STORIES FROM RORY No. 13

Careful what you wish for

We finally moved into this house, it’s spacious and we love it. There is an ancient wishing well in the garden. The framework on the well is quite dilapidated and so we have to make sure the children don’t get too close to the wood and brickwork that sort of holds it together. However, I love this piece of art work in our garden. I spend time down here and take a chair so that I can write. I write stories or prose and this setting gives me so many ideas of what to write about. It’s calming to the spirit, and amongst the bird song and the sound of busy bees, I feel as if I’m in another time or Galaxy. Time is endless when I sit here.

Truth is I spend too much time down here, and I forget my duties. John my husband will come home sometimes and his dinner is not cooked. The children grumble as I forget to wash their PE kit and school clothes. One day John and I had a heated argument about me letting things slip and so I decided to make a wish; it was to make me remember the time, and what my duties should be.

I am due to give birth to our second daughter; we already have a son and one daughter.

I bring my mobile phone down here in case I start to have labour pains. I worry about the fact that I can’t get back to the house in time for the baby to arrive. Today is Tuesday and we are now in June and it is so hot.

Before going down to the wishing well this morning I got the baby’s new carriage ready, and I packed some articles to take into the hospital with me. Julia is due at any time now, and Julia is the name I’ve picked for her. John and I argued about this, as he wanted to name her Mary after his mother. I don’t know if I’m just being stubborn, but for some unknown reason Julia keeps jumping into my mind. And so our unborn daughter’s name has stuck to Julia.

Sitting beside the wishing well one morning. a voice seemed to whisper that name. And I hear it many times as I sit here. I think it might be a trick of the breeze playing on me, as it gently sighs through the trees.

This morning while writing some prose, I felt a sharp pain. I waited a while and the pain came again, then suddenly my waters broke. I phoned for an ambulance and told them where to find me, at the bottom of the garden beside the wishing well.

The breeze is playing tricks on me again and just seems to be repeating Julia’s name. The ambulance should have been here by this time, and my labour is more constant. I’m panicked as the pain is more and more frequent.

I hadn’t brought any water down here with me, and I must have passed out in the heat. I was unconscious for a long time. I don’t remember the ambulance staff calling to tend to me, and get me to the hospital. They say I was out of it for just over a month. I can’t remember the birth of our child and I feel upset by this. I do remember having some very strange dreams.

The first one I can recall, I was somewhere in a cave and I remember distinctly a caveman bending over me, and he had a bloodied club in his hand. I had just given birth in this dream, and it was a girl child. The birth happened while he was out hunting for meat. He pulled some of the meat from the deer that he had caught and offered it to me.

I don’t remember eating it, as the dream changed quite quickly and dramatically.

The second dream, I was out in the woods and witches and warlocks were dancing around naked. I could hear the chants and saw the burning torches. The chants were in a language I didn’t understand, but a name was called out in this chant, and it was Julia.

This is when a monk appeared, just as the group was calling on the devil to put in an appearance.

I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but instinct told me this was what was happening. There were some bright flashes and loud thunder, just as a monstrous figure appeared. The face was like a goat and it had hideous horns.

The monk came into the dream and offered prayers for the witches and the devil.

I felt very afraid, as they were about to sacrifice Julia as an offering. She lay naked on a sort of slab. The devil had what looked like a Neptune’s fork or trident and he ran the monk through. I’ll always remember that piercing scream. Julia, what of Julia? I saw the knife that was to be used to kill her as an offering to the devil.

I’ve always loved magic, and I loved all the fables about Merlin. I read so many stories about Merlin, and I didn’t know what else to do, so I screamed and asked for the magician Merlin to help me. When Merlin came, the dream changed again and I am with my sweetheart and we are staying in a wooden cabin. My sweetheart’s name is Bernard and my name is Julia. Something or someone mentioned Julia and this is when I opened my eyes. I felt confused at first and blinked my eyes as the light is blinding. There is some kind of ceremony going on. I asked about Julia and then noticed a priest held her in his arms. He baptised her and she gave a tiny cry.

Then I noticed the tears everyone is crying.

“What’s going on?” I asked, and John held my hand.

“Sorry, love, but Julia has just passed over, she had a difficult birth as the cord had got caught around her neck. She was alive, but severely brain-damaged. If you had woken sooner, you might have had some time with her. Her brain was starved of oxygen and they have kept her going on a machine until today. The decision was made to switch off. We didn’t know how long you would still be in a coma. I’m so sorry love, it had to happen.”

Tears flooded down my face, our beautiful daughter is gone. I held her until they took her away.

