A Worm Turning, by John Garland

John was the sort of man, ladies said, who filled them with an urge to straighten his tie for him, or to smooth down the tuft of hair which was always sticking up at the back of his head, no matter how recently he had combed it. Margaret was always doing this for him: it was probably what had attracted her to him in the first place. She also chose what trousers and socks he should put on; or rather, she had a way of glancing pointedly at what he had chosen for himself, so that he knew she would prefer him to wear something different. “I only want you to look nice, dear!” she would explain. She was always being helpful in other ways too; taking care that he didn’t eat or drink too much, and reminding him to be careful of his weight. She asked bright questions about how he was getting on at work, and suggested ways in which he might improve his chances of promotion. Sometimes when he was speaking she corrected him on minor points of grammar or pronunciation, or suggested that his friends had probably heard one of his favourite anecdotes already. She was also always brightly helpful in suggesting ways in which he could improve his hobbies, and would draw his attention to how much better the results were when he acted on his ideas.

          She herself wasn’t always completely happy with the way things turned out. At times she found him distinctly evasive about what he had been doing when she wasn’t there. It irritated her that he wouldn’t let her know his computer password, making some feeble excuse about “security” and she was suspicious of the way he closed down the screen when he heard her approach, when all she wanted to do was help him. There might even have been a faint trace of sarcasm in the way he proposed that it might save time if she laid out his clothes for him, valet-fashion, instead of waiting for him to dress and then disapproving of his choices. On the whole she didn’t feel that it was anything much to worry about; at least, not yet. Nevertheless, someone more sensitive than Margaret might have detected the subterranean rustlings of a worm finally turning

A Question of Memory, by Peter Morford.

I’m in my wife’s doghouse. The children’s attitude has changed from normal indifference to outright hostility and it’s not my fault.
The other day the head of our Department called us all into the meeting room to make an announcement.
“The Minister had authorised us all to attend a memory training course on Wednesday. A coach will pick us up at 8.30 and take us to the Conference Centre. Please bring a book and a pack of cards. I have no idea why. That’s all.”
Out he went, leaving us to speculate. Why cards? Why book?

**

At 9.55 we took our seats. 10 o’clock exactly a tall bald man stood before us. It was Mr Mnenomic, the memory man. He told us we were here to develop our minds. He asked us to stand up, one by one, to introduce ourselves. He then named three people to bring a pack of cards to the stage.
“I want you to shuffle your cards thoroughly, then, in turn to deal them on the table, face up. I will remember the order. Do not shuffle the cards again.”
“Thank you. Now will Mrs. Evans, Mr Trevor Jones and Miss Posselthwaite bring me their books. Open your book at random and let me read one page.”
He read silently.
“Thank you. We’ll have break for coffee. I’d like to circulate among you.”
In the next 20 minutes he managed to speak to each of us. He talked about books, the Test Match and Anderson’s 500 th wicket; the hurricanes in the USA and who knows what else. As you would expect, he greeted us each by name. You know what happened next. He called the cards in the right order forwards and backwards. He recited, with total accuracy, the pages he had read in each book.
He said “Thank you. I am not a magician. I’m not a genius. I’m just a man with a trained memory. It’s very useful. Knowledge is power. Your smartphones may provide the information you need – but it’s not much use to you if you forget what you’ve read. Now I’ll show how it’s done.”
He did.
We practised our new skills and we were amazed.
He said “I hope you are pleased with your progress. What you have learned today will stick – if you practise. We will now have dinner and have a brief session afterwards.”
Freddy Hughes said, “We’ll be late getting home.”
“Accommodation has been booked for you at this hotel and we’ll have a full session tomorrow.”
“But we weren’t told to bring overnight cases.”
“A change of clothes will be in your room. Everything will fit.”
It did.
My wife was not pleased when I phoned her.
“Jeremy’s Headmaster wants to see us about his behaviour. And Doctor Pearson is worried about Mother. And you’ve got a dental appointment at 8.30 and in the afternoon we’re going with the school outing to Alton Towers.”
“Sorry.”
“You should be.”
It was planned for tomorrow, but I had forgotten.

The Impersonators, by David Bingham

Sixties all-leather or seventies white flared-trousers?

Trace used to help him with things like that. Always supportive. Washed and ironed his stage clothes. Even let him have that extra wardrobe to keep them in. Went with him on a road trip from Vegas to Gracelands and they were always the winning couple in local jive contests.

Funny though, what her sister had said, about how deep down Trace had always preferred Orbison to Elvis. Never told him mind. Made you think what else she didn’t say.

