Watford Writers

SARDINES by Liz Shaw

I didn’t want to come to Mandy’s birthday party. Mummy said I could wear my princess dress and sparkly shoes. I still didn’t want to, so she said she would buy me a My Little Pony. Mummy says I look very pretty in my dress although it’s a bit tight as I have grown since I last wore it. Mummy says I am very clever and grown up for my age. People often think I am eight but I’m actually seven.

Mandy’s house is very small. My birthday party was at the zoo and we fed the elephants. Mandy’s mummy says we are going to play party games and have sandwiches and cakes later. There are boys here. I don’t like boys. And I don’t like sandwiches.

We’ve been playing catch in the garden but I have come into the house. It is hard to run in my princess dress and I keep getting caught and I am ‘It’ all the time. I don’t like being It. Mandy’s mummy asks me if I want a drink of cola, but it’s not Pepsi so I say no. She teases me and calls me a cross patch. We sit in a circle and a boy sits next to me so I move and squash in between Mandy and her best friend Jane. Jane wears glasses and I call her specky four eyes. The boy next to her laughs. Mandy is prettier than Jane, but not as pretty as me. She doesn’t have blond curls like mine. Pass the parcel is boring. It sometimes stops at me but I want the big present in the middle. The parcel is very small now and it’s not fair, all the other children are being slow on purpose. The parcel is finally getting nearer to me. The boy on the other side of Jane says he is ‘slow motion boy’ and they all laugh. It’s not funny. Jane has the parcel and the music stops but it should be my turn and I snatch the parcel from Jane but she holds on to it. I bite her hand. When mardy Jane stops crying Mandy’s mummy lets her open the parcel and I am very cross, but it’s only a box of Maltezers. Jane opens the box to share with everyone but I accidentally on purpose knock it and the Maltezers roll all over the floor. They all laugh and start crawling under the table and chairs hunting for the sweets. I scream and say that the boy next to me has pinched me. Mandy’s mummy looks cross.

Mandy’s mummy says she has a good idea for a game and would I like to be the first to start off a game of sardines. She takes me upstairs to a big wardrobe and tells me to stay there quiet as a mouse while all the other children try to find me. She says I will be the prize princess. It’s been quite a while now…………………….

ENTRY 1

AN EPIPHANY AT WEMBLEY PARK by Sumi Watters

I’m a decent man. I earn an honest living, pay taxes, and do my best to raise my two adolescent daughters on my own. If Michelle was still with us, she’d tell you the same.

‘I was lucky to have shared my life with you. You’re one of the good ones, Simon. Always have, and always will be.’

My darling wife’s final words before the fucking cancer took hold and snatched her away from me for good. Damn, I miss her. Going home to her.

It’ Michelle I’m thinking about when the tube pulls into Wembley Park. From the look of things, a concert must’ve just ended. The platform is heaving with adrenalized youngsters. Even through closed doors, I hear a chorus of voices belting a tune I don’t recognise. In a key no one should have to listen to. And here I thought I’d enjoy a quiet journey home; it is after the evening rush and all.

I don’t often stay late in the city. I’ve got my girls to think about. They need me at home more than ever these days. But a client insisted I join him for a meal. Declining his invitation could cost me the sale I need to fund my thirteen-year-old’s upcoming school ski trip to France. I couldn’t bear disappointing her.

So, there I am, standing with my back to the platform, when the doors hiss open behind me. I grip the handrail with my free hand and position myself firmly. Still, I’m rendered powerless when the crowd forces its way in all at once, filling the carriage with the stench of alcohol and a cacophony of shrieks and laughter. I lose my grip and lunge forward as shoulders, elbows, entire torsos shove me deeper towards the opposite side of the compartment—and up against a small-framed woman cowered in the space between the door and the bench seats. She whimpers as the full weight of my body slams into hers.

Using all my might, I push back to create a gap between us; to give her a chance to reposition herself. But efforts are futile. More and more people nudge and push their way in; maximum capacity be damned. Her body flinches with every shove. Only when I hear her sobs and see fear in her eyes do I realise she is terrified. She has been here before. Somewhere in the past, some man—some monstrous predator—took advantage of a tight situation and preyed on her vulnerability.

I want to tell her she is safe with me. I will protect her. I’m a decent man. But mostly, I want to apologise on behalf of a society that allows women and girls to live every day in constant fear.

When I am home with my daughters, I hold them close and whisper a daddy’s promise. ‘I will protect you. I will keep you safe.’

ENTRY 2

ORANGE SAVES THE DAY by Chris McDermott

Rickshaw United were at the bottom of the league and in danger of relegation. There was one game remaining, which Rickshaw had to win. Then the chairman, Rupert Pankhurst had a ‘brainwave’.

He announced to his board, “I have decided to appoint Dmitri Nikolaevich as our next manager. I am moving this club into the modern age. We have suffered too long with our outmoded attitude. I have decided to employ a ballet coach.”

At that moment even those hard-of-hearing board members could have heard the proverbial pin drop.

“It is my plan to save the team, of which we are all so rightly proud, from relegation by adopting 21st century tactics.”

A week later Dmitri Nikolaevich took his first training session. “Today, we are going to analyse ‘Swan Lake’, focussing on ‘the grand jeté’, which will enable you to leap into the air, before collapsing to the ground, prior to ‘the gawky writhe’, which will be accompanied by appropriate facial expressions, indicating extreme agony. The players understood what they had to do.

For their final game, Rickshaw United were at home to their greatest rivals, Pocklington Town. The game was like so many that season, with Rickshaw being on the receiving end of repeated Pocklington attacks, until the moment that Rickshaw’s main striker, Freddie De Jong, was put through for a raid on the opposition goal. As Freddie raced in pursuit of the lobbed pass, there was only the opposition goalkeeper between him and glory.

