Freshly Cut Grass

“Polished stone, you always liked polished black marble didn’t you Martin?”

“I did once, but why must you keep bringing up things I did or indeed liked in the past, the past is simply that - the past.”

“I know but it’s nice to reminisce, it’s good to remember how we really were and who we really were.”

“I’ve never changed, my tastes may have but I certainly haven’t.”

“You say that now, however, I would definitely beg to differ. You watch opera, when you never before, you read Shakespeare where before you never would. So you see you really have changed, for the better may I add.”

“Exactly my point, my tastes may have altered but I myself have not. O for goodness sake what does it matter if I like black marble or not, it’s here now, so do stop banging on about it.

I’m sorry …it’s just…it’s just…I don’t want to upset you and you are clearly upset. You did mention once years ago that black marble was your favourite. Well that’s what I got and now you simply detest it, hate it even.

“I don’t detest anything, black marble is just fine, it’s here, it’s done, I can live with it. You bloody well can remove that stupid bloody vase thing which Janice keeps filling up with water and fresh flowers though, that really gets on my nerves.”

O for goodness sake, endless complaining… Janice has a focal point; surely even you don’t begrudge her that?”

“No I suppose not, but you know I detest flowers, especially orchids."

Pulling a small chamois from her jacket, Betty polished the newly adorned gold leaf letters on the black marble stone.

                                                                     Martin Toner

                                                 17th February 1956 - January 12th 2013

                        Beloved husband of the late Elizabeth Toner

                      Dearly beloved father of Janice

                                        RIP

The Door

I can still see you piling suit cases into the back of the old Ford Fiesta. I watched from the upstairs window. I waited for you to look up, but you didn't  You drove out of my life and left me here, with this big old house to myself. It seems like it happened only yesterday but I couldn't tell you how long ago it was. Losing track of time is the least of it… I'm losing track of so many things…

After you left my world ended. It was time to leave, I knew. Time to move on, but my heart wasn't in it. I suppose I just got stuck in a loop; you see, you were always there, still with me. The empty house was full of you. The bricks and mortar whispered your name. Every room told a story, our story. I couldn't escape, even if I ‘d wanted to.

We didn't talk much at the end, but I didn't mind; I wouldn't have missed a minute of it. That’s what made it hard; even after you left I still couldn't bring myself to moving on with my life. Pathetic, I know.

When I enter a room it’s as if you have just gone out; just popped off to the shops. I expected you to return at any minute with a bag of groceries. I rattled around in this old place with only my memories for company.

It’s time to move on, I know. But somehow I just can’t seem to do it. Something was holding me back: you.

When you came up the garden path I almost did not recognise you. It was only when you were in the house that I could see you properly, up close. You had changed; you were older – no, you were old! There were tears in your eyes. like before, You didn't look at me – but you seemed to look for me.

You brushed a tear from you eye as you said: ‘Herbert, it’s time to go, you must move on’

Then you were gone again, but you stopped in the garden and looked up. You gave me a little wave, just before you disappeared! Did you see me this time? Had I just imagined it all? It was hard to tell; I imagined so much, I was living in a dream.

When I found the strange door I thought: ‘one door closes and another door opens’ as if it were perfectly sensible and I thought: ‘it’s now or never…’

I expected to Black out, but as I crossed the thresh hold everything lit up. I had to close my eyes. And then I heard a familiar voice:

‘Herbert, oh Herbert!’

I opened my eyes and you were looking back at me.

Retribution

Silas Greely was probably the most wicked man in the world, indeed in the known Universe!

Born of poor but honest parents, dead now,  Silas had at an early age decided that to get on he would have to lie, cheat and steal and if people didn’t like that then – tough!

Unpopular at school he bullied the younger children and stole their lunch money, but was never without cash. He stole from his parents and if shopkeepers were looking the wrong way…well, whatever he wanted went into his pocket.

Now an older man Silas had built a business for himself. He had bought over an ailing company and basically got it for a song. Initially he fired the workforce, some of whom had worked for the firm for years and then he asset stripped and sold everything. This provided him with capital to inject into his new enterprise. The previous owner wrought with shame and anger at the way his business had failed and how the workforce had been treated, committed suicide, leaving a grieving widow and two young children.

Silas’ own wife had died two years previously, due to cancer, but the truer picture was that the amount of stress and worry that Silas had put her through was instrumental in her contracting the disease. Silas was happier on his own, alone with his wealth.

Today Silas was in the progress of closing a deal that would earn him millions of pounds.

A large area of waste ground that had originally been earmarked for a school and living quarters for orphans had been acquired by Silas for the offer of well above its asking price. Silas would renegotiate the price, through his lawyers, allowing him to pay much less, but effectively robbing the orphans of a home and education.

The deal had to be finalised the following day or else the property would go back on the open market

Silas stretched himself and rose from behind his desk. He had noticed a small bistro on the corner of the street as he had entered the building that morning. A Panini and black coffee would just go down a treat, he thought.

Walking out of his office Silas pushed the button to call his private lift. Thirty floors was a lot to walk down especially when you had a super duper turbo lift at your disposal.

As the lift sped down the floors, classical muzak played. Silas hummed along with the music. Tomorrow he would be even richer than he was today! Happy, happy day!

The counter showed that he was approaching the ground floor. This lift is so fast, he thought.

The lift doors sprang open and Silas cowered back as two white, whispy figures entered. The doors sprang shut and the lift began ascending.

“What...!Who…!” spluttered Silas, then he recognised the pale features of his dead parents. They stood together in their shrouds which were stained and torn. He could see right through them.

“Why have you done this, son?” asked the sepulchral voice of his father. “We thought you would grow up to be a good person.”

