Iona, by Martin Needham

  Miss Wood had always had a reservation about her parents' choice of honeymoon venue. She completely appreciated the romance of sailing two-handed around the beautiful scenery in glorious June sunshine in a generously proportioned but yare yacht with those gorgeous deep crimson sails that you see on the old Thames barges. It was also kind of cute to think that she had been rocked into existence on a gentle swell when they dropped anchor in  the blue waters of a secluded white-sanded cove on one of the islands.  However, Iona had had to deal with the consequences of their resulting choice of name for thirty years now. How tiring sometimes were the smirks and smart-aleck quips about her name.

“What’s your name, darling?”

“Iona Wood”

“Does it have many trees?”

“Is it pretty?”

“Is it for sale?”

“Does your undergrowth need thinning?”

Men's chat-up lines could be so tiring, and so immediately off-putting.

Didn't her parents even think about it? Try it out before hand? What was wrong with Ilsa, Alisa or even at a push Skye? Still it could have been worse: she sometimes reflected on the implications of being called Tobermory, Eigg or Muck.

With the onset of dating, Iona began to imagine more seriously the possibility of a name change. Surely Iona Jones wouldn't raise a smirk, or Iona Davies, but what about Iona Gunn?

   Iona began to view not just her name, but the whole issue of fate, in a different way when she met Michael. A few weeks into their relationship he took her to his family’s holiday cottage: an ancient mill house set in five acres of lush deciduous woodland at the bottom of a secluded Cornish coombe. They spent a glorious summer holiday clearing pathways in their private wildlife-packed sanctuary. They sipped champagne in an ice-bucket that floated alongside their feet as they dangled their toes in the old millrace.  They built a fabulous treehouse bedroom that swayed gently as they lay in each others' arms through that first passionate summer.  Wedding plans swiftly followed and she longed  for the moment when someone would ask her name. In her head she rehearsed the conversation as she answered, "Iona Small-Wood". “Is it pretty?” they would ask. And she would say “Yes it's absolutely beautiful"

And so it was.

That sometimes are a nuisance..... by Newena Martin

Two handsome young men came into the Anglo-Welsh Poets' meeting last month at the Loggerheads, at closing time. Both were musicians of some repute in the region. Nearly all the regulars had gone by that time, but the remaining few of us were treated to a dirty ditty, apparently from the West Midlands industrial district, which had been passed down to one of these young men by his father (also a well-known musician) who had grown up in the nether regions of Brum. The ditty was deeply contemptuous of women, and ended with the title of this piece. I am moved to describe us from a more respectful standpoint,that I think I could - if they were capable of taking a respectful standpoint, of course - afford them great pleasure; even ecstasy, enthusiasm and joy, and diminish the obvious boredom and cynicism with which they were afflicted.

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

Imagine! You are a knight in shining armour, and you approach the castle wherein the Sleeping Beauty dreams. You are faced with a thorn thicket of a century's growth. Your sword can cut through it, but nonetheless in the process of cutting your face and arms will be severely scratched, your hair entangled in the briars and your horse bloodied.

You are an inexperienced virgin.

Imagine instead, the power of unseen energy created from love, that folds back the impotent thicket as the Red Sea was parted by Moses. Now you may be no more than gently and erotically brushed  as you pass through this gateway; so much so that you may even wish to linger and not to pass too quickly, lest the delicious sensation be over too soon. You hold your breath and short, heavy gasps escape you. But you cannot hold on to anything indefinitely, and eventually you reach the end of this pathway of primrose dalliance.
     But you don't arrive on a firm shore as Moses did; instead you fly over your horse's head and tumble into a warm and slippery world that is soft and fluid, giving and molding, where you can dive and play as children did in haystacks and piles of cushions.
   No! I hear you cry; it's not like that at all: it's dry and unresponsive and very uncomfortable. Well then: you were too impatient and didn't dally long enough on the primrose path. Or perhaps you are inadequately endowed; in which case I don't know what to suggest. Surgery could be risky, Viagra won't work if there's nothing to work on, and your nerve-endings may have been debollocked by eating and drinking and proprietary chemical products; or alternatively you just waited too long and the Sleeping Beauty woke up alone and boiled a kettle without you.
    Or maybe she's not your shape of Sleeping beauty anyway?

So it's all a question of how you perceive it and how you approach it, and also finding the right match; for the Kama Sutra tells us we are of three matching kinds and do have a suitable partner somewhere.
   So next time you approach the castle,stand up in your stirrups and offer a prayer, and then proceed with awareness and sensitivity on this wondrous journey. Pray that it be granted to you to have found a perfect match (for that truly is a gift of the Goddess to be treasured): a whole world; a field you will be able to plough and seed and harvest for ever, and which will become ever more fertile and productive of pleasure as you honour it with the energy of your love.

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                                            Afterplay

Yes! We need afterplay as well as foreplay!

The muck and brass of industrialism and technology's over-intellectually-focused mindpower are light years away from the spiritual energy of love.

Happy Christmas!

Happy Christmas to all our readers and authors!

Patrol, by Pat Edwards

The unmarked car moved slowly up the road, occasionally exposed by the flashes and streaks of multi-coloured  lights and illuminations. It drove to the end of the road, completed a very neat and quick manoeuvre in order to turn around,  before coming to a halt outside one particularly brightly-lit house on the terrace.

With just a knowing look to one another, the officers got out of the car, donned their headgear and proceeded towards the front door of number sixteen. The female officer pressed the door bell long and hard, and both officers scrutinised the street for signs of movement. There was none, save the intermittent and persistent flashing of lights everywhere. After what seemed an age, a teenage boy came to the door. “Alright?” he grunted with that tell-tale chin jerk perfected by the young. “Are your parents in?” asked the male officer. “Yeah, I'm pretty sure one of 'em's in” he responded, shouting for his siblings to fetch Mum or Dad, whichever they could locate. There was a slightly awkward silence as the two officers and the boy stood in the doorway, the boy inept at small talk and the officers unwilling to disclose their business with anyone but the boy's parents.

The male officer pulled what looked like some sort of meter reader from his jacket pocket, stepped back a little way into the front garden, and began adjusting the settings on the device. It began to buzz gently and emit other purring electronic sounds. The female officer shifted nervously. The boy strained to try to get a look at the gadget.

