Squares, by Michael Carding

 

Forty five times forty five

Equals twenty twenty five; (20+25) X (20+25) = 2025

This year, so rare, a perfect square

Unique in years I’ve been alive.

The last was nineteen thirty six

Now wait until two one one six

Rejoice! It’s good to be alive

Square up to twenty twenty five.

Our Queen Elizabeth the Second

Reigned seventy years, or so it’s reckoned , Elizabeth 1952 – 2022

In all those years upon the throne

Not one was square, not one alone,

Yet Charles her long-awaited heir

Reigned just three years and got a square, Charles 2022 – 2025

Tiberius Caesar, greedily,

Was not content with one, but three. Tiberius 14 - 37

Pythagoras would doubtless muse

The square on the hypotenuse, 272 + 362 = 452 = 2025

But sum three squares (does that seem naughty?)

Try five and twenty, lastly forty. 52 + 202 + 402 = 2025

Square of five, fourth power of three,

We’ve met the product recently; 52 X 34 = 2025*

Or integers to nine from one

Add them up and square the sum. (9+8+7+6+5+4+3+2+1)2 = 452 = 2025

I’m still not done, please pay attention,

We’ll rise into the third dimension:

Cube one, cube two, then three then four,

Carry on and cube five more,

Add all these cubes from one to nine

The sum, a number for our time.13 + 23 + 33 + 43 + 53 + 63 +73 + 83 + 93 = 2025

With special properties to cheer

Embrace! Enjoy! Happy New Year!

Rubbish: the state of things to come, by Peter Morford

  We are grateful that our Council has used our money to buy a shopping parade in a falling property market. It has further endeared itself to the taxpayers by cutting back on services in an attempt to recover some of the capital loss. There must be cuts, starting with changes in the recycling operation.

Recently when I visited the local site I was stopped by a traffic cone and an official ith an I-pad. He asked me in a very suspicious manner if I had a reservation. He stared at his screen. “Your name?”

I asked him if he wanted to send me a birthday card.

“If you’re not booked I can’t let you in,” he said.

“It’s 3.30. Are you congested?” I asked ambiguously.

“You need an online booking.” I told him patiently that I had no idea that this strange arrangement was already in use. I declined to say how daft the whole thing was as I had arrived at off-peak time and the staff were probably enjoying their afternoon tea and crumpets.

Reluctantly and in the manner of a flunky challenged beyond endurance, he moved the cone and waved me in. But my trials were not over. Another Gauleiter in a glow jacket said the sentry should have sent me away. His three partners nodded like Ernie Wise in the Previn sketch.

“What yer got Mate?”

“Grass for the compost.”

He kindly let me carry on and watched me heave about 50 kilos over the 4ft wall into the dead plant zone.

As I drove off I had one of those fearful visions. It’s no longer 2024, a golden age when we only need to make online appointments to see Bank officials, doctors nurses, conceited restaurants and electricians. I saw my 2028 diary. Whole days, weeks and months were full of appointments. On the third of March I’d booked Sainsburys, 0900 to 0930; Aldi, 945 to 1115; haircut? What for? Only four minutes from 1355. That’s OK. Costa 1415 to 1500; Spoons 1800 to 2300. The spreadsheet warned me. Please observe the times. Do NOT be late or early and do NOT overstay as you will incur charges.

I’d have organised my household. Told Mrs P that breakfast is at 755 so that I can get the weather forecast. Lunch 1255 for 37 minutes. Allocated ten minutes to read The Times online newspaper. Booked TV three weeks ahead and all my personal movements would be held on the cloud. We will thank AI for this meticulous planning.

Meanwhile, back in 2024 I already have a long list of passwords in my key-safe. With my leaking memory I have to keep a note of the safe number so I have cunningly written it on a card covered by a picture of Fido, deceased. Don’t tell anyone.

After a few years these annoyances will cease. AI will do the planning and I will obey because it’s easier to let it run my life. Now, where will I be on 5 th June, 2040?

Never mind.

Typhon, by John Durant

 For some weeks past, Udlotwyn the wizard had become increasingly troubled by his dreams. At first these had consisted of no more than obscure shapes, dimly perceived, but which nonetheless caused him a vague disquiet; but then, as night followed night, the vision gradually solidified, until he beheld an ancient city of tall towers and minarets, domes and battlements, strange in form and utterly black in colour, seen in the distance with the foreground shrouded in a strange bluish mist.

