Issue 424 12th February 2016

Are you looking at the world through rose-coloured glasses?

Did you have a go at writing a love poem for Valentine‘s Day? Are sonnets dripping from your

quill, or ... keyboard? Come to group and share

them with us ... We love a

good laugh!

2

FLASH FICTION: sourdough, another, Dickensian, paddy, notice,

intertwined, flighty, daylight, advocate

Assignment: carnival or fair

A warm welcome awaits. COME to WORKSHOP ... Every Monday 1.30 start Rising Brook Library

I heard a woodpecker, and later saw him, on Saturday,

whilst walking the dog.

http://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2016/feb/04/a-

brief-guide-anchored-terset-poetry

New poetic form, apparently. Using just three words ...

Stark

Raving

Bonkers

THOUGHT FOR THE DAY! : What is „comprehensive‟? The union UNITE has stated that local authorities have

a statutory obligation to provide comprehensive library services. This statutory duty incumbent on councils under

the 1964 Public Libraries and Museums Act. The original laws stretching back to 1850 are to provide a comprehen-

sive and efficient library service.

Speak Up For Libraries staged a demonstration on 9th Feb.

Greenwich and Bromley Library are going on strike from between Saturday 6 February until Saturday 13 February,

against the privatisation of replacing professional staff with volunteers.

http://www.cilip.org.uk/advocacy-campaigns-awards/advocacy-campaigns/my-library-right

http://speakupforlibraries.org/ - See more at: http://www.unitetheunion.org/news/closing-libraries-could-be-

breaking-the-law-says-unite/#sthash.0tPUrAmG.dpuf

I saw the Flying Scotsman on Saturday.

It seemed unreal to be on a motorway

travelling south when a steam train flew

past seemingly going north. The steam

was billowing against the rain and sud-

denly I was reminded of my childhood

living by the railway lines, hearing the

steam chuffers and the sound of the rails,

going clickerty clack throughout the

night. Magical.

www.issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk/DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=15

So difficult

To wander the paths of the puzzled.

Aching hearts and tangled thoughts

Beating time, yet jangled rhythms

Resound in empty heads.

Small step….

From clear, lucidity

To muttered, mumbled, jibberish!

Write it down, you say,

Every blinking bit.

How you walk, but don‟t walk,

How you ache, but don‟t ache,

How you speak, but don‟t speak,

How you plead,

But remain unanswered.

Let depression cloud your vision,

A massive choking curtain

Closed against the blackness.

Can it be flung open to embrace the sun?

A never-ending circle of night and day

A roundabout of light and dark

A wheel of uncertainty

And mis-direction.

Head bowed, scowl of discontent or terror?

Where are you in this struggle?

I see myself and you the mirror image.

There is a little café at the corner of the street,

A great place to go with friends you like to meet.

Maitre d‟ is always welcoming, his food and wine

first class,

A cheerful sort of venue, difficult to pass.

I‟ll see you there at seven, we could talk and eat till

late,

If you can‟t be there on time, I‟ll just sit and wait,

Soaking in the atmosphere, I‟ll wave to all I know,

Anticipate the evening beneath a lamp‟s glow.

The music is entrancing, we can dance the night

away,

Smoochy little number I‟ll ask the band to play.

We can sit in pleasant silence or maybe sing along,

Glad to be in company, feeling we belong.

The hour of eight approaches, I wonder where you

are,

Maybe stuck in traffic, fuming in your car!

A distant clock is chiming. Nine times? Can that be

right?

Lamps still shining brightly, of you, there is no

sight.

The violins are packed away, the tables are all bare,

I sit and contemplate the reason you‟re not there,

The Maitre d‟ stands watching, with concern etched

on his face,

Staring at the chair that should have been your place.

There is a little café at the corner of the street,

A good place to be, if friends you have to meet.

I sit there very evening, as people come and go

Staring at the empty chair, beneath the street lamp‟s

glow.

Forget saving the planet. The planet will be just fine. It's those pesky bipeds on it who have reached the end of the line. Forget saving the rain forest hardwoods will strongly regrow, once the loggers' bones are dust and pure waters can again flow. Forget saving the oceans, fish shoals will quickly restock, when rows of whale oil potions aren't stocking every shop. Forget saving tigers and lions, big cats will roam the earth, long after the fall of pylons at Gaia's awaited rebirth. SMS 2008

Some More New Plants

Unlike most people with their first allotment who usually plant potatoes, onions, carrots,

beans, cauliflower, cabbages, etc, I thought that I would try some different vegetables. So, although I planted some carrots, one variety was ―Purple Haze‖ and yes they do

have purple skins, but are a bit of a let down as the first picking the other day showed me that underneath the skin they are just ordinary carrot colour. Some Kohl Rabbi, that is a member of the Cauliflower/Cabbage family, proved very successful though, both at

home and on the allotments with other plot holders. Giving the odd ―Stem?‖ away was a great way to have a chat and make friends, but now sadly, the whole batch of about

70 or 80 plants have been cut. Being a very quick growing crop I thought that I would re-plant and see if I could get some more to maturity before the Winter comes, so hav-

ing sown some seeds a couple of weeks ago, I planted the young plugs out into the same patch with some more pelleted chicken manure scattered liberally on to the soil. At the same time as buying Kohl Rabbi seeds, I saw some ―Chicory‖ seeds and

thought that I would try those. Apparently you grow the plants as any other plant until the late Autumn, then you cut the plants down, dig them up and store them dry as you

might a Dahlia Tuber until they are wanted. Then you plant the roots in something like a bucket and ―Force‖ them as you might early Rhubarb, but in a frost-free place like a

garage. As they shoot, the ―Chicons‖ are blanched with another bucket over the top so they lose their bitterness, (like Celery) and then when big enough you cut them to use as a Winter lettuce replacement. They can even be boiled and served up in a sauce.

