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".