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This page contains material published on ‘Our Writing’ between 1.5.07 and 1.12.07. NOTE; Copyright remains with each Author. Authors will be approached for permission to publish in our next Anthology.

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Archive 1

A Tercet by Standup

A TERCET © Standup

My springers leap and charge
Tails wag ears all a flap
Silent havoc through the hedge they barge.

Sensitive their noses scour
The molehills and the badgers’ setts.
Their haunches rise and fall with power.

Much earth they move with energy and speed
Happy to follow noses through the soil.
Were they to find their prey they would not feed.

They’d play and tap like pussycats
Not knowing what to do with it.
Best show them rabbits or a nest of rats.

For such fast prey they’ll make an effort true
Yet still they lose it in the grass
Best open up a tin of food for two.

BIKES to SPAIN © Stan Bloxham

The bikes are piled up on the trailer
Where are they all going like that?
They’re going to Spain you see.
But they’re always going to Spain.
Why can’t they go to Turkistan
Pakistan or Afghanistan?
No, Spain. Mummy flies
And Daddy drives the truck
Spain is this way you see
And then we park somewhere here
They all jump down there
Spain is down there.
Don’t lose them all in the grass, will you?
I won’t lose them. They’re all in Spain now.

Grandpa, can you take the top off this?
No. It won’t come off I’m sure.
Yes it will. I’ve got it off, look!
So you have. Why?
Is someone going to sit in there
And drive to Spain as well?
No, silly! This can’t go to Spain
It’s a racing car.

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Bikes to Spain by Stan Bloxham

Jean is moaning about her cousins. Patrick is trying to understand.

“The problem is Patrick, not only are these chaps all cloned from Uncle Fred but they all have the same homologous recombinant gene inserted. Exactly as Uncle Fred instructed. He told the Clone Docs to put this gene into chromosome 9 at locus rh44, and that’s where the intense obsessional behaviour comes from. He bred it into them. Whatever they take on they won’t give up!”

“Hang on a minute, Jean. From whom did he get this terribly effective gene? And wasn’t it wrong to do that? I mean pinch someone else’s gene and stick into his cloned progeny?”

           “He got it from a honey badger.”
           “A what?”
           “A honey badger. You see the technology’s quite simple—“
           “I know that, but it’s also illegal, -- isn’t it?”
           “Well yes. And excruciatingly embarrassing to the rest of the family, especially me! I mean what with 17 of these obsessive individuals, all the same, and all the same age rushing about and behaving like Uncle Fred only more so; - more so even than a honey badger after a rat.”
           “Ah! Yes, awful.”
            “He was pretty obsessional himself you see, and something of a practical joker. That’s why he came up with the idea. Evidently he used to go round the lab with a pipette, sucking bits of fluid out of every fly he could find and centrifuging out the DNA and injecting bits of it into his colleague’s houseplants. He knew it wouldn’t do anything except make the leaves go brown but it sure irritated the other researchers. That’s why they threw him off the genome project back in 1993.”
           “Yes, well you’ve told me something about that before, and about him setting up his own lab in Wester Ross and living up there for ten years, but how did he get hold of the honey badgers, they’re African aren’t they?”
          “Oh, well he just went to a small zoo in Inverness, and worked as a part-time keeper for a while and managed to scrape a few cells from the inside of their honey badger’s mouth! Mind you that was not without difficulty, I’ m sure.”
          “Quite. Well anyway, I guess you were going to tell me another funny story about Tom or Tim or Jim or Slim or one of these innumerable identical cousins of yours?”
           “Well it’s not funny, is it, when 6 of them fall in love with me at once. I mean thank God the other 11 all flew off to Australia looking for Kylie Minogue’s sister.”
          “You mean you have six of these guys after you all at once? That should boost your self-esteem no end.”
          “You’re joking! They all tend to turn up at the same time at the door, with flowers, and they all look the same and they are all terribly polite and kind and all that. Just like Uncle Fred was, but they won’t stop coming. Last week I went out on a date with Tim, Jim and Slim, which was nice but I had to give the slip to Tom, Ron and Jon, by telling them the wrong time to come. Of course they all stick to the arrangements rigidly and they don’t seem to be upset or put off, they just keep coming. So this week I’ve had to play the same trick on Tim Jim and Slim so that I can go out with Tom Ron and Jon. They’re all good conversationalists, and we have a great time and the food’s good, though it does nothing for my waistline, but I can see where it’s all leading.”
           “You mean? ---“
           “Well yes, obviously, Patrick. They all want me. The problem is that, yes they are all good –looking lads, and I won’t deny I’m attracted to them. But I still can’t tell them apart and I dread the thought of, -- well them all wanting to have sex with me at the same time, I mean one after the other. And what if the other eleven lads come back from Australia and latch on to the same idea? I’d be worn out emotionally and physically within one night! The way things are going and with their persistence, and the way I feel about them it’s all going to happen, I can tell! Christ, Patrick what am I going to do?”
           “Now hang on Jean, it can’t be that difficult. You say they’re nice and kind and everything. I know;- what if we strike up an affair and I sweep you off to the Seychelles for a fortnight and we make passionate love and come back clearly a couple, and maybe you’re pregnant and all that, wouldn’t that put them off?”
            “Yes, well it might, and it’s very sweet of you Patrick, especially as you’re gay and you’d only be doing it out of kindness and because you’ve always fantasised about having uncloned kids. I mean you’re a good friend and I’m sorry to pour my heart out to you like this. But it wouldn’t be fair on you, and anyway I don’t think I could cope with the deceit. You see I’m afraid I just don’t fancy you, ‘cos I know you’re really only interested in blokes. Besides, if my cousin-clones didn’t understand, and they weren’t put off, and continued to want me, they’d be intensely jealous. They’d go for you like, --- well, like honey badgers after a rat!”

