STORIES FROM RORY No 16

 

Hit and miss

While taking one of my driving lessons, I am foolish enough to ask the driving instructor about the traffic lights being out. We’d sat there waiting for hours it seemed, and they didn’t change colour.

I asked, “Is there something wrong with the traffic lights?”

My instructor got really cross. “I’m not here to answer your questions, he grumbled.”

I wasn’t due for a good score on that occasion. I kept going until I did finally pass. I have to admit that I don’t like driving, and would sooner walk where possible.

On the day I passed, and became a legal driver, I pulled up outside of our house, but had tucked the papers I received inside my jacket pocket. I saw mum looking out of the window, with no papers on show she’d think I didn’t pass. I walked through the door and I could see she’s disappointed.

“Never mind,” mum whispered gently, “You did your best and just keep going until you pass.”

I responded, “Yes, I will, mum I’ll just keep on, until I get the papers.”

Mum’s eyes teared up and she turned her back, she didn’t want me to see that she’s disappointed. I smiled while I fished my pass papers out of my pocket.

“I know you’re sad that I haven’t passed mum, but take these as a consolation gift.”

I saw her wipe her eyes and then she turned back.

I don’t think she can see what it is that I’m handing to her.

“Oh thank you John, are you sure you don’t want to keep the gift?”

I filled a glass with water as I’m thirsty. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her looking at the papers.

There is a loud shout, “You cheeky monkey you’ve passed, oh come here let me cuddle you, and I’m so pleased!”

It’s like mum has two faces, a sad one and a joyful one. I chuckled at how quickly sadness can turn to joy. Mum picked up the phone and spoke to our pub landlord and ordered a slap-up meal for all of the family.

“Yippee!” screamed mum, and she did a little jig.

It’s dark outside and we take a torch with us in order to see where we are walking

We all arrived at the pub for a slap-up meal, mum’s face changed again as now it’s red, like the wine she’s drinking. Mum yelled as a large beetle hit her in the eye. We shone the torch down and saw it was in fact a large bumble bee.

,“Oh let’s pick it up, and put it on those flowers over there.”

Mum loves wildlife and she adores bumble bees. Mum stood looking at the bee for a while to make sure it’s okay. Blow me down if a large beetle didn’t slap me in the face! Mum is not concerned about the beetle.

Mum giggled,” Come on you lot, it’s food and drink time, let’s go.”

We all had full stomachs as we came out of the pub and we are all wobbly on our feet. There’s a full moon tonight and the stars are bright. We saw a shooting star, or we thought we did.

We all made a wish and then we sang a lot of the old songs as mum loved those golden oldies.

It’s hit and miss that we actually saw a shooting star, or was it the drink?

Josie Smith

The Masked Dance

When John suggested that he and Jacqui should go to a masked ball at the Hall owned by the local Political Candidate she was less than enthusiastic.

“Why are you so reluctant to go there?” he asked. “It’s not long since he bought the place, and I believe he is trying to be friendly and treat everybody in the Village exactly the same. He has invited just about everyone, as far as I can tell. It could be fun...”

“He is probably securing voters, Love,”retorted Jacqui.

“Oh, you terrible cynic! This is a secure Liberal seat anyway, so he does not need to work at it. You would think, with all his money, he would be a Conservative. There is more to your antagonism than I understand, Jacqui. Have you met him before?”

Jacqui walked away without answering.

When John and Jacqui got ready to go to the Ball they decided to wear matching masks, one sad and one happy. Jacqui wore a beautiful emerald green dress that showed off her lovely figure.

When they arrived at Beaufort Hall they were greeted by Marten, the new owner, and there was something in the way he looked at Jacqui that disturbed John. He said, later, “He certainly had his eye on you!”

During the evening Jacqui found herself dancing with somebody in a horrible white mask, not unlike the one she was wearing but more opaque and sinister-looking. The person behind the mask spoke with a distinct Eastern European accent, making careful small talk. Jacqui said laughingly, “You don’t hail from these parts, do you?”

