The only pebble on the beach, by Pauline Fisk

(Pauline Fisk, who founded Shrewsbury Flash Fiction, sadly died four years ago. I am here republishing one of her stories as a tribute and a memorial)

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

Nothing prepared me for it.  It was not an exceptional day. We were on my favourite beach - that’s as special as it got - me and my friends having a good time. 

They were the ones who saw her first - a woman down at the water’s edge who looked just like me.  I became aware of the nudging, and glanced where they were pointing. Dear God, it was like looking at myself. The shock broke over me like a wave. It wasn’t only the clothes that did it – the black t-shirt and sawn-off jeans that were just like mine. It wasn’t even the hair turned white prematurely like mine, or cut like mine, or the jutting chin or cheekbones. 

No, it was the way that other person carried herself.  It went through me like a knife, separating blood from bone. If that ever happens to you, you’ll know what I mean. She came slowly up the beach, fishing for pebbles with her eyes, picking up her choices, pocketing the special ones, throwing away the rest. She was lost in a world of her own. Except that it wasn’t her world.  It was mine.  

By now, our entire party was riveted, looking from her looking like me to me looking, I guess, exactly the way I felt - which was overwhelmingly embarrassed. This was worse than any possible public dress malfunction. If my soul had been revealed to the world's gaze, I couldn’t have felt more exposed. Never have I felt so vulnerable.

Only when that other person drew level did she raise her eyes. Instinctively I turned away, hoping she wouldn’t notice me. I could have asked who she was, but I wasn’t curious.  I hoped she’d walk on. I didn’t want her asking who I was. Didn’t want to find I had a secret twin. Didn’t want to wonder what my mother, all these years, had kept hidden from me. Dear God, hidden from us.

That other person saw, of course. I didn’t have to see her seeing me to know she saw her replica.  Her shock broke over me like another wave. I swear I felt the two of us being sucked down the beach like pebbles running for the sea. Each had thought she was the only pebble on the beach, special and unique.  Now here I was, making less of her whilst she made something ordinary of me.

So, there you have it. Not much of a story you might think.  Just some person looking for pebbles but finding me, skirting round the subject whilst I hid my face, then sauntering on, emptying her pockets as if something had been spoiled. 

But there are secrets here that will never be revealed. A hidden truth set in cheekbones, chin and hair. A name I’ll never know because I didn’t ask, enthroned on my beach, surrounded by my friends, missing my chance, whilst my other self walked away, wearing her solitude like a crown.

Copyright © Pauline Fisk 2013 .
.

Happy Christmas!

A Happy Christmas to everyone!

I found this charming 15th century Nativity scene at the Petit Palais in Avignon.

Feedback, by David Bingham

I have a problem: I act too readily in response to the advice people give me. So when my tutor said, "James, your work is a bit self-indulgent: why not try writing it in the third person?", 'I' became 'he', as he thought, "She's right, of course". And when she said, "Give your main character a different name", Gustav took over. His left eye twitched when she further suggested he should have a distinctive mannerism.

   Next, wolves howled in the distance and snow piled up against the walls of the cabin, following her remark about the need for an exotic setting; and after hearing her views on developing backstories, it was revealed when he was a boy his father had taught him to use an axe.

   "Finally, you need significant events", she said. "The more dramatic, the better!"
   So Gustav looked down at the pool of blood which oozed from the gaping wound in her head. He didn't regret what he'd done: she had it coming. All that moaning about being stuck out there with only him to talk to! What had she expected: barn dancing? Gustav dragged her body out into the blizzard and left it deep in the forest.

Then he returned to his cabin, took out his recently-purchased Surface Pro4 and typed, "It's a hot summer's day here in Wolverhampton and I'm off to Costa to get myself a Frappuchino".

Unprepared: a dream, by Peter Shilston

I had spent the morning working on a cupboard-full of someone else’s junk, extracting the few items that were worth saving and putting aside the remained to be thrown out, and then I met Kom. He must have spotted how bored I looked, and he asked me if I was yet ready to be initiated. He had mentioned this before, and this time I said yes.
Initiated into what, you might ask. Here Kom would employ a word which he said was untranslatable: somewhere between a religious faith and a view of life. I took it to mean some exotic form of Buddhism, or something on those lines. I didn’t inquire; but I certainly wasn’t prepared for what followed. Kom led me into the older part of town and through a nondescript door to a courtyard beyond. On the opposite side was an open doorway, which was evidently where I should go. A couple of other people were waiting there already: they did not turn to look at me. Kom said that etiquette required that I should wait for the person ahead to disappear out of sight before I entered. I asked Kom if someone would instruct me what to do, and he said yes, of course.
While I waited a watched an old man in the courtyard who was going through a dance, involving many singular jumps and hops. His bare legs looked wiry and strong, and he moved as lightly as any gymnast or ballet-dancer, He looked totally self-absorbed and took  no notice of anyone else. It seemed plain that he was an adept. After a while the way ahead of me was clear.