                                                                                                                THE END

Cloned ©Standup

Weather Newsflash by Megan Robertson

Cloned by Standup

Image: © Lyz Harvey

My body is a cage
a container of urges,
would-be splurges,
and excess.

I confess.

Deceptively encaged,
with a surface so serene,
skin-tight dignity supreme –
an outward show.

Yes, I know.

Yin and Yang rage,
surge, then break asunder -
it’s no wonder
I fall apart.

Please ...

find my heart.

Colours © Stan Bloxham

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Image by Lyz Harvey

Colours by Stan Bloxham

Beginning & End By Standup

                             © stanbloxham .june 2007

                                         Breaking the mould   Mechanical mayhem
                                     Moulding the Earth           The babel of business
                               Raising the stakes                   Incoherent information
                         The rise of Man                              Infertility of land and sea
                    The birds                                             Breakdown of communities
              The dawn                                                                              The night
A Beginning                                                                                                 An End

They started up the sloping track across the green, Tom stopped once to “be sure he had some coppers”. Jim waited whilst he got his breath and they went on, collars turned up as the biting east wind pushed them towards the “Antelope”.

It was much later when the conversation in the bar turned again to the loss in July of the two village lads on the Somme battlefield. Ted and Barzillai had gone over the top and been promptly mown down by machine gun fire. Tom had been lucky, hadn’t he? Being in hospital instead of at the front. But if Tom had been there, maybe he could have protected young Barza as he’d promised to do. For once, Tom didn’t rise to any this. He sat quiet and morose, reflecting on the events.

As Tom, Ted and Barzillai sat quietly eating a half-cooked scrawny chicken in a deserted farmyard behind the lines, Tom remembered the promise he had made to Barza’s mother before they left Combrook.

“Don’t you worry Missus Humphreys, I’ll watch out for him. He’s like a younger brother to me. I’ll take care of him.” He’d said. But how could he protect the boy from things you couldn’t see. Bullets and shells that whistled and whined, but could not be avoided. Unseen enemies who hid in tunnels and trenches, like the ones they’d been cowering in themselves for the last fortnight.

Tom’s dysentery started as soon as they got back to the trenches. Gut wrenching, foul smelling, bloody shit that never stopped. Within two hours Tom was back behind the lines. There were hundreds of other lads in the hospital; in beds, on the floor, outside in the yard even. The moans and occasional screams were in his ears, the foetid smells filled his nose. Only a little less terrible than the trench he’d left.

When the fever settled and the diarrhoea eased Tom tried to get off the bed but fell on the floor. He felt nothing in his legs. He felt no fear anymore either. He knew now he could not return to the front. Whatever happened to Ted and Barza, he could not be part of it.

A week later, the nearly empty wards smelled of carbolic, they were being cleared. The ‘Brass’ were marching down the wards with the doctors.

“We’ll have 30% back to Blighty and the rest to the front by the end of the week, Eh?” remarked the Major.

“Of course sir. Sadly there’ll be a few difficult cases. This man.” said the ‘M.O.’ standing at the foot of Tom’s bed. “No sensation in the legs, can’t stand. Apparently came on after a bout of dysentery. Almost certainly Hysteria. But then, no use to you if he can’t walk, is he?”

“If it had happened at the front we’d have had him shot.” said the Major.
They moved on. Tom called to a following nurse. “ Look, I can’t walk. I’m not shamming. Am I?” She looked past him and walked briskly on behind the troupe of Officers.

On the day that Tom was given his discharge he heard of Ted’s and Barzillai’s death. So, he hobbled home with his crutches and his pain and his burden of guilt. Everyone, himself included, thought he was a coward. Tom felt that somehow he’d willed his legs not to work so as to ‘get a Blighty’. He could not face speaking to Barza’s mother.

“Moffat should have brought him into the house last night. It was a raw one. Tom must have turned back and toddled off around the churchyard in a sort of drunken dream”. Doctor Jefferson was talking to Tom’s mother, who, sad but dry eyed, looked sharply across the room at a downcast Jim.

“You hear that, Jim Moffat? Tom froze to death. I was in my bed, and you and your feckless friends got ‘im blind drunk and left him out there to freeze to death by the churchyard wall. Never drank a drop ‘till he went off to the war, he didn’t. And him paralysed, hardly able to stand.”

“Missus Brown, I’m sorry, but like I said before, Tom walked in through the door, alright. Mumblin’ to hisself sure enough, but said goodnight. Even waved a stick as I went off. How was I to know he’d wander off like that?”

“Well, be that as it may,” said the doctor, “he was very weak. This neuropathy is a terrible condition, you know. Besides the paralysis, the breathing is poor and the heart can quickly fail in cold weather.”

“Wait a minute doctor.” Jim said, “Are you sayin’ as this was a disease, like? Only Tom admitted to us some time back as the army doctors told him he was putting it on. “Wisteria” or some such they called it. To get out of goin’ back to the front, and getting killed like Ted and Barza.”

“I thought that possible until I read in the Journal last week about two French soldiers observed and treated for exactly the same symptoms. The cases were described by two most eminent neurologists. Fortunately both soldiers made a gradual but complete recovery. It is usually brought on by a recent infection, such as the dysentery that your boy had, Mrs. Brown. First the legs become paralysed and then the upper body and the respiratory system, the breathing. Of course it’s easy to see why the army doctors would say it was hysteria, but I’m sure it was real. Not that it matters now, I’m sorry…”

“Urghh,… urghhh.” Came from Tom’s body lying on the parlour table.

