Something was happening on her very own doorstep. All the country's newspapers were beckoning.

Some two hours later Sandy was putting the finishing touches to her own peculiar slant to the adventure, when she noticed the café owner pointing her out to a stranger who had just come in. The man paid for his coffee and came up to her.

"Mind if I join you. My name's Richard Hartnall. I'm commissioning editor for the Bracknell County News. I'm looking for a few personal stories to accompany our coverage of the Damson explosion. Several people have mentioned you. Maybe you'd like to..."

Sandy's heart leapt. Fame at last. Then she remembered the oracle: beware... So she got up and left the café, convinced that now was not the right time.

Why?

2009-11-12T19:42:00.000+01:00

The leaves made soft rustling sounds on the courtyard cobblestones as Marie hushed passed the hanging willows and pushed through the door into the sacristy. As she made her way to the the small altar, she often wondered who would pick up the messages she left. She suspected it wasn't the priest. It would be far too dangerous for them to pick someone she actually knew. Once or twice she'd been tempted to stay and watch, but she never actually dared such an act. She lit a candle, knelt for her prayer and slipped back outside to continue her daily walk. All a matter of routine, even the visit to the sacristy. That way anyone observing her would notice nothing untoward. That was all part of the art of the underground. Everything had to look perfectly normal.

Even her recruitment come about in a most unsuspecting way. After news came of Ron's death, she'd not known what to do. At least she had the house. Maybe she could put that to good use. That was when Pete came to see her... and told the truth about Ron. Never in her life had she imagined him as part of the resistance. He'd always been on the side of the pacifists; even spent several months in jail for it. To learn now that he'd actually taken part in an underground training camp came as a shock. It was Pete who came up with the suggestion of turning their abode into a small but exclusive boarding house. Finding guests would be no problem. Pete would take care of that. She must just learn to be discrete; take the money and ask no questions. Then in the morning she'd find a message in the hollow cavity of one the bed posts. The message had to be delivered to the church within the hour.

Tears came to Marie's eyes every time she took out the message. The bed had been Ron's wedding present to her. A genuine four-poster, wonderfully decorated. It had taken him months to make and the pride in his eyes when he presented it to her was enough to illuminate the whole village. Had he even then...? Marie refused to ask herself this question. She was just glad of this one link she had to her fallen husband. Thousands of times she had asked herself, why she was doing this? For what reason did she keep on putting her life at risk? And the answer was always the same. Not patriotism , nor heroism. Her only reason was Ron.

Today's Headlines

2009-11-11T12:06:00.002+01:00

Errant schoolboy hankering after more excitement found in an unconscious state beside the murky waters of the Drastic.

Knight errant questions murky hankerings at court.

Errant hankerer arrested for murky trading.

Errant Nessie caught amongst murky mists by hankering photographer.

Illiterate hankerer admits to murkying errants.

Trainer sent errant after murkering hankery-panky with star's wife.

To S...

2009-11-04T11:03:00.004+01:00

The dawning realisation was beginning to transform itself into a distinct portrait. Not that the whole panorama came at once; more like a puzzle with various bits and pieces appearing and only later the links between them becoming clear. But right now enough of the picture was visible for him to realise he was in love.

They had met just four weeks earlier, when they found themselves enrolled in the same class: water colours from nature. At first, he had scarcely noticed her. But walking home that evening her smile kept flashing into his mind. He spent the better part of the next week waiting, hoping, expecting and when once again that small curve of her mouth bridged the gap between them, he felt warm inside. There was something about that smile which gave a hint of fragility; as if she needed someone to shore her up.

They talked for the first time during the break and discovered they lived in the same part of town, so it was quite normal for them to walk home together. These fifteen minutes of companionship became the highlight of his week. Tonight, he longed to see more of her, to tell her what was happening inside him, to pronounce what his timidity would never let him utter. He walked on home leaving so much unsaid. The only channel open to him now was to obey his inner instinct and pour out his turmoil through words which would never be sent. He would put the poem up on his blog; a kind of confession... a safe confession. His fingers began to caress the letters on the keyboard before him:

To S...

Fighting back the tears she let herself into the flat. For the first time in her life she knew a man she could trust, someone she could lean on, someone who would help her face up to life's challenges. They had met, talked, walked home together, yet he hadn't even noticed her. When they arrived at her flat, he'd merely shaken her hand and walked on. Everything in her wanted to call him back; to resist her Karma and claim him as her own. Yet, she didn't dare. The pain of rejection would be too great. She went into the spare room and looked at the easel beside the cupboard. The portrait that emerging from the canvas expressed everything she had ever longed for; both to give and to take. But the portrait remained mute and hope withered.

As she went back into the living room, her computer emitted the familiar bleep indicating she had received another message. She glanced at the screen. It was an RSS feed from her favourite blogger; there was another post for her to read. She'd first come across "Magic Words" whilst she was researching an article for the town magazine. She was hooked from the start. Never had she known anyone express himself so beautifully. And over the past few weeks he had become her one solace. She clicked the link in the message and devoured the proffered words. Her eyes began to overflow. If only...

And all the time she didn't even notice that one letter which would have told all.

What Have I Forgotten?

2009-10-30T19:18:00.002+01:00

The moment I got home, I knew we were going to have to rush. Jan's expression said everything. I tried to fish for little pieces of information but Jan wasn't forthcoming. She knew I'd forgotten, and wasn't going to help me remember until I actually came clean and admitted; something I was not definitely not willing to do.

I glanced at Jan. She was looking great in her little schoolgirl outfit with a the long skirt she had bought the previous week. That was clue enough. Dance hall or Cabaret. I threw on my beige slacks and a sports jacket and decided in favour of the former, hoping beyond hope I might just be right. It wasn't until we got back home hours later that Jan pulled the fishnet mask out of her bag and put it on. Throwing her arms around my neck she whispered gently into my ear how grateful little mermaids can be. As we sank onto the bed, my boss' Halloween party flashed into my mind. That was Jan's mermaid costume. My boss would... but Jan's gratitude was beginning to have visible effects so the boss' party was soon forgotten.

The Making Of Vanity Fair

2009-10-28T11:34:00.002+01:00

Vanity had always been a proud noun. She spent most of his life showing her very many advantages to any and everyone who might happen to be in the neighbourhood. Her room, need we say, was dominated by one of the largest vanity tables ever seen, on top of which was an emerald encrusted box containing whatever vanity might require to keep up her reputation. Without a doubt vanity was one of the proudest persons alive.

But it's hard work keeping up reputations. So when Vanity heard of the word incubator, she jumped at the chance. It's principle was really quite simple. All you had to do, was engrave a word on a silver plaque using a special liner to be found in most cosmetic stores, place the plaque inside the incubator and wait ten minutes. During this time, the engraved word would spawn a number of similar expressions. Her friend "free" had actually come up with so many that Vanity was determined to beat her hollow and restore the natural order of things.

