Blogs, by Peter Shilston

They followed each other's blogs and social media entries, though they had never met and did not even correspond directly. Their works were completely different: he wrote little stories, fantasies for the most part, whereas she wrote about the small incidents of her daily life, in a wry and amusing fashion. He deduced from these that she was a university graduate, young and unmarried, who worked in a college library where there were plenty of old books. She had no idea who he might be, or how old he was. 
   Because of this lack of contact, they built up  imaginary pictures of each other. She saw him as a would-be warrior against the forces of darkness; he saw her engaged in a quiet but unsuccessful search for love. And both were right.
   They might have appeared to be opposites, but in the sight of God they were no more than opposite sides of the same coin: they complemented each other, and together formed a Unity; for in their different ways they were searching for the same thing, which so many philosophers and mystics sought:  the Absolute; the ultimate single Whole that is truth and love and everything.

Just a postcard, by John Roberts

I picked the card up from the doormat. After noticing that the very brief message referred to the picture, I turned it over. Well! I don’t consider myself to be at all prudish, but frankly I was astonished – amazed that it was ever allowed to be printed. I prefer to draw a decent veil over what the couple in the picture were doing. What’s more, the male figure, if you can call him that, was a robot. Why? Who dreams up this sort of thing? Whoever it is must have a very peculiar mentality: that’s all I can say. And who would want to buy it? Personally, I’d be far too embarrassed to take it up to the counter; that’s all I can say.

Anyway, I had another look at the message, to try and work out who’d sent this nasty rubbish. All it said was, “This is you!” in capital letters, followed by an email address which I didn’t recognise.

Now I’m sure you’d agree that the most sensible reaction would be to tear up the card and forget the whole thing. For a moment I did intend to do just that, but instead I decided to reply. I spent quite a bit of time thinking up a really clever put-down response and then sent it. I’m not going to tell you what I wrote, but I still think it was pretty funny.

The result wasn’t what I expected, because that same day I received a follow-up, which said, “If you want to discuss this further, come to the ‘Fox and Grapes’ at 9 next Tuesday”. I could have ignored that, of course, but I knew the pub quite well: it was a quiet place, and it never occurred to me that I might get beaten up or anything like that. Besides, I’d have thought up a few more witty lines in the meantime.

So at 9 prompt I was in the saloon bar. And before I’d had time to look around properly, a voice said, “Hello! I knew you’d come!”

It was Sarah! Well, I was completely flummoxed! I’d presumed the card was from a man; some idiot who thought it was screamingly funny, and I was all prepared to turn the joke back on him with a few well-chosen scathing comments. But it was from a girl! And Sarah! Why, I hardly knew her at all!

So there I was, reduced to silence. Then she said, “I thought that postcard would appeal to your quirky sense of humour. I chose it specially.

“Now that you’re here, shall we go somewhere and do it?”   

Day at the Seaside, by Catherine Redfern

Cold concrete piers
crowded beaches.

Spades spattering sand
frenetic manning of crumbling defences
as tide comes in.

An ice cream dropped.

Seagulls wheeling over cliffs.

Bored donkeys with heads bowed
child screaming as saddle slips sideways
shoulders getting red, and where's the suncream?

Granny's bulk folded into the deckchair
as she knits a cricker sweater for he son.

Water's edge cold.
First smattering of rain.

The Lady of Forgot, by Patty Lafferty

Am I perhaps the Lady of Shalott
Like thousands of other women? No, I'm not
For I'm not cursed like her, I'm just forgot.
For me there is no magic Camelot
For me no compliments from Lancelot
Old age is now my curse, my wretched lot
A twisted wrinkled body's all I've got.

Away those thoughts: a pile of stupid rot!
I've still a brain; I'll mouse the exact spot
Where all the world is googled with a dot;
Cast off sick shadows now: erase the lot!
Block out the negativity, and blot
Those feelings of self-pity; and unknot
My curse; and be the Lady on the Trot. 

(Written by the late Patty Lafferty shortly before her death, after suffering years of increasing disability)

Room Service, by Peter Morford

It was still dark when I woke up and tried to move my legs. My knees hurt but my legs were numb. I knew I was moving my toes but I felt nothing. Remembering what my doctor had said, I rather guiltily uncrossed my ankles without feeling a thing. When I tried to sit up I saw, rather than felt, that her beautiful strong legs were holding me down.
I needed a paracetamol. Carefully, so as not to disturb her, I wriggled and slithered out of bed and limped into the bathroom for the pills. Fully awake now I made coffee and went to sit on the balcony.