After pegging down some branches on my newly acquired Mulberry the other week, I thought that maybe I could do that with some other fruit trees. Most fruit trees

are grafted, but a few are not, so I inspected my mothers big old Fig tree. The hard Winter had knocked it about very badly and forced it to ―Break‖ from many dormant

buds to give new growth to replace the damaged branches and this has resulted in lots of new shoots developing very low down on the main trunk. Normally, it would be best to cut these off, but this year I have pegged every one of these floppy new shoots

down into the ground in the hopes that most of them will root and give me some new small fig trees next year. Looking at our other small trees it seems that my Medlar tree

is not grafted, although sometimes they are, and likewise my true Quince (Cydonia) is-n‘t grafted either, so with both of those having some low branches I hopefully pegged those down as well. While pushing some soft stems of the Quince into the soil, I re-

membered that the Quince will throw up suckers as well, like most grafted fruit trees will.

On looking for information about grafted trees I found that many Pear trees are actually grafted on to a Quince rootstock. If you are growing Pear trees you don‘t want

the Quince suckers, but obviously the suckers on my Quince will be a welcome bonus. Two years ago I removed and dug one up that is growing nicely now. As a crazy idea, I thought that I would try exposing some of the roots of the big Quince tree in an at-

tempt to make it throw up suckers. I don‘t know if it will work, but it as interesting idea and if it does It will be an interesting way of propagating new trees and means I may

well have even more new and ―Free‖ fruit trees to plant on my allotment next year.

6

My friends A dress full of daisies and Wellington boots Clutch bag and fishnets and navy blue suits Gold lamé tank tops and swirly black skirts Dungarees badges baggy long shirts A Bouquet of earrings Plethora of piercings Hair-bands with weird things These are my friends Bobbly breezy days in hats Boots flip-flops lazy chats Anxious moments Ups and downs Loving kindness Massaged frowns Tissues biscuits cakes cups of tea these are what friends dear mean to me Freckles and wrinkles Botox and pimples Flat shoes and dimples These are my friends

Burns assignment

I knows all about Burns I does, my son. Sit back your chair and listen to the proper tale.

Cornishman he were, born in York sometime last century. The architect of the Bamburgh Castle way back when

Pontius was a Pilot Officer, and had a hand in putting that railway up that mountain in Wales; well him and that

fellow Newton anyway. Played as wicket keeper for some black-country team he did, the Foxes I think they was

called. Scored a few goals when he played centre forward as well. Never made the national team though. He had

a note from his mum saying he wasn't to play rough games.

Had a lot to do with England becoming part of the Scottish Union, his brother, Wallace, had sommat to do

with it as well!

Wallace? You know him! He's got a flaming great statue to him up at Stifling, or Stirling or somewhere in

Edinburgh, or Glasgow. Near that stone of scone place; although how you could ever cook Scones on a big rock

defeats me!

Anyway, there he was, in a cave, or cafe [rubbish hand writing had old Buns], with his tame spider teachin'

it to spin fishing nets, or them for goal posts – I never understood that bit either – when up gallops King Harold

on a Shetland pony, the Shetlands was bigger back then, and asks him to defeat Napoleon and his armada.

He was give a feller by the name of Duck, or Swan, to help him. Anyway, that bloke Nelson – he was

named after a pub so I don't suppose he was much cop – and him went off to be barbers to the king of Spain.

Probably some form of EU deal. They gets barbers and we gets Morris dancing.

Well, according to me granddad, who went with him so's he didn't get lost, he was singeing the king of Spain‟s

beard when the news came through that America had been discovered and pizza was on the menu. The rest, as

they say, is history.

Alert: History buffs ... This is not one for you ...

Random words: engine-oil, books, collect, cough, evolve, doctor, heartily, ensure, quirk, cosmos, mausoleum

Internet dating can be exciting but it can have hidden dangers. Eleanor had an interest in the dark side of life

and was seeking a soulmate who shared her passion. As a teenager, she began to collect books on the occult,

vampires, zombies and all things astrological, and was delighted that her internet date was also into these.

What‟s more, he was a doctor. What could be more auspicious?

“Let‟s meet at the mausoleum.” He‟d suggested. “There‟s a great view of the entire cosmos from there.”