As was her habit, Vanity took a long time engraving her name in an artistic style few others could copy. Unfortunately, she placed the plaque upside down inside the incubator leading to the nightmare that followed. The machine went into reverse incubate mode and started spewing out words like hollow, worthless, trivial, pointless, empty. Vanity was horrified. She pushed every button she could but this only made things worse. The incubator went into overdrive and started to print out word after word, not stopping until some two days later it had produced one enormous manuscript.

Vanity was so ashamed it raced upstairs into the bathroom and hid the manuscript in the cabinet below the sink which she had had built in order to hide the pipes from view. It was here, long after Vanity's self-imposed exile from civilisation that a visiting literature professor found the manuscript and realising its undoubted qualities published it under the title Vanity Fair.

Shopping For Words

2009-10-21T12:06:00.002+02:00

Heartache went walking down the Lowsend Road in search of a companion. You see, heartache is all very well, but on his own, he is fairly ineffective and only comes truly into himself, if he succeeds in finding a gateway into someone's emotions. He sat down on a bench kindly provided by the town council in order of the former Mayor, now deceased - unfortunately not at my hands, heartache rued.

Starting to observe the passers-by his eyes soon fell on a young lady sauntering aimlessly down the street with what seemed like tears in her eyes. She cast a glance at the bench where heartache was sitting and came to sit right on top of him forcing heartache to move away quickly. As he observed her, a gleeful smile filled his face. Could this be a new prey? The tears in her eyes suggested, his influence might already have started to affect her. But when she pulled off her right shoe, the reason for her all too evident distress plunged heartache again into despair. Heartache had little chance of putting one over on physical pain, so he moved on. Evidently he'd have to look elsewhere for a victim.

After pottering around for a few minutes he decided to move closer to the town square and as he passed in front of Verbals department store he decided to do a little shopping. After all, once he found a victim, he'd need a few enticements. He started in the adverb department. On his way up he noticed a young man in verbs sitting and staring at the floor. If he's still there when I get back, maybe I can try to spin my web around him, thought heartache to himself. A lot of the adverbs available that day had already been snapped up. He snipped around a few of his old haunts and toyed with loudly, hopelessly, imperatively and for a time flirted with ostentatiously. But when it came down to it, none of these inspired him. That was when he stumbled upon recklessly. Of course, he said to himself. That's what I feel like right now; a little reckless living. What better a way to bring upon heartache. He snatched up recklessly and quickly made for the staircase. The young man was still there. Heartache's brain started to work fast. He'd need a few more nouns and at least, one verb. In addition, adjectives were on special offer that day - three for the price of one. He darted round the shop, picked up girlfriend, ring, jealous, mindless, saddening and a pack of assorted words lying beside the bargains counter, before finally settling on jangle as the most appropriate verb for ring. In a flash he was back with the young man and entered through his ear, whispering gently and helping the man to reflect on what happened. Suddenly, the whole scene began to play out before him once again.

"I've just about had enough of your reckless behaviour. You call me your girlfriend. The mindless way you staggered about last night was disgusting. And then, making up to that little bitch on the next table."

"But how could you be jealous of her. All I did was play around a bit. I needed a pick me up, after the saddening news I got at work. If you hadn't barged in..."

He didn't get to finish his sentence. With a piercing scream the girlfriend plucked the ring from her finger and threw down on the metal countertop. Its sound echoed through the otherwise silent store, jangling in the ears of the stunned onlookers. Heartache rubbed his hands with delight. He had won his prey.

The Truth Or Not The Truth

2009-10-07T11:33:00.003+02:00

Yesterday I heard a book review for a new novel set in a world where there were no lies. This inspired me to try something similar. I wonder which you would prefer.

Not quite the truth

"Well, what did you think of that?"
"Well, it wasn't too bad, was it?"
"I see Sidney was as vocal as ever."
"Yes! He likes to get his two pence in when he gets the chance."
"Maybe, it wouldn't be quite so bad if his mind wasn't quite so fallow."
"Yes, I see what you mean. Well, you can't have your cake and eat it, now can you."
"I guess we have to be thankful for small mercies. Down in storage there's a limit to the damage he can do."

The bitter truth

"Thank goodness that's over."
"My feelings exactly."
"I wish Sidney would learn to keep his mouth shut."
"Well, if you didn't hog the discussion all the time, maybe things would be a little better."
"What do you mean? I don't hog the discussion. Well, maybe I do at times. But what I say is worth hearing, not like Sidney. The man's just plain stupid."
"Yes, but it takes one to know one, you know. You can't be rich, powerful and intelligent."
"Are you trying to insinuate...? Well, maybe I am a little slow at times but I'll remind you that it was my idea to put Sidney down in storage. And he can't do much damage there, now can he?

The First Kiss

2009-10-02T19:03:00.002+02:00

Lakeside fog lifting,
Bright eyes shining,
Gold glinting from two fingers,
For ever we said and kissed.

Poetic Application

2009-10-01T09:56:00.002+02:00

Incredible the thought
that you dear sir might in me find
one you so long sought.

Landscape my speciality
Transforming what ugly eyes may see
Into beauty beyond reality.

None more ambitious than me
to give good service and assure
your centre a pleasing one will be.

Waiting

2009-09-16T14:13:00.003+02:00

"The worst part of waiting is uncertainty. If you're at the doctor's and one person after another is called, you know some time your turn will come. But if you're waiting for a train that's already thirty minutes late, well you just never know." (A Wise Waiter)

Paul contemplated these words while fighting off the drift towards sleep. His student should have turned up fifteen minutes ago. But old Joe was special. Not that he was never on time. Sometimes he turned up thirty minutes early. Once he even arrived thirty minutes late, but on the previous day, making him in effect 23 hours and thirty minutes early. But that was a genuine mistake. Today, who knows what would happen. The fog was so thick, he might not get through at all. If only his wife hadn't gone shopping, they could indulge in a little hanky panky while waiting. Instead, there might just be time to put his hand to this week's 3WW entry and thus indulge those in the world somewhere beyond his ethernet, who might just be waiting for him.

A Matter Of Definitions

2009-09-12T06:50:00.003+02:00

I'm an English teacher and I love to create small stories to explain various items of vocabulary. So here's a little vignette to explain various meanings of the word tattoo. Have fun finding them.

Ivor begged her to work quickly. The bugle would soon be sounding out calling, the men back to barracks. A deep melancholy filled his heart at the thought of leaving her. But orders were orders and there was no escaping them. They were going back to Edinburgh. This time next week they'd be parading in front of thousands at the castle's showpiece event. He doubted he'd ever be back; surely she knew that too. It had been beautiful while it lasted but tomorrow all that would remain, was her name etched indelibly onto his skin and in his heart.

First Time Out

2009-09-11T19:53:00.002+02:00

"You're going to have to take the plunge sometime, you know. You can't spend the rest of your life living as a recluse."

"But how..." even his stammer failed Scott know. He started his shaking. "Look at me! I'm worse now, than ever I was when I was drinking. How the hell..." The sound of his raised voice caused alarm outside as the door to the surgery opened, but Dr. Patheart reassured his assistant that everything was under control.

