Watford Writers

ENTRY 1

THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM by Helen Nicell

Blue skies stretched endlessly in the distance as Inosuke cycled to work that August morning. He’d awoken just as the sun rose, his wife Kumiko was already up, and was preparing his breakfast, as she had every morning since they’d married seven years before. His freshly laundered clothes were ready for him to get dressed.

“Are you ready for tea my dear husband?” She poured the steaming liquid from the pot and Inosuke thanked her. Their two young daughters came into the room and sleepily said goodbye as Inosuke kissed their heads. Stroking their dark silky hair, he told them to be good girls for their mother and to study hard.

Bikes and cars made their way along the road to the city centre. Inosuke recognised some of his fellow workers as they passed. His journey was three miles each way, he didn’t mind, it gave him time to think about all sorts and he would arrive for work with a clear head. He was now the foreman at the factory making engine parts, a position of importance. In a year or two he hoped he could move the family into the city centre. He squinted his eyes as the rising sun sent golden shards onto the industrial buildings of the city, windows glinting in the morning light. It was already warm and beads of perspiration formed on his head.

Putting the bike in the allocated shed, Inosuke took his handkerchief from his pocket, wiped the sweat from his face and dirt from his hands. He removed his lunch from the bike’s basket, taking one more look at the perfect clear sky without a cloud. He entered the dark factory and was greeted with the constant cacophony of machines running, conveyor belts chugging and orders being barked.

Inosuke put overalls over his clothes and went onto the factory floor. His manager asked him to sort out a problem with machine number 5, it was likely the cam belt needed tightening. As Inosuke turned the machine off, there was a blinding flash and a blue light filled the factory, followed by a tremendous bang. Whilst still conscious he thought, ‘this cannot be a thunderstorm, the morning was so beautiful’. He had no idea how long he’d passed out for, but when he came round, he was lying on his back, he blinked and slowly opened his eyes. The factory roof had gone and he was staring at a sky filled with a huge white cloud. Then the rain began, big black, inky drops, like he’d never seen before. Inosuke was suddenly very thirsty, he recalled the tea his wife had served him that morning. Opening his mouth he tried to catch the raindrops on his tongue. The water hit his skin like electric needles. The liquid tasted oily and burnt his mouth, the smell was overpowering, almost like sulphur. His last thoughts were of his wife and daughters as he died in the hell storm.

***

The atomic bomb fell on Hiroshima on the 6 August 1945. Between 70,000 and 126,000 civilians were killed.

ENTRY 2

A CAT'S COURTROOM by Chris McDermott

The year is 2055. Animal rights activists had done many laudable things. There were more vegetarians and vegans than there had ever been, and animals had never received such protection.

However, the movement had ignored one simple principle: that with rights come responsibilities. But the legal system had not. There had evolved a protest group which was determined to redress the balance of fairness in our judicial system. This was a new offshoot of the ‘human rights’ movement, and was determined to bring those creatures that benefitted from the care of humans, to answer for any misdemeanours they may have committed. Its slogan ‘Cat burglars must pay’ was to be one used by certain tabloid newspapers.

Cecil, a human, stood in the dock with his fellow defendant, Maurice, a cat. It was the first time in legal history that a cat had been put on trial. The judge read out the charge.

‘You both stand accused of the theft of a wedding ring,’ he said. ‘Under new legislation the jury has been asked to deliberate on your innocence or guilt.’ It was at that moment that Maurice stretched himself on his four legs, appearing to yawn. This act did not please the judge, who sought to ignore this obvious disrespect. The trial began with the prosecuting council outlining the case against the two defendants.

‘You have been accused of purloining the wedding ring of Cecilia, the wife of Mr. Cecil Digby-Yallopson, as part of a plot to pass on the ring and to sell it at great profit.’ At this point Maurice let out a huge ‘Meeow!’, simultaneously startling both judge and jury.

‘Silence in court,’ announced the judge. As the trial continued, the prosecuting counsel asserted that Maurice had, quite deliberately, moved Cecila Digby-Yallopson’s ring from her room, under the pretence of ‘playing with it’, to pat it towards the grasp of Mr Digby-Yallopson. The prosecuting counsel appeared to take pride in his wit, as he declared that Mr Digby-Yallopson was a ‘gold-digger’, making eye-contact with the jury to confirm they had appreciated his play on words.