“Ah Ah!” Said Jefferson, “the lungs are expelling air, the body is warming up. Mrs Brown I must get on. But I’ll let Jenkins the undertaker know; I’m passing his house.”

As Tom’s mother turned to help the doctor with his coat, she saw from the corner of her eye a slight movement, a rising up of the bunch of lilies she had recently placed on Tom’s chest.

“Doctor, doctor. You don’t think you could listen to him just once again for me, I’ve had such a queer feeling?”

Jefferson looked irritated, but hesitated in the doorway. The body went “urghh… urghh” again, then it coughed.
Tom sat up suddenly and coughed very vigorously twice. His mother screamed out. Jim stood up and then passed out.
“Hello Doc.” Said Tom, seeing the pale, startled doctor at the door, “Am I dead or alive?”

Doctor Jefferson was at his side now, feeling his pulse, as his mother clutched at his shoulder and then said to him, “ Lie down, Tom, be still. Oh, love we thought you was dead, but it’s a miracle. He is alive isn’t he doctor? I knew it when he coughed and his chest moved. Look the lilies. All over the floor.”

“So there you are boy, I was a dead man, but ‘ere I am. All I could hear as I was comin’ to was the doctor talking about neuropathy and that it were a real illness. And you know, from then on my legs started to work better and my muscles grew. And my breathing got right. After a couple of months I met your grandmother, fine young woman. When we got wed we soon found as everything else worked alright as well. If it hadn’t been for Jefferson knowin’ about this neuropathy, I might ‘ave still been hobblin’ around the churchyard wall waitin’ to fall over it.”

“But Grandad,” said the boy, “if he’d told you earlier that you had a real illness you might have got better quicker instead of sort of dying like that.”

Tom smiled a knowing smile and lay back in his armchair. His bearded chin dropped forward onto his chest. He fell asleep. He never spoke about the matter again.

THE END

Many years later Tom would finger his white beard as if deep in thought. Then he would lean across the chequers board, smile slyly at his youngest grandson and, to disrupt the boy’s concentration, say “You’re playing draughts with a dead man, you know lad!” But, in the fading light of a December evening in 1916, shuffling along on his crutches beside the churchyard wall, Tom could think only of the temporary relief of his pain and sadness that would follow the drinking of a few pints of strong ale. After another few yards he stopped, breathless, and with cramp in his calf muscles.
            “You’ll be over the other side of that wall soon enough, Tom.” Jim Moffatt said, a broad grin on his face.
              Tom parked his sticks carefully and leaned over the low ironstone wall, breathing in the dankness of the dead flowers and the mouldering cut grass, and turned slowly towards his friend, smiling grimly. He expected he would quite likely die during the coming winter. Dr. Jefferson had told him he could do nothing, that he had only a quarter of the muscle power in his legs and that his chest was very weak.

“We’ll have a last drink then Jim. Afore I go!” he said.

Over the Wall © Standup

Over the Wall by Standup

Goddess in Despair © L. D. Holland

I flew like a wounded angel
Landed here like a petrified devil.
My life like a pole-vault without the pole
My home like a lofty dark hole.

I stare like an Egyptian cat
Sleep like a decibel gone flat.
Facing the sea on Rapa Nui
as a Megalithic idol of stone.
© L.D.Holland june 2007

Mumbles ©Megan Robertson May 2007

Last night I dreamt I went
To the Mumbles;
Nothing to do with indistinct diction
Of toothless old women in your fiction.
The name derives from mammary glands,
Breasts, tits, it fits the golden girls,
sun bathing, rain or shine. *
Those in the rain, not in vain
They are writing poems, weaving songs like sirens.
The waves crash on to the rocks
Where I cling like a limpet.
I cannot move on, or back,
Lack the courage to let go once more.
I want to go to Morriston
Home of male voice choirs
With the power to lighten your mood,
unless they are in the minor key,
We love so much
But still, I clutch the rock
For that rock-a-by melody to enter my dream
As I remember Mumbles
And some of Dylan’s dives
That drive the brain’s muse
To amuse me at rest.
That choir, named Orpheus
Will not bring him back to us
However sweetly they sing
With Rev Eli Jenkins in Milkwood

* Gwyneth Lewis, the Welsh poet, wrote a book about her depression, called it: “Sunbathing in the Rain.”

Goddess in Despair by L.D. Holland

Mumbles by Megan Robertson

Bread by Standup

The smell of bread at two a.m.
Cooking golden brown.
At dawn I’ll rise,
and slide it from the pan,
steaming and fragrant.
Let it stand.
Then gently slice it
warm and fresh.

The loaf contracts and squashes
as it sighs around the knife.
The slice expands.
It breathes.
I lay it on a plate.

Dab with blobs of butter
and fold it in my hand.
I feel my spittle start,
my nostrils flare.
Teeth encase.
Tongue
lingers.
True
Taste.
©Stan Bloxham.2007

Bread by Standup

Copper Pot by L.D. Holland

For this creation so refined
Malleable ore of earth was mined,
From the eastern distant hills
Of man's sweated pain and skills

Ore 'copper belt' where bought
Came heavy dull unwrought
From the blazing ashes hurled
Glowed red molten metal furled

Hammered from the furnace smelt
To its shimmering copper svelte
For smart subservient household
To this fashioned copper mould

Mellowed tarnished tired utensil
Aged lidded burnished vessel
Softly glows in candlelight
Warm prism in the darkest night

Perched proudly on brass pedestal
Now useless, stored as ornamental
To life what passion now impart
This heirloom, curio, objét d'art

Born of rock to sweltering fire
For worshipped object of desire
To earth's fiery end returns
When God's Armageddon burns
©L.D.Holland.2007

Copper Pot by L.D. Holland

How Dare You? By Stan Bloxham

How Dare You? by Stan Bloxham

Anne Foxton stood beside the well, her bucket poised on the wall. A tall well built woman, her bare forearms heavily freckled, her fair hair tied back and bonneted; high cheek bones ruddy in the late autumn sun. At 38, Anne knew herself to be a strong woman. She had borne five of her husband William’s children, and declared herself content to bear more, only so long as William’s enterprises did not fail him.