Inside the doorway there was a metal ladder leading upwards. I climbed it. The climb took a long time, and was partly in darkness, but at last I emerged into daylight.  
I was high above the town, standing on a platform of glistening white quartz. It looked like a natural formation, though it was not much wider than the top of a column, and the sides were almost as steep. I did not like this at all. I once went rock-climbing with a friend, and felt most uncomfortable on the exposed heights. I sat down, hoping it would be safer. Then the instructions came:
“Conquer your fear. Look down on the city bone-yard and do not be afraid” One of the oddest things is that I can’t remember whether these words were written down, or spoken, or just popped into my head. I looked. There was a city below me, but it did not resemble the town I had come from. In was totally silent, and I could not see a single human being anywhere. Beyond the city there was countryside and further off, faint through the haze, a range of mountains. It was not scenery I recognised. Then I looked to see what to do next. There was a sort of path down, but it looked very slippery and dangerous, without anything to hold onto. More instructions came:
“Why the need to hurry? You can stay here for ever if you wish”

I cannot for the life of me say how I did get down: I have no memory of it whatsoever. I wonder if I fainted. But I certainly didn’t fall, or I wouldn’t be here today. Am I, perhaps, in a sense, still up there on that high and perilous seat? I tried discussing this with Kom, but he cut me short, saying that everyone’s experience was different and it was best not to talk about the subject: he would take me to the next stage when the time was right. What his own initiation involved he refused to say.

Don't Touch, by Martin Needham

It is now the 734th year since the outbreak of the Great and Merciful Peace and all the inhabitable areas have agreed upon two supreme commandments. These two rules were  born out of the  necessity of circumstance and have transformed human existence. 

Early in the time of Scarcity  the elders who took control of the holy google-net ruled that all human life was sacred and may not be taken, every individual must eat in moderation and exercise to maximise their lifespan. The eggs and sperm are still taken from the young at 17 years of age to be protected so that selected embryos can be produced  in gestation tanks when required by their family.  

For the first  two hundred years humanity prospered, people expected to live to 120 and then 150 and now 200 years. The sterile homes and blessings of the virtual worlds created by the omniscient and most revered google-net  meant that people continued to live entertained and safe existences.  So the planet was fully repopulated until the time of the  Super Abundance, coinciding with the final impotency of antibiotics. 

At this time the second great rule was revealed to us. Thou shalt not treat the sick. So for half a millennium we have lived in the midst of a dichotomy of rules born out of conflicting necessities which are  sustained by a personal greed for life and enshrined in religion. Thus we preserve and revere our online lifespan but we may not interfere with the sick. In this way the overall balance of life is preserved.  We study the great sciences of prevention, sterilisation  and vaccination that we might live longer. Everyone must wear their life preservers; white synthetic spider silk suits that armour us against the scourge of abrasions. We live within our sterosphere helmets that protect us from infection. We conduct our business through virtually controlled machines and exercise in virtual worlds inspired by reality and imagination.

I am a servant of the great and most majestic high google. In my first half century I was one of the developers of the most miraculous world time web, which has become the great investment sensation of our  age. We succeeded in drawing in  digital signals refracted back from the black star gravity pool. These data streams from the birth of our most revered google net brought us knowledge of what we now call  "the age of visceral engagement" .  At first we were shocked and sickened  by the violence, bare flesh and physical contact. It has since been used to reform our virtual entertainments.  

This is my first attempt to send a super accelerated data burst on the reverse path back through the curve of the  space/time depression. There is no rule against it, but in my heart I know there should be.  Studying your lives for over a hundred years now I feel compelled to warn you of the unfortunate alignments of rules, culture and circumstances that have enslaved us. I realise that this act may threaten our own existence.

