Winter

“I’m reclaiming Winter!” Gran announced with a smile
I wondered: I hadn’t seen her in a while
But Granny was always so young and so spry
There didn’t seem anything she wouldn’t try.
“So Winter is lost - it’s missing, it’s gone?”
I decided to humour my Granny along.
But to my astonishment she nodded her head
At the truth of my words I had only just said.
“That’s right – just you look: just listen to me!”
I gazed through the window, but all I could see
Was rain, cloud and fog – not a sunbeam in sight
The day was so dark it could almost be night.
“So what do you mean?” I wondered aloud
“How could it be lost? Winter’s always around
these dark days ‘fore Christmas. We’re longing for snow
to cheer up our spirits and help the days go.”
“That’s right!” said my Gran, “That’s just what I mean
This dull dreary weather should never have been.
I’m ordering snow through this website I’ve found
So before you all know it, while I’m still around
There’ll be white stuff galore to cheer us all up.
Now, who’s going to help make the Wassailing Cup?”
So saying, she wandered away with a smile
I wondered: I haven’t seen her for a while
Not since I awoke to a snow sprinkled morn
Where, standing in splendour outside on the lawn
Was a wonderful snowman – or lady, I’d say
With a smile on her face and a hatful of hay.
“Yes, Winter is here now,” said a voice in my head.
But oh, what a pity, that Gran is now dead.

With sympathy

Words cannot express
the depth of Sorrow
where Life meets Death.
May you remember
with Joy
in your pain.

Winter lament

I know it is Winter: it’s dark and it’s cold
it plays up me rheumatics now I am old.
But still, all the same, I just can’t accept
the cold and the grey and the eternal wet.

What’s happened to Winter? To tell you the truth
it’s nothing like Winter was all through my youth.
First we had autumn, with glorious leaves:
huge windy days and frightening trees.

Then the gales started. Nights black as sin.
We cuddled by firesides, ate crumpets, stayed in.
Till suddenly waking one day with alarm
‘cos outside the house ‘twas unnaturally calm.

Oh the lightness and brightness of wonderful snow:
we dashed out the house with our faces aglow.
We whooped and we danced and we sang out for joy
oh, snow was our uttermost favourite toy!

And so Winter began: the snow came to stay
as our constant companion all through those days.
Our world stayed quite white, frost rimed my nose,
my fingers, my mittens, every one of my toes.

But I didn’t care: no, none of us did.
No longer cared we that Summer was hid.
Oh bring back old Winter, who cares if we freeze?
It’s better than sitting in wet to our knees.

A fireside tale...

Stockings hung in the fireplace; the table was set;
mince pies were all ready, as I was, and yet
something was wrong: something didn’t feel right
as I stood at the window and gazed at the night.
My stomach was twisted and knotted inside.
“Where is he? He’s late. Something’s happened!” I cried.

Outside, the wind roared and the branches they blew
as the rain lashed the windows and drove a chill through
all the house as it wept in the gales and the storm -
though inside all looked cosy, comforting, warm.
I ran to the phone: picked it up; useless, dead.
Thoughts and anxieties swirled through my head.

The lights flickered and dimmed; a candle blew out.
I started, jumped up, looked all about,
but all seemed so normal, the outside was fine:
the turmoil that battered could only be mine.
Unable to sit, I paced over the floor
from sofa to window, from table to door.

Nothing could calm me, my terror had swept
all reason and order right out of my head.
I flung the door open, ran out down the path
Above the wind was the sound of a laugh.
I found him out there, collapsed on his side.
I knew that something had happened. I cried.

Disappearance on Christmas Eve

The day had drawn on when my Mama announced
She had to go out: and so off out she flounced,
Leaving us children to fend for ourselves
My mama went off with a party of elves.

And how do I know? Well, I’ll tell you the tale:
I know, when you hear it, I’ll see your face pale
When you hear of the horrors my mama endured
To ensure that our table was laden with food.

It was Christmas: outside all were merry and jolly
as they chattered off home with their fir trees and holly.
But our pitiful house was filled only with fear
of starvation and cold and a miserable year.

Mama had just fed us our small bowls of gruel
when, stripping her apron, she said, “what a fool
I have been! Just stay here and wait for the morn:
be sure that at Christmas you won’t be forlorn.”

Then stepping outside, she waved once, and again
and out of the darkness, the cold and the rain
there appeared an old farmcart, filled right to the brim
with elves: wearing green, and with face-splitting grins.

“You’re welcome!” they cried as Mama stepped on board
“We’re needing a meal.” Then, grabbing a cord
they tied her up tight, as trussed as a hen
and laughing quite evilly, vanished again.

We wondered, we worried, but what could we do?
‘Our Mama knows best’ is but all that we knew.
We slept as we huddled together that night:
the next morn we awoke: but oh - what a sight!

The table was laden with meat, cheese and cakes,
puddings and pasties – all manner of bakes.
I never did hear of the horrors endured
to ensure that our table was laden with food.

Winter arrives! Or, War in Winter

So autumn was over: the leaves were all done,
The weather was chill and my little face glum.
The wet and the wind had announced they’d arrived
When my fingers and toes said they’d lief stay inside.

The choice was not theirs: I just knew they were wrong
When my tongue and my lips began to break out in song.
‘It’s Christmas acomin’, we’re striving to sing
Those beautiful carols – when can we begin?’

My shoulders were aching from hefting a load
Of presents for all of my friends down the road.
My feet and my ankles were terribly sore.
What was I to do, with my body at war?