The lift slowed and Silas saw that the indicator read ‘tenth floor’. The doors flew apart and another white wraith stepped into the lift. Silas’ wife stood there crying, the tears running down her transparent cheeks.” I tried so hard to please you my love but all the time I knew you hated me!” she wailed. The lift doors again closed and the lift’s ascent continued.

The atmosphere in the lift was electric and Silas could feel large drops of perspiration pouring down his back. His hair stood on end and he felt all the blood draining from him. He was terrified. All three ghosts were there because they hated him for what he had become.

Then the lift again stopped and Silas realised that he was back from where he had started. Thinking quickly he reckoned he could push through the ‘ethereal material’, lock himself in his office and call security. But before he could make for the opening lift doors a fourth and awful spirit entered.

The original owner stood there with his head over at a ninety degree angle. Silas could make out the livid scar made by the rope he hanged himself with. His eyes were missing and his shroud was green with mould. “You destroyed a lot of good people, Greely. They would have transferred their loyalty to you, if you had given the a chance.” he said in a thin piping voice.

Will you make amends Silas? his mother asked. “Will you turn from your greedy and grasping ways?”

“Will you make us proud of you, Silas. Will you change?” whispered his sobbing wife.

“Will you reinstate the workforce and pay them reasonable wages?” whistled the owner.

Silas took in the fearsome figures and quivered with fear, then the true Silas Greely stepped forward and he held himself erect and gazed malevolently at the four  spirits.

He was alive, he thought, not like these four deadbeats. They had had their lives and wasted them. That wasn’t for him. Silas intended to carry on as he had started and become as rich as a king!

“My answer!” he screamed, “is No!”

The owner gazed at Silas for a minute and then said, “Wrong answer!”

Suddenly, with a twang,the lift cables parted and Silas fell to his doom.

…………………………………..+………………………………………….

Crimson Lake

It had lain in a junk shop’s window covered with dust and dead flies. The owner had received it in a job lot and finding no use for it had stuck it on show. Gradually as time passed and as the patina of crud increased, it sank insignificantly down through the layers of detritus like some ancient artefact.

Jeb Ganmon had been looking for inspiration. He was an artist in training at the local college and was looking for something that he could paint. Something that he could use in a tableau, which would provide the sort of artistic balance necessary for symmetry.

The local junk shop with its faded pictures, mementos from holidays past and old vinyl records. A virtual graveyard of items, probably better off sitting in a refuse bin.

“Hey Pop!” Jeb shouted, as the bell above the door gave out its off key clang. “It’s   

me, Jeb.”

An old man with stained purple slippers shuffled in from the back room. Jeb could see an open newspaper and a half drunk cup of tea, through the open curtain that covered the doorway.

“Oh, hi Jeb,” said Pop, as he was called by everyone in the neighbourhood. “What can I fix you up with today? A genuine Ming vase? It has a little crack in the base, but I’m sure it is valuable.”

“Nah, I’m looking for something to give my picture a real focal point. Something outstanding.” Jeb picked up a few objects and putting them down again.

“Well, my boy, I’m at last closing this scrap heap up and moving down to Clacton. My daughter lives there and wants to look after me. Imagine a ninety two year old needing to be looked after,” the old man laughed quietly to himself. “So… help yourself to anything you want because tomorrow, the rest goes to landfill!”

Jeb spent the next hour sorting through all the accumulated dross that had arrived at one time or other at Pop’s shop. Ninety nine percent of it was rubbish but he found a few items that took his fancy and he piled them on the shop counter.

“Right, Pop, how much for this stuff?” Jeb asked. “Do I get discount for cash?”

“A brass tray, a set of bronze candlesticks, a vase and a small stone cylinder with broken end. Is the stone to be a paperweight or something?” the proprietor asked looking at the object carefully. “I can’t remember having this item.”

“Watch out for the broken end it’s quite sharp!” Jeb said.

After a crisp five pound note had changed hands, Jeb made his way back to his studio. It actually was his bedroom but he had a North facing window and the light was perfect for his artistic needs. An easel was set up in centre of the room with a blank canvas. But tonight he required the dark for his painting.

Jeb placed his acquisitions down on a small table that he used to set up the objects he intended to paint. On the way home he had bought a bunch of flowers and four candles. He filled the vase with water and placed the flowers in it and he set the candles in the candlesticks and lit them.

Gradually his table top scene took shape. The flowers in the vase sitting on the brass tray with the light from the candles reflecting off the glass and the tray. The stone paperweight or whatever it was, lay at a slight angle on the tray casting a hard shadow.

Jeb worked through the night, often removing certain aspects and adding others. It was harder than he thought. The objects just did not want to interact and the more Jeb tried, the harder the task became. 

Eventually he stormed out of his flat down to a small washing green at the back of the house. Angrily he lit a cigarette and puffed furiously at it. Why wasn’t it working? They were inanimate objects. Why could he not paint them?

After he cooled down, Jeb made his way back up to his bedroom. The eastern sky was beginning to lighten, it was nearly dawn. Where had the night gone to? Jeb asked himself.

When he returned to his bedroom he found the flowers strewn over the floor and the vase broken, lying on the floor in bits. Nothing else had moved from the display and Jeb assumed that the vase had tipped when he had rushed out of the room.

The small stone cylinder lay as it had been placed originally but Jeb was suddenly intrigued at where it had come from. The broken top looked as if it was supposed to have been sheared off creating a sharp edge.

Jeb leant down and began to pick up the bits of broken glass before he accidentally stood on them. As he straightened up a bit of glass touched his finger and cut him.

The blood began to drip from his hand and a drop inadvertently splashed on the stone cylinder. Had Jeb seen it strike the paper weight he would have been amazed as the blood was quickly absorbed into the stone leaving no trace of a stain.

After bandaging his finger, Jeb got into his bed, eager to get at least some hours of sleep before he had to get up again. He dropped off right away and was instantly precipitated into a dream.