John the eldest was now, in the autumn of 1790, a tall gangling man of 21. Slow thinking, yet strong and good at handling the four horses and the brood mare. His twin, William had died a month after their birth of some terrible ague.

The second living child, Elizabeth was fat and dull-brained but helped Anne greatly within the house and at 20, it seemed to Anne likely she would remain in the role of housemaid and that was a good way for any woman to be employed.

Maud was different. At 18 yrs she was a lively, good -looking woman betrothed to a good man. For Geoffrey was the sensible son of Daniel Harvey a successful miller, just recently partnered with William. Good prospects there, indeed.

There had perforce been a gap between Maud and the next lad. William had been ill with some terrible prolonged fever. The physician brought in from Oxford by the good reverend had declared it caught from an aborting cow, though Anne could never credit that. Young William (so named after his dead brother) was only 12yrs, but already showed signs of the strength needed to work a farm. Moreover he was a clever boy. William thought him likely to benefit from further schooling, though where they should find the money for such was yet a mystery.

It was rare for Ann to muse in this manner, but today was almost quiet. The children were all well, and well occupied, and William was away in Banbury at the quarter sessions. Likely he would stay over at the Bull, and likely be drinking that night with Daniel Harvey, and John Warmington. Both these men would lead William astray that was certain. Why it was that William, who was Constable that year, should need to be accompanied by two deputies to take a wretched felon to the sessions was beyond Anne, but there it was. There would be precious little work done on the farm tomorrow, and Harvey’s mill would need to rely on young Geoffrey to function at all.

The night was well on when Ann was aroused by the loud voices of men in the yard. She was annoyed to realize that she’d fallen asleep on the settle with a half-sewn rent in a pair of her husband’s breeches in her hands. One of the voices was William’s, the other that of a younger man, soft and high, perhaps barely broken. As Anne lit the bracket lamp in the small dark hall, William opened the door. Unusually quietly, Anne thought.

Anne was fulsome in her greetings. She was gratified that her worst misgivings had been misplaced. William was home same day, quiet and sober.
For his part, William was very ill at ease. He must discuss things with her now, but was unsure how to proceed. Anne anticipated him.
‘The young man I heard outside with you. Who is he? Has he now departed home?’ she enquired.
‘Ah!’ said William. ‘No. He will feed and bed the horse, then sleep in the barn until the morning. He had a small beer and some bread at the Bull before we left.’
Anne sensed something evasive about this answer.
‘But do you trust him there with the nag and the wagon? Should you not at least show him to me?’
‘Tomorrow, Anne. First let me tell you about him. May we not sit and talk awhile? Have you no warm sops to offer me?’
When the couple were seated by the fire, William took a loud gulp of milk and leaned forward. Anne busied herself over her sewing.
‘The magistrates have released the boy into my custody, Anne. He is the felon whom we apprehended a week ago foolishly trying to steal a pair of piglets from the Reverend Dubrey’s stye’. William was talking quickly now. ‘You’ll recall that he’s Clara Barham’s lad from Cradle farm. She who’s minding it for her brother George, who up and went to Birmingham to make brass buckles or some such. Almost starving they are, Clara and the lad, that is, and the reverend did not want the boy arraigned, but I knew that the law must be observed…’ William paused. A frown had passed across his wife’s face and she had dropped his breeches on the floor, and yet the frown had been but fleeting.
‘Yes, yes, husband I recall. You narrated this to me only two nights past. I thought then that though it was a terrible thing to steal from the reverend, that it was circumstances that forced the boy. No doubt if you had not offered surety for him he would have been transported, or worse. That would have been too hard for such a crime. And yet why should you take him in? Surely we do not need another mouth to feed?’
‘He is a strong lad and almost 16yrs, and is made bondman to me for seven years. He will be of great value on the land, to help John. For our young William will not make a farmer that I’m sure. More likely a clergyman or an apothecary.’
‘You said our William. Surely this lad is not called William also?’
‘Ah! But Clara always calls him Billy Boy! So Billy will avoid a muddle.’

There was a silence then. Anne frowned again. Then picked up William’s breeches and began to sew. Rapidly she jabbed the needle through and through.

‘What is it, Anne?’ William said with hesitation in his voice.

‘When you were ill and feverish those sixteen years back. After you had spent a week in Banbury. Buying stock, you said. And then a lengthy stay as juror at the Assize. In your fever you said many things. But the name that I recall, repeated many times from your lips. It was Clara! Clara, you said. And sometimes ‘No Clara! I shall not.’ Was that she?

‘I don’t recall. I lost many days and weeks. It was a fever caught from cattle. Not mine but from some at the market I may have handled…’ William’s voice trailed away.

Anne’s cheeks were now bright scarlet, as she stood up, once more dropping the half-repaired breeches.

‘I’m not talking about the fever. I’m talking about that woman. Clara! Clara who called her son William. Billy Boy! Hah! You would dare bring that boy here? He is your bastard son. That’s why you choose to save him from the gallows. He’s your son. And you dare to bring him here to my house!’