Later, and after a few months, I still go to the wishing well and make wishes and prayers for Julia’s spirit. And those awful dreams still haunt me. I do wonder if Julia has been in the world before, and I wondered how many times she’s been here. I wished she will return again with another chance for us to be together.

After six months I’m pregnant, and again it’s a girl child. Of course, her name is Julia.

She was a difficult child and would throw the most awful tantrums. I caught her shaving the next door neighbour’s cat, and when she saw me she threw it over the fence. I had to go and apologise. As Julia grew older she was in the habit of getting herself into hot water with the police. She brutally killed some one’s cat and began stealing from shops. Drink became a real problem. She stole our car and wrecked it while in a drug-induced high. She began hitting me, and really hard, she also took a knife to me and just caught my arm. My husband asked where I was getting the injuries from, and I made up excuses.

It all ended the day she overdosed, and to me it was a relief as I was at the end of my tether. It is so terrible to be happy your child has died, but the path she was walking, I believe it’s better that she’s dead. There’s nothing I could do to change her, I tried to love her, but Julia resented that love and she hated me. I often think about the wish I’d made and now I think we have to be careful what we wish for.

Josie Smith

Hope

She had passed by the village wishing well many times and never once tossed in a coin or a wish, into the centuries old landmark.  Today was different.  Yesterday, she had learned she was pregnant and, thrilled by this revelation, visited her priest for his blessing.  Yes, the world had sometimes become an evil, dangerous place in which to raise a child but she was confident the strong bond she and her soulmate husband shared  would meet any challenge.  She tossed in a gleaming new shilling.

Their little cottage, nestled in the forest just outside the village, was, she believed, guarded by the elves she spotted from time to time darting through the trees.  Devil worshippers, coarse, uncivilised men, were encountered, so the village gossip claimed, whenever one wandered into the primeval area beyond the sanctuary. Emboldened by her faith and the love and support of her husband and neighbours, she confidently faced the days ahead.   

Exactly seven months later their healthy daughter was born.  They  named her, “Hope.”  Over the years the elves continued their watch and the bucolic setting in which Hope grew up was never disturbed.

Chuck Wallace

DIFFERENCE

A strange little creature was seen scuttling along the main street in Whistledon. He was carrying a club and looking furious.

“Are you villagers all asleep?” he shouted. “There was a landing last night by a 3^rd Dimension. There are beings among them that none of you have seen before. You all need to be ready to fight!”

Several people came out of their houses, and those who were susceptible to fake news listened and went inside to find weapons.

A monk came out of the monastery and said quietly, “Let’s not be hasty, let’s just wait and see who they are and what they want.”

The twins who were in charge of the village shop were smiling happily, “They will need things from our shop!” they said. They ran off to open up.

The creature with the club, who lived at the edge of the village and whose name was Hasty, went knocking on doors that had previously stayed shut. He soon convinced most of the people of Whistledon that there was a real threat from the supposed invaders. Soon the villagers were gathering all along the street and one man was wielding a trident.

Somebody reported seeing many little creatures with pointed ears going up into the woods to where there was a cottage that had not been occupied for years.

“Come on, everybody. First of all we will close off the well so the evil creatures cannot get any water,” said Hasty. They put the cover on the well with a huge rock to keep it in place.

The Mayor, looking like Father Christmas, arrived carrying a sparkling bomb, and raised it ready to throw at the cottage. A little boy in the crowd stepped forward. “Be careful, Mister, my Dad says fireworks are dangerous.” Surprised, the Mayor rolled the bomb in the damp grass and put it out.

Still, some of the villagers went and banged on the cottage door, shouting angrily.

“Come out, come out and face us. You don’t belong here.”

Several pointy-eared creatures came out and stood staring at the villagers without saying anything. Then one stepped forward.

“We came to help you,” said the foremost creature. “However, you are obviously not ready for our wisdom. You are not prepared to give a chance to other ideas or possibilities.”

Hasty shouted, “Who do you think you are? We are fine with the way we live. We don’t need aliens to tell us anything.”

Several Villagers began to demur and say, “Perhaps we should just give them a chance to explain.”

Hasty jumped up and down, spitting venom. “We can’t afford to take a chance. You are all so naive. If we let them stay, there will soon be more of them. They will bring their families.”

A few Villagers mumbled, and some obviously would have liked more discussion, but nobody was prepared to stand up against Hasty.

The spokesperson for the visitors was confident and calm. “Very well. We must leave you to live as you will. However, we are leaving you with one possibility for salvation. Please move away and let us go. “

The villagers divided and let the creatures walk down the overgrown path and out of the woods.

When they had disappeared one of the women led the way into the cottage. Awaiting them was a great surprise.

Inside the cottage, directly under the sunlight shining through the window, there was a cradle with a beautiful smiling baby.

