JAMES STIRLING

 14 Short Stories from around the World

If you write, why not send me a short story and I will publish it up here on this page? Other writers have, and you can read their work below.

Sorry to say I cannot offer any money - but you will be giving a taster of your work for others to want to read more from you in future. Please don't forget to leave your email address (and website if you have one) when you contact me. Here's my email address; James.Stirling@ymail.com

______________________________________________________________________________________________

 1.  “Britannicus”

 By Leslie J. Weddell (UK)

      In the 400 years (or there about) that the mighty conquering Roman Army occupied the mainland of ‘Britannicus’ (better known today as Britain) all they wanted to do after a hard decade or two of killing, pillaging and raping the whole place, was to just settle down to a quiet life of ruling the country.

     And the Romans certainly did this in England; teaching the uncouth inhabitants how to bathe, write, be able and useful as farmers, carpenters, butchers, and tradesmen. They even paid them a wage.

    The Roman Governors and their underling Officers used their skilled soldiers in charge of each sector of the countryside to full effect, and besides showing the inhabitants how to do things, busied themselves showing off their skills by building arrow-straight roads mostly named Watling Street or Watling Road, plus fantastic load bearing aqueducts to carry water from the rivers in the hills to the towns and villages. They even introduced the first latrines, communal they might have been, but real ‘loos’. 

   And to boot, they had central heating in the important buildings by using 24/7 wood or peat burning fires under specially constructed brick floors. They even introduced wonderful food, and created what today we would term a healthy diet, goading the peasants under their control to eat fish and bran or oat dishes, steamed vegetables, and fruit.

    It must have been heaven for the privileged few in the cold winter months in Britannicus with this wonderful technology. But during those 400 years not all was well in this idyllic picture of serenity and cultured society, for there was a problem that the Romans just could not seem to handle, even with all their superior skills and efficiency, for it came in the form of the constant appearance of the meandering Scots rebels who kept raiding the roman towns and forts in the lowlands of ‘Caledonia’ (Scotland)

   Even though the Romans had invaded Scotland up as far as the Firth of Forth (Edinburgh district to you and me) and made several attempts over the years to go into the Highlands of Scotland, they kept coming up against these die hard individuals that did not seem to want the niceties that the Roman Empire could offer. This went on for years, and eventually the Romans withdrew to the boarders, along a line across England starting from the ancient City of Carlisle.

    One lovely summer’s day a new big shot from Rome named Publius Aelius Traianus Hadrianus -better known today as Emperor Hadrian stepped foot on the jetty alongside the small Roman river town of ‘Londinium’ (London).  He had been appointed as the new Emperor of the whole of  Britannicus. After what must have been a harrowing journey up to ‘Eboracum’ (York) or ‘Pons Aelti’ (Newcastle) (It is not recorded exactly were he went, but some historians believe it was Newcastle) in the North East of England, Hadrian settled into his new appointment and began to make his mark on the area.

    He erected towns and forts with radical new construction ideas brought from the homeland, using skilled artisans. Hadrian did good things to improve the regions, such as building schools for the thousands of soldiers under his command that came from all parts of the Roman Empire including Germans, French, Spanish, Serbians, and many others. They in turn introduced their own culture and foods to the new Roman Society in Britannicus, and to this day there is evidence of food dishes and other traditional ways of doing things credited back to that era.

    But not all was well, for Governor Hadrian got so cheesed off with these raids by the Scots rebels across the boarder that he ordered the construction of a wall winding its way across England from Newcastle to Carlisle to keep them out. Quite a considerable distance of several hundred miles, and most of the wall and the mini forts the soldiers spent their long period of duty on are still evident today, nearly 2000 years on.

     So was the wall built to keep the Scots out?

  That’s one theory.

     I tend to go with the other school of thought that suggests that Hadrian’s wall was built as a means of keeping thousands of home sick Roman soldiers meanfully occupied so that they would not revolt, in what must have seemed to them after the warmth of the Mediterranean, a God forsaken wilderness in the long winter months.

    It is well recorded that as the years of roman domination in Britain rolled by many of the roman soldiers married local girls and brought up families that lasted generations, and indeed, today many people in the United Kingdom can trace their heritage back to the Roman Conquerors.

   What must have it been like to be alive in Roman Britain?  Let’s think about this for a moment.

   Depending on the year of course, you would probably be better off living about 200 years after the Armies came, for by that time everything would pretty much be settled in, and providing you were a good person willing to learn and show willingness to work, you would be treated in a decent manner by the Romans, and even given a good basic education and a skill to earn your living. Of course there was class distinction, but as long as you kept your station in life you would have been treated in a fair manner, for there is evidence that the Roman governmental authorities in Britannicus encouraged good community relationships to retain harmony.

Just think again for a moment about the long void of several centuries after the Romans withdrew from Britain; when nothing but anarchy was strife between rival regional tribe leaders before the gradual establishment of government rule returned? So all in all, it must have been a pleasant experience for many people to experience the many wonders of the Roman World in that era. It would be many centuries before latrines, central heating, and engineering skills of the magnitude of the Roman Empire, would be re-invented in the Victorian era.

  I am lucky to be a resident of the United Kingdom of today, and to be able to wiz up a modern highway or side roads of England, Wales and Scotland, enjoying the same fantastic scenery that the Romans must have seen, only in the comfort of my air conditioning in summer or heated car, in winter.  But I have one thing to confess. I am a Scotsman, and although I live in a beautiful part of England because of my work, I never cease to wonder at the beauty of Scotland on my frequent visits to the land of the waters of life, knowing that the Romans of so long ago enjoyed the same timeless beauty of that country too, despite the Scots not wanting them!

Thankfully, today, Scotland welcomes everyone from every corner of this wonderful Planet.

   The Scots no longer have to raid England. Instead, they have something English people love, and indeed, famous the World over for.

   'Uisge Beatha' from the Gaelic name, meaning 'The Waters of Life'

   You know it better as Whisky.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

     2   “The Haunted Barn” 

  By Ian Royle (UK)

   “Ghosts – no Maister, there ain’t no ghosts ‘ere.  A few rats or maybe an owl or two but I never seen no Ghosts”

   The farmer put down his scythe which he’d been using to remove the last of the years stubble from under the hedgerow bordering his hayfield and turned to follow my gaze up towards the derelict old barn.

   There really should have been a ghost around here, somewhere.  Dark shadows cast by a sinking autumn sun gave the whole place a really spooky atmosphere.  With the background of the wild Staffordshire Roches  which are an outcrop of grim rocks spread higgledy piggeldy in a fantastic pile stretching away towards the Derbyshire Peak District,  there really should have been enough wandering, tortured spirits inhabiting that gloomy wasteland to write the script for a whole television series.

   My Son, Matthew, had begun all this business.  “Why not write a Ghost Story, Dad”, he suggested as I struggled with the famous ‘Writers Block’ that made everyone in our household anxious to avoid my glance, moods and appalling temper.

   So there I was gathering information about local ‘spooks’, sizing up lonely houses and farm buildings just to get the right atmosphere for a story that would keep the viewers of Channel 39 awake for a couple of weeks.

   The Frightening Phantoms of Lyme Hall, just a mile or two from Disley in Cheshire had totally ignored me.  They couldn’t even be bothered to chuck a few plates about as I investigated the ‘Priests Holes’ behind the fireplaces and wall portraits. 

   The ‘White Lady’ on her fiery steed, frequently viewed by inebriants staggering home on Friday nights down Bean Leach Road in Hazel Grove steadfastly refused to appear before my video camera despite several fruitless rainy nights.  I even sustained a black eye and a bloody nose from an incensed and somewhat unsteady car driver who stopped his vehicle to accuse me of being a police speed check informer.  Baildon Hall near Shipley in Yorkshire had delivered something a gathering of ‘spiritual mediums’ had described as ‘ectoplasm’ but which had turned out to be the steam from a neglected tea urn.

    So there was I, damp boots and dead grass clippings up to my knees in a meadow by a remote farm in Staffordshire with the glowering Roches towering above in the gloom.

    It was October thirty first which, according to my diary, is always a good date to observe spectres, witches or any other occult events listed in the various books I’d collected after several years of careful research.  The light was quickly fading as I tried to explain my presence to the farmer.

    “Come and ‘ave a cuppa tea wi’ me”, he said eventually. “I keep a calorgas stove in the old barn for a brew when I’m up ‘ere and anyway I ain’t eatin’ till late tonight so we can ‘ave a bit of a chat”.

    He lead me up to the ramshackle barn, lit the stove and as the kettle began to steam he produced a small storm lantern and indicated a hay bale for us to sit on.

    As the lantern flickered, he began to tell a strange story, talking as much to himself as he was talking to me.

    “When my Dad bought this farm seventy years ago”, he said, “There were a couple of fields for hay, an acre or so up by the Roches for sheep and ‘e did a bit of market gardenin’ with taters, collies, sprouts and cabbages.  This old barn got used to shelter animals in the hard winters”.

    “It was also used,” and his eyes gave out a rheumy twinkle, “By the local witches who used it on Midsummer Day for their Festivals or their ‘jump the broomstick’ weddings and ‘course they were always about on Halloween to cast their spells and call up their infernal Master”.

    “My old Dad, ‘e wasn’t ‘appy about them witches and ‘e got a few of ‘is mates to come with him after a night at the pub to sort out this evil brood for once and for all.  They took Dad’s mastiff with ‘em too, a real vicious brute it were, so as to make sure there wouldn’t be no problems”.

     I could tell now that he was coming to the climax of his story.

    “So what ‘appened” he continued, taking a sip of scalding tea, “Was that when they spotted the witches a-brewin’ up their cauldron and callin’ up Old Nick, Dad let his dog off its leash.  The beast flew straight at the Chief Witch, warty nose, pointed ‘at an’ all but she just raised her little finger and that mastiff were rooted to the spot. Not for long though,-it was under her spell!  My Dad dived into a ditch but the rest of ‘is mates just ran.  The Chief Witch got on her broomstick and ‘er and that dog chased ‘em across the heath and up into the Roches”. 

    As the farmer sadly shook his head as I asked him to tell me the aftermath of his gruesome tale.

    “Well, you see, the next morning all Dad’s mates were found up in the Roches, wandering around with their minds just gone.  All they could say was ‘Dog’ and ‘Witch’, ‘Witch’ and ‘Dog’"

    It was now almost dark and my friend the farmer suddenly stood up.

    “You know”, he said, “Every Halloween I come up ‘ere just to make sure that them witches don’t ever cast spells on my farm”.