“You are quite right, pretty lady. I am from the Czech Republic, a business associate of Marten’s. My name is Tomas. May I ask yours?”

“I am Jacqui… er, and that is my husband, John,” and she nodded towards him as he smooched past with a girl that she recognised from when she went into the Village Post Office.

“Do not worry, Jacqui. I am quite a nice person behind this rather unpleasant façade. My intentions and ways are completely honourable.”

He laughed and hitched up his sleeve and Jacqui saw that he had a scarab tattoo on the inside of his forearm.

“What do you think of this beautiful house, Jacqui?”

“Personally I like something a bit more homely but it is certainly a great place for entertaining.”

She wondered why he engendered in her a slight feeling of dislike when she did not believe she had ever seen him before this occasion.

They all went into another grand room for buffet supper and a glass of champagne and everybody removed their masks to eat, although many of the elaborate masks were only around the eyes and over the hair. Jacqui acknowledged to herself that Tomas was actually quite good- looking and would, to some girls, appear handsome, but his pale blue eyes seemed to Jacqui to make him look very cold.

Suddenly there was a flash and all the lights went out.A loud “ooh” echoed around the room. Jacqui quickly picked up her bag and pulled out the tiny but powerful torch she carried ever since they had moved to the Countryside. It transpired, however, that the loss of light was just a stunt and the room was soon sparkling with multi-coloured fairy lights.

At the end of the evening, when John and Jacqui went home, he asked, “Are you going to tell me how you knew Marten previously?”

“Actually, we were at Uni. Together, although doing different degrees. He was one of the ‘in’ crowd, belonging to lots of Societies and playing cello in the Orchestra so I hardly saw him until, one day, I was sat on the green with my book and a bee stung me on my ankle as he was walking past. I shouted and jumped up. It really hurt. He insisted on escorting me to get it seen to in the pharmacy.”

“Was that all? Did you go out with him afterwards? I thought he looked at you in a rather tender way.”

“I went to a couple of gigs with him—completely straight and platonic. I think he looked on me like a little sister.”

“Are you sure that was all there was to it, Jacqui?”

John seemed quite on edge and obviously unconvinced by her explanation.

“Oh, John, you know that the rich and famous, high flyers, are not my type. I like to stick with my humble roots. By the way, I must get rid of the L-plate on my car. I know you thought leaving it on would give me confidence but now it makes me feel as if I am lying.”

John shrugged, “Whatever you say.”

Following the Ball there seemed to be an increasing tension in John and Jacqui’s relationship and when he saw her talking to a Colleague in the shopping centre he questioned her in depth.

“He patted your shoulder as you separated. Why would he do that?”

“For goodness’ sake, John. It was just a friendly gesture. I work with him. What is wrong with you?”

A fortnight later they decided to go out for a special meal to celebrate their first Anniversary.

A visit to the renowned Pork and Apple Pub was to be a treat, and after ordering their starter and a bottle of white wine, Jacqui started to relax but then, as she was savouring her avocado vinaigrette, she saw John’s expression change to one of anger. She looked round towards the door and understood the cause of his expression.

Marten and Tomas came through the door and were shown to a table opposite to John and Jacqui. The tension was palpable in John’s posture and soon he was, once more, asking about Marten.

“I told you all I know. It must be apparent I have no interest in him in any way.”

Jacqui was angry. John’s fixation was going to spoil their evening.

After a glass of wine, drunk quite quickly, John started again, going on from the Marten interrogation to asking about other boy friends she had had before him. Finally Jacqui got up to leave and John grabbed hold of her arm, firmly.

Tomas got up and came across. He moved in front of John and gently removed his hand from Jacqui’s arm.

“That is no way to treat your charming wife. I thought you were a gentleman.”

“Bastard! Come along, Jacqui.”