Things had changed a lot since she left. In the old days they’d have to turn people away at the door on an ‘Elvis Night’ and he could make a steady living touring the clubs. But now, Ted, the landlord, had to ring round and chivvy the old gang to come. And when he performed, he looked out over an audience of pensioners. Young at heart, yes; but sadly, a generation on the way out.

As this was to be his last gig he’d finish with Are You Lonesome Tonight.  Dedicate it to Trace. ‘It was always her favourite,’ he’d tell them. 

© David Bingham, 2017

The Nose, by Bill West

Tobias oft told how the fairies stole his nose one night when he was sleeping off the booze under an arch of Welshman's Bridge. But I'd heard that it was syphilis that left him with that hole in his face. Plenty of coves strut around Gay Meadow sporting saddle noses, looking for the world like pugilists or bare knuckle fighters. Tobias just looked a mess. You didn't want to be near him when he sneezed.

He should go to Grindley, the blacksmith, I said, and take with him some old spoons that could be beaten fine and drawn out into a metal nose.  Tobias complained that the whore son blacksmith was a Ranter and was likely to quote the Bible at him before kicking him out the door. 

I felt sorry for him. Or at least I was sick of beholding that face or being in range of his purulent breath. Besides, I thought he might slip me a few coppers if I did him a good turn. I proposed to make a new nose for him out of wax if he could come by some candles.

The candle was a big expensive-looking one, much better than those tallow candles. I didn't ask where he got it from.

Not trusting Tobias to hold still, what with him looking like a fighter and all, I ordered him up to his bedchamber where I tied him to his cot with a length of rope. That done, I wound a length of linen tight under his chin to keep his head still. He wriggled and kicked when I stuck two straws where his nose should be but as I said, if he wanted to breathe through his new nose he'd have to trust me. I lit the candle and dripped wax into the hole in his face, taking no mind of his muffled oaths, stopping every once in a while to make sure the straws were keeping him breathing. Soon there was a large carbuncle of wax where his new nose would be. I took a hot knife and cut and smoothed the wax until Tobias sported such a nose as might have adorned the face of a Roman Emperor.

When I untied him and showed him his reflection in a mirror he seemed well pleased with the result, apart from the two straws sticking out of his face. These I trimmed with a paring knife. Then we were ready to go out to hit the taverns.

We had a fine evening at The Anchor with many a doxie eager to take the arm of the tall handsome man with the Roman nose. 

Things went well until Tobias decided to smoke a pipe. The clay pipe he pulled from his waistcoat had a stem clipped so short it barely poked beyond the end of his new nose. He was well oiled by that time and in no mood to listen to advice.

Likely it was the heat of the pipe that loosened his nose, and the sneeze when it came didn't help. The nose shot off his face and arced across the smoky tavern towards the fire grate. A mangy Turn Spit dog was nosing around the sawdust for food scraps. Quick as a flash it jumped up, caught the nose  and gulped it down.

Tobias chased the dog out the door roaring with outrage and accompanied by  hoots and catcalls from all around.

I finished my ale, and his, and slipped quietly off home.

No one knows what befell Tobias. He was never seen again. But sometimes in the day's gloaming, or in the half light of a Winter sunrise when river mist cloaks the bridge, a hunched figure emerges from the bridge's shadow, picks its way along the foreshore, combs the river's edge, examines and discards small objects. 

Perhaps it is the shade of Tobias, searching for a nose.

For My Grandfather, by Peter Shilston,

I never knew him,
he died when I was five,
but I have his watch and chain;
silver, made by a local firm 
in Keighley, where he lived his entire life,
inscribed 
"Presented to Thomas Midgley
on his 21st birthday
Oct. 25th 1903".

He was, I'm told
a man of the highest moral standards;
he disapproved of pubs
and scruffy dress;
he played the piccolo in the town orchestra,
he had a windup gramophone
and some good books
(Dickens, Walter Scott, Dumas).
He was an early member of the
Independent Labour Party,
he knew Philip Snowden,
the first-ever Labour Chancellor,
and he read the "Daily Herald"
the Trades Union paper 
(now defunct).

His wife, my grandmother, was
a mill-worker, very houseproud,
and a vegetarian (unusual in those days).
Before getting married they
saved up for years
in order to buy good furniture.

He would have described himself as
proud to be
working-class, 
Yorkshire, 
and respectable.
Do people like him exist today?

I found a recent picture of his house
(terraced, outside loo, near the railway).
It looked sadly run-down.

The watch runs erratically.
Nowadays it would be valued
solely by its bullion content.

Ladies of the Wood, by Georgia Kelly

Two oaks lie in a collapsed embrace,

Shrouded by inconspicuously

By creeping claws of ivy;

Seared limbs line bruised bodies

 resting, peaceful,

on their bed of moss.

Amber confetti dampens

Ablaze. A blur.

Over mirrored

Hips.  Lips.