Linda Dalzell 22/05/21

STORYTELLING: FIRST PRINCIPLES

Once upon a time, there was a girl and a boy, and he loved her and she loved him, the end.

Hang on a minute! That’s not a story!

It’s got a beginning, a middle and an end – what more d’you want?

More! What happened after they realised they loved each other… you know… the rest…

Oh dear. I was afraid you might want to know about all that. Only…

Only what?

It’s not nearly such pleasant, uncomplicated telling as what you’ve already heard.

That’s all right. I can take it. I’m an adult.

Really? I thought you wanted a fairy-story.

Never mind what I want – or what you thought I wanted. Tell me the story.

All of it?

All of it. Start to finish. End to end.

How long have you got?

What d’you mean?

Well, if you really want to understand it properly, you have to go back a bit.

How far?

That all depends…

The beginning of the world?

Now you mention it…

Really?

In some senses, yes – because that’s where we first meet two basic principles that have had such an effect on human life as a whole, and these two people in particular.

Good and Evil!?

No. Don’t be silly. Energy and Idleness, of course.

Of course…

Glad you agree with me. Because you agree with me, I won’t bother to go through all the examples of Idleness and Energy between the beginning of the world and the start of the story.

Thank you.

Don’t thank me! Thank the Principle of Idleness.

Of course.

But don’t worry if you can’t be bothered. He won’t mind.

He?

Well, of course it’s a He!

I thought men were more energetic…

Only in order to get out of jobs they don’t want to do! Anyway, to get back to our story –

Our story? I thought it was your story?

I’m telling it to you. We’re both involved. That makes it our story – unless you’d really like it to be your story… it can be arranged, you know…

Hmm… I’d rather hear how it turns out first.

Well, we storytellers don’t always believe in telling everything…

You want to let the listeners use their imagination…

Y-e-e-e-s – and also, we’re idle. Anyway, you know the kind of thing that went on… looking, when the other one isn’t…

Waiting to see them go by…

A bit of holding hands…

The kind of breathing that makes the other one ask if you’ve got chest trouble…

Sounds as though you’ve done this sort of stuff yourself…

Heard about it from friends… magazines in the dentist’s waiting-room…

But he wasn’t going to say anything, was he? That would involve him in a commitment, and a commitment is an action, and an action requires energy, and entails a whole lot of other actions…

Oh! I see why you didn’t want to tell me any more! Because there isn’t any more!

Calm down! Relax. Relaxation is next to hibernation – which is, admittedly, only a seasonal form of idleness, but if there’s ever any summer again you can claim to be indulging in aestivation when you spend the whole day asleep. You see, the good thing (and sometimes also the bad thing) about relationships is that there are usually two people involved. Two, as a rule, is generally considered the ideal number, but, the moment there’s a rule there are exceptions, and there are often twosomes who have come together expressly in order to become a threesome, sometimes a foursome, or even a moresome –

I don’t need any more examples, thank you!

Good – because you weren’t going to get any…

Because you’re too idle to give me any…

You seem to be getting the hang of this. You wouldn’t like to tell the rest, would you?

I don’t know the rest, do I? Because you haven’t told it to me yet!

You didn’t mind my trying to get out of it, did you? Don’t bother to answer, because I’m going to carry on anyway. You see, the girl was energetic, and wanted to advance matters. So, on one of their walks together, she made sure they went past a well…

Am I going to like this? It’s not going to be scary, is it? I know about wells in stories – people end up being pushed down them!

Don’t anticipate disaster! Wait till it comes to you. That way, you only suffer once. But in this case, you won’t be suffering at all. Because, when they got to the well, she just stood there, sighing a little. Well, they’d been through this sort of stuff before, and, lacking in general perception though he was, he’d gathered it wasn’t a pulmonary problem, more a cardiac one, as you might say, but his preferred solution was, as always, practical (emotions, remember, are not practical), so he said, “Glass of water? I’ll get you one!” and before she could open her mouth, the bucket had splashed down, filled itself, and been wound up again, brimming…

I thought you said he was idle?

The skill in idleness lies in knowing when to do some things, which are easy and undemanding, in order to avoid having to do other things which really do require energy.

Like emotions?

I can see you’re following the story closely! So, as she sipped the water, she said, “Actually, this is a wishing well… ” and left such a big pause that he knew he had to fill it. “So – what are you wishing for?” he asked. “A husband,” she said, and he replied, “I’ll get you one… ” and had already turned round to run off and fulfil her request, when she grabbed his shoulders and spun him round, saying, just before her kiss put an end to all further verbal communication between them, for a while anyway, “I’ll get my own, thank you!”