My fingers and toes all refused to attend:
Cold frozen and stiff, they followed no trend.
And while I was trying to prise them apart
My nose, hereto quiet, awoke with a start.

It decided it just had to join in the fun,
So without a delay it then started to run.
I looked for a tissue, without any success:
I really was in such a terrible mess.

My hero arrived, with roast chestnuts, mulled wine
I instantly knew that he had to be mine.
He cajoled to obedience all of those parts
Which were frozen: above all, he melted my heart.

This is Guernsey...

‘Picturesque' is the word for the little island of Guernsey. Arriving by ferry, the town of St Peter Port opens up to view. Pastel coloured buildings climb away from the sea, jostling together in narrow cobbled streets. Boats fill the harbour; the fish market sells fish. Castle Cornet, in the main a creation of Henry VIII, stands sentinel on a tiny island: once a bastion of Royalist support in the face of Parliamentarian Guernsey, it is now reached by a long granite pier, haunt of small boys and amateur fishermen.

This is Guernsey, English speaking, yet some people still speak Guernsiaise, a patois based on the French spoken in the Middle Ages.



A short climb up a quiet street devoid of traffic leads to Hauteville House, Victor Hugo's sanctuary for 15 years after he fled France. The walls and ceilings are covered with carpets; furniture of dark, intricately carved wood is integral with the building. One ceiling is lined with ceramics; another room with tiles. The darkroom is hidden in a cupboard. The winter garden is a conservatory with inspirational views of the islands. A glass eyrie at the top is where this literary giant wrote, standing at a writing desk.

It was here that he wrote several of his most famous works: notably ‘Les Miserables' and the work he devoted to the people of Guernsey, ‘The Toilers of the Sea': "I dedicate this book to the rock of hospitality, to this corner of old Norman land where resides the noble little people of the sea, to the Island of Guernsey, severe and yet gentle...".

Guernsey's harsh, rugged cliffs, combined with gentle inland scenery; hidden coves and sandy beaches; a profusion of plant life growing abundantly in a mild climate; gentle, friendly people. Inspirational. Picturesque. Inviting.

Why?

Why is it
That I hurt another, when my deepest desire is for healing?
That I sorrow, when I long for joy?
That I smile, though I feel like weeping?
Why?

Contrary Mary is my name.

Why is it
That when I am young, I wish to be older
That when I have enough, I long for more?
That when I have achieved my goal, it becomes meaningless?
Why?

Contrary Mary is my name.

To deny my nature would be to contradict my own self.
To admit to faults and failings weakens them, takes away their power.
To bring into the light negates the darkness, lessens significance.

I do not have to give in to my nature.
I do not have to submit to strength.
I do not have to live up to my name.

I do not have to.
Yet I know I will.
Why?

A contradiction in terms

Why is it that, when we’re at school
There seems to be a change of rules?
If you’re a teacher, days are short;
If a child, and you are caught
Yawning, bored out of your skin
Time will never let you win.
The days are dull, the lessons long
The minutes just drag on and on.
“The bell already?” Teacher says
“I’m always short of time these days.”

But then the end of term arrives:
Christmas, the best time of our lives.
Art, singing carols, parties, fun,
No work – it’s great for everyone.
Laughter, shrieks and happiness
Mixed into one glorious mess.
Oh, how time flies: before we know
It’s Christmas: holly, mince pies, snow!
Meanwhile, the teachers, grey and old
Surviving countless hours untold
As days drag on and on and on
Until the final bell has gone.

Why is it that time changes rules
Depending on who we are at school?

It's never too late to start...

“Do you want to come surfing with me?”

I didn’t think I’d heard properly. I’ve never surfed, nor thought I could ever do it. I’ve always been a reasonably good swimmer, but never very strong. I’m small (ish – five feet four, actually, which is around average so I am told), suffer from asthma (controlled well), have one leg ever so slightly shorter than the other (a legacy from being born with club foot) and I am not blonde. Nor do I have straight hair. Oh, all right, I might as well say it. Mouse brown and the definition of unruliness. Neither am I particularly slim. (I used to be quite thin, but that is another story.) And the clincher: so short-sighted I don’t even dare walk to the corner shop without my glasses – I’d never get there.

Stereotypes, of course. Not all surfers have to be blonde, slim, long-haired, lissom teenagers, but you still have to fit the mould somehow. Questions jumbled through my mind as I struggled to control the jeering answers. How would I fit into a wetsuit? (With difficulty.) How would I find my way up and down the beach? (He’d have to hold your hand? Hmm, that might not be so bad after all.) Surely I’m too old? (No one is too old to make a fool of themselves.) And, the worst of all: Just how terrible WILL I look with soaking wet hair? (Worse than you can imagine.)

The embarrassment factors seemed overwhelming, the questions relentless.

It’s all right for men. Yes, I’ve lived through the sixties, seventies, eighties, nineties and the rest, equal rights for women and all that… but there is still a lot of ‘in-crowd’ snobbery when it comes to surfing and, anyway, I was born in the fifties. It’s sad, but right at my core, (formed when I was a toddler and my mother stayed at home to run the house and bring up the children) is a belief that all my education hasn’t completely shifted. The belief that, when it comes to ‘men’s sports’, girls just can’t do it as well.

The real truth is that I’m not sporty, never have been.

Remember the game of ‘ladders’ at school? Where you sat down in two rows facing each other, legs stretched out so that feet met in the middle, and then you had to race your partner by running ‘up the ladder’ over all those outstretched legs. I was SO popular with the boys for that game – I was always first to be picked, usually by the most athletic (and good-looking) ones.

