Crosed Lines, by Rosina Trotman

                 And the telephone rang.

I had been suffering all day with a tooth infection which had exposed a nerve; consequently every intake of breath was sheer agony when, the telephone rang. My husband was at a critical stage in his tiling project which could not be left, and yelled to me to answer it. Reluctantly I dragged myself off the settee and gave my number; there was what seemed like a long pause before a voice said,

“Is that you Ross?” I answered that it was in a tone injected with pain, and lacking anything resembling my normal cheerful telephone manner.

“It doesn’t sound like you said the voice,” I then asked who it was and the voice started to laugh and said,

 “It’s Pauline. We were together last night, remember? What’s the matter with you?”  I then began telling her how suddenly this pain had come on after leaving her and how I had not slept all night but had first thing that morning been to the dentist, only to be told it was infected. I then went on to say he thought a nerve might be exposed but because of the infection he couldn’t do anything until the antibiotics had done their job.

At this point I felt some relief at having someone making what sounded like sympathetic noises. So I continued on with all the other facts he had given me. One he may not be able to save the tooth and that would mean a day in hospital. Or on the other hand if the infection goes down as he hoped, then he could remove the nerve and not disturb the tooth. On and on I unloaded my depression and pain, when I suddenly realized how selfish I was; as I knew Pauline had so much going on in her own life at the moment.

          So I changed the subject and asked, “How are you managing?”

“Managing!” she said, “What do you mean?”

“Well with two children and another one due any day it must be exhausting,” I said.

          “Who am I speaking to?” said the voice on the other end of the line.

The strange thing was, her name was Pauline and she had been out the night before with her friend Ross just as I had. We both had a good laugh about my boring her with my tooth ache and parted like old friends. 

The Armour of My Youth, by Toli Kram

It is with no surprise that you realise, while young and growing, that you were almost impervious to general emotional harm.

It bore you well through much trepidation and trial by your peers; those who looked on or jeered mockingly.

Yet this cauldron of beliefs gave resistance, and its protection became ever more obvious and needed as time passed.

It conjoined with other souls that wore it too, protected as chain mail covers an arm or chausses for a leg.

They too shared in its invulnerability and prospered well; though some suffered from its abuse.

Hardening and showing patina after time, making cautious words from others almost insignificant and meaningless.

But they too have their armour, and the clashes were repeated loud and bloodied through their imagined halcyon days.

Wearing it was like a statement, though it brought weaknesses which we could never see.

My breastplate which I’d hardened and polished over time became no more use to me than a smear of butter.

A boy can grow in many directions, and in all this time unknowingly I had been carrying an Achilles heel.

Ladies fair, though they were different to us, we knew one day that we would have to meet one or two.

As Cupid’s arrows in love's battle were drawn and fired, you could feel the holes appearing in your armour. No arrow could be stopped.

Arrows passed through as if paper were employed to prevent fire and rain, let alone love’s first tender kiss.

Just as an arrow would cause blood, so it did with our emotions, seeping red from the heart through chain mail and doublet.

What pain did we endure and what fools we became, each one of us to the confession box of our friends visited willingly or not.

What use is this armour without its protection from the sting of rejected love?

Some of these holes and blows are too big to restore soon: it may take a lifetime.

Now the armour has less shine, but scratched and scoured it has become, so over the years giving the wearer skill at avoiding sullied arrows.

It makes the wearer not disparaging or rueful, but yet wary that injury is ever close to hand.

And we are forever wishing for our hearts to become a shining target for those arrows with true flight to reach its mark.

Some pierce with strong intent, giving hope and fortitude in fertilizing the imagined years ahead.

Short lived are these arrows as they fall by the wayside, covering the battle field like stalks of corn.

Where breastplate was struck emotions now wear the hole, and loves experience grows ever greater.

As time slowly tortures my weary soul I pray for its swift end, and to be at peace from a fatal blow.

To ascend from this plane with sword at rest in my hand; to unsheathe it only in defence of being parted from love, or besmirched by insult or deed.

The armour of my youth how well thou hast served me, even if I did not use you at all well.

I’ve unbuckled this chastely garment, and cast it aside along the path I now tread, never to look back with anger or remorse.

I accept and take the wound of love, hoping that infection sets and grows devouring me completely.

No need now of this armour laying at my feet, as I walk hand in hand I see armour strewn around and abandoned, and my soul is forever heartened.     