This did not seem to impress Maurice, however, who appeared fascinated by the wig that the prosecuting counsel wore, as it reminded him of a liaison he had had as a younger cat. While the trial continued there was a veritable storm outside the court room, with ‘Animal Rights’ protesters, professing the innocence of Maurice, clashing with ‘Human Rights’ protesters, determined that Maurice had to be judged in the same way as humans. The chant of ‘Freedom for Felines’ was matched with ‘Power to the People’.

Unfortunately, whatever efforts were made, they did not benefit Cecil or Maurice. Both were found guilty, with Cecil being sentenced to three months in prison, while Maurice’s sentence was three months on a diet consisting only of cat biscuits.

There had been a storm outside the court room, but soon there would be a storm inside Maurice’s stomach, brought about by the lack of decent food.

ENTRY 3

JENNA by Pat Simpson

A thunderous explosion smashed the silence. Jenna shivered, groaning at the pain in her head, then raised both hands to cover her ears. A fork of lightning, daylight bright, illuminated the evening garden. She lifted her head, catching a blurred glimpse of the view before thunder rolled over her, a steamroller of sound. Jenna shivered, wrapping both arms around her crouched body, then slowly climbed to her feet using the wall to support her.

Looking up through the glass she watched the final glow of sunset swallowed by the swiftly growing storm clouds. She listened for the rush of rain tears but heard nothing. Then, moving away, the lightning flashed. She counted in her head: one, two, three. The thunder roared again. She stumbled across the room, fumbled open the doors, and welcomed the wildness of the storm.

Standing in the middle of the lawn, Jenna raised her face to the roiling darkness. Still the teardrops of rain failed. She watched the spectacular display, as the storm circled, flinching at the sound and fury. At first it was the fascination of the lightning forking against the deep grey clouds, powerful and bright with a fierce beauty. Then she began to listen to the deafening growls of thunder before they faded into the purr of some giant cat.

How long the storm lasted, she could not have said. Only that her fearful heart beat eventually calmed when the final purr of thunder faded into the distance. There had been no rain, neither viciously hard nor soft and gentle. No tears to dampen her cheeks or to wash her spirit clean of that terrible fear yet, she felt … different. Yes, full of determined purpose. Jenna paused in the quiet, a pale statue, thinking. Then she turned back inside and headed upstairs to the bedroom. She would make the most of the still eye of the storm to prepare for what was coming.

The front door slammed, painfully violent, back against the hall wall. Jenna, in the lounge, flinched and checked her watch. He was home earlier than she had expected. The agonising storm was about to begin. His furious shouting of her name outdid the thunder and she shivered anticipating the pain of the lightning of his cruel hands. Unconsciously she half crouched then stopped, her gaze caught by the bright red rucksack. She straightened, grabbed her coat from the back of the chair and quickly put it on. Not this time, no more pain, she touched the bruise on her cheek, a painful reminder of that afternoon’s anger. His shoes clicked against the polished, wood floor before he went upstairs. Jenna grabbed the rucksack, and hurried outside. Soon he would see the computer smashed on the floor, after she had emptied their bank account of her money. A roar of fury from above and she smiled, heading quickly across the garden, through the gate and out into the gentler hell of the storm.

ENTRY 4

A PREPOSTEROUS PROPOSAL by Sumi Watters

Storming out of the hall didn’t have the impact Sylvia had hoped for. The hydraulic safety-mechanism schools installed on every door didn’t allow for a proper slam. Who the hell does Daphne think she is? she muttered to herself as she fumbled in her handbag for car keys. Not a good fit. Indeed!

‘Your presence is appreciated, Sylvia,’ Daphne said. ‘But you see, I’ve been Chair for… Oh my… Has it really been seven years?’ She glanced around the top table and smiled. Her coterie nodded approvingly and admiringly, as if Daphne had discovered the cure for breast cancer. No. All cancers.

‘You’ve only recently moved from the city to our village,’ Daphne continued. ‘New parents such as yourself. Well … you can’t just waltz in here and try to change the way the Westhill School Association has always done things.’

‘It was only a suggestion.’

‘And the committee considers all suggestions, so long as they aren’t preposterous.’

Daphne’s cronies sniggered.

‘What’s so preposterous about asking for cash contributions instead of pestering parents every week leading up to the Summer Fair?’

Daphne harrumphed. ‘Surely, you must know that some Westhill families are not as affluent as others. Five pounds can mean the difference between eating and going without.’

