Two Men and a Woman in aTraffic Jam; by Peter Morford

The woman in the Mini thumps the steering wheel in frustration. She has to collect the children from the child-minder, fix their tea and, an hour later, Paul would join her for dinner. She’s already late when her phone buzzes. Feeling guilty, she answers it while waiting in the jammed traffic.

“This is St Judes Hospital. I’m sorry to tell you that your husband collapsed in his office and is in the Covid19 Ward. You cannot visit him. You and your family should isolate yourselves and get tested.”

There was nothing for her to say except – thank you Doctor. The traffic moves twenty feet and stops. She can see the lights 100 yards ahead. There’s a lot to be said for working at home, she thinks; only I can’t. I’m a Tesco cashier.

When will this pandemic be over?

Behind her the man in the new Jaguar is also worried. Only last month life had seemed so good. On January 10 th he had sold his late father’s house, cleared his mortgage, bought this car and invested the rest in carefully-selected shares. The market was at a peak but the omens were good. A three percent yield on his portfolio would more than double his income and there was the prospect of growth. Good indeed.

Only days later the Market plunged by a third. His stomach hurts at the thought of what he has lost. And now three months later he’s still 20% down and feeling foolish for his hasty purchase. Worse, he thinks that dividends will be cut and he has no spare cash to invest at what must surely be a buyer’s position.

“Damn this virus, JJ Baring shouts. We’ll all be bankrupt at this rate.”

A cyclist squeezes through the traffic all the way to pole position at the lights. His visi- jacket bears the words Save our Planet. Stashed in a pannier are the leaflets he will be issuing at the illicit demonstration in Town Park. Sitting there, waiting for the lights to change, he mutters. “Cut down on travel; save the

oceans, ban plastics, stop using fossil fuels and pesticides. You’ve seen the storms, the fires , floods and pestilence. We caused it, only we can stop the abuse of our planet Earth. If we don’t change our ways, we’re doomed. If we carry on the way we are, there will be no recovery because it’s later than you

think.”

The lights change. The bike and a few cars get through. The woman phones her child-minder to say that she’ll be late. She keeps her engine running because she was worried about her battery.

On this warm summer evening, the drivers shut their windows and turn the air-conditioners on full. They listen to the traffic report. A flashing, wailing ambulance nudges its way on the wrong side of the road.

Baring, in his Jaguar, coughs again and worries because his can’t taste his throat pastille.

On the radio the Prime Minister says, “We’re all in this together.”

Tennis on Purple Grass, by H.T.

 The world of tennis has been shaken to its foundations by the rumour that the grass at Wimbledon Centre Court is about to be replaced by a genetically modified form of grass that which is not green but purple. This is said to be as a result of a sponsorship agreement with the tennis enthusiast Sheik Othman abu Din; purple being the national colour of his oil-rich state. 

   The Sheik first played tennis during his years at Eton, following which he was national champion of his state every year for the next fifteen years, though he was somewhat less successful when competing abroad. He was excluded from the Australian Open following allegations that he had attempted to bribe an umpire, though nothing was ever proved; and following this he contented himself with being a lavish sponsor of the sport.

   A spokesman for the Lawn Tennis Federation, when asked to clarift the position, would not either confirm or deny the rumours concerning the purple grass, but praised the great generosity of the Sheik.

   The public is eagerly awaiting future developments.

                                 (Dateline: Wimbledon: 1/4/2021)

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Persuasion, by Annabelle Jane Palling

 I am a woman

Of infinite persuasion. I can cajole

Certitude from shadows, or a

Palace from a promise. Easy.

Clever, aren’t I?

See how detailed my deductions;

How fast I follow scent,

Straining at leash and

Nose to the wind.

Good girl.

Of course, the wind changes.

Rivers flow back or cannot be forded.

The trail is lost – still, I persist,

Resourceful and focused.

A new route is found.

