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.     

Revelation, by Toli Kram

It’s a sight few relish, but the carnage was on a scale that dwarfed similar incidents.  This straight line of vehicles had stood little chance. Conditions by all accounts were good; perfect in many ways; but dozens of cars and lorries told another story. They lay shunted front and rear. A car transporter with its cargo precariously hanging from the upper deck teetered dangerously: delivery a thing to forget. There wasn’t anything anyone could do.  A Mercedes horse-box lay up ahead, the doors flung open and hanging limply, its occupant lifeless and on its side.  Emergency vehicles surrounded the mayhem, while overhead the shuff-shuff-shuff of a helicopter sounded, and in the half-light a shaft of bright light pierced, illuminating a round patch that slowly licked the carnage inch by inch.

Further down the line of vehicles lay two camouflage-dressed soldiers, one lying face down with unmoving eyes peering into nothing, another pinned between a Routemaster bus and a London black cab.  An Eddie Stobart jack-knifed lorry had pushed several cars on top of one another. In the distance the silence was suddenly broken: a baby crying, faintly at first, but getting louder.  As far as one could see the mayhem of wreckage was strewn, with cars overturned, some on their sides, some even facing in the opposite direction, not one without damage.  The crying became louder, the child becoming more and more upset and agitated as the seconds slowly and painfully ticked by.  Suddenly the jack-knifed eighteen wheeler began to move and in a burst of light it was suddenly hoisted high into the air. On its underside clearly visible was the name 'Corgi Toys'.

 A woman’s voice said “Julian, you’ve woken your little sister!” 

Departure and Arrival: The Curious Happening of an Entomologist's Journey, by Toli Kram

Grober Schillerfalter over the last few months had gained a great deal of weight, and as he took his seat on the Glasgow train he took up most of the two places.  As the train left the station he reached under the table and retracted a large holdall.  Unzipping it, he removed a copy of "European Butterflies and Moths" by W. F. Kirby, then taking out the rest of the contents, assorted cans of pop, bags of crisps, popcorn, Mars bars, Snickers and many other chocolate treats.  Soon he was noisily munching, chewing and making a mess of his immediate surroundings as well as of himself with bits of crisps and chocolate around his mouth.

After all this he sat very still and quiet with a blank stare and his stomach began gurgling, rumbling, dancing and popping under his brown sweater knitted by his elderly aunt.  The only thing moving was his fidgeting hand that tugged and played with the hem of his sweater.  Fortunately, or unfortunately, his fingers found the end thread that had not been securely finished, and he tugged at it;  so much so that he wrapped two fingers in the brown wool.  The man sitting opposite had his eyes transfixed as the thread of wool darted to and fro across Grober's large rotund belly.  It zigzagged across him, disappearing under his jacket on both sides and inched up over his stomach to his chest, revealing a brightly patterned blue and purple Hawaiian shirt.  By this time the wool wrapped around his hand was the size of a small bowling ball.

After a few hours an announcement came over the train’s tannoy system telling passengers they were approaching the last stop.  Grober Schillerfalter slowly but carefully removed the ball from his hand, picked up his book and all the debris around him and put it in his bag, then took out a tissue from his jacket and wiped his face and hands.  The squealing breaks and rocking of the carriage stirred him deeply, as if something excitingly different was going to happen soon.  He felt strangely abnormal in some way, but couldn’t explain it.  Onto the platform with a few others he stepped, glanced around to get his bearings, and walked over to a large rubbish bin.  He stood looking down into the empty space, and into it threw his bag, then his coat, and what remained of his sweater and his shoes.

The platform was nearly empty on this sunny Sunday morning. He turned and moved towards the exit.  As he walked he unbuttoned the Hawaiian shirt, holding the bottom corners with his hands. He raised his arms and flapped them as his heals rose.  He flapped his arms again and again several times and his toes gently left the platform surface as he fluttered silently out of the station.

("Schillerfalter" is the Purple Emperor butterfly)