THE PORTAL AND THE TIME WEB
    The four figures walked up the hill, fighting the wind with each step. The sea roared at them, from     below and the salt spray spat, stung and slapped at their faces and eyes. At the top they paused to get their breath and looked at what remained of the house. A pile of bricks and a dangling gate swinging loosely in the wind. 
     ‘I suppose they had to knock it down?’ said Mat.
    ‘I guess so,’ said Sam, ‘It was pretty dangerous.’
‘That’s stupid,’ said Robbie, ‘a house can’t be dangerous.’ 
    ‘It can if some silly kid goes inside and doesn’t tell anyone,’ said Sam, ‘and then that same silly kid falls through some rotting floorboards and breaks his leg.’
‘How was I to know the boards were rotten? It was dark and I couldn’t see could I?’
Robbie had spent three months on crutches after that little adventure.
    The rain started to dribble as the four children wandered down the path towards the street. They stopped in front of a pile of bricks, that had originally been the chimney of the old house. 
Someone was sitting cross legged on top of them. 
The cross-legged figure wore a cloak with a hood that hid its face.
Paragraph automatic‘Who’s that?’ asked Mat.  . 
‘More like what,’ said Jessica flicking long blond hair out of her eyes. The tiny cloaked figure beckoned to them.
Jessica sidled up to Mathew for protection. 
    The figure jumped down from the pile of bricks and stood in front of Sam. Sam looked down at the figure.
    ‘Hello,’ she said, ‘who are you?’    
‘Tilibut,’ the figure said, ‘I can’t get back. The entrance is blocked.’
‘What do you mean?’ Sam asked. ‘Are you lost? Do you live round here?’ 
    She assumed that the figure in front of her was a local kid in fancy dress, who’d been out playing with his, or her friends, and become lost. Then she saw the eyes. They were a bluish purple, with perhaps a dash of yellow. Sam couldn’t recall seeing any kids with eyes that colour anywhere. But as anywhere for her was Thorpington she was quite prepared to acknowledge that purple slash yellow was a common eye colour elsewhere. The figure looked up at Sam and then at the others and then it started to cry. Its body heaved as it sobbed. And the sobs didn’t maintain the same loudness level either. Each one was louder than the previous one. After about the fourth sob the noise was so deafening that the hands over the ears strategy was called for. 
    ‘Can’t you shut it up,’ yelled Jessica. She turned on the cloaked figure.
‘Why don’t you just shut up and go home to your mum!’ 
Sam knelt down in front of the tiny figure and put her hands on its shoulders. The sobbing quietened and then stopped.
    ‘So,’ said Sam, ‘your name’s Tilibut, Yeah?’
The figure nodded.
    ‘That the name you gave yourself in the game you and your friends were playing?’ said Mat.
    ‘Not playing game,’ said Tilibut.
‘Well I’m Sam and this is my brother Robbie,’ Robbie smiled and waved. Sam pointed up to Mat and Jessica, ‘this is Mat and Jessica.’
The cloaked head nodded.
    ‘Do you live round here?’ Robbie asked.
For answer, the figure pointed to the ground. 
    ‘Why don’t you let us see your face?’ said Jessica. ‘We won’t eat you.’
    ‘Afraid,’ said the creature.
‘You don’t have to be afraid of us,’ said Mat. ‘Why don’t you let us take you home if you’re lost. Your mum might be worried about you.’
    ‘Not afraid of you. Am afraid of them.’ Here Tilibut pointed to the ground again. ‘Shouldn’t be here. Against the order of the Grood. When they find out I’ll be cast into the whorl.’ Tilibut heaved his shoulders upwards for the start of a sob. But Sam was ready. She tightened her grip on Tilibut’s shoulders.
    ‘No you don’t,’ she said, ‘been there, done that, so not again thank you. Now why don’t we all just sit down and talk about this.’
    Tilibut waddled over to stand between Sam and Mat. He reached up with his pudgy hands, and took a hand each of Mat and Sam. The group walked back over to the pile of chimney bricks.
‘Now,’ said Sam, ‘why don’t you tell us who you are and where you come from. Then we can help get you home.’
    Tilibut lifted his hands and pulled the hood from his head. His hair was short and spiky. His face long and narrow and his nose was thin and pointy and it turned up at the end. The ears were slightly pointed, but not so much so that anyone would really notice. What people might notice, however, were the eyes. They were enormous. 
    ‘That’s pretty weird make-up on your face,’ said Robbie, who assumed that this kid was into some really strange dressing up.  You in a gang or something?’
‘You’re not from round here are you?’ said Jessica trying madly to find a match in her brain for the face in front of her. She wasn’t having a lot of success . 
    ‘I’m a Bainty,’ said Tilibut, ‘and I’m not supposed to be here. I came to do a quick borrow and was about to return when the chimney collapsed. There’s no other way in or out. Baintys have used that passage for centuries.’
Jessica shook her blonde locks again. She put her hands on her hips and glared down at Tilibut.
‘Now see here Tili-whoever you are. Stop mucking us around. If you’re lost just say so.’
    Tilibut looked up at her sideways. His plan was not going too well. He wondered if the others were going to be as difficult as this one with the shaking blonde hair.  
‘Not strong enough to move the bricks.’ said Tilibut. 