©Stan Bloxham.2007

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Maa Salaama Petra by Betty Moore

Nabbataean kingdom of majestic rock.
Bathed by the waters of Time,
Windswept strata, pitted and striped,
Blushing city buried in sand.

Water channels, tiers of tombs,
Relicts of Edomite, Roman and Greek,
Vast Treasure House stands proud
Midst portals, dams and steps.
Here a camel carved for eternity,
There Gods, blocks protect.

This day in 2000, cool Bedouin tents
Offer their Arabic tea
And women like ravens at the side of the road
Sell their wares in the scorching sun.
"Look please, I give you good price"
Mar haba, inte shufte, shukran.

Around rise the awesome sandstone cliffs
Silent witness of bygone worlds.
In this spellbinding splendour
We are but a blink - only a passing thought.
©Betty Moore.2007

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Mr. Right by L.D. Holland

Is there a man who’s Mr. Right
Worth his weight in - Quid’s.
It seems there’s only Mr. Wrong!
Or Mr. Left, divorced, two kids.
There’s Mr. Steady, Boring
He sleeps all evening snoring!
There’s Mr. Gorgeous dazzling smile,
Exquisite lover – for a while!
Then there’s Mr. Mountaineer
He conquers Rocks because they’re there!

There’s Mr. Sad and Mr. Slob
Mr. Tattooed, pierced nipple job!
Mr. Booze Mr. Bruise
Mr. Walk -the – Dog
Mr. Bright and Mr. Trite
Mr. Dolly Transvestite.
Mr. Fat and Mr. Thin
Mr. Bookend with his twin
Mr. Writer Mr. Reporter
Mr. Football Team Supporter
Mr. Life and Mr. Death
Mr. Fag-ash short of breath
Mr. Anguish Mr. Wrath
Mr. Bubbles in his bath
Mr. Worker Mr. Boss
Mr. ‘Couldn’t give a toss!’
Mr. Banker Mr. Clark
Mr. Flasher in the park
Mr. Boo and Mr. Hiss
Mr. Cool on Cannabis
Mr. Early Mr. Late
Mr. Licks his dinner plate
Mr. Thrills Mr. Spills
Mr. Never pays his bills
Mr. Bump Mr. Fall
Mr. Bloody Do-It-All!
Mr. Clever Mr. Dim
Mr. Muscles down the gym
Mr. Miser Mr. Cheap
Mr. Moron Mr. Creep
Mr. Gambler Mr. Chancer
Mr. Racing Pigeon Fancier
Mr. Learned Mr. Wiser
Mr. Lecherous Womaniser…

Have you found your Mr. Right?
The One True Love of Your Life
Or is he a man among the list
Self-absorbed or self-obsessed?
L.D.Holland © June. 2007

Mr. Right by L.D.Holland

WEATHER NEWSFLASH ©Megan Robertson

So, it is raining; I do not care.
Sing, dance, romance, in it like Fred Astaire.
It will not make your face red, like the sun,
Unrelenting in Spain
Use burn preventing sun oil
When you go out in it.
Your tan will fade -
So sit sedately in the shade, my friend
Pale and interesting is the trend this year.
Take care, love beware the sun above
Drink to us,
Love, Icarus.

You wouldn’t dare! by Lyz Harvey

Four Thousand Years by Standup

As time went on, the training programme took on a different slant – the buzz phrase was now ‘personal development’, and much more interesting opportunities came along. There were even proposed training courses especially for women, with regular attendance a ‘must’ for several weeks, so when she applied to her Manager for permission, she felt apprehensive. Would she be accepted? Would she qualify?

But Carole, the Manager, had recently taken up her appointment and was therefore keen to be seen to be fulfilling her role.

“Yes, of course you must go – I’ve heard it’s an excellent course. Just make sure you maintain your notes and give feedback at our staff meetings.”

The first morning was daunting for Tricia. Fourteen new people to meet, as well as the tutor and two assistants, who were called mentors. The group often divided into three sub-groups, as the tasks became more involved, and Tricia found herself able to come out of her shell with scripting and role play. The course books were an important part of the course, and as the weeks went on, Tricia began to keep a diary in addition to the official book, which had no space to write private thoughts.

Towards the end of the course, the Day of Promise was set up: each course member was given a week to prepare a three minute presentation about what they were prepared to do for one other member in the group after the course had finished. The offer had to be something unusual and interesting. By this time, of course, the group had come to know each other very well. One of the Asian women offered to cook a family meal; one of the girls from accounts offered to help with budgeting; another, from sales, offered to help with publicity for a charity event.

Tricia had spent sleepless nights wondering what she could do. She talked it over with her new friend in the group, Maria, who had helped her so much with lack of self esteem. Maria had been the one to help her achieve her long held secret ambition.

“A demonstration? You must be totally off your head! I couldn’t possibly do that!!”

But the seed had been sown. Maria wisely let it germinate, then take root – for all of five minutes; then delivered the ultimate challenge-
“I know you, you’re right - you wouldn’t dare!”

The last day of the course dawned – the Day of Promise. The tutor welcomed them all warmly, but Tricia especially so; she knew what a struggle it had been for her, had seen her emerge from her shell – but she knew there was so much potential to develop, too.The presentations went ahead. They had drawn lots, and Tricia was well down the list – first one following the coffee break.

The tutor outlined the rest of the timetable –

“When you have all finished, you will be handed an evaluation sheet so that you can comment on what the course has meant to you personally, and also to vote for the presentation you liked most. Then to finish the day, we’re having a special guest to hand you your certificates.”