How do you do that?” I asked, my skin crawling at the thought of sacrifice or some strange ritual.

    “Why”, he said, the twinkle in his eye returning.  “I just leaves a copy o’ ‘Witch’ magazine and a couple o’ tins of Pedigree Chum”.

     When we finished laughing I asked him whether he was going straight back to his farm for his evening meal.

    “Not likely”, he said, with a sly grin, “I’m off to my local pub – that’s right maister – ‘The Dog and Witch’!”  

__________________________________________________________________________________

   3.      'Brenda, Snuffy and the Computer Store'

           By Harold Hester (USA)

What do you do and where do you go when your computer hic-cups?

The year is 1941 and you have a need to feel power. Most likely you went roaring down Route 66 better then 100 mph in your dad’s 1936 Mercury coupe or enlisted in the military to fight against the evil Axis powers. In 1950 with that same need for power you most likely borrowed your dad’s 1949 Ford big-block V8 and tried out route 66 again.

 In 1960 – 1970s you taught your kids about love, honor, money, power and God and Country and they enlisted in the military to fight communism in sunny Vietnam. 1980s you traded stocks and bonds but the exhilaration of losing your money was not the feel of power you expected.  1990s you hired illegal field hands and the feel of power partially returned.

At the turn of the 21st century you master your computer by learning the word “boot” meant something other then footwear and “crash” and “freeze” meant a feeling of helpfulness, but you can now use MS Word and Excel programs as power was again in your grasp.

Have you again reached your pinnacle of gratification for power? Not yet. The year is now 2006 and the adrenaline rush in your soul is bursting from your finger tips as you again feel the need for power - but where is it?

 If you could have your druthers, would you druther have; your groceries manually checked with guaranteed errors; air traffic controllers looking out a window to control your landing; weather people wetting a finger and holding it outside to predict the weather or having to re-learn your math tables or having a calculator handy?

 Smart computer people have given us our druthers… and much more.

 It is difficult to imagine counting without numbers, but there was a time when written numbers did not exist. The earliest counting device was the human hand and its fingers. Then, as larger quantities (larger than ten human-fingers could represent) were counted, various natural items like pebbles and twigs were used to help count. Merchants who traded goods not only needed a way to count goods they bought and sold, but also to calculate the cost of those goods. Until numbers were invented, counting devices were used to make everyday calculations.

 In today’s world of milk-and-honey we have large numbers and a real need to monitor. Smart people have given us the means to do just that. They started us slowly with paper and pencils then calculators and now - computers. It use to take several minutes to add a long column of numbers then divide that total by another number then check those totals up and down then sideways and more times then not those numbers would not accurately total. When adding the same column three times and getting three different answers you kinda knew the brain was not listening to your pleas. A truism of math is that the same column of numbers will add the same top-down as it does from bottom-up. During the early hours of a work day that is correct but later in the afternoon that truism doesn’t always work. Calculators and computers do not have that fallacy. When calculators were conceived their main function was to handle numbers and especially 1s and 0s and now they do that very nicely as they calculate, compute and advise in a blink of an eye and do it accurately, mornings, noon and night.

 Computers are not smart. It’s the bright people that make the hardware and software of computers that put them on a like plane with humans. Computer people are naturally smart and I listen to them – up to a point.

 Modern mechanical computers have been around since before WWII when it took a whole floor to house those ten-ton monsters with more wires and connectors then you see in mega-store electrical and hardware departments. Computers as we know them started small then outgrew technology evolving from gargantuan to back sitting in the palm of your hand.

 If you look in history you will see computers in use in ancient times in 500 B.C. China when they were called Abacus. Whatever we call them today from PCs to ^%*&# damn things; computers now rule our world and are misunderstood by the masses and only loved and cared for by a hand-full of people, or geeks as we lovingly refer to these very sharp numbers folks.

 Geek is not a bad word. Computer folks are mostly nerdy and there are lots of brainy and rich geeks such as Bill Gates. Give me a few billion dollars and you can call me anything you like. Geeks understand numbers but between their ears they are wired differently then normal folks. They think, play and work in another world. They even have their own language: motherboard, byte, folders, sub-folders, partitions, windows, hard-drives, monitors, wired or remote mouse, notebook, laptops, dialup, wireless, DSL, etc... Now these words are the same as normal folks use but to the geek, the words mean different things. Yesterday if you had told me you had a wired-mouse the picture in my mind would be a four-legged rodent high on moldy cheese and if you had said you had a hard-drive would have pictured to me a difficult journey with vehicle problems along the way. If you had told me your hard-drive crashed I would have pictured your wired mouse wrecking your car.

 Education and travel are broadening experiences as is a secondary language. Traveling the world I discovered my second language had to be ‘Computereez’. The language is as complex as Chinese, as guttery as German, as romantic as French and is as misunderstood as English, but I am trying.

 As a human race we use communication as a way to live, love and survive. Sometimes our communication skills fail and people are left at odds with others. For example when someone says to you, “How are you?” they are not asking a question but is meant mealy as a greeting. Granted, the question is a question but not meant as a question but in the language of greeting it is understood as not asking a question but mealy a way to start a conversation. Remember Bud and Lou? Computer folks are a lot like that. They understand the meanings of many unspoken words.

 I told you computer men and women are clever.

 This story could easily had been written as a He said – She said or a verbatim discussion between a customer and store owner, but you see that in everyday life and reading about it here would be similar to the last time you did not get your way – or even close to your way. Now if you think having-your-way is the only way, you may consider moving to another planet. That is not the way this world works. We all have our own specialties and things we understand. Our world today has made many of us into Jack-of-all-trades and masters-of-none or as some are referred to as Smart-Asses that given a grain of knowledge think we deserve the Nobel Prize for sophistication. It’s called; Give-and-take; Finding the middle ground; or Compromising.

A person’s age has everything to do with compromising and it is all because of perspective.

 Your typical high-school graduate today doesn’t have any clues the combatants in our Revolutionary war, Civil war or WWI of II or even where Korea and Vietnam is located on this blue-marble we call Earth or reason for those wars. We are still struggling with the reasons for Iraq. A world without television or a radio with vacuum tubes is also difficult to believe those things have not always been there. Few of this teen generation know history but they all know their way around a keyboard and fully understand Rap, Bon Jovi and the Boss. They also fully understand computers while anyone older then fifty probable still spell computer with a “K” and are afraid of them.

 The spelling “K” comment is tongue-in-cheek and if you have not had a fiftieth birthday you probable do not understand that “afraid” attitude. Under 50 age groups know computers can not bite your finger if you make a mistake or can not advertise to the world their master is an idiot if a wrong key is pressed nor can they do permanent damage to your bank account if you erase your hard-drive, but remember, of the 281 million humans in just North America, 104 million are over 50. Hard-drive is a geek word that if you think about it, is truly an amazing piece of machinery. First think speed, then vinyl record players or tape player then bytes, then light-speed, then reading. Ready?

 I fully understand if I take a hammer and hit a nail as hard as I can I will cause something to happen. I see it, I hear it and sometimes I feel it. What is many times difficult for me to understand is how a small disk revolving up to 7200 RMP (my vinyl record player’s speed was 33 and read by a needle) and not having anything in contact with its surface other then a beam of light that “reads”. What does that beam of light read? Bytes. If you are old enough to remember Bud Abbott and Lou Costello you may be trying to see who is playing second base right now rather then understand “Bytes”

I choose not to beat the byte subject to death but just for edification: A byte is the unit most computers use to represent a character such as a letter, number, or typographic symbol (for example, "g", "5", or "?"). A gigabyte (GB) is a measure of computer data storage capacity and is roughly a billion bytes. A gigabyte is two to the 30th power, or 1,073,741,824 in decimal notation. I am not going to even mention Terabytes or Petabytes because in that rarified air even I get a nosebleed.

 My first computer was equal to the IBM 650 that could hold up to 2000 words. My current computer has a hard-drive capacity of 60GB or said in another way, enough space to hold that first set of encyclopedias which I paid over a $1000, all the 40,000 pictures I took traveling the world and probably the whole library of congress (I may be stretching that a byte or two but the point is - Huge in a Miniature frame.)

 Computer folks understand this.

 Have you ever taken a corner in your car going just a bit too fast? Remember what happened? Have you ever chased one of your kids around a corner in your house and didn’t slow down before banging into the far wall? Have you…well, you get the idea. Now picture a beam of light traveling at the speed of light (186,272 miles per second) moving around inside your hard-drive looking in folders, moving around partitions in many different programs and doing it at light-speed is beyond my comprehension. That beam of light not only finds your data but it displays it onto a screen in a way you can understand. Computer folk understand this and how the whole show works. If the speed-of-light is difficult to understand, picture this; you know a bullet is fast; you know many times your reflexes are quicker then an eye-twitch so just for a frame of reference consider this; If you could get a bullet you fired from a rifle held at shoulder lever to travel at the speed of light and once fired it would not run into mountains or tall building, that bullet would travel around the world and hit you in the back eight times before you could jump out of its path.

Stop shaking your head, I told you light speed was fast. All computers have built in electric fans to dispense heat - for obvious reasons. Computer folks understand programs, partitions, folders, upload and download, drivers, HTML, USB, .exe, .dll, .INI, .xls, .doc, .jpg and many, many more.

 Hopefully I am bright enough to listen to computer people and sharp enough to understand and learn from them. Everyone has bad days and even on good days I have been known to not listen and not learn. This world is a beautiful place to live and I thank God for the breath in my body, the spring in my step and the taste of honey after a tablespoon of caster-oil.

 Now, today when you have a need to feel power, go create new files on your computer. Create new or just move a few hundred thousand of your files from one hard-drive to another. Send them over the Internet to the other side of the world. Move your money, shop for a new automobile, buy a tube of lipstick or rent your forehead on the Internet.

 You have the power of the computer at your fingertips. You can accurately do it and do it in a heart beat, thanks to many smart computer folks. Computer people are different from most but intelligent in their own way. Listen to your computer people. If Brenda is not always 100% right, she knows what is required and what happens inside Snuffy’s computer much better then you or me.

  Harold Hester, Hess to his friends, is a 20-year military careerist and bronze star winner from Vietnam plus 23 more years with the US Government in Washington DC. A combat veteran and world traveller, he lived for 11 years in Paris, France and Heidelberg, Germany, plus one year in Korea, and another in Vietnam during some heavy fighting.

  Practiced as an architect for one year before being drafted into the army in 1957.

 “It was a time of innocence and imagination that folks called a good broad background and education for a book or two.” Many of his short stories will bring a tear and then have you rolling in the aisle laughing.