 People come into our lives and leave in the blink of an eye, yet they always leave something with us!
This, for me, was one such person. I wrote this on 7th November 2021
THE SHUFFLER
He shuffles
Head bowed and
Perched on his spine
like a tern on a cliff's edge.
His feet slide
Left, right, left, right
Following each other-
Like penguins on ice-
Across the smooth floor of the building.
He looks like a penguin
There is the same laborious
Attitude in his movement.
I look at his face.
It's a face gentle and worn from living
Ruddied from a lifetime
Toiling in all weathers
Wise with the wisdom
Only age can bestow.
I want to ask him to stay
And tell me about his life
But he is so intent
On his shuffling
I don't think
He would hear me.
So I watch
As he shuffles
Onwards
Into his life.
Into his distance.

 MADELAINE FORTESQUE FOTHERING -A humorous offering

Madelaine Fortesque Fothering
Entered the room without bothering,
To knock or to wait,
‘Sorry I’m late
It’s because of the case that we’re covering.’
Her boss raised his head, crossed his fingers and said,
‘Sit down and tell me quite plain.
Did you catch him this time? Or did he just climb
Out the passenger door yet again.’
‘Inspector Sir! That’s highly unfair,
It wasn’t my fault that he legged it.
The door came unstuck, when our car hit a truck,
Besides no-one had told me to shut it.’
For a moment her boss seemed to be at a loss,
His body was glued to the spot.
But he grimaced and moaned and, later on, groaned,
‘Well? have you a suspect or not?’
Madelaine raised her hand, ‘Sir please understand,
While my methods are somewhat obscure,
I have the right crim – It’s definitely him.     
And I’ll give you the details - what’s more!’
Said Madelaine with pride,‘He’s waiting outside.
I nailed both his feet to the floor.
Right next to the spot where you fired that shot,
That blew away most of the door.’
Sir! This lead is the clue and it’s staring at you,
And if you’ll just give me a minute,
I’ll tell you a story quite short and quite gory,
To show that I know how he did it.’
Mad walked with some speed and grabbing the lead,
Held it close up to her boss’s nose.
‘Now if you look there you’ll see some grey hairs,
That came from the head of Bill Rose.
The crim he did kill poor defenceless, blind Bill
And also his pet dog as well.
When I reached the scene Bill couldn’t be seen,
But I knew he was there – from the smell.
I went to the bog and saw Ruffles, the dog,
All squishy and bloated and dead.
Then this guy came by, and looked up at the sky
“Take his lead he won’t need it he said.”
I knew that the lead was all I would need,
To prove that this man was the perp.
And when I suggested that he was arrested -
He came along with me – the twerp!’
‘Why Madelaine PC ‘her boss said with glee
You’ve been most successful this time
Said Madelaine PC, ‘I’m so glad you can see
That I’m pretty familiar with crime.
Could I have a big desk Oh, and one more request
A Detective I’d much rather be.
‘Cos Fothering Detective
Would be much more effective
Than Fortesque Fothering PC!’
Maybe in time when you’ve solved some more crimes
Your request will be granted PC
But until that day I just have to say
Please do not give the prisoner a key!
These days Mad she fights from Olympian heights,
All manner of crime and misdeeds.
She works from a room that houses a broom
And a million grotty dog leads.
She spends most of her days
Trying to figure out ways
To rid her city of crime,
While those in the know usually go
And do it in half of the time!
Madelaine Fortesque Fothering,
Enters her room without bothering,
To knock or to wait,
‘Cos she’s usually quite late
Because of a case that she’s covering!

