Migrants, by Peter Morford

“Migrants? Don't talk to me about migrants,” said the man on the bench by the lake.  “They’re a menace.”

          He carried on. I mean he carried on. “Telford used to be a nice place. Now it’s nearly as bad as Wolverhampton and Birmingham.. Overrun by aliens, foreigners and squatters.  And don’t think you’re safe in Bridgnorth.”  He glared at me as if it was my fault.

          “This used to a nice place when I was a lad. Now look at it. They’re everywhere.  And don’t think you’ll get away with it in Bridgnorth. Just you wait. You’ve only seen the first of ’em.”

          I agreed.

          “Someone must have invited the first ones. They must have come thousands of miles to be here. They used to leave, seasonally, but not anymore. And just look at the mess they make. They take more than their fair share of food and they give nothing in return. They’re scavengers. I hate them and they don’t belong here. They breed worse than rabbits and we can’t send them away.     There’s only one way to stop them- population control.”

          “How?” I asked.

          “Abort the young of course. I know it’s against the law, but what the Judge doesn’t see.”   He tapped the side of his nose as if expecting that I would understand.

          “How?” I said, repetitively.

          “With this spike,” he said, as he pierced the egg and let the contents pour into the lake.

          The mother Canada Goose honked in protest but it was too late.  One less.

What's the Problem? by Kwaku Gyamfi

“Hello… What’s the problem? Are you crying?... He has beaten you?... You’ve been quarrelling with him again eh… You say you are hurt?… Don’t worry it will heal… The cut is deep?... But there are people with deep tribal marks… Is he at home?... He has left to the other woman’s place?... How do you know?... A friend called?... What bad company have you been keeping? She is just hurting you. Don’t go close to her again. She wants your downfall… You say he hit you because you said he is a cheat? You too what’s your problem? I’ve always told you to let him be; he will return to his senses. He has been bewitched. All these husband snatchers who the devil has employed will not succeed. God forbid. Fight for your marriage… You say you want a divorce? Are you mad? Don’t you know it will affect the children? They need their father. Don’t be stupid… You say what? If you don’t leave him one of you might die… Now I know you are fool… What are you talking about?... What?! Sometimes you feel like hitting him in the head with a brick… But why? All because he is cheating?... You can’t take it any longer? But what’s your problem? He is a man, and men have needs. The last time, he said you didn’t want to sleep with him… You say he is lying?... And you say it’s no cause for cheating even if it was true?... Ah but a man has needs. You say you don’t deny him… But seriously a man can’t live with one woman. Just look at the animal kingdom, one male to so many females. It’s nature. They can’t help it… The females have no obligation to males to keep their chastity either?… We are not in the jungle? We are humans. Is that what you are telling me? With this mouth of yours, I am not surprised he has been abusing you. You are a woman for God’s sake; learn to be submissive… You say he is supposed to love you too? Oh but he does… What are you saying? Your line is breaking… If he loves you he wouldn’t be doing what he is doing? You are so wrong. Doesn’t he feed his children? Doesn’t he give you clothes to wear?... Yes, he can take care of anyone he wants with his money, including the woman and her children… It’s not fair? What on earth are you talking about? He performs all his responsibilities and that’s what is important; it doesn’t matter that you started the business and he is using it to take care of his mistress so far as he takes care of you and the family. In any case you are his helper, a helper. That’s what you’ll ever be… You are still saying you want to divorce him. You might come out getting nothing… You’ve spoken to that lawyer friend of yours? O.K. What did he say? Oh O.K he told you to be patient; ah that’s a wise fellow. Ah wasn’t he the same lawyer you told me had impregnated his wife’s sister and had arranged an abortion for her… Oh so he is the one, hahaha, my memory isn’t so bad after all. Take his advice. He said you will not be left empty handed when you indeed divorced him?… Yes, what he says is true; it will take a long time… You need to pray for your marriage. When was the last time you fasted?... You don’t remember? You, you really need prayers. Oh, the line is dead.”