Eleanor had agreed. She was heartily sick of the ordinary boyfriends if the past, and felt that this new relation-

ship had the potential to evolve into something more serious. He sounded exciting, and that was what she was

looking for. When he texted her that his star sign was Aquarius, she was thrilled. Maybe a quirk of fate had en-

sured that they paths would collide.

Then it all went wrong. She slipped on a patch of engine oil approaching the meeting place and twisted her an-

kle.

“Not to worry. I‟ll get my bag from the car!” her date called.

It was then that she noticed the name on his bag: Doctor Victor Frankenstein.

On Burns I've never been to a Burns Night and for me much of his dialect poetry is simply unintelligi-ble! But I must say that for me he is the writer of the most magical love poem I ever heard. I'm sure you know it. "O my luve's like a red, red rose That's newly sprung in June: O my Luve's like the melodie That's sweetly play'd in tune! As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I: And I will luve thee still my dear, Till all the seas gang dry: Of course there are notable competitors. Shakespeare must be a hot contender, "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May And Summer's lease has far too short a date. Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines, and often is his gold complexion dimm'd " Etc, etc, etc .... Ah but now he does cut to the chase "But thy eternal summer shall not fade ... Nor shall death brag thou wanderest in his shade ... So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. Wonderful stuff. Sends a shiver up any would be writer's spine. But don't you think it's a little bit noisy? As though he is thinking too much of his wonderful words and of his genius as a wordsmith and not thinking quite enough about the lady love he's meant to be writing about? C S Lewis in his Screwtape Letters imagines a senior demon telling his pupil tempter that he should fill his human 'patient' s' life with noise and with darkness so that he will not nor hear the whisperings of another world. Looking round our world today it looks as though his team are doing a pretty good job. We seem to surround ourselves with noise and con-fusion. At all costs, Screwtape goes on, his pupil must steer his human charges away from any silence laced with melody and far away from the light which would show him the reality of his spiritual world. I don't think that Screwtape and his gang had caught up with Robert Burns when he was writing this poem - or maybe they were just asleep on the job, for here in the silence he hears love's melody and here in the morning light he sees his red red rose so newly sprung and all this shouting noisy, darkening world has gone away. "O my luve's like a red, red rose That's newly sprung in June: O my Luve's like the melodie That's sweetly play'd in tune! As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I: And I will luve thee still my dear, Till all the seas gang dry: Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. And the rocks melt wi' the sun; I will luve thee still, my dear , While the sands o' life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only Luve, And fare thee weel, a while! And I will come again, my Luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. And the rocks melt wi' the sun; I will luve thee still, my dear , While the sands o' life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only Luve, And fare thee weel a while! And I will come again, my Luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

“ALL THAT

JAZZ”

Won the vote and

will be the next

RBW farce.

ALL THAT JAZZ. CAST OF CHARACTERS

Many of these characters are two dimensional as yet: where you have a physical description in mind please write it in some-where so that we all know about it. AND check these notes for updates and send in any updates please.

Hotel staff free for all to use - opening gambits by CMH. Nigel Thomas Bluddschott – Manager part owner of ‗Hotel Bluddschott'. Married to Winifred. Tubby, balding, brown hair,

brown eyes, 34, 5' 7‖ tall. Tenor voice but wobbly and hesitant unless using a prepared script. Not good at thinking on his feet. If something CAN go wrong it WILL. Smuggles brandy, fags and other taxable goods as a part time job.

Winfred Alice Bluddschott (nee Gray) – Manager part owner of ‗Hotel Bluddschott'. Wife of Nigel. Plump more than tubby, brown hair bleached blonde, brown eyes, 35, 5' 6‖ tall. MUCH more capable than hubby with a hard edge to her speech.

CMH.

Sally Gray. - A MYSTERY WOMAN in any case. Don't know (yet) if she's staff, entertainer (torch singer or fan dancer) or

guest. Youngish woman. Tall, hazel eyes, auburn hair, very capable. I have her earmarked as an ex-QA/WRNS/WRAF

officer who has just completed her time & wants to 'get away from it all'. BUT, she could be something entirely different! Norbert Bunbury. Staff, driver and odd job man at the HB. Was Infantryman – possibly W.O.2 (Sgt. Maj.) or higher. I fancy a field promotion, mid 1918, not a Sandhurst man – with a few gongs to his credit. Tall, brown eyes, dark brown hair. Well built.

Blackleg Bill Bluddschott - the ghost of. AT and CMH Comic relief characters. You never know! These ladies may, possibly, be descended from those who went with Captain Fowlnett onboard 'The Star' in 'Packet to India'. They are middle aged, overweight, often slightly 1-over-the-8 and about to be tented! Vera Accrington -

Gloria Stanley - Dorothy Calcutt (their much younger niece) Ronnie Manservant only lasts a day.

NP Griggleswade (Griggles). Flyboy. Ex-RAF now working for M.I.5 (or something) as some kind of 'Air Detective'. Ch. Supt. Chorlton-cum-Hardy. Previously Colonel. Griggles superior officer in M.I.5

Mossy. Working with Griggles. Windle. Working with Griggles. Jones. Aircraft mechanic works for Griggles.