I am 198 years old. I have followed the rules, lived long and been  well rewarded by our standards,  but perhaps less well in your judgements. I will send richer data streams after this simple old fashioned coded message, but try to imagine.  We must endure our illness and the consequences of them, we must not intervene.  We do not touch and remain untouched. 

I have recently lost another greatgreatgreatgrandchild in such circumstances as further fuel my doubts about the rules by which we live. We had stepped outside our block - risky but not against the rules. Five year old Louis saw the leaves blowing down from the trees. Before he could be stopped, he put up his visor that he might chase and catch a leaf. It brushed his eye as it floated down: infection followed and then death. 

I have stood coldly by and watched death too many times, and I know that you would judge me ill by the standards of your time for doing so.  Our children's instincts betray our true nature. It is  buried deeper as we mature by the consistent layers of conditioning that we must not touch.   When I first looked back at your time I was shocked, offended and physically sickened by the way that you touch each other, walk barefooted, breathe the air. We had lost the words for two mouths touching and even now I cannot bring myself to write it,  but now I am obsessed  by it and jealous.

 Preserve your humanity not your individual  selves, live a real and dirty life. Set your descendants free.

Yours in perpetual  servitude.            Gideon

The Politics of Poverty, by Amanda Jane Palling

Those who govern my state have to wait

Till my body sinks deep into rumpled cotton
(I am too lazy to iron the sheets).
Then tiny, aspiring tyrants inside
Get ready for Big Things to happen.

Parliamentarians, some 40 or 50,
Gather round to propound at length.
Infinitesimal fists fly or shake
There are drunken backslaps and brash huzzahs
(And sometimes sulking in front of the fire,
Because someone else came up with it first).

At dawn, they turn in – the bill drafted and sent
To be readied and placed on the back of my tongue,
Either neatly stacked and tied with fine ribbon
Or crumpled and covered in wine stains and blots.
But ready to tumble out when I wake
Shocked by the strange new shape and odd taste.

The Crow, by Georgia Kelly

Help

for I am lost,

fall to the ground,

you collect my skin

fresh gum collecting in teeth,
pull bits of my being
into somekind of reformation,
clumsy stuff: pieces and parts
like rolled-up socks and secrets
into the back of your drawer.

In the darkness
claws begin to unfurl;
Where feet once grew
feathers sprout sporadically
from craters, pits, holes;
the pores you made.
Unbeknown, I thrive on mites and lice,
wing, legs, shells, flesh
surrender to my hooked trap.

You

You with your futile limbs
and gawky oafish frame:
Forgetful of my caged presence
till the search for an item mislaid
cuts me from my oaken jail.
I am a deathly shadow
against the whitewash of yout walls.
In the keep of your chamber
I peck you dry.
As crimson swells and soaks,
seeping down halls
stairs onto the street,

Take your last breath as I fly away.

Time On Hold, by Catherine Redfern

The years are fleet of foot, but days are heavy-booted,
Childhood, marriage, the steel works - gone in a flash.
Three sons grown and flown. Good lads: they write,
Though less since Edith died.

Mornings dawdle: radio on, porridge, tea,
And out into the garden.
Maybe transplant the sweet-pea seedlings; fingers clumsy now;
Pick early radishes and the last few snowdrops -
She did love those each spring. Use the little fish-paste jar
Hoarded down the years.

The World at One, a look atthe paper - what a world!
Who are these people? Names change so fast.
We need another Churchill at the helm.
The foot lady this afternoon; a Mrs. Dyer;
It's come to something when you need the like -
And me, the Works left wing, flying down the field!

Change socks, polish shoes, a bit of housework needed,
Cobwebs on the ceiling: she'd have hated that.
Maybe on a chair .... but .... but I'm going ....
..........   ..........   ......   ....  ..  ..

It's no good shouting when there's no-one to hear. 

Emily, by Peter Shilston

Emily sprinkled the chocolate shards on her breakfast cappuchino and wondered what picture the random blotches would conjure up in her mind today. But she had no time to waste daydreaming, so she took a quick snap of it with her mobile and then slurped it down before hurrying off to work. Later on, she could observe it at leisure, or even discuss it with her friends to see what they made of it.

Sometimes it was a fish, and once it was a rodeo rider whirling a lariat, but most often it was a dog. Emily loved dogs. Yes, this one was a dog: a short-legged, flop-eared little mutt, standing on its hind legs and looking straight at her. A dachshund or terrier of some kind; how cute!