"Scott, I know how you feel, I really do. Dozens of others have gone through the same thing. They all felt like you and they all came through. If you want to know the truth, I wouldn't have recommended you go, had you reacted any differently. It's only because you know you're weak, that you can get through this. Anyone who felt strong enough, to face this alone, would more than likely fall flat on his face."

Scott scared at him in disbelief. He did so want to be strong. He did want to prove to the doctor that all his trouble had not been in vain. But he'd only been dry for two months. Surely it was far too soon to go to a party.

"Now let's go over the procedure, once more. The one thing you must not do is drink anything, however small an amount it is and however harmless it may seem. Now, you've already told me Richard will be at the party. He knows all about your problem and he knows you're not to drink under any circumstances. Stick close to him. He can help you if temptation strikes. You also have my phone number, should you need it. Now go to the party and have a good time. There's nothing that helps an alcoholic more than realising he can enjoy himself without alcohol."

There were very few people present when he arrived at the party. He planted himself in the farthest corner from the bar from where he had an excellent view of those arriving. One or two people were vaguely familiar. He'd met them at various managerial functions during his time in Sheffield. 30 minutes later Richard had still not arrived. He began to grow uneasy. A waiter came his way with a tray of drinks.

"I'm waiting for a friend," he stuttered. Why had he said that? Why hadn't he just said no? And where was Richard? How on earth could he survive without Richard?"

He needed a drink, and quickly. He took out his packet of Fisherman's Friends extra strong and within seconds was spluttering away.

"Some water," he croaked to the lady next to him who was tucking away into a more than oversize piece of cream cake as if she intended to massacre it. She returned a few minutes later carrying a pint size glass of water.

"They don't come any bigger than this, handsome. Where you from anyway. Haven't seen you around. Not that I've been around myself these last few months. Some problems with the old line. To be quite honest, more than just a few problems. Right as rain now though. Never have thought that I'd weighed well over 120 kilos just six weeks ago, now would you. But I did. Had to have treatment for it and everything. Doc worked wonders, he did. Fantastic. Mind you, he didn't want me to come here tonight. Thought I wasn't ready for it, all this food and like. But I told him I could manage anything after all he did for me."

Scott stared at her as she bubbled away. From the outside he saw an attractive, self-assured woman who knew what she wanted. Her eyes, however, told another message. They had "vulnerable" written all over them. He took a deep breath and interrupting her in full flow he exclaimed:

"Listen, I'm an alcoholic and I need help. I came here tonight almost against my better judgment. My best friend who was supposed to keep an eye on me, has failed to turn up. I need your help. And I suspect you need mine. How about it?"

Paragraph 612

2009-09-09T18:13:00.002+02:00

Guilt weighed heavily on his shoulders. He wasn't even sure why. He'd done nothing wrong. Yet seeing the police troop through the train like that made him ill at ease. He began to grow fidgety, as the sound of mayhem from the neighbouring carriage reached his ears. It seemed as if the police were trying to disarm someone. Matt was caught between curiosity and the need to stay out of things. He was on his way to the coast for a well-earned holiday and the chance to engage in some racy stuff on the side. Every now and then he leant over into the aisle to try to catch a glimpse of whatever was going on. He didn't want to be seen. He checked his watch. Just 45 minutes separated him from freedom. Just as long as he could get out of the train without being seen. He knew full well, his colleagues would take the greatest pleasure in commandeering him - emergency measure paragraph 612. That would be the end of his dream holiday.

For A Few Centimetres More

2009-09-03T18:50:00.002+02:00

Time was now running out. If he didn't find a solution within the next ten minutes, he would be too late. And it made him so angry. He wanted to be the first one. Any time now, Janina's mother, sisters, friends could come through the door and into the lift. Then it would be too late. He had to be the first. Surely then she would notice he loved her more than all the others put together. Enough to save up every hard-earned penny he had to buy her the platform shoes she had been dreaming about for months. Enough, to race away from school the moment the bell rang, skip his dinner and surprise Janina at the flat she was looking after for her sister. When she saw him, when she saw the shoes he had bought her, surely then he'd no longer be little Peppe, the smallest boy in the class. Then she'd learn to look up to him with pride and he'd sweep her up off her feet and carry her off into the sunset.

But one small problem remained; one he'd not bargained on. He couldn't reach up to the top buttons in the lift. He tried everything. He'd even ridden up to the eight floor - as far as he could reach - hoping he could walk the four other floors. But as at the bottom the doors to the staircase were closed firmly, as it was being renovated. Jumping up and down had helped a little, but even then he only managed floor ten. What on earth was he to do. He didn't dare ring to ask anyone to help him as they'd surely never believe his little story.

He went back down to the ground floor to see if he could find anything to stand on. The bins in the cellar were far too big and heavy for him to move. Maybe someone had left a bike in the shed but that too was firmly locked. There was nothing for it. He'd just have to wait until one of the others came to visit Janina; he'd just have to remain little Peppe, the kindest boy in the class as Janina called him, but not the greatest.

Picking up the bag with the shoes he shuffled towards the entrance when the idea struck him like a flash of lightening. Of course, he'd have to undo the paper he'd taken so much care to wrap the shoes in. But if he was very very careful... Maybe?

In no time he had the parcel open and was taking the shoes out. He pulled his own off without bothering to undo the laces, and placing them in the lift underneath the buttons he put his own little feet into those gaping holes, he stretched up. With the tips of his fingers he could just about touch the bottom of button twelve, but not far enough up to push the button. He stretched a bit more, but still didn't make. Closing his eyes he counted to three and jumped. This time it worked, and the lift trundled off making its way up to the twelfth floor. The hero was coming to claim his damsel.

Resurgent

2009-09-02T13:36:00.003+02:00

"Hi! It's only me. Karl is back in work today, so there's no rush."

No answer. Going into the kitchen I called out again. Not only no answer. There was no dinner on the stove. Another shout, anxiety rising in my voice. Where was Katja?

I found her propped up against the wall in the passage next to the letterbox. She didn't move. Indeed, she showed no reaction whatsoever, not even when I bent down and whispered my name into her ear. I sat down opposite her. The glare in her eyes was indecipherable, yet it told a story. It was almost as if I was sitting there watching a soundless film about which I knew nothing being played out before me.

It was only now, I saw the envelope she was clutching in her hands. I tried to pull it from her to no avail. I bent forward to see if I could make out what was written on the envelope.

"It's Bolek." The sound of her voice caught me off guard. The lustre in her eyes was fading; the film was drawing to its close.

She had only once mentioned Bolek. It was the evening I'd moved in. We'd been looking at old photos together and she'd pointed him out to me. He was Polish and they must have been very close. The threat of war had driven their families apart. Now peace had returned. So had Bolek.

Evolution

2009-08-29T08:31:00.003+02:00

It started with the walk:
People, fun to be with,
Sights more spectacular than words can express,
The joy of leaving all behind.

So no, it started before the walk,
The problems, the questions,
Unavoidable consequences and unwanted certainties,
And the joy of putting them all behind me for one blissful weekend.