Those boys weren’t the best sportmen, in the real sense of the word. I’ll never forget how I felt the day I understood why they picked me first. I’d loved that game until then.

It made me realize that not everyone was ‘nice’. And that I was a good sport, even though they weren’t.

So, back to the question. Did I want to go surfing with him? Old experiences always stay with you. I eyed him suspiciously as I wondered why he was asking me. He smiled.

“Come on, it’s good fun. You’re a good sport – you’ll have a ball.”

Well, it’s all right for him, isn’t it? Tall, athletic. Impossibly good-looking.

“I don’t know how,” I replied, finally.

“I’ll teach you. It’s easy to get the hang of it. I’d really like you to come.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. It’s fun. And it’ll be more fun with you. Remember how I taught you to waterski? It was the only way I could think of to get close to you.”

I blushed. “That was a long time ago.”

“So what? I know we’ve been married for 25 years, but I still think you’re the most gorgeous thing on the beach.”

What could I say? Struggling into my daughter’s wetsuit, with my husband’s help, was, surprisingly, the most romantic thing I’d done for a long time.

Getting out of it, with my husband’s help, after an exhilarating time in the sea, was even more so.

This was first runner-up in the last quarterly 2009 Writelink competition. How exciting!!

My Home

Here,
Fishermen, hardened by cold seas, haul baskets of fish, crabs, lobsters
onto unforgiving stones.
Bankers, softened by the warmth of buildings, take out a cool hundred from the cash machine
for a few drinks after work.

Here,
Children at the private school revel in tales of snorkeling, waterskiing and surfing
in the Caribbean.
Toddlers and pre-schoolers sit in a black-painted, darkened room, watching television.
For hours.

Here,
Bright young things, fuelled by alcohol, giggle and dance the night away,
remembering nothing by morning.
The elderly sit in residential homes, staring at walls, surrounded by too many people,
Keeping company only with their memories.

Here,
Those who have travelled the world, experiencing exotica, safaris, sunshine,
mingle on the High Street with
the young and old who have never travelled off the Island
save, perhaps, for the unhappiness and stress of a hospital visit.

Here,
contradictions in wealth, education, politics,
concern for family, neighbours, the community -
Threaten to overwhelm our future.

This was second runner-up in the last quarterly Writelink competition. What fun!

PS: it appears as 'Problem' on the website

Down my way...Herm

Azure and turquoise waters lap a golden beach under a cerulean blue sky. A description that is cheesy, corny, and completely accurate. Yet this place is not Mediterranean, nor Caribbean or indeed anywhere exotic, even though the sun burns our skins.

The island of Herm. Miniature, carless, perfect. One of the Channel Islands, barely one and a half miles long and half a mile wide, separated from Guernsey by a narrow channel down which the tides swirl ferociously. Boats make the crossing with ease when the weather is fair, yet at times during the winter, when gales devour the islands, nothing puts out from St Peter Port harbour for days at a time.

On Herm, there is nothing but a tiny village, a handful of granite holiday cottages, each converted from a former use: a fisherman’s retreat, a baker’s, a widow who eked out a living with handcrafts. A campsite on the hill. Pleasure boats in the harbour. St Tugual’s chapel, older than we can even dream, glows with care: polished wood, stunning flower arrangements, a sense of tranquility and ease.

The courtyard of the pub hums. It is half an hour before the last boat of the day. Tired, sandy, sunbronzed children – skin cancer a disregarded concern – eat ice creams, their parents deep in conversation over a cream tea, chatting to strangers. Some of these acquaintances will develop into life-long friendships.
After an hour, the courtyard is empty. Later, folk will, like us, drift down from the cottages and campsite for a meal or a pint of Guernsey cider. Food tastes better here, but in any case, Herm and Guernsey pride themselves on their fresh local produce – not least, the Guernsey milk, butter and tomatoes which have made the islands famous.

Herm. Simplicity, luxury, solitude, friendliness. Addictive.

Children's short stories

All’s well that ends well…

It was possibly the worst day of my life. Forgot my lunch box, so Mum brought it into school. I wish she was more like other mums. It’s so humiliating when she bangs the classroom door open, marches in and dumps it on my desk, right there in the middle of a lesson. Other mums don’t do that.
No one laughed, which made it worse. Mrs Jenkins, my teacher, just looked cross, but she didn’t say anything.
After that, I just couldn’t concentrate. Copied the wrong thing off the board, started the maths on the wrong page, turned over two pages at once in my exercise book and didn’t notice… And in games, Sir said he was dropping me from the footie team because I wasn’t concentrating.
At lunchtime, everyone DID laugh. Mum had given me my little sister’s lunchbox. Barbie yogurt and fairy cake. I couldn’t even go and swap it – she’s in the infant’s and has lunch earlier than me.
Even my best friend, Rob, was doubled up laughing. I stuck my tongue out at him and Mrs Jenkins thought I did it to her.
So I lost the rest of my lunchbreak.
And THEN I got stuck in the toilet. The lock jammed. I had to wait for the caretaker to come along and unscrew it. I was late for register.
It was while Mrs Jenkins was ranting at me for being late that I noticed. Ludo was sitting there, right next to her handbag, scrubbing his nose with his paws. Then he suddenly dashed across Mrs Jenkins’ shoes, heading for the door.
Ignoring Mrs Jenkins’ screams, I threw myself on the floor, grabbing the hamster in my hand. I’d caught the cleverest escapee our class had ever known. I was a hero.

The Puppy

“WHY can’t we keep him?” cried Jodie, cuddling the whimpering pup in her arms. It squirmed, its little body twisting and turning as it tried to escape.