Examining the photo again before she went to bed, Emily noticed that the dog appeared to be wearing glasses, and carried a bag or basket in its left paw. So, a cartoon dog. Perhaps the pictures she’d seen on previous days had been cartoon creatures too. Now that was an idea: stories about cartoon animals and people that came to life on a cup of cappuchino! She could become a famous children’s author! Emily was confident that she might have the ability to do this, but doubted whether she would have the time or the energy. She enjoyed her job, which was an important and responsible one, and well remunerated, but it was very exhausting, and often she felt completely drained when she came home. This was one of those evenings. As she sat slumped in her chair, she wondered what was in the dog’s bag, and the answer came into her head, “Cocaine”. Now that would make it something very different, she mused: a cartoon for adults, dark and probably violent …..

In bed, waiting to go to sleep, she wondered; Why did cocaine suddenly occur to her then? Was it something to do with that colleague at work, a senior director, no less, whom they suspected of being a user? And didn’t he once hint to her that she might like to try some? But Emily didn’t want to go there, and she had avoided the issue by pretending that she hadn’t understood the hint.

She was still picturing the little dog with the mysterious basket when she fell asleep.      

What Am I? by Michael Carding

Rotary, Probus and W.I.
Too hard for scratching, too precious to try,
My pump for a lifetime, when not drowned in passion,
I'm digging potatoes for roasting and mashing.
Four times a prime number: bad luck, some may feel.
Just one for each week of the year: that's the deal!

Answer: A pack of cards!

Water, by Annabelle Jane Palling

I did not knock at your door on a feverish night,

Parched and asking for cool, cool water or
Even just an ice cube to slide down your
Supple spine and – burning –
Refresh.

Yes, the bursting hydrangeas outside
Spoke of rich, rich soil ripe with life,
But I did not raise my hand
To knock.
I answered, though.

Anyway.
I poured, and we laughed and we drank and we
Thanked each other for soothed throats and bodies revived.
And soon we were skinny-dipping in the oceans of those tall glasses,
Splashing, sleek and alive.

Until you had drunk your fill, then
Your feet could not find the bottom, and
Your eyes lost the shoreline of your glass’s rim.
And we swam perhaps a bit too
Close.

So.
I am still holding the pitcher, and
The door is still open,
And I am unquenched
But hesitate to drink.

Hard To Get Hard, by Georgia Kelly

It's hard to get hard

as your breath catches thick

in the lining of your throat

when you're weak at the knees 

only for having fallen

for yet another pack of

brightly coloured chloresterol.

Your wife says nothing these days.

Broken promises and lies

lie deep in the blue marbled

sheet that clouds her hazelnut eyes

as she hides in her chair

hung, drawn and quartered

on some pill or other - smarties.

You visit her from time to time

but you'd rather see her through a screen.

It's hard to get hard.

as perspiration pushes out of pores

maybe she's blonde today?

you always had a thing for blondes, didn't you?

Sweat drips.

Perhaps she's got caramel skin and

a sweet, aching crush on her step-brother?

Ham-handedly, you move without care

she could be anyone.

It's hard to get hard

when you can't see your worth

over the swell of your stomach

until you catch your reflection

a moment squeezed tight

in the limp, black second of a video

it's hard to get hard.

The Robing Room, by Peter Morford

My friend Petronella’s two marriages had been conventional enough.  Number one was in the village church, 20 guests, reception in the pub.  Number two was a bit more lavish, reflecting her social promotion.  A marquee on a National Trust estate, 200 guests, honeymoon in Kenya. And now, number three, on her new man’s yacht moored in Cardiff Docks, crewed and provisioned for the long haul.

            I, as one of her special friends were to, officiate in costumes which she would provide.  She fixed the appointment with the costumiers for me.

**

            I rang the bell twice before anyone came. A tall rather imposing woman opened the door.             “Yes?”

            “I’m Martin Black, guest of Petronella Parker’s wedding.”

            “You’d better come in.  If you sit here I’ll bring you a coffee. Then you will proceed to the robing room,” she said.

            I sat down. She returned with coffee and biscuits for two, put them on the little table and sat opposite me.

            I looked her. Perhaps fifty or even sixty. Slim in her ankle-length black dress with dozens of buttons from neck to the floor.   Greying hair piled high on her head.  Long nose, thin lips. Veined hands. Wedding ring. An imperious rather impressive Victorian lady. I supposed that I would impersonate a 19^th century gentleman. She had the look of someone who didn’t want conversation so I said nothing.