It was egged on by Brigitte,
author, teacher, facilitator.
Her way with words, her way with us,
But most of all her enthusiasm.

It was done in a jiffy.
Done?
Done but not finished,
Like a craftsman fine-tuning to perfection.

It was read.
Bright eyes flashed;
Appreciation so welcome,
And later reciprocated
As poem after poem was added
to our kaleidoscope of creation.

Then, back to earth,
with a piece of paradise in mind and heart.
I read it to an earthling;
What was the point!

Hippocratic Oath

2009-08-28T07:00:00.005+02:00

Lying awake on his bed Scott wondered if he would ever be able to sleep again. Just a few words, words he had never heard before; words that had cut into the quick of his heart like no surgeon could ever do.

Just an hour earlier Dr. Valderian had informed him of his decision to retire from a lifetime of service to research and scientific progress. This man who had found lasting cures to such curses as AIDS and Swine Flue felt he no longer had the stamina needed to face the modern-day medical challenges their world was facing. So popping a Champagne cork, he informed Scott that the board had more or less accepted his recommendation to make Scott his successor.

"Or course, the decision still has to be finalised by the authorities, and they may want to carry out one or two more tests. But those are mere formalities."

Scott thanked him and expressed a wish that Dr. Valderian would still continue to help him in the fight against the great killer disease, cancer. It was cancer that had brought them together over 30 years ago. He was fresh out of university and Dr. Valderian, still a little known researcher in a backwater university nobody knew about. Although he didn't know it yet, he was just weeks away from making the breakthrough that would propel his country to the forefront of the world stage. After centuries of oppression from the richer Northern nations, Prestaria could at last wreak its revenge. Scott had never questioned but often wondered about the veracity of the official version of events surrounding the AIDS epidemic of 2020. But undoubtedly, Dr. Valderian's work had been the stroke of luck that had not only saved millions of his fellow countrymen's lives, but also established Prestaria as the major world power.

Dr. Valderian opened a drawer to his desk and taking out a strange looking object, Scott had never seen before, handed it to him.

"I want you to familiarise yourself with the procedures of the investiture. This is a recording I made of my predecessor's ceremony. It's a bit old but you can use one of the machines in the museum to view it. I'll get you clearance."

Lying in his bed, staring up at the ceiling Scott found it hard to imagine the difference that object had brought into his life. He had watched the ceremony and found its antiquated episodes quite amusing. He was about to extract what the assistant had termed a cassette tape from the machine, when further images appeared on the screen. A young man stood on the stage and holding up his arm made a solemn pronouncement concerning his profession. It was only from the voice that he recognised Dr. Valderian. But what fascinated him even more were the words he was saying.

"I will keep them from harm and injustice." The words looped around endlessly in his mind, sometimes pronounced by Dr. Valderian, sometimes by a colleague, but often by one or other of the prisoners at the centre. The centre... The newspaper headline flashed once again into his mind:

Government research facility on decommissioned prison site

What the article failed to mention was that whereas the site may have been decommissioned, the prisoners still remained. They were far better fodder than any animals. Firstly, more reliable tests could be run, but more importanly, who was going to complain about a bunch of Northern POWs whose relatives had long since perished.

"I will keep them from harm and injustice." That was what he had tried to do for his fellow countrymen. But as prisoner after prisoner came before him to mock him, he realised that was not enough. Thanks to the pills he could still shut out the murderous screams echoing from the cells as the experimental cures were tried, tested, failed, modified, retried, and modified before finally achieving the looked for success.

His first thought had been merely to escape abroad and build himself a new life. But he soon discovered that wouldn't make the voices disappear. Blind, he might have been, but now that his eyes were opened he knew he couldn't act merely in his own interests. He had to get the prisoners out, and he had to act quickly before the lack of sleep drove him mad.

Three days it had taken and he knew he looked a wreck. Fortunately, he'd been able to keep out of Dr. Valderian's way, the latter evidently wanting to accord him the time needed to visualise the tape he had given him. Scott got up and dressed before descending the staircase and entering his office. He had thirty minutes to go before the guards were changed. He waited another 10 minutes before going down to the cellar, explaining to the duty officer he had come to check the supply of medicines they had received earlier that week. Taking the handle to the fire-escape in his hand Scott paused, closed his eyes and offered up what in other times and other circumstances what might have been considered a prayer. Opening the door he slipped out. The moment he saw the gun barrels levelled at him, he thought of the memory chip implanted in him years before. And Dr. Valderian's voice rang out:

"You are a great disappointment to me, my friend. Even I expected better things of you."

Mantrap

2009-08-26T11:26:00.003+02:00

James tried not to let his exasperation show as he put the phone down. These people from 'The Barn' really didn't let go easily. His only mistake had been to discuss with one of them at the local fair for half an hour. Fresh out of university the calm of Braymore was a welcome attraction compared to the all-pervading noise of London traffic. But after only a few days James could not look at a cow in pasture without envying it its steady activity. So having an equal to talk to was an unexpected treat. He'd even agreed to the proposed personality test just to prolong the acquaintance. He'd nothing better to do, anyway. But ever since, the people from 'The Barn' hadn't left him with one day's peace. First, they'd smothered him with literature, written by their renowned guru. Then the results of his personality tests came through.

'I've got some bad news,' the voice began. 'You're personality is showing mulitple fractures affecting various parts of your life...' Inevitably, they'd gone on to offer him the only thing that could cure his inner life and make him whole (their words) once again. It had taken them months for him to persuade them that neither his bank manager, nor that of any other bank would welcome further debts of the kind they were contemplating. After that things calmed down for a while. The people from 'The Barn' were still there, but they no longer bothered him. Then he met Jan.

Jan was from down South. That's all she ever said. She'd left home after a rift with her parents and was hiking through Yorkshire; ... had been hiking through Yorkshire. From the moment they set eyes on each other, James knew she'd never leave Braymore again. Three weeks their affair lasted and it was torrid as it was brief. Then, one night Jan had suggested they visit 'The Barn'. True, his reaction had been hefty, but she'd not seemed peturbed. Which made it all the more puzzling why she should just vanish like that.

The same day the phone calls began again. And James soon discovered that Jan had just been one more tactic in the sect's ever-expanding quiver. That was when he'd determined, come what may he'd get Jan out of there. And he was obviously getting them rattled. That was why they let her phone, to persuade him that she was happy, to persuade him to stop his quest. But he knew the truth. And he knew in a few days his quest would be over. He just had to continue to be patient.

That was his undoing. The children of 'The Barn' were quicker. And not even the local newspaper suspected there lay more behind the headline:

Cottage Fire Kills Braymore Prodigal

Daydream Holidays: Another Kind Of Experience

2009-08-05T11:17:00.003+02:00

Luap just couldn't understand the craze. True, the pitch the magazine gave it was perfect. Glamour models galore; champagne glasses you could hear pinging away - it all served to accentuate the message that there was just one way to live - the Daydream way.

"But why shouldn't we try it out. Everyone else is?"