‘Yet, you expect these same families to comply to your rigid demands.’ Sylvia leafed through handouts until she found what she was after. ‘Week 1: Wrapped sweets for the Sweets Tombola. Week 2: A bottle (wine preferred) for the Bottle Tombola … ‘

‘I know what’s on the donation list, Sylvia. Your point is?’

‘Couldn’t you ask families to give what they can afford so you could buy what you need in bulk?’

‘Everyone loves the collections. They look forward to it every year.’

Blonde heads bobbed in unison.

‘When was the last time you actually spoke to someone outside of this little … clique, Daphne?’ Sylvia asked.

‘Excuse me?’

‘This committee is hardly inclusive, is it?’ she said, looking around at the pale faces in the room.

‘240 children from 127 families attend this school. Why are there only nine of you on the WSA?’

‘Most parents can’t be bothered to give their time to the school like we do.’

‘Is that really what you think?’

‘It’s the sad truth, unfortunately.’

‘Has it never occurred to you that more people would join if you weren’t so closed-minded and … so damn exclusive?’

Daphne let out a groan, followed by a heavy sigh. ‘Thank you for coming this evening, Sylvia. But perhaps your views are too … urban for the WSA. I don’t believe you’d make a good fit after all.

Sylvia stepped outside and felt the first drops of rain fall from the ominous storm clouds above. As she scurried past Daphne’s convertible BMW, Sylvia noticed that Daphne had left the top down. Should I let her know? she thought aloud. It would be the right thing to do.

‘Nah,’ she said, then climbed into her Prius and sped off.

ENTRY 5

MICHAELMAS TERM by Ian Welland

My first baptism in the lecture hall was during the first week of the Michaelmas term of 1922. Old Musgrove as I affectionately came to call the art history master, was sharp, witty, and precise in tone. He was like an old eccentric grandfather with his patched tweed blazer that caught his gown, twisting the black cloth pulling it out of shape.

‘Believe no one except Thornbury!’ was Musgrove’s opening gambit in that very first session. ‘For he stood a pace behind Turner, even on that damn ship where Turner tied himself to a mast during a vicious storm off the Kent coast. The result? Snowstorm – Steamboat off the Harbour’s mouth.’

Looks of disbelief were exchanged among us students. Turner would have been aged mid sixty at the time of the storm venture. Surely, even he would not have been able to withstand the might of the weather gods.

‘Mr Tanners, you have your hand up. What is it?’

‘Was Turner really there, Sir?’

‘Are you questioning Thornbury? Have you read the passage in the text?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Good for you Mr Tanners!’ shouted Musgrove. ‘Question season is now open dear students of the arts. You should question every artist. The motive, the evidence, the intention, the invention, the finished article.’

‘And Joshua Reynolds, Sir?’

‘One step at a time Mr Henwood, one step at a time.’

‘Thornbury was a journalist but not a friend of Turner? Would he have wanted to record such a feat, championing Turner in the twilight of his career to ensure Turner immortal?’

‘Who knows, Mr Tanners. Thornbury allegedly held a conversation with Ruskin. Ruskin was present when the painting was submitted to the Royal Academy. Some thought it remarkable. Others felt rather faint almost grief-stricken at what Turner was asking the connoisseurs to look at. Note from the image before you how the ship rolls, and the sea decides its fate. But say Turner was present? Up high in the crow’s nest? It is the myth that has created the legend and Thornbury was taken in.’

‘Could the same be said of Rain, Steam and Speed. Another storm prevails and more drama. The hare running for his life along the tracks. The storm clearing from the field allowing the farmer to go about his business. The jolly fellows on the calm water. Another myth?’

‘You could well be right Mr Cedric. But we are all just bystanders, each and every one of us.’

‘And was Thornbury a bystander?’

‘He was more than that. Ruskin declined the task of chronicling Turner’s life so, it is Thornbury that we must thank for all our debates.’

‘So, Turner survived both storms and lived another day to paint these great canvases?’

‘Heroism in the name of art! Does anyone wish to say anything more about Turner? Yes Hardinge?’

‘Turner was allegedly, married to a great aunt of mine!’

‘Ah, the wonderful Sophia Caroline Booth,’ confirmed Musgrove.

‘Did you know her, Sir?’

‘Wicked boy,’ remarked Musgrove whilst smiling.

ENTRY 6

AN ILL WIND by Mike Lansdown

The day in question, just like the one two days earlier, was still and blue. Far out in the bay, beyond the reef, a pelican stood, stupidly preening itself, while a gentle surf moved in and out beating one of nature’s slow rhythms.