            Suddenly she stood up. “I’ll fetch your costume. You may go into the robing room now.”

            I’m not sure what I expected but it certainly wasn’t what I saw.  The room was about 15ft square.  The only furniture was a pair of bentwood chairs, a hat-stand and a cheval mirror covered by a velvet cloth. 

            The walls were papered with flock and the room smelt of dust.

            She returned with a small case. “I’ll leave you to change.  Call me when you’re ready.”

I opened the case.  Inside was a striped bathing costume, a neck to knee woollen thing vintage 1920s. Feeling silly I changed and uncovered the mirror. What I saw shocked me. I looked aghast.  I’m not a vain man but this kit was ridiculous.

            I called.  She came.  Said, “Are you sure that Petronella wants me to attend her wedding in this?”

            “Those are her instructions Mr Black.”.

            “And will the other ushers be dressed the same way?”

            “I’m not at liberty to discuss the others.”

            I turned back to the mirror. It had changed.  I saw my ungainly striped figure and behind me, an automated  car assembly line.  Orange robots were assembling Range Rovers. I looked round but the wall behind me was just a wall covered in flock wallpaper.   I looked back at my reflection.  Cars were slowly progressing. Robots were delivering bonnet tops and fitting the doors.  I turned round very fast again.  Flock wallpaper.

            “How’s it done?”

            “What are you talking about Mr Black?”

            “Look at the mirror,” I said

            “I see myself.”

            “But the background looks wrong.”

            “Have you been drinking Mr Black?”

            “Only your coffee.”

            “That would account for it.  I think you’d better leave.”

            Back on the A5 I was stopped by the Police. They didn’t believe a word of it either

A Fine Romance, by Martin White

I always suspected it might end in tears. 
My friend had such high hopes: a new relationship!
   Her name is Hannah. He tells me she is American, probably from the east coast, mid-50s. She has a no-nonsense style that he finds very alluring. A bit domineering for my taste, but it takes all sorts. If she has any children I think she must be estranged from them, since her career takes her away from home for weeks on end. That, of course, is what brought them together: their love of travel.
    He'd been feeling lost for quite some time; not sure what direction to take; feeling lonely. So when he was introduced to Hannah he thought life was really going to take a turn for the better. And so it did, for a while. Lots of new places, new adventures. Everyone remarked how much happier he looked, with a new spring in his step. He was always saying, "We went there; we saw that". He was never at home. You should have seen his garden!
  Then .... it was bound to happen. He started to notice that she had quiet spells, not saying anything. He wondered if he had done something to annoy her: forgotten her birthday perhaps. He began to suspect she had moods. Then one day as they were driving around she said, "Turn right", and he found they had turned onto a dirt track, and after a mile or so of increasing anxiety on his part they entered a farmyard. Well, my friend was naturally very upset, and he stopped listening to anything she said. 
   He soon became very depressed. I wondered about suggesting he wrote to Marinella Forstrup in the "Guardian": perhaps she could give advice? But who knows where that might lead?
   So I've given him a new road atlas for his birthday. He'll be better off with that.


In the car
a new voice
she who must be obeyed

Goodbye in November, by J.C. Almain

The leaves that are falling now
will be renewed next year;
but she,
she will never return

Lorraine, by June Pettitt

Gerald had been known as Gerry to his friends: not that he had many of those since his divorce - a messy affair, where all their dirty linen had been aired in public. Since then he had more or less kept himself to himself.

  He was exhausted. It had been a tough week negotiating terms and prices with a new customer for the building company of which he was a partner.   ‘Thank goodness it’s the weekend,’ he thought as he packed his briefcase and closed his laptop. He could not wait to get out of the office. Every weekend he would drive to the Lake District where he owned a small cottage. It was in woodland in Grizedale National Park and was quite isolated. It had been left to him after his mother and father had passed away; his father first after a short illness. His mother, who was devoted to her husband, died shortly after from a broken heart. Luckily, if you could call it luck, it was after he had been divorced and a settlement had all ready been agreed, or the greedy whore would have claimed half of that.