In the dream everything was in black and white, he was painting the table top display that he had set up but without the vase and flowers. The small stone cylinder looked wet and the light from the candles glistened off it. The tray had a pool of something on it and it looked as if the liquid had run off the cylinder. Jeb was painting the various articles onto his canvas and even though the painting was going well, Jeb felt the same frustration building in him that he had felt the evening before. Why couldn’t he paint this picture right? he thought.

Then he had an inspiration and looking at the bandage on his cut finger he began to unwrap it exposing the wound. A scab had begun to form on the injury but Jeb dug hid nails into the wound starting it bleeding again. Quickly he dipped his paintbrush into the blood and began to paint the black and white image of the cylinder. Suddenly he was painting in colour. The stone cylinder became the focal point of the painting as it was the only item in colour and its colour was blood red!

Jeb woke up with a start. What a nightmare, he thought. What was that all about?

After a cup of coffee the elements of the bad dream began to fade and Jeb took a new canvas out of his cupboard. Right, he thought, now I will paint this picture right.

He felt refreshed and eager to go, but decided to leave the flowers out of the picture this time.

Jeb painted and painted and the collection of articles began to appear on his new canvas. It looked as if he had carried it off when once again, the feeling of inadequacy swept over him. The picture was useless. It was a mediocre attempt, an amateurish daub. He was a failure.

Then he remembered his dream. About removing the bandage on his finger. Of opening the wound and using the fresh blood to paint part of his picture. But, which part? Could it have been the insignificant roll of rock?

Once the bandage was off his finger, it was easy to scratch the fresh scab off and allow the blood to run down his hand. He tentatively dipped his paintbrush into the blood and then touched the tip of the canvas. Instantly he felt a feeling of warmth rushing through him. He was a great painter! His picture was a success!

Later that day his girlfriend Jane came to see him. Jeb made them coffee and they sat on his bed and talked she asked him how his painting was proceeding.

Jeb got up from the bed and walked across to where his latest painting sat on an easel. It was draped with a piece of cloth.

“Ta Ra Ra!” Jeb shouted and whipped off the cloth revealing the masterpiece.

Jane got up off the bed slowly. Her face wore a mask of incredulity.

“Yeuk!” she shrieked as she recognised what the red liquid running down the canvas was. “That’s blood!”

“It was the only way I could guarantee reality,” Jeb blurted out. “The paints just did not give the right …feeling.”

“You’re sick!” shouted Jane backing towards the door. “You need to see a shrink!”

“Don’t say that!” shouted Jeb rushing over towards her. “You have no idea of what I am going through to finish this painting!” And picking up a dirty plate that lay on the table, he smashed it over her head.

That night Jeb hung his creation on the wall of his room, but the off white colour of the wallpaper made it look awful. He took it back down and laid it on the table. Looking back at the wall he realised that the wall had to be repainted to allow his painting to be shown at its best, but what colour to paint it…?

The sun rose the next morning and filled the off white coloured room with its rosy colours. Jeb lay on his bed and gazed in admiration at the chromatic changes that were occurring. The reds, oranges, yellows and crimsons, they blended, bled and mixed in a symphony of colour. But why, why could he not capture the effect on canvas? he thought.

Jeb felt his senses exploding with the effect and he began to dream. It was a progressive dream where, bit by bit, he came aware of where he was and what he was meant to do.

The desert sand reminded him of an all enveloping ocean where waves rose and fell. The mighty pyramid that rose high above the sand glowed in the hot sun and threw a harsh black shadow on the desert. Jeb could hear chanting and as he moved round the massive monolith he saw that people were lined up on a large bridge that led into the dark interior of the pyramid. They were raising and lowering their arms as they chanted a sort of hymn.

As he neared the edge of the bridge he realised that the people were chanting to him. They were welcoming his arrival. He was expected…

Moving slowly between the lines of worshippers Jeb soon found that he had arrived at a large block of hewn stone. It had a cleft leading to a bowl cut into it and the surface was smeared with dark reddish brown stains.

A robed figure approached Jeb and handed him a large ceremonial axe. It was highly ornate and the blade looked sharp.

“The sacrifices await Lord,” the robed man said before bowing and moving away.

Jeb looked down the avenue of people and saw a thin phalanx of human beings, some shackled in chains, moving up towards him. There were about six of them and they looked terrible. Thin and emaciated, their faces had a greenish pallor. These people had been imprisoned, starved and ill treated.

As the first prisoner arrived in front of Jeb, a large trumpet sounded and the worshippers fell on their knees and bowed.

The robed man returned carrying a small stone cylinder and a bowl. He bowed before Jeb and handed the two items over. “The sacrificial stone and bowl, Lord. Do you wish me to position the first offering?”

Jeb suddenly broke out of the dream like feeling that he had been experiencing.

“Why do I have to carry out this duty? Who am I?”

The robed priest turned to Jeb and said, “you are the High Lord of Death. Without your contribution, the crops would fail, the population would die and our very existence could be in jeopardy. Spill the blood, water the plains and all will be well.”

Then he forced the first of the prisoners, a man, to kneel and place his head in the stone bowl.

“Strike it Lord!” he shouted and Jeb felt a rush of adrenalin course through his body as he raised the axe and brought it sharply down on the man’s neck.

The rest of the proceedings was a blur. Each time a prisoner was decapitated the robed priest rolled the stone cylinder in the unfortunate’s blood and applied it to Jeb’s body. First it was on the forehead, then his shoulders, then his legs. By the time that the last prisoner had been sacrificed Jeb was covered in blood. The crowd were roaring and calling out his name, commending him for once again guaranteeing that all would be well for them.