Next I embroider tapestry moving:

History will sing its rich, vivid truth

(For what is more true

Than deceiving oneself?).

I will feel the relief

Of cloth nubbed with emotions,

Eyes gently closed, and

Fingers quite raw.

Badlands, by Peter Shilston

  I found myself in a desert of mounds and hollows. In places the soft rock of which it was composed had been warped and twisted into fantastic spires and towers. Dark caverns gaped.  Everywhere was a pale yellowish brown, save where the livid sunset ahead of me stained some the colour of old blood. Nowhere was there was the least sign of life: not a single insect, not a blade of grass or the skeleton of a dead tree. Nevertheless I pressed onwards towards the light; there was nothing else that I could do.

Dragons' Den, by Mark Lovett

"As all three of our hopefuls tonight are Bishops, perhaps the programme should be called Lion’s Den. Let us pray that none of the hopeful entrepreneurs is named Daniel!"

First into the Den this evening is Peter des Roches. He is a butterfly  farmer and is wishing to expand the business. He seeks 100,000 Marks for a 10% share.

Peter Jones was perplexed. "I have so many companies, so why on earth should I invest in butterflies; an ephemeral business if ever there was one?"

"I think you will find that Damien Hirst has made millions out of them.… and just look at his sell-out exhibitions at Tate Modern and White Cube!"

Theo Pahitis interjected, "As you imply Damien is a millionaire, so why not ask him for an investment? Mrs P. would never forgive me if I lost money on what are little more than colourful moths!"

Touker Suleyman was angry. "Are you the same Peter des Roches who led the Sixth Crusade? Why on earth should I help finance you after your antics in the Levant?"

But Deborah Meadon was more optimistic. "As you know, I own many holiday centres in the West Country. Having a Butterfly farm at each of them would be a great idea. Therefore, I am going to make you an offer. I will give you all of the money, but for 49% of the equity."

"I will have to speak to my partner, King Arthur. It’s all very much in his hands."

Next into the Den is Henri de Blois, who is seeking finance for his publishing venture. He wants an investment of 250,000 Marks for 20% of the business. "I am having a magnificent illuminated Bible produced, but there is also a demand for more modest Bibles from the same source. Sadly, the Prior is not keen for further Monks to form a production line in the Scriptorium; I am searching for solutions, some of which may be expensive."

Duncan Bannatyne was sceptical. "As Johannes Guttenburg and William Caxton have yet to be born, how on earth can you hope to increase production?"

Before Henri could reply, James Caan interrupted. "You are one of the richest men in Europe, so why are you here? Can’t you sub-contract to Glastonbury, or even Cluny?"

"I am anxious not to let the Scribes of Cluny near it as they may use a different font."

"I thought you were an expert on Fonts!" quipped Kelly Hoppen.

"Dragons: all I need is finance to increase production. There is a market and thus a profitable business – please join me!"

Peter Jones relented. "I will give you all the money for 30% of the business, but only if let me digitise it and place it online. If you don’t like the sound of that, you had better contact Mr Morgan in New Amsterdam!"

Finally, stepping out of the lift is Richard Fox. He is seeking 500,000 Marks for a 25% share of his new funeral business: Colourful Coffins. "Dragons, before I invite you to lie down in one of my Italian prototypes: just think how dull funerals have become! Let’s celebrate life with vivid colour, not unvarnished oak! Dante in the Divine Comedy took us on a journey through Hell, Purgatory and finally Heaven. Wouldn’t this be better if we are cloaked in colour rather than camouflaged in sepia?"

"These are very comfortable", said Theo Paphitis, "but they would take up too much room in my Rymans stores."

Duncan Bannatyne was more optimistic. "I run a chain of Old People’s homes: and, not to be too mawkish, that is an obvious market."

Deborah Meadon was horrified at the Glaswegian’s interjection. Also, she was worried about the references to Dante. "I prefer John Bunyan. I’m out!"

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.”