 DOG

The dog jumped up and locked its eyes onto mine

Stared into my soul

And brought tears to eyes

That can no longer connect

With those of the little dog 

Who bumps into my legs-

And who doesn't hear a word I say

Who runs around in directionless circles 

Convinced she's headed somewhere.

But there are times when

She sits and sniffs the air around her-

Waiting for recognition and familiarity to kick in.

Then she knows exactly where she's going

And what she will find there.

She doesn't need eyes for that

And sound is unnecessary-

And the circles will keep for later.

That is what the dog who jumped up on me today

Reminded me of

And that is why

I held that dog's gaze

Until the tears dried.

 

 

AN ARMCHAIR MYSTERY.

Margaret Fairway, 82 and still going strong, was tired after dropping all her clutter off at the charity shop. It was a hot day so she looked around for somewhere to sit down for a few minutes. A large brown armchair was positioned invitingly in a shady area just outside the shop so she headed towards it and picked up the newspaper that was on the seat. Her mind registered the photo of a blonde haired boy as she pushed it down the side of the chair and sat down.

She let her arms rest in her lap. Her head plopped forward on to her chest and she promptly nodded off. Some time later a bumping, rumbling sound shook her awake.

Margaret  Fairway was in the back of a truck. She scrunched her eyes trying to make sense of her surroundings. The vehicle was travelling at speed and the armchair and Margaret were bouncing about like a lost seagull in a very rough sea. She glanced around the dark interior and could just make out different shapes around her.

And then she heard it.

A low sobbing sound.

It was coming from behind a pile of furniture at the front of the vehicle. Margaret got out of the armchair and made her way to where she’d heard the sound.

She pulled at the assortment of chairs and small tables. Through a crack in the side of the truck a splash of light caught the tear - streaked face of a young blonde haired boy.

Margaret reached out her hand to the cowering child.

‘Hello,’ she said gently, ‘who are you?’

The boy pulled away and put his arms over his eyes. His sobbing became louder.

Suddenly the vehicle hit a bump and Margaret was thrown off balance.

A male voice drifted towards her from the driver’s cabin.

‘I‘ve got the cargo.’

There was a sound of swearing and banging.

‘Bloody phone. Oi! Are you there? I said I’ve got the cargo. I just need to know where to drop it off.’

More mumbling and swearing followed.

‘Pick up a what? But the truck’s full mate. There’s no room for an armchair.’

More swearing.

‘Ok. Ok. I’ll stop by there and grab it.’

Margaret was just starting to wonder where she was when and almighty jolt sent her reeling back into the armchair once again. Her wondering stopped, as her head dropped forward, onto her chest and her eyes closed.

‘Oi Mrs. You can’t sit there. I got orders to pick up that arm chair.’

The voice seemed so very far away and was interrupting her nap.

‘Oi! I said you can’t sit there,’ said the man again.

Margaret’s eyes sprang open!

That voice. She was sure she’d heard it somewhere before.
The she saw the truck directly in front of her and  remembered.

The voice! The truck! The blonde haired boy! The newspaper!

The newspaper!

Margaret fumbled around and slid her hand down the side of the armchair. Retrieving the newspaper she glanced at the photo on the front page.

Shooting out of the armchair she ran inside the charity shop and reached behind the counter. She grabbed the phone and dialled triple zero.

She spoke for a few seconds then headed back outside. The truck driver was busy opening the back doors of the truck and didn’t notice Margaret wander past him and climb up into the truck. She removed the keys from the ignition and  clambered back down and walked back the way she had come. She smiled as she watched the driver trying to drag the armchair towards the back of the truck and she chuckled when he stopped dragging the chair and ran to the front of the truck. He jumped in, just as the police car entered the parking area.

Two officers led the driver away as a third officer walked over to Margaret, She handed the newspaper to him, then pointed to the back of the truck.

‘He’s in there.’

Margaret sat down in the armchair and smiled. It had been quite a long day really but it had ended rather well she was thinking to herself. Her head dropped forward onto her chest. Her eyes closed and she nodded off…

 

A STORY IN PARTS.

PART 1. GRACE AND THE LOST BOYS.

‘Will I see you again?’

‘Don’t know, do I?’

She dragged her knickers up and pulled the thick coat around her.

God it was cold.

‘Why did we have to do it out here?’ she said, ‘should have gone to your place.’