Wilhelm von Eisenbahn, aka Osbert Lessly or 'Big Shorts'. Khaki Shorts leader. Comrade 'Ironside' aka Joseph. Lenin boys leader. Comrade Plotskie aka Leon. Assistant to 'Ironside'.

ACW.

Christiana Aggott posing as Lady Arbuthnot Christian. Novelist. Actually married to Col. Beaumont Walsgrave but using a nom-de-plume for secrecy; & for advertising purposes about her new book, 'The man who shed crocodile tears'. (This neatly gets the requisite reptile into the plot line)

Arbuthnot Aggott or Uncle Arbuthnot. Head of a Security Organisation (Home Office?) Christiana is working for him.

General Arbuthnot Aggott. Christiana's father and brother of Arbuthnott Aggott. Something in the War Office (as the

MoD (Army) was known then) to do with Counter Espionage. Col. Beaumont Walsgrave. Christiana's sorely missed hubby.

Bright Young Things: Ruby Rawlings, Charlotte Ponsonby-Smythe & Katherine Wallasey. Bright Young Things brothers: Everet Rawlings, Eugene Ponsonby-Smythe & Virgil Wallasey.

Communists et al ACW Comrade St. John. Lenin boys Comrade Bunson-Smythe. Lenin boys

Bro.?? Muckleby. Leader of 'The Workers Party' also something to do with Arbuthnot Aggott. Bruder Wilhelm Bergmann. German trades union leader.

Bro. Kevin Harvey. A Workers Party member. (Changed from Hardy) Ernst Graf von Rockenbaker. Sir John Keithly.

Lord John Markham. Sir Martin Wickham.

SMS. Barnard Hot Sax Player Musician and nice guy. Errol Holiday. Band leader and piano player Tallulah tubby torch singer Errol‘s girl friend, hates Jo-Jo Jo-Jo. Fan dancer from Red Parrot Club, Paris sister of Errol. Hates Tallulah.

Cpt Digby Makepeace — hotel guest Barrington nephew of Makepeace knew Jo-Jo in Paris and knows PoWales.

LF Rooster Pearmaine detective — drunkard

Balsom Fry valet Cpt Hove-Brighton assistant on trail of missing novelist

AP

Boys and Girls Camp‘s characters and storyline Gilbert and Walter

Simon Bligh pack leader Jenny H.B. STAFF LIST. Awaiting names/descriptions and free to use. Head Waiter. Head Gardener. Head Chef. (Unnamed but has been used) Geordie pretending to be a French Chef, as they get paid more. No good at accents. Head porter/Concierge. 'Dell boy'. He knows about the smuggling racket. Wine Waiter/Sommelier/barman. All on the take from the 'duty free' wine.

CMH Helpful ? NOTE 1. If you are going to involve Security Forces (police and military) then please note that there was nothing like the MoD, it was FOUR (4) separate organisations. Admiralty for the Royal Navy. War Office for the Army. Air Ministry for the RAF. The Home Office for the Police. However, Policing was done by County/Borough. The Home Secretary couldn't give orders to the Chief Constable and the Met. was ―Asked to assist‖ if he thought they were required. I would think that Trentby, being a City or Borough would have its own Police force. Just to make things interesting H.M.Customs was – still is - a part of the Treasury. As civil servants, they did NOT have military rank equivalence or titles nor, except for two of the higher grades, dress uniforms. It gets complicated because in 1923 there were a few organisational 'hold-overs' from earlier times and some officers did get working uniforms issued.

More slapstick fun from LF

Pearmaine, Hove-Brighton and Fry skedaddled back to the hotel entrance, ‗You two go back behind

that yucca plant again, and don‘t move,‘ Pearmaine insisted. Hove-Brighton and Balsome Fry were both extremely smelly. ‗You smell horrendous Hove-Brighton‘.

‗You don‘t smell so good either, Fry. We could both do with a good wash.‘ Hove said in disbelief. They both momentary glanced at each other and wondered off to smugglers‘ cave, by the sea. The

pre dawn tide was now rapidly coming in, both men skinny dipped into the sea leaving their clothes right on the shoreline, soon to be washed up.

Meanwhile back at the hotel an hour later after Pearmaine‘s luxury bath, he put on his scruffy in-

spector gear, and was prepped up to find Miss Christiana Aggot. Venturing downstairs through the en-trance and whispered into the yucca, ‗Hey, I‘m here, you two.‘

Pearmaine discovered a couple, canoodling behind the yucca. ‗What you doing mate?‘ boomed a butch chap.

‗I‘m sorry, it appears my friends have gone astray, I left them here, and I do sincerely apologise. My name is, Inspector Pearmaine.‘

‗More like peeping Tom.‘ The pretty flapper sneered.

Pearmaine snuck of with a much blushed up face. ‗Wonder where my colleagues have gone!!!‘

However, Pearmaine was more concerned with the missing Christiana Aggot than Hove-Brighton and Fry, and headed off towards the khaki shorts camp. In an attempt to find the famous author.

‗Gosh this sure is fun, being naked in the sea.‘

‗Fry it‘s extremely cold. I‘m going to get out.‘ Hove-Brighton waded back to the shore, and two girls arrived, to watch the early morning sun rise, and got more than they bargained for.