Take me to your woods

Where buds bloom at our touch,

Where dew melts like ice

On warm tongues;

Wher our song plays soft at first.

Not seven inches of

Dull notes, blaring

To bands of woozy teens,

Drunk on the hopes of

Holy matrimony.

Here the trees play

Only for us. A birds song

 interjected with every

pulsing breath.

Coiling,

Twisting,

Into a torrent;

Teasing. Until it

Slices open our

Goosebumped skin.

Revealing only our

Beating. Bleeding hearts. 

Offline, by Graham Attenborough

She was taken from her cell by two guards in their google uniforms. At the end of a long white corridor, still flanked by her guards, she was greeted by a smiling young woman who looked up briefly from a glowing tablet as she was brought in to a gleaming office, then looked down again.

'Please sit,' said a man sat behind a Habitat table adorned with a magnificent digitalised flowering plant.   She sat, the one-piece paper suit they had given her to wear crackling as she did so. 'What is your username'? the man asked.  She said nothing. 'Your google account? Amazon? What is your smart phone number?'  'I don't have a mobile' she said, 'or a username, a blog, a Facebook page or a google account. In fact, I don't even have a fucking computer - okay!'

They all looked at her as though she'd just said that she butchered babies for a living.  The man turned to his screen, tapped on it a couple of times and turned it towards her. Immediately she recognised herself walking along a fairly busy street. She saw that as other people walked along, the giant billboard screens flashed up their usernames and quickly directed them to their next shopping destination. A hint of a smile danced across her lips as she saw how the screens went blank as she passed them, unable to identify all her consumer wants and needs.

'As a matter of fact,' he said, 'no, it's not okay. Do you even have a bank account?'

'No' she said, 'I do not have a bank account. I don't want a bloody bank account and I have a democratic right not to have one if I choose.'  

The man laughed.'Oh, democracy. That old chestnut. Didn't you know? We have no need of democracy in the age of google because we have no need of governance. We are all free and equal under google. The world has moved on, my dear. You see, you and your kind are still living in the bad old days. That's why you insist on calling yourselves neo Luddites and Latter-day Diggers. They tried to halt progress too, didn't they, and of course they failed. I suggest you read about them sometime, on Wikipedia, that is - when you're back online. And you will be back online, reconnected to the net, because that is the only rule passed down by google in its all-consuming wisdom.  

'As I say' he went on, 'we are all free to choose under google but our choices must be made online. That is the rule. Everything we will ever need is to be found on the worldwide web and you must be a part of the great google family. Otherwise, well, you are nothing, nothing but a shadow, a waste of digits, an affront to consumerism. Someone like you is a non unit. You might as well be dead.'

'Are you actually saying,' the woman said, 'that our only purpose is to shop? To buy stuff online?' 'Of course', the man replied. 'What other purpose could we possibly have?'  She looked at the man aghast. She longed to go home, to her dogs, to her books and her vegetable garden. She didn't need google to be fulfilled. She only needed her freedom, her friends, love.  She said: 'you can't force me. You can give me an iPad and a username but I just won't log on. I don't want you, I don't need you.'

The man sat back in his chair and laced his fingers into a steeple.  He said, 'Nonsense, we all need google. Google is us and we are google. You see my dear, if you were online and keeping abreast of google events, you would know that the latest google nanotechnology means that we can now connect you to the web intravenously. You should consider yourself privileged, you shall be one of the first units on earth not merely to be connected but  actually to be a living part of google itself. There shall be no logging off, even as your physical body sleeps, you shall live and breath within the net, being updated instantaneously. I'm envious I can tell you. Just imagine, you will be as one with google, and, gradually, as this marvellous, google-given technology is rolled out, more and more of us will join you, our minds and bodies sharing forever the power and the glory of the one great google!'

Realising there was no escape from this madness, the woman began to panic. She stood up and tried to run, but the two google guards grabbed her by the arms and held her fast. 'They will take you down to the technicians now,' said the man kindly, 'we shall meet again my dear, online.' 

He stood to attention, tapped his chest with his right hand before stretching his arm out before him. 'Google be praised' he said, and the others responded.

'Praise be to Google!'

Her legs gave way beneath her.

Night Worker: an extract, by Peter Morford

He stumbled over something in the alley.  It was a man lying across his path, his head to one side, eyes open. Ben crouched down and shook him. Slapped his face; checked for pulse in wrist and neck.  No pulse, skin cold, dead.  The man looked about 50. He was wearing a dinner-jacket and his bow tie was undone. There was no sign of injury, as far as he could see.  Instinctively, naturally and professionally, he reached inside the jacket for identification.  A small wallet contained a Maestro Card in the name of Charles Spencer, credit cards for John Fortune and Henry Jessop, and a couple of £10.gambling chips. There was no driving licence and no address. Ben knew the type. The dregs of humanity.

