Post from the Donbas, by Angelica Shalangina

 Hey friends, I’m alive.

But the night hit hard. It was a massive attack - Shaheds, cruise missiles, ballistic missiles. All night long. I wanted so badly to sleep. Every time I almost drifted off, another explosion. Too loud. Too close. Too real. When it finally ended - 7 or 8 am I fell asleep. But even in sleep, I kept hearing it. Over and over again. Some explosions were insanely loud. They’re still echoing in my head. But I’m here. Alive And I’m really grateful for that.

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

(Angelica Shalangina post her poems on X)

Solstice II, by Alison Lock

 

Appointments, 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 flunkey 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, onceited 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, 45 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. 

Happy Christmas to everyone!

. 

The Collector, by John Garland

 I didn't know Margaret at all well - she was only the friend of a friend, though after meeting her briefly at a party we'd kept in touch by letter - so I was distinctly surprised when, out of the blue, she invited me to spend a few days with her.

   I found her home to be an apartment in an old building not far from the cathedral, and I had to ring the communication bell to ask her to unlock the front door by remote control. She was on the second floor, and I opted to walk up the stairs rather than use the lift. I wondered, no for the first time, why she wanted to see me again after our very brief acquaintance. It did pass through my mind that it might be sexual, but when she opened the door it was immediately apparent that this could not be the case,since Margaret was clearly in poor health. She was stooped over a zimmer frame, and her face was grey and drawn with pain, which caused her to look much older than I remembered. I muttered some expressions of sympathy, and desire not to put her to any trouble, but she brushed these aside, and her voice was cheerful enough.
   "Oh, don't worry about me! I've done my back in, that's all!"
   "Can I help with anything?"
   "Well, yes; as a matter of fact you can. But we'll deal with that later. Come on in!"
   She led me into the hallway and indicated a door on the right. "You'll be in the spare room there. Dump your stuff while I get us some tea".

The spare room was odd. For a start, there was a strange, faint smell that I couldn't place. There was a door in the corner by the window, which I assumed was a cupboard, but when I tried to open it to hang my coat there, I found it locked. For want of anywhere better, I draped the coat over a chair. One wall was entirely taken up with row upon row of small wooden boxes. In defiance of all the good manners expected of a guest, I attempted to open one or two which also proved to be locked. It was all very puzzling.
   I made my way to the living-room, and soon Margaret appeared pushing a trolley of tea-things. We sat and talked about nothing in particular for a while, until I finally summoned up the courage to make reference to the mysterious boxes.
    "Oh yes", she said, "My collection!"
   She didn't say collection of what.
   "I'm very proud of my collection. There's nothing like it in the world. I guard it with my life. I've never killed for it, yet. Not deliberately, anyway".
   "Not yet?" I couldn't help but ask. "Not deliberately?"
   "Well, it was his fault. He tried to break into one of my boxes. And I wasn't having that. And it was an accident really, but I knew people would think I'd killed him deliberately, so I hid the body in the cupboard. That's how I did my back in. So now I can't move him, so I'm wanting you to help me lug him downstairs and into my car, and then we'll drive out and dump him somewhere. You'll help me, won't you?"
   The woman was clearly raving mad. I felt I had no option but to humour her.
   "Yes, I'll help you", I said. "I'll just go to the loo, and then we'll take a look at him".

But of course I didn't go to the loo: instead I grabbed my things from the spare room and fled the scene. When I'd driven a good distance away, I thought to myself: I wonder if there really was a body in the cupboard? And an even nastier thought: suppose there was, and detectives found my fingerprints all over the room; what then?

That was some time ago. I haven't heard from the police yet, but I still don't sleep easily.

Water, by Annabelle Jane Palling

 WATER

I did not knock at your door on a feverish night,

Parched and asking for cool, cool water or

Even just an ice cube to slide down your

Supple spine and – burning –

Refresh.