In that split second, Freddie made a decision. Seeing that the goalkeeper would get to the ball before he did and knowing that, with only minutes left, a draw would mean relegation for his team, Freddie knew what he had to do.

As the goalkeeper gathered the ball only a split second before he arrived, Freddie took off, being sure to kick the goalkeeper’s arm with his orange boots, so that he performed the perfect ‘grand jeté’, followed by an equally impressive ‘gawky writhe’, accompanied by the mandatory expression of extreme agony.

The home fans were in uproar, as the referee made his way to the VAR screen. Returning, he raised his arm, indicating a penalty. Huge cheers greeted the news.

The situation placed enormous pressure on Freddie, as the club’s season depended on that kick. But he had donned orange boots especially for the occasion, having researched the fact that the opposition goalkeeper had chrysophobia, fear of the colour orange. Moving towards the ball, wiggling his hips from side to side, and stuttering in his run-up as if he had some incurable disease, Freddie slotted the penalty home.

The crowd again went wild!

That moment saved Rickshaw’s season, moving them from the jaws of ‘defeat’ to a celebration of ‘De feet’, Freddie De Jong’s orange feet.

It then became a tradition before each home game for the ‘gawky writhe’ theme tune to be played over the p.a. as the loyal fans took to their feet, moving their hips, their faces writhing in pain.

ENTRY 3

A LOAD OF OLD... by Mike Lansdown

I’d always wanted to be a vet. From the time I was old enough to walk, I’d followed the cats around the house, tormenting them with attempted cuddles, occupying spaces only ever meant for small, four-footed creatures, and generally disturbing their longed-for peace and quiet. And now, there I was, twenty years later, vet’s bag in hand, off to my first assignment at old Mr Lock’s hilltop farm. I threw the bag into the Land Rover, pushed my shoulders back, and gave a shy wave to the receptionist.

‘You’ll be fine, love,’ she’d said earlier, as I pulled on my waterproof jacket and hat, ‘the first one’s always the toughest, but they all come through it in the end!’

The road up to Lock’s place was steep and narrow – tight bends, with barely a passing-place, sheer rock walls to the left, steep drops to the valley floor on the right. The recent heavy rains had left the road strewn with loose scree, and in several places, engorged streams crossed the broken tarmac to suddenly disappear over the edge with a low rumble. Mercifully, I met with no traffic coming down and was able to plough on, the roar of my engine and the sudden whoosh of water thrown skywards, scattering unsuspecting sheep, complaining, in all directions.

Lock’s Farm was small, and the farmyard unkempt: a pile of old slates and assorted rubble occupied one corner, a trailer, rusty and tyre-less, another, whilst mangy dogs emerged yapping from the dismal barn, before skulking back to the shadows, whence they came. Braking hard to avoid Mr Lock’s prize cockerel, I juddered to a halt, and breathed a sigh of relief. The old man appeared as if from nowhere and walked to meet me.

‘Mr Lock! Good morning. At least it’s not raining.’

The farmer sniffed dismissively and looked me up and down.

‘Boss on ’is holidays, is ‘e?’

‘Nope.’ I shook my head. ‘They’re letting me loose on the local population. What seems to be the problem?’

‘’Enry.’

‘’Enry?’

‘Me bull. ‘E’s not performin’.’

‘Ah,’ I said, ‘feeling under the weather, is he?’

‘Dunno. At the moment ’e don’t seem to be feelin’ anything.’

I gave a wry smile.

‘Well, let’s have a look at the old fellah, shall we?’

Lock gave my bag a doubtful look, nodded, then led the way.

I ducked beneath the lintel and let my eyes adjust to the thin light of the barn. The smell of wet straw and dung filled my nostrils - I breathed in deeply, savouring what most would pinch their noses at. There, caught in the stream of light from a high window, was Henry. He looked bored, placidly chewing at a mouthful of hay.

‘Hello, Henry. Not feeling up to it?’ I said, straining to see the offending article in the half-light. ‘I’ll just…’ I indicated the small wooden door to the enclosure. Mr Lock nodded.

I crept in.

Henry stopped chewing.

‘By the way, Mr…? ’Enry. ‘E don’t like strangers’…

ENTRY 4

"DOCTOR, HEAL THYSELF" by Mike Lansdown

‘Oooh! Matron!’

‘Oooh! yourself, Doctor.’ Deborah ran her finger down Bernard’s nose letting the tip rest on his lips. ‘Besides, I’m not a matron, as you well know. I’m just a lowly receptionist at a tinsy-winsy village surgery located in…well, the middle of nowhere.’

Bernard made himself more comfortable. The back seat of a car - even a top of the range Mercedes - wasn’t the ideal choice for what his mother would euphemistically have referred to as ‘a bit of ’ows yer father’. But, needs must…

‘Now look here, Mrs Dobbs, as I’ve said before, you’re far too good to be a receptionist. You do have a talent for making people feel better. Well,’ he allowed himself a roguish chuckle and made a grab for her midriff, ‘you certainly make me feel better!’

‘Stop it, at once, you naughty boy!’ Deborah slapped away the offending hand and completed the task of buttoning up her blouse. ‘Now, we had better be off. Stephen will be wondering, and so will your Sue. Let’s get out of this infernal forest and head back to civilization.’

Pulling his ‘it’s not fair’ face, Bernard reached for the door handle, suddenly clutching at his chest before slumping back into his seat with a groan.

‘Bernie! What’s wrong?’