After the ceremony- the celebrations. Massive table covered with food and drink. Jeb was led to a large throne where he presided over and took part in the feast. Women danced, musical instruments played and high above fireworks exploded lighting the night and casting strange colours over the revellers.

The wine was very strong for it wasn’t long before Jeb began to feel drowsy. The stress of the day’s events, the sheer mystery of why he was here and how he was going to get back home all played on his emotions. His eyelids closed and soon he was sound asleep.

The sound of his front door crashing open brought Jeb sharply back awake. The cries of “police! Get down on the ground!” echoed around the flat and as Jeb opened his eyes he couldn’t get over the fact that every where he looked the scene was red, blood red.

 Suddenly he was manhandled onto the floor and a burly policeman wrenched his arms behind his back and handcuffed him securely.

The ambulance service removed seven women’s bodies, including Jane’s,  from Jeb’s flat after forensic had been in and photographed and sampled everything. It appeared as if Jeb had killed them and drained every drop of blood from their bodies to cover the walls and ceiling with. His artistic masterpiece hung proudly on the scarlet coloured wall.

A team of cleaners suitably gowned and masked were employed to clean up the flat.

Not a job for someone with a weak stomach, four old hands were given the job. They had worked in some of the most ghastly of areas and thought nothing of it.

“Here, look Fred,” said one of the men to his colleague. “Here’s something for your display cabinet,” he said as he handed over the small stone cylinder. “I’ll bet it’s something special!”

The Sleeper Awakes

He lay on the pavement, a dirty raggety figure proffering his plastic container. “Any loose change?” he would ask hopefully of the passing public.

He had sat in this very site for months, becoming a fixture, part of the fabric of downtown Lython. The shopkeepers knew him and saw him every working day, either to chase him away when he came to beg scraps from the food shops or tell him to ‘be on his way and don’t bother the customers’ when he went mobile.

 But he was nearly always to be found outside the Salvation Army shop. They would never ‘move him on’ and often came out with a cup of hot sweet tea for him and a biscuit if they saw that his plastic container was empty.

That day it was particularly cold and there were a limited number of pedestrians going about. Snow blew through on a north wind and leaves, the ambassador’s of autumn, blew in clouds above the road. The man shivered and pulled his coat more tightly about him. Another pair of hours, he thought and he would head home or if you could call a one roomed hovel, home.

“Now then, what have we here?” asked a sarcastic voice. A policeman stood looking down at the man. “You can’t beg here, you know.”

“I ain’t doing anyone any harm officer,” grunted the man looking everywhere but at the policeman. “The Sallies don’t mind me being here.”

“Well we’ve had complaints from some of the shop owners about you,” said the police officer. “They say you’ve been annoying their customers.”

“Nah, not me. I just stick to my pitch. I don’t annoy anyone” whispered the man getting up and folding the torn blanket that he sat on.

“Well, off you go and don’t let me find you here again.” The parting comment of the constable blended with the wind howling down the street and sounded like a supernatural warning. The man shivered again.

The following day found the man back at his place. It was raining and people hurried by, several under large brollies, some under hoods, but all in a hurry to be out of the nasty weather.

“Got any change?” growled the man holding out his receptacle, but it was as if he had become invisible. No one even acknowledged his existence. He was a non-person.

At eleven o’clock one of the Salvation Officers brought him out a mug of tea and two Bourbon biscuits. “Thank you, thank you” he said taking the steaming cup from a uniformed lady with blonde hair.

Months went by and the man, by collecting unemployment benefit and from his meagre collections from a few sympathetic souls, continued his existence.

The police came off and on to threaten him with meaningless warnings which he rolled with, but ignored.

The summer approached and with it came an increase in the people out and about enjoying the warmth of the sun. The man’s takings increased and he often had to surreptitiously partially empty his container to prolong the abject look of poverty that he gave out.

One of the warm days he was dozing and not paying attention to those who passed him.

“Are you alright?” asked a little voice.

The man opened his eyes to see who had spoken, but the sun was shining from behind them and it gave the person the appearance of a halo. The man squinted and saw that a small girl stood before him proffering a coin. An older woman stood a little bit away observing.

“Yes…I am alright,” grumbled the man. “I was just having forty winks.”

“Well here you are,” the little girl said. “I hope it helps you Mister…?” She paused, waiting for the man to fill in the gap.

“Uhhh…” It had been so long since he had spoken his name that he had forgotten it.

“I’m just a beggar,” he said with a grunt.

“But you must have a name,” persisted the girl, “everyone has at least a first name.”

“Well…I think my name is Bill.” The man growled picking on the first name that came to mind.

“Well, nice to meet you Mr Bill,” the girl said extending her hand to the man.

He looked at the proffered hand and automatically took it and gave it a little shake. “And to you too Miss…?”

“Oh, I am Sylvia,” she proudly replied.

“Sylvia! Sylvia!” shouted the awaiting older woman. “Time we were getting home.”

Sylvia turned and smiled at the man. “Goodbye then,” she said. “Take care.” And before the man could reply Alice had disappeared with the lady into the crowd.

The man looked at his hand and whispered the little girl’s name to himself. Instantly he recalled an earlier time, a happier time, running through the long grass under a golden sun chasing his sister Alice. Happy childhood memories of loving parents and an annoying but ‘fun to be with’ sister. He felt a warmth percolate through him as he relived the experiences.

The rest of the day passed quickly. The man decided that he would buy a fish supper on the way home. He would count his takings and maybe hide some under a floorboard in his room. Salting away funds for the poorer days.

Something dropped into his collecting box. It sounded heavy and the man looked up to see who had dropped it in, but due to the number of people who were about, it was difficult to spot his benefactor.

Looking in his box the man saw something wrapped in paper amongst the coins. He lifted it out and unfolded it. A two pound coin lay in the centre of the paper and the man spread it out to see if it contained a note. Instead of writing the paper bore a series of letters and numbers.