The boy's mother appeared from down the hallway, slightly irked at being disturbed and by the fact not one of her children seemed able to deal with whatever it was. “Can I help?” she asked. The officers clearly felt instinctively that the message they had to deliver would be better heard by both adults in the household. “Is your husband at home?” enquired the female officer. Now the woman of the house was even more irritated and, with a look of disdain, shouted up the stairs for her husband to come. She folded her arms sternly and remarked “Why you feel the need to disturb the pair of us beats me” before shouting her husband again, this time louder. He came running down the stairs. “Alright, alright, where's the fire?”

By the time the man arrived, the boy had removed himself from the scene, anticipating that his presence was no longer required. “So, what's this about?” said the man. The two officers eyed one another cautiously, as if knowing all too well what a shock this was going to be, and just how annoyed the couple were likely to get. The male officer initiated proceedings. “Are you aware that you are in contravention of the Illuminated Christmas Decorations Act 2015, sub-section D1 Domestic and Small Business, paragraph 7 Roofs, Gardens and Front Windows?”

At this the couple first looked utterly flummoxed, but this quickly turned to amusement and then to raucous laughter. “Ha ha, very funny. So which one of our neighbours has set you up to this then?” asked the man. “It'll be Gail and Frank, I'll bet you” grinned his wife. But the officers did not flinch and looked straight back at the couple without changing their serious expressions. “I'm afraid we often get this reaction Sir” said the woman officer. Her colleague continued “most households seem to be very unfamiliar with the legislation. It came onto the statute books earlier this year but I fear many home owners either claim to have had no warning or to have never heard of it. Of course, ignorance is no excuse and we are duty-bound to exercise our right to issue fines in accordance with our meter readings.”

“Your what?” laughed the woman. The male officer once again engaged his device which whirred and clicked until he was able to turn it for them to see. “Your Christmas lights are showing a reading of 118.6 and this is a category F breach of the code, which carries a £35 fine per twenty units and...” The officer was forced to trail off by howls of laughter from the pair, whose three children had all come to the door to find out what on earth was causing such a commotion.

“What's so funny Dad?” yelled one. “Why all the hilarity?” shouted the next. “Come on, let us in on the joke” urged the last. “These two pranksters are trying to tell us our Christmas lights are breaking some law or other and blah, blah something about breaching codes and being fined” explained Dad. With considerable difficulty, the female officer tried to get a word in edgeways, until finally she was able to make herself heard. “This really is no laughing matter, Sir. This is absolutely a very real and serious affair and something that we would ask you to attend to with immediate effect. You can escape the higher tariff fine if you are able to turn off the lights now, this very minute, or you can decide to continue displaying your lights after the cool-off period of one hour and incur the maximum penalty.”

The family looked at one another with an array of expressions ranging from amusement to anguish, and gave out feeble grunts and murmurs of disbelief mixed with mild panic. They were totally at a loss as to whether or not they had just been transported to another dimension, where reality was merging with fiction and everything they held dear was slipping away. The looks on the faces of the two officers and the device pointing out their transgression in cold, blue digital numbers, was just enough to convince them this was really happening.

The man walked slowly back into the depths of the house whilst the others stood in silence. Suddenly, all the bulbs, all the tubes of colour and sparkle ceased. The roof, the trees in the garden, the window frames and eaves fell into darkness and the male officer printed off an invoice from his device and presented it to the family. The door closed and the two officers returned to their car and drove slowly away.

A Sort of Wisdom, by Catherine Redfern

  

It was not until this April afternoon as she was driving home from the second visit to the specialist that Anna realised old age could be completely sidestepped.  As casually as she pulled down the sun visor to shut out the bright glare, death was leaning forward into the present and was about to shutter out the rest of her life.

She'd arrived home and done the usual things: kicked off her shoes, made a cup of coffee, hesitated at the stereo. She chose Bach and the taut control of Glen Gould.  She sat with her favourite chair tilted back and watched the swaying branches of the mulberry tree.  The tree was one of the reasons they had bought this little Victorian Gothic house, had gone well beyond what they had worked out was the maximum they could afford.  Each autumn, as they squelched their way to the arched front door, Bob would say: “You realise we are treading on ten thousand pounds worth of fruit that we don’t even use.”    Like cantering horses at the circus that appear to move to the rhythm of the music, the green branches drifted and danced, interweaving with the counterpoint of Bach’s fugue.

Of course she was numbed.  That must be so or how could she be sitting here so calmly.  Or was it that, far from being numbed, her mind was racing, cunningly refusing to focus, and thus allowing her time. She even flicked through the evening paper.  There was a last minute ad for the coach trip to Brussels that Molly and she had talked of going on. After looking in her diary Molly had had to back out:” Wouldn’t you know!  There’s the school “Hamlet”.  Tommy’s the father’s ghost. Damn! Damn!  All mothers go to heaven, Anna, - even I will.”   Anna had no doubt of it, if there were a heaven.

   Not now.  This was not the moment to consider an after life, continuance in some form.  If she hadn’t been able to contemplate it for Bob, she was surely not now going to demand it for herself.  They had talked of it in his last weeks, and she had been fastidiously honest saying that she felt we live on only in the memories of those that had loved us.  Bob had smiled “A good place to live on, Anna.  If the memories are happy ones”

     “Do you doubt it?”

     “No, but perhaps they could be richer.” He had taken her hand:” Opportunities missed, things not said…”  His hand so thin, skin sunken between the bones.

     “The memories are rich, Bob.  How could they not be?  And perhaps there is more that memory.  What you’ve given me - tolerance, music, a way of looking at life – what I’ve become: a grafting of some sort.”

Later, when the leukaemia had  triumphed, and the hospital had ceased giving transfusions, Bob had said: “Memories won't be enough, Anna.  You must marry again.  Someone else should know the love that you have given me.”  Anna had held his weak body and they had wept quietly together.