The girl‘s screams could be heard all over Trentby Island. Whilst searching for clues, Pearmaine heard the girl‘s screams, whilst scouring around the edge of

the cess pit, with the crocodile in pursuit, (Note to the reader: we have mentioned the escaped croco-

dile from Trentby Zoo previously, haven‘t we?) which was now snapping hungrily behind him, his

only way to escape was into the cess pit. (Note to the reader 2). The crocodile was certainly not going to venture into that cess pit, far too

dirty for him. The Khaki shorts were preparing like a battalion of soldiers ready for battle as the girls‘ screams

continued. As for the bellboy he was sticking wanted dead or alive posters up on trees picturing. Pearmaine,

Hove-Brighton and Balsome Fry.

Masters at Escaping

20 shillings each

(Followed by a snapshot)

Wanted

Dead or alive

Trip to town CMH

Standing on the rickety steps in the island harbour Vera remarked, 'Well it looks as if we're going to get that sea trip anyway our Gloria.'

'Sea trip? What you on about our Vera! What blooming sea trip? Rail trip down here, yes we booked that, but we never booked no sea trip! I means we're stuck on this here island until the road-

way's fixed, that's supposed to be sometime soon, at least that's what that ruddy-shot man at the Hotel said.

He said, We's got a steam shovel aworkin' on it, he said, the 'otel has lots of important guests that

what can't be inconvenienced, he said.' 'We're not incorn ... incom … whatever you said … we jus' wants get to that big shop in town o'er

there,' pointing, dramatically, to Trentby plainly visible not half a mile away over the flat calm waters of the grandiosely named Trentby Sound.

'Ring that there bell like it says on that sign says. Look, that one there, right by your elbow, it says

―Ring the bell for the harbour ferry‖, so ring it then!' 'Where? I can't see no bell, Gloria, nor no bell rope neither.'

In vain, the pair looked high and low, truth to tell mostly low, for any sign of a bell, until an an-cient mariner appeared around the side of a rundown fisherman‘s shelter.

'An' would ye two fine lookin' young lasses be alookin' fer the ferry now?' he enquired. Vera rather liked being taken for a ―fine lookin' young lass‖ and nodded. Gloria wasn't so happy

about it; she preferred mature lady; but you took your complements where you could find them.

'Yes, my man,' Gloria told him, 'We are looking for the ferry, if it's safe to ride in it on that stormy body of water. But we can't find the bell.'

The ancient gazed down at the millpond flat calm for a few seconds, and sucked in a breath, 'Werl, me lady, the ferry bell ain't in its right place 'cos the tower fell down during the storm yer see.'

'Are you going to replace it soon? I can't see any sign of work being done and there are many im-portant people staying at the Hotel who won't like being held up,'

'Werl! Yer could say it'll be a while, me lady. It fell down on the big storm o' 1831. But you can

see it all right if you goes down them steps, it's sunk inter the mud. Now if yee was ter aks me where the ferryman was? Well I could tell yee that, fer a small consideration o' course.'

Vera reached into her reticule and handed the man a three-penny bit, 'Now then! Where can we find the ferryman to row us across to town, please?'

'Jus' a minute, madam, and I'll go get him,' the ancient replied, returning to the fishermans' shel-

ter, returning a few seconds later wearing a blue three cornered hat, with a yellow cockade on the

side, and a red piped sea jacket. 'I understands that you ladies requires the ferry into Trentby,' he said.' The official fare is thru-

pence per person per trip or per part of per trip payable previous to per trip.' 'I'm clear then,' Vera said. 'I just gave you three-pence.'

'It's still thrupence per trip, madam. You never gave the official ferryman anything; you gave it to a man to fetch the ferryman, not to the ferryman. The ferryman is required by 'is charter to wear 'is official uniform when on 'is official duty.'

Gloria scoffed, 'Official uniform! What official uniform?' 'Official hat and coat, new every year, madam, part of the re - compense for the hereditary post it

is,' said the ferryman touching his hat in salute. 'Should be boots an' all, but they ran out o' they in me fathers time. I 'as ter buy me own now,' he added sadly.

'So where's the ferry boat then, Mr. Ferryman?' Gloria wanted to know. 'I don't suppose that sank

with the bell did it?' He laughed, 'Lord love you no, lady. I keeps that in me hut there. Stops it getting' wet in the rain

it do. Can't not abide a wet seat I can't, does me twingin' screw no good at all it don't. Jus' you bide yoursel' 'ere a minute while I fetches it.'

A few seconds later, he re-appeared beneath a deep-tarred oval basket with ribs showing through the skin. Depositing it at the water‘s edge he remarked, 'There she is, the official Trent by harbour ferry boat, a coracle of six feet and a half in length and four feet in breadth as laid down in the Char-

ter of Queen Mary. Course she's usual painted white but I redid her waterproofin' yesterday. Hop in and I'll have you across at the pier afore you can blink.'

Vera looked at Gloria; Gloria looked back, 'Well you did say we was goin' on a sea trip,' she said. 'It's just that we're going to be nearer the water.'