Once again John pulled her towards the door and she caught her shoe, tripping over. Tomas held John at bay with one hand while helping Jacqui with the other.

When Jacqui looked up at him she thought his eyes were like the blue of an azure sky.

Linda Dalzell 25/06/21

And what will happen next....? We've asked for a continuation...

The L sign

Walking down our street and picking out the houses that I like, and would love to own. As I gazed at one house I noticed two faces looking through the window. They saw me and they had a questionable expression. It’s now I notice, out of the corner of my eye, a For Sale sign. I did wonder if I should call, as it is a nice house, and I’m looking for something like this one. I hesitated, and made my mind up, Yes, let’s go in.

As I wandered up the long drive, I noticed a car with an L sign. Mmm, nice car I thought, and it might be an opener of a conversation along with the one about the house. My friend Barry is going through the motions of learning to drive, and he’s doing quite well.

There are some beautiful flowers growing in the garden, and the sound of busy bees going about their work, also the birds are harmonising. The combination of these things gave me a message and feeling of home- coming. I noticed a very large bumble bee, and it is lying on its back kicking its legs. I chuckled as she had over-filled her pockets in her legs. I bent and helped it up; it flew off after a couple of minutes. I gazed up and saw one face looking at me through the window. After I knocked the door, a pleasant looking lady answered. I introduced myself as Sue Williams and she replied with her name, and it’s Diane Baker. I also added that I live two streets away, and I’m looking to purchase a house, as long as it’s the right price.

“I’m renting at the moment, but I do want to own my own home.”

“Yes, please come in,” Diane answered, “and let me show you around.”

The inside of the house I could already see is immaculate.

“Oh, I would love you to show me around, please.”

This house is everything I’ve ever wanted, and it doesn’t look like any repairs need doing, but I suppose when we move in we will find a few bits and pieces that need work. I asked about the price, and also why she wanted to sell?

Diane teared up.

“I have to sell my home as I’ve just become a widow, and I can’t afford the mortgage. Plus Dave has left a few debts, and then funeral costs. I hate owing money to any one and Dave’s debts are a shock.”

I felt for Diane, what a horrid worry.

“Oh dear, Diane, I am so sorry. I feel awful to bring this all up at such an awful time.”

Diane wanted quite a bit of money for the house, but I love it and am not going to question this as I know she needs every penny. I didn’t hesitate and phoned my solicitor and my surveyor. They acted very quickly and the news is great, the house is sound and we can settle quickly.

It had never occurred to me about where Diane and her Son are going to live, or whether they had found somewhere. I called again at the house and went into her son Jacobs’ room. And now it’s my turn to tear up. There is a photo of his father on the wall, and nature pictures and a wonderful framed scarab beetle, along with butterflies, and other insects. Jacob is a Manchester United football fan, the same as my son Jason. I checked to see how many rooms are upstairs. I was so caught up with this great place I hadn’t noticed how many rooms there are. I sat on Jacob’s bed and decided to ask Diane where they will live? I waited for her to come home and I called my husband and asked if he would mind if Diane and her son could live with us until they find a place? He sounded a bit flat when I asked him, but then gave in as her son is the same age as ours, and hopefully the boys will get along okay.

My husband Mark said, “Well, it might be nice for our son Jason, as he doesn’t mix too well with other children, and if they have the same interests this might be a good thing. There’s enough room for them to enjoy solitude if they need it.” He went on to say, “If it were you my love, I would love someone to help you.”

Diane came in and I made a pot of tea and asked if she’d eaten, the answer is no.

“I’ve been out all day and can’t find anywhere that we can afford.” Diane is tearful, “What about my boy, I can’t sleep on the streets with him out there in the cold?”

I poured the tea and her son Jacob came home from school.

“What’s for tea mum, I’m starving?”

I told him that I will cook whatever he wants for tea. He wanted fish and chips and so that’s what they had. While they ate, I mentioned about the conversation I’d had with Mark about them staying with us until better times come along. I told our son Jason that he had the same interests as Jacob.