She had not married again.  There had been one or two encounters, brief, tentative.  She accepted that the flesh is strong, but loneliness of body was more easily assuaged than loneliness of heart. At forty-five she felt no more than a shell, hollow, faded, full of the echoes of what had been.  How could she take when she had nothing to give?  And lately the niggling pain had started, becoming more intrusive, until she had made the appointment to see her doctor.

The phone rang.  It was Molly. “How did it go, Anna?”

     “Okay.  I have to go back in a fortnight.”  It would be Molly that she would turn to.  But not yet.  For Molly’s sake and her own she must absorb it herself first.

    “How are things with you, Molly?”

      “Don’t ask!  We could have bumped into each other at the General.  I’ve spent most of the day in A and E with Tommy.  He’s broken his ankle in a rugby match!”

  “Oh, poor boy! I’m sorry!  Oh dear!  What about Hamlet?

    “Alright, I think. The ghost is supposed to thump about isn’t it? Tommy says he’s just got one of the props ahead of time. So, you see, if we’d gone ahead with the Brussels plan I would have had to pull out.  I’ll be ferrying Tommy everywhere for weeks.”

   “I see there are still seats.”

   “Don’t tempt me.  You could still go though, Anna.  Why don’t you? In celebration of no bad news.  You were worried, weren’t you?”

And half an hour later it was settled. She had rung the coach company, a small local firm,

 given her Visa details, and was told to be at the Market Square next morning at 11.30.  It was flight of course, a false escape, an unreadiness to sit quietly and face facts, make plans.  She knew that, but she sensed too that to succumb to these few days of evasion could be a sort of wisdom

The coach left on time.  Anna sat behind Jack, the driver, who was eating wine gums, sometimes pressing in three at a time.  Wine Gum Jack.  He was keen, anxious, that they should all enjoy themselves.  Already, down the M1, lurching nonchalantly between lanes, he was laying before them the pleasures to come.

       “The trip to the battlefield is on Wednesday, folks.” This “folks” surprised Anna at first, but between announcements the menace of silence was staved off by his Country and Western tapes.

Molly and she had not planned to go on the various trips that were part of this package holiday.  It was still a bargain to be taken door to door and stay in a good hotel in the centre of the city. They had planned to wander about, window shop, visit some of the museums and art galleries, sit in cafes and eat calorie-laden cakes

          “And then, on Thursday  …” He seemed aware of the dichotomy of inviting his flock to enjoy their holiday while visiting scenes of carnage.  He stressed that it is all in the past - terrible, of course, we must never forget. No, we must never forget.

            His voice kept breaking in,, interrupting Anna’s thoughts, but feeding them too. As events recede into the past they are less painful.  It was this that Anna had resented:  Time, the great healer, muffling intensity with its scar tissue.  Well, Time was about to veer to its other pole: Time, the implacable destroyer.

And now the ferry.  A quiet crossing.  The sea was still; so calm that fog drifted over it. Engines quietened and speed slackened. The grey-white sea was segmented by three white rails and a seagull drifted by, a grey-white echo that slipped into the mist.  Muted, silent colours.  It seemed strange that calm can generate danger.  In this fog someone could slip into the leaden water unseen.  Perhaps a head might be turned a moment in idle enquiry at the sound.  Nothing more.  Anna thought of Auden’s lines on the Bruegel painting:

                                        “how everything turns away
                          Quite leisurely from disaster"

                      

She had always liked this poem, written in the contemplation of art, the poet acknowledging the voice of the painter.

                        “About suffering they were never wrong,

                          The Old Masters:  how well they understood

                           It’s human position: how it takes place

                           While someone else is eating, or opening a window or just
                          Walking dully along"
                         

  She would go and see “The Fall of  Icarus” while she was in Brussels. It might help her to accept this truth of the human condition: that suffering takes place while other lives go on. It must be so: the world cannot take on the burden of everyone’s pain.  It is universal, and it is solitary.

                            

     Anna went down below and sat at the  bar sipping her Chardonnay, thinking back.  Had she, had Bob, been uncaring in the face of human suffering?  Unexpectedly, inconveniently, the memory of a quarrel that they'd had came into her mind.  Serious in that they  had gone to bed in anger, something they had vowed never to do. And yet the quarrel's origin was so trivial.  They'd been watching the 10 o'clock news waiting for the Monty Python that was to follow.  An earthquake in Sarawak.  800 dead, more tremors expected.  She had ridiculed Bob for asking where Sarawak was. Was it in India he'd asked. “That school of yours!  They should have brought you in from the playing fields occasionally”.  He'd got his own back,  asking which way the Pyrenees ran,  Delighted that she'd said “North , south” he shouted in triumph: “Ha, smarty -pants They run east, west.  I just heard a boy of twelve get that right  so you can stop ramming your A Level Geography down my throat”.   The Monty Python was switched off.  With an attempt at casual dignity Anna had said “I don't think I'm in the mood for comedy.”

   A double bed is an  unwilling accomplice to a quarrel. .  They lay turned away from each other , fighting the pull of gravity that the centre of the bed exerted.  The brush of a foot was intrusive, the touch of a thigh, unbearable.   Anna couldn't bring herself to give the caress, or utter the words needed.  Generous, not given to holding grudges, Bob would have pulled her to him  with some murmured nonsense.  But the silence , pregnant at first, lasted too long. It  became drained of possibilities, a void. Bob slipped into sleep and Anna lay alone.

And Sarawak? The images of destruction, the rushing ambulances, the dazed, grief-stricken women rocking back and forth by the rubble of their homes.  As they lay unmoving neither Anna nor Bob gave a thought to the earthquake continuing its destruction..  Auden  was right.  We choose not to see;

     

                             “everything turned away

                   Quite leisurely from disaster:  the ploughman may

                   Have heard the splash,the forsaken cry,

                    But for him it was not an important failure.”

 

And for them the 800 dead was not an important failure. It was the events in their own lives that mattered. Anna sat motionless, absorbed by her flickering thoughts, although aware of the lurching shudder of the ship docking and of passengers moving towards the stair-wells.  Perhaps our humanity is frail, a small candle glow which reaches only those nearest us.  Was that achievement enough?

  Some-one touched her arm.  It was Wine-Gum Jack.  “Are you alright, love? Time to get back in the saddle again.”