   Udlotwyn was disturbed. He was certain that these dreams portended something of great importance, but he could not identify the city, or even ascertain whether or not it had a real existence outside of his mind. He wondered whether anyone else had had similar dreams. As a wizard, he was naturally more sensitive to such things than ordinary people. But there was no-one he could consult: he was the only remaining true wizard in that country; perhaps the only one left in the entire world, for all he knew. For sure, there would be some amateur dabblers in magic, and all he could do was hope that their foolhardy experiments would not create too much damage.

 The dreams continued. Now sounds were heard too: voices chanting in an unfamiliar language and discordant notes of harsh music. Udlotwyn became increasingly worried. Finally he decided he must take action. He read reports that an unfortunate inmate at a mental asylum, who was generally placid and was encouraged to paint pictures as a therapy, had produced a canvas of a fantastic city-scape and then lapsed into violent ravings. In rare moments of coherence he had stated that he had painted what he saw in his dreams.

   Udlotwyn consulted his books of magical lore. What he eventually found there filled him with dread. The city he saw in his dreams could be none other than Typhon, that legendary home of evil warlocks, on the hill overlooking the Blue Marsh. No trace of it had ever been found by archaeologists, and some authorities maintained it was no more than a myth. And one name especially was associated with it: Magathan.

   Magathan! The most terrible of all the black magicians of past aeons! Of course, that was not his real name: no-one would dare pronounce the real name of a great wizard out loud: you never knew what might happen; though doubtless there would be hidden conundrums that allowed you to discover it. According to legend, Magathan had not died (for such a powerful wizard would never die in the way that ordinary mortals did) but was eternally asleep, no-one knew where, waiting to be awoken.

   Udlotwyn wondered whether some foolish dabbler had discovered his name and thus aroused him. For the situation was becoming more and more alarming. Groups of people were now reported to be wandering around, babbling incoherently about searching for a lost city, and in his dreams Udlotwyn could see them, trekking at great peril through the Blue Marsh towards the gates of Typhon. After much thought, he decided only one course of action was open to him. He must himself locate Magathan, and if his unquiet soul was indeed stirring, then silence him by banishing him from the world, if such a thing was possible. Udlotwyn sighed, knowing that this could be the final task he would ever undertake as a wizard, and might in every likelihood lead to his own fall and destruction. But what else could he do?

   He concentrated all his powers, in the hope that somehow he could sense the presence of Magathan in some place and make his way towards it. Nothing. Nothing at all. What now? 

Thin places,by Peter Morford

I had never heard of thin places so, on my walk home from the meeting I thought it was about slimming clinics’ flab-fighting clubs. Of course Google soon put me right with the definition: Thin spaces are those rare locales where the distance between Heaven and Earth collapses.

The article helpfully lists old churches in saintly Cornwall, Iona and of course, Stonehenge. Go there, they say, and you will feel a special contentment and peace as you cross the line between Heaven and Earth; from our mundane world to what may be the mythical or mystical. We too enjoy a sense of peace. Conversely, we may feel uneasy when the place reminds us of things we would rather forget.

Let’s say we’re friends walking in some beautiful place. Cardingmill Valley will do. We have the scenery, the peace, the good company and the prospect of a nice bowls of soup at the end of the walk. We’re in a haze of happiness and, if we’re wise, we tell each other how much we’re enjoying ourselves.

Or, you are relaxed in your armchair, dozing over a book. You’re brought to life by the first bars of a favourite symphony or a line of poetry, It works magic on you and, as your eyes close, you are out of this world into happy memories and imaginings.

Buildings have their own atmosphere. Ancient churches or deserted theatres encourage sombre or respectful thoughts which may or may not be religious. Faced with a work of art can, and should, make us wonder about the artist and the world he lived in.

Descend to a dungeon and think about what it represents. Sixty feet above us in the Great Hall are the carousing gentry. Down here are the tortured and starving. The very stones are a record of the past.

We ask who were the people who built this monument, painted this picture, wrote this music? Who lived in this ancient ruin when it was intact? What was here in this barren desert a million years ago? If there were sentient beings around when this mighty mountain was jacked up to 10,000 metres, what did they think was happening?