The presentations were good; some were excellent. As the coffee break approached, Tricia began to have grave doubts, but there was no turning back now. Full of nerves, she went to the ladies room, emerging just at the last moment, draped from head to toe in a delicately patterned blue cotton sheet, with the sound of silvery tinkling bells accompanying her movements.

“My presentation is called ‘Actions Speak Louder than Words’.” She nodded to Maria, who pressed the button on the tape recorder, and the subsequent three minutes held them all spellbound, from the moment she gracefully stepped out of the concealing sheet and began the slow, seductive movements that for centuries had enchanted countless Middle Eastern princes and potentates. Swaying effortlessly, the silver bells on her costume and adorning her jewellery tinkled softly at first, then with increasing vigour as the music and her dance quickened. The three minutes were over in a flash, culminating in a fluently deep obeisance to the group as she sank to the floor, not daring to look up.

The other students simply could not believe it! Nor could the tutor and her assistants!
Little Tricia, who would normally be so self-effacing, transformed into a confident, skilled performer. She didn’t have a chance to say that she was prepared to teach the basic skills – the question on everyone’s lips was “Will you teach me?”

Years later, a tutor herself, she would say the course had transformed her life. But secretly she knew that she had transformed herself – and if she could, then so could anyone. ©Lyz Harvey .2007

Four thousand years by Standup

This skull has been trepanned
A sharp obsidian blade
The skin flap stapled
With ants’ heads
No doubt

Five years he lived
To tell the tale
Yet cured or not of what?
I know not

This man’s brain tumour
We’ll excise
Pass that trepanning blade
Parade the scans
Aim the laser

He’s lived five years
A good result
What started it?
And is he cured or not of what?
I know not.
Stanbloxham © 2003

You wouldn’t dare! By Lyz Harvey

It was a standing joke that Tricia was the meekest, mildest person you could wish to meet. The rest of the office staff had taken advantage of this too many times over the years for it to even be considered a sport any longer, as it had been in the beginning. No fun in seeing your victim head for the ladies’ and lock herself in while the work piled up, so it eventually became more of a tradition that the newest recruit had to be the butt of their comments.

Tricia’s problem had stemmed from a restrictive childhood, a husband who undermined her confidence, and two children who criticised her for not being the kind of mother they thought they deserved. When she returned to work after a few years of fulltime motherhood at home, and when the children had settled in at school, she found the courage to apply for a job in what she thought would be a none-too-demanding local authority office.

Eventually, Tricia’s low self-esteem took a turn for the better when a programme of staff training began. At first there was the opportunity to apply for courses that would enhance existing skills – updating computer knowledge, Health and Safety, even First Aid. These were all done in group settings, with tutors who were insistent on everyone having equal participation, and most importantly for Tricia’s confidence, the groups consisted of people from a variety of departments.

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My Sister Jenny by L.D.Holland

My Sister Jenny 1948-1961 By L.D.Holland

Jenny died, on the day Lady Diana was born
The Sun’s Sister arose on that fine summer's morn.
A child-nun; not unlike the alluring Princess,
And Mother Theresa: to the same saintly rest.

Her hair was shaved; and a wimple in place
Concealing her tumor; so peaceful her face
I kissed her sweet brow, so cold was her skin
Her mourners were silent; their roses rained in.
Festooned in the Lane, near the Villa Ground
So many flowers, all the traffic slowed down.
My life’s grief suppressed; until that very day,
'The People’s Princess,' her love spirited away.

I mourned for 'The Rose of England,' who Gave!
The Rose in my heart, wept over Jenny’s grave.

L.D.Holland © 2007

You Wouldn’t dare by Betty Moore

Punctured by Stan Bloxham

You wouldn’t dare! By Betty Moore

“Only five in front of me now” thought Geoff as he waited in the hot sunshine of the July afternoon.

The hydraulic gantry towered above the crowd whose upturned faces showed a mixture of amazement and apprehension. A roar of delight met the return of the current victim to the platform of the crane. It was all in a good cause. This was the annual fund raising for local charities by the Young Farmers’ Association.

“Not long now.”

It had all started with his games with young Josh, his grandson. Josh was a slightly built, careful, somewhat unadventurous lad but then he was only four.

“It’s our Sarah’s fault. She protects him too much instead of letting him have a go.”

His wife, Jean, had replied “Well remember what a difficult birth it was – she nearly lost him – premature and all. He’s bound to be even more precious to her when she knows she can’t have any more children. And he’s all she’s got to live for at the moment with Michael gone.”

Mike had been killed in a road accident soon after Josh was born. Geoff had loved Mike like a son. They had shared so many interests – mainly sport and Geoff wanted young Josh to grow up in the same ilk. The family albums were full of photographs of Mike and Geoff performing in the pool on holiday, of winning the snooker contest at the Holiday Camp, of playing golf, even in their climbing gear in Snowdonia.

“You wouldn’t dare jump off the second stair” Geoff had said and Josh had risen to the occasion and leapt into his arms. This was the precursor of “you wouldn’t dare take off your armbands” and “you wouldn’t dare let me take the stabilisers off your bike.” The purchase of a trampoline had been the next step in encouraging Josh to take some risks.

Sarah took a rum view of this toughening up scheme. “You’ll go on till he has a nasty accident. Leave him alone Dad – let him grow up in his own time. He’s too young.” she would warn her father.

“Grandad is my very best friend” Josh would boast and Sara sighed knowing how hurt her father was going to be one day when Josh found another best friend.

Anyway, Josh had watched the bungee jumping on television with Geoff, and astonished everyone by saying “You wouldn’t dare to do that, would you Grandad?”