“We can’t have a dog. You know Grandad doesn’t like them,” sighed her mother. “You should have asked me first. You’ll just have to take him back to the shop.”

“But they GAVE him to me,” she cried. “Please, please, please can we keep him? I’ll look after him, I promise.”

“I’ve just told you,” repeated Jodie’s mother. “Now, that’s the end of it. He can stay tonight as it’s too late now, but you’ll have to take him back in the morning.”

Jodie’s eyes filled. It wasn’t fair. Why did Grandad have to spoil it? Why did he even have to live with them, anyway? He had his own house. She just didn’t get it.

Jodie was still furious as she went up to bed, leaving the puppy in a box in the kitchen. All her pleading to have him in her bedroom had been useless. Her mother had been adamant.

“He’ll be fine in the kitchen. He might make a mess upstairs and anyway, he’s not staying.”

Anger gave way to tears again. It had been a long time since she’d cried herself to sleep.

Jodie woke with a start. The dog was barking, scratching furiously at the kitchen door. She ran onto the landing to see her mother bending over her grandfather, who was sitting on the floor at the foot of the stairs.

Jodie’s mother looked up. “Grandad’s had a fall, Jodie, but he’ll be all right now. I only woke up when your puppy started creating that noise. Grandad’s decided he does like dogs after all. What are you going to call him?”

Jodie smiled. “Mr Barker.”

Rainbow Warriors

The Mission
“All ready,men?” Glum faces nodded in assent. No one was up for the challenge, but they had no choice. Their very livelihood was threatened, so something had to be done.
“Off on a fool’s errand, if ye ask me,” muttered Merfi, falling into step alongside Ohraygan as they marched off.
“You think so?” Ohraygan glanced at her uniform. The fine green corduroy was pressed smartly, the buttons polished so brightly that she had half expected to be told to blacken them. She looked around at her comrades: none of them looked particularly thrilled but then, she had always been the one to enjoy dressing up.
“Yeah, of course. We’d have found it by now if it was there for the finding. No, it’s long gone.”
“Where to? I thought there had been rumours that it was still in the Mother Country – isn’t that why we’re here?”
“Bejaysus, surely on me ma’s grave will some rascal have smuggled it out by now, Some smart city boy will have got an export licence and sent it across to the other side of the Union. Probably even got a cash incentive for new trade, I’ll be sure.”
“Silence in the ranks!” The column halted, so suddenly that Ohraygan was startled into taking an extra step, scuffing her shoes on the heels of the recruit in front. “Disperse!”
The soldiers silently scattered to either side of the metalled track they had been marching along. Ohraygan winced as she slid into the ditch, trying to avoid the mud. The rain had stopped long since, but there was still water lying on the bog, puddles glinting here and there. The country had been sodden for weeks, with no respite from the relentless downpours. Drainage ditches had been dug, taking all the water they could, but still it came. The sun had vanished: it was hard to believe that it had ever shone at all. Without it, there was no chance of the water drying up. This mission was a last desperate attempt to restore the natural order and bring the country back to normality.
From where she lay, Ohraygan could hear nothing. Then it began. Merfi gripped his spade, tensing at the approaching noise. It was unlike anything Ohraygan had ever heard before, but it completely beguiled her.
The tinkling was the sweetest sound she had ever heard. It was as if thousands of tiny bells were all ringing at once, creating a melody which rose and soared into the air, free from the mud and the damp. Peeping up, Ohraygan blinked, rubbed her eyes, blinked again. Dancing down the track, barely seeming to touch the ground, were hundreds of fairies. Dressed in gossamer, the pastel hues of their dresses moved and merged as one. They looked like nothing as much as an ethereal, shimmering rainbow.
There was a sharp intake of breath beside her. “Look – there it is!” Merfi pointed, his hand shaking, his face so pale it was positively green. Following his sharp little finger, Ohraygan saw it. In hundreds of tiny hands, a rainbow swooshed and whirled in streamers over the fairies heads. The wind seemed to be trying to snatch it, but it was held fast, tangling and twisting until the colours blurred into a white that had become grey.
Ohraygan waited. Surely it would come into sight soon. Then, as a knot of fairies drew nearer, her pulse quickened. This must be it.
At the signal, the leprechaun army erupted from the sides of the track like lava spilling over the side of the volcano. Within seconds, the fairies were surrounded. Fury was written over many of the soldiers’ faces, but discipline held them in check. The King, mounted on a huge toad, spurred up to the head of the fairy column.
“Bring forth your leader!” he commanded. The fairy crowd shivered, colours mingling, then flashing brighter as a gap appeared and the Queen stepped forward. The gold crown on her head was impressive, but even without it she would have been the most beautiful being ever seen.
“Madam.” The King bowed. “You know what we have come for. Please return it to us, then we can let you go on your way.”
“Return it?” The Queen’s voice, silvery soft, echoed her amazement. “It does not belong to you, so how can we return what is not yours? In any case, how can creatures as ugly and careless as you be responsible for our treasure?”
“You are right,” replied the King, “we are not worthy of it. Yet we have been given the guardianship. See for yourself what happens when it is out of our hands. The country is flooded. The crops will soon lie ruined in the fields. And, once the world hears what has happened, the economy will collapse. No longer will adventurers come here to try their luck. No longer will tourists flock in amazement, spending their time and then their money in the gift shops on lucky charms, lucky bracelets and so on. Even our exports, what is left of them, will lie on the world market, unsold. The rainbow has to return and so, with it, the Promise.”
“Well, when you put it like that…” the Queen smiled, a mischievous glint in her eye. “We only wanted to borrow it for our millennium party anyway.” She clicked her fingers. Immediately, a rustling in the fairy ranks began as the fairies started pulling the rainbow into coils, reducing it to a shimmering heap. “But I can’t give it to any of your soldiers,” she added, casting a stern eye over the Rainbow Warriors. To a man, their faces were blackened and their camouflage gear was covered in mud. Then she caught sight of Ohraygan. “Come here, Private.”
Ohraygan stepped hesitantly forward. Her uniform was still neatly pressed, the buttons still shiny.
The Queen beckoned, and Ohraygan found herself clutching it in her arms, wrapped in all the colours of the rainbow. The Pot of Gold.