Astronauts seeing Earth from space feel a spiritual force. Their emotions are a mixture of pride over Man’s achievement tempered with modesty at our insignificance to the whole.

Meanwhile there are those who follow Aldous Huxley’s advice to enjoy the false delights of mescalin.

Religions attribute all the good things to their god or gods. Agnostics think they are being realistic as they say that theists accept what they are told because it saves them the effort of thinking for themselves. If they did exercise their minds they might find that rather than “God created Man,” it was the other way round. Religions and deities are a human invention; indications of our natural curiosity, ingenuity and inventiveness as we try to understand the Universe and our place in it.

Like our ancestors I gaze at the firmament and doubt that is anything to do with religion. I just wonder..

Banishing, by Sharanya Manivannan

Never forget that once invoked

a goddess cannot go away

until asked to.

Leave your door open to me three

nights in a row and the circle will

come complete with me within it,

and in your rooms the smell of

sweet burning things.

Cover your mirrors, you who

cannot bear to look at yourself.

Rub sugar and spice over your doorway.

Bury your precious stones in ash.

Prepare for poltergeists.

Wash your body of the salt of

my fire eater’s tongue, black as

prophecy. Exorcise from your memory

the distant thunder of my voice.

Night bleeding into light,

the last crow before the sacrifice.

Make your offerings. Wood to oil, oil to flame.

I am more benevolent than most. Draw me

the outline of a door and I will withdraw, quietly.

I will not walk backwards. In your house,

not a shudder, no trace for days

but a relieved exhalation.

It is not what I will take;

it is what I will leave behind.

Gerry's journey, by Peter Shilston

(This is a vivid dream I had, which ended at this point. I don't know what might have happened next) 

..................................................................................................

The little group of travellers made their way along the mountain track, following their leaders, the old greybearded wizard and the tall, beautiful Elven lady. They were Gerry and these two, whom he regarded as his close companions (though in truth he had only met them at the start of the journey), three other characters whom I somehow could never see clearly, and a strange young man who had joined them later. He was most inappropriately dressed, in a suit and tie, and clutched obsessively at a briefcase, which he refused to put down even when they stopped for a rest.

   They crossed the mountains and came to a wide valley, where there was a farm. They laid down in a field. It was a dry and warm night and they soon fell asleep.
   Gerry awoke before the others. The wizard and the lady went to consult the farmer, and Gerry explored behind a barn, where he found water to wash himself. When he rejoined the others, he looked through his bag and was astonished at the random collection of objects he had packed for the journey. Why on earth had he brought a wineglass? "And I only have one clean shirt!" he exclaimed. "What will I do when I meet the King?"
   "You'll have to wash it!" replied one of the others, and laughed.

   The wizard and the lady returned. "It seems the Wolf isn't far away", he told them. "We will have to overcome it - or tame it".
   The lady turned to him. "The success of our mission will depend on my death." she announced quietly. The wizard said nothing, for he knew that she could discern far into the future.
   After a long silence, she repeated, "My death", but then added, fiercely, "But I will not be bound by fate!"
   The strange young man with the briefcase now approched the wizard. "I must go back!" he said.
   "You cannot go back", he was told, "When we crossed the mountains, we entered another world. There can be no return".
   The young man said, "I was carrying drugs to be delivered. But when I looked in my case, there were no drugs: just twists of newspaper containing only sand!"
   "That too is fate", the wizard told him.

When I'm old, by Izzy Ullmann

When I'm old, and not grey, nor full of sleep

I'll be dyeing my hair and watching films late at night,

And getting up mid morning, like a teenager.

I shall refuse to wear big knickers from M and S, and shudder at slip-on shoes,

And make a Yule Log instead of Christmas pudding.

I shall enjoy my bus pass, and get off at places I've never been before,

And sit alone in the pub, drinking a pint.

I'll play pianos in public train stations, with arthritic hands,

And read all of À la recherche du temps perdu.

My corpus, although ranting with pills,

Will delight in long, deep baths , if I can get in them.

I will frown at huddles of old folks

Enthusiastically expatiating about their maladies.

My dreams will be in the beech woods,

Picking mushrooms, or riding my bike,

Or walking the flint-sharp paths, listening to the blackbird's minims from Chiltern paths.