"Precisely!"

Pause.

"Precisely what?"

"Precisely what you said. Everyone else is trying it out, so why should we?"

"Because I want more from my holding than old slides of us sitting in the back of the Rolls watching exclusive landscapes flying by. I want something different."

"Do something different! Just not with these geezers. They're the most obvious rip-off in the book. Just look at that bye-line. Daydream Holidays - hobbing eye to eye with the knobs. I tell you, it's disgusting. Next time, they'll want us to invite people from off the street. No, if you want to invite a bunch of plebs to holiday in our castle for a week, you're welcome. But I'm out. See you when I get back."

A Promising Start

2009-08-02T07:39:00.002+02:00

From the way Simon put the book down his disappointment was obvious. From the moment the Mayor hid the pistol in his drawer he was hooked. He raced through its pages, not stopping even for lunch. Arriving at the beginning of the final chapter, he felt like the pilgrim looking over the valley into Mecca. Just a few more minutes and all would be revealed.

In the end nothing was revealed. All those devices scattered about the novel to heighten the tension merely led up proverbial garden paths. Second guessing the author had been pointless.

Eve looked up at him with a frown. The answer came before she had even formulated the question.

"That's the last time I'll read anything by that guy. Why, even I could have done better."

"Why don't you then?" her smile taunting him.

"Why... What... You mean me, write a book. Why you've got to be kidding."

"Not at all." She hesitated before continuing, aware that she was leading him into a minefield. "You know how Dad has always been taunting you about not achieving anything. Why not join him at his own game and prove him wrong. If you really think, you can do better..."

"Why, I'll begin by writing down all the mistakes the author has made. That'll give me something to start on. I'll carry on from there."

Eve gave a little wry smile. She knew how easy it was to get Simon going on something. The real problem was to keep him going. She had no doubt in his ability. If he did get to write his novel, it would outsell those of her father. Now that would be something to look forward to!

Last Minute Negotiations

2009-07-31T16:07:00.000+02:00

Christmas was meant to be a time of peace and goodwill to all men. But all Father Christmas could think of now, was how damned hard that was to bring about. This year he'd not even been given one day's respite. The moment he'd got back from delivering the last of his presents, his brand-new state-of-the-art cordless telephone – ironically enough his own present from Santa – had started ringing. By the end of January his agents all over the world had phoned in with well over a hundred cases for which his help would be needed.

He had begun his tour in early February, as soon as he was assured that production for next year’s presents was well underway. By Easter he had visited three continents and dealt with a majority of the cases his agents had been unable to resolve. But dealing with humans was beginning to take its toll, so he took a one week holiday before moving on. Now, he was on his Dole and the last case before returning home. It was not, he hoped, the most difficult case he had faced, but it was the most saddening.

It was in Dole he had inaugurated what to date had proved to be one of the most effective ways of bringing never-would-otherwise-fraternise groups together. The idea was the brainchild of a local radio station, planted into one of their DJ’s mind after a particularly long evening of soliloquising on the way home from a late-night party. The previous year this DJ had announced over the air the death of Santa. He really had used the word death, although what he meant by it was, of course, the fact that Santa had never really existed. Meeting this man at the gates of the local park he accompanied him to his home which they reached some thirty minutes later. The man was unusually quiet making Santa’s task all the easier. By the time he entered his house enough arguments were planted into his mind for the soliloquising to go on all night. Just days later the man went on live to announce Santa’s resurrection and his Goodwill Plan for that Christmas. The idea was simple: anyone who would be spending Christmas alone could phone up the radio station, as could any person or family who wanted to open up their home, however lowly or humble to another human being.

That first year things had been difficult. Several families phoned and expressed their willingness to open their house to others, but just two or three were willing to actually take up on the hospitality. To increase chances of getting more people the following year, the station had decided to interview each of those involved to talk about their experiences. That’s when things began to unravel. One of the men was extremely dissatisfied with his experience and equally extremely verbose in his condemnation of the project. If he could not be prevailed upon to change his mind, the programme, due to be aired on the 1st August would be cancelled and the whole project would shelved. Apparently, the old man felt he had been completely ignored. The family played out their Christmas much like they would have done every year, without a thought for his presence. Dinner was some kind of traditional Greek dish, very meagre fare in comparison to what he’d been used to in previous years and they’d not served a drop of wine explaining that they never drunk it themselves. He’d stayed long enough so as not to be impolite and then beaten a hasty retreat.

Once Santa had interviewed the family concerned he realised he was up against a typical case of mutual, cultural insensitivity. They had moved to France just six months previously and were not aware of all that was involved in receiving strangers in this most gourmet of countries. All they had wanted to do was to open their house for a lonely stranger in need, and share what they did and had with them. Yet, he had been so impolite turning his nose up at everything they offered, , and finally leaving after just one hour, just as the singing and dancing was due to begin. They had even had the chance to get to know each other properly, they complained.

With the greatest of pleasure Father Christmas wrote out the two checks: the first, a six week course in cultural discovery including a wine-tasting at one of France’s greatest cellars, for the exasperated family; the second, a finely bound tome on Greek including a voucher for an evening’s gourmet entertainment at a specialist restaurant.

It Made Me Wonder How It Happened

2009-07-29T21:39:00.003+02:00

The headline jumped off the page and did a little song and dance act. Only then did it succeed in penetrating my already somewhat feeble state of mind. I'd been on a binge with the boys. True that was days ago. But it might have been yesterday, for every time I tried to think about what happened only darkness reigned.

How could anyone be so stupid? Okay, you break into a drinks depot, you patronize it, so to speak. Mind you I'm not sure if the word patron actually fits those who don't pay. Okay, so you break in, drink, get drunk and then...? Well, even I in my weakened state realise that the last thing you do then, is to visit your friend to invite him for a drink. Why not? But isn't it obvious. You're friend is a policeman. And it's his job to catch those who committed the crime.

And yet, the newspaper article left no room for doubt, neither did the handcuffs around my wrists. But I still wonder how it happened.

Puzzling Along

2009-07-18T18:37:00.003+02:00

Sitting at the table Jeffrey tried to make sense of what lay before him. Over 10 000 pieces. And that, only because he had been very sparing cutting them up. Had he really taken each episode, he could easily have ended with twice that number. Usually, it wouldn't have been a problem. He was a keen puzzler, and the greater the challenge the better. But this one was different. Different, because today, he did not have an overall picture to help him. Why was life so difficult to piece together?

Three days later Jeffrey's frustration was greater than ever. It wasn't that he found it hard to connect the various pieces together. On the contrary, there seemed to be a plethora of possible combinations. But once he had put several different pieces together, he realised the emerging picture just didn't make sense.

It was his grandson who provided him with the solution. Jeffrey had accompanied Jay to the weekly soccer practise. There was a boy Jeffrey had never seen before. He was quick and had a pretty strong boot, but seemed to lack some of the basic techniques. On his way home he questioned Jay who couldn't hide his disappointment.