‘Not feeling too good, Debs. Y’know, old problem,’ he grimaced. He pointed. ‘Need my meds. In my bag.’ In the moonlight, Deborah could just about see the colour drain from his face. ‘Quick. Need them quick.’

Deborah rifled frantically through the old-fashioned doctor’s bag.

‘This one?’

‘No.’

‘This one, then?’

‘No.’

‘This?!’

‘No!’

Bernard shook his head, loosened his collar, and struggled to breathe.

‘But that’s it Bernie! That’s all there is!’

Sweat was starting to course down his face, his breathing becoming more and more laboured.

‘Christ, Debs, if I don’t get it in the next thirty minutes, I’ll be a gonner.’

‘Shall I ring 999? Get an ambulance?’

‘No good. Too slow. Miles from the hospital. Sorry Debs - you’re just going to have to drive.’

‘Drive, Bernie? You know I can’t drive! It’s dark and, and…’ she started to sob, ‘I can’t and I won’t!’

Bernard groaned, slumping further into the footwell; beneath the heavy lids, his eyes were becoming glassier with every passing second.

‘So, what now Bernie?’ Deborah’s voice was now a soprano’s and close to becoming a high-pitched scream. ‘What are we going to do? Who else has your meds?’

Bernard twisted his body and looked up, imploring.

‘Only two people. Surgery, and Susan.’ His head slumped onto his chest. ‘Just give me my mobile.’

‘Oh! my God!’ Deborah’s eyes widened as she felt in his pocket and handed him the phone: the awful realisation slowly dawning.

With a shaking hand he opened his ‘Favourites’. There they were, top of the list: saved. They stared out accusingly as his finger hovered close to the bright glowing surface.

‘Surgery or Sue? Surgery or Sue?

Finally, gingerly, his finger moved in the dark.

ENTRY 5

THE WILL YOUNG YEARS by Helen Nicell

“Come to Glastonbury” she said.

“It’ll be fun” she said.

“VIP tickets, access to all areas. Come on, let’s do it before we’re 50.”

“Oh I don’t know Sarah, 3 days in a tent isn’t my idea of fun.”

Sarah was persistent, we’d been friends since we went to the girls’ school aged 11. Her sister, head of HR at Sony EMI, had offered us the tickets.

“I’ve found a farm offering glamping. A short walk from the site. No need to use Glastonbury’s grotty showers.”

I caved in and packed for every season, or Wiltshire in July! Welly boots, sundresses, cagoule, flip flops, jumpers, sun cream etc. Some booze and midnight snacks, plus tea and hot chocolate, glamping would include a kettle I guessed.

We met in the rain at the farm on Friday morning.

“You’re in that one.” the farmer pointed to a caravan. ‘You’ll be cosy up there. They’re just making the bed up, it’ll be ready by 3.” He sounded like one of the Worzels.

My mood lifted - a bed! He gave us directions to the festival. I donned my new pink spotty wellies and off we went…

The short distance was a 30 minute walk. I suffered something I’d never experienced before - welly chafing. The muddier it was, the more the boots sunk into the ground and the more they rubbed my legs.

Sarah flourished the tickets at the gate. I think she expected a red carpet.

“These tickets entitle you to enter the VIP bar area.” said the surly security guard, Sarah started to argue. “No, you don’t get back stage with them.” he gave us a white wrist band each. Sarah admired hers as if it were a Tiffany bracelet.

“We’ll meet all the celebrities in that bars.” She spoke in the tone usually reserved for Donny Osmond conversations.

We headed straight to the VIP bar. I sat on a hay bale whilst Sarah bought a bottle of wine. Easing my wellies off, I rubbed the red welts behind my knees.

“Celebrity number one!” she beamed, “Will Young’s at the bar. Why are your boots on the floor?”

She turned and raised her wine glass to Will.

After we sunk the bottle of wine, I felt a little better. We watched a couple of bands, then hiked back to the farm. Lugging our bags to the caravan, we finally opened the door. There was a bed, which took up the entire caravan, apart from a square of carpet. No running water, no kettle, and no electricity! A printed sheet told us where the toilet block was and the cost to use the shower or charge your phone! There was nowhere to unpack, or even put our bags, except on the bed.

“Glamping?” I cried “You’ve got to be joking! I haven’t even got a torch.”

Throwing my wellies out of the door, I sobbed, “I guess I better ‘leave right now’, I don’t even like Will Young!”

Footnote: 'Leave Right Now’ was Will Young’s number one single in 2003

ENTRY 6

THE GREAT ESCAPE by Andrea Neidle

It’s said that everyone remembers the birth of their first child. Ours is etched in my memory.

Janice had gone to bed early. There I was watching The Great Escape when there was a piercing scream from upstairs followed by a loud thump.

“Johnny!” I heard her yell. “I need you!” I leapt upstairs.

There was Janice, lying in a pool of water.

“My waters have broken.” She was sobbing.

“Phone Joan the midwife! Get her to come NOW!”

I tried to calm her down.

“But you’re not due yet.”

“Please Johnny.”

So I did, only to be told that Joan was out and would get back to me. There were no mobile phones back then. We were stuck. And Janice was literally stuck on the bed. I tried to move the wet sheet from under her, but she just screamed at me.

“Johnny, I think the baby’s coming!”

I panicked then, I can tell you. I was desperately trying to remember what they’d said at the hospital. Something about keeping calm and not panicking!

“Keep calm,” I said, in my best soothing voice.

She screamed back at me, “I am calm!”

The phone rang. It was the midwife and I managed to gabble what had happened. “Stay calm,” she said.

“Aaarghhh!” yelled Janice.

“I’m not going to be able to get there. Have you seen outside?”

I glanced out of the window. Snow!

“Have you timed her contractions?”