'Under the water I should think!' 'Oh no lady. Safer than houses it is! The Trentby harbour ferry ain't lost a passenger since St. Val-

entine‘s day 1730, and then he walked out of the harbour carrying the boat, and me eight times

great-grandad.' He shook his head, 'Disgrace to the fambly it were. We 'ad ter give him is money back!'

Gloria and Vera 'hopped in' as requested, the ferryman, ―Call me Malk‖, sat on the back and pad-dled them across to the pier. 'Jus' a sec ladies,' he said as they started to stand, 'I'll give you an 'and t' get safe ashore.'

He scooped Gloria up, huffing under the weight, put her on the pier then turned to get Vera. The coracle, relieved of the weight of Malk and Gloria, had drifted away from the shore.

When she saw this Vera had frozen in fright. Then came the stentorian voice of Gloria, 'Save my cousin,' she cried. 'A reward for saving her!'

Then, realising what she had said, changed it to, 'A small reward.' Malk, a gentleman to the tip of his straggly beard, scooped Vera out of the ferry and dropped her

beside Gloria. 'Back fer me reward in a minute ladies,' he said as he stepped back into the briny, an-

kle deep by now, and recovered the corracle. 'Now ladies, about this small reward!' he said, turning it over. 'Let‘s go to the pub an' talk about

it!'

Pearmaine scrawled out from the algae covered cess pit, where a laughing battalion of khaki shorts, who were traipsing along towards where the screaming voices, were emanating.

‗Sounds close to smugglers‘ cave,‘ their leader shouted, with a smirk, glaring towards Pearmaine. ‗Smugglers‘ cave we must go,‘ he laughingly demanded.

‗Go away girls, you‘ll awaken everyone,‘ Hove Brighton shouted, unaware that of course, they‘d already had. ‗We‘ll have to do a runner for the cave, and swerve around them,‘ Fry said. ‗Come on run for it Hove-

Brighton.‘

Naked as the day he was born, Hove-Brighton got totally confused and swerved towards them. ‗Good morn-ing girls!‘ He said full of embarrassment and ran straight into the cave.

Those two girls froze to the spot.

Eventually the sun rose. ‗Where‘s our clothes Hove-Brighton‘?

‗Gone, washed up by the sea I reckon. Shush, what‘s that I hear outside? Think we should hide some-where Fry,‘ Hove-Brighton said nervously. They both went deeper into the cave, and spotted two khaki shorts having a crafty fag, it was the two they‘d apprehended the day before.

Both boys were still traumatised by the experience of being tied up to a tree, which now has a poster of a blurred Hove and Fry, plus a very much in focus Pearmaine, pasted upon it. The three were well and truly up to their necks in it.

Brighton and Fry are both in the buff. And Pearmaine‘s, plastered in gooey stuff.

Meanwhile some way away: ‗Christiana Aggott!‘ Pearmaine muttered scrapping some muck off one of his

eyelids.

Then he spotted the poster. Pearmaine sat at the base of tree, with the poster on. Then began contemplating life plus the situation he

was now in. It started to rain heavily and lightening struck a rotten branch causing it to fall, onto Pear-maine‘s balding bonce.

‗Typical!‘ he said in a dazed voice.

Equally distressed in the cave, Hove-Brighton and Fry discovered an extremely dark passageway having

no clue whatsoever where it led, appearing to be full of people bustling about. Luckily it was pitch black, so everyone was unaware of, Brighton and Fry‘s state of indecency.

Pearmaine still under the tree felt dejected, alone, lost and much confused. Everything appeared as a misty haze, not knowing what to do. Disappearing friends, and missing author Christiana Aggott. He fanta-sized of finding her, having never found anyone to date.

This should have been his opportunity, of finally making a name for himself. Instead of which he‘s one of the most wanted men on Trentby Island.

Pearmaine squelched back to the cellar. Along a path he nicknamed, ‗lonely ole road‘. Opening up the cellar door, he sat slumped at foot of the bed. ‗Not you, again,‘ boomed a voice: it was that butch chap he‘d stolen the dress suit from and some sexy

flapper, they‘d been busily canoodling, underneath the cellar‘s sheets. Beyond all care, Pearmaine was yet again out for the count. No booze and an egg sized lump on his

head. Today was certainly not the best of days. And where were Fry and Hove-Brighton? Eventually coming round, Pearmaine thought, ‗enough‘s, enough‘, and crept from the open cellar feeling

sore and badly bruised. Leaving the naughty pair at it, and made his way backwards the hotel foyer. Still feeling, partially knocked out, at the hotel entrance, bellboy refused him entry. ‗Can‘t come here looking and smelling like that.‘ the bellboy insisted.

Pearmaine‘s state of wears left much to be desired. ‗But I‘m Insp...,‘ momentarily paused thinking it best not to say his entire name.

Suddenly, there stood Hove-Brighton and Fry naked in the hotel lobby, after discovering that secret tun-nel from smugglers‘ cave. They spotted Pearmaine tussling with the bellboy, outside the entrance.