"He's useless. He thinks he's the greatest player in the team and some things he really can do better than most of us. But he just kicks the ball anywhere and we never know what he's going to do. And when the ball goes miles away, he throws up his arms in delight as if that was what he wanted to do all along. With him in your team it's like playing with no plan."

It wasn't until he sat down once again to his puzzle that the full significance of those words hit home to Jeffey. Wasn't that exactly what he had been doing all his life. Muddling along, kicking the ball of life anywhere, and trying to make do with whatever resulted from his efforts. No wonder, he was failing so abysmally to make sense of it all. Something was going to have to change.

Therapy

2009-07-17T16:32:00.005+02:00

Leaving work early had never been one of Stan's habits. He could have tried to mask his departure, but that would have been futile. He could imagine only too well the whisperings which would have started the moment the door shut behind him. But today, Stan couldn't care less. His work had been his whole life. Now he was going to have to look for something more important.

Maybe sport was the answer. Rugby was, of course, out of the question. At his age it would probably do him more harm than good. Running would probably fit the bill. Several of his friends had taken up running in the latter half of their life, some even after retirement. Of course, no championships or anything like that. But it did give them the chance to open up their lungs.

What was it the doctor had called it? The word had meant nothing to him, so he had trouble recalling it. But what he couldn't forget were those words which had gone round and round in his head like an old vinyl record with a scratch in it.

"The best thing you could do now, is find some way of exercising your lungs day by day. The more you exercise your lungs, the better you will be able to cope."

Lungs! It was that word that had convinced him it could be nothing serious. He wasn't a smoker, never had been. Not even one single drag. Lung disease was only for smokers. So he'd be okay. He knew it instinctively. So the doctor's news came as a far greater shock. And what was he going to tell Erna and the kids. He hadn't even mentioned having been to the doctor's. For how long could he keep this to himself?

He stepped out from the staircase into the office car park. Then he changed his mind. If he was meant to exercise his lungs, then he'd forego the car; at least for today. At this time, he might even be quicker on foot than by car. Maybe he could get a bicycle. Like in his university days. He could do another charity ride, gather the boys together one last time. What an idea for the reunion they'd been planning! Scotland's team of 78, the front row leading the way. Passers-by turned and stared as he burst out laughing at this sight. Laughter, he thought. That would do the trick. But how can one laugh in the face of a horrible death?

The lights turned to red and Stan darted across the road. The thought did come to him that it might be easier to just lie down there and then and let come speeding car finish the job off there and then. But Stan was a fighter and he didn't want to end like that. Once across the ring road, he cut into Silk Street and crossed the footbridge into the old city. It must have been months since he was last in the part of the city, yet its charm was already beginning to rub off on him, when he stopped short in front of the window of a run-down music shop and began to read:

Bagpipe lessons.
Beginners welcome.
Enquire within.

The bagpipes! There couldn't be a more Scottish way of exercising his lungs. He remembered accompanying his father to the games at Murrayfield and watching the pipers perform their magic before the game. He'd always dreamt of being one of the them and stepping out before the cheering crowds. But music had never been his forte, so it had remained little more than a dream. Then came the rugby and the day he did step out in front of the crowds; not in a highlanders' kilt but in the blue jersey of Scotland. Just the one cap, and he'd hardly been a roaring success. Gareth Edwards, the Welsh scrum half had rung rings around him on that day. But the pride still shone in his eyes as the pipers led the crowd in a rendition of Scotland the Brave.

Success in rugby also brought success with the girls, and most of his weekends were spent at the country dances sizing up the local talent as the pipes invited scores of young ladies to take the floor. And when a young piper swept away his beloved Aggie, thoughts of 'if only' once again occupied his mind. Then, he met Erna, and life settled down. True, they'd had pipers at their wedding. What self-respecting Scottish couple wouldn't. But even then he had too much on his mind for dreams.

Until today. It took a good ten minutes for him to make up his mind. Then he pushed open the front door and entered into the bowels of the shop.

"Good evening, I'm interested in the Bagpipe lessons you offer. And I'd like to buy my own set of pipes. What do you recommend?"

Once Upon A Time...

2009-07-15T12:10:00.004+02:00

Ham felt himself the luckiest mouse alive. It wasn't every day that someone came into the shop and bought a mouse. Hamsters, yes; guinea-pigs too. Even rats would have ranked higher on the pet-shop's best-seller lists than mice. But for Ham - he had taken the name in a bid to try and persuade the customer that he was more like a hamster than a mouse - that had changed that very morning. He was chatting away with one of his neighbours who had gone into a sulk over the dwindling food supplies the new help was giving them, when she came into the shop and straight up to the mice cages. She, young, blonde, with a pretty face and such hypnotic, blue eyes that you could forgive any self-respecting mouse for falling in love with her. She wanted a mouse, she explained to the shopkeeper. She had always wanted a mouse, but her mother had never let her have one. Now, she had her very own flat and she was going to buy a mouse, nothing else would do. The words sent the mice into a flurry of activity. Each one wanted to look its little best, in particular the males. And obviously Ham managed to make himself look his very best, for after a brief moment of despair when it seemed the girl might, after all, go for the little pink mouse, she asked the shopkeeper to give him that cute, little white one in the corner.

That was now over six hours ago and Ham was still floating somewhere between the sixth and seventh heavens. As soon as she got home the young lady took him out of the box the shopkeeper had given her and put him in a delightful little cage she had prepared just for him. Not that he had found much rest, as yet. Several times that afternoon she had lifted him out and cuddled him in her tiny, cupped hands. She would carry him into the kitchen and hold him up to the small so that he could drink, promising that tomorrow she would buy him a proper water drip. Once she even lifted him up to her face and stared at him with her bright blue eyes. It was obvious they were made for each other and Ham remembered a story he'd once heard his mother tell him about an animal who had been changed into a handsome prince upon being kissed by the prettiest girl on earth. Well, he had the prettiest girl, now if only... And that was when it happened. Ham wasn't quite sure how or why, all he knew was that he was standing there tall and proud watching his beloved turn and flee in fear at the unusual turn events had taken.

Indulgence

2009-07-10T20:07:00.003+02:00

Last Sunday the menu read:

Kir Royal (Sparkling Wine with blackcurrant liqueur) and petits fours.

Entrée: Poached Egg Soufflé served with pâté and salad.

Main Course: of Salmon filet served with Chardonnay Sauce, rice and fresh vegetables. Side Salad.

Bottle of Jura Chardonnay 2006 (a local speciality)

Plate of Cheese with Cracker Biscuits or French Bread

Cheesecake with fresh, home-made ice cream and raspberries

A glass of Champagne (offered by the house to celebrate the occasion)

Coffee and mints

All this while cruising down the river Saône enjoying the beautiful countryside. It was, after all, our wedding anniversary so we indulged.

Pardon Me!

2009-07-09T17:45:00.003+02:00

Morning

"Hi Jean, it's lovely to see you."

"It's great to see you too. And you're looking so well."

"You too. How long has it been?"

"Oh, it must be over a year now. You just sit down and I'll get you a nice cup of coffee."

