Surrender, by Dennis Clarke

“Hello! I know who you are; you’re detective inspector Robertson; but you don’t really know who I am. You think I’m a harmless old woman called Suzi Marginton, and that’s true enough as far as it goes; but you’ve probably also heard of me as Sheba, after the Queen of Sheba in the Bible. Yes, that’s right: I’m the person who supplies all the drugs in the town. Or rather, I used to. Surprised to see me? You’ve been after me for years, but you never even got close, did you? But now I’m here.

  “Let me explain. You’ll concede, won’t you, that we only ever traded cannabis and LSD: no harder stuff. And it was always clean; never cut with anything dangerous. Furthermore, we never used violence. This town was peaceful for years, wasn’t it? Bur now times have changed.

  “A new group’s trying to move in and take over. They call themselves the Elite. Sometimes they spell it backwards: ETILE. You’ll likely have seen this sprayed up on a wall, and wondered what it means; now I’m telling you. This mob pushes skunk, heroin, crack cocaine: anything you can name. And they’re a violent mob: there’ll be killings on our streets soon, if you don’t act quickly.

  “So I’m here to tell you this; and I want you to arrest me and lock me up. Because, right now, I reckon it’s the safest place for me to be.”   

Pagan Philosophy, by Peter Shilston

 (Dedicated to the people of the Caucasus, which I visited many yaers ago)

The people are like their mountains,

beautiful, but untamed

implacable against those

who do not show them proper respect

They know that

to leave an insult or injury unavenged

serves only to invite more.

Silly people in the cities

may talk of dying for a cause

but a seious man knows that

if your cause is to triumph

you musy kill for it

In the end we all die

but what better way to die

than in defence of your home

sword in hand

surrounded by the bodies of you enemies

The only true immortality

is when children yet unborn

tell stories of your mighty deeds

The mountains and their people

once inspired Pushkin and Lermontov and Tolstoy

and now they inspire

Vladimir Putin

- a serious man

.

Injury Time, by Matthew Stewart

 

Words to tunes, by C. F. Sharpe

(In all these, I often choose words largely for their sound)

Lullaby for a friend's baby (Tune: Brahms's "Lullaby")

"Little Daisy, my darling, sleep soft on your pillow

With a smile on your face, not a tear in your eye.

And when dawn tips the sky, I shall be by your side.

And when dawn tips the sky, I shall be by your side."

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

Pilgrimage (Tune: Schubert's "Trout")

"I hear the brooklet gushing, from its rocky fountain near

And down the valley rushing, so fresh and wondrous clear.

I know not what came o'er me, or who the counsel gave,

But I must hasten onwards, all with my pilgrim's stave."

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

Homage to Rupert Brooke (Tune: prelude to Act 3 of "Carmen", by Bizet)

"The boy who sang by Granta's stream

Of spires and fenland, tears and laughter in the morning

Taken by a wider dream

Out eastward sees the rising sun of early dawning

Hears a voice calling loudly now for songs of war and duty

Beauty

Youth and honour lie in Flanders field

And by the banks of Somme and Yser seek for fame

A sword to draw, a lance to wield

A shield to bear the man who dies to win a name

So hear him sing: Now may God be thanked, who matched us with his hour

Power

Loud rejoicing as the boat sails away

To sunbaked islands, seas that once were dark as wine

Where heroes fought a burning day

And deeds as brightly as the Hellene sun would shine

And so he goes, seeking Ilium's walls and Hector's martial story 

For the

 

Boy who sang by Granta's Stream 

In storm and glory to the war 

Is gone"

(Footnote: Rupert Brooke, the beautiful heart-throb poet of the early 1910s, hailed the outbreak of the First World War and volunteered for the Gallipoli campaign of 1915. From his classical education, he would have known that Gallipoli could be seen from the ramparts of Troy. The imagery of this poem is deliberately archaic, because Brooke had no idea what the war would be like - but, the, neither did anyone else)   

Actresses, by John Garland.