Instant Writing, by Peter, Andrea, Tony and others

The idea of "Instant writing" is that you are given a sentence chosen at random from a book, and you then have to write immediately a short passage starting with these words. The important thing is that there must be no time for thought. It's amazing what can emerge!
   We played this game at our meeting last month. Here are some specimens of what was produced:- 
..........

No, I don't know what became of Pickman and I don't like to guess. He was a sinister character with some very bizarre hobbies. Whenever we met, which wasn't very often, he'd drop dark hints of what he'd been doing recently: no real details, you understand; just enough to make me feel really alarmed for his safety. And now he's disappeared. Did someone shoot him, or was it something far worse? I wonder if the police will ever find a body?

"No, I don't know what became of Pickman and I don't like to guess", I said. That should have laid the subject, if not Pickman, thoroughly rest.
   Of course, Benson thought otherwise. "I know exactly what happened to him, and I'll tell you".
   We all groaned and pretended an interest in our rare meat, but he went rabbiting on for an interminable time: right through to the final glass of port he did his best to send us off to sleep. 
..........

It takes enormous energy to tell lies. It wasn't a practical solution, but it was believable. I'm sure in some way a good outcome would come forth, though judging by the final chaos I could not believe the noises of the machines. Nodding up and down like the head of a melancholy elephant, it was approaching its great pushrod, making an alarming fssh as it rammed its piston home. That was the last thing I saw: that and him jumping off the shanabang. Not a sight I thought I'd see at at that stage. It was dark and moonlit, and not the sort of scenario you'd expect if you wanted to die.

It takes enormous energy to tell lies. For instance, when I went to the shops the other day I intended to buy a jacket for myself, but instead I found a book I liked and so I spent the money on that instead. I then faced the problem of how to smuggle it back into the house without my wife finding it. A very large book, you see. It was easy enough to say I hadn't found a jacket I liked, which was true in a sense, but how to account for the book? That would be much more difficult.
..........

An excitable figure with two extra limbs and the head of an ant darted in front of them. Bloody country. Bloody flies. Hang on; that was no fly! Do I stop? Nah, I'll get all bloody. Shit, I'll have to stop: it's all over the windscreen and clogging up the windows terribly. What's that bloody smell? If I drive a bit quicker I'll get away from it.

An excitable figure with two extra limbs and the head of an ant darted in front of them. 
  "Stop! Stop!" It shouted, "Can you give me a lift? It's very urgent!"
   "Don't take any notice", Mike told me. "We're hallucinating. I told you this would happen".

The Gift at the Hospice, by Catherine Redfern

They are already assembled, this Monday group. Cars, mini-buses, an ambulance have gathered them. Now they sit, a few in wheelchairs, drinking their coffee. They chat quietly. Some call across the room. There is laughter.
   An introduction, and theyquieten. They smile encouragement. They don't see her fear, nor her doubt. Surely on the terrifying edge of life, their thoughts must be tunnelled down; narrowing, narrowing. How can they possibly be interested? Isn't all this irrelevant?
   
She opens they case, and they look. They exclaim at the rich mahogany varnish, at the gleaming keys, at the way all the sections fit together.
   She crows on the reed, and they laugh at the unmusical sound. But then all is assembled ....

   She plays, and they listen. They listen to folk songs, to Mancini, to "Land of My Fathers" (one man sings along in Welsh), to Gershwin's "Summertime", to "When I'm 64" ("Make that 74!" "84 for me!", to "Where e're You Walk" (again, a rich barione joins in, and others hum along), and finally Sarastro's aria from "The Magic Flute"; her own favourite melody. It's a prayer really, and a good last piece.
   They fire questions: som many. What is the wood? Where is it made? How heavy is it? Is it very expensive? Do you need a lot of puff? All those keys: are they difficult to remember? Do you have to use a new reed every time? They haven't seen one, nor heard one, nor, for some, heard of one. She is amazed and humbled by this group: yes, by this life-affirming group.