Wild times

Causing chaos

I’ve worked hard at school for most of my life:
done all my work, avoided the strife.
But now it’s too much, I just can’t take any more
of the slog and the grind and of being so bored.

So I’ve given out sweets to all of the class:
enormous gobstoppers: they can’t even laugh.
There’s glue on the seats and bugs on the desks:
the mayhem I’m causing has everyone stressed.

Soon there’ll be music: the unpleasant kind
as the Head will be shouting, “She’s out of her mind!”
It’s too late: I really don’t care what they say -
‘cos no-one can sack me; I’m 60 today!

A wild one

When young, I was a good girl
who never broke the rules.
I always did my homework
Was never late for school.

But when I went to uni
I learnt to be a rebel
Eschewed both job and pension:
Never learnt to settle.

So now I live a wild life
Adventure is the Game:
I don’t regret a single thing –
Who’d want a life that’s tame?

So now I live a wild life
I know no other way
So come on now and join me –
Take a chance today.

So now I live a wild life
of carefree times and fun.
I don’t regret the choice I made
Or all the things I’ve done.

So now I live a wild life
I know no other way
Not for me the staid and dull -
It’s adventure every day.

Monkeying around

I’m fed up with sitting here all on my own:
Expected to leap up and put on a show.
Oh, I long to escape, I so long to be free
Of the drudge and the grind and the serving of tea.

So I’m making a break, gonna get out of here
No longer will I be a victim of fear.
I’ll scatter the tea cups, throw cake and toss buns,
I’ll leap over any dumb keeper who comes.

But as I get out of my uncomfortable cage
I see that the visitors have started to rage.
They’re heading my way and they’re after me, too –
Perhaps I might stay here: it’s safe in the zoo.

In Quietness is Strength

The silence of an empty heart.
The silence of an unkind word.
The silence of a lonely friend.
The silence of a broken world.

The whisper of a gentle touch.
The whisper of a caring smile.
The whisper of a mother’s love.
The whisper of the extra mile.

The murmur of encouragement.
The murmur of approval.
The murmur of a truth once known.
The murmur of a love for all.

The shout of joyful songs of praise.
The shout of battles won.
The shout of blissful happiness.
The shout of struggles overcome.

The silence of pure calm and rest.
The silence in a heart at ease.
The silence between two loving minds
The silence from a sense of peace.

Compassion

You are not empty.
You are full of tears.
These are the water of life
To those who need it.
Rejoice that
You are full of tears.

His best jump ever

"Hey Dwayne, surprised to see you here." Joe shrugged off his leather jacket, dropping it next to his friend's. Dwayne's was singed, the heavy gloves charred at the edges.

"Yeah, well, no problem," Dwayne replied. "I'm the best at ring of fire. Didn't know you were so good, though."

"You didn't? I was never a bad boy like you. I was the best, man. That's how I got here. Still don't know how YOU made it."

Dwayne looked back at the pearly gates. "Easy. Me and Old Betsy just soared right over them darn flames down there, straight into heaven."

No trouble

"I'll clear that, no trouble," boasted Sam.

Joe looked doubtfully at the hedge, then at Sam's bike. It had seen better days: someone had let down the tyres and removed the brake pads while they were in the pub. A quick trip to the garage, then Sam was set to go.

"All right then." Sam kicked off, pedalling at top speed down the bare slope. Just as he reached the bottom, he pulled back on the handlebars, sending the bike flying into the air.

It landed successfully on the other side. On Sam's arm.

A clean break, no trouble.

Good companions

Smile on a train

Stranger sitting opposite to me,
you did not know how deeply I despaired.

Maybe you guessed something was wrong
from the solitary way I kept my eyes upon my feet.

Could you have known the sodden sadness of my heart
from drooping shoulders?

Or was it that deeply hidden sob
erupting , unwanted, at a vicious memory?

Self-absorbed in misery I did not realise
my life lay open, a tabloid for all to read.

Yet you were not content with prurient curiosity,
instead you gave a gift of warmth.

Your smile lit up your face. Mine, responding,
Warmed me too.

From somewhere deep inside, small flickers of hope
crawled up my belly.

Self-belief and trust, long lost and forgotten,
crept out from hiding places.

Desolation gave up its grip
as I found my smile again.

Your unknown hearer

I can’t say that we ever met: and yet I remain in your debt.
I think you would have been amused, to think that your words lit a fuse
in me so many years ago. I wonder if you’ll ever know
the change resulting from that day when you had come to have your say.

It was a usual day at school when we were taken to the hall.
You stood alone upon the stage looking at us girls, encaged
in expectations, thoughts, desires. Your words, designed to light up fires
fell flat upon our sullen ears. Who cared to hear about your years
in Africa? Dark continent indeed. Slow of pace, when we craved speed.
Excitement, glamour filled our minds: I did not then expect to find
interest in teaching far from home, a wish to venture out alone.