Mike came to Pauline's flat and said, "Well, the production's finished, so I'm returning these things of yours I borrowed for it. Did you see the play? Did you like it?"
    "Yes, I did see it", Pauline replied, "but now you mention it: no, I didn't like it at all".
    "Oh? And may I ask why not?"
    "Well, for a start; it's hardly a new concept, is it: a shortened version of Macbeth in modern dress. And Phil Duckworth was easily the worst Macbeth I've ever seen: to describe him as wooden would be an understatement. I suppose you had to choose him because he was the only man in the cast capable of remembering his lines. And as for having the three witches as a kind of drug dream under strobe lights: that should have come with a taste warning instead of a health one!"
  "I see. And did it perhaps occur to you that the intention was to show Macbeth as a rather dim soldier who suffered from delusions because of post-traumatic stress, so it was all deliberate?"
   "So you say. But I say Phil's just a rotten actor. Period".
   "Well, I can see there's no point trying to debate the point with you. But what about Samantha Johnson as Lady Macbeth? Wasn't she terrific? She'd never acted before, you know. Talk about undiscovered talent! Now she wants to be a professional actress; full-time!"
   "And that's another thing. What on earth possessed you to depict Lady Macbeth as some kind of tarty teenager? It wasn't even funny!"
    "Why shouldn't she be a teenager? There's nothing in the play to say how old she is. And Shakespeare's plays are full of teenagers. Look at Romeo and Juliet; and for that matter, Richard III and Anne Nevill in their first scene. So why not Lady Macbeth too? And Sam played the part so well!"
    "Look, Mike; I've known Sam Johnson for a lot longer that you have, and I can tell you, she's nothing more than a common little scrubber. So for her to play a tarty teenager wasn't acting at all: she just had to behave naturally! As a matter of fact, I can see her as a professional actress: on porn videos for sale on the internet; that'd be just her style. And I know perfectly well why you picked her for the part. You've always fancied her, haven't you? and you thought selecting her for the leading part would increase your chances: the old casting couch, of course. Well? Did your cunning plan succeed?"
   Mike stood up to go. "And I know perfectly well why you're being so rude", he said."You're angry because when I asked you if you wanted to help with the production, you said no. Either you were just too idle, or more likely you chickened out. Now I've had to work bloody hard on it, but I've achieved something - and I can tell you, a lot of people liked the play, for all your sneering - and you've achieved nothing. You're jealous!"
    "I wouldn't have wanted to be associated with rubbish like that, thank you very much!"
    Mike snorted and left the room noisily.


The next visitor was Sam Johnson. Instead of her normal scruffy jeans, she was wearing a new dress in what looked like an expensive Designer style. How on earth could Sam have afforded that, Pauline wondered.
   "Hiya!" said Sam in her usual slovenly voice, "I was packin' up my stuff an' I found I'd got these CDs an' fings belongin' to you, so I fought I'd better bring 'em back before I left".
   "I like the dress", said Pauline.
   "Nice, innit?  This guy: he saw me in the play, an' he giv me this dress!"     
   "Are you going away? with him?"
  "Yeah! He's a film director, an' he wants me ter come down ter London ter work for him. Short stuff to start wiv. Adverts; fings like that."

    Pauline thought any comment on her part would be superfluous. 

Taking a Photograph, by C. R. T.

 Our new vicar had asked me to take some photos of the church in a neighbouring village, so I walked there on a path through the woods one very hot afternoon.

   The church was small and built of red sandstone, which was somewhat decayed in the tower which stood at the western end. I stood in the churchyard to the south to take my pictures, but found the view was interrupted by a number of ancient gravestones. One of them, facing the south-west corner, was the size and shape of a cabin trunk and covered in moss; its inscription left quite illegible. I climbed on top for a better view of the church, saying to the unknown occpant as I did so, "Please excuse me for this indignity; the vicar asked me to do it. I promise to say a prayer and put some money in the collection-box when I'm done!"

  I took several pictures from this position before dismounting and walking to the church door. I noticed high up on either side of the entrance two peculiar faces carved in the crumbling red stone. The right hand one was clearly a cat, grinning, but the one on the left, being somewhat decayed, was so grotesque as to be neither clearly human or demonic. It had its mouth open in a snarl, revealing a scattering of teeth. I took a photograph of it, and made a mental note to ask the vicar about it, before entering the church.

   Inside it was rather dark, but I couldn't see any way of switching on lights. There was a rather heavy rood screen, beyond which was an altar with no cross on it. The silence was absolute. I attempted to take a photograph, but my camera was dead. The battery must have expired, and I had forgotten to bring a spare. Damn!

  For no good reason, I felt increasingly uneasy. In consequence I muttered even the most perfunctory prayer before retreating, and on failing to find any collection box for my promised offering fled the building in a somewhat ignominious manner. I took one glance backwards as I walked out through the churchyard. The cat was still grinning at me; not, I thought, in a very friendly fashion. 

   As I passed through the gate I heard a bell toll, to sound the hour, I supposed; and an unpleasing sound it was; less a deep tone than something resembling an old saucepan being struck with a ladle.

   My uneasiness persisted in my journey home through the woods. I kept glancing back to see if anything was following me, though I never saw anything, nor did I meet a single person, and I was glad to reach home intact.

   That night I dreamed that a hooded and shrouded figure was standing beside my bed and leaning over me. I could not tell whether it was a man, a woman, or some creature that was entirely unhuman. I dreaded that the figure might throw back its hood, revealing the grotesque face I had seen on the church, opening its mouth wide and grinning with anticipation of a bite. In a cold sweat of fear I woke up and sat bolt upright.

   "It's not my fault!" I exclaimed out loud. " I didn't mean to insult you! The vicar asked me to take a photo! It was the only way I could do it!"

Turning the Dial, by Brian Bilston