“They’re coming frequently,” I replied, as Janice yelled again, this time with a supressed grunt.

“If it’s happening this fast, it’ll be fine.”

I don’t know who was breathing more rapidly, me or Janice. She had starting panting like a dog on a hot day.

“Aargh!” screamed Janice. “It’s coming!”

Between her legs I could see this pale lump. The baby’s head!

Joan was reassuring. “No need to do anything. Just support the head with your hands as it comes out.”

There was a wounded animal cry from Janice as more of the baby’s head appeared.

“Pant!” urged the midwife.

“Pant!” I shouted.

Janice panted. And then in a moment, it was all over. Our son slid out between Janice’s legs.

“Now lift baby onto your wife’s tummy.”

Janice reached down to touch our son. Was he alive?

Then the magic moment when he cried. We were crying too.

“You’re amazing,” I told her. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Don’t touch the cord.” The midwife was still there on the phone. “Cover your wife and child. An ambulance is on its way.”

Janice had put our boy to her breast. His little toes were curled up in ecstasy.

“Hello son,” she whispered, “I’ve been wanting to meet you for a long time.”

And do you know, he opened his eyes and looked right at her.

There was a ring at the door.

“Congratulations!” The ambulance man beamed. “What’s his name?”

“Noah.” We both said it together.

“Ah,” smiled the ambulance guy, surveying the soaking wet bed.

“I can see why!”

ENTRY 7

TRADING PLACES by Brian Bold

I arrive first in our usual City cafe. I always do. Anne believes her customary lateness is endearing and it suits me to let her think that.

We have been going out for over two years, living separately for now but I think we have a future together.

I take the table by the window with the large mirror opposite. I can indulge my inner spy, watch both directions along the street and most of the café too. Sometimes, there are people I’d like to avoid and forewarned I can escape via the catering area.

I sip my second Americano, swiping my mobile screen and glancing out the window occasionally. Finally, I see Anne in her bright red dress a 100 yards off, more than twenty minutes late and in no hurry. She‘s talking to someone walking alongside her but they are too close to the wall for me to see them until too late.

When Anne comes into the café I recognise her companion immediately, a blonde, late twenties, and very attractive. We spent just one night together but will she remember me? No escape possible now. A tight situation. A trader’s world. I take deep breaths, struggling to think how I might avoid recognition or play dumb. Maybe the beard will help, I didn’t have it last year. Glasses? I wear them to read. I put them on quickly and ruffle my hair.

Anne waves from the coffee queue, pointing me out to her friend, and gesturing to ask if I want another drink. I force a smile and shake my head.

“This is Kaarina, she’s joined our team on a secondment from the Helsinki office,” Anne says as she reaches my table. “I thought I’d help her get to know people. Kaarina, this is my partner, John.”

I have to speak. “Hi Kaarina, welcome to London and the City Jungle. I am sure Anne will help you spot the wild animals.” I look directly at her. I see she knows me but her smile signals collusion.

I need to leave as soon as I can. Kaarina’s perfume is triggering flashbacks of a crazy disco and that night of passion under the midnight sun. Anne mustn’t see the colour rising in my face. She knows I was in Helsinki last year.

I glance at my watch.

“Oh, I didn’t realise it’s this late. I have a meeting in ten minutes. Sorry ladies, I’ll have to love and leave you now.”

What a Freudian slip. Not the phase to use with two of your lovers. Anne just nods, she knows she was late but Kaarina’s eyes say more. Complicity I am sure yes, but something else I think. Am I being egotistic, or did I just see an invitation?

I wave as I pass the café window outside. There’s that look from Kaarina again. My unease changes to guilty excitement. We City Traders thrive on risk and I forecast new options in my Futures Market.

ENTRY 8

FITTING IN by Ann Crago

Saturday afternoon. Brent Cross. The queue for the women’s changing room is silent. This is John Lewis after all. Bored looking women with arms full of expensive outfits wait for access to the cubicles for a private showing of their taste and wealth. I receive pitying looks with my one pair of designer jeans clutched in my hand. I can’t afford them, but I need them to fit in.

Finally, the bored looking sales assistant, a misnomer if ever I heard one, offers me a cardboard square with the number 1 for all to see. I see pity in her eyes as she points to an empty cubicle with my one garment. Clearly, she knows I’m in the wrong shop. I suddenly feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, as she is shunned by the snobby store before she has money and is transformed into a worthy customer.

Naturally, the cubicle’s curtain doesn’t quite meet the wall. I remove my comfortable elasticated waist trousers, and haul on the denim. They feel expensive. I try not to think about selling a kidney to afford these.

The legs slide into place and I’m starting to feel confident, right up until I realise the zip now forms a yawning triangle with no real hope of the two slides meeting each other. This is not just a tight situation, it’s mission impossible. In my youth, several decades and sizes ago, I pulled on tight jeans lying flat on a bed, using a wire coat hanger to pull up the zip. The one metre square cubicle will clearly not allow that. Gritting my teeth and the two edges of the waistband simultaneously, I haul the jeans into place. There still seems to be an ocean of stomach fat bulging. I look like a middle aged Buddah. I stop looking in the mirror.

If I can just get the button fastened, I stand a chance with the zip.

I breath in, pulling in every part of me that once contained muscle. The button somehow finds the hole and catches. Before I can rejoice in this small victory, I mistakenly exhale. The button explodes out of its prison hole, ricochets off the wall and hits the mirror. It sounds like a bullet and I can almost sense the entire changing room duck, assuming we are under fire. The only thing that shatters is my body confidence as the mirror trembles but remains intact.