Their thanks are warm and generous. One man stands and says, "I wasn't sure: I didn't think I'd be interested in a bassoon; but I was. I'm an engineer, so I can appreciate the skill needed to make a complex instrument like that. And that last piece you played - did you say Mozart? - well, I found there were tears in my eyes. That's never happened to me before".

She packs up, warmed by this gift he has given her. She knows that music - that sound alone - can move the listener deeply; but she had not understood that here, far from being irrelevant, its power may be all the more intensely felt.
   Goodbye. Thank you. Will you come again? She heads for her car. In the office, a date has been set. Yes; it is goodbye. The date is six months away.

Police Report on a Double Death, by Jan Rees

The case of Alexei Pavlovich Tikhonov, following the discovery of the two bodies, has awakened much interest throughout the city. Although not all the facts have yet been ascertained,enough has been discovered for most of the story to be constructed.
    Tikhonov was a middle-aged scholarly bachelor, and most of his immediate circle were people like himself. His life had hitherto been blameless: the only one of his acquaintances known to the police was his disreputable schoolfriend Ketsbaia the Tatar, who was suspected of being a receiver of stolen goods. But Tikhonov's quiet life was to be overturned Yelena Borisovna Chetskaya.
   She is described as being young, vivacious, friendly and very pretty. She remains something of a mystery, in that the police have been unable to trace a single relative of hers. It has been suggested that she was, as the old saying goes, "no better than she should be", but no firm evidence on that point has yet come to light. Why she was attracted to Tikhonov is not at all clear (it could hardly have been for his money, for he had little), but there is no doubt that he quickly became besotted with her. Rather than take her back to his sparse bachelor apartment, he installed her in an expensive hotel, where they lived together for several weeks. He bought her clothes and jewels, and accompanied her to the theatre and other public events attended by the cream of society.
   Tikhonov's limited finances were soon exhausted. He sold such of his possessions as were of any value, but then had to turn to other methods of raising money. His old friend professor Razminsky has reported that several rare old manuscripts are missing from his collection, so it seems likely that Tikhonov stole these and then sold them on through Ketsbaia. He may have committed other thefts as well. But He must have known that his crimes would be discovered before long, and he would face exposure and punishment. He therefore obtained a measure of poison, and on the third of June poured it into glasses of wine, which he and Yelena then drank.
   Tikhonov's suicide is readily explicable, but, why he should murder Yelena is harder to understand. It was not only pointlessly cruel, but goes entirely against what we know of his character. It is better to think that the two of them, having briefly found happiness in each other's company, resolved to depart this life together.

The Laburnum Tree, by Andrea MacDonald,

They can’t find me

And I can see everything

They’d never think to look for me here

We were forbidden to touch or go near you

An immediate allure

Poisonous tree

 they said

Shelter for me

Under the boughs

Gateway to my secret orchard

My halcyon hideaway

We met in May at the end of the garden

My secret place

With log stools and a table

Purloined from the wood pile

Call Call Call me

I will not come

Me and my toys are here

Do Not Disturb

Teacher Don't Teach Me Nonsense, by Kwaku Gyamfi

I am selling my mum's shop when Mary comes. She is about seven years old. She has these deep dimples that can break your heart, and she is always smiling. She wants a bottle of Pepsi. I put my laptop on a chair beside me and get up to take the product for her. Out of curiosity, she inches closer to the laptop. I give her the Pepsi but she still stands looking at the machine. I am reading from it.
“Are you doing your homework?”
I turn to look at her, “No Mary.”
“O.K, you are learning so you can do your homework.” She made it sound like a question.
“No. I am not studying for my homework.”
She wouldn’t give up. “Oh I know. You have an exam.” She speaks excitedly, like a scientist who has made a major discovery.
“No,” I say. I see confusion in her eyes, they beg, questioning.
“I am learning because I will use it one day. I am learning for life.”
She still appears perplexed. I don’t know how to make her understand me.