"Oh please, I'd much rather have something cold."

"Squash?"

"No, I'd prefer something to drink please."

"Water then?"

"Yes, I suppose. I mean water'll be fine, I guess."

...

Evening

"Hi darling, how's your day been."

"Run off my feet. I've hardly sat down all day. We were run off our feet at the shop and when we finally did get some peace, I had to go to the travel agent's and get some brochures for the cruise we're thinking of doing. Then, when I got home Jean called round. I met her on my way back from town She was just in Aber for the day so I insisted she drop by for a little chatter. Didn't say much though. To be honest, she was a bit strange. It's only now that I've had a chance to look at these brochures. And I'm really excited about them. There are some fantastic destinations."

"Are you sure, we can afford one?"

"What do you mean? And take that funny grin off your face. Of course, we can afford one. We've been through this a thousand times. And don't forget it was your idea in the first place."

"I'm sorry love, it's just I got a rather strange phone call from Ron. He wanted to know how he could help us in our difficulties."

"Our difficulties?"

"Yes! Jean rang him up the moment she'd got home after your visit together. She had some coak and bull story about you're being... shall we say, less than the perfect hostess. Apparently, all you offered her was water."

"But that's crazy I offered some of the home-made raspberry squash I made last week. But she didn't want any."

"Well, she's saying you only offered her some sort of vegetarian snack and when she insited on a drink, you gave her nothing but water. She feels pretty insulted and told Ron, she never wants to come here again. He took the matter in a completely different light. He thought we must be in dire straits. He phoned up to offer his help."

"But what on earth gave him that idea?"

"Well, he knew you weren't usually miserly. And was sure, you hadn't intended to insult Jean. So he figured vegetarian snacks and water could only mean we were little short of financial ruin."

"But... I mean... Well, what could have given them that impression?"

Kids' Gloves Aside

2009-07-08T06:34:00.004+02:00

Dear Mr. Grantham-Bell,

Thank you for your very detailed report which I have just finished reading. I regret not being able to fulfil your wish and replying within 24 hours, but the vagaries of communication here in the heart of the jungle meant that I only received the report this morning. In addition, your numerous suggestions for change are most thought-provoking and require time to digest and to filter. Rest assured that I shall give them the required thought and provide you with a detailed reply as soon as possible. But permit me now to explain how your visit was perceived here in Boganga.

I'll admit that most of the co-workers here, both national and expatriate, are puzzled as to the motives behind your visit. They picked up on a few statements made in your welcoming address: wanting to see first-hand what was going on; desiring to get to the heart-beat of the organisation; your need to listen to the project co-ordinators and their concerns. They listened to and picked up on a number of these, but, I'm afraid, they found behaviour incompatible with your desires - hence their perplexity. A few examples will suffice.

Your decision to cancel your visit to Leballam caused great consternation. I realise I may be partly to blame for this but if you look over our correspondence you will see that I pointed out several times the impossibility of completing a 100 Km round trip in 2 hours, given the state of our roads, not to mention that the afore-mentioned 2 hours would scarcely suffice to get a true impression of what was going on there. Insult was then added to the already existing gloom when you hired a plane to fly over the dispensary to take photos. After all, you had to have something to show the supporters. But pristine, photogenic buildings is certainly not what this project is about, and the workers felt brushed aside.

I do not know how well you feel your meetings with each of the project managers' went, but most of them were very unhappy at having only fifteen minutes to spend with you. In a country where establishing a relationship is of far greater importance than talking business, your lack of real concern was transparent. Several consider your trip to have been worthless since discovery takes time, time which you weren't willing to give. In addition, I am not sure if you are aware that you, yourself, set the agenda for each of these meetings by having your pre-defined set of questions, and not taking an interest in what others had to say. I might at this point be permitted to point out that most of the recommendations in your report only serve to scratch itches which do not actually exist. But had you been attentive to what the managers had to say, maybe you would have come close to recognising the real problems we're facing.

Finally, I will not try and claim that the financial help you extended to several of those in need was not appreciated. Due to the drought of the last three years food supplies are at an all-time low and seed has to be imported at very high prices. Your aid has certainly made a big difference to many here who are struggling to keep their families alive. And each of these families has specifically asked me to thank you on their behalf. However, your refusal to kneel with them on the mat around a hot pot of Chai with them only served to further the impression that you showed little interest in them as people, despite your generosity.

Sir, let me finish by saying I am proud of ComeToMyAid International. I am proud of the work we have done here and the way we are bringing hope and support to thousands of families in this apparently God-forsaken part of the world. I am also proud of my own part in that work.

I am? At least, I was. But now I find myself seriously having to reconsider my position. So if I might be permitted to make one final request, I would beg you not to answer this letter by email within 24 seconds. Change, lasting change requires time.

Yours sincerely,

U.R. Hope
(National Director ComeToMyAid International)

Paradoxy

2009-07-04T17:39:00.001+02:00

Heights of sublimity, depths of depravity;
Untold limitations, yet countless opportunities;
Majestic beyond compare, paling into insignificance;
Anonymous, yet love by the creator of all;
No one can sound the depths of this being.

That's me folks. Oh yes, and you!

There Once Was Hope

2009-07-04T09:04:00.001+02:00

Change is dream, once even hope
Hope like a beacon; fading, enthralling
Keep going, you can, you will;
All is lost, since nothing remains.

Once,
then twice,
then followed another
I lived, believed, grasped,
felt all well, at last,
until eternal optimist, eternal pessimist became
nourished by doubt of failure
hope's flame put out
I lie down,
I quit
enough

Life, experience, knowledge: trinity of enemies
campaign with loud slogans: change futile,
become what you are, desire nothing else;
weeds which strangle hope's last breath.

One More Day

2009-07-01T05:19:00.004+02:00

They spread themselves out over the scanty expanse of green in front of the terminal building. This was the perfect ending to what had been a near perfect holiday. Five days exploring various sites, meeting new people, immersing themselves in the rugged beauty of the Welsh countryside. Under such circumstances, even speaking English had come easily. And, of course, the weather. They had seen the pictures, they knew what to expect. Luscious, green vegetation didn't come from days of burning sunshine. But even on this last day the sun smiled benevolently down upon them, just as it had done for four of the five previous days. What more could they want? Well, actually, there was one thing, but that too was on its way as they started to unpack the picnic bags raising eyebrows from more than a few passer-bys. One last picnic, one last memory.

"I just wish we had decided to stay that extra day. After all who needs a day to rest up after a holiday like this."

The sentiment was echoed by all as the bread spreads were passed from hand to hand.

"Mind you," piped another voice, "I'm glad we found that place that baked French bread. Imagine having to put up with rubber bread for five days. I guess there are some things we French will never get used to."

"Then again, this wine is excellent. I never thought I'd say that about a wine not from France."

Everyone raised a glass and toasted to that. Sweet praise indeed, thought Daffy - the only Welshman in the group. The trip to the vineyard had been one of their objectives from the start but they'd very nearly missed out. In fact, it was only due to the good graces of the vintner that they'd been able to see it, at all. Even he had forgotten that everything closed earlier over here. Then again, they'd made it his worthwhile. Each one had parted with at least one mixed box and some had bought a box of each variety.

