It's not my fault, by Peter Morford

A message found on Mr Gould’s smart phone.

*************************************************************

Dad,

I know you’ll be surprised to receive this attachment as we never write to each other. Since Mother divorced you there seemed to be nothing to say. So I’ll say it anyway.

I heard through the grapevine that you are moving to an open prison and release is imminent.

Don’t come back.

You may not know that Mum married a coach driver – yes, the one who drove us on a tour of the Dolomites in 2017. George is a decent man. He will never be rich.

Thanks to you, Molly and I were privileged kids. Private schools prepared us for University and great careers. We had summer holidays in exotic places and ski resorts at Christmas. Home was always full of guests, friends and clients. We had a paddock for Molly’s horses, swimming pool and a fleet of cars. We lived the life.

To celebrate my A Level results we four plus Molly’s boyfriend and my girl were off  to Sri Lanka. First class of course. After that I would start my studies towards an MBA at Harvard. And then? I expected something powerful in business and politics.

Three weeks later, sated by the sunshine, sights and smells of that beautiful island, we landed in the dark at Heath Row, tired and happy. We cleared customs and Immigration and headed for the exit. We could see our hotel limo waiting for us and the courier’s sign with our name on it.

Standing right by the exit were four policemen, line abreast. One officer stepped towards us.

“Mr. Gould, Mr Jeremy Gould?”

“Yes.”

“You are under arrest. Come with us please. The rest of your party can go.”

You were handcuffed and thrust into the car and driven away. You know the rest. A few weeks awaiting your trial. Then the trial itself when your finance and investment company was revealed to be a fraud. Investors had lost millions. You were damned by the contents of your phones and computers, revealing money laundering, embezzlement and tax evasion. You were sentence to ten years. Your assets would be seized and our nightmare had begun.

What assets? Our elegant house was mortgaged for more than its market value. All the cars are leased. Your only asset was a few thousands in the bank. Your company would be worthless. Where was the alleged £35m which the court decided you had stolen?

Mother, Molly and I were, crammed into a 7 th floor flat in - but you don’t need to know where. I lost my place at Harvard. At eighteen I had to find a job and use my computer skills. Mother applied for a nursing post. Molly moved to a nearby Comprehensive school.

And what am I doing now, six years after your conviction? I suppose you’d call me a computer hacker working for the Police. I’ll find out where you have hidden “your” money.

Traitor, am I? It’s not my fault.

Ever-Green Palace, by Bethany Rivers

 

I travelled the desert of hunger for a hundred years

thirsting for the goodness and discernment

I thought I did not have.  But I followed the call

 

of the wild geese who announced my place

in the family of things, over and over, until

I had no choice but to listen.  Following their call,

 

I came upon the Ever-Green Palace, feathered walls of leaves,

blackbirds and wrens nesting, steps and streams of light

along the central aisle.  The way opened out

 

like a Tibetan Monastery – the symmetry of grass and trees,

a prayer of stillness, in every blade, every leaf,

singing the smallness and the greatness

 

of creation, the same as every breath I take,

with every step I come nearer and nearer to the throne

grown especially for me, and so I finally understand

 

it is time for the corona of spring

to embrace and bless me, an offering from the hands

of our beloved Persephone.

The labours of Hercules in Shropshire, by Peter G. Shilston

 .Many thousands of years ago, before half of Britain was covered in ice, the River Severn flowed north, into the Dee estuary. But then the ice came, and when it at last retreated, the god Zeus spoke to Hercules and said, “It is my desire that the Severn should now flow southwards. Take your club and beat out a new channel for the river”.

Hercules took his club and began his labour at the northern end of the new river-bed. But the god of the northern marshes, fearing that his wetlands would be drained, sent out his reed-girls to distract Hercules. And the reed-girls said, “Leave your work, Hercules, and come with us, and we will show you pleasures beyond imagining!” But Hercules answered, “Go away! Come back when I’ve finished!” and he continued with his work. But he was thinking so much about the beauty of the reed-girls that he beat out his channel shallower than he intended, so some of the wetlands survive to this day.