34 PX 97 ZQ 56 SJ

Instantly the man started back. He felt as if he was suffering an epileptic fit.

 Visions shot into his head. An encampment, somewhere far away. A classroom where he sat with other individuals being taught… What was on the blackboard? Diagrams, maps….!  Why was it so difficult to remember? He seemed to remember electric shocks, injections and long periods of not being allowed to sleep.

 But suddenly he knew what he had to do. But he needed… What did he need?

The man flung the door to his room open and collapsed on the camp bed he slept on. He felt sick, confused… He knew what he had to do and when he had to carry out the action, but where was the …..? He looked around the room.

A parcel lay just inside the door. Someone had obviously gained entry and left it for him. Could this be the …? Rolling of the bed he grabbed the paper wrapped bundle and ripped it open.

A Glock 36 pistol fell out of the parcel onto his bed. The man didn’t know how he knew the make and model of the handgun, but he did…instinctively.

A note was the only other item inside and the man took it out and scrutinised it

17TH 12 LE 13 ZX

The job was to be done on the 17^th at 12.00 on the road by his site. He had been prepared for the job. He knew what he had to do. Free choice did not enter into it. He was a man with a mission.

  The following day dawned with a sunrise as red as a ripe tomato or as red as …blood.

The man struggled down the street towards the Salvation Army shop, but before he got there he was accosted by a policeman.

“Sorry mate,” he said. “We got to keep the street clear today. We don’t need the likes of you hanging about.”

The man looked about him incredulously, “but all I want to do is sit in my usual place. I won’t bother anyone.”

Another policeman arrived in time to hear the man’s plaintive request. He leant over and whispered in his colleagues ear, “he wont cause any problems. He’s harmless.”

The morning passed without incident but due to the restrictions on traffic, both pedestrian and vehicular, the man’s collection box lay empty. He had secreted the pistol in his trousers’ waist band. He wondered if the second policeman imagined how harmless he was…now.

As twelve o’clock approached the man started experiencing strange physiological effects. He felt omnipotent. Like a god he knew he had the power of life and death. He knew that he and he alone deserved to live yet others, especially those that were coming…had to die! His heart beat faster as adrenalin coursed through his veins and arteries. He felt wonderful.

The police escort guarded the limousine. Two motor cyclists sat before and aft offering protection and a guaranteed, undelayed journey for the Right Honourable James Watkins, M.P. and his family. They were on their way to open a museum in Lython.

Government funds had paid for a complete refurbishment of the old museum and now the public were to be educated about the history of the area and the country, using the latest technology. The architect responsible for the innovations had been awarded a prize for his far looking suggestions and ideas. James Watkins M.P. was to cut the ribbon and open the way for the masses.

As the motorcade approached, the man surreptitiously pulled the pistol out and checked the magazine. It was full with special explosive tip bullets. Perfect for the job ahead.

Standing up, he moved to the edge of the pavement, careful to keep his weapon out of site. He could see the large limousine with tinted windows. His quarry was inside and it was now up to him.

“Crack!” the first bullet penetrated the nearside tyre and the car slewed round and jerked to a stop.

“Crack!” the second bullet shattered the windscreen and hit the driver in the arm. He slumped forward, bleeding profusely.

The man ran to the car door and yanked it open.

 Inside he could see the MP and his wife. The wife had bashed her forehead and was bleeding, the MP was attempting to pull his wife behind him and act like a human shield.

The man raised the pistol and pointed at the MP’s head. His finger tightened on the trigger and he prepared to fire, when suddenly a figure leapt in front of James Watkins, a figure with long golden hair.

“Please, please don’t hurt my Daddy or Mummy!” the little girl said, hugging the crouched bodies of the MP and his wife. “Please…….!”

The man was in the field with his sister Alice. Happy, happy days. Golden days when the sun stayed in the sky for weeks and the blue sea washed up waves on golden sand.

“Alice, Alice. Don’t leave me…. I need you,” he whispered and raising the pistol to his head, shot himself.

The Cypresses

The diary of Lucey Lacchesser aged 12

January 16^th 1897    We have just moved into a new house! Well, not a new house, but new for us, In fact it is a very old house which Daddy says was built on top of an old abbey. There are large stones and old statues in the garden. Some have been converted into rockeries and are covered with aubrietia of varying shades of purple.

There is a creepy part down by the old pond where there are rows of gravestones. Daddy and Mummy say that I can play anywhere else but not there. I am sure they are scared I fall in and drown. I can swim, but the pond water is a dirty colour and the weeds are thick. If I fell in I am sure they would wrap round me and pull me down.

January 18^th 1897    I didn’t manage to write anything yesterday as the teacher had given me a lot of homework. Arithmetic and English. Lots of sums and an essay to write. Yesterday was wet anyway and I wasn’t allowed to go out to play.

January 19^th 1897   It rained again today and by the time I got in from school I was soaked. Mummy said I was to take a bath and I used my Christmas present of scented bath salts. I felt like a grown up.

January 20^th 1897    I got a bit of a fright today. As a special treat Mummy let me play in the garden after school. I was running around the old stones and statues when I fell over and banged my knee. As I got up I thought I saw someone looking out of my bedroom window. It looked like an old person and I wondered if someone had come to pay a visit. I ran into ask Mummy but she said that we were the only people here and that I must have had a day dream. I was sure it was a person and it gave me a start.

January 22^nd 1897   I was off school yesterday with a chill. Mummy heard me coughing during the night and thought I had a bit of a temperature. It was great, Mummy ran up and down stairs carrying hot drinks. She gave me a little silver bell to ring if I needed anything.

In the afternoon I fell asleep, I had a short nap and then just as I was waking up I thought I saw the old lady again. I thought that she was standing at the bottom of my bed, but when I rubbed my eyes, she wasn’t there. I didn’t tell Mummy in case she thought that I had been dreaming.