“Can we stay, Sue?” Diane asked. “Just until I get myself sorted out? I need for Jacob to be warm and safe.”

I answered, “That’s settled, then, now go and relax and get a good night’s sleep.”

I felt better knowing they don’t have to move out of their home just yet.

Over the next few weeks Diane isn’t having any luck on getting a reasonably priced flat for her and Jacob.

We didn’t mind having them with us, and the two lads got along really well, and are the best of friends.

Mark came home after work and he has some good news, and it’s also sad. There is a friend of his that is looking for a housekeeper and is willing for the lad to live in as he has a lot of room. Diane looked a bit shocked as she hadn’t thought of being someone’s house keeper. I felt a bit anxious for her, as this is unknown territory. His house is just at the bottom of our street, so not too far away.

I said to her on the quiet,“Diane if it doesn’t work out, you come back here. Our two lads are still living close to each other so they can visit each other at any time.”

Diane showed relief at the suggestion. Mark took Diane down to meet his friend James. Jacob is at school and so they could talk about this situation. James is extremely pleasant and he and Diane hit it off straight away. Diane did still have issues with being his housekeeper, and she knew only too well what people are like for gossiping.

Diane soon got into a routine that suited James, and Jacob, and her lad got along well with James. For James it is a new lease of life, and he loved playing games on the X-box. James wondered how he had lived on his own for so long after his wife had died five years ago. She had been ill for a long time and it was a sad, worrying, lonely time, without a nice outlet for James, and he thought he would never marry again.

People have begun to pump their gums about James living with Diane and Jacob. Saying things like it isn’t right. This brought James and Diane closer together. James wanted to ask her if she would marry him, he was hesitant as he’s afraid she will say no. Diane is out in the garden on Sunday and she stood on a wasp. Diane is rushed to hospital suffering from anaphylactic shock. James paced the hospital floor.

He mumbled, “Please, God, let her be alright, I can’t bear to lose her and Jacob. They are my family now.”

The nurses patched her up and she is still groggy. James helped Diane into his car. Diane looked at him and saw how pale he looked. Jacob quizzed, “Will mum be alright, James?”

James replied, “I certainly hope so Jacob, you two are my family, and I love you both dearly.”

Diane picked up on what he had just said.

“What a lovely thing to say, James, and thank you for looking after us, you are our kin also. And we love living with you, we feel safe.”

James saw his chance and said to Diane, “Well that’s alright, then, shall we get married and make it official?”

Jacob shouted from the back, “That’s just great, now I have a new father and a new forever home.”

Jacob then added, “Please, James, can we have a dog?”

James and Diane looked at each other and James said, “You can have whatever you want, now that you are my son.”

Diane laughed and scolded James, “Now, now, we mustn’t spoil him, James.”

James then said, “Sorry, love, but he can have a dog, can’t he?”

Diane’s answer is: “Of course he can, and it will give Jason and Jacob a hobby while walking our dog.”

When Jason and Jacob met at school, Jacob told his friend the great news about his new dad and home and added, “I’m getting a dog as well.”

Jason responded, “Right, I’ll ask mum and dad if I can have a dog and we can train our dogs together. It will be fun.”

Jason ran home to tell his parents the great news and asked if he can have a dog as Jacob is getting one. That is a yes, and the two lads meet up after tea, and take the two dogs out and train them, with Mark and James there to offer advice.

The two dogs are entered into dog shows, and they both win prizes for good behaviour, and looks.

Josie Smith

Finally, here is a link to another, longer, story based on the same cubes:

STORIES FROM RORY No. 15

 How varied these stories can be, from the same stimuli!

Signs

Beryl was lying on the lawn with her book, enjoying a peaceful Sunday afternoon, when she was startled by somebody saying,

“Come on now, it’s much too nice a day to just lie there, we can go for a walk down to the river and enjoy the beauty of the countryside. By the way, I didn’t see you in Church. Damien, the Vicar, remarked on your absence.”