Ah! What a lovely story! Thank you so much for that! See you around…

It’s not over yet, you know.

What?

You might think it’s over – and indeed, the fact that the route she took on their way home went right past a monk’s cell, where she decided that they should decide to get married, suggests that their story may be approaching its conclusion – but you will no doubt remember that I talked about twosomes wanting to be threesomes… and as they walked along hand in hand, he said, thinking to forestall any further requests for action, because idleness was strong in him, “My happiness is complete, now, dear – is yours?” And her breathing became troubled (and he thought It can’t be an allergy – it’s the wrong time of the year for pollen) and she said, “I would like a baby, of course…” and he said, “I’ll get you one!” and was off before she could grab him. Well, it wasn’t that he’d once met a bloke in a pub who dealt in them and had said, ‘Any time you need one, you just come to me and I’ll sort you out…’ but he did have a cousin who was a wizard, who, he reckoned, could fix that kind of thing at mates’ rates.

But the wizard was busy, and waiting for a delivery, you know what it’s like, and he was trying out a new line in precognition, which was mostly a swindle, getting the punters to tell you things by asking clever questions that seemed to have nothing to do with the matter in hand, so when the lad turned up, the wizard said, “I know what you want.” “Do you?” said the lad. “Of course!” said the wizard. “Do you doubt me?!” in that thundery voice wizards can put on when they want to. “N-n-n-no!” said the lad. “Then go and wait outside, and I’ll deal with the matter immediately!” So he did – the lad that is, who went outside.

Now the wizard was waiting for the delivery of something special for a local club-wielding giant – of course, the giant could have ordered it for himself and not had to pay the ordering charges and the delivery charges and the handling charges and the charges charges, and the giant vaguely knew that there were other ways of acquiring what he wanted, and he would have asked his wife, but she’d run off with a load of other giantesses to found a feminist commune because they were frankly fed up with the poor quality of conversation they got from their menfolk in the evenings – and the mornings – and the afternoons – why d’you think the giants are always kidnapping normal-size princesses?

Because their conversation is pretty poor as well?

Hey – you’re not one of those subversives, are you? If so, I’ll stop telling at once…

Carry on. Please.

Well, outside the door, just about to knock, was a demon – only small and mildly horrid, nothing scary, and he was about to say, “Demon Delivery Service, package for – ” when the door opened, and a lad came out, so, to save time and trouble, he put the package straight into the lad’s arms and ran off, to get on with his round. The package in question was a cradle – so the lad drew the obvious conclusion about its contents and began to walk home to his wife, who was still living with her parents. But the cradle, which he’d put on his shoulder, to carry it more easily, began to get heavier and heavier and heavier, so he had to stop and put it down, and when he did that, he saw that the baby was beginning to squeeze out of it all round – like a loaf that’s too big for the baking tin – because of course giant’s babies have a very short shelf life and need special storage conditions – and in less time than it’s taking me to tell it, the giant’s baby had turned the cradle to firewood and was stomping off, looking for its parents…

Girl, was it?

How d’you guess?

The energy. The intelligence.

You’re learning. So the lad sat down in despair. Couldn’t go home to his wife without the baby he’d promised her. Couldn’t go back to the wizard, who’d been so quick in providing just what he wanted, because he must have done something wrong with the baby he’d been given. And as he was sitting there, up came the demon, who was also in a dilemma, having failed to deliver the baby properly (though that kind of delivery was potentially a lot easier than what we think of as the normal kind). So they both sat down together, and the lad told the demon about his problem, because that’s what you do, when you need to confide – you choose someone you’ve never seen before, and you’ll never see again, and you tell them what’s wrong, and it’s as if you’re talking to yourself, but without all the preconceptions. And all the while, the demon was looking at his badge of office – you know, the three-pronged fork, which is supposed to be for tormenting sinners, but is actually for toasting crumpets. And it occurred to the demon that one is traditionally on the horns of a dilemma – two prongs, both sharp – but that maybe there might be a third way out of the situation, both for the lad and for himself. You see, if demons do one good deed, they can start again, be born as humans, and have another go…

So the demon decided to do his good deed, by helping the lad.

“Have you got a house yet, you and your wife?” he asked.

“No,” said the lad. “But there’s plenty of space and plenty of trees around, so we thought we’d make our own.”

“Aha,” said the demon, and let the pause grow. “And the baby?” he said. “Why don’t the pair of you just – make your own?

“I don’t know how,” said the lad, almost on the verge of tears.

“I’m sure your wife does,” said the demon, fingering the middle prong of his fork reflectively, and the lad cheered up at once. “Why don’t you go home and ask her?”