In the still air the only sound was the sea lapping the beach 30 metres below me. It was a moonless astronomers’ night. It was nearly 4 o’clock and I could see the first glimmer of the sunrise. The pain was less now as the circulation returned to my legs. It wasn’t deep vein thrombosis after all. I carefully went back to bed and adjusted myself around her.

I lay there thinking about our holiday. After our long flights we had spent Sunday just relaxing on the beach, swimming, sun-bathing and talking. On Monday we’d exploredthe Old Town where we sheltered from the sun in the museum and the art gallery and took a tour round the Castle and Cathedral. That evening we went to a concert. We rented a car for a few days and just drifted around, stopping at places whichlooked interesting. We could be energetic or lazy, people-watching from a pavement café; arguing about the things which interested us; or just reading in comfortable silence. We were,I thought, as compatible as anyone could expect or hope to be.

I must have dozed, for when I woke the sun was well up and I could feel the heat through the open doors. She was already up, presumably in the shower. I noticed how quiet the room was and realised that she wasn’t singing this morning.

I went into the bathroom. She wasn’t there. All her make-up and toiletries were gone. I checked her wardrobe. Empty. Cases gone. But for the state of the bed and a trace of her favourite perfume there was no sign that she had been here at all. There was no message. She had just vanished.

You may imagine how I felt. I called Room Service and asked for Luis, the Night Manager. “Ah good morning Senor Byron. I have a message for you. The courtesy car delivered the young lady at the
airport and she took the 8 o’clock west-bound flight.”
“Thanks, Luis. I’ll check out after breakfast so have my bill ready. Then I want you to give me a different room on Floor 10, facing the sea.”
He said, “I understand Senor. Will you excuse me for a moment – my other phone is ringing.”

After a few seconds he was back again. “Senor – I’ve just heard from my driver at the Airport. He tells me your wife’s plane has been delayed by an hour and will land at 10 o’clock. She should be here by noon.”
“In that case Luis, make sure that you put a bottle of champagne and flowers in our new room for her arrival.”
   I could hear his chuckle. “The usual procedure, Senor?”

Not for the first time I praised the hotel for its friendly service.

Into the Wilderness: a dream; by Peter Shilston

It was a bright sunny afternoon. Gerry was sitting quietly in the park when a young man, a complete stranger, walked up to him.
   "Are you ready to come with us?" he asked.
   "I'm waiting for my girlfriend", said Gerry.
   "She's with us. You'll meet her if you come with us. Are you ready?"
   "All right", said Gerry, at a loss for anything else to say.
   Immediately, everything went black. He felt that he had left the ground and was being sucked through a tight tube. When he opened his eyes, he was still in a park, but a different one, with trees and flowers that he could not recognise or name. A group of people stood around him. Their skins were somewhat darker than his, and they were dressed in white tunics.
   "Is this him?" one of them asked.
   "Yes: I chose him". Gerry recognised Anna, his girlfriend.
   "Will he do?"
   "He'll have to!"
   Gerry looked around. Behind him, where in his town there had been a railway station, there loomed an enormous building. It reminded Gerry of a French chateau, though it was built in an architectural style unknown to him.
   "Are we going there?" he asked.
   "Not yet. First you must enter the wilderness".
   Gerry wondered what could have happened. Was this time travel, a dimension-shift or a parallel universe? Or was it all just a dream? At any event, there seemed little option but to go along with what was required of him.  

A Counterblast to Lord Rochester, by Freda Cook

A Pox on Rochester, the Bore! 

All that one does is stuff in more

purple words relentlessly.

He’s hounded by Necessity,

it seems. Kindlier Nature culled,

he plies his vigorous Pen; is pulled

to slap his parts on the Page so fast

you’d think his Time and not his Whore

had come - if she did. I’d cast

some doubt on that; our Peer is more

concerned with loucher takes on Lust.

Ah well, it happens when Love’s gone bust.

Admire the Poet? His work is slick,

but, basically, the man’s a Prick.