Yet as I looked upon your slides a little voice echoed inside:
‘That all looks like tremendous fun!’ So with those words, your job was done.
I qualified, went off to teach just minutes from a Kenyan beach.
Two years of volunteering, then I met a man there, married him
and lived another twenty years with monkeys, lions, exotic birds.
And so it was you changed my life: as happy teacher, mother, wife,
I thank that day we did not meet: and yet you made my life complete.

Two are better than one

“Jontan, I loves you,” said the small girl, busily arranging lego pieces into a tank trap at the bedroom door.
“Cattin, I loves you too,” replied the small boy as he stirred up a paste of mud and water in the washbasin.
“Us don’ mind if we’re naughty, do we?”

And so it began.

Rearranging the kitchen, putting groceries to the back of the saucepan cupboard, bread in the rubbish bin, hiding milk under the table.
Putting salt in the sugar bowl.
Daubing naked bodies with mud and paint, then dancing in the garden as neighbours arrived home from work.
Draping furniture with sheets and blankets to make a refugee camp: removing all light bulbs in the room to make it authentic. Leaving it for their father to stumble into when he arrived home from the pub.
Walking along the top of the neighbour’s wall, trying to see through bathroom and bedroom windows. Choosing their time carefully.
Climbing through hedges, blacked up commando-style, after dark, to retrieve errant footballs.
Hiding in trees, then suddenly dangling upside down to swing above the head of an unsuspecting passer-by.
Pretending, until Jonathan’s voice broke, to be the other twin speaking on the phone. Agreeing to requests on the twin’s behalf.

Enjoying the ensuing chaos.

There was nothing I could do about it all. Two are better than one – and boy, did they get the better of me.

I never had any more children.

Twin Terror

The Heavenly Twins or the Adorable Angels? Angels was the best name for them. Fallen ones.

How could innocent children be so wicked? Theirs was a world of total security - nothing could shake it. Whatever they chose to do together, they accomplished. They were fearless of the outcome, even when everything went wrong.

Like the time they got stuck in the hedge.

It was, to be fair, quite tall - Cypress leylandii, thick and lush. A determined child could climb up inside it, popping out like a cork from a bottle at the top. Once there, they used it like a living trampoline. So far, so good. Until one of them hit a thin spot, plummeting to the ground with bits of twigs sticking out of limbs and body.
The other was stuck on top. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t get back down again – not even down the hole left by his twin.
One ladder, two adults and several remonstrances later, both twins were back on the ground. Covered in bright red rashes, an allergic reaction to the leaves.

They boasted about it for weeks.

Innocent devilment progressed to calculated wickedness. By the time they arrived at secondary school they were a force to be reckoned with. The sister ran a protection racket, supported by her brother. He did the same for her. Even the teachers became wary.

After becoming Head Boy and Girl, they headed for university and careers in banking.

I brought them up well.

Chausiku says: Well-written and hilarious,Mpira!
Wordmate says: Really funny. Loved the punchline
nicolacleasby says: This was well written and I think the banks and the twins deserve each other.
susanjones says: Very funny, and appropriate for the times we are living in. Liked it very much.

One is more than enough

The room was quiet now, save for the murmuring of the visitors standing under the trees outside, the panting breath of the woman on the bed and the squalling of the child.
“A beautiful baby girl,” the midwife pronounced. Her brown face, shiny with effort, beamed at the young mother.
“Ah, wonderful,” came the tired reply. “Just what I wanted.” Smiles echoed around the hospital delivery room. The air was still and warm, hung with the heavy scent of frangipani wafting in through the open window.
“Just a minute.” The atmosphere changed with the alarm in the voice. “I think there’s another one.”
“ANOTHER?”
“Yes, there seems to be another baby here.”
“You said I had a girl. That’s fine. That’s what I wanted. Stop right there.”
“Sorry, mama, but there IS another baby coming. You didn’t know?”
“I didn’t know.”
“Another beautiful baby girl.”
The mother turned her head, weeping. This was not how it should be. The midwife sighed. “Be thankful, mother, that you are of the right tribe. Twins are a blessing for you, not a bad omen. Be thankful that you do not belong to a people where, fifty years ago, you would have had to leave one child out for the hyenas, or your family would have been cursed. Be thankful that your girls are healthy: you are doubly blessed.”
Yes, thought the young woman, tired beyond thinking. I must be thankful. I suppose I AM blessed. But will they be?

Medlycott says: I liked that, a lot. A nice, different angle. Very good. David
Chausiku says: Mpira, this is an excellent piece. On reading the brief, my mind was blank as to what I could possibly come up with that would be interesting, but you have succeeded. As with much of your writing, rafiki, you bring me right back to my childhood days in East Africa!
tesslin says: Well done for being the first, I have looked at this since the competiton was set and have thought of nothing. This is a good and interesting piece, the only thing I am not sure about is the : after healthy.
jer364 says: Athought provoking piece that set the standard. It was a tricky brief but this was beautifully handled.
j2write says: I can't really add to the other comments - they have captured what I would have written. A well worked piece. The thought of the hyena - made me cringe. Well done.

Literary journeys

Scilly

How can I write about Scilly? This is Sam Llewellyn’s world, a world of sea and ships, of longings and laughter, of boats and beginnings. For everyone who comes here is beguiled into dreams of starting a new life.