So off he ran, and when he got to his wife’s parents’ house he rushed straight in and found her on her own, working in the kitchen, and said, “Let’s make our own!” “Our own what?” she said, rubbing her hands dry. “Baby!” he said, and she threw the towel aside and hugged and kissed him, saying, “I hoped you’d say that!” Is that the end you wanted? So I can go back to being idle?

Yes! Oh yes! But…

But what?

The demon… the demon who was going to be born again as a little baby…

You don’t want his story as well, do you? There are limits, you know…

No… but… was he born as… their baby?

Who knows? How could you tell?

What d’you mean?

Well – between you and me – aren’t all babies capable of being little demons from time to time?

(And as for the giant baby, and her expectant father – the lesson to learn is: Never finish a story so completely that there isn’t a bit left over to start another one… because inventing from scratch requires so much more energy!)

Mike Rogers

 

STORIES FROM RORY No. 12

 

Running the Gauntlet

“Hi, Tommy, are you coming to play?”

Milly ran down the lane to where her friend was coming out of his gate. Tommy was in the same class at school, and as Milly was something of a ‘tomboy’ they enjoyed similar activities.

“Yes, if you like. Where are we going?”

Tommy was quite happy for Milly to take the lead in their adventures, as she often had good ideas – although these sometimes led to trouble.

“Let’s go down to Frank’s farm. I may be able to borrow a few apples for my Mum to make a pie. I know she is really hard up since she lost her job with the Covid lockdown.”

“Milly, you can’t borrow apples. You won’t be able to give them back when they have been eaten.”

“I know that, Tommy, but perhaps I can repay later in some way. They’d only be fallers, anyway.”

Tommy was exasperated, but, hoping to distract his impetuous friend, suggested, “Why don’t we go through the woods and check on our den on the way?”

They set off eagerly through the trees, shrubs and spiky grasses. It was late summer and everything was flourishing.

When they slithered down the little bank and scrambled into the thicket where they had cleverly pulled the thinner branches together to create a sort of wigwam, they were surprised to find, in the den, among the squashed down grasses, some goggles, a big blank dice like a mini rubic cube, a beautiful chalice and, strangest of all, a pack of cards, topped by the joker.

“Blimey. Who’s been here? What a cheek—in our den.”

Milly was starting to search around but Tommy, more cautious, said, “I think we should tell somebody about this.”

Milly, never one to miss an opportunity, seized on the idea.

“We can cut through to Frank’s and tell someone.”

Agreeing that Frank would be the nearest contact, Tommy led the way out of the den.

It had been a lovely, sunny day but the sky was darkening and they both shivered with the sudden change in temperature. There appeared to be a mist in front of them and Milly said, “It’s a spirit, Tommy. I hope it is a good one that will help us.” She was whispering now and she held up a card, the joker. “It could be connected to him.”

“Sorry, Milly, but, for a quite clever person, you can be a bit dim. Throw the card away. “

In her unusually subdued state, Milly obeyed, but the joker seemed to drift a long way before disappearing into the mist.

When they came out of the trees the sky lightened and the spirit shape drifted upwards.

Running across the field leading to Frank’s farm they saw Bramble, the New Forest pony getting near a gap in the fence. This had been broken by a coach, which appeared to have gone into a ditch and was tipped halfway over. There were several people around and an ambulance had just arrived. The coach driver was still inside clinging to the steering wheel.

“I don’t think he’s dead,” whispered Milly. “Nobody is bothering about Bramble. He’ll get out in a minute.”

With that pearl she dashed off towards the orchard. She returned with an apple in her hand and one in her pocket. Tommy was aghast.

“What—er… oh, Milly, not now!”

Milly was already climbing through the hole in the fence and walking gently towards Bramble, who scraped the ground and blew hard. Milly crept forward extending the apple.

“There, Bramble. It’s OK.”

She approached ever so slowly, shushing gently, so that she was in his peripheral vision until she could get right up to his head. She breathed up into his nose and he snorted, spraying her in return.

He was wearing a head collar and Milly took the belt from her dress and tied it to his collar. She walked in front of him to the other end of the field where there was an open shelter. There was a rail of collars and lead reins there, so she tied him to the fence and brought him some hay.

In the meantime, after several rebuffs, Tommy managed to talk to somebody who had descended safely from the coach. Apparently, a strange person had appeared in the road in front of the coach, which was trying to follow a fork in the road. The driver had swerved and missed the dishevelled character who, it transpired, had stolen something from the Church.

Fortunately nobody was seriously injured. Frank appeared and came over to the two friends.

“Well done, Milly. I saw what you did with Bramble. You averted a disaster. Is there anything I can do for you?”