He lit a cigarette.

‘Urge I s’pose.’

‘You flyboys are all the same. Out with the machine gun and in and out before we girls know what’s hit us.’

He took a deep drag on the cigarette and the smoke, when he finally exhaled it, almost froze.

‘Could be dead tomorrow,’ he said.

And he was.

IVY OCTOBER: 1944

‘I love you Blondie,’ he said, ‘you must know that.’

Hugh rolled off the bed.

‘Then why won’t you marry me?’ said Ivy.

‘Because, you silly thing, it’s war-time, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘So…’

‘So- I don’t want to leave a widow behind. Find someone who has a less dangerous job than I do…’

‘But Hugh. We’ve been going together for almost twelve months.’

‘It’s not about marriage.’

‘So what is it about then?’

‘Look I’m a pilot right? I never know if I’ll come home.’

Hugh threw his clothes on and walked to the door.

‘Only yesterday Jonesy went down with his plane. Tomorrow it could be me.’

And it was.

THE MESSAGE.

Ivy opened the door. A young airman stood there.

‘Your name Ivy Cooper?

‘Yes,’ said Ivy. Who are you?’

The young man shuffled his feet nervously.

‘My name’s Peter Scooner. I’m a friend of Hugh’s.’

‘Is he alright?’

‘No Ivy. He got shot down over the channel yesterday...’

‘But he was rescued right?’ Ivy interrupted.

‘I’m so sorry Miss. He’s dead.’

Ivy tried to close the door but the young man put his foot against it.

‘He said that if anything happened to him I was to give you this.’

Peter Scooner took a cameo brooch from his jacket pocket, placed it gently in Ivy’s palm and closed her fingers over it.

Then he turned and walked away.

 

 

 

 

A SHORT STORY

BRINGING IT HOME.

The soldier swears. The dry, soul-less land is nothing like he remembers from textbook images.

How long had it been now?

Eight months.

It felt like eight years.

Private Jonas Smith Junior had traveled a lifetime since he’d made the decision.

God! It hadn’t even been his decision.

It had been made for him by his father, Jonas Smith Senior, a military man who, desk bound through inclination and arrangement, had made a successful career of making life threatening decisions on behalf of youngsters who saw only the celluloid side of life in the military; the sanitized tele-images of death and glory.

The younger Jonas Smith had nodded at his father’s suggestion and by conversation’s end had owned the decision without quite understanding how or why.

‘You’ve made the right decision son! University can wait. I mean we can’t have our hard won democracy flushed down the toilet by bastards who’d sooner wipe their arses on our values than take them on board!’

His mother had smiled as a million military wives had smiled before her, while deep down, where no smile can reach, her mother-soul had wept.

So here the soldier stands, in the prickly sweat- induced discomfort of his battle fatigues.

His body, not quite fully grown, is hidden and weighed down by the armadillo-like shell from which hang a soldier’s accessories.

Under his helmet his scalp itches; further down the heat nibbles at his crotch beneath synthetic underwear designed for lengthy wearing in desert war zones.

Sweat beads in a palm that nine months ago had held nothing more threatening than a football.

Jonas Smith junior took two steps forward and disturbed the flies. His mind registered the smell immediately; it took his guts a little longer to respond.

The village, a wasteland now, had been a bristling life-hub two days ago. Now it was a festering fly-blown carcass. Two children were watching the soldier. Their matted hair and blood-brown clothes offering temporary platforms upon which armies of flies landed before bouncing off and swarming to other, more fixed platforms, which offered less resistance.

Two days ago Latifah and Tawfiq had played the games that children played.

Two days ago they had been safe.

All that was gone now. 

There was no safety anymore.

The missiles had seen to that…

Their father and mother had known; known that at any time their lives might change through no choice or decision of theirs.

So, two nights ago, when the change came, they’d woken Latifah and her brother and sent them to check on the old goats, which were tethered some distance from the village.

And afterwards, when the children returned to the village, the walls of their childhoods, like the walls of their village, were irrevocably breached by the images that confronted them.

*    *    *    *

One simple command, flick of a switch or push of a button and a world empties itself of sanity, disgorging order and reason and leaving only chaos in its wake.

Jonas Smith junior’s father had told him once that it is difficult - almost impossible in fact - to impose a new order out of chaos.

“That’s why we have to lead the way son. That’s why we have to take control.”

Right now Jonas was wondering just who the fuck was in control.