Harold Hester is a published Novelist, and I wholeheartedly urge you to go visit his website; for he is not only a decorated war hero, but a fascinating man, and a very talented one at that. Thank you Hess for your generosity in sharing a sample of your talented work with us all.

 Visit Harold's website at http://www.haroldhester.com/

__________________________________________________________________________________

   4.      'Leo, Love Me'                                             

              Aliya Whiteley (UK)

  My name is Mary. I’m someone’s girlfriend.

  I’m Leo’s girlfriend. I love Leo more than I love chocolate fingers and house-trained rabbits.

   But Leo is not sure if he loves me. I know this because I found out his password, and read his e-mail. He wrote to his university friend who now studies in France and said that he feels comfortable with me, and he doesn’t know if comfort is a good thing, and that I’m not clever and not a student and the sex isn’t very good, and maybe those are valid reasons for leaving me. And he wrote that I’m immature because I like chocolate fingers and house-trained rabbits, and he’s not sure if that’s acceptable behavior for a nineteen year old in a serious relationship.

 Until I read that I was busy just being me. The me that I thought went with Leo.

 How can I make Leo love me?

 One day since I read the e-mail. I made sure I was crying when he came round to my flat. I said I felt insecure and could he please tell me that he loves me? He hates to be asked to say it, so it was my revenge as well as my reassurance. He said it – I love you. I said he didn’t mean it and cried some more. He sighed and ordered pizza. He ordered it with anchovies because I like them, even though he hates them. He said – Is that not love?

 After the pizza I told him he had to go, even though I wanted him to stay. He asked why.

 I said – Because you don’t love me. Not really.

 He said – With an attitude like yours, that’s not surprising.

He left and this time I cried for real. I needed him. I phoned his mobile to ask him to come back, but he had switched it off. I left a message, telling him I really did love him.

 How can I make Leo love me?

 Two days since I read the e-mail. He was on a stag night, no doubt making jokes about balls and chains, and kissing freedom goodbye; all the old one-liners reeled out and slapped down on the bar, next to the lined-up pints of Stella and the feathered handcuffs the stripper had, no doubt, brought along. Cheering and leering.

 I don’t mind. It’s the predictability of it that offends me.

 Even though I would rather have stayed home with Flopsy, my house-trained rabbit, I put on my red high heels and my silver sequined micro-dress that makes me look like a mermaid, and threaded in my hair extensions and attached my false nails, and went down there.

 Nobody cheered or leered when I walked in.

 Leo was sitting at a corner table with his three mates, and they all watched me cross the floor to them. Leo said – What are you doing?

 I made something up about meeting people there. Some girlfriends. But it looked like they weren’t coming and could I sit with him?

 He said – It’s a stag night.

 I said – But I’m all dressed up with nowhere to go.

He said – I’ll walk you home.

 He put his coat around my shoulders and led me out of the pub, walking fast. I told him if he didn’t let me stay with him that night then it proved he didn’t love me. That he was unfeeling. I’d made such an effort for him, and wouldn’t he rather spend time with me than his mates?

 He said – I’m walking you home. Doesn’t that tell you that I love you?

 I said – I don’t need you to walk me home. I’m not a cripple.

 So he went back to the pub and left me standing in the street, his coat hanging off one shoulder, and I’m sure I was lucky not to be molested on the way home.

 I had a bath and watched a film about a man who loved a woman so much that he wrestled alligators to save her from abduction by an African Chief. Then I went to bed, and stayed awake for ages, waiting for a knock on the door. It came at 1.34am.

 Through the door, Leo said – I just wanted to check you got home okay.

 He was drunk.

 Even though I wanted him to stay, I told him to go away.

 So he did.

 How can I make Leo love me?

Three days since I read the e-mail. I called in sick and stayed home, eating chocolate fingers and stroking Flopsy. I’m going to get fat. Fat and unlovable, that’s me. Even Flopsy doesn’t love me, not really.

 Leo called.

 He said – I need to talk to you.

 He said – I don’t think this is working.

 He said – You keep trying to change me.

 He said – Let’s meet up tonight and talk it through.

 I may not be clever, but that doesn’t make me a performing monkey, something that can be made to jump through hoops and smile on command just so the owner feels happy. I have real problems, and I’m not going to pretend everything is all right when it isn’t, just for Leo’s benefit.

 He thinks I’m trying to change him. But all I’ve done is try to change myself since I read that e-mail.

 So this is it. My last chance to be what he wants me to be. Should I be calm? Should I talk about literature and politics? Should I ask the neighbour to take Flopsy and hide the empty boxes of chocolate fingers?

 Or should I be myself, and beg him to stay?

I really do love Leo. I want to be just like him. I want to study, and say intelligent things, things that don’t annoy other people or make them smile behind their hands. I want to be able to do without Flopsy and chocolate fingers. I love everything about Leo.

 So how do I make him love me?

Aliya Whiteley was born in Devon in 1974. She currently lives in Cambridgeshire with her husband and her baby daughter, Elsa. Her novel, 'Three Things About Me' will be published by Macmillan New Writing in July 2006. For more information and the chance to win a bookmark go to her website: http://www.aliyawhiteley.com/.

 _____________________________________________________________________________________________  

 5.        'Winter Thrushes'                                 

            By Roy Bateman (UK)

     I remember my grandfather as an old man; grizzled and gruff...but, with the best will in the world, memory often deceives. Maybe I formed a special bond with him, as a child, as Grandpa Ben was the only grandparent that I ever really got to know. My mother's father didn't come back from Normandy - or, at least, most of him didn't, so I never even saw him, except in a few old photographs.                                                       

    Grandpa Ben looked enormous, like some fairytale giant, but maybe that was because I wasn't tall for my age. Nevertheless, he'd take me on his knee and assure me that I was VERY tall for my height.

    That made me laugh over and over again, until I grew too sophisticated for such infantile pranks. Oh, what it would be to find the return half of some scuffed, forgotten old ticket...to clamber into some ancient carriage amid clouds of steam, and potter off into a magical tunnel; to emerge into that bright sunny vale we call the past. To see things as we could see them then, through a child's innocent eyes...no, it's too sad to even contemplate.

    My mother's mother, bless her soul, was a dried-up old stick - which is, perhaps, forgivable given her loss: she lived down near Bristol somewhere. That's where my mother's family came from. We'd visit occasionally, but she showed little interest in me. Mostly, she spent those visits clacking to my mother about Lord knows what, and my dad would take me off somewhere. It wasn't the ideal place to take an inquisitive child, and I'm sure my father was quite embarrassed about the whole thing. Apart from book tokens at Christmas, that was about the only contact I had. For my mother's sake, I forced myself to grieve when she died. In truth,  I   didn't  much care.

    Grandpa Ben lived around three miles away, just on the edge of town. He loved his garden, and spent all the time he could out there with his greenhouses and currant bushes of various kinds. Oh, he had apple trees, rhubarb clumps, the lot. I was fascinated as a kid, and more than willing to scoff down his produce: I was usually delegated to carry it home for my mother to cook, a task I relished - I'd be welcomed back as if I'd grown the bounty with my own impossibly soft hands, dumping my booty proudly on that wooden kitchen table. But there was more to Grandpa Ben's garden.

     Much more. Oh, my parents - harassed and overworked as they were, took time to inculcate in me a love of, and interest in, the world around me, but it was Grandpa who fanned that interest into an undying flame - it was he who first showed me the delicacy of a spider's web, jewelled with fresh dew, the wonderful workmanship of a nest. There was more surrounding greenery than in my own suburban street, and an old disused railway cutting very close to the bottom of the garden. Only the odd dog-walker disturbed this track bed as it reverted to nature, and it teemed with life.

    It was there that I saw my first fox, one summer evening - ambling along, it was, a scabby old thing that trotted along as if he owned the place. But, more than that, even, there were birds. I had books at school, naturally - I could recognize the cheeky robin and the raucous blackbird easily enough. But Grandpa...he loved them, and in return they flocked to his garden almost as if he was some latter-day St Francis.  Grandpa knew them all - thrushes and blue tits, dowdy sparrows and the surprisingly brightly-coloured wrens that bounced among the dead leaves like tiny mice.

   Most of all, I remember the winter thrushes, the fieldfares and redwings that I'd never even have noticed without his guidance. He explained carefully what migration meant - that wonder of nature which is far too complex for a child to understand. Even now, I couldn't explain it properly. But I can recall one thing as plain as daylight. Being full of my own importance, I made some clever remark..."bird-brained" came into it somewhere. It wasn't as if Grandpa scolded me - no, his admonition was too subtle for that. No, he simply looked at me sadly until I realized how patronizing I'd been. I can still recall his words today.

  "Could you do it, lad?" he asked softly. "Wait up there until you knew...just knew, mind, that it was time to go? Somehow, you could navigate maybe thousands of miles until some little voice told you it was time to land. And there you'd find another of your kind, raise a family and, when the call came, return the way you'd come? No, believe me, birds know things that we don't."                                                                                       

    I can't pretend that those were his exact words, but they're near enough, and summarise what he meant. Of course, I was stumped. Knowing he'd made his point, he took me in for a welcome glass of Tizer.            

    Those thrushes came every year, at much the same time, and it came to be a ritual - watching out for the first glimpse. Sometimes, I know, Grandpa would take me down when he'd seen them already, but swear he hadn't, just so that I could claim the first sighting. That would be, as he often said, another feather in my cap .I never asked too much about Grandma Ruth, as I hardly ever saw her. Oh, my parents told me just enough to stop me bothering them.

   She wasn't well, and sometimes she went away for the sake of her health. "Where" was never exactly specified, and it sounded fair enough to a child. In fact, I envied her, because I could see her sitting on the lawns at some big sanatorium sort of place, enjoying the healthy sea air. I know differently now...how grim the big county institutions were in those days, and how difficult it was to get out once you were in. It wasn't like today, not at all. The doctors knew best.

  But Grandpa Ben soldiered on. Even when Grandma was at home, she tended to sit in the parlour alone, and I wasn't allowed to disturb her. And here's a shameful admission - I secretly thought how funny it was that grandpa made the tea instead of his wife - after all, my dad hardly knew where the kitchen was, and showed no inclination to find out. But Grandpa...he made tea from a big old-fashioned kettle like an expert, and always took his wife a cup in before anyone else. She came first, even when she shouted at him for bringing her such cold tea. Once, I'm sure I heard the cup break, but Grandpa came back out like nothing had happened and went back in with the mop when he thought I wasn't watching.