Arrive on Tresco, the second largest island: it has an area, almost, of a massive 3 square km. Sam’s childhood home. Home to the sub-tropical Tresco Abbey Gardens, inspiration for Sam’s ‘The Sea Garden’. It is also the setting for his book ‘Hell Bay’, although the book begins in Hell Bay on Bryher, the poor cousin lying a few hundred yards across the channel. Walk across at low tide on a calm day. Even then, Hell Bay’s waters will be boiling furiously on the jagged rocks which surround it.

Read just one of Sam’s books and you are drawn into a nautical world where weather directs lives. Is his best book ‘The Shadow in the Sands’, his ‘sequel’ to Erskine Childers’ classic ‘The Riddle of the Sands’? I don’t know. You need to read all his novels before you dare make that decision. ‘Swallows and Amazons’ for adults.

Scilly is also the home for Michael Morpurgo’s ‘Why the Whales Came’ and ‘The Wreck of the Zanzibar’. Weep for the characters struggling to stay alive during the storms which lash the islands in winter. In the nineteenth century, life in Scilly was a hand to mouth existence; hardship the usual bedfellow.

Now, the islands throng with the tourists which provide the vast part of the islanders’ income. The air is clear and mild; in spring, daffodils bloom earlier than anywhere else. Strolling around the islands – there are virtually no cars – evidence of other industries can be seen. Fishing, shipbuilding, flower farming…

The islands are unique; the ambience is almost tangible. Dive into Llewellyn and Morpurgo’s books: you are almost there.


The Rock
I arrive from the sea. As the ferry eases down the Little Russell between Guernsey and Herm, the town of St Peter Port opens up to view. It has changed little since Victor Hugo landed here 150 years ago: despite some modern additions, pastel coloured buildings still jostle together in narrow cobbled streets. Boats fill the harbour; the fish market sells fish; Castle Cornet stands sentinel.

A short climb up a quiet street devoid of traffic leads to Hauteville House, Victor Hugo’s sanctuary for 15 years. A monument to his art, its walls and ceilings are covered with carpets; furniture of dark, intricately carved wood is integral with the building. One ceiling is lined with ceramics; another room with tiles. The darkroom is hidden in a cupboard. The winter garden is a conservatory with inspirational views of the islands. A glass eyrie at the top is where this literary giant wrote, standing at a writing desk.

Fiercely opposed to Napoleon, Victor Hugo sought refuge in Guernsey after he had to flee France. The island inspired him: its harsh, rugged cliffs combined with its gentle inland scenery, the hidden coves, a profusion of plant life growing abundantly in a mild climate. It was here that he wrote several of his most famous works: notably ‘Les Miserables’ and the work he devoted to the people of Guernsey, ‘The Toilers of the Sea’: “I dedicate this book to the rock of hospitality, to this corner of old Norman land where resides the noble little people of the sea, to the Island of Guernsey, severe and yet gentle…”.

Walking the streets, discovering the beaches mirrored in his paintings, surrounded by descendants of those he knew, it is easy to follow in the footsteps of this great man. He seems to be here still.

From Out of Africa
“I had a farm in Africa…” Karen Blixen’s house still stands, gazing out towards the grey green Ngong Hills. Even in her day there were cars, as now, yet I walk with Kenyans who have no other means. I trudge through the suburb, once a coffee plantation, now lined with gracious mansions and high-walled gardens. Then there were red-earth dusty tracks, no gates, no barriers; now, tarmac, steel gates, electric fences.

The house reeks with memories: of a simpler lifestyle horribly complicated by relationships, by disease, by death. How did she live with the recollection of a husband who deliberately infected her with syphilis; a lover who betrayed with other women and, ultimately, with death? I wander from room to empty room, footsteps echoing hollowly on the bare wooden floors. Sadness and melancholy, unhappiness and gloom amidst the vibrancy of Africa.

I have accompanied Karen on many of her journeys. Just as she flew over the dusty landscape with Denys Finch-Hatton, so have I; just as she struggled into the centre of Nairobi in an unreliable car, so have I; just as she walked among the coffee bushes, picking the ripe berries, so have I. Just as she bore the life of Africa in her body, so do I. Her memories were so vivid that she recreated her fascination from distant Denmark. Seas, continents and loneliness could not rob her of her love.

The memories are bitter-sweet, yet the joy, the abundant life, the anticipation and the hope that is Africa journeys on.

Going past Giants
My travels did not take me very far. Just a short walk to school, a dive back of a hundred years or more. Two hundred yards from home took me to my first remembered pain: the War Memorial, standing proud for fourscore years and ten, now accuses my neglect of Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen whose words have seared my soul.

I hurried on; that insignificant Edwardian house I passed now bears a bright blue plaque: I wish it were a happier memory. How brief, how rich in poetry was the life of Rupert Brooke. Another sensitive, senseless victim of a horrid war. Did he, I wonder, realise how futile his death was? We were robbed of much delight. My treasured volume of his collected poems endured moves between continents.

Then, turning a corner, I passed by The Close. The hallowed grass of Rugby School trodden upon by many authors, not least Thomas Hughes of Tom Brown’s Schooldays fame. Matthew Arnold, whose poems I have always loved; Arthur Ransome, whose nephew was a great friend of my father’s:I treasure his books still; Salman Rushdie; D Watkins-Pitchford – ‘BB’- who enchanted me with stories of the miniature Little Grey Men and their adventures on the tiny stream I fished for minnows; Anthony Horowitz, teacher’s friend – who else excites young boys as much as Alex Rider Secret Agent?

Rushdie I did not know; Horowitz was my age; yet the others were as much a part of my growing up in Rugby as my own family. As I grew older, the walk to school became a walk to the hospital; a dog walk; a short cut to town: yet, whatever my purpose or my destination, the words still whispered to me from the buildings I passed. I remember them still.

