A response to Philip Larkin, by Catherine Redfern

 Philip, I don't feel your fear.

Occasionally I look ahead and wonder.

I feel sure that death's not near - 

perhaps a comfortable delusion I'm under?

Oh, since the timing's uncertain

why not ignore the final curtain?

Those early hours when dawn is hesitant

are not the time for contemplation.

Try the Test results: our failing nation's

always good for an early rant.

I can't deny that death will happen,

but, with outraged certainty, you knew

you were trapped in a pattern;

nothing more sure, nothing more true - 

your father died at 63

and so would you. 

The monstrous fairy legend: "I will curse you

with the knowledge of the hour of your death."

Larkin believed there was a count of every breath:

he knew that soon he would he would breathe the last few.

Not to be here. Not to be anywhere.

He was right: the knowlege freezes us.

Most push it into the long grass

as I do. My mind clings to the moment;

this sunlit morning, this music, this poem,

this friendship, this love.

Perhaps illness will force cognition.

Larkin didn't wait for that end and

we grieve that this was so;

for, each time we turn to him, he lives.

Missing Bill, by Lisa Oliver

 

Hannah says sometimes the voices are loud and clear, other times she only hears whispers, hints of a presence.  Hannah hasn’t heard his voice yet, but says she’s sure Bill’s there. She says she can see a man with a thick head of white hair. Well, that’s Bill to a T.  He was always so proud of his hair, it never thinned.  And Hannah says he is very smartly dressed.  He did look lovely in a suit.  I used to be so proud of him when we went out.  He liked to treat me to Sunday lunch every week.  Even when he couldn’t drive any more he’d treat us to a taxi down to the White Lion.  He said I shouldn’t be cooking on a Sunday; it was a day of rest. Oh, I do miss him.

Hannah says he is with me still, he’s never left me.  He’s just on a different plane.  One that I can’t, now, what was the word?  Oh yes, one that I can’t ‘connect’ to.  It’s hard to understand, but she’s ever so clever. Really puts it in a way that makes sense.  She can connect you see.  She’s got a gift.  I’ve been seeing her for a while now and she says Bill’s presence is getting stronger all the time. My friend Lizzie has been going to see her for years.  She lost her daughter you see.  Hannah’s been a great comfort to her. 

I never expected Hannah would be able to help me too.  I was ever so sceptical the first time I went.  Lizzie persuaded me, she said if it wasn’t for me then at least I’d given it a try.  She knows how much I miss Bill.  Well I would, wouldn’t I after being married to him for so long.   Lizzie said I couldn’t carry on like this.  She was right too. I did feel so much better after I saw Hannah.  I felt like I had a little bit of Bill back with me.  She said he was there next to me, resting his hand on my shoulder.  I couldn’t feel anything mind, but she’s such a nice girl; she reassured me he was right there. 

Our Sandra thinks I should leave well alone.  She says it’s an expense I can’t afford.  I don’t mind though, it’s worth it.  And I don’t mind cutting back a little bit if it means, well, if it means I might hear from Bill.  I do miss him.

copyright©Lisa Oliver

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Granny's Adventure, by Peter Shilston

 (Recently, a group of friends had a discussion lamenting the fact that adventure stories all featured young men, and there was never a central role for adventurous grandmothers. We resolved to remedy the situation. This is the start of my Granny story …)

When Eva Mansfield dropped the third stitch she cast her knitting aside in disgust. At this rate she was never going to get the jumper finished in time for her youngest granddaughter’s birthday. Besides, what was the point? The child would have grown out of it in six months; and anyway, with the cost of postage to Australia, it would be easier for them to buy her something out there.

She felt only blank despair. It’s as though someone was squatting on top of me, sucking all the life out of me, she thought. I can’t concentrate, I’ve got no energy, nothing gets done.

“Oh, Tiddles!” she said to the large black and white cat which lay sprawled on the hearthrug, “Whatever am I going to do, Tiddles?”

“I wish you wouldn’t keep calling me that!" the cat replied.

“I mean, it’s not a very dignified name, is it?” he continued, as Eva gawped, “But I suppose it’ll have to do for the moment. We haven’t much time. You want to be rid of this black depression, right?”

“How … how do you know about that?” Eva quavered.

“Well, you’ve told me about it often enough! Now, there is a chance for you to escape, but it’ll involve you making a journey: quite a long journey; and meeting some rather odd people. There are dangers involved, but I think you should take the risk”.

“Should I get my things together?” she asked, hesitantly.

“There’s no need. But you’d better bring that knitting needle. It’s quite sharp: you might need it”.

“You mean as a weapon?”

“It’s all we’ve got; it’ll have to do for now”.

Suddenly Eva was transported back to her childhood, when she had loved the stories of Tolkien and C.S.Lewis and had dreamed that one day she too could go on a journey to a land of magic and wonder. But that had been years and years ago, before her Troubles had begun…

Quickly, she dismissed the last thought from her mind. With a greater sense of resolution than she had felt for many years, and without even bothering to get her coat, Eva Mansfield strode to the door and stepped out across the threshold.  

Sketch for a science fiction story; by Peter Shilston

 Earth was once ruled by immensely superior beings, possibly come from another planet. They have now departed, leaving a world full of mysterious ruins remaining from their mighty but entirely unknown civilisation.. The few humans still alive produce little for themselves, but mostly just wander through the wreckage in seach of food or of things that might be useful; though in most cases they have no idea what the objects they find are for. 