  

Something Missing, by Peter Morford

A hacker has drawn this extract from the private memoirs of Mr Cedric Macleod, MBE

People tell me I look much younger than my 50 years, that I have the unmarked face of a man with no worries.

            Not entirely true.  To get where I am today, Chief Executive of the largest Quango in the UK, I have had my share of worries and responsibility.

             I have been criticised for having a serious outlook on life. My answer is to say that life is hard and to make progress is harder still.  I have never understood why so many people take a frivolous view of the world. People say that I never smile in photographs and  I say how inane the grinners at the camera appear to be.  Think of the typical “family” picture; everyone grinning because someone told them to. Even worse is the social picture with all the smilers grasping a drink for support.

I therefore make a point of staring impassively at the camera.

            At University I avoided the drinkers. There is nothing funny about intoxication when it interferes with one’s studies.  The strong work ethic inherited from my father would more than compensate for any intellectual shortcomings and I graduated with a respectable 2.2 in Business Studies.

            On my father’s advice I joined the local Council as a graduate trainee in the Planning Dept.  By 25 I was Senior assistant to the Deputy Director of Social Amenities (Social Interface and Racial Equality Department.)

            Two years and a promotion later my parents said it was time I found a house and a wife. Father said that he would be sad if our family name died out.  It was up to me.

            I looked round my office for a likely female candidate.  The trouble was, they all seemed so silly, giggly, only interested in frivolous things like fashion, TV soaps, dancing and tuneless music.

            Nevertheless, rather at random, I invited Betty for coffee at The Bistro.  She wanted to see a film and I obligingly took her.  It turned out to be a comedy. Betty laughed with delight and explained some of the jokes to me. I might have smiled because she said I looked much better when I relaxed. Smiling doesn’t come naturally to me. Comedians and farcical drama have never amused me. Visual humour of the banana-skin variety leaves me cold. As for puns….

            I tried again. Donna was pretty and, I knew, good at her job.  I took her to see Macbeth and she politely told me afterwards that she had never liked the play at school and liked it less now. Still, Thanks for a lovely evening.

            I considered a few more candidates but all seemed somehow to slip away from me.

            To my parents’ relief I moved to a new job fifty miles away. For the next few months I was so busy reorganising my new department that there was little time for socialising.

            Then I met Jennifer. She was 30, a lawyer, unattached, no children. We both knew this was a trial run when she moved in with me. Unfortunately I soon found that she made light of many things which were serious.  Her clients, for example, seemed to amuse her, particularly a regular burglar who had what she described as wit. She had more sympathy for drunks than seemed reasonable for an upholder of the Law. We both moved on to seek new partners.

            By any normal standards my career has been successful. I have a reasonable income and have invested wisely. I am young enough to have a few more profitable moves in my career. I might, before it is too late, find a woman to help me preserve the family name.

            I am often interviewed by the media.  Last week an impertinent young woman on Newsnight thought she was being clever when she asked me “Mr.Macleod, how do you justify your salary of £500,000?”

            “Five hundred and seventy-five,” I said.

            “Sorry, Five-seven-five… when your Department has recently had its powers and function, even purpose, reduced to practically nothing?”

            I had the answer. “Public authorities must draw on the best talent and pay accordingly.  I could earn considerably more in the private sector but I have a sense of duty.”

            She bowled me a bouncer. “Mr Macleod, you’re well-known for your frequent moves. I see you’ve received golden handshakes from the NHS – twice – several Councils and other Non-Government bodies. I suppose that you’d be prepared to move again for the right golden handshake and more money?”

            “Do you know something I don’t know?” I asked.

            “Only joking,” she said.

            “I never joke.”

            “Think what you’re missing,” she said.

            As I left the studio I reminded myself that I was rich and successful. If people said I lacked a sense of humour, so be it. I was having the last laugh, so to speak.

Albion Falls, by Steve Harrison

“Which round you got Norman?”

“Albion Falls”

(A vertical smorgasbord of debt and smut: a social worker's casebook, but with a refurbished working lift)

“Bills and Giros and Ann Summers then?" 
“Not now Derek; it’s going up in the world; aspirational, post and parcels of a better class”.

Norm liked to play detective, cover the address on the mis-shaped packages and letters and guess the recipient from the shape, postage, sender and rattle of each.

It was a Monday so the extra eBay shopping would be pushing his bag to its constructivist limit.

He liked wearing the bag with its leather strap; felt like a cowboy with a saddle bag unleashed; no chaps and then the grey shorts spoiled the image, and so too the bracelet of elastic bands.

The rusting piss-stained lift had been cleaned and flowers decorated the balconies.

Gentrification was looked down on by some, but to a postie it couldn’t come soon enough.

Let the guessing games commence.

Mmm, Package anonymously addressed, should be Cynthia’s, number 4. He was sure he once saw a minor MP on the stairs avoiding the lift.

     Next; ‘Lakeland Artist materials’, not enough postage, that’ll be Jean number 7. He’d ignore the payment she owed and hope to squeeze it through the tattered letter box rather than having to face her poignant disappointment if he turned down the invite to tea and biscuits.

     Next ; tricky! ‘Argo Security Systems’, well packed; maybe number 2 checking on the neighbours; or crazy Gino trying to film the moving furniture. Gino; recipient of crucifixes, garlic bulbs and amethysts; sure that the lovely women next door had contrived to defy gravity and move his sofa. “What do you think of the crazy witches next door?” he’d been asked by Gino, while getting him to sign for the garlic or whatever was in the box marked ‘Bulbs: handle with care’

    Ms Lloyd Smithson and Miss Wright: recipients of post cards, seed catalogues and love film by post, so too busy to fulfil his demon fantasies. 
    Maybe he could swap a few letters and parcels “a-l’Amelie”, carefully chosen so lonely numbers could receive mistaken mail, He could give fate a nudge, like some god on high, and Jean would meet the lovely person in number 8 and have a subject for tea for tea and sympathy.