In the other inside pocket he found a gold propelling pencil and a wad of used twenties, bound in a paper band.

What to do now? I should call the Police and ambulance, he thought. But why? This obviously suspicious character was dead; nothing could be done for him.  Ben really didn’t want the bother, not with his churning stomach and early sign of influenza. Then he did something he had never done before.   He pocketed the cash, except for a couple of £20.notes, and replaced the wallet.  He looked carefully around. He was alone and he knew there were no cameras in this alley. He walked quickly for the half-mile back to his car.    He had decided to go  home. 

After five miles he stopped on a layby because he wanted to check the cash.  Above all, he wanted to think.  The first time he counted £960.  Then it was £980.  Check again, right first time.  The dead man must have had a good night in the casino. He was probably a worthless gambler using stolen credit cards, laundering his illegal gains. Ben wasn’t to be fooled by the fancy suit and vaguely distinguished appearance.

He looked back on his own life.  He had always played to the rules.  No crook had ever succeeded in bribing him.  There had been times of course, when it would have been easy to falsify a bit of evidence or accept a favour. In that very Casino a few years ago his Inspector had mysteriously aborted a raid only to be able to take a rather expensive holiday a few weeks later.   Plenty of his colleagues had bent the rules to get their man or protect another.  But he had always played it straight. Which was, he thought, why he had retired as a sergeant when less able men had left him far behind. 

And now here he was, sitting in his car, riffling through the wad of notes, wondering why he had even thought of taking them. It’s not that I need the money, he thought.  What with the pension and the job, and Sheila’s business we do well enough. The kids are gone, the mortgage paid, this nice new car, all paid for… why do I need the best part of a K?

There was the sound of a car door slamming. He looked up and saw the car, nose to nose with his own.  A man got out, hurried over and tapped on his window.

Sanctuary Wood, Ypres, by Peter Shilston

I wrote this poem several years ago, after my first visit to the battlefields around Ypres:-  

Sanctuary Wood, Ypres: School Visits

How can they understand a war poem? How can we?
Wars were far away and long ago
And nothing seen on television ever really happened.
Now the woods are full of children
Running through the muddy trenches
Dodging round the water-filled craters
Gawping at, or completely failing to notice
The occasional unexploded shell
And squeaking when their nice new jeans
(Fashionably ragged and torn at the knee)
Are stained with filth in the communications tunnel.
Below the woods the fields are grey with mist
Shrouding the view to the sinister places
The Menin road, and up to Passchendaele,
Behind us, Messines Ridge and Plugstreet. The children
Have been told, but already they’ve forgotten
And soon they’ll be off for hamburger and chips
(They’re looking forward to their succulent Belgian chips)
And leave the trenches and the shattered stumps
The rusty barbed wire and all the iron harvest of war
And arching over all, the chestnut trees
- None more than seventy years old
But sprouting strongly, because well fertilised
By someone who in happier circumstances
Might have married my grandmother
Or yours

A SOLDIER
OF THE GREAT WAR
KNOWN UNTO GOD

.

Wind, by Maggie Wells

We parked the car on the grass verge and climbed over the stile into the woodland. There was nobody else about, since it was a blusterous sort of day, though not cold.

“Come on!” I said to Sarah, “This is one of my favourite walks!”

 “How long is it going to take?”

“Oh, less than an hour, I should think; then we’ll go to the pub for lunch”

We walked along the path through the trees, chatting about this and that. It was the first time I’d seen Sarah for quite a while. After a bit we turned a corner, and there was the little lake spread out beneath us. I thought it was a glorious view.

“What do we do now?” asked Sarah.

“Walk round the lake and then back to the car. It’s not as far as it looks”.

“Oh”. She sounded very unenthusiastic. “The path isn’t too close to the water, is it? It looks deep!”

“It’s perfectly safe: I’ve been round hundreds of times. What’s the problem?”

“I’m scared of deep water”

“Can’t you swim?”

“I’ve never swum a stroke in my life. It terrifies me: it always has done. And then there was my sister …..” her voice faded out.

“Oh yes, I heard about that somewhere. You had a younger sister who died when she was very small, didn’t you?”

“Yes; she fell into a pool and drowned. It was while we were out on a picnic”

“Where was this?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t much older myself at the time; too young to remember the details; and my parents never talked to me about it, ever. They found it much too distressing”

We started out along the shore, with me doing my best to keep between Sarah and the water whenever the path was wide enough to allow this. But we hadn’t gone very far before Sarah said, “Look, I really don’t want to go any further. You might find I’m being silly, but I don’t like this place at all; it unsettles me. And the wind’s really getting up: I think we might be in for a storm”.