Milly smiled and said, “Can I have some apples for my Mum to make a pie, please?”

“Get as many as you like, Milly. You can have some eggs as well.”

Milly’s eyes were shining. “Thank you. My Mum will love you!”

Frank laughed and winked at Tommy, who, aged ten and a half, appreciated the ‘man to man’ gesture.

Later, the friends were ambling home, loaded with apples and eggs, singing ‘One man went to mow’, when Tommy saw the joker card on the ground. He picked it up gingerly.

Milly just said, “There you are. I told you.”

Tommy could think of nothing to say.

Linda Dalzell 15/05/21

Unexpected

After a morning of exercising our horses Alan and I rest up.

Usually this meant a game of cards with a pint of beer or a cup of coffee. For some unknown reason I always managed to pick the joker or the Jack. I did wonder if Alan cheated at cards, as this never varied.

We were the best of friends, and it didn’t matter that much if he did cheat, because there was no money involved.

We managed to get ourselves involved with the mock jousting at Downton. Oh, it was the real thing, except that no one died in these battles. It was simply good clean fun, and we loved it when the crowds roared for the side they’d picked. The roar grew louder when a Knight threw down the gauntlet and the battle commenced. It was a reality thing for us, as we felt quite a lot like the old Knights must have, with an anxious excitement or a little bit of fear. Of course, the fear would have been amplified greatly by Knights of old, for fear of death, or terrible injuries.

Sometimes Alan or I would take a turn on sitting on horseback, dressed as Knights, and pose outside of the tiny post office at Downton. Folk would come with their cameras and take pictures of us. The horses were great and I’m sure they loved having their photos taken as they would stand dead still all the time we were there. The costumes were splendid and we felt great.

I’m not without money, and quite well off, I suppose.

I own an Aston Martin and I was at my happiest driving the car and feeling the steering wheel in my hands. I have to confess, though, I really do show off, more to the annoyance of neighbours, as the engine’s really noisy, and I drive fast.

I took a day off from my other hobbies and went out in the car. It was a nice day, and so I thought I’d go on an adventure by going somewhere completely different. On my travels I came across a road sign that I didn’t understand. It was like a dual lane merging into a single lane with an arrow pointing one way. I became hesitant as to which way I should go, and folk began beeping their horns.

I got angry, and got out of my car, shouting, “Are you expecting someone to hand you a winners’ cup for the loudest and longest horn- blowing?”

I won’t repeat the abusive answers I received, and one man started his engine and tried to run me over. It’s just a good job I have good reflexes and I’m fast on my feet. I’ve got to admit this shook me up quite a lot, as I wasn’t prepared for that. I got back into my car shaking and took a drink of water from the water bottle I’d brought with me.

A bus unexpectedly came rushing around the corner and crashed into a lorry. This was quite nasty as there were five other cars involved. There were three people dead and lots of injuries. Ambulances made their way to the location in a hurry. The drivers of those ambulances reported that they didn’t know what the sign meant, therefore they weren’t too sure which way to go. This also increased the time needed to get to those injured. I have heard the council have changed that sign now; I wonder what lunatic sign they have replaced it with!

Returning home, I really had had enough for one day, and I was tired. I decided to pull into a lay- by and shut my eyes for a while.

I must have dozed off quite quickly, but when I opened my eyes I was unsure of where I was.

I couldn’t move my legs or my arms or my head. ‘I can’t move my head,’ I said out loud.

It was locked into a gadget, like a helmet. There were tubes and some kind of wires that seemed to be setting some kind of tech in motion. I wasn’t laid flat, but placed semi-upright so that I could see around me. The lines on the monitor were erratic, not just going along gradually, but whizzing around and around. I didn’t feel at all well, or at ease.

Then tremendous fear gripped me as I saw shadowy figures moving around. They seemed to be in a haze and far away.

One bent down over me and he was wearing what resembled goggles. The face, I will never forget the look of that face. It reminded me of the age-old image of the devil.

”Oh God!” someone screamed – and then I realised it was me. They tortured me in different ways and with various instruments. I’m not sure how long I was there, just too long.

Then darkness came over me and the next thing I remember is waking up in the lay-by.

Shaking my head, and trying to make sense of all of this, and wondering if I had dreamt it all.

I would have settled for the dream until, looking out of my car window, I saw what looked like a large cube hovering in the air, with various coloured lights all over it. It stayed in the same place for what seemed like aeons, but there was no sound of engines.

It was totally unexpected to have been abducted by aliens on my adventure. I felt sore all over my body, and when I checked I’m covered in injuries.

I quickly got myself to the hospital and when the blood checks came back doctors said I was covered in strange injuries, and that my blood is poisoned. I told the police about my day’s adventure, but not sure that they believed me. However, I am informed that the hospital will keep a check on me in case of cancer developing.