Lost, by Anthony Bloor

It came as a great shock when I learnt that I too had that terrible disease. The latest memories are the first to fade but the earliest, the very earliest memories - they’re the last to vanish. And when I thought about this, I decided this was how it should be. Because the news is so awful these days, and the world has become a scary place. Best not to think about it. Whereas my earliest memories are of happier days, so it’s good that they should stay for as long as… as long as… And my house is full of nice things: photographs and old postcards, which help me to remember the happy times. I can’t wait to get back home, surrounded by the familiar, looking at bric-a-brac, and remembering how they arrived into my world of things. If only… If only I could remember… where I live.

A Singularity, by Graham Attenborough

I've read the book of course. Very entertaining. I enjoyed it. The author knew a lot about me clearly, despite not citing the source of her knowledge. Actually I still have my original copy purchased in London in 1819 the year after it was published. I can only assume that she had heard rumours of my existence and the terrible events thereafter because I'm certain I never met the lady and even if I had, I would have denied everything.

In a way though her novel was gratifyingly useful to me. On the one hand it meant that any lingering belief that I actually existed was soon swept away and replaced by her erudite fiction. On the other, I have always felt rather proud to have been so celebrated in such a famous book. Not to mention all the rewrites and movies that have been made about me since.

Of course, the story that everyone is familiar with only recounts my early years and ends in my apparent death. So be it. Let everyone think of me as as fictional character long dead. But in reality, the end of that story was merely the beginning for I did not die with my father (if I may call him that), even though it had been my intention. No, death is not an option for me. I have been stoned, stabbed, shot, and hanged but the flame of life burns strong within this misshapen body. It will not be snuffed out. It burns still and is as fierce as ever it was.

I suppose that my deathless existence is the consequence of my never having been born. I was never a minute egg fertilised by any fathers seed. I did not float safely within any mothers womb growing from a tiny, lizard-like foetus into a bouncing babe pulled out into the world screaming. Instead I was created. Fully formed. A monstrous adult sewn and stitched together in the name of hubris. A hideous experiment gone wrong.   

Shelly was right to subtitle her story A Modern Prometheus but not because, as she saw it, my father gave me life but because he created a kind of god, a demiurge, an immortal. One who has lived and prospered among you for almost three hundred years. Truth be told, after such a shaky start, my life thus far has been a great success.

But there is a price. Those I love grow old beside me. They die and leave me alone once more. That is my fate: to be forever alone. To be constantly readjusting to suit the coming new age. To see everything but to never be truly apart of it.

I am unique. One of a kind. A singularity. I have no soul you see, no coming death. I exist with the darkest knowledge: that I shall never find redemption.

Matthew Moon, by Jo Wallis

At school he was always the awkward one in class, the one who made his teachers feel they really should try harder: try harder to find a latent talent, try harder to coax a smile or an opinion, try harder  to find him a friend.                                                                                                                                  

In final year at primary, Matthew had been last to be matched up in the school-wide penfriend scheme because he’d been unable to list any hobbies or interests; now fourteen and at secondary school he was still stolidly unknown.

Birthdays and Christmas had always been a challenge. Matthew didn’t make or draw things; he didn’t care for collecting; sports, music, and pets bored him; he didn’t like cooking, wasn’t keen on the outdoors. Book tokens expired dustily on his windowsill. Despite his mother’s suggestions, he would never agree to host a party because he didn’t know who to invite.

Matthew spent hours in his bedroom – a typical teenager, his mother said optimistically – and all he did was lie on his bed, staring silently at the ceiling.

He didn’t get into trouble; he didn’t get into anything.

One evening Mrs Moon noticed the back door was ajar and, looking out, she saw Matthew flat on his back in the middle of their little lawn (much prized in that part of London).

Whatever are you doing? she called.

Looking at the sky, said Matthew, his face mushroom-like in the kitchen light.

And most evenings that summer if Matthew wasn’t lying on his bed he’d be stretched out on the grass. Mrs Moon told her friends with some relief that she knew what he’d be getting for his fifteenth, since he’d developed a strong interest in astronomy.

Matthew didn’t shake the long cylindrical box he found on the birthday breakfast table, nor did his excitement quite match his mother’s when he finally opened it.

Mrs Moon expected Matthew to carry his telescope straight out into the garden that evening; instead he took it and his four cards quietly up to his room after tea.

I expect he’s waiting for it to go properly dark, Mrs Moon sighed, and then, later, he won’t get a view of the sky from up there, she worried, picturing banks of terraces one after another giddily jostling all the way to the city.

You’ll be better taking it in the garden, she called up the stairs.

Matthew didn’t reply. She guessed he’d turned in. He often went to bed early.

In the morning Mrs Moon asked Matthew if he’d liked his present. I’ve kept the receipt if it’s not right, she said.

Mum, it’s great, he said, I love it.

Oh, said Mrs Moon, thrilled by his show of enthusiasm, Oh I am glad.

That evening: a hammering at the door, an angry, impatient drumming. Alright, alright, said Mrs Moon, looking for her slippers as she left the sofa.

Mr Alford from across the road was on the doorstep. Your son, he said, disregarding her hello, your bloody gormless son.

Mrs Moon blinked, closed the door a little.

What’s the matter?

That telescope, spat Mr Rutherford.

Oh yes, Matthew loves his star-gazing.

Star-gazing..? How stupid are you? If he doesn’t stop training that bloody telescope on my Evie’s bedroom window I’ll make sure he’s seeing stars alright!

  

Years that slip past in a moment, by Peter Morford

            The sign over the man’s bed tells you that his name is Steven Hunter, aged 75; next of kin, his wife. Supervising Doctor: Oliver Pearson.  There follows a number of letters and numbers which mean little to the layman.

          The patient is now well enough to be propped up against a pile of pillows. He smiles politely when a nurse helps him with his dinner. When she goes he shuts his eyes to conserve his energy.  Perhaps he sleeps.

          Music plays softly on his personal radio. He smiles.

          It’s a woman singing. In the magical way of music it takes him back 60 years to the first day of the new school year.       Mr May, the Head was speaking. “This morning we’ll listen to a wonderful piece of music: Oh Silver Moon, sung by Rita Streich.”

          Even now, decades later, after many repetitions, the music still makes his spine tingle. He can see Mr May’s tall military figure, white hair cut short and parted in the middle, deep-cut lines in his cheeks; hear his London accent, rather comical in rural Hampshire; see his rapt attention as the notes die away before he stands up to continue the Assembly.