“Fair enough, if that’s how you feel. Let’s just walk as far as those benches, then we’ll go back to the car”                                                                 

   There were two wooden seats near the water’s edge, which looked as though they’d been there for ages. I sat down on one of them to retie my shoelaces. Sarah remained standing, gazing out into the water. Then I heard her say, “My God!”

The wind was really howling by this time, making a fearful racket in the treetops. I wouldn’t have heard Sarah at all if she hadn’t started to shout at the top of her voice. But she wasn’t shouting to me: it was as if she’d forgotten I was there.

“My God, it was here it happened! Here! I can see it in my mind, just as it was!”

You! You! You! Said the wind.

“It wasn’t my fault! I didn’t mean to push her in! It was an accident!”

You! You! Said the wind.

“It was mummy and daddy’s fault! They were too far away, and didn’t get back in time to pull her out!”

You! You! You!

“It wasn’t fair to expect me to go in and help her! They know I’m frightened of water!” Sarah collapsed in hysterical tears.

I managed to grab hold of her and led her back through the woods. I helped her into the car without a word, and we sat there for a while until she’d managed to calm down. Then I said, “Look, I really am sorry for bringing you here”

“No”, said Sarah, “You couldn’t possibly have known. I didn’t know myself until we reached that spot, and then it all came back to me. It was my fault for losing self-control like that. I’m sorry. It must have been very embarrassing for you”

There was another silence, then she said, “It was just like I heard voices by the lake there. But it was only the wind, wasn’t it?”

Rest in Peace, by David Bingham

Snow drifted into the trench Colonel Kurtz had ordered his men to excavate. He’d been puzzled by the elongated mound his occupying troops had found in the parkland near the centre of the city,

   ‘Colonel, they knew, with winter coming, they couldn’t hold out against us.’

   The colonel looked down at the creatures which had fought so bravely against him. ‘They’d been under siege for six months. I doubt if they’d have lasted for more than a couple of days anyway.’

   ‘But did they need to go this far?’

   ‘I don’t know, Major. But, in a way, I admire them. They’d rather kill themselves than be subservient.’

   ‘There’s no way we’d have done it!’

   ‘I’m not so sure. Back on earth there’s lots of examples of this kind of thing.’

   The colonel raised his hand and signalled the excavator operators to fill in the trench.

   ‘At least we can tell base the area’s safe for colonisation.’

   ‘No rush, Major; they’ll have to wait until spring before they send settlers here.’

   And in that season of fresh growth a new settlement was established which was intended to rise from the ruins of the old.

   While underneath the surface a species, waking from their winter hibernation, stretched their stiff limbs and began to move upwards from darkness into the light.

The Return, by Hannah

Swasticas on tombstones
Jackboots and a shaved head
Six million feathers
have been blown away
as have the memories of the dead
Demonstrations, manifestations
and cries of hate
freedom of peace for the world
Yet for some it has come too late.
Crosses and flowers
churches filled
joy and despair
of those who were coming
those who were leaving
and those who were never there.
Communism has fallen
Fascism holds
Democracy has risen
yet the dead still lie in their tombs.
The future has not forgiven
the past, the corpses and their wounds.
Auschwitz is covered by grass
the survivors have flown to Israel
and the coffin of racism is opened
nail by nail.

Aladdin Updated, by Peter Morford

Aladdin was feeling his age.  Not surprising really because he was crossing a parched desert which stretched for miles in every direction. He staggered step by painful step, hoping he was heading south where he thought there would be an oasis. His camel had died two – or was it three? days ago. He had drunk all his water and eaten all his figs. The merciless sun had burned his bald head and dazzled his myopic eyes. Still he plodded along, slipping in the loose sand of dunes, covering his face against the occasional dust blows.                                                                                 

            He fell heavily, face first, into the sand. He couldn’t breathe until he had pushed himself into a kneeling position. He scrabbled in the sand to push himself up.  There was something just below the surface which wasn’t sand.  He smiled for the first time that day. He recognised the shape and the texture.  It was his old lamp, lost with his good luck, many years before.   He rubbed it clean. There was a loud popping noise and a puff of smoke.

            “How can I serve you, O Master?” the genie said.

            Now Aladdin was an unselfish man.  He thought of the greater good of mankind.

            “I require three wishes,” he said.

           “That’s most irregular, O Master. I usually grant only one.  But as it’s been a long time… What is your command O Master?”

             “That all human diseases cease to be.”

         There was flash of blue lightning and a great crack of thunder.

            “It is done, O Master.”

             Aladdin felt the life returning to his limbs and he could see the distant mountains clearly. His newly-restored hair was sheltering him from the sun.