One thing was for sure. It wasn’t him.

And where was the fucking back up? It should have been here hours ago. Just what was he supposed to do? He was only a private for God’s sake!

*    *    *    *

The children watch as the soldier raises a hand to his mouth and sinks to his knees.

A rib cage shatters beneath his rifle butt - one more indignity in a multitude of indignities.

The soldier’s bile spills out as he pushes himself away from charred remains.

Tawfiq cries out and starts to run towards the soldier. Tears stream down his cheeks. Putting a finger to her lips Latifah pulls him back.

Her hair is matted; her dress torn and dirty. Her eyes are puffy from crying and she is afraid. She pulls her brother close, as if the closeness might protect them both – shield them from the presence of all this death and destruction.

She takes something from a pocket of her dress, and hands it to her brother.

The soldier looks up, aware of someone watching him, and grabs his rifle. He stands. His eyes lock on to the two small figures a short distance away. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve.

Still eye-locked on the children the soldier walks towards them.

The children step back.

The soldier stops.

The index finger of a sweat-drenched hand taps staccatically against the trigger.

A voice whispers from somewhere under his helmet. Easy Jonas. Easy …

The children watch the soldier wipe sweat from his brow. Their eyes follow his hands as he lowers his gun.

One hand clasps it body-tight; the other reaches out. The weapon is a barrier between soldier and children, yet a link which connects all three of them to this place and what has happened here.

A smile cracks the soldier’s face but it is so uncertain that it doesn’t reach the children. Instead it hangs in space, unclaimed.

Tawfiq’s eyes are on the soldier’s rifle. His sister notices and places a hand on her brother’s arm. She squeezes gently.

Tawfiq glances up at Latifah questioningly and he clings tightly to his sister’s arm.

Jonas calls out.

‘Hi, I’m Jonas.’

The children take another step backwards.

‘Don’t be afraid. I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m American see.’

Jonas points to the flag on his jacket sleeve.

Latifah scrunches her face and spits on the ground.

Her brother copies her.

‘Hey whad’ya do that for? I’m here to help you guys dammit!’

‘Americans do not help us. Americans kill us,’ Latifah stammers.

The fear in her eyes is slowly being edged out by something else.

The children ignore his proffered hand so Jonas lets it drop.

‘Hey you speak pretty good English,’ he says trying to quell his feeling of discomfort.

‘This your brother?’

Latifah nods.

‘I’ve got a big sister back home; she’s always looking out for me too.’

Tawfiq is still looking at the gun. Jonas notices and holds it up.

‘You like it huh? State of the art this is. Fifty rounds in ten seconds. Pretty effective killing mach…’

Realisation hits.

 ‘Oh shit. Look I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…’

Jonas shoves the gun behind his back.

‘There see. No gun. Just me.’

He squats down. He is at the children’s level now. He sits back on his heels, places the gun on the ground and reaches out.

Both hands this time.

Latifah stands behind her brother.

Slowly they walk towards the soldier.

Latifah wipes her face on her sleeve and gently squeezes her brother’s shoulders. Tawfiq reaches out and places an object into one of Jonas’ hands.

Jonas looks at the object in disbelief.

Fear sparks in his brain.

His body numbs.

This was not what he had expected. Not what he’d expected at all.

Four weeks later and Christmas dinner is well under way in the Smith household.

Jonas Smith senior clangs his fork against his wine glass almost breaking it in the process. Jonas Smith Senior is a tad tipsy. But this is Christmas so nobody really minds.

‘Jush gotta say s’good to have you back home where you belong son. It is jush soo good to…’

‘Dad, sit down please.’

‘You showed ‘em din ya son? By god you showed the bastards.’

‘Yeah Dad I showed ‘em.’

‘Yeah, we can all sh-leep safer now ‘cos you showed em right?’

‘Right Dad.’

Yeah he’d shown them. Or had he?

The voices around the table fade as a particular image fills his mind yet again, just as it had every night since he’d returned home.

The image is always the same.

Two frightened kids walk up to him. They stand looking at him. He can’t read their eyes. He wants to say something to them – but he can’t. He sees the girl’s hands, scratched and encrusted with dried blood, resting on her brother’s shoulders.

Then the boy, his lips curled in a strange disconnected smile, reaches out and places the grenade into the palm of his right hand…

And the question that follows is always the same.

Was it ignorance or intention that had saved his life that day?

THE END.