  Unlocking the car door he put in his briefcase and laptop, he had packed his weekend case before leaving for work that morning. Gerald loved his Jaguar, often reverently stroking its blue metallic bodywork.  When he sat in the cream leather driving seat it was like sitting in a warm bath. ‘At leased the bitch hadn’t taken my car,’ he thought.

   He could hardly wait until he reached the cottage where Lorraine would be waiting for him. ‘Lorraine. Lorraine, my beautiful Lorraine.’ He repeated her name over and over again, sometimes even making up a song about her. At times, in his eagerness to see her, he would drive too fast. ‘I must be careful. If I got killed, what would happen to my Lorraine then?’

   It was dusk when he reached the cottage. No lights shone from the windows, but he hadn’t expected there to be. Lorraine always liked him to switch on the lights when he walked in. 

  Leaving his briefcase and laptop in the car he grabbed his weekend case. Just in time he remembered to lock the car, although there was very little crime in the area. ‘You could never be to sure,’ he thought. That was why he always told Lorraine to keep the door locked when he wasn’t around.

  Eagerly, he ran up the steps to the cottage and unlocked the door. Putting his suitcase down in the hall, full of anticipation he opened the door to the lounge and switched on the light. His breath caught in his throat when he saw her sitting on the settee waiting for him. She looked so beautiful dressed in a scarlet chiffon and satin evening gown. Slowly he walked towards her, savouring every moment before putting his arms around her.  ‘Darling, darling, you look wonderful,’ he whispered as he pulled her close to him. He kissed her cheek then her pouting lips. He did not want to hurry this first encounter.

  Sitting her back on the settee he asked if the champagne was in the fridge. ‘I knew it would be,’ he said, going to fetch it. He poured two glasses and lifted his, saying, ‘Here’s to the most beautiful woman in the world.’

  He sipped his drink slowly, devouring her body with his eyes. His gaze travelled from her long blonde hair to her brilliant blue eyes, fringed with thick dark lashes. Her lips smiled invitingly. ‘They could wait,’ he thought. He wanted to take in the rest of her beauty. His eyes went down her slender neck to her half exposed taut breasts, their nipples aching to be touched. Her suntanned legs were crossed provocatively; his fingers itched to stroke them.

  She sat there not saying a word. She knew that’s how he liked it: quiet and submissive, not like his ex-wife, who had the language of a fishwife. Lorraine knew how to please him.

  Gerald carried her into the bedroom where he slipped her evening gown over her slender shoulders.  She wore no bra - there was no need with her firm breasts. He removed her red thong leaving her standing before him naked. Gently he laid her on the bed, stroking and kissing her all over. Gerald loved the taste and smell of her body.

  When he was fully aroused he pulled her on top of him. This was the way she liked it. Lorraine’s eyes gazed unblinking into his.  This always unnerved him a bit, but because of all the other wonderful things about her he pushed it to one side. Grabbing her, he moved her up and down. Oh, it felt so good. She put up no resistance; he could do what he liked with her.

  After he had climaxed he lay back exhausted, both of them wet with perspiration from their love making. Lying by her side, he pulled the duvet over them and fell into a deep sleep.

  The sun streaming through a slit in the curtains awoke Gerald. He thought of last night and of how wonderful it had been. He put out his arm to touch the now deflated latex body of Lorraine.

Sicily, by Annabelle Jane Palling

What land is scented quite like this?
Of sun-drenched lemons, pepper, thyme,
Almonds, stone, baked earth, azure,
Sea and salt, and honey wild?

Murmuring skin that speaks
To mine, and in a tongue
I love to learn?

An Inconspicuous Man, by Peter Morford.