January 23^rd 1897   I had a very strange dream last night. I dreamt I was down at the pond. I felt very naughty as Mummy and Daddy said that wasn’t to go near it. I was looking into the dirty water when I saw a pair of eyes looking up at me from below the water. They were the nastiest eyes that I have ever seen and I felt very scared. I woke up with a start.

I went back to school today and with all my friends round me I felt very happy.

January 25^th 1897    Something has been sitting outside my bedroom door at night when I sleep. There was a wet patch there when I woke up. It smelt horrible. Mummy said that there had been a leak from the roof, but I couldn’t see anything on the ceiling. Daddy said that he would get a man to have a look at it.

January 30^th 1897    The old lady was back last night. She seems to be trying to tell me something, but I can’t understand her. She vanished before I could shout for Mummy. I wish someone believed me.

School was boring today. The teacher was trying to get us to do sums, but no one could understand it, so we were all given homework to do.

January 31^st 1897      Today it rained and when I got back from school I played with my dolls until tea time. Mummy had baked a cake and I ate a slice with a cup of tea. Mummy asked what I wished for my birthday which is on March 12^th. I said that I would like a doll with a china head. I know they cost a lot of money but Mummy said that she would speak to Daddy. I returned to my room to play for a little while before I went to bed. The damp spot outside my door as almost completely dried up and Mummy sprayed some of her perfume on it to hide the smell.

February 1^st 1897        Woke up this morning early. The birds were singing their dawn chorus and I knew that it was too early to get up. I lay and tried to remember what, if anything, I had been dreaming of that night. I was sure the old woman was there and she was trying to point to something, but it was all cloudy and I couldn’t see what it was.

February 4^th 1897         Just recovered from a dreadful chill. I woke two mornings ago to find I was totally soaking. So was the bed and the surrounding carpet and it stank. I had screamed and Mummy ran through and scooped me into her arms – even though I smelt awful. She said that it had been that leak, the same as outside my door. But there was no mark on the ceiling. I was so chilled that by lunchtime of that day I had developed a fever and a dreadful cough.

February 6^th 1897     Went back to school today and worked steadily to catch up with what I had missed. As I approached the house I saw the old woman. She was standing at my bedroom window beckoning to me. She looked very worried and kept looking over her shoulder at something. I told Mummy that I had to get something from my bedroom and ran upstairs but the old woman had gone by the time I got there. I smelt a perfumey sort of smell in the room. I don’t know if I should tell Mummy. I don’t want her worrying.

February 7^th 1897               I woke early again this morning and the old lady was standing at the foot of my bed. I could smell the nice perfumey smell again and realised that it must be her scent. It took away any feeling of being scared and I sat up in bed and waited to see what she would say.

First she asked my age and then she asked if I was a woman yet. This puzzled me until I remembered what Mummy and I had been talking about a few weeks before. All about my body changing and the effects it would have on me. I felt pretty sure that it hadn’t happened yet and told the old lady. She smiled at me in a very sad way and then what she said next really scared me. She said that I must get Mummy and Daddy to leave this house and take me far away from it. If they refused, I must run away and I must do it before the end of the month. I begged her to tell me why and she put her finger to her lips and whispered the word ‘Soricks’. I said that I didn’t understand and asked what it was, but the old lady began to fade and as she faded she kept telling me to get away as soon as possible.

I must have cried out for Mummy and Daddy came into my room looking very scared. They asked why I had shouted and I burst into tears as I told them of the old lady’s warnings and they both looked grave. Daddy said to Mummy that he thought that I really hadn’t got over the fever that I had had. He thought that I had been day dreaming the awful event due to my illness. He rushed out of my bedroom to send a message to the doctor to make a house call as soon as he could.

I whispered to Mummy that I hadn’t been dreaming and that I felt that the old woman was real and so was her warning.

February 10^th 1897       After the doctor had been Daddy insisted that I stay in my bed and rest. The most I was allowed to do was to read a book of fairy stories!

Daddy came in from the garden where he had been digging a piece of earth for a vegetable patch. He had found a bit of pottery with a pretty design on it, he wondered if I would like it. He said that it was quite old.

I cleaned all the mud off it and saw that there was some writing in between a design made up of leaves. It said “Cave Sauricus”. I got a bit of a fright as I realised that ‘ Sauricus’ sounded like the ‘Sorick’ the old lady warned me about.

February 11^th 1897    Returned to school and my spirits rose when I met up with my school friends. They had been worried about me.

I had written the strange wording on a piece of paper and after one of the lessons I asked my teacher, a dear lady called Miss Prudence, what it could possibly mean. She admitted that her Latin was a little rusty but what she thought it said was ‘Beware the Sorick’. She asked me where I had got this from and I said off a piece of pottery that had been found in the garden.

February 12^th 1897    We had a visit from the local vicar the Reverend Goodbody today. He came for tea and cakes and almost ate them all!

During the conversation I asked politely if Mr Goodbody knew any of the history of the ruined abbey. He admitted that upon arriving five years before he had delved into all the local history of the area. Not a lot of information remained regarding the abbey and its monks, but what he did know was that the abbey had been burnt down by the local people after there had been tales of unholy practices being preformed there.

Mummy cleared her throat which was a sign to the vicar that he shouldn’t proceed with his narrative, as ‘little people’ were present.

Before the adults moved on to pleasanter topics, I asked if he knew what a sorick was. This was met with a sudden silence in which Rev. Goodbody’s face turned a shade of red. Before he could bring himself together he blurted out that a sorick was a mythical amoeboid (think I’ve spelt it correctly) entity.

Both Mummy and Daddy jumped up and began trying to change the subject. I would have laughed at their antics but I thought that it would be rude.