Geoffrey, by Richard Thorpe

We always considered that Geoffrey was the best scholar amongst us when we were at college together all those years ago, which made what followed seem all the more disappointing. The rest of us drifted off in various directions and started careers and families, but Geoffrey didn’t. He remained a solitary figure. He tried for an academic post, but when he didn’t manage this, he took a series of mediocre and ill-paid jobs leading nowhere. He seemed fixated with his particular topic, which was north-western England during the dark ages; so much so that he hardly fitted into the modern world at all. But I always liked him in an odd sort of way, and kept in touch with him, mostly because we both enjoyed writing letters. Finally after many years he achieved a small measure of fame, or at least controversy, when he announced he had reconstructed the works of a hitherto unknown writer, a certain Sextus Sempronius (or so the man called himself: it can hardly have been his real name) who allegedly lived in Cumbria in the fifth century. Naturally the original manuscripts hadn’t survived, but Geoffrey claimed to have pieced them together from other sources. His findings did not meet with general approval: most academic critics thought Sextus to be entirely imaginary, and that Geoffrey had merely gathered extracts from a much later period: probably written by students in the 15^th century as a grammatical exercise. Still, I read his book when it was put out, by a suitably obscure publisher, and arranged to meet him, up in the Lake District where he now lived.

I hadn’t set eyes on him for years, and my first impression was how much older he looked. But he was as intransigent as ever, and strongly defended the reality of Sextus. He pointed out that there was always a strong Roman presence in Cumbria, that the Saxon invaders were slow to penetrate the area, and that legends of King Arthur were at least as strong in the north-west as they were in Cornwall; so there was no reason why the region should not have remained a lone beacon of Latin culture well into the Dark Ages. I formed the impression that Geoffrey felt a strong personal identity with Sextus: a man at odds with the age he lived in, who felt civilisation collapsing all around him. I made some comment along these lines, at which he gave me a strange look, and replied that he would show me something important.

We drove out to the lake (in my car: he didn’t have one),and he took me out along a path. I noticed that he no longer walked easily, and that a scramble up a steep bit was a serious effort for him. The view was magnificent, but that wasn’t why he’d brought me.

“As you can see, the modern road is on the other side of the lake”, he explained, “but this is the ancient trackway, in use from prehistoric times. And there’s something else I want you to know. There’s a cave up above us, though you couldn’t see it from this path. Sextus tells us he took refuge in a cave at one point. I’m convinced it was this one”.

          “Aren’t we going to have a look at it, then?”

          “No: at this time of year it’ll probably have tourists scrambling around . The atmosphere of the place will be lost. I only ever go there if I’m certain there’ll be nobody about”.

I don’t remember all that much about the rest of the day, but I spent the night at Geoffrey’s flat. It was a scruffy little place, and very poorly furnished, and I was saddened to see a number of empty bottles littering the kitchen: when he was in his prime, Geoffrey had been an abstemious drinker. We talked until quite late. In the morning I told Geoffrey about an odd dream I‘d had. I thought I was outside the cave, looking down on the lake, but it was all different. The road on the opposite bank wasn’t there, neither were the modern houses that lined it, or the forestry commission plantations on the slopes above, and there were strange smells in the air. It was if I had strayed into an earlier century. It had so much effect on me that I was able to describe it to him in detail over breakfast. He looked pleased.

“So you saw it too!” he exclaimed. “I’ve seen it many times. That was how I first became attracted to Sextus! I know he was there! He left his aura in the place!” He rabbited on like this for some time, about how he knew from his dreams that Sextus was real, and that the critics who doubted him didn’t know what they were talking about. I felt more and more depressed as he spoke. After all, a belief in the occult is all very well when you’re a student, but when you get older, it looks rather silly: but Geoffrey had moved in the opposite direction; at college he’d always been scathing in his contempt for any supernatural beliefs. What had a fine scholar come to?

“And there’s just one thing missing”, he continued, “I’ve never actually managed to meet Sextus himself, and speak to him. That would be the final proof, wouldn’t it? So did you see him? It would be wonderful if you did! It would make everything worthwhile.”

“Oh yes”, I said, “At least, there was someone in the cave, in what I take it was Romano-British dress, so I suppose it must have been Sextus”.

He was absolutely delighted, and said it was the confirmation of his work. Actually, I was making the whole thing up, of course. But I felt so sorry for Geoffrey, who despite his talents had achieved so very little in life, that I felt I had to cheer up the poor chap.  And who would tell me that was wrong?

A Waspy Business, by Rosina Trotman

The sun was already hot and it was only mid-day as Sue started to deadhead the bountiful display of rhododendron. It was while she was thinking she had never seen them more strikingly beautiful, when her eye caught sight of something in the centre of the shrub. Parting the branches she could see a delicate paper pulped lantern that had been carefully constructed by its now angry inhabitants. Immediately realizing her danger she withdrew, and speedily headed for shelter of the house some distance away while under attack from the disturbed wasp warriors.

How her face had swollen after dunking it several times in a bowl of cold water and smothering the many stings in bicarbonate of soda, but it wasn’t until the early evening that the painful stings began to subside. When her husband returned he remarked on the swellings and said he would have to get rid of the nest at the weekend. Several times over the next few weeks Sue reminded him, and each time he said he would when he had time destroy it.