It was raining hard and the few people on Oxford Street pushed past each other for shelter in shops and cafes. Nobody had time to notice the small man in a hoodie as he walked hurriedly east towards Tottenham Court Road underground station. He felt the dampness seeping onto his shoulders and knew he should have brought his umbrella. But, he thought, who in a hoodie would carry an umbrella? He would have been noticed and Walter did not
want that. Or be remembered until…
   He sheltered in the entrance to a department store and on a whim, went in. He found himself in the Men’s Department where he wandered for a few moments. He had no wish to spend any money now, for what would have been the point? He went back into the street. He felt disorientated. Should he turn left or right? He always lost his sense of direction when he came out of shops or cinemas.
   “Excuse me, could you direct me to Tottenham Court Road?” he asked a plump woman, laden with shopping bags.
   “No I can’t. I’m a visitor. I go by taxi.”
He stopped a man. “Get yerself a map,” he said, rushing away. The man in the hoodie felt a surge of anger. One useless woman, one rude boar of a man; that’s the sort of people he had to deal with. He gently pressed his midriff and felt something firm and reassuring there.
   He suddenly remembered the way and carried on walking. And when he got to Tottenham Court Road, he turned back because his real destination was to be Oxford Circus. He knew it would be crowded by hundreds of people who would soon know his secret. And a few, perhaps many, who would never know. He smiled to himself, feeling the power.
   Arriving, he stood still, just watching. Inconspicuous. A man minding his own business.
   Those going out to the street dithered with their umbrellas and got in the way of the crowd coming in. A big man under a golf umbrella shouted, “Make way, make way,” and people actually did stand aside for him as he shook the water over anyone close enough to deserve it.
   Walter sneered at the spectacle. These people would have something else to worry about very soon. He would show no mercy as he waited for the right moment to show them who had the real power. He was checking his belt again when he felt the vibration over his heart. He unzipped his parka, then his cardigan, and got to the phone just as it started to ring loudly.
   A shrill voice. “Where are you Walter? Have you lost your way again? I’ve been waiting here ten minutes. You’re supposed to meet me here for afternoon tea!”
   “Coming mother!” he said as he lost his signal and searched for his Oyster Card to scan at the barrier.
   Mrs Mitty hated her son to be late on his birthday.

Tribute to Stephen Hawking, by Michael Carding

A BRIEF HISTORY IN RHYME     (in three parts) by Michael Carding

Solar Sonnet

Aristotle’s nested spheres

Described the universe for years;

Copernicus, in middle age,

Set the sun at centre stage;

Galileo, Kepler too,

Confirmed through telescopic view;

Newton drilled right to the core,

Motion kept within the law.

God and man, creative tension,

Somewhere in the fourth dimension.

Then Einstein steps onto the line

Challenging both Space and Time,

Urging light and thoughts to bend:

When did it start? Where will it end?

Epitaph for Hawking

Time and Space freed from linear finity,

Philosophers and mathematicians out of the box,

Poets break the bonds of metre and rhyme:

Absolute expansion!

If not constrained by wheelchair and communication

Then not constrained.

Insignificant, yet each new thought,

As if from a big bang, ripples and radiates

Into a universe of ideas.

Wave upon wave, increasing energy, ever expanding.

The holy grail of

Relativity reconciled to quantum:

The Treaty of Creation between God and man

Signed in a heavenly black hole.

Coda

Philosophy and physics blend

With poetry, where will it end?

Here and now.

    (Stephen Hawking died 14^th March 2018)

                                   .

The Grail, by Justin Roberts

When I heard a rumour that one of the knights who undertook the quest for the Holy Grail was still living, I felt I could not rest until I had spoken with him. Many had heard the story, but few had any notion of where he lived, and even his name seemed to be in dispute. It was only after many tedious journeyings I discovered him. His name was Bors, and he lived a solitary hermit in a desolate forest. He was now an extremely old man, and it was immediately clear that for many years he had cared nothing for his appearance or the condition of his clothes. For a long time he met my queries with immovable silence, but at length, either out of pity or wearied by my endless importunities, he began to talk, like one who had almost forgotten the use of his mother-tongue or the sound of his own voice.

He began to tell the long story of how the company of knights set forth to find the Grail, through dark and trackless forests and over perilous mountains, how they battled monsters and giants, how they endured endless traps and temptations laid before them by devils, how the faint-hearted abandoned the quest as one year followed another, though the valiant few pressed onward, sustained by the vision ……  But all these stories I had already heard, so I cut short his account with impatient questions.

What did your companions propose to do with the Grail when they found it? This question for the first time appeared to animate him.

- You do not DO anything with the Grail. It is not for USE. The Grail IS, and always will be: that is all. It exists, beyond all time and all space. Nothing more is required. He who has seen the Grail has beheld all the secrets of the universe: of life, of death, and of the life to come.

And these secrets are?

- They cannot be expressed in words.

I felt that little was being learnt, so I moved to a new line of questioning.

How did you find it?

- Not through any effort or merit of ours. The Grail is not to be ferreted out or dug for, like some sack of buried gold. It may permit itself to be found. Only one who is wholly without sin can find the Grail. He must not only be pure and undefiled in his actions, but in his words too, and even in his thoughts. As a sinful man, I could not come near it, but as an act of grace far beyond my deserts, I was permitted to glimpse it, from a distance, for an instant. That momentary vision I have held in my mind ever since, and I desire nothing but to continue to meditate upon it.