   It seemed funny to a child, seeing a man do that without complaint. It just wasn't something that generation did, was it?    It wasn't only drinks - when I went around for my tea, which was as often as I could wangle it, he'd slice the bread like an expert, making sandwiches with the juicy tomatoes he was so proud of. Then, there would be tinned peaches and "cream" - Carnation Milk from a tin, but close enough.

  What's more, he didn't force me to cram down bread and butter with it, to fill me up, like mom did. That was close enough to heaven for any child. Only once did I ask Grandpa if Grandma was all right. He stopped, shook his head and mumbled that she was none too well lately, but she'd no doubt be better soon. When I pressed him, pointing out in my blunt childish way that it didn't seem fair for him to do everything, he just looked down at me and told me that one day I'd understand.

   One day, when I was a man, I'd get married and I'd hear those words the parson said: for better, for worse. You remembered that, he said, and you stuck by each other. That was what it was all about. I no doubt nodded sagely, but I didn't fully understand - what child does?    When Grandma passed away, I selfishly wondered if it would be better for Grandpa Ben...after all, there would be fewer demeaning chores. It didn't turn out that way. Once she'd gone, he seemed to shrink back inside himself. He didn't smile so much, and he had less time for me.

   That last Sunday, I knew...there was something different about him. His skin was shiny, papery, and the light that had always burned so fiercely in his eyes was dimmed. When I waved from the bus-stop, I knew with absolute certainty that I'd never see him again, and that the next time I wandered into the greenhouse I'd be alone.

   It was on the Wednesday, when I came home from school  that my mother wasn't in the kitchen. When I found her in the parlour, red-eyed, I didn't need to be told. It was some time before Grandpa's house was sold, though, and I often went round with my parents to do various tidying jobs. It was cold, lifeless, and I hated it. That year the winter thrushes didn't come. I looked for hours, walked miles after school round to Grandpa's garden, just to make that simple connection with the past, but I saw not one. I don't imagine that they came the following year, either. Oh, they knew all right. Birds know things we don't, Grandpa once told me. And he wasn't often wrong....     

 And, last but not least, here's some detail on Roy's new Novel "Operation Rembrandt"

"You can't trust anyone in times like these, Ruth...it might be the very last thing you ever do."

Set against the drab, miserable background of wartime Britain - a place where peacetime standards of decency and honour have long been abandoned - OPERATION REMBRANDT is designed to tease and intrigue the reader.

Just who is the enigmatic Jack Barnard, and what, exactly, has brought him to a sleepy seaside hotel in the dead of winter?  What's more, is he the only character whose true identity is uncertain?

 Amazon (UK) sells
it, and PubAm sells
it at a discount.
ISBN number 141370170

http://www.amazon.co.uk/      http://www.publishamerica.com/

Visit Roy's website at http://www.wazzocksend.co.uk/  and read his other wonderful short stories.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

Are you still stuck for ideas for your book? Learn how the 'Queen of Mystery ' got her ideas...

   Agatha Christie used to carry a notebook everywhere she went, writing down anything of interest that she saw and heard –no matter how abstract it may have seemed at the time.  She would then refer to her books immediately she returned home.

   Sometimes an idea would come easily, and sometimes it would take ages. But with all this information to hand she would eventually develop a constructive idea for her next crime Novel. And as we all know now, everything she wrote was a best seller. They made movies, TV features, and her wonderful play 'The Mouse trap' ran for over 30 years in London on the stage.

   Asked at a celebration gathering for her  how she got her ideas, she replied, “Where do I get my ideas? At Marks & Spencers Stores!” (for those of you who may not be familiar with this name, it is one of the leading chains of up market stores in the UK)

    Agatha was a perfectionist. She methodically researched everything she needed to know about a subject before starting writing a Novel, and took care of the details. Add this to her terrific natural talent as a writer and you have the perfect combination.

   She was the Queen of crime fiction. Many great writers after her have said how much they are indebted to Agatha Christie’s talent to inspire them to write well.

    Anyone can take a notepad or use a computer to write a story. The results are wholly dependent on the skills and talent of the writer. But some of our greatest writers were inspired to write from the heart, from a deep longing within them. So don’t be daunted by the greats –learn from them!  Read their books, and read them again. And again. Then take them apart by writing notes on a pad; observe how they formulated the plot, linked the story together and how they introduced the ‘hero’ and villain. These are the two main ingredients in any action/mystery/crime book. 

   Even in romance stories this still holds true; you need a balance between the main character and the other elements in the story. No use talking about one character and nothing else. You need something else, like a dark side to work against it all. In a nutshell, Good prevails over evil. Have a 'Baddy' and a 'Goody' in there.

 It has always been the favourite plot for readers and always will remain so. It is a basic human trait. The reader wants his/her ‘hero’ to win against all odds by the last page of your book. And that is exactly how Agatha Christie wrote her stories, all keeping you, the reader, guessing - and on the edge of your seat - to find out 'who dunnit'!

 If you have not read any of Agatha's books  - then do so now! You will love them, and learn a great deal to inspire you to write well, no matter what your subject is about. A story is a story, and it is the way you tell it that is going to captivate your readers and make your writing worthwhile.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

 6.       'The Ball Park'                                                 

   By Sean Riley (USA)

Two steps per stair I followed Albert past rows of empty green seats. My hands and arms filled with dollar dogs and my souvenir cup over-flowing with ice cold coke. The seagulls were making their mid-afternoon journey to the bay and the A’s were taking the field. The all-white uniforms glowed in the early afternoon sun.

"These cool?" asked Albert.

"Yeah dude," I replied as I positioned myself into my seat. You see, today was dollar Wednesday, which means that all upper-deck and outfield seats were a dollar. These prices also applied to the majority of the stadium’s edibles. Since nobody in their right mind would buy any other tickets, this gave us free reign for any seat in the stadium for only a buck. Today it was the second deck perpendicular to first base with our legs exposed to the July sun and the rest of our bodies hidden under the over-hang. Mark Mulder took his warm-up tosses as I inhaled two of my dogs. Mustard and onions were the only way to go. With my shoeless feet resting on the seat in front of me and my arms sprawled to both sides as far as they would go I watched Mulder fire the first pitch.

"Striiiiiike!" rang out from deep within the umps padded belly. I look over to Albert, who was two seats down, and he nodded his approval. Time for hot dog number three.

My dad was never a baseball fan as a kid or adult. Once a year or so from the time I was three, he would take me to the Oakland Coliseum to see the A’s. He would drink his Budweiser’s and I my Cokes. When the forth inning came we would bet on Dot Racing. If I won I got a malt, and if he won I still got a malt. Now you can go to any stadium and see some version of this game but it all started in Oakland with three dots poking around a digital horse track on Diamond Vision. It wasn’t until 1988 when Kirk Gibson took Dennis Eckersley deep in the bottom of the 9^th with took outs to lead the Dodgers to a 3-2 win over the A’s in Game one of the World Series that my dad became a real fan. The A’s lost the best of seven series in five games but my dad was hooked. To this day I never understood why this depressing World Series awoke the baseball fan in him but, then again, I’ve never asked.

Mulder retired the side in five pitches.

"He looks good," I said from my sunning elephant seal position.

"Yeah, but the Padres got no sticks," muttered Albert from underneath his black A’s cap.

During the 1989 season my dad formed a group of his co-workers to buy a pair of season tickets. That season culminated in the “Battle of the Bay” World Series between the Oakland A’s and the San Francisco Giants. I went to Game Two at the Oakland Coliseum decked in my new green Athletics jacket and my trusty old green and gold cap. At my arrival I was infuriated by the numerous number of Giant’s fans defiling our home turf. My ten year-old mind raged, "Who dared to let them in?" From the third deck directly behind home plate, I watched with glee as the A’s silenced the invaders with a 5-1 victory.

Two days later at 5:04pm I was pacing back and forth across my parent’s room in anticipation of Game 3 to take place in twenty minutes at Candlestick Park, when I felt the ground begin to rumble lightly under my feet. Down the hall, I heard my mother’s voice yell "Earthquake!" Remembering my years of training I ran for a door frame. On my third step, a jolt ripped through the earth with the ferocity of a freight train. I stumbled and slammed into the door frame as my mother came running around the corner. She grabbed me and crammed into my shelter. The endless destruction of the earth snapped wood, broke glass, and ripped through our neighborhood with the force of a sledgehammer smashing through paper mache. Then it stopped. This was not Armageddon. Silence. Breathing. "Outside!" my mother belted out as she shattered tranquility and dragged me out by my wrist.

Forty-five minutes later we were back inside, and the cable was repaired. The screen before me displayed carnage beyond the imagination of my Carney Lansford worshipping mind.

"The Nimitz Freeway has collapsed. The death toll is thought to be in the thousands," announced Dennis Richmond. I sat in the living room of my Walnut Creek home mesmerized by the carnage that lay to the west for hours. The A’s and Giants never played that day but when the Nimitz freeway death toll only reached 60 instead of 1000 or 2000. The only reason for this anybody had was baseball. The normally apathetic and evenly split baseball fans of the Bay Area had all left work early that day to see their local teams play for the championship. The massive flow of rush-hour traffic had been reduced to a tiny trickle leaving those at home or in bars instead of in their cars under a thousand tons of concrete.

Today’s game was in the middle of the 4^th inning. The blue, red, and white dots were chasing each other around the track and the A’s were up 3-0.

"C’mon, White. You got it. Yes! That’ll be one dollar dog please." Albert reached over to the seat next to him grabbed his last dog and tossed it to me.

"Ass," he said as it landed in my lap.

"Thanks, dude," I smiled as I peeled open the silver aluminum wrap. The sun now fully covered us and only my stretch fit Nike cap blocked it from blistering my skull. I shoved the ketchup covered dog into my mouth turning my attention back to the field. Miguel Tejada stepped to the plate waiving his bat back and forth over the freshly swept plate. I stayed sprawled with my reddening shins still hung over the seats in front of me and sipped my warm Coke.

1989 was the last time the A’s won the World Series although they did get there the year after. Their glory days officially came to an end following a loss to the Blue Jays in the playoffs in 1992. During that time, my dad and I went to games every other week or so but he took my mom to the playoff games. That is, except for one. I went to Game Four of the ’92 playoffs. The A’s were losing 4-1 in the sixth inning when every young baseball fan’s dream came true for me. Candy Maldonado hit a towering drive to left off of the A’s Mike Moore that rocketed off of the concrete stairs between bleacher sections and back out onto the field. The silenced crowd never noticed when Rickey Henderson picked up the ball and threw it over to the A’s bullpen which I happened to be sitting behind. Steve Chitren fielded the ball on one hop and turned to the crowd and then strait at me and my fading green jacket and flip the ball to me. I caught it and sat back down in my seat without a peep. My dad wanted to see it. People patted my shoulder and smiled at me and I could only offer them I weary smile back.