Wasting no time, I peel off the jeans, now tainted with my failure to fit in, and pull on my joggers like a comfort blanket. I rescue the errant button, tuck it into the jeans pocket, silently cursing poor design and sweatshops in third world countries. Mustering dignity and confidence to support my exit, and hoping nobody realises it was me, I dump the jeans with the bored assistant muttering ‘ No, thank you.’

She doesn’t care, but I do. I reach for my phone and look up the number for WeightWatchers.

ENTRY 9

A MIXED BLESSING by Geoff Brown

The cell door slammed shut with a harsh metallic finality. My knees sagged and I collapsed onto the hard cot. I felt sick and bile reflux burned my throat. I kept telling myself not to panic but amid the swirl of emotions clouding my brain one thing was crystal clear. I was for the long drop.

“Why the hell did I ever team up with Micky Hagerty?” I asked myself. “I’ve always known he was bad news.” But I knew why. A few months earlier my life had imploded. I’d lost my job and then been evicted from my bedsit when I fell into arrears. I was sleeping on the floor of a mate’s crappy flat when Mickey resurfaced in my life. We’d been close at school but I’d put some distance between us when Mickey’s behaviour moved from shoplifting to more serious and often violent offences. He was sent down for a five year stretch after a vicious assault on a pub landlord who had refused to pay him protection money. When he got out his capacity for brutal retaliation against anyone who stood in his way saw him climb quickly to the top of the local criminal fraternity. You crossed Mickey Hagerty at your peril and after putting his most serious rival in a wheelchair he held total sway over his manor.

One night he appeared at the flat where I was crashing for a poker game. Afterwards he took me to one side. “Joe, you and me were good mates right? I don’t like to see you having to doss down on Ken’s floor so I’m going to put some serious readies your way for old time’s sake.” I tried to back away from what I figured would be a dodgy job. “Nah you’re alright Mickey I’m going to get a job soon. I’ve got a few feelers out.”

That’s when things took a nasty turn. Mickey’s bonhomie disappeared in a flash. “You don’t understand me son. I’m not going to let you pass on my generous offer. I need you to have the bottle to do something for me. In return I’ll make sure you get plenty of bread and honey so you don’t have to stay in this shithole any longer.”

That’s how I found myself sitting in a souped-up Cortina outside a warehouse near Heathrow when all hell broke loose. Mickey was legging it towards me chased by three coppers. He yanked the door open. I panicked and stalled the motor. As the first copper tried to open the door Mickey shot him in the face. As we fishtailed away from the scene I knew my life was over. I didn’t know Mickey was carrying but that wouldn’t save me from the hangman’s noose as an accessory to murder.

***********

The trial dragged on for months but that turned out to be good news for Joe. He was found guilty on the ninth of November 1965, the day after the death penalty was abolished.

ENTRY 10

CALLING OCCUPANTS by Louise Welland

You may feel alone but we watch you from afar. You never have been, and never will be alone.

We endeavour to support you on all possible levels, personal and more worldly. We give you choices, but are saddened that free will, which was intended to facilitate inspiration and growth, has been used in many cases as a weapon which you have turned upon yourselves and the planet which you inhabit. Mankind has destroyed much of what was graciously loaned to you.

We wish to intervene, to bring about changes needed to recue both you as an individual and the planet as a whole. We include oceans, forests, the skies, the animal kingdom; anything in fact which mother nature tries her best to sustain.

For several centuries, our first desire has been to assist, by inspiring your thoughts with positive intentions and creative ways of healing. Whilst we are able to reach many of you, there are millions who seem unable to hear.

Some have become so unable to cope with life, that you have become spiritually unwell. This has led to distressing physical and emotional symptoms which are being self-treated. This ‘sedation’; drugs, alcohol, food, gambling, sex, aggression, and a whole myriad of alternate distractions, simply causes yet another layer of pain, which spreads to everyone in the proximity of the original sufferer.

We realise that our methods of trying to influence from afar are unsuccessful, so have searched tirelessly for more appropriate and effective tools.

We have sent great leaders to your planet, who spent many years teaching the way of love. Although this accomplished a great deal, it was not the victory which we had hoped for. There were always some who took exception to the messengers, sabotaging our efforts, causing unrest and fighting. The horrors of war are the most painful things we witness from here.

What next? We certainly don’t want you killing yourselves and each other any longer. We are desperate to facilitate the changes required to enable you to lead full, peaceful and mainly happy lives. If we just ‘turn up’ to assist, your fear will encourage you to do as before; capture, attack and kill. If we present ourselves to your world leaders, the same thing will happen, and they will use our presence as a triumph for their own political gain.

Whilst we develop our next plan, we beg of you to simply listen. It isn’t difficult, but takes time and commitment. Spend a few minutes each day sitting with no distractions. No television, no phone, no conversation. Just sit comfortably and quieten your mind. Silently ask a question, and when your mind is still, we will give a loving response, no anger, no judgment. Then take that love, and pass a little on to the next person you speak to.

Please bear with us as we decide upon our next move, and if you are able to suggest a solution, we are happy to listen.

ENTRY 11

CORONATION by Andrea Neidle

The bells of Westminster Abbey tolled the hour.

“It is time.” said someone sombrely.

In the ensuing silence there was a loud yell.

“Shit!”

“Mum”, whispered Tom, “they’ll hear you on TV.”

“This is a disaster. I've laddered my stockings! What am I going to do?”

She nudged the young woman next to her.

“Kate, have you got a spare pair of tights on you?”

Kate silently shook her head and put her finger to her lips as the TV cameras swung towards them.

“Oh heck,” muttered Camilla, “what the hell shall I do?”

She looked around furtively. No one appeared to be watching. A quick fumble under her skirt and she had unfastened the stockings from her suspender belt. Thank goodness she still wore them – so much easier to get off. At least, that’s what Charles had always said.