Long Jump, by Peter Morford

   Looking back, Don Finney knew exactly when his life changed. He would have been seventeen and competing at his college sports finals. He had two events – the 100 metres and the long jump. He won the sprint easily and he went to get his medal from the great Olympian Mike Powell himself.

   “Mike Powell?” you ask. Look him up and you’ll see that he’s been world record holder for the long jump since 1991. His jump of 8.95metres still stands. But for how long? As he put the ribbon round Don’s neck he said “I see you’re doing the long jump later. Perhaps I’ll see you again.”

  Don won. “Welcome back, Son. I reckon you’ll be after my record. You’ll be bigger than me in a coupla years. If you’re good enough you could get yourself a scholarship at my University– Irvine, California.”

   Don told his parents what Mr Powell had said. His father’s response was “Go for it. Get all the help you can, train hard. It’s a good ambition and we’ll back you all the way. As my dad said to me – go for a win, go on for the record and then – make sure the record’s memorable. It’s not enough to go an extra centimetre – go for a nice round number. You’ve got to beat 8.95? Be the first man to jump 9.5m Being the first man to hit a nice straight number can’t be taken away from you. That guy Bannister was the first to run the sub-4-minute mile. The record only lasted a few weeks but nobody forgets the man who did it first.”

   In the next two years Finney became known and when he enrolled at Irvine he found a dedicated coach and all the facilities he needed. His coach made him faster on the track and trained him to match his strides to the take-off board. Finney’s “cycling” kicks gave him the extra momentum and more length.

  As everyone knows, he just kept winning until, in the Olympics 2016, he hit world fame. He won a gold but the record still evaded him. Men like him are never satisfied. He was already rich; had an athletic wife and sponsorship dollars poured in. All the time he was winning he was haunted by the ideas of being the first man who beat Powell.…

  Mike Powell encouraged him. “I was 28 when I set my record. You’re only 22. Just keep jumping. Aim to peak at the next Olympics.”

  His dietician tweeked his diet, the coach worked on his speed and technique while his psychologist dealt with his doubts. His agent found him a ghost writer for his weekly syndicated articles, booked his TV appearances and took 10%.

  For two years Don Finney, the “Flying Finn,” was unbeatable. He resisted offers to enter other running events, leaving him to concentrate entirely on the long-jump.

   It must have been on his 25 th birthday when he felt the first twinge. .

Language, by R.B.

 The Original Language is spoken only by God and the angels. It contains the True Names of all things, which were created by these Names being pronounced, and would be annihilated if the Names were pronounced backwards. For this reason, the Names can never be revealed to humans, though there may be clues and riddles to give us hints.

   The True Name of God Himself enabled the whole universe to exist when God uttered it at the Beginning. At the End, He will utter it backwards and the universe will instantly disappear.  

The hitch-hiker, by Peter Shilston

 A huge black-purple cloud like a gigantic sinister mushroom had sat menacingly over Cheshire and south Lancashire all afternoon, threatening imminent downpour up ahead of me. Soon it was officially night-time, though this made no real difference to the visibility, or lack of it.

    I don’t generally pick up hitch-hikers, but the state of the weather made me more merciful usual. Besides, this was a woman, so I daresay some old-fashioned chivalry kicked in too.

   She was good-looking in a slightly blowsy way, but her clothes were unusual. She wore a hat a bit like a traditional gentleman’s topper, and a black dress, with lace-up boots of the Doc Martin’s variety. The most striking feature was her eyes, which were intense and piercing.

       As we drove off I commented on the foul state of the weather. She replied that she didn’t mind it, and then surprised me by talking about how in the past storms were caused by witches, and that some still possessed the power to do this. I don’t talk much when I’m driving, and I reckoned that any human contact would be preferable to the third-rate pop music and inane chit-chat that you get on the radio, so I responded with some vague interjection like “Oh really?” This set her off, and soon, with no further encouragement from me, she was into a detailed discourse about black magic today, and her part in it. She kept turning round to face me; fixing me with those unsettling eyes of hers. I was increasingly puzzled, and uneasy.

    As we joined the M6, the storm was going full blast, the rain came lashing down and we were reduced to a crawl. My companion was delighted. “What a storm!” she chortled, “There must have been some really strong cursing going on to get this! I think I can make a guess as to who’s responsible! I wonder why they did it!” For no reason that I could discover, she began discoursing on initiation rituals, and Tantric sex as a powerful engine for magical power. I told her I’d never been initiated into anything. “Oh, but you must!” she cried. I daredn’t turn to look at her, but I could feel her eyes boring into me.

   How was I to get rid of her? It occurred to me that, although I’d told her where I was going, namely, right up to the Lake District, she’d never told me where she was going or where I should drop her off. What on earth was I to do?

    We stopped at a service station, and I filled up with petrol while she nipped inside. While she was away I came to a decision, and I’m afraid I took refuge in an outright lie. I told her that I’d just received a message on my mobile from the friend I was going to stay with, saying that he was surrounded by flood-water and advising me not to come; so I’d have to leave her there, because at the next intersection I’d be turning round and going home. No doubt a more adventurous man would have taken her home and demanded to be instructed in the joys of Tantric sex, so I suppose you could say I chickened out, but there you are.

   The last I saw of her was in the rear view mirror as I drove away. A sudden flash of lightning illuminated her as she stood there. I wondered whether she’d claim credit for it.