That was the end of the A’s that I had known. Dave Stewart, Carney Lansford, Dave Henderson all retired, Jose Canseco signed with the Rangers, and eventually Mark McGuire was traded to the Cardinals. My dad began to travel and the endless supply of tickets shriveled up. A couple times a season we might catch a game together but even then I spent most of the game trying to figure out how to sneak out for a cigarette. My friends were more interested in getting high than watch a ballgame and that’s the way it went for the next seven years for me and the A’s.

I climbed back down the giant stairs to my seat after a trip to the Men's room to release the 32oz of Coke I had sucked down. The score had ballooned to 10-0 at the top of the 8^th and Mulder had only given up two hits. Tejada had gone deep twice, once in the 4^th and once in the 7^th. I sat down and looked at Albert who was munching on some gummy worms.

"Let me get one," I said as I flipped off my sandals and returned my feet to their natural position. He handed two to me. I put one in my mouth as Mulder hurled another strike across the plate. "He sure doesn’t throw a lot of pitches, does he."

"Nope," Albert replied.

I met Albert at the University of Redlands only to find out that he lived in Walnut Creek about a two-minute drive from me. We both lived in Williams Hall our first year and were both transfer students from Diablo Valley College. During the spring break of that first year, I talked him into going to a game, only to find out his dad use to have season tickets, too. Since his dad remarried, Albert had not been to a games. It had been five years since his last game and two since my last time at the Coliseum. We sat field level that day right behind the A’s dugout. The whole game the guy grinned and his eyes glowed like a terrier’s when offered a 16oz piece of steak. We went to two more games that break and sixteen the following summer. The last three years have all been the same. Some games end with an Eric Chavez or Terrance Long home run. Others offer a glimpse of greatness like Barry Zito’s first start in the majors when the bases were loaded in the 5^th with nobody out and he struck out Mo Vaughn, Tim Salmon, and Garret Anderson in order. The three slugger all-stars were no match for last years Cy Young Award winner. Some are torturous blowouts with ball after ball rolling under fielder’s legs.  A’s pitchers retire no-one and opponent’s bats seem to be twelve inches thick. The final out is an act of mercy to the few fans left in their seats.

The best though, are games like this. A weekday afternoon blowout on dollar-day is not to be missed.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

                                'Now for a 'tongue in cheek' History Lesson'

  7.     'A Ladye Fayre'

By Leslie J. Weddell (UK)

   When I was a schoolboy I hated history. Maybe it was the way it was presented to me and my class mates, but I cannot truthfully say this for sure. I was probably more interested in playing music for it was one of the few subjects that I was any good at, and later led me to a career spanning over fifty years as a professional musician.

  But as life has mellowed me like an old wine I have found myself becoming fascinated by how others lived in the past.

  I invite you to join me on a trip back into Tudor times in Old England; To a troubled time of ‘skulduggery and plots afoot’ in dark corridors of power, for we are going back in our ‘time machine’ to the reign of Queen Elizabeth 1.

   But before we enter the court of ‘good Queen Bess’ let us briefly catch up with all that history you have long forgotten, and unfold how she, and the Tudor era, came about.

   King Henry the V111 was behind it all.

   After his triumph in settling the so-called ‘War of the Roses’ between the Duchy of Lancaster (Red rose) and the House of York (White Rose) his problem was to ensure the succession of an undisputed heir to the throne after his death. So as we all know, he married six wives, quickly dispatching two of those unfortunate ladies who did not bear him a son.

   Three children survived him; two daughters and a son. As was traditional in those days, the male was first choice to take the throne. So at only ten-years of age Edward V1 was anointed King of England in 1547. Unfortunately, the lad died six years later from consumption.

  Mary, the elder of Henry’s two daughters, was preferred to reign as Queen rather than to search for a suitable male.

   The plot thickens.

 Mary not only revealed herself to be a Catholic who persecuted Protestants, but she went off and married Philip 11, King of Spain. He was one of the most aggressive and devout foes of Protestantism. That led to her jailing her sister (Elizabeth, a staunch Protestant) on a trumped up charge of plotting a revolt. Mary dies just five years later, and so in 1558, twenty-five year old Elizabeth is released from jail and became Queen of England.

 Are you still with me? Good. Now let’s enter the court of Queen Elizabeth 1.

  There is an odd odour in the air; a sort of combination of perspiration and perfume.

  Keep in mind that they did not have bathrooms as we know them, and washing ‘too often’ was frowned upon as it was thought to ‘sap the goodness of the natural oils from the skin’. And there was no sewerage system as we know it either. The 'night bucket' was simply poured out of an open window into the street below. (The 'other stuff' was supposedly buried in a fresh hole in the ground every other day!) There must have been a dreadful pong in the air during the summer months.

 But I digress....

    Arriving suddenly in the great hall in our ‘time machine’ like the Tardis from a ‘Doctor Who’ TV episode, we exit to see a sombre looking court official wearing a skull cap and long black robe and chains of office proudly displayed around his neck. He bids the Earl of Leicester to enter the Royal Chambers and be received by her majesty, and we follow the two men into the room.

   (Did I neglect to tell you that we can see them but they can’t see us? Well, what do you expect? We are only observers, and as such, cannot interfere with History. If we revealed ourselves and told them from hence we came –we would most certainly be burned at the stake as witches!

   A wisp of a woman breezes into the room and we instantly recognize her as the Queen. She is wearing one of those distinctive Tudor gowns she designed herself, with the high bodice and surrounding lace head collar. The jewels glitter in the tiara crown that sits on her bright red hair, decorated with pearls and baubles.

  The Queen then commands her ladies in waiting and other officials to leave the room.

   Upon the door being closed, the Earl of Leicester courtesies in a long sweeping bend of his head and arm in the presence of his Monarch. Elizabeth laughs and embraces him, happy to see her favourite back from the wars against Spain. Although never proven, it is hinted in the chronicled diaries from that period that Leicester was her lover, or at least there was a not too discreetly hidden affair going on between them.

    Leaving Leicester, she walks through a corridor into the council room to be greeted by bowing old cronies on her privy council, who again raise the boring question in regards to a future heir to the throne. They tell her that both houses of Parliament are petitioning her to marry soon, but not to a foreigner. They want to ensure she marries an Englishman and bear a boy child to be sure of succession to the throne after her death. In this manner, no foreign husband could have a claim to the throne.

   (It should be pointed out here that she was under pressure to marry her sister’s widower, Philip of Spain).

   Elizabeth 1 lived for Seventy Years, practically unheard of in those days. She was wise and fair with her subjects and built a prosperous England from the bankrupt state it had been in when she became the Queen. She reigned for forty five years and has been acclaimed the greatest Monarch England has ever had.

   Her advisors knew well that Elizabeth was a sharp witted woman, wise to the ways of politicians. She was extremely well educated and fluent in Greek and Latin, as well as being a writer of note. She composed most of her own speeches, and wrote and performed music to a very high standard.

  If I have wetted your appetite to find out more about Good Queen Bess, then go to http://www.google.co.uk/   and type in ‘’Queen Elizabeth 1 of England.’

 A wealth of websites will appear for you to feast your eyes on. Many contain the lengthy speeches and letters she wrote to prominent people - and you must read the wonderful and famous speeches she prepared to address her Parliament. They match anything Winston Churchill made during WW11.

 Here is one of her most celebrated Poems.

   It is said that this poem implies the break-off of a marriage engagement between Elizabeth and the French Duke of Anjou in 1582. More to the point, it was probably more associated to her affection she held for the Earl of Essex, another of her suitors in her long reign. She is said to have favoured him more than anyone else, but he betrayed her towards the end of her reign and had his head removed for treason.

               The poem is entitled ‘On Monsieur’s Departure’ (How apt!)

 “I grieve and dare not show my discontent,

O love and yet am forced to seem in hate,

I do, yet dare not say I ever meant,

I seem stark mute but inwardly do prate.

I am and not, I freeze and yet am burned,

Since from myself another self I turned.

My care is like my shadow in the sun,

Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it,

Stands and lies by me,

Doth make me rue it.

No means I find to rid of him from my breast,

Till by the end of things it must be suppressed.”

For the record, the wives of Henry V111 were:

 Catherine of Aragon.    "             "           1509-1533               Divorced

 Anne Boleyn.                     “         “           1533-1536                Executed

Jane Seymour                     “        “            1536-1557                Died

Anne of Cleves                   “        “            1540- Jan to July      Divorced

Kathryn Howard                 “        “            1540-1542                Executed

Katherine Parr                     “        “            1543-1547               Widowed 

______________________________________________________________________________________________

      8      “Muldoon; Another Dimension"

                By Lana Adams (South Africa)

‘It’s safe to tell a secret to no one,

Risky to tell it to two.

To tell it to three a thoughtless folly,

Everyone else will know’

   CHAPTER ONE

    The young man ran as fast as his powerfully built legs would carry him. His leather boots slapped through the tall grass and a few scrub bushes. His backpack smacked against his back as he ran. In his one hand he held a short sword, and in the other a long wooden staff. His upper body was covered in a sleeveless leather jerkin. His lower half was covered in leather breaches, a shade lighter than his boots. His breath was ragged as he pushed himself hard, keeping the distance between himself and his pursuers.

   There were five men, each skilled swordsmen and arms-men that served in the young man’s uncle’s employ. Their sport with the fleeing man was not for fun, but to inflict harm upon him, the more grievous the better on order from his uncle.

   The young man came to the edge of a river and stopped. He stood, his sides heaving as he tried to get his breath back. He had two choices, throw himself into the river and see if the river would save him or drown him, for he could not swim, or he could stand and fight. Stand and fight it would be. He lifted his staff above is head and began to mutter some nonsensical words that came easily to his mouth.   

   The words had a poem like quality to it, and seconds later a shield of light surrounded him. He had uttered a simple spell of protection that would last for as long as his willpower held. His longish dark brown hair clung wetly to his face. His blue eyes watched as one by one the men raced up to surround him in a semi-circle.

   With the river as protection from behind the man focused. His staff seemed to glow with a single rune. The man, already tired from his chase, knew it would only be a matter of time before his spell would fade, then he would have a battle of cold steel to look forward to. He sighed with regret resigned to his inevitable fate, but he would go down fighting to the bitter end.