          Hunter winds back to his first meeting with Mr May. He was eleven and it was touch and go whether he would win the essential scholarship. His exam results were almost good enough and it now all depended on the interview.  But somehow he must have convinced the Head and his two aides that he was worth the gamble. Mr May had asked him what were his interests.

          “Astronomy, Sir.”

          Two more questions and the young candidate had rattled off his ideas about atoms, planets, stars and galaxies which he had fortuitously read in Children’s Encyclopaedia.

         

          Now, in his hospital bed, there is more music. Classic FM’s doing me proud this morning, he thought, his mind wandering back to his early career. As soon as he could he had escaped from his small town and headed for The City. 

          His old eyes are open now, staring at the plain wall. His thin lips stretch into a ghost of a smile because he’s reliving his youth. Playing records in his rooms with a few friends, going to concerts when he could afford it, taking Elaine to the theatre and to Cornwall, and eventually, up the aisle.

***********

         

We think we know all about time. We are watched by CCTV. A grocer’s receipt will tell you that on the 5^th June, at 10.47.05 you bought a quart of milk. Our phone, satnavs and computers record our every movement to the second.

          Time is the fourth dimension, we are told. Our ancestors divided the terrestrial year into days, hours and minutes.  They built Stonehenge, the Pyramids, Newgrange, Maiden Castle and eventually, sundials and mechanical clocks.

          Yet to the individual, time is a flexible abstract thing.  When the dentist says that he will only need to drill for 3 minutes you, the patient, grunt in agreement. There you are, plugged, gagged, sucking an inefficient saliva pump, wanting to swallow. He drills and drills. You begin to wonder if you put enough money in the parking meter.

          “There,” he says brightly, “That didn’t take long, did it? I’ll drill the other one now.”

          You bravely try to nod.

          Time moves all too slowly for a child because he spends so much of it just waiting.  Waiting for the boring lesson to end; wondering why they have to sing every damned verse and chorus of the hymn. Waiting impatiently for the match to start; wondering are we there yet? Waiting anxiously for puberty; counting down the days before we can get a driving licence. He wants the future now.

          His first 15 years drag like twenty.

          Later, as he watches his own children grow, time has shrunk. Suddenly it’s “Surely they’re not 16 already.”

          Then, years later, he feels that his grandchildren’s progress from infancy to adolescence was in virtually no time at all.  He miscalculates the recent past.

          Ask him: “When did you last go to Paris?”

          “About four years ago.”

          It was actually ten. “Who captained England in the last Ashes Series?

          “I don’t know.  But I can tell you it was Wally Hammond in 1946 and in the 1947 season Dennis Compton scored 3816 runs”

          Our short term memory is unreliable. We forget recent names yet could reel off scores, maybe hundreds, of former school-mates and work colleagues from 50 years ago.

          I knew a man who had been a Pathfinder during the War.  He flew nearly a hundred sorties over Germany, lighting the way for the bombers behind him. He had crash-landed in Holland, been sheltered by brave Dutchmen, smuggled back to England and further duties. He had an AFC.

          Like many others, he rarely spoke about the War.  Instead, he wrote it all down and one day invited me to read his account.  We call them Charlie’s Posthumous Papers. They will never be published unless his great grandchildren find a way of putting them on Amazon.

          What does all this tell us about time?  According to Arthur C Clarke in Songs of Distant Earth, an astronaut on a long voyage ages at a slower rate than do those he leaves behind. On his return from a ten- year voyage at something like the speed of light he will find Earth is hundreds of years older. Apparently the Large Hadron Collider confirms the theory.

          As we run out of future we refresh and review the past, making it the more vivid.

 

          Play the music and bring it all back!

The Moment, by Penny Simpson

This is the moment that I hoped would never arrive. I had got used to the implant in my right arm, to the two-roomed apartment, prompt health care and the reservist premium in my pay. I thought we would see it coming; our people’s hour of greatest need. That we would all feel threatened, sense impending disaster. If I imagined being called, it would be a heroic march to war with fond farewells, vibrato drums and chords. Side by side in step with my brave hooray fellows.

But today I am here alone. And the moment is worse than any fears. Instead of the buzzing I expected: a moment of panic and alarm before deciding to respond, I found myself walking past the entrance to my underground station. My mind turned left to walk down the steps but my legs walked straight on then around countless twists and turns to this market place where they stopped and won’t move another step.

I didn’t know I’d signed over control of my body. My mind is not affected. Or perhaps I only think it isn’t. So now the question is – what am I doing here? Where are the others? There’s no sign of anyone from the brigade I trained and convalesced with. Alone and unarmed, what am I supposed to do?

A crowd of children emerge from a narrow street onto an empty corner of the market playfully chasing a dog. They are laughing and shrieking. The dog runs silently away from them but not too fast; they are all playing. My eyes focus on the dog and I feel my finger rising. It twitches, I recoil. There is a moment, still and poised, before the dog stops running, the children stop and stare at the red flower growing on her silver fur. Then someone looks at me and points their finger. I am not sure whether it is their implant or my horror that roots me here. I cannot move but suddenly a clattering crowd of people armed with makeshift weapons surges for me. Sweat makes a break to leave my threatened body but there is nowhere else for me to be.

There is wailing. Getting louder, I hear it through the rain of blows. Then the crack of rifles firing, heavy polished boots shine through and disappear the crowd. Looking up the length of twenty rifles, I try to dare to speak. While comrades cover, one bends down, grabs my wrist, examines the flesh exploded to reveal the metal rim within, “This one’s been fired.”  “Could be an IED”, this second voice implants the thought that I now know as truth. That’s what I am. Not ticking but I feel the seconds counting.