            “And your second wish, O Master?”

            “That all poverty be abolished.”

            Another flash and boom.

            “It is done, O Master”

            Aladdin felt the thickness of his wallet, now filled with hundred dollar bills, credit cards and tickets to the pantomime.

            “And your third and final wish, O Master?”

            “I want the weather to be under Man’s control, so that the deserts bloom.”

            Yet another flash and bang.

            “It is done O Master. Farewell.”

            The sky clouded over and he felt the first drops of rain.  And the second.  And the third until the downpour was a monsoon.  Green shoots miraculously appeared as water gushed down the dunes.  He was soon up to his ankles, his knees, his waist.  He climbed but the water rose faster.

Aladdin, RIP.

Witchcraft, by Kwaku Gyamfi

The problem with the outside world is that they do not understand our peculiar situation in Africa. I mean, witchcraft is very real. You need to see to understand. If you don’t understand something and you just label it as superstition it is very unfair. Yes, we believe in witchcraft but that does not mean we are dumb. Wisdom and believing in witchcraft are not mutually exclusive. I dare say we are wiser for believing in these forces of darkness because they keep us on our toes. We fast and pray to keep evil away. There are some things that are difficult for the human mind to understand. The other day I was returning from a party at dawn when I saw a man with the head of a bull. He had horns, muzzle, those cattle eyes, the entire package. I was scared to the bone. The animal-man creature was walking towards me. Boy, I almost shit on myself. You know I was from a party and as you would guess I was quite tipsy. Wee was not disallowed at the party and the smokers did not spare me from the assault of their puffs. But I was sturdy. I did not sway like the drunkard of my town does. That guy eh I am sure he gets drunk even on water. Dude is always drunk I don’t know how he does it. As I was saying earlier, the creature was coming towards me. I gathered courage and approached it. It was not that I wasn’t scared. Actually I was scared to the point that I could feel it in my fingertips, even the muscles of my stomach shook. Then I saw the creature stop. It stood straight. It did not move an inch. Boy, did I stop too. If you were there you would think I was a statue. All of a sudden, the creature was covered by a thick red cloud which was very visible in the morning night. I saw the creature going down. I don’t know how to describe what I saw. It was as if it was melting, like burnt candle wax receding to its base. The curious thing was that the apparent liquid form of the creature was blue with smoke of the same colour emanating from it. This smoke mixed with the cloud I told you about earlier to form different shades of magenta. I am not sure of what that colour is called these days. Besides, I am not good with colours. I am drifting. So I moved as silently as possible to stand beside a light pole that was nearby to guard myself against evil and watched what was going on. Then all of a sudden there was an explosion. A silent explosion of colours. Every colour of the rainbow dancing before my eyes. Every shade and hue of light perceptible to the eye. And there was nothing.

 P.S: If you think I believe in witchcraft then I must also believe there are tigers in Africa, and believe in the Sugar Candy Mountain too.

An Unwelcome Fellow Traveller, by Peter Shilston

"I really hate the sea", he was saying. At least, that's what I thought he was saying, because to be perfetly honest I had long since stopped paying attention to him. When you're on a long, slow railway journey you often get chatting to complete strangers, but on occasion it proves to be a bad mistake. This was one of those occasions. He'd wittered on for ages, all about himself, and most of what he'd said was of so little interest that it had entirely washed over me, leaving no trace on my memory. 
   So I replied, "Oh really?" in my most neutral voice, trying to indicate complete lack of interest without being seriously rude. I shuffled with some papers and pretended to be reading them, hoping he'd take the hint and shut up. But that was too much to hope for.
   "The thing is", he continued, "I once had the most dreadful experience at the seaside, and it's haunted me ever since".
   (No, I thought, please don't tell me about it!)
   "In fact, it was so dreadful that I can't bear to speak about it even now".
   (Thank God for that! I told myself)
   "Have you ever felt like that?" he asked, in a tone that implied  he didn't expect me to launch into a similar experience of my own. "It can be a great relief to unburden your soul to a stranger, but somehow you can't bring yourself to do it".
   Really, this was getting intolerable. But I found myself asking, "The seaside, you say? Anywhere I would know? here or abroad?"
   "Oh, I can't travel abroad. It would mean crossing the sea in an aeroplane. I'd know I was crossing it, even though I couldn't see it. No, it was here in England".
   The train slowed down and stopped at a small station. My companion picked up his only bag and rose to his feet.
   "Well", he said, "I'm off to the sea now. I'll just have to try and conquer my fears. Look, I'm most grateful to you for all your help and advice. I've enjoyed meeting you. Goodbye!" I muttered, quite truthfully, that I hadn't done anything to help him at all. And then he was gone. I slumped backin my seat, relieved to be free of him at last.
   It was only later that I realised we were nowhere near the coast, and travelling in the wrong direction to reach it. 