   The woman put her pen down and closed her eyes. Another story another tangle of action, romance and adventure. Another piece that added to her already lonely and aching heart. Why could life not be more like a novel? Why was life so ordinary and dull, and all the real men jackasses? Bridgitte slid her pen behind her right ear. She was dressed in black cycle shorts and a red t-shirt. Her long auburn hair that reached almost to her waist was tied up in a single pony. Her grey-blue eyes felt like filling with tears, sorry for herself. Life had dealt her many terrible blows.

  Bridgitte put down her book that she was busy writing and glanced at a photo of her twenty-one year old son on the table beside her bed. He was fair-haired with the same blue eyes. Tie, as he liked to be called, had moved to Cape Town to study at college, and also to be near his girlfriend. How his mother missed having him around to talk to. She sighed as she heard her two youngest daughters Storm and Ayla fighting again. Storm, the eldest at 10 years was taking something that belonged to her 7-year-old sister again. The younger one was crying again.

     “Storm, leave your sister alone!” Bridgitte called, “And both of you go to bed, there’s school tomorrow!”

There was a sudden silence as both sisters climbed into their beds. Bridgitte walked through to the kitchen and put the kettle on to make some coffee. Her mother and brother sat watching television in the lounge. Bridgitte’s unfortunate circumstances forced her to live under the roof of her pensioner mother and elder jobless brother. Her job as a gym instructor took her time from afternoon to 7:30pm in the evening. The noise from the children died down as sleep quickly took them. Bridgitte made her mother and herself a cup of coffee, then went to go sit outside on a log under the trees. She blew on the cup watching the steam trail off into nothing. She looked up at the star filled sky, a sliver of cloud obscuring the full moon. Her heart and chest felt heavy.

          “Why can’t I find someone like in my books to come and rescue me from his hell of an empty existence,” she thought to herself.

She felt a brushing by her legs and looking down she saw Gadget her cat.

          “Why aren’t you a magic cat, then I could wish on you to grant me a wish,” she said, bending to scratch the cat behind her ears.

The cat looked up at her as if it understood her, its green eyes staring, unblinking. The cloud moved away from the moon and the air was clean and bright and suddenly very silent. No crickets made a sound, which normally meant that something had disturbed them. Gadget jumped up onto one of the other logs and seemed to be looking at the moon with half closed eyes, her tail twitching. Bridgitte drank down the cooled coffee and put the cup down on another log, drawing up her legs. She fiddled with the oversized gold wedding ring on her right hand, that she had reclaimed from her ex-husband when they had split eight years ago. She took the slightly squashed ring off and held it up to the moon so she could gaze through the oval shape up into the clear night sky.

          “Eight years, I’ve been alone for over eight years without a man, Gadget. Do I deserve to live out the rest of my life in a one-horse-town with no romance or adventure? How I wish I could just jump into my own stories just so I can have something to look forward to. I’m forty and getting older. If only there were someone out there; across the universe, or in another dimension, anywhere more interesting than here in this mundane world of mundane people and mundane jobs.”

She closed her left eye to stare at the perfect round moon through the ring.

          “I wish that somewhere out there my heart and soul could call forth a man to be mine. Someone so unique and different than anyone out here. Someone who’ll love my kids and I without question. I wish…”

She focused on the ring with all her might, willing the impossible, knowing the inevitable. She held her breath for several more seconds.

    The man’s strength was almost spent. He knew his magical shield was about to fade. Suddenly, behind him he saw a disturbance in the air. It was small and insignificant, the person’s power very weak. He immediately saw a way to salvation. He pointed his staff towards the disturbance and it began to grow larger. It was a golden circle, slightly oval in shape. Beyond it he saw the face of the woman he had seen often in his dreams. Was she for real? He felt the pull of her to him, a yearning he felt compelled to follow. The cries of the men behind him rose in shock and horror, as they saw a window open behind the young prince.

Nick was the last in the line to the throne. First his father had disappeared when out overseeing the tax collection in a neighbouring town. Nick and his brother had ridden out to investigate his disappearance, but everyone they had spoken to would not answer, scared of what would happen to them if they did. In the end Nick, a wizard, had to resort to magic to get the answers he wanted.

   It came as a shock to him when he discovered his uncle had been behind it all. Realizing that his mother and sister’s lives were in danger, they had raced back home, only to arrive too late. Both had been butchered mercilessly. Their ravaged bodies lay in the master bedroom. Nick and his younger brother Derick did not even have time to mourn before the same assailants attacked them. They were told of how the women screamed as they each took their turns with them. Between the two brothers they put away five of the assailants before Derick took a sword in the gut. Nick watched helpless as his younger brother was disembowelled. He had managed to cast a fire spell to blind his attackers and had leapt through the first floor window and had fled on foot.

It was this flight that brought him to the river, and the window behind him. The window began to waver and shrink.

          “No!” he shouted, dropping his magical shield and using the last flicker of energy to enlarge the window and threw himself head first through.

He felt like he was falling a long way. His stomach lurched and he felt the bile rise into his throat and he began to vomit. He landed with a jarring thud onto hard ground. He dropped his sword and grabbed his left leg. The break was clean and not protruding. The pain raced up his leg and he quickly brought his staff up and cast a healing spell before he fell over unconscious.

 Bridgitte thought she was seeing things. For a moment she saw blue eyes looking at her from the other side of the ring. She blinked and shook her head.

          “Now I must be loosing it,” she said, slipping the ring back onto her finger.

She picked up her empty cup and headed back inside. The kettle was still hot, so she made herself another cup of coffee and retired back to her room and the novel she was busy writing.

Bridgitte stared at the blank page, her pen in her hand. The picture of the blue eyes came back to her mind. It had not been her own eyes she had seen, the blue had been more intense. There had been a deep sadness and anger mixed inside, or had she imagined it? Bridgitte fiddled with her pen and stared at the blank page, but nothing came to her mind. She finished her coffee, used the bathroom and climbed into bed. She switched off her light and stared up at the light shining on her ceiling from the street lamps from outside. Her heart still felt heavy and sad.

   “If God made one man for every woman, where is my perfect partner? Do we have to go through life with no one or with someone who doesn’t really love you? Bridgitte turned over and closed her eyes. A single tear escaped under her eyelid.

    Nick awoke abruptly. He felt cool damp grass beneath him. The smell of wet soil filled his nostrils. Crickets chirped but fell silent when he rose to his knees. He had fallen across his sword, his hand holding onto his staff. He rose slowly to his feet, feeling dizzy. He felt the need to pass water and quickly loosened his breaches. This was followed by an incredible thirst. Nick removed his backpack and pulled out his half empty water-skin, and drank thirstily. His temples pounded from a headache, and he muttered a short spell to rid himself of the pain. Nick replaced the stopper on his flask and hung it form his belt for easy access. The sword he sheathed and slung across his back. Wherever here was, he felt no vibration of evil intent. He felt the call and pull of summoning from the Northeast. He bent to pull up a few blades of grass and stuffed them into his mouth as he walked. The full moon gazed down at him, showing him the way.

He realized he was in a field when he came to rows upon rows of growing corn. He picked a few and added it to his bag, and then ate one as he continued to head in a north-easterly direction.

          “I’m coming Milady,” he muttered under his breath and he continued to walk into the night. Nick came to his first tarred road and stopped to examine it. What magic could have caused the ground to blacken and harden so? These people must be great sorcerers. He would have to be very cautious. He found the going easier along this blackened path, but why was it so wide? Did they have great beasts that carried them about? Almost in answer to his thought, a car came racing around the corner, it’s headlights flashed and hooted, the sound ringing in Nick’s ear. He instinctively dived to the grassy verge of the road. The vehicle raced past only to be swallowed by the dark.

          “What manner of beast was that? It’s eyes were huge and glowed, and it made a loud noise as it ran towards me. Why did it not attack me? Maybe it was too full,” Nick thought, climbing back onto his feet.

He dusted down the sand from his clothes then continued to walk. He decided to walk on the verge of the road, fearing that somehow the magical substance would call forth another monster.

 ______________________________________________________________________________________________

  9.    'Teddy's Tea Party'

 By Paul Mc Cann (Australia)

   Down among the willows near the Lagoon lived Tippy the Teddy Bear. Tippy had wanted to have a tea party for so long that she decided to invite all of the creatures who lived around Willow corner. All the little bluebirds were busy delivering the invitations to Teddy’s Tea Party. “Oh no, silly me“ thought Tippy in a terrible moment of reality.

 .
   “I have invited everyone to come tomorrow morning and there is nothing for them to eat. “ Tippy pulled out all of her pots and pans and then another though came to her.  “Oh dear me, what ever will I do, for I can’t bake a cake or even make a cookie“ Right away Tippy ran off to the tree house and knocked on Bushy Tail’s door. The little squirrel opened the door and said, “I’ll be there. Thanks for the tea party invitation Teddy. “

   “That’s great, but I’ve got a problem and need some help" said Tippy. “What can I do to help you?” asked the friendly squirrel “Could you tell me how to make a cake?"

  The squirrel scratched her nose and said “Well you’ll need lots of nuts, and let me see, some honey, and mix them all together, I think.  Is that any help for you Tippy?.“

  "Oh no, can you think of anybody who might know how to bake anything? because tomorrow I have lots of people coming and nothing to give them."

  “I’m sure the silver trout in the lagoon know something" said the squirrel. "They’ve always got cake and bread to eat .go and ask them”

  Tippy ran away to the lagoon and shouted into the still water “Hello in there, is there anyone home?”

  A sleek silver trout swam over to the side of the bank and asked, “What’s the problem. Don’t you like trout are we not good enough for you; how come we didn’t get invited to your tea party then? “

  Tippy laughed “Don’t be silly, everyone knows you can’t come on land.

  “You could have still sent us an invitation Tippy. Just to show we are thought about in here"

   “I am so sorry, I never thought. Would you forgive me? “

   “Only if you bring us some left over cookies and cake”

   “Sure that is if I can find somebody to tell me how I can bake them “

   “You can’t mean it. “

   “I never though until it was too late you see “Said Tippy hiding her red face. 

   “Don’t worry Tippy, just go and ask the wise owl who lives at the top of the tall twisted Willow. Say Imp told you he has lots of cook books."

  “Oh thank you ever so much, Silverkee.” 

  The teddy rushed down to the twisted willow and climbed up through the twisty branches until she was at the door at the top of the trunk .Knocking gently she shouted out until finally  owl opened the door .“Twitt who, oh it’s you. Yes, I'm coming to your tea party and thank you for asking me. Now what should I bring?” Said the old cross eyed owl standing by the door.