Conversation, by Mike Prestwich

"The most frightening experience I ever had", said Nigel, "was when I was a student, living in lodgings in a scruffy part of town. I woke up in the middle of the night and found a man sitting on the end of my bed. It was too dark to see clearly, but it looked like he had a knife. He asked me, "Where's the drugs then?" I was terrified"
     "Did you think he was a burglar or a policeman?" asked Martin. "Because if you thought it was the police, you should have demanded to see his search-warrant".
    "I don't know what I thought. I was trembling all over and I couldn't even think straight, let alone talk coherently!"
     Martin said, "If I was sure it was a burglar, I'd have said the drugs were hidden in the kitchen, and I've have taken him there. Then I'd have grabbed the big kitchen knife, and I've had said, "I'm a trained fencer, so now I've got the advantage over you!" - though I suppose that legally I should have told him to clear out rather than just go for him".
    "It's all very well for you to talk! You weren't there! I bet you'd have been every bit as scared as I was! In the end he went away, but by that time I was a gibbering wreck! I couldn't sleep the rest of that night, and I couldn't face staying in those lodgings any longer. I went and dossed down with a friend until I found somewhere else to live. I still have nightmares about it".
    "So this intruder: he didn't find the drugs, then?" But Martin hardly bothered to listen to Nigel's reply. He was running through in his own mind how he would have seen off the intruder, or, if the man did after all prove to be a policeman, the sensation he would create in court with his brilliant orations in his own defence.

Deep Freeze, by Peter Morford

He was quite comfortable really, wrapped up like a space man; double- glazed goggles, moon boots in a temperature of minus 30 degrees centigrade.  At first it was silent and totally dark, but after a while he could hear a background hum, almost like tinnitus and, here and there, see tiny glimmers of light.  Otherwise, dark cold and quiet.

     His instructions were clear. “Do not move around – it could be dangerous. Rest. Even sleep. Save your energy.”

     He lowered himself to the hard floor and leaned against the wall. Perhaps he did doze.  He wasn’t sure. There was a rumbling and he knew the machines were moving. He might have imagined it, but he thought he could see a greater moving darkness; hear a faint hissing; see a tiny light snuffed behind a moving object.

   After a few minutes all was near-silence again. He was beginning to wonder if he was hearing and seeing things which weren’t there. He had no idea of the time. That was part of the experiment. Nothing happened until it all started again. Longer this time.

      He looked up to the roof, fifty metres above him.  The cold was reaching him now and it was an effort to control his shivering. He heaved himself up, stretched and swung his arms. Performed three perilous crouches.  “Don’t move around – it’s dangerous.”

        It shouldn’t be long, he thought. 

   More movement. He could see better now. Although the glimmers were like a fob-light seen from 100 metres he was aware now of what was going on. Around him, 24,000 tons of frozen food, stacked 24 pallets high.  Eight automatic cranes shuffling the stock, ready to find and despatch 240 pallets an hour to the trucks waiting in the collection bay. He may have dozed again.

       He felt a gentle kick on his shoulder. A man with a light in his hat gestured to him. His muffled voice said, “Congratulations.  You’ve made it. Come with me. You’ve earned your breakfast.”

      They passed through two sets of airlock doors into the dazzling light and oppressive heat of the control room.

            “It never ceases to amaze me the things people do to raise money for charity,” the manager said.

Church Cottage, by June Pettitt

The caw - caw of the rooks from the rookery in the tall beech trees was the only sound that broke the silence of the hot summer's day. Occasionally the song of a blackbird tried to compete, but the continuous noise would be too much and it would fly away in defeat.

  When Daisy first started to visit Church Cottage she had been constantly aware of their noise. She felt they were objecting to her presence.  Why shouldn't they? She was the stranger, an intruder, this was their domain, had been for centuries. Strangers were not welcome. From the beginning, when she had first found Church Cottage, she'd felt as if they were always watching her.

  Daisy had been on a touring holiday. When looking for somewhere to stay for the night she suddenly came across a sign: Bed and Breakfast, Church Cottage. Following the direction down a narrow country lane she was led into a valley with picturesque cottages dotted amongst the trees. She was looking around to see which one was Church Cottage when she saw the tiniest church she'd ever seen. It had brightly coloured stained glass windows standing out against the grey stone. The graveyard in front of the church was only as big as Daisy's front garden. The headstones were crooked and covered in yellow-green moss. She got out of her car to inspect it closer, when she was deafened by a noise. At first she couldn't make out what it was. The sun was suddenly blotted out by a black mass of wings. Rooks! Rooks! Hundreds of them, flying from the trees and cawing at her presence. She was terrified and just about to get into her car when a voice stopped her.

  It was from a little old lady leaning over a white wooden gate. ‘They always make that noise when strangers appear. Don't be frightened, they won’t hurt you. They act as my watchdogs, they do,’ said the old woman.

  Daisy walked towards her and asked her if she knew where Church Cottage was. The old lady answered. ‘Yom at it. Why, dun yo want a room?’ The old lady saw her hesitate then said, ‘There’s no need to be frightened of them there rooks, there just being protective towards me.

   After the old lady had reassured her about the rooks not harming her, she agreed to go into the cottage and accept the cup of tea that was offered.   The old lady opened the gate and Daisy had no alternative but to follow her. When she entered the cottage the smell of home-baked bread filled the air, complimenting the warm friendly atmosphere of the kitchen.

  The old lady held out her hand and introduced herself. ‘My name is Miss Adams. Now, while I brew the tea yo go and view the room, should yo decide to stay. It’s up the stairs and first on the right.’

  Daisy went up the rickety dark oak staircase and entered the room. She stood there open mouthed. It was a lace fairy tale room, painted white and decorated with a bright yellow flowered wallpaper. On the small marble washstand was a china jug and bowl in which stood a bunch of dried flowers, their aroma filling the air. There was a small pine dressing table and matching wardrobe. The setting sun was sending a shaft of sunlight that shone on the brass bedstead knobs, reflecting rays of light around the room. Daisy sat on the bed, sinking deep into the feather mattress succumbing to the temptation to lie back.

  She was brought round by a friendly voice from the stairwell. ‘Tea’s ready.’   Not only was a cup of tea waiting but a plate of tea cakes.

   ‘Well, have yum made up yo mind,’ asked Miss Adams.

     Daisy Brookes stayed, not only for one night, but for the rest of her holiday. She couldn’t estimate the age of Miss Adams Daisy because her complexion was fresh and rosy with hardly any wrinkles. But from the conversation they had she must have been quite old. Her hair, which had once been black, was streaked with grey. Daisy noticed a deep discoloured scare on Miss Adams’ arm, but was too polite to ask how she came by it.    