These days when I open my eyes and hear the dawn chorus, be it rain or shine, I thank the good Lord for my blessings. I think very carefully before I go out on any adventures now. I hope and pray I don’t get abducted by those shadowy creatures again, the thought of the awful instruments they used on my body makes me feel really ill and try as I may I can’t get it out of my head.

Josie Smith

DIVERSION

Do you believe somebody actually controls everything that happens? Well, if not somebody, then something? And would that be an algorithm, or a set of laws? I mean, laws we could actually agree on, such as up is up and down is down, that apply in most of the places we’d be likely to find ourselves – which is going to rule out the inside of black holes, naturally.

But suppose the laws conflict with each other? Or – which might be even worse, because the consequences would be less predictable, suppose the rules coincide with one another, in really weird and unexpected ways? Not all the time, of course, but just for a while, a shared bit of the route, like those traffic schemes where, for technical reasons, vehicles that are heading in completely opposite directions find themselves driving along side by side, pointing the same way – until they get to the next traffic sign or turn-off, which separates them, and sends them on their otherwise utterly different journeys.

Long trips on unfamiliar roads, featureless freeways through the flat Mid-West, in a coach that’s almost, but not quite, full, induce, if not simply and immediately sleep, at least a kind of parallel state. You can’t call it classically disorientation because, if the sun’s shining, you definitely know which side it is, and you’ll probably want to sit on the other, since the air-conditioning is noisy, and works by blowing cold air in your face through a nozzle that’s too stiff to move, except to push it back in and turn it off, and the draught makes your eyes water.

That was why Art had got the swim-goggles out of Gwen’s pack and put them on, before he’d decided he couldn’t stand the noise anyway. He hadn’t asked Gwen whether he could, because she wasn’t sitting beside him. Her pack was there, with the rest of her swimgear in it, but she was sitting three rows back, on the sunny side of the coach, with Lance, and just running his fingers over the shiny black cloth of her still damp swimsuit, and thinking about what had been inside it, wasn’t going to compensate Art for her absence.

Only to be expected, of course. Lance was a winner. He had the trophy to prove it. Only he didn’t, because that, too, had been dumped on the empty seat beside Art, snuggling up to Gwen’s pack the way Gwen was snuggling up to Lance right now, without any obstacles like a pack, or an old-fashioned cup with handles – How uncool is that old piece of tin? Gwen had said – Except of course that you won it!

So Art, uncool loser Art, had been left to mind the baggage, while the Cool Couple did whatever cool couples think they can get away with on a school-bus that’s taking the 11^th grade back home from a swimming gala that had to be held miles and miles and miles away, because the lame school’s lame pool had a leak…

Art puts his hand up, to pull on the air-conditioning, and pulls the goggles down over his eyes again to keep out the draught. It’s not the heat. It’s the noises he can hear from three rows back, and he wants to shut them out. To take his mind off things, he starts looking out the window. There’s nothing to see except traffic, of course, and fields that are all the same. The traffic’s all the same, too, family sedans, no up-to-date models, haulage rigs, mostly rusty and slow, nothing interesting.

He notices, though, that the goggles are actually polarised, so he’s not blinded by flash reflections from polished chrome. Must be to do with the properties of water, he thinks. He doesn’t swim himself. Not good at physical things. More of a thinker. Geek is the word that the voice at the back of his head hisses into his inner ear. He shakes his head, to get it to shut up – and that’s when he notices the white sports car, out of the corner of his eye.

It’s coming up fast. Of course, everything can overtake the school-bus, but they take their time about it, don’t want to exceed the limit – though you don’t usually get speed-cops out here – but then, you don’t get fashionably fast sports cars out here, either.

Art sits up properly, to see what’s happening. He even twists himself round, to get a proper view. Which he doesn’t believe. Because what’s overhauling the school-bus isn’t a sports-car at all. It’s a white horse. Shouldn’t be happening. Can’t be happening. But it is.

Has nobody else noticed? No, they haven’t – and that’s because they aren’t there. Nobody else is there. The rest of the bus – the vehicle, not just its passengers – is missing. Of course, Art knows it must be some kind of optical illusion, caused by the polarised goggles – but he doesn’t take them off, in order to restore normality, because it’s kinda fun! And he decides to enjoy it.

It isn’t an ordinary horse, either, he can see that very clearly. It’s considerably chunkier. And it’s caparisoned. That’s to say, it’s wearing a coat. Not because it’s cold, but to show who it belongs to – and to show off his taste and wealth and noble identity… Art regrets for a moment not being nerdish enough to have learnt all the armorial bearings of the Knights of the Round Table – but he knows that a geek who is also a nerd is definitely a dork, and if he were a dork he wouldn’t even be given Gwen’s pack to keep him company.