Death:no cure for selfishness

He claimed he had not known. Could not admit
He’d chosen to ignore the good advice given by a holy God.
Now he lies in torment, longing for relief.
“Send Lazarus to help me,” cries this once wealthy man, now poor, held fast
In Satan’s clutches.
“I am indeed a most important man and Lazarus is but a lazy beggar.
Let him bestir himself from heaven’s porch
to venture down below a little while to quench my thirst in this accursed heat.”
Lazarus the Good is willing, but God smiles in sorrow. Were it but so easy.
It is impossible. Death's boundaries are set.
He had his chance whilst yet he lived in luxury, uncaring of the poor.
Now, too late.

Insane revenge

‘Twas last year I lost my lover, she who left me for another.
Tho at first I dwelt in sorrow, baring all my soul to borrow
Strength from friends and family, still none came to rescue me.
Sleepless nights became my friends, hours and hours without end
Accompanied by fevered plans of revenge taken by my hands
Until at last the ideal plot occurred to me: my soul grew hot.

How I rejoiced in jubilation at my perfect calculation.
How all would see and all would wonder at revenge taken on the Other.
No comeback would he ever dare for none could ever reach me there.
That place of refuge, sanctuary would surely enough protection be.
Without delay I carried out my scheme without a care or doubt.
Straightway with her I was united; troth for eternity was plighted.
But still my plans had gone all wrong: for Death had had her all along.

Angels and Demons

The sky darkened. With a roar
of earth-deafening proportions,
an incandescent sphere
exploded, scattering limbs, claws and teeth in all directions.
Lights flickered, lapsed
Into darkness.
Then silence.
A luminous shape stirred at the point of impact.
Nearby, dull black body parts picked themselves up and reformed.
Grotesque shapes advanced, menacing, towards the glowing figure.
Fingers reached out, lips snarled, teeth were bared.
The angel was surrounded.

Grave matters

Solitary in the graveyard
stands the building, a chapel
of unease amid the peace and silence.
With captive menace, a door ajar invites me in.
An empty space of dark and cold
holds fears and dread.
Inside the darkness
fears take solid form.
Unyielding, they seize my heart
in relentless grip.
The black possesses me.
I am buried alive.

Haunted

Pebbles left outside my door. Twigs crossed on tracks.
Dead birds. Skeletons of fish.
Silent curses shriek in ragged tatters
As wind howls around the house.

I did not mean to kill him. It was not at all my fault.
Why then does he haunt me in such relentless fashion?
In solitary misery I walk the dog along the beach.
Sand squeaks beside me: no one there.

Yet as I step along a muddied shore I see
My footprints are not alone.
The marks left from my own two feet are sunk below a heavier tread.
I try to run.

Here are the adjudicator’s comments:

HAUNTED SUCCESS FOR MPIRA IN PITS & CRYPTS
As is becoming usual, we had another huge entry for our monthly Arena competition with over 60 entries posted to the site. Plenty of hair curling entries, but the eventual winner was the subtle spinetingler, Haunted by mpira.

Adjudicator's Report - Magdalena Ball

Certainly these are haunting poems. Set in their chilling, death ridden, crypts and underworld, they cast a cold fear through the reader in a way that is appropriate for a “Pits & Crypts” contest.

Many of the poems here do take their cue from Poe’s work, and that’s fine: Poe is a wonderful source of inspiration. But Poe was also a strong critic of the cliché and the obvious, famously stating that that meaning in literature should be an undercurrent just beneath the surface.

Works with obvious meanings, he wrote, cease to be art. So too, do works where rhyme, even clever rhyme, becomes an end in itself, overwhelming the meaning of the work. The rhyme and rhythm needs to support and drive the overall purpose of the poem and not the other way around.

Many of the poems were too overt, with the horror explicit, or where both meaning and originality were sacrificed in order to get the rhyme. Instead of focusing on the singsong line ending, the poetry would have done better to focus on strong imagery, original metaphor, and the intensity of the emotion and the meaningful twist of the denouement.

Where subtlety, horror, and skill combined however, the poems became universal, tapping into the deepest fears of the human psyche and creating a breath-holding moment. Unfortunately that was rare, which isn’t surprising, as creating good horror in verse is no easy task.

One poem that succeeded wonderfully in doing this was mpira’s “Haunted”, which featured an internal haunting: the pain of a guilty conscience. Imagery here was strong, as the reader follows footsteps along the beach past dead birds and fish skeletons. The shock of an unrhymed and inexplicit ending works well, and allows the reader the freedom of imagining a conclusion far scarier than any spelled out one could be.

An inconsequential curse

“Curse you!” From nowhere came the screech of crazy woman on the beach.
The staring eyes, the ugly face of one who thought we’d stole her space.
Wide-eyed, my child spoke not a word as overhead a scream of birds
Added to the evil wish: on the rocks there lay dead fish.

We hurried off; all fun had gone. Deserted sand now left alone
We scurried homewards hand in hand, wishing not our ground to stand
For right to play as we would wish; for on the rocks there lay dead fish.

We’d left the shore to cross the road when suddenly a stock car towed
From a racetrack near at hand veered off the street towards the strand.
My child was there. I tried to snatch his hand - too late. I could not catch
His life to keep it safe and sound. Yet still I hear his voice around.

Tears: the water of life

You are not empty.
You are full of tears.
These are the water of life
To those who need it.
Rejoice that
You are full of tears.