My old man liked to say, ‘Son, just got to remember, nature abhors a vacuum’. He was sure right about the storm that had just passed through and was now wreaking havoc somewhere to the north-east. Like a fickle friend, nature will be one time boxing you round the ears, the next stroking the back of your hand. Not to be trusted. Pa also used to say that ‘it’s an ill wind that brings no good.’ Well, turning round and looking inland I figured he’d got that one wrong - I couldn’t see any evidence for that particular sentiment.

Like I said, nature, she’s fickle, and there sure didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason in what she’d let be and what she’d consigned to the dustbin of history. Whole houses were now no more, a concrete base the only thing to mark their previous existence – like a plain old gravestone, blown flat. Then next door, no further than a guy could spit, their neighbour’s place with no more than a broken shingle. Didn’t make no sense to me.

And it was quiet – real quiet. Hours earlier, when you couldn’t see your hand this far from your face, it was like all the banshees that ever were had decided to pay us a visit. And there was me, hunkered down like a little kid, shaking and praying, though I hadn’t set foot in the local church since the day Ma and Pa passed away. And I’d stayed like that all night ‘til the first rays caught the back wall of the kitchen and I knew it was safe to go out.

So I walked. All around me things were in the wrong place: a table in the middle of the road, a truck in a store doorway, power lines everywhere, some of them sparking ominously. Here and there, someone would wave to say they were okay, others looked too shocked to say or do anything. But mostly the place was empty, the ones that could get out having beat it whilst they could.

Mac and Betty were friends of ours. Their house had survived. One of the lucky ones – it looked untouched. I walked round the side to the yard I knew so well as I had played there many times as a kid. There was little apart from a sheet of corrugated-iron lying in the middle of the grass. It looked too perfect so I just had to lift it and take a look.

Gasping, I fumbled for my cell-phone and dialled.

‘Sherriff McCarty.’

‘Sherriff, it’s Toby Andersson. I reckon you need to come down and see Mac and Betty’s back yard...’

This ill wind had brought no good to my late next-door neighbours.

ENTRY 7

KELVIN by David Elliott

Adam, Bella, Charlie, Davina, Edmund, Fiona, Graham, Helga, Ian, Jacinta and Kelvin. I count on my fingers A to K. Ten storms so far this season and Kelvin’s imminent. Aren’t these severe climatological goings-on supposed to be, one in a hundred-year events? And it’s not even October.

Kelvin? What sort of name is that for a storm? Feisty Katrina, I get. Demon Dennis wrecked our garden room roof earlier in the year. But Kelvin? Give me a break.

I laugh. It’s Michael Fish territory all over again. Someone asked him in 1987 if there was a hurricane on the way?

His reply, ‘don’t worry; there definitely isn’t.’

Tell that to Oneoaks, grieving its half-dozen storm felled sisters.

You see 1987’s storm, was the worst since 1703. That’s three-hundred-ish-years, in the waiting. Now, only thirty-five years later, climate-change driven gales arrive like the monthly hikes in our utility bills.

I shiver. The season has changed; turned. Autumn is full on, not that there are many leaves left to fall. The drought in the summer saw to that. We’re so extreme. Remain or Brexit. Cut or increase tax. Forty-two degrees plus in the shade or tonight’s below zero.

I pull the curtains tight, kick the draft excluder snake tighter against the front door. I dare not turn on the heating. My pension can’t stretch that far. I waddle over to the sideboard and fix myself, two fingers of single malt.

The whisky warms. In all the right places. Time to head up the hill to Bedfordshire. This is, after all, a storm in a teacup.

I skip to the bedroom and dive under the duvet. Thirteen-point-five Tog, you can’t get any warmer. No one else to share the bed with these days, so I’ve stacked two duvets, plump eiderdowns as my late wife used to call them, on the bed. Toasty.

I listen to my phone under the covers. No longer a schoolboy eavesdropping Caroline’s tinny echoes; but a grownup, laughing at the Evil Genius podcast, that features zany Russel Kane. I fall asleep to his high-pitched carry-ons, as he digs the dirt on the eminent and righteous.

The podcast helps me attain a deep sleep. But then in the early hours, I dream that I am back in the merchant marine. My ship is being mercilessly toyed with by the ocean. As I toss and turn, I feel crushed by a substantial weight on my chest. Blurry-eyed stars rush past. Moonlit clouds pull faces. Everyone and everything these days is in such a hurry.