  “Oh I’m glad you’re coming but I need to ask for some help Mr Owl. I’m told you have some cook books. Could I please borrow one please”.

  “Sure you can. You better come in for a moment. Said the owl who went over to a large bookcase. “Cook books. I have a number of them. Mmm let me see. Tea party isn’t it? Here we are -.Fairy Cakes, crumbles and cookies. That should do Tippy". The owl handed over the books to the teddy who thanked the owl and scurried down the tree. Half way down, Tippy had another terrible thought and made her way back up to Mr Owls door.

  Knocking not so gently this time and in a panic, Tippy shouted. “My, oh my, what ever will I do “

   The owl opened the door and asked Tippy inside. “What ever is wrong with you?”

  Tippy, all red faced handed the books back. “I can’t read.”

   “Look down and let me read to you.”

   “It’s very kind of you, but I can’t cook or bake either.”

  “Twit who, it’s all right; don’t feel bad. Come on, and let’s get started before your guests arrive.”

     The owl and the Teddy worked together all that night. It was easy with proper instructions, and soon the smell of cookies and cake drifted all through Willow Corner .The next morning all the creatures arrived for the tea party. They had all brought their own cup and saucer and soon the party began. Bunches of wild flowers were placed in various spots and scattered on tree stumps were plates with fairy cakes and cookies.

   There were games and dances, and everyone had lots of fun, and after the party was over Tippy thanked everyone for coming. A special thank you was said for Mr Owl who had made it a success, and Tippy brought a plate of leftovers down for the fish in the lagoon.

   Mr Owl offered to teach the creatures of Willow Corner how to read and it was welcomed by all. A bright new shade of sunlight wafted down on Willow Corner and tea parties were a regular event.

 The End

 (Paul McCann has been writing for over forty years and has been published in various magazines around the world. Besides Poetry and short stories, he enjoys writing for children and has won awards in Australia for his works. You can visit his website at; http://home.vicnet.net.au/~poems/)

______________________________________________________________________________________________

 10 'The loneliest Christmas of my life'

By Mike Coatesworth (UK)

Christmas was just around the corner, and I was down on my luck.   It had taken me several days to make the trek from Bradford to London to try and make my fortune.  I was down to my last few pence that I was determined to save for a dire emergency.

As I walked the streets of Piccadilly Circus I stared at the people who passed by me with armfuls of presents.  A huge grin appeared on my features as I came to the conclusion that Londoners that I had seen so far certainly looked affluent.

Night was falling fast and frost was everywhere.  I was cold and hungry, and I knew that if I was to survive I would need to find shelter, and find it soon.  By this time I was very tired and I reached a doorway that offered a little cover for me.  I had hardly had time to place my bum on the step when a man approached me and told me that if I was hungry I could get something to eat from a kitchen set up not far from where I was.

     At first I was very suspicious, but curiosity got the better of me and wary of my surroundings, I walked to where the bloke had told me I would receive warm sustenance.  True enough, there was a caravan and I could see the steam coming from huge pots on the counter.  A couple of officers from the Salvation Army were walking around pouring liquid into cups eagerly held out by folk in the same situation as me.

    Cautiously I walked over to the kitchen and waited.  My eyes were bulging and my mouth watering as I spotted a hot bowl of soup. ‘Would you like some soup dear?’ a loud voice asked at my side causing me to collapse onto the ground in fear. An arm was placed around my shoulder and I was staring into the face of a sympathetic mature lady.

   ‘How old are you?’ The Salvation Army officer asked me as she handed me a bowl of the delicious looking soup.  She appeared genuinely concerned, so I told her I was sixteen years old. I took my last remaining pence from my pocket and gave it to her.  A puzzled expression fell across her face.

   ‘For the meal.’ I told her.

   She nodded and walked over to caravan and placed the money in a collection box.  A few moments later she came back over to me and after several questions were answered to her satisfaction, she stated that she didn’t live far and asked me if I would like to stay at her place for the night. Immediately my guard was up, but she quickly reassured me that all was safe.

   Arriving at her home she informed me to go to the house and knock on the door and her sister would take care of me, and she would be along shortly. I knocked on the door and told the lady that answered that her sister had brought me to the house.

   A smile appeared on her face and she took me in.  After a hot bath and a change of clothes provided by the lady I sat at her table to another hot meal. The lady explained that I was indeed fortunate that night to have met her sister, and she must have thought I was worth helping as she had passed away several years previous.

   The following morning after breakfast that had been laid out for me with a note stating that I should help myself, I replied on the note “Thank you.”  Leaving the house I placed my hand in my jacket pocket and found an envelope containing a ticket to Bradford and a pound note as well as a short note stating that I should return to my roots where I would be safe.

   I was curious and I truly couldn’t accept the fact that a deceased lady had helped me and soon I found myself back in the same area I had been the previous night, but there was no waste land anywhere, just buildings.  I quickly made my way back to the house to ask the lady a few questions on the events that had taken place.  There was no house, only a new type office block.

   Deciding that London was not for me, I headed for the railway station.

Mike Coatesworth

If you think my stories are true,
then they probably are

If you think my stories are fiction, then just relax and enjoy the tales

My novel "One tear is not enough" ISBN: 1413716865
An epic family saga spanning eight decades from England to India
http://www.btinternet.com/~mikeco158/onetear1.htm

My novel "Time for a Cuppa!" ISBN: 0595224954
It will bring a tear to your eye,
a smile to your lips, and a warm glow to your heart
http://www.btinternet.com/~mikeco158/cuppa1.htm

Meet Mike and read some great stories
http://www.btinternet.com/~mikeco158/mike.htm

Mike's "first hand" disability access reviews
http://www.btinternet.com/~mikeco158/disabacc.htm

Mike's newspaper editorial
http://www.btinternet.com/~mikeco158/TA1.htm

Virtutis Fortuna Comes (Fortune favours the brave)

______________________________________________________________________________________________

   11   ‘ The Greatest Brass Band in the World'     

             By Ian Royle (UK)

(Here’s your chance to learn a Yorkshire accent!)

 “Now get thissen ready to listen,

To a story Ah’m ‘bout to unfurl,

It’s the tale about Sam ‘oo played cornet,

In the Greatest Brass Band in the World.

Now bandin’s  demandin’ as all know,

Not just playin’t right notes in’t right place,

It’s bein’ there for t’ re-earsals,

Takin’ criticism wi’ a good grace.

Owd Sam were’t top cornet – a good ‘un,

‘Oly City were ‘is ‘tour de force’,

‘e performed it wi’ style and bravado,

‘poggiaturas? – a matter of course.

Then one day t’ conductor retired,

Well, ‘eed bin wit’ Band for thirty five year,

And a young lad from Oswaldthorpe Silver,

Of vacancy  ‘e came to ‘ear.

Young lad were named Throgmorton Jarvis,

euph player of distinction and fame,

First re-earsal and Sam ‘e just sniggered

Well, it were an unusual name.

From then on though trouble were brewin’

They’d ‘ated each other at sight,

And right from that time it were certain,

That there’d be an ‘ell of a fight.

Oswalthorpe they were up in’t top section,

Bottom section Sam’s band it were cursed,

Sam said “Lads may be down in t’ Fourth section”,

Burraz boozers they’re up there in t’ First”.

Then came the purge o’ t’ owd music,

In its place Shostokovitch an’ stuff,

‘cos tha knows that in t’ new brass band movement,

Tha’s got to play music that’s tough.

Now Sam were a lover of th’ old stuff,

Semi-quavers and flats weren’t ‘is thing,

One night ‘e stood up at a concert,

Shouting “Give people summat to sing”.

Jarvis were dischuffed and boilin’,

So wi’ face creased in ‘orrible frown,

Said, “From this night onwards, Sam me old lad,

Tha’s goin’ to play seventh man down”.

To win t’ great Belle Vue Open Contest,

Were Jarvis’s burning desire,

To grind all those other brass band into t’ ground,

Ambition burned in ‘im like fire

‘e demoted all t’ owd section leaders,

And brought in some lads of ‘is own,

Some renegade Oswaldthorpe cornets were there,

Dirty deals they were fixed up on t’ phone.

Contest Day came and t’ band it played brilliant,

And the overall sound were just right,

An’ t’  markins woz followed most careful,

So victory came into sight.

“Now come ‘ere Throgmorton”, said Sam, ‘umble like,

“Ah’m tellin’ thee now not in jest,

That in all of Great Britain and mebbe the World,

Tha’s got thee a band that’s the best”.

So Sam ‘e took Jarvis to t’ boozer,

And bought ‘im a pint full to t’ top,

Jarvis supped it right down, then ‘e said nasty like,

“Sorry Sam, but Ah’m givin’ thee t’ chop”.

 What’s this? –A smile ‘ad appeared on Sam’s face,

And Jarvis began to turn pale,

Could there ‘ave bin summat that werner quite right,

Lurkin’ deep in that pint o’ free ale?

The judges ‘ad now reached their verdict,

The flags and the banners unfurled,

And it were declared that wi’ maximum points

Jarvis ‘ad Greatest Band in the World.

Jarvis staggered ‘is way up to t’ platform,

‘is ‘air and ‘is clothes in a mess,

‘e tripped hisself up on t’ top step then fell down,

Throwing up ower t’ Lady Mayoress.

When it were done came a dreadful to-do,

Trophy gone? –what a terrible waste,

What were there in that pint ‘eed just supped down,

Were it poison? – just look at ‘is face!

“Nay”, said Sam, “Can’t blame me –werna my fault

That we lost that wonderful prize,

‘t were seven whiskies, six gins mixed wi’ four rum and peps,

And a treble Tequila Sunrise”

__________________________________________________________________________________

 Somebody sent this next short story to me and I think it is wonderful. Unfortunately the Author did not give his/her name, but I thought you would like to read it because it is so well written. If the author reads this, would you please contact me so I can give you full credit?

______________________________________________________________________________________________

       12    'THE CAB RIDE '    

(Name not given by contributor)                                                   

Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window.   Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, and then drive away.   But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation.   Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door.   This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself.   So I walked to the door and knocked. "Just a minute", answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.                

After a long pause, the door opened.   A small woman in her 80's stood before me.   She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie.   By her side was a small nylon suitcase.   The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years.   All the furniture was covered with sheets.   There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters.   In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said.   I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman.   She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.   She kept thanking me for my kindness. "It's nothing", I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated".   "Oh, you're such a good boy", she said.   When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, and then asked, "Could you drive through downtown?"   "It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.   "Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry.   I'm on my way to a hospice".