"This, for the airport!" the vintner had waved cheerfully, thinking the more he improvised on his English, the likelier they would be to understand. Now the last drops were gone and one by one they collapsed back in the grass for a very French siesta.

"Daffy, give us a few of your Welsh tunes to dream along with."

Daffy got out his mouth organ and soon the notes were floating up passed their ears up and out over the sea towards France, as the others closed their eyes in forgetful bliss, as the final call for the missing passengers had gone out with no reply. Their luggage was taken off the plane. Their yearning for one more day in Wales was to be granted after all.

Out Of The Mouth Of A Child

2009-06-27T09:14:00.004+02:00

Ian couldn't help but shed a tear as he saw the mangled state of Lenny the Lion, once the dog had finished with him. He gathered up as much of what remained as he could and put everything in a small plastic bag. Upstairs, little Davy was waiting at the doorway for the news. Not that even he could have had any doubts, once they saw the dog at work. At the sight of nothing but the plastic bag, Davy began to cry and soon father and son were engulfed in a duet of despairing lamentation.

Ian picked up his son and carried him into the living-room. He spread out Lennie's remains on the coffee table and turned to pick out a photo album from the shelves behind. It didn't take him long to find the photo. Three proud boys in the sailors suits sitting on the photographer's sofa, each sporting a lion of appropriate size on their lap. It had been Ian who refused to give up his lion. He had thrown such a tantrum that the photographer had let him take the lion home in a bid to restore sanity to his studio. Lenny was now his.

Years went by; Ian grew up, Lenny with him. He always remained a treasured possession even if Ian no longer slept with him. The day he left home, he placed Lenny in the large trunk in the loft. That way, he knew where to find him if and when the time came when Lennie's services were again needed.

Davy stared bleary eyed as his father began this story. Never had he imagined that Lennie was as old as his dad.

"I'm ashamed to say that I more or less forgot Lennie in the years that passed. I was very busy with all my exams and learning to do my job. Then, of course, I met Mummy and she was all I could think about. But one day, Granny fell ill, so ill that we knew she was going to die. So I went up into the loft and sorted through the old trunk where I had put all the things I had had when I was a child. That was when I saw Lennie again. It was just a few weeks later that we found out we were going to have our precious little Davy. And I knew Lennie would become your little friend. It was the first present you ever had, the day you and Mummy came home from the hospital."

Ian took another another album and flicked through its pages. The photograph of his wife sporting their little bundle of joy while Lennie looked on protectively, moved him once again to tears. Davy jumped and ran towards his room. He came back a few minutes later with his school book which he opened to an article on Dr. Christiaan Barnard. They had been talking about him and his work at school. He slipped onto the sofa next to his dad.

"Don't cry Daddy; all we have to do is send Lennie to this man. Our teacher says he could open people up and put new pieces in them. Then he would so them back together again and they would be as good as new. I'm sure, he could help Lennie."

The Slug

2009-06-25T19:56:00.001+02:00

Arthur was easy prey. Not that he was stupid. Indeed, it took us a long time to find a way to get to him. I guess it was due to his secretiveness. He wasn't a popular boy, and was almost always alone. Being his next door-neighbour, I can probably claim to have known him as well as anyone, not that wasn't claiming very much. I've often wondered why we picked on him. He never did us any harm. I guess it's just part of evolution, the fittest taking it out on those weaker.

It was Arthur's sister who provided us with both the opportunity and the means. If anything, she was the worst of us all. I don't know what she was like when they were home, but in public she was ever tormenting the tongueless, little slug, as she alayxs called him. His parents, on the contrary, cherished and did what they could to encourage him to express himself. This included buying him an expensive leather-bound journal with a lock in which Arthur wrote every day. I learnt this from Maria the day she discovered that thanks to my brother, I was in the throes of becoming an accomplished lockpick. She had no idea what he wrote but was burning to find out, so together we hatched a plan. Arthur kept the journal locked up in the drawer of his desk at home. But Maria had the same desk and the same key. All we had to do was wait for an opportunity to get Arthur out of the way. This came sooner than expected, when Arthur blew up in class after being teased by one of the younger boys, I suspect at Maria's instigation. This happened quite often and the teacher found no better way of dealing with him than keeping him in the classroom for two hours after school.

To be quite honest, the journal made pretty boring reading. Arthur may have known how to write, but had nothing to say. Shakespeare himself would have had trouble making something of this guy's life. But one of the more recent entries contained the following:

"Enna walked home with me today. No idea why. She kept trying to talk to me. I felt afraid of her."

Looking back what we did was unforgiveable. We didn't mean any harm. But I'll never forget the interest that lit up in his face when I asked him if he didn't want to sign the ... Of course, he never even saw the carbon paper underneath the sheet he signed. Imagine our astonishment when, within a week of receiving that Valoentine's card, Arthur and Enna became an item.

What if...

2009-06-24T10:35:00.001+02:00

There was one chance I didn’t take. That’s why I’m sitting here staring at the wrinkles reflecting from the bottom of my glass, playing ‘what if’ with anyone who might care to try and read my thoughts whilst Laura was travelling alone through Europe trying to forget me while painting the numerous historical sites we’d planned to visit together.

Alone! Who was I kidding? Laura would never be alone. One look and any self-respecting man would be lining up to accompany her wherever she chose. As to trying to forget me, I am still puzzled as to what it was that made her show any kind of interest in me to start with. And why then? After all we had known each other almost five years. Are the stories of Cupid’s arrow true? Maybe he misfired just for once.

Whatever, within the space of a mind-blowing five minute whirl around the dance floor the deed was done. We were inseparable after that, and before long we were making plans for a future together. I would go and join her in Athlone. The Irish countryside would doubtless provide the sparkle I needed to make my poetry come alive again. But first we’d promised ourselves a holiday visiting all those places in Europe she had dreamed of as a child.

And Gabriella? How would she take it? To be quite honest, I couldn’t care less. After all, it was she who had proved fickle. She’d even asked for a divorce. I had not been keen on the idea. I still felt that marriage was for life, even if… But all that had changed now. Gabriella could have her divorce.

Then came the phone-call. It was the day after my last class that year; my last ever class at Rowntree Community college. Three more days and I’d be heading for Laura’s hide-away cottage by the canal. She just wanted to see me, have a coffee and a chat together. That’s all she was admitting to. In fact, she had come to ask forgiveness. Maybe, we could even begin again, she’d said. And fool as I was, I fell for it. I believed in her. She was sincere, she had to be. We would begin anew, some place else. So I said yes. And I didn’t even have the courage to tell Laura. I just never turned up. I left her guessing.

Serve me right. It took just three days before the old arguments started again, and by the end of the month Gabriella was staying away overnight. She left me within the week; the day I found this bar, my one and only solace now. I’ve become great friends with the barman. He plays a mean game of ‘what if…’