Rain chills my cheek. I’m not alone. Another face climbs aboard. Scares me fartless.

‘Hello Kelvin,’ a firefighter calls out. ‘Sorry mate, you’ve lost your roof to the tempest. We need to get you out, before we are all blown away.’

She is joined by others, who lift beams and pantiles. I can breathe again.

I thank profusely. Was always bought up to be a proper Mr polite, never Stormy Kelvin.

He’s just my evil-twin meteorological doppelganger.

ENTRY 8

A BARNSTORMING PERFORMANCE by Chris McDermott

Gordon had been sacked. That was the news that greeted him as he opened the letter that arrived that morning. What a way to tell him, showing absolutely no respect, despite his years of service as a pet food taster. This came just days after the love of his life, Rosanne, had confronted him, before walking out of their flat for the last time.

‘I have made a decision,’ she had said. ‘It’s over! I just can’t carry on with this relationship anymore.’

What was he to do? Gordon could not understand why he had been rejected twice in the same week. So he resolved to drive to Stonehenge to have some ‘me’ time and find his spiritual self. He put ‘Stonehenge’ into his satnav, and proceeded to follow her instructions.

But as drove, listening to satnav’s mellifluous tones, Gordon found himself becoming entranced by her voice. To that point in his life, Gordon had always sought to be the controlling figure in his relationships but, for the first time, he was enjoying being controlled. Was it an emotional reaction, brought about because of the devastating news of the past few days?

‘Take a right at the roundabout,’ came the instruction, ‘then go first left.’

‘She is the one,’ he said to himself. ‘I must follow her. She is my spiritual guide.’ It was at that moment that Gordon gave satnav the name Deidre, his Deidre. Gordon safely negotiated the roundabout as Deidre issued her next command. ‘Turn right.’ Wanting to show his obedience, Gordon, without looking, immediately turned the steering wheel to the right, crashing through the metal gate of a farmyard before driving through the side of a barn and halting in a pile of freshly-deposited cow dung. Gordon immediately exited his car, narrowly avoiding the dung, before stepping outside the barn, to be greeted by an angry group of farm-workers, shaking their pitch-forks in the air.

‘I was only following instructions,’ yelled Gordon. ‘It’s not my fault!’ But his protestations fell on deaf ears. At that moment, thunder rumbled and the rains began to pour, moving Gordon’s tie-on bun from the top of his head to his left ear, so that it appeared to be a giant ear-plug. Gordon’s purchase of the bun was one of the reasons that Rosanne had left him, but she had never told him, leaving him to wallow in the misapprehension that he somehow ‘rocked it’.

As the farmers approached him, Gordon decided that the best way of assuaging their anger was to use humour. Looking towards the heavens, he exclaimed, ‘Well, that was a barn-storming end to my journey!’

‘Very funny, you fool,’ came the retort. ‘So you think you’re a comedian do you?’

No one who had ever met Gordon, would have said that about him. But Gordon took the man’s words literally, resolving to launch his new career as a stand-up comic. You won’t be surprised to hear that he was sacked from that position as well.

Poor Gordon!

ENTRY 9

THE COST OF FISH by Louise Welland

‘The seaside town of Looe keeps visitors entertained all year around. For children, a safe sandy beach with rockpools beside it, hours of free fun.’

Christopher loved to crab. As he got older, he loved to fish. I remember as a schoolboy the excitement when he returned one hot afternoon, covered in engine oil, announcing that he had a job on the motorboats for the summer. Michael our younger son, sulked that he was too young to go out alone.

The fishermen of Looe were more than a team, they were family. They showed the youngsters how to fish and how to behave. There were of course the odd words of profanity, but Charlie and I didn’t mind that too much; what was more important was that our son was learning and growing into a confident, happy young man.

As Chris’s experience grew, he was asked to help repair an old mackerel boat, ‘Do It Again’. It was 30’ long and not strong enough to go out in stormy weather, but still a very useful vessel. A new winch was fitted and in January 1979 they were finally satisfied that she was ready for sea trials.

Johnny Haines was the skipper, just nineteen years old. We had known him since he was a toddler. Christopher was seventeen. They set out on the afternoon tide in the fresh wind, no storms were expected. They planned to journey a couple of miles offshore, for two hours. That was all they needed to check that everything was in good working order.