One day later that summer Sue having been shopping came home to find her husband George very red and swollen in the face. He too had been gardening near to the wasps’ domain and as a result had received their war like reception.

    “Tomorrow I will put paid to them!” he said amongst language he only normally used when enraged by a situation. Then he spent some time making serious plans on paper, for as he vocally put it, this was full scale war and the next day’s victory would provide him, George, with much needed revenge.

The next morning when Sue arose and realized George had slept on the sofa and had she suspected, spent much of his sleeping time considering the extermination and the preparation of defences needed to carry out this operation. George was taking no chances; he had suffered enough from their venom and was not prepared to allow those vicious varmints’ even the slightest chance to attack him again.

    Meticulously he dressed in his armour, which consisted of a black bin bag with open seams for the waterproof jacket arms to protrude. This he tied at the waist over a pair of waterproof trousers tucked firmly into green wellington boots coordinating with his balaclava. Hanging on his arm was a pair of ancient motor cycle goggles that had once belonged to his Granddad.   Apart from his hands which he explained would be inside the rubber gloves he had borrowed from the kitchen, he was well protected from their bombarding wrath should he not succeed with what he considered a perfect plan.

     Feeling pleased with himself at this stage in the manoeuvre, he then gathered the weapons needed for the massacre which consisted of; a large reinforced but flexible plastic bag, cigarette lighter, penknife, diesel he kept in a can for the lawn mower, and a length of frayed rope he had prepared in advance. Then checking the windows in case he needed to retreat in a hurry strode determinedly the hundred yards to the chosen cremation area.

     His next task seemed to Sue watching from the window with both amusement and concern, to be rather time consuming, as he proceeded to loosely screw newspaper into balls of paper around a fire lighter and placing shaven wooden sticks on top. She knew he had carefully selected them the previous night after destroying Grannies old chair, and now as far as she could tell was arranging them respectfully on the garden incinerator.

As she watched she saw that George was threading the frayed rope into the diesel can allowing it time to absorb the liquid.        After a few seconds he withdrew it and positioned one end deep beneath the paper and wood, then trailed the remainder with care down the lawn and closer to the house.

    Giving his wife the thumbs up sign he cautiously approached the enemies territory with the plastic bag and penknife at the ready, having dropped the lighter at the end of the rope. In slow motion he put first one foot and then the other just below the rhododendron bush, and then waited a moment mentally assessing the nest’s exact location, before he could take them by surprise. To Sue the scene in front of her eyes was like a TV comedy with George her husband playing the lead role.

Later he proudly explained the procedure performed inside the bush and the difficulties of wearing rubber gloves while struggling to cut through the cemented pulp securing the nest. How it was a race against time while he forced the bag beneath the sculptured master piece to ensure he captured it whole, as it dropped directly into the bin bag. George then had drifted in thought, before quietly adding, “I think maybe half a dozen got away”. All that was required of Sue was a few sympathetic grunts of acknowledgement for his heroic act, then to stifle her mischievous smile.

    But all Sue had seen was George running like never before while tying the bag of buzzing occupants securely and jamming them ruthlessly into the well prepared incinerator. She saw him turning with clumsy speed as he headed towards the house, disrobing on route. The adrenalin was flowing through his veins as he had breathlessly covered the ground between murder and survival, with a face inflated like a boiled beetroot.

    Sue laughed out loud at the spectacle taking place, it was good to see the funny side, although it was at George’s expense.  She did experience a smattering of guilt, which had soon disappeared as she witnessed the smile of self-satisfaction he gave her, before igniting the rope, and the crematorium became a raging inferno.

After Dinner in New York, by Peter Shilston,

The two men remain at their table in the restaurant long after the other diners have left. Umberto the proprietor would like to shut up shop and go home, but you don’t argue with customers like these, and in any case he anticipates being well paid for the inconvenience. The food is good. Joe attacks it with his usual greed and uncouthness; Charlie is more abstemious. During the meal, Joe reminisces volubly about old times, and when they are alone in the room, the two talk business. Eventually Charlie excuses himself to go to the lavatory. 
   He contemplates his reflection in the mirror above the washbasin as he rinses his hands and slicks back his hair. He is only in his early thirties, but his face looks much older: a result of the pressures of his work. The livid scar down his cheek, which gives his right eyelid a permanent and sinister droop, often aches with the tension, but he forces himself to ignore it. He bears the nickname of  “Lucky”, which he dislikes: his success has been due to careful planning and determined application, not to luck. 
   He glances at his watch: it’s three o’clock.There is the sharp retort of pistol shots. Charlie retreats into one of the cubicles, where he waits a short while before pulling the chain. Only then does he venture back into the restaurant, where he finds his careful planning has once again paid off: Joe is dead.