“Quick,” she whispered to Kate, “pass me your tights!”

“That’s crazy! We can’t swap tights!”

“Of course not!”

Kate looked relieved.

“I’ll wear yours and you can go bare legged. You’re young enough to get away with it. No one will notice. But I can’t appear in front of the cameras with a huge ladder for all the world to see.”

Kate sighed.

“I can’t take them off here. We’ll have to go to the ladies’ room.”

“OK. You go first.”

Kate was seated at the end so it was easy for her to slip away. A few minutes later she was back, with the tights balled up in her hand.”

“Here you go.”

“You’re a star.” Camilla smiled.

“Be quick. It’s nearly time.”

Camilla didn’t want to draw attention to herself, so she sidled along, smiling benignly at people who nodded to her as she made her way to the back of the Abbey. But where was the loo? She started to panic. It was no good, she would have to nip outside and do the deed hidden around the corner.

With minutes to spare, she saw the sign. Ladies. At least it wasn’t gender neutral.

She crept into a stall and quickly put the tights on. Thank goodness they fitted.

The clock struck two followed by a loud fanfare.

Kate was looking around and at the same time trying to remain the serene and smiling Kate the world knew and loved.

“Don’t panic, I’m back!” Camilla smiled at Kate with relief. “All done. And just in time. The procession is about to begin.”

………………………………………………………………..

Breakfast the following morning was a very quiet affair since Charles had stopped speaking to her.

The most momentous day of his life and nothing had been written about him! Not a sausage. Instead, there was page after page of photos of Camilla and Kate. And to top it all, there was a close-up of Camilla unfastening her suspender and several pictures of a bare legged Kate in the photo line-up.

As for the headline, “A tight situation for King Charles 3rd”.

ENTRY 12

MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY! by Ilmas Isard

They arrived in Parga on a sunny afternoon, clear skies, still waters and a fresh

warm breeze. A charming picturesque town on the coast of the Ionian Sea in

Greece. They strolled down, past the brightly painted houses, to the harbour.

She wore a blue cotton dress with seagulls, sandals and a straw hat, pulling

along a small smart blue suitcase. He wore a blue t-shirt and khaki shorts and

white trainers and carried a large heavy duty rucksack. All ready for their sailing

adventure.

“ Do you know how to sail? “ asked Will.

“ No! The nearest I got to that was steering a friend’s 50 foot Swedish yacht

down the river Orwell in Suffolk. More of a picnic rather than sailing! “ replied

Ava.

“But I do know my port from my starboard and I learn fast Will, “ she added in a

cheeky voice.

“ I booked us on a flotilla holiday, we have a Dufour 32 sailboat, it has

everything we’ll need on board, including cooking, sleeping and bathing

facilities.” he explained, sounding pleased with himself.

Every morning they were given details of weather conditions and instructions

on how to navigate to their destination. There were always experts available to

answer any questions or concerns. It was a safe way of learning to sail, so she

thought.

They discovered many beautiful sandy, sun-kissed beaches and swam in

crystal clear blue waters. They sailed to small islands dotted about in the

Ionian.

“ This is the life Will, I feel so relaxed!” She enthused.

It had been a crazy time in her life, but now she felt away from it all.

“ If only life could always be just plain sailing Ava!” Replied Will, in his usual

mellow laidback voice with a big smile on his face.

Today, they were sailing to the caves near Lakka, on the northern tip of Paxos.

When they started the weather was calm, but as the day went on, it became

very windy. They had anchored their boat just outside the caves and rowed into

the caves in their dingy.

On their return, they secured the dingy, and were about to set sail, when they

encountered freaky crosswinds, which made their boat spin in circles,

uncontrollably.

The boat was going to hit the rocks…

“ Make the emergency call! ” Will shouted.

Ava tumbled down into the cabin to the radio.

She could feel the adrenaline rush, her heart thumping as she went into

emergency mode.

Somehow, she managed to make the call in a calm, assertive voice.

She had rehearsed this many times in her head, she said:

“Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!

This is sailing yacht Endeavour, Endeavour, Endeavour

MMSI 2341880 Callsign MBC5

Mayday, sailing yacht Endeavour

MMSI 2341880 Callsign MBC5

My position is 39.23675 N, 20.13248 E

I am spinning and have lost control, about to hit rocks

I require immediate assistance

Two persons on board

Over “

Along came a reply:

“ We see you, on our way. Over.”

She felt great relief knowing that help was on the way.

She quickly stumbled back on deck, as the boat spun round and round. She felt

giddy and disorientated.

Before she knew, three people were on board taking charge and steered the

boat way from the rocks and pulling the sails down and gaining control of the

yacht.

That evening, Will and Ava laughed at their adventure, as they enjoyed their

supper on board, under the star lit sky and toasted to a life well lived!

ENTRY 13

WHY DIDN'T I LISTEN by Pat Simpson

The door had been left open and I couldn’t resist the chance of adventure. Mum had told me not to go out of her sight but the lure of the outside world was stronger than her instruction.

Now, I’m crouched, shivering in a tiny, tight, dark space. I can’t go forward and I can’t go back. I can’t even stand up straight because the wooden planks are scraping the hair on my head, even crouched as I am. Oh why didn’t I listen? Why did I follow my stupid curiosity down into this woody, damp smelling, black hole? I’ve tried crawling forward and failed. I’ve clawed at the wood in panic until I’m splintered, cut and sore. All that effort and energy just left me stuck even tighter.