After the vicar left, Daddy scolded me for causing Rev. Goodbody to be embarrassed. I said that I was sorry.

February 13^th 1897    The word is not sorick but saurick. I found all about it in an old book in the library. Daddy had had gone into town and Mummy was in the garden when I decided to see what books were in the house library.

The History of Melford Abbey was written in an ancient looking book which was falling apart. It had an engraving of the abbey as it was when it was being lived in and it showed people with wagons moving in and out of the building. The Saurick was listed in the index and upon turning to the pages I learnt that a ‘star’ had fallen to Earth two years before the Abbey was burnt down. It was considered to be one of the ‘Virgin’s Tears’ as the day it fell was the Festival of the Virgin Mary. Just after the ‘Tear’ had been found and carried into the abbey it was renamed as the Saurick and the reports of misconduct and evil began, ending with the burning down of the abbey and the banishing of the monks.

As I lay in my bed that night I wondered what it could have been. A meteor? A comet? Whatever it had been, it changed a place of worship into something else quite evil.

February 14^th 1897     Woke this morning and thought that I had cut myself. The bed was covered with blood. Mummy came in and gave me a big hug. She whispered that I was now a young woman and that she and I should have a long talk about the changes that I could expect.

I didn’t feel at all well and after a troublesome day at school went to bed early. I intend finishing this entry in my diary and then get to sleep.

February 16^th 1897        The old woman appeared by my bed this morning. She looked terrified and began pleading with me to go away. You are a woman now she said. It will be coming for you.

I asked what she meant by ‘it’ and she whispered ‘saurick’.

Just at that moment Mummy came into the room and the old lady faded away to nothing. But just before she vanished she whispered ‘sacrifice’.

I once again asked Mummy if we could leave the house as I was scared. She laughed and said houses like ‘the Cypresses’ were scary but that Daddy had paid a lot of money for it and that they couldn’t afford to move.

Later in the day Mummy fixed a wooden crucifix above my bed. She said that it would keep all the ‘monsters’ at bay.

I hope so.

February 17^th 1897    I woke during the night and heard something outside my door. First of all I thought I heard water running and then it quietened to a steady drip. I lit a candle that I kept by the bedside and as the light shone on the door to my bedroom I noticed three streams of liquid coming across the floor from under the door. They moved like jelly and I knew that the saurick had found me. I jumped out of bed and hid behind my cupboard as the streams continued to move until the saurick had totally entered my room. It was like a large blob of jelly that quivered and shook as it held itself erect. Deep within its body I saw the evil looking eyes that had observed me from the pond by the graveyard. The Saurick had come to claim me. I was now an eligible sacrifice.

I reached up and plucked the crucifix from the wall and hurtled it at the mass. It struck and the creature shrunk back then it began to ooze out of the room till nothing remained of it apart from a large damp and stinking patch on the floor of my room. 

I am sitting in my bedroom trying to get all this information down. It will return, of that I am sure and I do not have any weapons to defeat it.

The creature is from outer space, it has the power to turn good to evil. It expects to be worshipped and have sacrifices made to it.

I am going to run away and hopefully escape from its clutches.

Pray for me please.       

This diary is given as evidence in the Procurator Fiscal’s Court of Inquiry into the disappearance of Major and Mrs J. Lachesser’s daughter Lucey

March 12^th 1897

The Response

Dedicated to Dr. Strange

The Qa’arn had been arriving all Earth week and the human’s response had been total. Pre nuclear weapons were being deployed and at the beginning, significant destruction was wrought on the invaders. But, they adapted, arriving from deep space with the equivalent of Kevlar jackets encasing their vessels. More and more landed and their troops spread out, dug in and began inflicting heavy casualties on the indigenous population. Refugees ran from the conflict thinking themselves safe behind the faltering Army and Air Force. The Qa’arn just kept coming and each human knew in his or her heart that this could be the ‘End of Days’ for Earth for the invader was merciless and was taking no prisoners.

“We must use the nukes!” screamed Brigadier General Soames. “These bastards are too well protected for conventional weaponry!”

“But…sir,” whined Lieutenant Favers, Soames’ subaltern. “If we engage the enemy with the nuclear arsenal and they adapt to it, what have we left?”

“Sir,” a trooper stood behind the Brigadier General, awaiting recognition. “There is a very old man to see you.”

“What…?” spluttered Soames. “I haven’t time for visits. What does he want?”

The trooper looked uncomfortable, “well sir, he says that he can help us.”

Soames thought that he was going to have a heart attack, “he says…what?”

“I am sorry sir, but he said that it was important and I thought that if I turned him away…well, you might be annoyed.”

Soames took a deep breath and turned away from the trooper towards Favers, “start emptying the nuclear arsenals and issuing the weapons to the soldiers and airmen. We have no choice. Now…,” he said turning back to the trooper. “Show this tactical genius in!”

The man was the colour of mahogany. He was wrapped in an animal skin and round his neck he wore beads interspersed with small animal skulls. In his hand he held a long staff which sported a snake’s head at the top. The man looked incredibly old.

“I have come a long way, sir” whispered the man.

“Uh, you don’t say,” grunted Soames sarcastically. “Unfortunately I seemed a trifle occupied at the present with attempting to save the planet. Forgive me if I appear a bit pre occupied.”

“I have brought with me a way to rout your enemies,” the man continued. “Let me show you…”

At that moment, Soames saw in his view monitor a Qa’arn robot rise from behind where the enemy were amassing. It stood twenty feet tall and was soon joined by three other juggernauts.

“Do you see this?” he screamed at Favers. “We must nuke them right away. The Qa’arn are building these behemoths and we have nothing to match them!”

As he watched one of the robots picked up an Earth tank and literally tore it in half. Soames could see the occupants fall from the stricken vehicle and were engulfed by the waiting Qa’arn soldiers.