As Hercules worked further southwards, the river god, annoyed that he had not been consulted, sent river-nymphs to distract Hercules. The river-nymphs danced round Hercules and sang, “Leave your work, Hercules, and come with us, and we will show you pleasures beyond imagining!” But Hercules answered, “Go away! Come back when I’ve finished!” But he was so confused by the nymphs dancing in circles around him that he lost all sense of direction, and the course of the river-bed he was beating out, through where Shrewsbury now stands, instead of being a straight line, now ran in great loops and meanders.

Hercules now reached a line of hills and began to beat a passage through them. But the god of the hills, foreseeing that men would come and cut down his trees to fire their furnaces, and blacken his rocks with their smoke, sent woodland dryads to distract Hercules. The dryads sang, “Leave your work, Hercules, and come with us, and we will show you pleasures beyond imagining!” But Hercules answered, “Go away! Comeback when I’ve finished!” But he was so eager to sample the pleasures that the dryads had promised that he stopped he work early, so that the Ironbridge Gorge was narrower than intended, and it remains a place of fast-flowing and dangerous waters to this day.

At last Hercules finished his labours, and the Severn now flowed southwards in a new path. And Hercules went and sat down to rest in the Quarry gardens, and he called out, “Ho! Reed-girls and water-nymphs and tree-dryads! I’m finished at last! Where are the pleasures beyond imagining that you promised me?” But there was no answer, for they had all gone away. And Hercules smashed his club on the ground in frustration, causing a great pit which is now the Dingle gardens. But eventually he fell asleep, exhausted by his labours.

The god of the River Severn saw him asleep and thought, “Now I’ll have my revenge! Reject the pleasures offered by my water-nymphs, did he? Not to mention the reed-girls and dryads too! I’ll cast a spell on him so that he’ll never be able to enjoy such pleasures again!” And he cast the spell, but Hercules did not realize it till he awoke.

Men later came and erected a statue of Hercules in the Quarry gardens. The river-god was already angry because, thanks to the labours of Hercules, he now faced a very long and weary route to the sea; and this made him angrier still. His anger continues to this day; and every few years he sends down a flood, which often fills the Quarry gardens and surrounds the statue of Hercules, but he has never yet managed to topple it. And if you go to the Quarry gardens today, you can still see Hercules, with his lion-skin and mighty club and his gigantic muscles – but if you look closely you will notice that, thanks to the river-god’s curse, he is obliged to wear an improbably tiny fig-leaf.

.

The majesty of the law, by Peter Morford

 Mr Marshall Lobby, Barrister-at-Law, had practiced for ten years. He had long ago learned that his task was to present the strongest argument he could for his client or The Crown; strongly cross examine the other side’s witnesses and remember that some judges are allowed to ask naïve questions or berate and tease the counsels. He could not pre-judge the guilt or innocence of his client.

He almost forgot it in the case of The Crown versus Edward Hitman. The case was heavily and gloatingly covered in the media. Mr Hitman was a bad lot dedicated to the life of crime. Mr Lobby happily accepted to take the prosecution case and with some relish started his preparations.

The facts were so convincing that Mr Lobby was wondering how anyone could produce any defence. Mr Hitman did not impress. Everything about him was hard to like. His battered face, his gait, his fat fingers tapping a rhythm for his ears only; the words Belmarsh 2000 and Strangeways 1990 proudly drawn on his face and neck and his butcher’s hands covered in abstract red and blue art.

Lobby patiently built his case. Expert witnesses had a DNA trail and smart phone details. CTV cameras from all over the country shewed that he had been in the right place at the right time for the crimes. He lead a team of drug distributors forgers and smugglers. He was accused of trafficking, laundering and assault. Lobby knew it would be a long case with a fee to match. He was decently sorry for the Defence counsel who had drawn the short straw.

Six weeks later it looked as though no man could outlive the likely sentences. Defence counsel struggled to discredit the witnesses and supporters. The prisoner’s difficult childhood and verbal impediments had limited his education. His father had been a drunken child abuser – what chance had Hitman ever had. Sob sob.