I shouted a lot at first, Help, I’m stuck. Help is there anyone there? Shouted until my voice was a mouse squeak, hoarse and hopeless. No-one heard, no-one came. I feel as if I can’t breathe, only pant, for air, despite the cold gentle draught. I’m shaking and I know it is fear not cold that shivers down my spine. I knock into the strips of wood either side of me. Aah, what’s that? Oh no something is above me; I can hear it snuffling, snorting. My heart is bursting, drumming in my ears. I freeze, hoping the monster won’t hear me shaking with terror. There’s a scraping, scrabbling then the blackness is silent again but now it’s worse, full of invisible monsters waiting to get me. I’m afraid to move even to breathe. How I wish I was back with my brothers and sisters. I would never leave them again. I can’t stand it anymore. Desperate I fill my lungs and scream as loud as I can. It sounds weak and hopeless in my ears but it’s all I have left.

The snuffling noise is back and louder now. It isn’t going away this time. The wood above me bends lower then there is a thud, thud, thud getting closer. It stops. The space around me fills with creaking and crackling of wood then there’s a blinding light filling the tiny space. I close my eyes against the brightness and feel myself lifted up. I am held gently and feel the warmth of a gently stroking finger on my head between my ears.

“So that’s where you got to, you little tyke. Kitten are you in trouble your mother. She’s been beside herself,” A familiar voice remarks. “Lucky Raven sniffed you out.” There was the sound of patting and an answering grrf I recognised. I opened my eyes carefully and began to purr with joy.

“You might get around me with that purr kitten, but I better get you back to your mum. That was a tight situation you got yourself into.”

I was truly glad to be placed back into the basket with my family, despite the rough tongue clean my mum gave me before she forgave me.

ENTRY 14

THE BIG DAY by Sumi Watters

Six months before the Big Day:

Carly steps out of the dressing room to the delight of her mother, Iris, and future bridesmaids.

‘This is the one. It’s perfect,’ she beams. She twirls and strikes a red-carpet pose—hands on hips, back to her audience. ‘What do you think?’

‘Oh, sweetheart,’ Iris says, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘It’s lovely, and you look absolutely radiant.’

Her two sisters and closest friends nod in agreement. ‘You look amazing, babe.’ ‘Stunning!’ ‘Ethan doesn’t deserve you, you sexy beast!’

The shop assistant steps forward, lacy veil in hand. ‘And for the final touch ….’ She places the veil gently on Carly’s head. ‘Voila!’

Everyone oohs and aahs.

‘Shall I box this up for you?’ the shop assistant asks.

Carly checks herself in the mirror. ‘Actually, I would like this same dress, but one size smaller. I plan to drop a stone before the big day.’

Iris frowns. ‘Sweetheart, you have enough on your plate as it is, what with all the planning and such. Don’t put that kind of pressure on yourself. You’re beautiful, just as you are.’

‘I’ve got a fitness coach, mum, and a nutritionist who will help me achieve my weight loss goal. I won’t go overboard, I promise.’

‘You can put the dress—one size down—on hold for up to six months. Why don’t you come again a month before your wedding for a fitting?’ the shop assistant suggests.

One month before the Big Day:

Carly steps out of the dressing room to the delight of her mother and future bridesmaids.

‘This is even more perfect than the last time,’ she says. She twirls and strikes a red-carpet pose—hands on hips, her slender back to her audience. ‘Can you believe it? I’ve lost two stone! I’m down two dress sizes!’

‘You look more beautiful than ever,’ Iris beams. ‘I’m so proud of you, Carly. You set your mind on a goal, and you achieved it.’

Her sisters and friends nod in agreement. ‘You look amazing, babe.’ ‘Wow!’ ‘Ethan better watch himself!’

The shop assistant steps forward and gathers the fabric around the waist. ‘You’ve got some room to spare, but only just. Would you like to have the waistline taken in, or shall we leave it as is?’

Carly laughs. ‘Let’s leave it. I plan to eat cake at my wedding.

The Big Day:

Carly steps out from behind the dressing screen with tears streaming down her face. Her mother and bridesmaids furrow their brows.

‘I don’t know what’s happened. It fit perfectly a month ago, but it feels tight,’ she says, then raises her hands to her chest. ‘Here. In the boobs.’

Iris steps forward and caresses her daughter’s bare shoulders. ‘When was your last period, sweetheart?’ she whispers.

Carly’s eyes widen. ‘Oh, my God. You don’t think …?’

Iris beams as she cups her daughter’s face. She then turns to the bridesmaids. ‘It appears we have another reason to celebrate today.’

ENTRY 15

KINDNESS OF STRANGERS by Ilmas Isard

She looked shocked, as she sat on the wall of the front garden, of a Victorian

terrace. Dressed in a short sleeved top, capri pants but no shoes. Her slender

arms covered in goosebumps as she shivered. She felt dejected, but no tears

ran down her cheeks.

Just then, an old gentleman wearing a dapper suit, warm tweed overcoat and a

trilby hat, looked down at her and asked why she was sitting there in the

freezing cold. She said, she had locked herself out, whilst throwing out the bin.

She did not want him to know the real reason why, in fact, she herself could not

process the predicament she found herself in.

He asked if she’d like to come home with him, as he lived just a few doors

down the road. He explained, he lived on his own and that she could warm up

and wait there, until someone could let her back into the house.

The young girl followed him into the dining room, where she found herself

surrounded by different types of clocks. It seemed to her that he might have an

obsession with clocks; all the clocks displayed different time, some were

chiming, some cooing and some making musical tunes.

Being surrounded by clocks made her feel like she was in a different world. As

if, though the clocks were ticking, time stood still.

He explained that it was his hobby to restore old clocks and that since his wife

died couple of years ago, he spent much of his time tinkling with clocks or at

the local library reading books and newspapers.