‗Look it‘s Inspector Pearmaine,‘ they shouted and ran towards Pearmaine, both grabbing hold of him.

‗Oii ... What‘s his name?‘ asked the bellboy. ‗Inspector Pearmaine.‘ Hove-Brighton shouted. ‗Well done, he‘s one of the most wanted men on Trentby.

Only another two more criminals to find.‘ The bellboy said. ‗Hmm thought you looked familiar, come with me.‘ With that the bellboy grasped hold of Pearmaine‘s elbow. Then turned to Fry and Hove-Brighton

‗By the way you two, why are you both naked? Stand behind the counter, and I‘ll sort you both out in a

bit.‘ Still dazed, Pearmaine was then sent back into the cellar. There was a clink on the cellar prison door. This

time locked fast. ‗Not you, again,‘ a voice boomed, followed by a thud. Surprisingly, Pearmaine unleashed a cracking right

handed punch, catching everyone unaware. It became a goodnight for Pearmaine, becoming the flapper‘s

hero (LF)

The haunted steam shovel CMH

The spectre of Blackleg Bill Bluddschott floated down to his favourite haunting spot by the cause-way. He thought, after a century of mature reflection, that it could be that because, on a sea-girt is-

land, it was as near to the mainland, and his beloved, as he could get. He opened his ethereal eyes and found it was pitch black, no moon, no stars not even the odd

gleam, and it was warm. Very warm. This sent what had replaced his heart into a rapture, he could feel the heat restoring him to something like ... well he didn't really know ... but it could be something like life.

'It's got a taste,' he said to himself. 'Slightly salty, sadly lacking mutton chops or cream buns, but with an after taste of an inferior jug of Malmsey wine, Castor oil, and horsehair. But it's a marked im-provement on that concoction served up as 15-year old French brandy by Nigel. A collateral descen-dant who never listens to anything I tell him; He's a disgrace to the family.' He mused for a little while.

'A haunting we shall go, oh yes a haunting we shall go-ho,' he hummed to himself as he took the

few steps forward to get a clearer view across the Sound of Trentby and the feeling disappeared. After a few seconds had shown him that the island was still more or less where he left it yesterday; that he

hadn't become a second Moses and created dry land across to the far shore he turned, and screamed! Where had this ugly great monster appeared from!? Not only was it on his island, and in his way,

but it had left a massive steaming, red hot, pile of dung on the trackway and was piddling on the, in-substantial, riding boots he was trembling in.

Then he became aware of some humans standing next to the pile of monster dung, they weren't

afraid of the thing, and it stood still while they climbed onto it. Although he didn't usually bother about humans, he listened carefully to what they said.

'Another ten gallon and it'll be great, Mr. Bunbury. Once I've screwed the filler cap back on I'll relight her; then, once she's up to pressure, I can get on with the job. Three of four more days and the cause-

way will be as good as new. Better probably because it's been built up another two-foot or so by that storm. Who says an ill wind blows nobody some good eh?'

'I'll get you twenty gallon then Mr. Strang. A bit to spare for later on in the day. You never know you

may need it.' One man climbed up to the top of the monsters body and fiddled around; the other got onto a

wagon of barrels and clucked at the horse to go towards the old farm well. A pretty young woman stood nearby, William didn't approve of the way she dressed, after all pantaloons where only for men, but admitted that they did – something – for some women – and this one had the something.

'I'm glad the flap's over, Mr, Strang. None of those problems with the boiler you envisaged, that's good.'

'Oh no, Miss Gray. Why, I've even had time to grease the cables and top sheaves.' Strang gestured, 'I didn't know it got so cold around here though, there was ice on some of the slides this morning.'

'Yes it is Mr. Strang. It's often cold around here. My Grandmother, who was a bit fey, often said that this part of the island was haunted. Two ghosts she thought.'

'Could be, Miss, could be. Now if I can get some kindling I'll get old rusty here fired up and get on

with it. A pint of paraffin would be good an' all.' 'Under the trees, Mr. Strang. I always found some sticks under there. I shouldn't wonder if some of

those I hid when I was younger are still under there.' Bill wondered to himself, 'Who's the other ghost then? I've never come across one and it'd be fun to

have a spectre-a-spectre chat. At least it'd break up the loneliness.' The 'dung' had been shovelled back into the belly of the monster and the humans stood around talk-

ing when Bill felt a pull towards the monster. 'Not going there!' he said, 'Not getting et be no monster.' The pull was inexorable and he found himself in the warm, slightly salty, bad Malmsey, castor oil and horsehair tasting, interior of the machine.

This time he was trapped. He rattled around the inside, vainly trying to find a way out, as it grew hotter and hotter.

Then there was a pull towards the top, followed by a squeeze he kicked against, and he found him-

self, less his boots and hat, blasted out of the chimney. 'That was good, if I can find out how I'll do that again.' There was another CHUFF and his hat and

boots appeared.

Bill spent the rest of the day going round and round the innards of the machine, 'Once I've found out how to hang onto my hat and boots I'll stay here,' he decided. 'I'll drop in on Nigel now and again, just to see how he's getting on, but this is much more fun. Whee another chuff!'