Yes, the bursting hydrangeas outside

Spoke of rich, rich soil ripe with life,

But I did not raise my hand

To knock.

I answered, though.

Anyway.

I poured, and we laughed and we drank and we

Thanked each other for soothed throats and bodies revived.

And soon we were skinny-dipping in the oceans of those tall glasses,

Splashing, sleek and alive.

Until you had drunk your fill, then

Your feet could not find the bottom, and

Your eyes lost the shoreline of your glass’s rim.

And we swam perhaps a bit too

Close.

So.

I am still holding the pitcher, and

The door is still open,

And I am unquenched

But hesitate to drink.

In the Gardens, by Peter G. Shilston

 (I recently rediscovered this story, which I wrote a great many years ago!})

I left the crowds milling around near the entrance, picnicking on the lawns or lying by the flowerbeds in the warm sun, and wandered off into the glades. After a while I came upon a long avenue of great chestnuts in bloom, all scarlet and white, and at the end stood the Crimson Pagoda. I walked towards it and saw it was very tall. But it was not what I had come to see.

There were fewer people in this part of the gardens, and they were mostly middle-aged or elderly. Some were walking about with a purposeful air, but most were sitting silent and alone on benches under the trees. I approached one greyheaded man, and when he showed no sign of acknowledging my presence, coughed discreetly to attract his attention.

"Excuse me", I ventured apologetically, "Could you tell me the way to the Queen's House, please?"

He glanced up. There was an annoyed expression on his aquiline face. "Over there through the trees", he said, making a vague gesture with his left hand, and then closed his eyes to indicate the interview was over. Somewhat daunted by this abrupt reception, I walked quickly away.

There was a path that seemed to run in the direction indicated, but it proved to be very serpentine and confusing. No-one had bothered to putup signposts in this part of the gardens. After a while I became convinced that the path was doubling back on itself, so I abandoned it and tried to cut across country. The grass was long and damp. Bluebells carpeted the shady places and there were snowy islands of cow-parsley. Huge clumps of holly and rhododendron loomed up to block a straight path. After I had wandered for some time I caught sight of the Crimson Pagoda, and realised I must have walked in a circle.

I felt hot and tired as well as irritated by my mistake, but I did not intend to be defeated so easily. A glance at my watch told me that it was only ten minutes past three, and I did not need to leave the gardens for quite some time yet.

I tried asking the way again, this time from an old lady with a stick, but her reply was not very helpful. Now my travels took me into untended thickets of willow, where I soon became hopelessly disorientated; then I found my way barred by dense hawthorn all strewn with may-flowers. There was still no sign of the Queen's House. I wished I had taken the trouble to map of the gardens before setting out. Soon the familiar outline of the Crimson pagoda came into view again.

I lost track of how many times I wandered around in these meaningless circles, and after a while I was no longer certain I could even find my way back to the entrance. My feet were burning and I badly needed a rest. There was a secluded wooden bench beneath a gigantic copper beech. The leaves cast dappled shadows and the air was very still. I saw down, stretched out my legs, turned my face skywards and closed my eyes. The Queen's House would just have to wait .......

I snapped awake suddenly and looked at my watch. It still said ten past three and had plainly stopped, but this caused me no great alarm. Even if I was completely lost, I would be rescued eventually. The park-keeper must surely come round and usher everyone out before locking up for the night. Meanwhile the day was still warm, and it was very pleasant just to sit and let the scents of spring waft over me. When I had rested I could resume my search, if I wished. What was so special about seeing the Queen's House anyway? No doubt it was worth a visit, but it would be empty: everyone knew it was many years since the Queen had lived there .....
The sun hung motionless in the sky and the warm afternoon lasted for ever .....

An unwelcome noise disturbed my reverie. It was a young fellow asking his way to the Queen's House. His face, his tone of voice, his whole manner irritated me. "Over there through the trees", I said, waving my arm at random. "You can't miss it" I was glad to be rid of him.