“For heaven’s sake, Martin, you make me feel as if I am back at School and have missed the register.”

Beryl smiled and held up her hand to be pulled up, softening the sharpness of her words.

They wandered out through the shrubbery at the end of the garden, down a steep footpath, across a field of corn and along the edge of a copse by the river. There was a long grassy, almost beach-like bank where they sat and watched the rippling, silvery splashes over stones.

“I haven’t brought a picnic, I’m afraid, but I can offer you a pear.”

Martin proffered two pears, one in each hand and Beryl chose the one in his left hand as it had a slight rosy patch on the skin.

“Thanks, Martin. That was thoughtful, I love pears.”

She bit deeply into the fruit.

“This is really juicy.”

She wiped her chin.

“Let’s sit under that tree.”

Martin pointed along the bank, where there was a weeping willow, and several other trees.

They went and settled down under a big beech tree with sheltering foliage. Martin gently slid his hand along her shoulder and Beryl shrugged him off.

“Oh, come on, Beryl. When are you going to stop being an ice maiden? I thought we were a sort of couple? “

“We are, sort of, but we don’t want to rush things. I am about to start my teaching job, and you know how strict my parents are.”

Beryl was trying to decide just how deeply her feelings for Martin extended.

“Look at that fish!” she said, as a huge striped fish leapt high out of the water.

“Stop trying to distract me. I really do need to know how much I matter to you. I know the Vicar fancies you.”

Beryl laughed, “You have no worries on that score, Martin. I suppose I feel a bit in limbo at the moment with starting a new job and everything. You do mean a lot to me but I just need a bit of time to find my feet.”

She turned and grinned at him, “I know it’s not really my feet you are interested in.”

Just then they both looked up to see a flaming arrow shoot across over their heads. It landed in a bush not far away on the other side of the river.

“Look, a Biblical sign” said Martin.

“One of those kids from the estate, more likely. Never mind Biblical signs. It’s starting to rain.”

In a few moments there was a real downpour and they shuffled further under the tree. The fire in the bush was soon extinguished by the rain which had turned into a thunderstorm and they were getting very wet. There was a sudden flare down the tree and Martin keeled over, struck by lightning.

For a moment Beryl could hardly grasp what had happened then she bent over Martin to see if he was breathing. He was, but his breath seemed irregular and Beryl started to panic. She remembered that Martin always carried his phone so she felt in his pocket and found it. She called for an ambulance and asked what she could do in the meantime. She followed the instructions given.

“Please don’t die, Martin. Please don’t die.”

She was surprised to find she was crying as she pumped his chest. The paramedics arrived quickly and carried Martin on a stretcher to the ambulance. She went along with him to the Hospital and by the time they arrived Martin was coming round. She waited while lots of tests were done and the young Consultant said he would be fine but they were going to keep him in for the night.

“He was very lucky, your boyfriend. Most of the strike must have been absorbed by the tree.”

Beryl went in to see him and was filled with such overwhelming relief that she leaned over and kissed him.

Martin said softly, “Struck by lightning twice in one day.” His eyes were shining.

As Beryl left the hospital she was full of joy. Outside she looked up to the sky and saw a shooting star streaming over the hospital.

“If ever there was a sign,” she whispered, and did a little skip.

Linda Dalzell 7/06/21

Judgment Day

He stood with an open book in his hands. One person wearing a cloak asked, “Is it time yet?”

The Person with the hair like sheep’s wool answered, “No not quite, a trumpet will sound and we must wait until the ultimate Judge raises His right hand, and it is held open and upright.”

From where they stood amongst the stars, the throng could clearly see the earth. They could feel the heat from a huge bonfire.

There was a loud shout from the Person wearing the wig. This shout caused an earthquake on earth, and some mountains fell.

