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.

Saint Ethelbrugha, by O.T.K.

Ethelbrugha has never been officially recognised by the Papacy as a saint, and it is doubtful whether she actually existed. Her legend is as follows:-
   Ethelbrugha was the daughter of an Anglo-Saxon nobleman. Even as a young girl, she would berate her parents' relatives and guests for the immorality of their lives. This often led to her being spanked, but she was in no ways deterred; and later she behaved in the same way towards prsoective husbands chosen by her father. Finally he gave up the struggle in disgust and sent her off to be a nun.
   She gathered around her a community of likeminded sisters noted for their practice of severe mutual discipline, and it is said that even when she was an abbess she would still allow herself to be beaten, as a token of humility. How she died is not known.
   In the 13th century an order of nuns who claimed Ethelbrugha as their inspiration was suppressed by order of Pope Innocent III because of the "scandalous" lives of its members.
   Ethelbrugha is commemmorated only in a handful of chaurches. She is depicted in just one late-Victorian stained-glass window, where she bears her symbol; a cane. It is believed that the donor was the poet A.C.Swinburne. 
   A few years ago an extraordinary earthernware figurine was discovered, dating from the early 16th century. It shows Saint Ethelbrugha with her bottom bared. Scholarly debate continues on whether it was a devotional object, or the work of a Protestant artisan ridiculing her cult.
   Ethelbrugha has recently been hailed as the patron saint of spankers and BDSM enthusiasts. The Vatican has yet to pronounce on the matter. 

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New Self Care, by Annabelle Jane Palling

 

The Usual, by Peter Morford

You would have to say that Mr Jock Birnie is the most reliable and predictable of men. For six days a week, fifty weeks a year he will close his front door and march the quarter mile to his outfitter’s shop, “Birnie and Son, established 1975.” The staff will arrive at 9 o’clock, have just thirty minutes for lunch and leave at 5.40. Mr Birnie will be home at six. Fiona will offer him a glass of sherry and, fifteen minutes later, they will have dinner and a chat.

Fiona likes her soap operas and game-shows. He doesn’t, so at five to seven he always walks the hundred yards to The Rose and Ragwort for his evening drink, his routine for as long as anyone can remember.

I’m looking out of the window now, knowing that Jock’s on his way. I check my watch. He’ll be here any minute now. Dead on time, he comes in, nods to his friends, hangs up his coat, walks to his usual place at the end of the bar. He hauls himself onto the stool, leans against the low back. Elbows on the polished top he smiles at the little brass disc with his name on it. Mr Birnie’s seat.

Joe Partridge, the landlord greets him. “Your usual Mr Birnie?”

“It’s my birthday today. Exactly forty-five years ago, my father bought me my first legal drink in this pub. Your dad served us. You were a baby then so you won’t remember.”

Joe said “I know about it though. Your usual is it?” He knows that Mr Birnie will want a double scotch, single malt. He’ll probably play a game of darts. At eight he’ll treat himself to another double before saying “Good-night all,” at nine sharp. Joe prides himself on knowing his customers.

Jock seems to be thinking. “I’ll make a change tonight,” he says.

“A different scotch ? I’ve got a nice Bourbon.”

Jock growled, “American dishwater.”

“Gin?”

“Tarts’ ruin.”

“Vodka?”

“Russian bilge-water.” Jock leans forward and says “Between you and me, Joe, Doctor Pearson told me I drink too much – what rubbish – and that I should think of retiring. Maybe he’s right. I’m, 63, I can afford it. My assistant could buy me out. I’d keep the premises for the rent. I could take Fiona to New York to see our son. Do a world tour perhaps.”

“So what will you have?” Joe says yet again as two couples come to the bar.

He calls his daughter to help. “So what’s it to be?”

“A coke. Cherry flavour, no ice.”

Joe rummages for a bottle and wonders what the world’s coming to.

Happy Christmas!

 

 

A charming Nativity grouping from the church of St Mary and St Nicholas, Beaumaris, Anglesey. 

A potential story, by Peter Shilston

One of the leading gangsters in New York in the Prohibition era was neither Sicilian nor Jewish, but was born in England. His name was Owen Madden, and he came to New York as a child, to live with his aunt in a notorious slum  on the west side of Manhatten, known as "Hell's Kitchen". He joined the local street gang, the Gophers, and rose to be their leader. He was known as "Owney the killer".

   In the 1920s he made a fortune in bootlegging and the "numbers"  gambling racket; he owned the elite Cotton Club in Harlem, and was nicknamed "The Duke of the West Side". But in the early 1930s he retired to Hot Springs, Arkansas, where he founded a hotel and casino that played host to many of his fellow-gangsters and sheltered Lucky Luciano when on the run from the authorities.

Madden remained there until he died peacefully in the 1960s; long enough to have met the young Bill Clinton as he was growing up in the state. Clinton's mother certainly encountered Madden, since she once had to prepare him for surgery, and recalled that the old bullets in his body lit up the x-ray screen "like stars in a planetarium!"

Although there is no reason to believe that Clinton himself ever met Madden, wouldn't an imaginary meeting make a splendid story, as the aged gangster imparts to the future president his advice on how to become a success in life! 

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.