Another very short myth, by Peter Shilston

 Perseus killed Medusa the Gorgon and took her head, which turned everyone who looked on it to stone. Passing along the coast, he found the beautiful Andromeda chained to a rock to be devoured by a sea monster. Perseus rushed to help her, but lost his footing on the slippery rocks and dropped the Gorgon's head. Without thinking, he bent down to pick it up and WHOOPS! 

Unmasked, by Peter Morford

Sir Thespian Mountebank is the leading classical actor of the age. He graces Shakespeare, Ibsen, Wilde and Ayckbourne. He spends three months a year on stage, and about a month filming spectacular movies like Star Conflicts 6, CatMan and Pirates of the Bylet. While his first love is the stage, it is the films which have enriched him beyond ambition.

He is a contented man with just two regrets. “I’ve never created anything,” he will modestly say. “I’ve only been the interpreter of other men’s work.”

His second regret is that his wife, Lady Tracey, IS a creative artist. That her nine literary novels, travel books and her chairship of the Booker earn her a pittance compared with his massive fees…is not the point. She invents, he merely acts.

“As I’m free for a few weeks I’ve decided to write a novel,” he said, after dinner.

“Good idea, Thespy. With your name you’ll sell thousands and make a fortune…”

“It’s not about money, it’s an old ambition. I’ll write under a false name. I’ll be Harold Bennett, a man who doesn’t give interviews. The book will fail or succeed on merit alone.”

Next morning he started to write. Six enjoyable weeks later he had 150,000 words and a neat ending. It was time to email it to an agent.

After five agents had politely rejected him with their best wishes, he decided to self-publish. He opened negotiations with a vanity publisher who drew up a contract. They accepted “Mr Harold Bennett’s” deposit of £15,000 towards editing, publicising and printing the first 1000 copies.

While this was going on, he had time for a season at Stratford and then to be a Dark Ages wizard for his friend Steven and two million dollars.

Meanwhile Burbage, his publisher, emailed to report that every literate newspaper and magazine had been sent a copy of the novel. Stacks stood in Waterstones and Foyles. All he wanted was a tv interview which, of course, he had to decline.

Kind critics called the book “a promising first novel. The next would probably be better.” But sales were a trickle and booksellers reduced their displays. Sir Thespian felt crushed and depressed. Lady Tracey said some soothing things.

After a quick trip to India to perform five short speeches in a Bollywood film, (fee $65,000), he was back. He had an email from Burbage. “Read today’s Guardian.” The prominent headline read  ; “Sir Thespian Mountebank is the mysterious author. See page 6.”

Carper of The Guardian had written a fresh review. He rated the book as being poorly-plotted, with wooden characters, boring plot and disappointing finale. “But,” he added, “Sir Thespian should keep

writing. Sadly, his great name alone will sell his book by the truckload. “

Sir Thespian flung the paper into the fireplace. In his King Lear voice, he roared, “I’m a failure.”

The phone rang. It was the BBC inviting him to be appear on The One Show.

“I suppose I’ll have to go. Dammit.”

Haikus, by Catherine Redfern

 1. red and yellow leaves

    thick-layered

   on the art gallery steps

2. black scribbled

    on the horizon

    winter oaks


3. April morning

    his laughter entangled

    with the scent of hyacinths


4. these loved poems

    the pages know

    where to turn


5. birthday candles

    the memory of her twin

    flickering

Baldrick is tested: a superficial Covid parody, by Mark Lovett

 “Baldrick, you are late.”

“Sorry Mr B, but I had to be tested. I made the mistake of eating one of Mrs Miggins’ pies and was so ill I was advised to have a swab stuck down my throat.”

Unfortunately, not far enough mused Blackadder.

“Do you know, Mr B, that the test is so accurate that it can detect a virus that has yet to be isolated?”

“Yes, I know” retorted his employer. “I am a member of Sage”.

“Sage, Sage, isn’t that what Mrs Miggins puts in her pies?”

“No that is hemlock Baldrick, why do you think you were so ill? No, Sage is a group of selfless individuals who only have the interests of the public at heart. They have no political views and totally disregard the economic interests of those who sponsor them. We are all concerned that a virus with a survival rate of over 99% will devastate the country, that is why we are all working night and day, including those of us who can count, to invent new ways to keep the people fearful.”

“If you don’t mind me saying so, Mr B, that doesn’t sound like you.”

“For once, Balders, you are correct. But the truth is I met General Melchett and Captain Darling and they told me of the work they are doing with 75 other officers, to make sure the people are properly informed.”

“But I thought that the General was a barking buffoon and that Darling wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

“We know that’s true, but Matt Hancock thought that if the people believed those two, they would believe anybody”.

Then the door flew open.

“I’m back” roared Lord Percy. “I have just been talking to the Prince Regent and he thought about sending a delegation to Cathay to see whether they had a cure.”

At least that is what they thought he said, as much of his tirade was muffled by a mask.

“Take it off Percy, it is just a token of submission, in fact it is pointless, as somebody called Chris Whitty explained way back in March.”

Percy was nonetheless pleased to see that Blackadder was conforming to Social Distancing.

“That’s nothing to do with Covid” argued Blackadder. “If you have to live with Baldrick you will know that things like baths, soap and deodorant are unknown to him, thus Social Distancing is a constant necessity and not a passing medical fashion.”

Their conversation was interrupted by Nursie bursting in.

“Baldrick” she screeched, “Your test was negative, but you still need to be vaccinated. So, my little Dumpling, come with me – and, yes, you can bring your turnip.”