Remorse, by John Garland

"Right, let’s get started. I’m Bill, you’re Arthur, and we’re having this meeting because you tried to shoot me".

“I didn’t”, said Arthur. “It was an accident. I explained that at the trial, but they didn’t believe me”.

"No surprise surely, was it, sunshine? Because let’s face it, you’ve got form; plenty of form. And I was in my car at the traffic lights, and you were up on the balcony on the block of flats, and you fired your gun at me. And since I’d never seen you in my life before, I’d like to know why”.

“It wasn’t my gun. I’ve never had a gun. Someone left it there, and I picked it up to have a look at it, and it went off”

“Oh yeah? And you’re surprised the jury didn’t believe you? If it wasn’t your gun, who d’you think might have left it there?”

Silence.

“Can’t say, or won’t say?”

More silence.

"Look, this isn’t going well, is it? This is supposed to be some kind of pilot scheme of crooks talking with their victims. Supposed to do some good. Sounds like a load of trendy rubbish to me, but we’d better give it a go now we’re here. So I’ll have my say, then you can have yours: okay?

   "So there I was, sitting in my car at the traffic lights, with the window down because it was hot, when suddenly this bullet comes whistling right past my nose and smashes into the dashboard. Didn’t touch me, as it happens, but not a nice experience, though I’m not the sort of guy who scares easily. It was a new car, very smart, cost me a packet, and there was a lot of damage. You might say, well, the insurance company paid up and it all got put right; but it’s not the same again, is it? And then the time I had to waste, signing statements for the police, and giving evidence at your trial, not to mention this talk now. I’ve got a pretty important job, and I was working on a really big deal at the time, but I had to hand it over to someone else, and now he’ll get all the credit for it. Now even if what you say’s true, and it was an accident, it still caused me all this hassle, which I could have done without.

   "And then, what if the bullet had gone a few inches to the left? I’d have been dead, and what then? I don’t think Becky, that’s my wife, would ever have got over it, because, I’d have to say, she idolises me, and so do the kids. And then there’s my firm; they place a lot of reliance on me. And it would be a waste, because I’m going to achieve big things before I’m much older. And all that would have gone, snuffed out; even if your shot was an accident, which personally I don’t believe it was. A tragedy.

   "So, I’ve had my say. Now you can have yours. Are you sorry for what you’ve done?"

“Yes”, said Arthur, “Now I’ve heard you, I am sorry. I’m very sorry that I missed you”.

Through the Glass Darkly, by Nerina

Bored with the truth,
let emotions overtake
vain desires and ambitious hopes.

Desperation
hidden behind a meaningful facade
of disillusioned intention
and wilful expression.

Doused with numbing liquor
Subtle with false control.

Gone.
The moments of truth
no longer exist here.

Replace one thing with another
no lesser evil and
replace dreams with a supposed
acceptance and unity

with reality.

Migrants, by Peter Morford

“Migrants? Don't talk to me about migrants,” said the man on the bench by the lake.  “They’re a menace.”

          He carried on. I mean he carried on. “Telford used to be a nice place. Now it’s nearly as bad as Wolverhampton and Birmingham.. Overrun by aliens, foreigners and squatters.  And don’t think you’re safe in Bridgnorth.”  He glared at me as if it was my fault.

          “This used to a nice place when I was a lad. Now look at it. They’re everywhere.  And don’t think you’ll get away with it in Bridgnorth. Just you wait. You’ve only seen the first of ’em.”

          I agreed.

          “Someone must have invited the first ones. They must have come thousands of miles to be here. They used to leave, seasonally, but not anymore. And just look at the mess they make. They take more than their fair share of food and they give nothing in return. They’re scavengers. I hate them and they don’t belong here. They breed worse than rabbits and we can’t send them away.     There’s only one way to stop them- population control.”

          “How?” I asked.

          “Abort the young of course. I know it’s against the law, but what the Judge doesn’t see.”   He tapped the side of his nose as if expecting that I would understand.

          “How?” I said, repetitively.

          “With this spike,” he said, as he pierced the egg and let the contents pour into the lake.

          The mother Canada Goose honked in protest but it was too late.  One less.