'You know I sometimes think old rusty here is haunted,' Mr. Strang said to Norbert and Sally as they stood, waiting for the boiler to heat up enough to make tea to wash a bacon buttie down.

'Haunted! Norbert was intrigued. 'I've never heard of a haunted steam shovel before. In fact, I've never heard of a haunted steam anything. Have you Sally?'

Sally shook her head, saying no, as she asked, 'Why do you think that, Mr. Strang?'

'Well; not haunted like a spooky old house haunted, no nothin' like that. It's just that since we got on the island she been adoin' odd things. Things that I can't find no reason for. Sort of a bit like a kid with

a new toy.' 'Like what Mr. Strang? Anything in particular?' Norbert wanted to know. 'Like I said,' replied the puzzled man, 'Nothin' I can put me finger on! Things like the whistle agoing

off when I've not pulled the chain, and the safety valve blowin' when the pressure's too low for it. And odd little things like .. ohh … frost on the slides in the morning after a warm night. Nothin' really, just

peculiar, that's all.' Sally nodded before, quietly, asking, 'And the voice from the boiler, Mr. Strang? What about that?'

Strang shuddered, 'Can't say as 'ow I've, exactly, heard voices, Miss Gray, but sometimes it do sound a bit like it. Probably the metal expandin! Probably.'

'Well you know about these things, Mr. Strang, so you‘re probably right,' Sally told him, but the look

in her eyes didn't agree with her words. 'Nothing to fret about then.' She reached out and patted the steam shovel as if it were a horse, Now! Is it time for that brew up yet? A girl really needs to keep up

her tea levels these mornings!' CMH

The Flotilla of Escape ACW

Large fishing boats crowded off Sandy Beach by the hotel, launching row boats to shore, as fancy clad hotel guests fought for space on each row boat, only able to take a couple at a time, weighed down with trunks, va-

lises, hat boxes and vanity cases. Babbling excitable Frenchmen mixed with haughty demanding Englishmen expecting the sailors to be ser-

vants, to be disillusioned in short order.

Some row boats barely lasted a moment before tipping guests and baggage into the fortunately shallow wa-ters.

Only for when boat righted by sailors and made back to shore, another couple took vacant possession, hurling

their belongings onto the row boat then sailors rowing lustily for their fishing boat, with even more vehement venting of their spleen, which coarse language fortunately the ladies had never learned from their governess, like

Merde, Alors and Zut! Ladies on shore took to hair pulling wrestling displays in scrambling for the row boats and kicking of shins

learned from hockey at ladies finishing school.

The men gave a good account of themselves being of late in military service, but hampered by the sandy beach, were falling all over the shop in a comic Charlie Chaplin style of falling fights.

Soon the ladies all looked like the mythical Medusa and her head of snakes, hair askew and stood on end. The men‘s attire became torn, embedded in pebbles, sand, mud and seaweed to look more like escapees from

Poseidon‘s and other mythical gods‘ lair.

Then the fights broke out over mixed up luggage, handbags flying by lady against lady and men flailing blows, that eventually drove too many into falling in the water.

Sodden linen summer suits clung to the men, leaving nothing to the imagination, ladies! The ladies, fortunate that 1923 had brought back frocks to shin length hemline, could still hide their embar-

rassment despite torn frock at neck and side skirt. But the ladies‘ make-up was now caked in sand, making them

look like a demented shell and sand souvenir picture. On board the fishing boats the captains and crews had a hard time settling down his passengers (after ensur-

ing the monetary tributes were secured), finally in exasperation beating them about the shoulders and then lash-

ing up all the luggage under the tarpaulin as seating. Then came the fun of turning about the fleet of fishing boats in the same chaos as carriages and cars around

the Arc de Triomphe in Paris or even more terrifying, a Parisian crossroads with no gendarme in control. How they did not collide was nothing short of miracle.

The Bluddschotts on the other hand had grabbed the charabanc, only pausing to watch this spectacle from

the road above the beach and then wisely deciding not to join the fray.

Latest Competitions: Prizes from the Society of Civil & Public Service Writers | Closing Date: 29-Feb-16 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1879 Federation of Writers Scotland Vernal Equinox Competition 2016 | Closing Date: 21-Mar-16 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1880 Binsted Arts Weekend Poetry Competition 2016 | Closing Date: 18-Apr-16 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1878

XVI Poetry on the Lake International Competition for the Silver Wyvern | Closing Date: 30-Apr-16 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1876

The erbacce-prize 2016 | Closing Date: 01-May-16 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1874

New Magazines: Wild Court http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/magazines/emagazines/?id=762

New Exhibitions: Enchantment Will Find Me | 17-Mar-16 to 08-May-16 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/exhibitions/current/?id=111 Latest News: New commission for Ntiense Eno Amooquaye | 28-Jan-16 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1458 Apples and Snakes announces new leadership | 25-Jan-16 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1457

Camden LGBT Poet Laureate appointed | 25-Jan-16 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1456

Free app that could help you manage your writing | 25-Jan-16 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1455 http://www.secretarybird.info/

Strive Open Day for young people | 15-Jan-16 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=1454

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