He’d been one of the few kids in school who’d enjoyed Tom Sawyer, and gone on to read a lot more Mark Twain, including A Connecticut Yankee at King Arthur’s Court – which he found both pompous and a bit cheap and snide in its wisecracks – and from there he’d got into the whole Round Table shtick, but had never gone as far as the video-games…

The horse, he knew, was a destrier, a heavy warhorse, pounding along right beside him – goodness knew what he was on or in! He can hear its panting, and the clatter of its hooves, smell its horsiness, feel the foam-flecks coming off its muzzle as it overtakes him…

And here’s the knight, white surcoat with three red stripes across it, just like the horse – only the pattern’s repeated on the horse, because it’s bigger – and he’s leaning out of his saddle, stretching his hand out across Art – what’s he reaching for, with that huge armoured gauntlet?

Art looks over to his right. It’s the cup! Of course it’s the cup! Art knows very well what the knight must think it is, with that old-fashioned ceremonial shape! Cool modern trophies look like dolphins, or the Speedo trademark, or whatever shape can be most cheaply and easily injection-moulded and mass-produced in acrylic…

Can I stop this? thinks Art. Should I bother? Hell, Lance won it fair and square. Revenge would be petty! Might as well try to do the right thing.

So Art brings both of his hands down on the armoured arm, just above the gauntlet, trying to pull it off – he has some idea that the joint there must be vulnerable, that it won’t move as naturally as flesh and bone. There’s also the probability that the knight’s so far out of his saddle that he’s off-balance. Faced with resistance, he’ll have to pull back, or risk being unseated – an unhorsed knight in the middle of a busy freeway isn’t going to survive too long.

At the same time, Art thinks that a sudden change of direction or speed by the school-bus could also help, and make the knight give up his hazardous undertaking. A loud noise should do it – just enough to make the driver slow down a little, and look round to see what’s happening.

He’s not sure what kind of noise he’s actually made, because everything comes together. The bus does slow, and jerks off to the right, because it’s the exit for home, and Art jerks round to his left, to look back and see what’s become of his pursuer, but he catches the goggles on the head-rest and pushes them up by accident… and the white sports car charges past and away, as he swings his head back round to follow it, but it vanishes, because the bus is going down the exit-slope…

And Barney’s voice calls out from behind him, “Hey! Don’t wake up the rest of us with your wet dreams!” and there’s general laughter.

Art is so used to getting laughed at, that he usually tries to have an answer ready, in order to claim some of the laughter for himself. He thinks he may have some of that answer in his hands right now, because he can feel something heavy and bulky there… but when he looks down, he sees that he’s holding – not an armoured gauntlet, but Barney’s catcher’s mitt, which the school’s first choice as backstop must have thrown at him, to wake him up…

They’re all beginning to stand up now, and get their stuff together, even though the driver’s telling them to sit down, but it’s only another three corners before they’ll pull up in the schoolyard.

Art doesn’t bother to move. He just stuffs the goggles back in Gwen’s pack, and puts the catcher’s mitt ready for Barney to pick up as he goes by. He does, and tries to hit Art with it, but Art’s ready and gets his arm up in time, and the rest are pushing Barney too hard from the back for him to have another go.

Gwen notices that things in her pack aren’t quite as they were when she left it and says, “You haven’t been messing with my stuff, have you?” And Art has at least mastered the skill of looking genuinely innocent, so when she hears his sheepish denial, “It fell down, and I picked it up,” she lets him off with a deep breath and a dismissive silence, because she’s eager to get off the bus and carry on with Lance where they had to leave off. Lance just picks up his trophy, with a wink at Art, and a “Thanks, buddy!” which patronisingly covers everything.

The driver is impatient to empty the bus and get home, so Art has to get off and do the rest of his thinking in a quiet corner of the schoolyard, while all the other kids depart in their various ways. At least it’s sunny, and not too hot.

He mulls over everything that’s just happened, from various perspectives, and concludes that he isn’t, by any means, the only person who’s gone after something that, if he’d got it, he would’ve found wasn’t what he wanted at all.

Then he sees Muriel, from 10^th grade, in the far corner of the schoolyard, not looking at him, well, not looking at him when he’s looking at her, and so he walks across, and, as she hears his footsteps coming closer, she does look at him, and he smiles at her, and she smiles at him, and…

… and somewhere or other, there’s a knight having his horse rubbed down and fed and watered, and a fresh caparison made ready for his next ride out on quest…

Mike Rogers