Another five weeks. A juryman reported sick. Another told the judge that his business was collapsing and could he please be excused. The Judge, Sir Martin Geoffries, had several times to rebuke the public gallery for their interruptions. He then disturbed another jury woman for falling asleep. He even took time to tell Mr Lobby that his wig was awry. “Please fix it.”

13 weeks had passed. It was time for the final summaries. Lobby addressed the weary jury. It took an hour to list the charges. He called upon the jury to protect the public from what could be even more assaults if this vile man were allowed to go free in less than fifty years.

Defence called for mercy. This unlucky man had had suffered weeks of accusation on the most tenuous of evidence and conjecture.

The judge called for lunch adjournment. Two hours later he escaped from his tired secretaries and began his summing up. A brief break for refreshments and they re-convened. After twenty minutes jury was released to reach a decision.

They deliberated for just three hours. “Be upstanding for His Honour”

Judge Geoffries walked slowly to his place. He put his i-pad on the desk, cleared his throat and sipped his drink. He looked round the court, studying the jury one by one. He eyed the Counsel and lastly, the prisoner.

“Have you reached your decision?

The foreman stood, holding a clipboard.

“And what is your decision?.”

“Not guilty m’lud”.

The onlookers gasped and chattered.

“Silence in Court!”

“Mr Hitman , you are free to leave the Court without a stain on your record.”

Mr Marshall Lobby fainted.

The Attic, by Peter Shilston

These days, I buy far fewer books than I once did, but still I can seldom resist entering a newly-discovered second-hand bookshop, even one that looks as unpromising as this one did. It was no more than a little terraced house converted to a shop, in a squalid back-street. The meagre display in the window scarcely invited further investigation, but even so I ventured into the dark and cramped interior. The aged custodian in her fusty dress did not speak as I entered, but glared suspiciously at me as though she suspected me of intending to pilfer her stock. And this was indeed as feeble as might have been expected; faded paperbacks, redundant outmoded textbooks with battered covers and what are essentially non-books, puffing transitory media and sporting “personalities” and forgotten TV soap-operas. I might have walked out at this point, but instead something prompted me to approach the aforementioned custodian and say I was really interested in old and rare books.

To my surprise, she responded. “Och, we keep those up in the attic”, she told me, in a strong Glaswegian accent. “I’ll go and unlock it for ye”.

I followed her up the creaking staircase to the top of the house. The attic, under its low and steeply-sloping roof, was unsuitable for the display of books, most of which lay in heaps on the floor.  I soon discovered that, whilst old, they could hardly be considered valuable enough to merit being kept under lock and key. There were Victorian novels by writers whose very names had been forgotten, and 19^th century collections of the works of Byron or Wordsworth, in very small print. They felt grimy to the touch. But now that I was in the attic I continued to scrabble amongst them, hoping against all the evidence that I might chance upon something worthwhile. The custodian continued to watch me with silent suspicion, and showed no sign of animation until I picked up a volume which appeared no more promising than the others.

“That’s the colonel’s book”, she told me. No further elucidation was forthcoming, but I felt I should at least open it. I ruffled through its leaves until I came to a full-page engraving entitled, “The Skraelings greet the dawn”, which in the inadequate light appeared to show a party of mounted figures. I find it very difficult to describe what happened next, though at the time it seemed perfectly normal. I can only say that as I peered at the picture I somehow found myself absorbed into it, so that I was no longer in a slum attic but on the summit of a low ridge, facing a party of warriors. Very fierce they looked, bearded and helmeted, though their equipment did not resemble any I had seen before, and to call them horsemen would be a misnomer, for the beasts they rode were monstrous multi-legged creatures. Exultantly they raised their spears to salute the crimson glow of a rising sun. (Did I explain that the engraving had mysteriously acquired colours?) I realised I had strayed from earth to some other planet: perhaps one where the coming of the dawn was less frequent than on earth; separated maybe by months or even years of our time. It did not occur to me to wonder who the colonel, whose book this was, had first found this place, and how the discovery was recorded in this strange way; for now I was there myself, and if I waited a little longer, the Skraelings would start to move, like a film which resumes after pausing on a single frame, and I would be amongst them ……….

Then I awoke, and found I was at home, lying in bed; but the book was still in my hand. 

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