    Daisy really enjoyed her stay and over the years she returned time and time again. But she never got used to the noise of the rooks. Miss Adams was the village healer and taught her all about the healing power of the herbs and where in the woods to find them. Most of them she grew herself in the garden. Daisy spent a lot of her time tending the garden and exploring the woods but always she felt the rooks watching her, even following her when she went for a walk. Despite Miss Adams’ reassurance, she was still a little afraid.

    Many nights they would sit by the Aga, her host telling her of country tales and superstitions. She became Daisy's dear friend, teaching her the country ways and the magic of the herbs.

   The Vicar from the church would sometimes join them for supper. Daisy didn't like him, he looked too much like one of the big rooks with his blue-black hair and beady amber eyes. His nose was long and hawk-like, his features and the black robe he wore made him seem quite sinister. The little church was not used very much, but when it was for a burial or a christening, the strange thing was, the rooks were quite. Miss Adams liked him, so Daisy thought he must be alright.

   One night Daisy couldn't sleep.  It was so hot and she went to open the window. Looking out she saw what looked like Miss Adams and the Vicar talking to several rooks that were perched on the gravestones. The window catch made a sound and within seconds the tableau had disappeared. Next day when she mentioned it to Miss Adams she shrugged it off saying it must have been her eyes playing tricks.

   When Daisy returned home she forgot about the incident. Not long after an official letter arrived from a firm of solicitors informing her Miss Adams had passed away and could she come to their office.

   Daisy sat in the solicitor’s office speechless. Miss Adams, having no relatives, had left everything to Daisy, including Church Cottage.

   In the early days Miss Hazel had asked Daisy about her family. When Daisy had replied saying she was an orphan and had no relatives that she knew of, Miss Hazel smiled and said how sorry she was. Daisy supposed that the old lady had felt sorry for her and that was why she had left her all her possessions.

   She got out of her car and opened the gate to the cottage; the rooks were making their usual cawing noise. As she went to unlock the cottage door it slowly opened, the smell of home baked bread filling the air. The Aga was alight and warmed the kitchen. She expected to see Miss Adams sitting in her favourite chair, but instead a big black shiny rook was perched on the arm. It turned its head to one side, giving it a look of Miss Adams. A beady amber eye watched her. Suddenly it flew at her, pecking a piece of flesh from her arm and swallowing it. Blood spurted everywhere, staining Daisy's clothes. Screaming, Daisy fought it off and ran from the cottage right into the arms of the Vicar.

   He asked her what the matter was. Hysterically, she managed to tell him what had happened. He didn't seem surprised and remarked calmly, ‘They sometimes do that.  Come, let me dress that wound.’

  He tried to get her back into the cottage but she screamed, ‘No, no, the bird, the bird.’

The Vicar assured her that the rook would have gone, but Daisy made him go in first to make sure. He came out saying, ‘It’s not there. I told you it would have left.’

   The Vicar rolled up his sleeve to wash her wound. It was then she noticed an indentation on his arm as if the flesh had been torn away. This sight stirred in Daisy the memory of Miss Adams’ scar.

   After the Vicar's reassurance and a cup of sweet tea Daisy felt calmer. Walking with him to the gate she thanked him. It was then she became aware of the silence. She looked up expecting to see the rooks gone, but no, there they were watching her. Daisy looked at the Vicar and whispered, ‘No cawing?’

   The Vicar smiled, his amber beady eyes shining as he said, ‘Why should there be cawing, Daisy, you are no longer a stranger, you are one of us now.’

The Hitch-Hiker, by Peter Shilston

A huge black-purple cloud like a gigantic sinister mushroom had sat menacingly over Cheshire and south Lancashire all afternoon, threatening imminent downpour up ahead of me. Soon it was officially night-time, though this made no real difference to the visibility, or lack of it.

    I don’t generally pick up hitch-hikers, but the state of the weather made me more merciful usual. Besides, this was a woman, so I daresay some old-fashioned chivalry kicked in too.

   She was good-looking in a slightly blowsy way, but her clothes were unusual. She wore a hat a bit like a traditional gentleman’s topper, and a black dress, with lace-up boots of the Doc Martin’s variety. The most striking feature was her eyes, which were intense and piercing.

       As we drove off I commented on the foul state of the weather. She replied that she didn’t mind it, and then surprised me by talking about how in the past storms were caused by witches, and that some still possessed the power to do this. I don’t talk much when I’m driving, and I reckoned that any human contact would be preferable to the third-rate pop music and inane chit-chat that you get on the radio, so I responded with some vague interjection like “Oh really?” This set her off, and soon, with no further encouragement from me, she was into a detailed discourse about black magic today, and her part in it. She kept turning round to face me; fixing me with those unsettling eyes of hers. I was increasingly puzzled, and uneasy.

    As we joined the M6, the storm was going full blast, the rain came lashing down and we were reduced to a crawl. My companion was delighted. “What a storm!” she chortled, “There must have been some really strong cursing going on to get this! I think I can make a guess as to who’s responsible! I wonder why they did it!” For no reason that I could discover, she began discoursing on initiation rituals, and Tantric sex as a powerful engine for magical power. I told her I’d never been initiated into anything. “Oh, but you must!” she cried. I daredn’t turn to look at her, but I could feel her eyes boring into me.

   How was I to get rid of her? It occurred to me that, although I’d told her where I was going, namely, right up to the Lake District, she’d never told me where she was going or where I should drop her off. What on earth was I to do?

    We stopped at a service station, and I filled up with petrol while she nipped inside. While she was away I came to a decision, and I’m afraid I took refuge in an outright lie. I told her that I’d just received a message on my mobile from the friend I was going to stay with, saying that he was surrounded by flood-water and advising me not to come; so I’d have to leave her there, because at the next intersection I’d be turning round and going home. No doubt a more adventurous man would have taken her home and demanded to be instructed in the joys of Tantric sex, so I suppose you could say I chickened out, but there you are.

   The last I saw of her was in the rear view mirror as I drove away. A sudden flash of lightning illuminated her as she stood there. I wondered whether she’d claim credit for it.