“I will tell you all, to be afraid, for none are innocent, and all have to be judged accordingly.”

Then a loud thunder shook the earth and lightning forked down all over the world.

A tiny voice was heard, and it was like a whisper.

“But Master, if all fall, there will be no one to join us and all torture and injustice will have been for nothing.”

Those in the realm courtroom took deep breaths.

One spoke to another and said, “Where’s he going with this? Is he mad to answer back, and question?”

The man with the sheep’s wool wig looked up, and he asked the man with a whispery voice to come forward.

“You with a gentle voice, step forward, have you something to say, and if so, let’s all hear it?”

“Master, if all fall, then it will be like there is no justice for those that have been on trial. Also Master we need to build up our Army, as it is dwindling and soon there will be no one to help us fight the last battle.”

The man with the wig smiled, “John you have pleased me today, you are the only one to speak in their defence, and so I know you believe in justice. You’re a good servant and I want you to sit here, close to me.”

The other court room attendants bowed their heads in shame.

The Person with the wig added, “I know your thoughts, but yet you have not spoken out. None of you question the judgment, yet you think that it is wrong to judge all.”

One spoke and said, “No, Master, but we trust you, and we have faith that this is right.”

“Thank you, Daniel, I am happy that you have answered in that way.” The Man with the wig was pleased with his servants. He also knew that His father would also be pleased.

Some of the court room Ministers are direct descendants of the Man wearing the wig. “You are my kin and from my blood line, the fruit from my family tree. You make our work worthwhile.”

This eased the tension, and all began to relax while waiting for the right signal.

The Man with the wig then said, “When the end of the age begins, first you must seek out all of those with the water mark, and then also those that follow the sign of the fish, these must be the first to be judged.”

His servants looked at each other and wondered if He had lost His reason. He read their thoughts and said, “You have so little faith, but you will see when the dust settles, the reason for all of these things.”

As He finished giving this message, a trumpet sounded, and then the right hand was raised and the battle on earth had begun. The servants did as He asked and first they sought the people wearing the water mark, and then the ones following the fish, and after they did these things the judgment began for all. The fire on earth was now global and everything that was in the earth was destroyed by fire. Earth was just a smouldering ash pile. Then a bright arrow shot through the universe and then a shooting star was seen falling into the earth. The battle ceased and His servants were exhausted and hurting because of the things that they had witnessed. The man with the wig said, “You have done well”, and he wiped the tears from their eyes. “Look at me, and then at the rainbow and you will be joyful.” As they looked up at the rainbow, they danced and shouted for joy and felt so happy.

There they all are, those of the earth, walking through and underneath the bow. The colours were brighter than any of them had witnessed before. The man took off His wig and explained.

“All had to be purified, and fire does this, and now they can join us and live on with no more trials, no pain, or sickness and now a brand new story begins again.”

He invited the people of the earth to sit around him and they feasted, and then the wine was poured and He stood and said to all, “Today I drink this wine with you as was promised. Our battle is won.”

Josie Smith

STORIES FROM RORY No.14

 

Flying Too High

Master craftsman Daedalus was working on his latest invention. It was something he termed as labyrinth.

His son Icarus came shuffling in. His head was down and he looked so unhappy.

“Hi, son,” Daedalus said as he glanced up from his work. “You look a little lost. Can I help?”

“I’m bored, and there’s nothing to do.” Icarus blew out his cheeks and sighed.

“How can you say that son, you’re young, with so much energy? Why are you bored?”

“I can’t find anything of interest. Because I’m stuck here while all my mates are going to exciting places.”

“Well, you can help me, if you would like to. An extra pair of hands will be terrific.”

“I don’t know how to invent things like you can, dad. It would turn out to be rubbish, not like your inventions.”

Truth is, Icarus didn’t want to learn; he is very lazy and relied on his friends to find things of interest to explore.

“I didn’t get my knowledge by standing around and saying that I’m bored. I studied my father when he was at work, and he taught me so many things,”his father said.