He lit the fire, made her tea and brought some biscuits. She felt warm and

cared for. She felt she had entered a completely different world, his world and

not her own, and she was glad of that!

He showed her the black and white photographs of his wife and their wedding

day, and he shared many happy times they had together over the fifty years

they were married.

She had completely forgotten about her dire situation, as she empathised with

his plight.

It was almost 5pm, she said her mother would be home by now. She thanked

him for his kindness and wished him a good evening. He replied that she was

welcome any time. She smiled back at him as she left.

She rang the doorbell, her mother answered with hands covered in flour, she

was too busy making dinner to notice her daughter was not wearing any shoes

or appropriately dressed for the time of year.

She ran up to her bedroom and threw herself on the bed, crying unconsolably.

She thought about the kind gentleman, as she looked at the miniature silver

clock he had given her and remembered his advice, time is most valuable, use it

wisely.

The following day, she packed a small suitcase and left.

ENTRY 16

TIME TO DECIDE by Chris McDermott

Eric had been naïve. He had listened to his wife, Suzi, when she had told him that she kept getting home late because of the pressure of work. And the smell of smoke on her clothing? That was because she had to share an office with a chain-smoker. Eric believed his wife because, as a minister himself, he knew that they had sworn their undying love for one another before God and Suzi would never break her word.

Then, one day, Eric came home early and, not wanting to disturb his wife, who had taken the day off for some relaxation at home, let himself in through the back door. His ears were assailed by the sound of his wife’s voice.

‘Yes, of course I love you more than anyone else in the world, you know that. Yes, I shall leave him, of course, but now is not the right time. He’s a kind man and he deserves my respect. I just don’t feel any passion for him. That’s the problem.’

Stunned, Eric turned around and let himself out through the back door again, taking himself off through the local streets, where he witnessed children playing and mothers laughing. But Eric was lost in a bubble of sadness, lacking any comprehension of what he had heard.

Eric did not say anything when he returned home, apologising for being late, an irony not lost on him, given Suzi’s repeated excuses.

Over the next months Eric turned from minister to detective, changing the habits that he had kept all his life, regularly rooting through his wife’s handbag, as he pieced together her other life, with a man called Richard. Eric did not confide in anyone, preferring instead to speak to The Almighty, who he knew was always listening.

‘I’ve organised a special birthday surprise for you,’ announced Suzi, two weeks before a day that Eric had no inclination to celebrate. ‘You know how much you enjoy cave diving? Well, I’ve booked you with a local group. Eric The Cave Man will be reborn!’

How could she sound so happy when she knew the truth, that she had deserted him for another man because he was not the cave man she truly desired?

Then the day came. Eric was in a group of ten. As the adventure evolved, an unexpected surge of water separated Eric and another man from the rest. Water, man’s best friend and his reason for life on Earth, was now his enemy.

Was this God intervening, taking his life and ending his misery, without guilt?

The other man was struggling even more. ‘Help me! Help me!’ he yelled. His hands were clinging to a rock, but his fingers were letting go, perhaps for the last time.

‘Please! Please! I have to live.’

‘I’ll do my best. What’s your name?’

‘Richard. Your wife knows me.’

At that moment Eric understood that he had to make a decision for himself, or a decision for God.

But which was the right one?

ENTRY 17

A MISUNDERSTANDING by Geoff Brown

My hiking trip in the remote Pirin Mountains of Bulgaria took a fateful turn. On the second day I came to at the bottom of a rocky ravine. The back of my head felt tender and sticky. When I pulled my hand away it was bloody. The last thing I remembered was running away from a pack of vicious, slavering dogs bounding after me from an isolated farmhouse. It had been raining and I’d obviously slipped and fallen into this narrow cleft. It was almost dark so I must have been out for a few hours.

I checked myself for any other injuries. I seemed to be intact but there was a sharp pain in my hip. I’d landed on my mobile phone which was a mangled mess and fragments of plastic had bitten into my thigh. I staggered along the ravine in a disoriented state until I found a scree slope and scrambled gingerly up to flatter terrain. In the fading light I spotted a squat dwelling in the distance with a tendril of smoke snaking into the darkening sky. How I made it there I’ll never know but the following morning I woke on a rough-hewn bed with a bandaged head and the tantalising smell of coffee in my nostrils.

As my eyes focussed I saw a grizzled elderly man in a shepherd’s smock and a young woman staring anxiously at me. She was by far the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She bore an uncanny resemblance to a young Gina Lollobrigida. I’d only been in Bulgaria a few days and had exactly four words in the language. Da for yes, ne for no, molya for please and blagodarya for thank you. I looked straight into her hazel eyes and said blagodarya with as much heartfelt emotion as I could muster. I accompanied my verbal utterance with my hand clasped to my heart. The old man jabbered something in guttural Bulgarian but the women shyly averted her eyes. Over the next few days I kept slipping in and out of consciousness but when I woke each time she was sitting patiently by my bed. I’d established that neither she nor the old man I’d assumed was her grandfather spoke English. I therefore used my routine of blagodarya with hand clasped to heart ad nauseam. Each time, this mime show elicited a beatific smile from my lovely nurse.

On the fourth day I was surprised to see a priest in full orthodox regalia stoop through the low door of the cottage. In a beautiful simple white dress with a garland of flowers in her hair my guardian Angel appeared. Somewhat incongruously the old man was leaning against the wall cradling an ancient shotgun. In halting English the priest explained that he was there to conduct a marriage ceremony. That is how I became the husband of a beautiful, profoundly deaf shepherdess who was convinced my thank you gesture was a declaration of undying love.

FLASH FICTION - MARCH 2023