“Sir…” the native man whispered, a little louder this time. “Please…I can help…”

“Get that idiot out of here!” shouted Soames picking up a telephone and punching in some numbers. “And if he isn’t gone by the time I finish this call Favers, you will be facing a court martial!”

Through the following days Earth watched on in terror as the Qa’arn army marched over the surface of the planet killing, destroying and subjugating. The nukes had been neutralised as soon as they struck the invaders and the deadly radioactivity was contained. The enemy wanted to take over a relatively healthy planet, not a nuclear wasteland similar to their home world which had been destroyed by internecine battles and petty feudal bickering. The Qa’arn’s technology had been engineered to stop this ever happening again.

The mass destruction went on until on one of Earth’s largest continents was to be the scene for the final battle to decide one way or the other.

 The Qa’arns had no home planet to return to, as, in putting together this mighty fighting force they had utilised all their resources and had effectively burnt their bridges.

The inhabitants of Earth intended to go down fighting the intruder.

D’asqui Mountain was a fortress of huge proportions. Theoretically anyone inside could withstand a nuclear attack and survive. Earth’s forces had spread out in front of the stronghold to form a delaying tactic for the approaching enemy.This would give the refugees time to move into some sort of protection behind D’asqui. The extra time would also buy time for the filling of the walls of D’asqui with more armament. Soldier’s wives stood with their partners holding weapons or by reloading the guns.

All was silent as the Earthmen awaited their foe.

 A small songbird flew into the no mans land to deliver a song. Never had a bird’s voice sounded so sweet. It flexed its wings and filled its chest and sang.

Suddenly a large explosion flared up on the plain and the small bird flew off in terror. The Qa’arn approached and from what was visible from a satellite link before it was destroyed, the entire Qa’arn army was there. It had come to wipe Earth’s inhabitants of the face of the planet. No mercy! No quarter!

All day the battle raged. The massive robots smashed at the walls of D’asqui and large chunks of rock cascaded down the mountain. Poisonous mushroom clouds rose in the blue sky as winged Qa’arn were destroyed. Most of the Qa’arn heavy machinery carried filters to negate the fallout, but could do nothing about the destruction caused by the strike on them.

At one point in the fighting, it seemed as if the tide was turning and that the invader was being beaten, but a cloud of missiles destroyed most of the fortress’ rocket launchers and suddenly the end was near for the Earthmen.

Soames stood in the hundred metre deep ops centre within D’asqui. He was sweating heavily and looked absolutely exhausted. He took out his pistol and checked the magazine. It had three bullets in it. He would offer Favers one of them, if he wanted. Rather death than what maybe offered under subjugation by the Qa’arn.

“Sir…the old man is back,” the trooper who had introduced him first, said. “He wants to help, sir”

Soames gave a big sigh and collapsed into a chair. “Ok, let him in. I don’t imagine anything will help…now.”

He was as Soames had seen him the first time. A tribesman who was as ancient as Adam. He stood like a pillar of wood, tanned by the sun and smoothed by the wind. A man hardened by the desert.

“Well…?” said Soames wearily. “What have you to offer?”

The man held out some stones to Soames. They were covered with what looked like writing. An ancient script carved right into the rocks.

“Gift…to you…A…boon…needed by you,” the old man muttered.

“Yes, very nice, thank you,” Soames said taking the offered stones. “But what can you do for us?”

The man turned and with several waves back to the Brigadier General and the trooper, he left the ops room.

Favers entered the room. “Was that the old man we saw back…?” he started.

“Yes,” said Soames. “Our last hope…..”

Soames wearily pulled his pistol out again. “I have three bullets gentlemen, you are welcome to the two remaining after I have taken my leave of you.” He put the weapon to his forehead and looked at his colleagues. “God be with you.”

“Wait sir!” shouted the trooper. “The old man….”

He had walked out onto the empty space that was no mans land, looking tiny against the Qa’arn amassed army. He looked like a small wild flower standing up to a gathering of bulldozers – very vulnerable.

One of the Qa’arn robots lumbered forward and reaching down opened a massive claw to crush the old man. Soames and the other two men watched on in horror.

He must be mad, they thought, a feather against a tornado.

The old man stepped back and brought his staff down sharply against the metal pincer. Soames imagined a resounding clang that echoed and re-echoed over the field of battle.

The robot paused momentarily then it began to disintegrate from it metal hooves to its helmet. Soon the old man was surrounded by a fine metal dust which twisted and twirled in the prevailing wind.

“What the ….?” said Soames, lowering the gun from his head.

The Qa’arn multitude suddenly began moving, hoping that the destruction of the robot had been merely a glitch. Now the old man would have to meet the combined force!

Turning swiftly he drew a circle in the dust at his feet and then the ancient began to gesticulate at the approaching enemy, shaking his staff and swinging about his head.

Soames imagined he could hear the old man’s words in his head. He understood what he was attempting to do without knowing what the words meant. It was something innate. Something handed down genetically from generation to generation. Basic, but beautiful.

Before the invading army had reached the elderly shaman the sand outside the inscribed circle had begun to spiral up into the air. As one cloud reached up so another started to form until fourteen massive clouds occulted the Qa’arn army.

As they rose so to did they begin to harden into a form of crystal. Their forms were that of dragons and they towered over the robots. Then they began to move…..

Soames spoke of that day at rallies, at dinners and on the television. Our Earth and what we understood as civilisation saved by an old man who had carried a secret handed down to him by his father and in turn passed to him by his father.

The stones that had been gifted to Soames were given over to have the words translated. The scientists who analysed the material said that it was aeons old and the writing? Well you might say that the stones were his calling card for the carved words read: Awakener of the Guardians of the Earth.

……………………………………..+………………………………………………….