I looked in the rear-view mirror.   Her eyes were glistening. "I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't have very long." I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.   "What route would you like me to take?" I asked.   For the next two hours, we drove through the city.   She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator.   We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds.   She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.   Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.   As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm tired. Let's go now"

We drove in silence to the address she had given me.   It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.   Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up.   They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move.   They must have been expecting her.   I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.   "How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse.   "Nothing," I said.   "You have to make a living," she answered. "There are other passengers," I responded.   Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug.   She held onto me tightly.   "You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said.   "Thank you."   I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light.   Behind me, a door shut.   It was the sound of the closing of a life.

I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift.   I drove aimlessly lost in thought.   For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk.   What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift?   What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?   On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life. We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments, but great moments often catch us unaware, beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.

 __________________________________________________________________________________

 Expose your work to others!

Contact me using the guest book if you have a short story for this page and let other writers and readers see your talent. There is no money or prizes, but you will get the satisfaction of opinion's on your story by inviting readers to write to  you at a contact email address placed below your story.

 http://www.webook.com/  Is another good readers/writers website. There are loads of free advice articles for beginner writers. You can also publish your book with WEBOOK. Check it out!

______________________________________________________________________________________________

    14       ‘Hummer the hummingbird’

  William Sawyers (USA)

Once upon a time, there was a hummingbird named Hummer.  On one fine day in June, a hummingbird flew into Room 14 at Gregory Gardens Elementary School.  The students and the teacher got very excited to see a hummingbird fly around in their classroom.  The Teacher opened the windows so it could fly out at recess time. 

   Fifteen minutes passed, and the students returned to their room.  The teacher called the office to ring the custodian, whose name was Bill - me.  I reported to see what was wrong.  The secretary, Karen, reported that there was a bird in Room 14 and asked me to please check it out.

  I saw a small hummingbird racing back and forth across the room.  The kids were getting extremely excited.  By the time I got there, the bird was very tired out.  Its long, slender beak was open, and it was noticeably breathing very fast.  It made a neat humming sound as it passed overhead from window to window.  I decided to call this bird "Hummer the Hummingbird".  I tossed a dry wash cloth at him for about thirty minutes to try to get him to go out the window, and he became more and more tired - so tired that he was no longer able to function right.  Hummer started dropping down the three windows to the windowsills.  He then landed on a wire going across the windows that held up the students' pictures.  I reached behind him very slowly and grabbed him.

   I took him to my office and gave him water with an eyedropper.  Then I put him in a coffee can lined with cotton balls so that he could rest and gather enough strength to fly home again.  About thirty minutes later, just as the next recess began, I took Hummer out of the can.  He looked much better - he now moved his head from side to side very quickly.  He was very nervous and alert, but he knew I wasn't going to hurt him.

   I knew it was a boy by his beautiful green head.  Girl hummingbirds have a brown head.  His body was a dull white underneath and a blackish green down his back all the way to his tail. 

   I proceeded to walk him to the blacktop area in back of the school.  Some students walked up to me and asked me what I had cupped in my hand.  I replied in a whisper - "A hummingbird." 

   Then they asked me, "How did you catch it?"  I told them that I found him in a classroom.

 "What are you going to do with it?" They asked excitedly.  The kids grew even more excited, and all started talking at once.

   I told them that I was setting Hummer the Hummingbird free to go back to his family.  One of the students from Room 14 asked why I named him Hummer.  I said I named him Hummer because he makes a neat humming sound when he flies-that's how he got his name.  I continued walking, now at a faster pace.

   As I kept walking, kids were telling their friends, "Bill has a hummingbird!  He's going to let it fly home!"  So a lot of students followed me to the blacktop area behind the school.

   A 1st-grader asked me, "Can I pet it?"  

   I said that was fine, and held it in my left hand, carefully letting his head out between my thumb and forefinger.  I petted it first, and then she did.  The five others got to pet him too.  Then I took five steps forward - putting Hummer in both hands - and kneeled down and lowered my hands and raised them up high to set Hummer free.  He took off up into the sky so fast!  I was amazing to hear those little wings hum so much.

  One student asked, "Where is he going?"

  I replied, "He's going home to his family."  And up, up, up he went, disappearing into the blue sky.

    As I was walking back to my office, a lot of kids were talking about it, saying, "Bill just released a hummingbird he caught in Room 14."  It's great being a custodian at an elementary school. 

   I just wonder where Hummer lives and how big a family he has.  Birds are beautiful creatures.  It's special when I get to help them by catching and releasing them.  I've released six sparrows that were stuck in classrooms, one dove, and a swallowtail.

  Now I've added a hummingbird to that list.  This is a true story.

The End

 To this day, no birds had hurt themselves or others, and I use a net instead of my hands for their safety. I've added another humming bird to my list. And I don't let children pet any more, as not to put the birds in harm. This was my first bird story.

 (William Sawyers is a School Head Custodian of 20 years of service and a Child Author for 3 years. He writes books to help Parents, Baby sitters, Grand parents by getting them closer to their children by reading stories to them. In this way it’ll help them spend less time on video games and T.V. A few teachers use them in their class rooms as well, and William says he is having a great time writing them, as the kids do enjoy reading his stories. He has this to say; ‘I write for the ages of 5 on up, and I prefer being called Bill’)

Visit Bill’s website at http://williamsawyers.com/

 __________________________________________________________ _______________________

 15      "The Christmas tree"…

By Gordon Macree (UK)

    Have you ever had one of those occasions when you cannot do anything right? Well I had one in December of 2008, when I was reminded by my dearest wife to perform my festive duties. No, not as Santa Clause, for all my children are now fully grown adults. It was a pleasant duty I have been doing for decades; I was sent out to buy a Christmas tree.

    I decided (being a Scot) that I was not going to pay more for a tree than I did last year, and the year before that, and the year before that, and so on. So I went to a garden store not far from my home (can't think of the name of the store because I never use it normally, and never will again!) and bought a tree. It looked lovely, and as it was still in its gossamer-like covering, that would make it easier to transport home in my car.

   You know what it is like in old age. (If you are still lucky enough to be in your twenties, thirties or forties - you have it all to come. Believe me!)  

   As you get older you can be prone to visions of grandeur and can be vulnerable to ideas that pop into your mind against your better judgement, and discarding (WHAT a mistake!) any thoughts of your beloved on the ‘brilliant’ idea in mind, you find yourself firmly thrown into the thrill of doing something on your own. After all, aren’t you a free spirit?

   So, walking around the garden centre I saw that trees had gone up a bit in price and what they had advertised on TV for only £10, were approximately two foot high in pots and would be fine for Christmas 2011.

   What I fancied was priced at £29.99p and it looked fantastic. I decided to forget my Scottish cannyness and heritage and buy the tree. Men understand, don’t you guys? Once you’ve made your mind up that’s it. You have definitely made the right decision.

   It weighed a ton, and I huffed and puffed to get that thing into my small car, and home. There was nobody at home to help me because all my 'kids' were at work as was my dear wife. I huffed and puffed and got that so-and-so tree into the house and into the 'front room,' where we always put the tree. One hour later, after hoovering up all the pines that had fallen off the tree –and bear in mind it was still in the wrapping they put on it in the shop- I had all the mess cleared from the floor when ‘the boss’ returned home. Proud as punch and feeling great, I said to her, "Hey, look what I got for you!"

   It was only then that I realized the tree was HUGE! In the garden centre it looked ‘about the right size’ for our house. It was almost up to our ceiling, and that is very high in these old 1910 terraced houses. My dear wife took one look at it and let fly!. My eldest Son (that had collected his mother from her work) was no help for all he did was laugh and say, 'You've done it again, Dad!"

   You can't win, can you?

   When my dear wife, bless her, had cooled down and had something to eat, spent a good two hours trimming the tree and decorating it and putting all the lights on too. It looked fabulous, as all the other trees had in the years gone by.

Within one week all the pines had dropped off, and my wife, in disgust, threw it out back for the refuse collectors. I should have taken it back to the store, but having paid for it with my debit card I am not that technically advanced in my brain to know how to prove I bought it there, because I couldn't find the receipt.

   So, the next day when all the family were again at work, I decided it was time to show that Dad is not as daft as they thinks! I went around several places in my town searching every possible source selling trees. I ended up at a local Supermarket I never thought would sell them, and remembering that my wife had said she wanted an artificial tree this time, I took one look at their prices and nearly fainted!

   Walking outside into the small garden centre I spied a young male employee and asked him for the impossible. "I want a cheap Christmas tree that will not drop its needles before NYE and it must be nice!"

   "No problem" he said, and took me to a Norwegian fir that looked just right. The sort of experienced look I would give anything after a few festive drinks, (but I was cold sober)

So, at £14.95 it was a heck of a lot cheaper (Don't laugh –I'm still hurting!) than the £29 needle dropper I bought from ‘whatsits’ garden centre down the road.

   This beautiful tree was even heavier than the first one, and it took all my reduced strength (I felt like Mr. Burns in the Simpsons cartoon) to get it into my little car, but I did, and reaching home, I lugged it into the front room. Caution took the better part of valour with me and I left the cotton covering on the tree so that my nearest and dearest could strip it herself, for she has always dressed the trees in the past.

   She came home in a bad mood, having been collected from work by my daughter this time, and they had done a bit of Christmas shopping. Because my wife is diabetic she is supposed to eat at regular times, and she was very late for her evening meal and was consequently very grumpy.

I was sat there in the front room, assured in my mind that I had rectified my silly mistake by getting a real beauty of a replacement tree.

   She looked at it and said nothing. Good start - good start! I thought, for she likes it!

Not so. She came in about half an hour later after her meal, and cut the cotton covering off the tree and the branches spread out like it was on a hillside in the Norwegian mountains.

It was enormous –even bigger than the first tree!

   "Oh poo” I thought. “I'm really in it now!" I will not repeat here what she said, but it was very unladylike language that would make the toughest Marine Drill Sergeant blush. But as we do, after decades of marriage, we husbands just take the flak, for we know in the long run (providing we still wake up the following morning) it will work out.

  I stifled a laugh at my daughter, for she is SO pregnant now, and was trying to help her Mum as she gave me the watered down version of 'the look' her mother can normally freeze a lake with. And as predicted, a week later the tree looked great and no needles fell off.

   Pity the damned thing has to go in the recycle shredder in January!

back to homepage

______________________________________________________________________________________________