Jack Jollife, a retired fisherman, was walking the cliffs that afternoon. He saw the boat hauling her gear. He became concerned when she suddenly disappeared from sight. He carried on walking with an uneasy feeling that he couldn’t lose.

Around the same time, Bill Cowan, the Polperro skipper of ‘Westward’ heard a frantic call on the airways “HELP! DO IT AGAIN” then the line went quiet. He tried over and over to make contact, but there was nothing, just silence.

As night fell the families became gravely concerned. The life crews were called out and many boats joined the search. They were out all night but found nothing. Jack Joliffe had been the only witness from the cliff, yet he had no idea of the drama that was unfolding.

By dawn word had spread, and dozens of boats joined the search. Eventually John’s body was spotted floating on the surface. It was assumed that Chris’s body was trapped in the cabin.

It was many days before they found the sunken trawler. No reason for the accident was ever found. Everything looked in good shape.

Six months later our son revealed his body, 11 miles from where the boat sank.

We didn’t recover. Charlie and I stuck together to help Michael, who sought out destructive ways to cope with the loss of his big brother.

Do not complain about the cost of your fish, for it cost us our family.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In memory of Christopher (Charlie) Tregenna

ENTRY 10

WHEN YOU DRIVE THROUGH A STORM by Brian Bold

The wind whipped the dry snow into drifts around their car. If only he had stayed on the main roads they would be at the hospital by now. The car shook with Sally’s sobs. They had waited years for this baby and now he had destroyed their chance of a family by a stupid decision on their route. Maybe, the emergency services could have reached them in time but he had left the mobile at home.

“I’ll get some help, love. I promise,” Jack said, before opening his door, forcing back the drift.

The road was icy, deep snow on the verges and the wind unrelenting. Every passing second of his slow progress felt like the countdown to disaster.

He had never prayed before but now he heard himself crying out. “Oh God, please help me. Save Sally and our baby.”

The snowing seemed to ease and he saw red lights flickering ahead. Someone must be there. His rising hope was dashed when he reached a car, jammed against a tree. He scraped the snow off the driver’s window and could see a woman slumped against the steering wheel.

He pulled the door open. “Are you all right?”

The woman stirred. “I think so,” she said, “I was attending a birth. I’m not going to make it now.”

“Oh my God, you're a midwife,” Jack gasped, “I desperately need your help. My wife’s having a baby in our car down the hill.”

“I’ve hurt my hands but I can tell you what to do,” the woman said. “Use my phone first to ring for an ambulance.”

Sally was panting when they reached her.

“It’s going to be all right, love. I’ve got help.”

“Help your wife into the back of the car,” the midwife said, “and get some water.”

Jack found a lunch box and melted snow in it on the car bonnet.

“Now sit with your wife and do exactly what I say.”

He saw a glimmer of hope in Sally’s eyes before the strength and frequency of the contractions overwhelmed her. For the next twenty minutes, Jack gave control of his mind and body to the midwife. She paced the road outside the car, giving instructions to him. Then came that moment of incomparable joy and Sally, exhausted but comfortable, cradled their son.

“Wind up the window and keep your family warm,” the midwife said, “you’ll be fine now. I’m off back to my car.”

“How can I thank you? You answered my prayers,” Jack called after her as she disappeared, cloaked in white.

“Who were you talking to?” Sally mumbled.

“The midwife,” said Jack, “I couldn’t have delivered our baby without her.”

Shortly after, an ambulance edged its way down the hill.

“You’ve been lucky,” the paramedic said, “not like the woman in the car ahead, she skidded and was killed; one of our most caring midwives, always answering calls for help, in any weather.”

ENTRY 11

BLOODLINE by Ian Welland

The storm blew up in the family following the discovery of my mother’s diary soon after she had departed this world. Hidden away in a locked draw for decades, you could be forgiven for suggesting even the spiders and dust mites had left home!

‘You’re not even blood related to us Jim, so how is it that you can decide on who has what from the house?’ said my annoyed brother Paul.

A Christian man all his life, St Paul as Jim preferred to call him had suddenly grown dark as though his stall set up in the local church had been turned over by Christ himself.

‘St Paul, you are a good man. Whilst I understand you’re upset, I can assure you that we are related as brothers. Brothers!’

‘But Mother reveals all here. First day of January, 1950. You are not her son. Our wicked father chose to bring you into the family house rather than see you sent out into the wilderness. You are our father’s bastard but that is all. Perhaps you are not the bastard of our father? Perhaps you are the discarded offspring of a maid and groom?’