Baldrick was confused. Should he obey this scatty Tudor Wet Nurse, should he listen to Lord Percy, or should decide for himself. He chose the latter; in fact, he devised a Cunning Plan. 

Instead of repeating the same policies that didn’t work, as General Melchett would do, or consulting dim Royals as Percy had done, or even bombing Wuhan, as Lord Flashheart would certainly do, he thought he would try something different. He decided to make a video.

He had done this before - Ten exciting things you can do with a Turnip had had millions of hits – this time it would be about comparing earlier epidemics with Covid. He would need a Team of people to go back in Time, but who did he know who could help him. Who had the expertise?

He soon discovered that the Plantagenets did not lock everything down, nor did they shut Churches. Also, Mr Pepys, three centuries later, had been far calmer than the Diarists of today – and even when he was a young guttersnipe, Baldrick remembered far less fuss about the flu in 1968, even though the deaths were far greater.

Thus, Baldrick took to the airways to promote his original ideas. Sadly, no one saw the video as YouTube immediately took it down.

Damn you Captain Darling...

Happy Christmas!

The adoration of the shepherds, from Luke's gospel, is fitted into a single initial letter in a crowded nativity scene.

Idyllic Squares, by Peter Morford

 In the 1770s when General James Oglethorpe cleared the swamp and laid out the city he set aside 26 blocks which would never be built upon. These squares would become little woods of live oak, festooned with liana; parks and gardens for shade and serenity. Today, Savannah is like many another modern city which, with an eye to tourism, has retained its heritage area.

We three had “done” DisneyWorld and Miami and were heading north when we stopped at Savannah because a friend said we should. Passing quickly through the modern part of the town, we parked in the heritage area and emerged from our cool car into 100degree late afternoon heat. It was as quiet as a Spanish village at siesta time.

Old ginger-bread houses overlooked the square. Country and western music leaking from an open window was almost the only sound until a one-horse buggy with an 18 th century lady and gentleman trotted by. We walked through the square and on to the next, and the next. We all sat on a bench for a rest.

Somebody was saying, “I said, I know a British accent when I hear one.” I looked round and saw an elderly woman, her silver hair pulled into a topknot and dressed for the heat in cotton dress and

sandals. “Yeah,” she went on, “My guess is that you sir - and is it your son?- are British but you, ma’am come from these parts.”

Nell admitted that she was a southerner. “We’re on our way north to my parents but we live in England.”

The woman sat down on the bench facing us. She told us that her late husband had been in the Air Force, stationed in Lakenheath and Mildenhall Air Bases. They had lived in England for ten happy years. Some day she hoped to go back on a visit.

This was just the sort of chat which Nell loved. For half an hour they talked about themselves, their families, friends already. We told each other our names – she was Mrs Hetty Clay, we were Tom, Nell and Jake Robinson. Halfway through her reminiscences about her air force days Mrs Clay leaped to her feet.

“You must forgive me, folks,” she said, “But I’m forgetting my Southern hospitality. I’d bet you could do with something to drink, a little cake perhaps. English tea – I know how to make it the proper

way- or something chilled?”

We hesitated. “It’s no trouble – that’s my house there. We can have a nice little drink on the veranda, relaxing on rockin’ chairs.”

“We’d love that,” Nell said.

“Follow me,” she said, leading the way across the road and up the steps to her porch.

“It’s so peaceful here.” Nell said.

“It wasn’t yesterday. I could’ve been killed. I was reading my paper in this very chair when I heard a car racing down the street. Two men were standing outside my house. I heard two pistol shots. The car rushed off and the men scrambled up and ran the other way. Look –here are the bullet holes in my wall. I’m sorry to tell you that this town as bad as Miami sometimes.” 

Jake looked carefully at the holes, put his finger in them in a Doubting Thomas fashion.

“But I’m supposed to be getting your tea,” she said, leaving us to think sombre thoughts.

“I don’t believe it,” Jake said. “I’d bet she’s just trying to scare us – like they did in New York when we were there.” 

Nell said we would take her warning seriously, even politely. Jake was looking for Savannah crime figures on his smart-phone.

As Mrs Clay put a tray of drinks and cakes on the table a police car made a squealing stop. Two officers jumped out.

“We’ve got a few other things to ask you about yesterday’s shootings, Mrs Clay. There’s been a development.”

He seemed to notice us for the first time. “Perhaps you can help us. Your names please,” he said to me.

Knowing from experience it is not a good idea to be truculent to officers, I introduced us.”

“British eh. What is your reason to be in the USA at this time?”

“Holiday.”

“Are you driving?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s your car?” I told him.

“Plate number?”

“I don’t know, It’s a Toyota rental.”

The cops looked at each other. “How will you recognise it?

“I tied a flag to the aerial.”

He made a note and his partner raised his phone to take pictures.

“Why are you photographing us?”

“Just routine, Sir.”

Mrs Clay offered them a drink. He shook his head. “You had a lucky escape ma’am. There’ve been a lot of drive- by-killings this year. You’re free to go, Mr Robinson.”

We finished Mrs Clay’s dainty cakes and English tea and thanked her.

On the way back to the car I told Jake that he should believe what elderly black ladies told him about crime in Savannah. He laughed. “I thought the cop was going to arrest us on suspicion.”

A very short myth, by Peter Shilston

 Theseus made his way through the labyrinth to fight the Minotaur, holding in his hand the thread given him by Ariadne, to enable him to find his way back. It is believed that he did kill the monster, but perhaps in the struggle he let go of the thread, because he hasn't been seen since. Maybe he's still down there?