What did the Grail look like?

- It is beyond any description.

But it must have had a shape, a colour?

- It has all colours, many of which human eyes cannot perceive, and at the same time it has no colour. It is not confined in a single fixed shape, as mortal objects are: it embodies in itself all the shapes that ever are, or were, or could be.

By this time, I was beginning to wonder whether my journey had been wasted. Either he was simply a fraud, or he was a deluded old man lost in a dense fog of impenetrable mysticism, and unable to convey any useful information. In anger I said, I do not believe you found the Grail at all: in fact, I begin to doubt whether the Grail even exists.

- No matter, he said, for I know I saw the Grail. That is sufficient. I am at peace.

Flight, by Catherine Redfern

“Most of man’s ills come from his inability to sit quietly in a room.” Blaise Pascal.

But Blaise, your countrymen ignored you.
Look, look at the balloon.
That was the beginning,
man getting above himself.
Balloon, bi-plane,
Channel hops.
Aces high, slaughter figures rising.
And a second time, dog fights, night raids,
Dresden demolished, the East End flattened.
But all quite neatly finished
In a distant land,
the quiet tea ceremony shattered
with some new equipment.
And still the restlessness.
How can a room
contain this flight,
this longing for the stars?
Space, the moon. The moon?
He's on his way to Mars!
Blaise, you are alone
In that quiet room.
Man has been chasing other worlds,
but soon enough, surely soon enough?
He will return to Earth,
his neglected home -
It needs his cherishing..

Th' Col Year's Teal: a poem in Potteries dialect, by Terry Williams

Th' dee shiftoe werin th' pub, th' nate shiftoe a twom,
Anthem onnooz weroe setdine, fer snappin tarm adcum.
 Yung Alfad polish toffees chaze, anwishy need gotmower,
Woz draineen draimz, thee rin thed ark, ov th'wen choo livd nexdower;    
Wen from thepitch blakov thepit a neery owl run gite,
A figger glued - anuther owl! twoz Alf's tern nah tershite!
"Gerroff!" eeyeld. Iz feece wozwait benee thowth grarm andert.
"Yermus beed after cummindeer injusyer owd nateshert!"

Th'goost justud angeez atAlf, 'ntarm beunterd rag.
Atlas teaspoke - inlung intoonz - "Yerannergorrafag?
"Ah binyneer nah fowty ears, wi' neethet fagsner eel,
"Anwimeen dunner cumdine th'pit. Yerseynah whar ahweel?

"Ma misseseze twoz wotdunmey in, erneva cud mashtay.
"Er lefther sugger ite meef lask - an thaswot peesnt may!"

Yun gAlf beegunter fail rates a ert yon owd col year's platr,
Antwonnwe lung afower eethote awotud put goose trait.
"Ear, averse wigger this", eesed, anchucka crosserd rink.
"Thisl warmyer innerdzup - andooyer gudahth ink!"

Th'goostay finny shtoff therlot, anthen letite asie.
"Bah, tha twerg rand!" thowl goostsed, "Mah throte wozrailly drigh!"
Ayterndiz bacca namble doff interth' dar kergen,
Anoo shudkumfrum saymar cole butyun gulAlf swerkmayt Len.

"Ayjus saynAynok", Len eesez, "Ay luct azwarm aztoost".
"Tha twerner Aynok!" Alfry plied, "Thatwerra col year's goost!"
"Nay, tha twerAynok," anserd Len, "Ayz pleed tha twoonon may,
"Ay skeers yerstif, then swigs yerrum. Tiz owert rick dussay!"

"Buttah cud seyim glue!" sedAlf, "Aranna blahn dowdsun!"
"Accoe say glued, yer greet daftwerp! Eed jus drun coe yerrum!"

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

COMPREE YENSHUN

Aser follerin kwes chuns:-

1. Worrad Ay nok bindoo infer fowty ears?
2. Did goost glue afower eedad owt ferd rink?
3. AdAlf seyn coe lammer?
4. AdLen enny chaze feriz snappin?
5. Costel Stoke from buttah?

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

(N.B. When I entered this, a message appeared offering to translate it into English! Now that really would be something!)