What's the Problem? by Kwaku Gyamfi

“Hello… What’s the problem? Are you crying?... He has beaten you?... You’ve been quarrelling with him again eh… You say you are hurt?… Don’t worry it will heal… The cut is deep?... But there are people with deep tribal marks… Is he at home?... He has left to the other woman’s place?... How do you know?... A friend called?... What bad company have you been keeping? She is just hurting you. Don’t go close to her again. She wants your downfall… You say he hit you because you said he is a cheat? You too what’s your problem? I’ve always told you to let him be; he will return to his senses. He has been bewitched. All these husband snatchers who the devil has employed will not succeed. God forbid. Fight for your marriage… You say you want a divorce? Are you mad? Don’t you know it will affect the children? They need their father. Don’t be stupid… You say what? If you don’t leave him one of you might die… Now I know you are fool… What are you talking about?... What?! Sometimes you feel like hitting him in the head with a brick… But why? All because he is cheating?... You can’t take it any longer? But what’s your problem? He is a man, and men have needs. The last time, he said you didn’t want to sleep with him… You say he is lying?... And you say it’s no cause for cheating even if it was true?... Ah but a man has needs. You say you don’t deny him… But seriously a man can’t live with one woman. Just look at the animal kingdom, one male to so many females. It’s nature. They can’t help it… The females have no obligation to males to keep their chastity either?… We are not in the jungle? We are humans. Is that what you are telling me? With this mouth of yours, I am not surprised he has been abusing you. You are a woman for God’s sake; learn to be submissive… You say he is supposed to love you too? Oh but he does… What are you saying? Your line is breaking… If he loves you he wouldn’t be doing what he is doing? You are so wrong. Doesn’t he feed his children? Doesn’t he give you clothes to wear?... Yes, he can take care of anyone he wants with his money, including the woman and her children… It’s not fair? What on earth are you talking about? He performs all his responsibilities and that’s what is important; it doesn’t matter that you started the business and he is using it to take care of his mistress so far as he takes care of you and the family. In any case you are his helper, a helper. That’s what you’ll ever be… You are still saying you want to divorce him. You might come out getting nothing… You’ve spoken to that lawyer friend of yours? O.K. What did he say? Oh O.K he told you to be patient; ah that’s a wise fellow. Ah wasn’t he the same lawyer you told me had impregnated his wife’s sister and had arranged an abortion for her… Oh so he is the one, hahaha, my memory isn’t so bad after all. Take his advice. He said you will not be left empty handed when you indeed divorced him?… Yes, what he says is true; it will take a long time… You need to pray for your marriage. When was the last time you fasted?... You don’t remember? You, you really need prayers. Oh, the line is dead.”

Instant Writing, by Peter, Andrea, Tony and others

The idea of "Instant writing" is that you are given a sentence chosen at random from a book, and you then have to write immediately a short passage starting with these words. The important thing is that there must be no time for thought. It's amazing what can emerge!
   We played this game at our meeting last month. Here are some specimens of what was produced:- 
..........

No, I don't know what became of Pickman and I don't like to guess. He was a sinister character with some very bizarre hobbies. Whenever we met, which wasn't very often, he'd drop dark hints of what he'd been doing recently: no real details, you understand; just enough to make me feel really alarmed for his safety. And now he's disappeared. Did someone shoot him, or was it something far worse? I wonder if the police will ever find a body?

"No, I don't know what became of Pickman and I don't like to guess", I said. That should have laid the subject, if not Pickman, thoroughly rest.
   Of course, Benson thought otherwise. "I know exactly what happened to him, and I'll tell you".
   We all groaned and pretended an interest in our rare meat, but he went rabbiting on for an interminable time: right through to the final glass of port he did his best to send us off to sleep. 
..........

It takes enormous energy to tell lies. It wasn't a practical solution, but it was believable. I'm sure in some way a good outcome would come forth, though judging by the final chaos I could not believe the noises of the machines. Nodding up and down like the head of a melancholy elephant, it was approaching its great pushrod, making an alarming fssh as it rammed its piston home. That was the last thing I saw: that and him jumping off the shanabang. Not a sight I thought I'd see at at that stage. It was dark and moonlit, and not the sort of scenario you'd expect if you wanted to die.

It takes enormous energy to tell lies. For instance, when I went to the shops the other day I intended to buy a jacket for myself, but instead I found a book I liked and so I spent the money on that instead. I then faced the problem of how to smuggle it back into the house without my wife finding it. A very large book, you see. It was easy enough to say I hadn't found a jacket I liked, which was true in a sense, but how to account for the book? That would be much more difficult.
..........

An excitable figure with two extra limbs and the head of an ant darted in front of them. Bloody country. Bloody flies. Hang on; that was no fly! Do I stop? Nah, I'll get all bloody. Shit, I'll have to stop: it's all over the windscreen and clogging up the windows terribly. What's that bloody smell? If I drive a bit quicker I'll get away from it.

An excitable figure with two extra limbs and the head of an ant darted in front of them. 
  "Stop! Stop!" It shouted, "Can you give me a lift? It's very urgent!"
   "Don't take any notice", Mike told me. "We're hallucinating. I told you this would happen".