This was the first challenge he had ever made and Geoff had laughed it off and said he didn’t think he would ever get the chance. He recalled watching a film of the Commonwealth Games in New Zealand, when the opening ceremony included five jumpers leaping off the stadium roof – an activity thought to derive from traditional initiation ceremonies and rites for young men in the South Pacific islands of Vanuatu.

So here he was, in the queue for bungee jumping at the local show. No one in the family knew about this, of course, but there was a photographer on hand who was happy to give away certificates to verify the jump and sell photographs for further proof. Josh would be so proud.

“I’ll worry about what Jean will say later” Geoff smiled to himself.

Jean was off with her Keep Fit class on a Leisure and Fitness weekend and wouldn’t be home till Sunday afternoon so he had plenty of time to prepare what to say to her.

“You next, Sir?” the tattooed young man asked. Geoff nodded.

“Yes please”.

“Can I ask your age please Sir?” he asked.

“64” said Geoff standing up slightly straighter and holding his stomach in.

“Do you have a doctor’s note” the young man queried.

“No, of course, I haven’t.” Geoff laughed.

“Sorry Sir. I can’t allow you to jump without a doctor’s note.”

Geoff was shocked . “Why not, I’m perfectly fit.”

“Sorry Sir”. The young man walked on to the man behind him. “You next Sir?” he asked.

Geoff made for the beer tent. He’d never been refused anything because of his age. What was the world coming to? Would he admit to Josh what had happened? He was so disappointed.

He decided that perhaps he should tell Josh in a sort of ‘ lesson for life’ way. A few days later when the little family were having tea together, Geoff related the event finishing with the words “You see, we can’t always do what we want when we want. We sometimes have to listen to other people.”

Josh was wide-eyed and then he said

“Now you know how I feel Grandad when Mummy tells me I’m too young.”
©Betty Moore.2007

The doctor said ‘Assert yourself,
talk to people, listen.’
I left cringing,
and had a puncture
on the way back home.
People offered but
I couldn’t take their help.

‘Totally deflated,’ said the man.
I mumbled ‘Can it be repaired?’
He quoted prices for a new tyre
then started talking on the phone
to a hire firm about a big bulk order.

‘Four fifty the lot. That’s as low
as I can go. You know it is.
That’s the bottom line.’
I was listening, sweating.

His mate came in
and showed me all the punctures.
By the time the guy
had finished on the phone
I was flattened.

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Divine Intervention by L.D. Holland

Unquiet Minds by Lyz Harvey

PC Brian Esquire by L.D.Holland

PC Brian Esquire by L.D. Holland
(to be read in a Brummie accent)

Our Brian's a bit of a whiz-kid!

But he thinks he's incredibly dim.
We brought him a PC for Christmas
And we all helped him plug it in.

He's a delicate lad our Brian
He’s shy and didn't make friends
Pale and tardy, his blood low in iron
So we thought we best make a mends.

Indoor interests his doctor suggested,
A computer would make his brain grow
But his little fat face looked so dejected,
When his 'mouse' was all over the show.

He mastered the 'Tools' and the 'Pages’,'

'Spreadsheets', 'Database' advanced stages.

He said, "Microsoft Word, easy-peasy!"

But his breathing had got a bit wheezy.

With all the 'Software' our Brian was using,
Such knowledge he did quickly acquire.
We thought his ‘Publishing’ Logo amusing!
He called his company 'PC Brian Esquire.’'

Our Brian was always good at counting
With his abacus or a few bricks;
Must have been ‘Business Accounting’
How he learned all his financial tricks.

His pocket-money seemed to be mounting
Well it was, we thought, most of the time.
It was spotted so good his accounting’
That the 'Woolwich', wanted him 'On-line’.'

When our Brian was five, for his birthday
We asked if he wanted a pet.
"NO!" He cursed, his face sickly and grey,
"GODDAMIT! Get me the INTERNET!’"

Now our Brian’s an ENTREPRENEUR,
To the colleagues of Guss in the 'States'
On his Website 'Infant-A-Voyeur'
'Wiz-Kid Deals'; Brian's own fiscal stakes.

But his Tokyo shares they diminished!

Such foul language; oh! they were vexed!

Brian texted: it's a ‘BLIP’, I'm not finished!
Then, he lost forty-three billion-Yen!

Our Brian's a bit of a whiz-kid!

         But he thinks he's incredibly dim
         Now he lays all forlorn on his death-bed
         And his PC’s smashed up in the BIN!

Divine Intervention? By L.D. Holland

An ethereal light sparkled through the circular stained glass window; split into kaleidoscope fragments shining onto the ancient limestone floor of the west wing.
I had lit the last candle in preparation for Evensong and I bowed my head to the Holy Altar just as I heard the sound of tired footsteps echoing around the stone walls. I turned to see a middle age man slump down onto the polished oak pew beside the aisle and he began to sob copiously like a lost soul. As I watched him closely my heart leapt under my pristine white linen surplice. I took a step backward and stood still in the aisle as I recognised the man I had loved so deeply, many years ago in another life. Taking a deep breath I stepped lightly forward, my long black vestment sweeping the stone steps.
         The man was unaware of my presence as he sobbed. His body shook and his hands trembled while clutching the edge of the oak rail. With his eyes tightly closed he slipped to his knees behind the pew, deep masculine sobs blurting out from clenched teeth behind tightly grimaced lips. He straightened his back and struggled to rise from his knees, looked up into my eyes and whispered,
         “My wife killed herself; and now I want to die too!”
         “Your life is a precious gift” I replied gently.
         “I know that!” he sobbed.
         “Do you want a prayer of absolution?”
          “Do you think a prayer will take away my agony of guilt?” he asked sceptically.
         “I do!”
  He doesn’t recognise me…have the years changed me that much….or does he only see my robes of denominational authority? He has changed too, except for his wonderful eyes so deep and blue like the heavenly skies of Rome’s Sistine Chapel.

