Information overload, by Peter Morford

We’re about to take off. Now, in a window seat with two empty places beside me I look forward to the flight. I’ll read my new Grisham until dinner; then I’ll spread myself out for a comfortable nap.

I reach into my brief case but there’s no book. Damn. I must have left it on the counter. Why would I do a daft thing like that? I’ll have to read my Kindle instead.

A man’s coming down the aisle, peering short-sightedly for the seat numbers; coming my way; stopping; checking the number again; nodding; saying; “We will be companions for the new few hours Mr Parsons.”

“Do I know you?” He’s putting his overcoat into the locker, placing his briefcase on the spare seat.

“No Mr Parsons, but I know you. You were born in Bradford on 10 th June 1970. You and Elaine have two children. Kenny – at Oxford, and little Julie."

“Are you spying on me?” I may sound petulant.

The plane’s moving. He buckles himself in. “I’m so sorry, let me introduce myself. My card.”

I read Mr Tom, Senior Partner of Tomdickenarry Progressive Headhunters Inc. There’s an address in Canary Wharf.

“That’s a crazy name,” I say.

“Not really. I’m Mr Tom, Director of European Office, Mr Dicken looks after Americas and Ari - Mr Aristotle- is EU. As I was about to say, we’re interested in you professionally. Your feud with the Managing Director is getting nasty. He wants you out; you’re fighting for a golden handshake and he’s doing his best to get your resignation. That’s why you’re doing these rather menial jobs for him. This trip to Dallas could be done by a junior but it keeps you out of the office. Next week you’re off to Tokyo. No wonder that Elaine is looking for companionship. But then you have a pretty-bird’s nest in Paris, when you can get there. Ah, drinks.”

The flight attendant is ready to take our order. Mr Tom orders Merlot. “And I think my friend will enjoy tonic with slice of lemon.”

“Certainly, Sir.” She leaves.

He speaks very softly. “I will have steak and salad but I know you will be happier with pasta and mineral water. Right?”

“So far.”

“I rescued your book in the Men’s Room. I also read Grisham.” I thanked him, wondering.

“You had £13,517 in your joint account last night. Your private account is down to 4398 euros – that’s the fund for Parisian rents. Your personal investment account has just received your BP dividend but perhaps you will sell.

I’m beginning to dislike this man.

“Elaine wants to move. Do you really want a penthouse in Battersea now that your mortgage is cleared?”

“You’ve been busy,” I say.

“Busy enough. We could be looking for a man like you, Mr Parsons. You’re fit, despite all that flying. You could be at the peak of your career with the right guidance. I have a proposition for you.” He puts down his glass and brings his alcoholic lips to my ear to whisper.

“But that’s illegal,” I say.

Mr Tom takes another sip of his wine and daintily wipes his mouth. “You will be amply compensated Mr Parsons.” 

Ravenna, by Peter Shilston

 

Little Theodora

dances in the circus

sleeps in the market

often cold and hungry

sells herself.

Everybody loves her

the soldiers and the sailors

and the market-traders

all say, "You can have a good time

with little Theodora."

But have patience, Theodora,

for soon you will become

a pious Empress

powerful and proud

and hated by everyone.

(The picture is a mosaic of the Empress Theodora, wife of the Byzantine Emperor Justinian I, in the basilica of S. Vitale, Ravenna)

Grief of a man, by Stephen Lovejoy

 

He dared the sun to rise the next morning. Even the giant ball of flaming gas quailed under the fiery heat of his rage. It had barely begun to peek over the horizon before it promptly changed its mind and descended, plunging the village into an eerie twilight that was to last for 80 days.

The villagers pierced the darkness with candles, giving the once sunny town a crypt-like ambience. The odd futile attempt was made at the continuation of an everyday life. These were soon abandoned, until every last person was joined with him in mournful vigil. They sat in silence and darkness measuring the time through the howls of rage that thundered out as the clocks struck each hour.

In the gaps between, they could hear nothing but destruction. The rats and pigeons had fled and the trees were clutching tightly to their leaves, lest they should attract the red eyes of his wrath. He destroyed the crib, the marital bed, the picture frames. But he couldn’t stop. With his bare hands, he tore down the entire house.

When the powder of the last shattered brick dropped from his hand, he let out one final cry. It reverberated through the village, bouncing off the walls and eaves, slicing through the villagers and plunging them into a cold sweat. His voice broke, never to be used again. A single tear dropped from his eye, then another. 

As the second tear graced the now barren ground, the sun peered tentatively above the horizon. It pulled itself up, slowly at first, but with growing confidence. The villagers stepped out, blinking, into the fresh hopeful light. As one, they turned their smarting eyes to the hill where the proud house had formerly stood. 

He was there, sat still as stone, eyes closed, a small sorrowful smile upon his lips.

[Copyright © Stephen Lovejoy]

Poem, by Brian Bilston

 

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

.

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.