‘Daisy, you awfully quiet. Cat got your tongue?’ I sat motionless whilst the feud continued.

‘Paul you are being monstrous. Jim has done nothing wrong,’ said Sarah who was sat in the corner listening.

‘Dear sister, Jim is telling us what we can and cannot do with our mother’s things.'

‘But Paul, since when have you the right to dictate?’ replied Sarah forcefully. ‘Well?’

Paul remained standing; fists clinched behind his back. Flames roared from the Adams fireplace and the heat circulated to offset the cold dampness creeping into the room. He looked sternly back at Jim.

‘I need you to decide your path, Jim. The evidence is here, in black and white, in mother’s own hand.’

‘St Paul, I am prepared to stand aside to allow you to remove some of mother’s contents; but I shall not stand-by and watch you destroy our family. Whether I am blood or not, have I ever been unkind at anytime to you, Daisy, Sarah, mother and father?’

Paul looked at his watch. ‘I’m late for a meeting with the Parson. We shall continue this upon my return. In the meantime, consider your position here at Holmefield.’

‘I will do no such thing,’ answered Jim. ‘Father placed me in charge of the estate and the estate continues to thrive. My wife and I have placed our whole life on hold to rescue this estate from certain ruin and I will not let our efforts be cast aside by, by a Judas!’

‘Jim!’ shouted Sarah. ‘Apologise to Paul. That was uncalled for.’

‘Let him who is without sin cast the first stone,’ replied Jim pointing at Paul. ‘Only yesterday we were enjoying an ale and you were thanking me for taking charge of the estate.’

‘Well, Jim, it appears you come from sin. I shall be contacting the lawyers to sort this unholy mess.’

ENTRY 12

FROM DEEP WITHIN by Sumi Watters

The scientists and experts were wrong. Humanity’s demise will not come as a result of man-induced climate change. Nor will it come in the form of an extinction-level asteroid on a collision course with Earth. Not even man’s proclivity for war, power, and greed will precipitate The End. All this time spent pointing fingers, pointing up; when the real threat has been brewing deep within Earth’s bowels all along.

It started with a tremor near the Long Valley Caldera in California. Followed by an intense quake in New Mexico that created a mammoth sinkhole the size of Manhattan. For the past week, Old Faithful has been continuously spewing unprecedented volumes of boiling, sulphuric acid hundreds of metres into the air, killing all wildlife within a 10-kilometre radius of its geothermal vent.

It’s been forty-eight hours since the 90-kilometre wide subterranean chamber of molten rock and gases that sits beneath Yellowstone National Park erupted, sending thousands of cubic kilometres of hot, volcanic ash into the atmosphere. Denver, Las Vegas, and Salt Lake City have been completely entombed under lava and man-made debris. Millions of souls annihilated in an instant. An ever-expanding plume of ash has lashed down on North America, burying major cities under a thick blanket of volcanic waste or toxic, acid rain.

We are the fortunate ones, for we have had time to prepare for the impending doom. I’ve boarded up all our windows, closed off the fireplace vents, stood patiently in Costco’s seemingly endless queue to stock up on rations we will need to weather the storm. The umbrella cloud looms over the Atlantic. It will reach our shores by morning.

I try not to think about the last time a super volcano erupted some 75,000 years ago. A quick google-search revealed that the Indonesian mega-eruption triggered a global volcanic winter that lasted ten years and all but wiped out human populations. I can’t agonise over the what ifs. I have my family to think about.

‘Daddy, why are you making the house so dark?’ my little girl asks. She stands beside me as I kneel on the floor, stuffing damp rags under the patio door.

‘There’s a big storm coming, sweetie,’ I say. ‘I’m making our house safe.’

‘Is the sky going to light up and make a loud noise?’

‘It’s a different kind of storm, Mia.’

‘What kind of storm?’

I sit on the floor and pull Mia onto my lap. ‘Do you know what dust looks like?’ I ask.

‘Mummy sees dust everywhere. But she says no one else can see it. Especially you, daddy.’

I resist the urge to chuckle. ‘Well, you’ll soon be able to see dust, too, Mia.’

‘Cool,’ she says, then looks up at me with her expressive, brown eyes. ‘If it’s sunny the day after this day, can we go to the park and play on the swings?’

I don’t have the heart to tell her that today was the last of our sunny days.

'I would love that.’

FLASH FICTION - THE STORM