My mind drifted back twenty years to the last time I had seen Colin and the memory of my ethereal experience that changed the meaning of my life forever.

“Look! ‘ere she comes, Miss Legs Almighty!” said a mousey girl, nudging her animated workmate on the piecework assembly-line.

     “‘er skirt is disgustingly short!” replied the annoyed looking pretty girl, staring up.
      “Look! Every one of the lads ‘ave downed-tools to gawp at ‘er!”
     “Down-tools! Don’t yer mean up-tools?” said a cheeky lad with a Beatle hair cut.
      “Close yer mouths lads; yer look like a load of codfish” shouted the Foreman.
     “What a woman she is!” sighed a puny toolmaker.
     “She’s like ‘elen of Troy!” said a grey haired labourer, leaning on his broomstick.
     “Who’s she, when’s she’s at home?” asked a spotty teenager, spinning a spanner between finger and thumb of his grubby hand.
    ‘“The face that launched a thousand ships!”’ quoted the learned Chargehand.
     “Launched a thousand cheers, in pints of beer, down the pub more like!” quipped a man with a shock of hair, operating a high-voltage electrical testing unit.
      The men’s laughter died away quickly when the dark suited Managing Director appeared on the shop floor; the workers dared not speak jocularly in his presence.
     “May I remind you of the manual on ‘Industrial Rules of Safety?’ Particularly Rule four ’Keep your mind on the JOB!’” said the tall, stern, grey haired manager.
     “They’ve all read the safety manual, Sir, but I doubt that it’s sunk into their brains!”
     “Well I suggest that you make the silly buggers’ read it again!” retorted the Manager.
     “Sarah…my office…now!” he commanded.
      The lads nudged each other pleasurably to see a woman obey the voice of a man’s authority.
     “We all know how well qualified you are in electrical engineering to work as a ‘Product Assistant Manager’, traditionally a man’s job, Sarah. But your flirtatious manner and provocative attire are detrimental to aspects of industrial safety! The lads can’t take their eyes off you when you walk down the shop floor and you could be the cause of an industrial accident.
      “I’m sorry Sir but I wasn’t aware that I could be held responsible for distracting any man from his work!” I retorted haughtily.
     How officiously arrogant I had been in those days and how I resented the authority that men had over women me in the work place. I enjoyed working in a man’s job but my second choice in life over-shadowed my ambition to be accepted in a man’s world; I wanted to be a wife and a mother and live happily ever after.
      I flirted with every single young man from the shop floor electrical testers to higher management. There were romantic declarations of love and admiration from some young men but not one proposal of marriage was made to me.
        “She’s a ‘dear kipper’ that one: too good for the working class, too working class for the gentry”, said a stout, seasoned, typist, sagely.
      “If you ask me, she’s nothing but a showy, shameless flirt!” said a matronly clerk officiously.

       It was my shameless flirting one day on the loading bay that almost got me killed.
One day like a tingling electric shock I felt the strongest and deepest feelings for Colin Cutler the Despatch Manager, who was engaged to be married that summer to a pretty girl who worked on the copper and brass component assembly line. I flirted unashamedly with Colin when we were alone on the loading bay but Colin was never distracted from his despatch work of the valuable cargo of electrical circuit-breaker switchgear. Colin was everything I admired in a man; masculine good looks, hardworking, intelligent, gentle voice, tender smile and the most beautiful sky blue eyes that seemed to penetrate my soul like the eyes of an angel.
     The loading bay was situated at the end of the mile long factory assembly line where the production-line of the switchgear breakers ended with the electrical testing dept. and the packing of the switchgear into wooden crates of insulating straw for despatch to countries all over the world. The 1000 volt switchgear circuit-breakers were designed for network installations of electric filtering systems for water pipelines, rivers, canals, weirs and dams built in third world countries. The crates of switchgear were then lifted onto the loading bay by a fork-lift truck driver named Ted. The loading bay was about the size of a tennis court, situated six feet above the shop floor like an open ended stage, with electrically operated heavy metal doors at either end and the area was strictly out of bounds except for authorised persons and managerial personal.
      I stood very close to Colin in the mineshaft style rickety lift that was the only way down from the offices to the loading bay, except for a wooden fire escape ladder attached to the side of the brick wall.
      The sun’s refracted spectrum light shone through the raindrops against one of the six glass windows in the roof. The sound of heavy drops tinkled almost like musical notes as the April rain fell heavily on top of the aircraft hanger style corrugated roof. I heard a distant rumble of thunder and a sudden flash lightning lit up the bay like theatre lights. My flesh tingled in the warm spring breeze as it passed gently thought the open bay. I felt my heart leap in my breast like a young deer as I watched Colin at work. His masculine arm muscles flexed as he swung the 1930’s antiquated hoist into position. He lifted the iron chains and attached them to the wooden crate containing the heavy Mark 6 circuit-breaker, the largest switchgear we produced at the Midland firm.
     I was there to officiate and sign the papers for the switchgear to be despatched to Kuwait; to be loaded onto a container lorry, due to arrive at the far end of the bay.
    Suddenly I tottered awkwardly on my feet as my stiletto heel was stuck fast in a hole in the concrete floor. My skirt was too tight and my heels too high so I could not reach down to release it. I was standing directly under the huge load moving along the squeaking rail-track just below the corrugated roof. The sound of cracking iron filled my ears as a flash of lightning hit the alloy roof. I became suddenly aware of an eerie presence of someone standing beside me. I felt them take me firmly by my arm and a voice spoke into my ear,