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 Annabelle 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.