“I don’t know how to use those tools, dad, and I’m afraid I’ll hurt myself.”

“Then this will be your first lesson. First, you have to know how to hold the tools, and then how to manage them. Once you’ve learned this, it will be easy-peasy.”

Icarus was running out of excuses, and he stood pouting and scratching his head.

“Right, come on over here, and take hold of this piece of wood, that’s right son, well done. Now place this into that vice, and this will hold it tight so that you can work on it in comfort, remember, you’re in control.”

Icarus learned quickly and he, being arrogant, decided to take over from his father. The lad would backchat his father when he was teaching him. Icarus would say things like yes I know that, and I can do it by myself, I don’t need you.

However, things had turned really bad in their land, and they sought to leave.

“We have to invent something, dad, we need to leave very quickly.”

“Of course, son, but you know everything, so how about you inventing a way of escape?”

Icarus panicked, “Oh, come on, dad there’s no need to be like that. I don’t know what to do to help us escape.”

Daedalus shook his head, “No, you said you don’t need me, it’s all up to you now.”

“Please, dad, I didn’t mean it, and I’m sorry for what I said.” Icarus never meant a word of it, but he needed his dad’s help.

“Well, alright, I accept the apology. Since we need to crack on, as time is short.” Daedalus knew his son, and he knew he did not mean the apology; he needed his dad to invent their escape.

“Right, son, now go to the candle-maker’s and get as much wax as you can. When you’ve done that, go to farm and collect as many feathers as you can. Be quick about it.”

Daedalus knew it would be a lesson Icarus won’t forget. He knew the candle-maker and also the farmer and they owed him some favours. He had informed them that Icarus would be there to collect those items. He also told them to make it a hard task.

Icarus first went to the candle-maker and asked for lots of wax. “Oh great,” said the candle-maker. “You can sit there and melt all of those candles.”

“Oh what? I haven’t got time to do this, I need the wax now.”

The candle-maker told Icarus, “You want it; you melt it, the faster you go, the sooner you can go.” Icarus got on the candle-maker’s wick.

Icarus began the melting, grumbling all the while, “Stupid old fart, who does he think he is?”

Icarus got as much wax as his father told him to get, then he went to the farmer and asked the farmer for all of the feathers his dad had told him to bring home. “Oh, right then, you’d better get started, first you must catch all of those ducks and all of those chickens and the gobble of ganders. When you’ve done all of that, get plucking.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me, you mean I’ve got to catch them, kill them, and pluck them? It will take me the rest of the day. I need to get this lot back to my dad.”

“You’d better get started then, or you won’t make it.” The farmer smiled, “Well, at least it will save me a lot of work.” And then he chuckled. He could hear the ca- ching, he didn’t have to pay for labour and he’d make a profit. Icarus was too tired to grumble.

Icarus stumbled home loaded down with wax and feathers.

“Oh, there you are, son; I thought you’d got lost.”

“I want my bed, dad, I’ve worked so hard today. I’ve had to melt the wax, and catch all of the ducks, chickens and geese, and then I had to pluck them.”

“Oh, I see,” Daedalus said. “You sure you don’t want to help me with my invention then?”

“No, I don’t, I need to sleep.” Icarus slumped off to bed. Daedalus grinned from ear to ear, That’ll teach him.

The next morning, Icarus asked his father what his invention is.

“I will tell you this just once, Icarus. I have made you a costume of wax and wings from the feathers. I have put a spell on these things, so that you will be able to fly very high. But a word of caution, don’t fly near the sun, as it’s far too hot. We will kit up now, and then we must leave Crete, stay close to me when you fly.”

Daedalus and Icarus went outside and took flight. They flew together and out through the stratosphere. At first Icarus was astounded by the stars and studied them for a while. The he saw the sun, oh he loved the sun, it is a golden orb, and it drew him. He so wanted to fly up and touch it.

Daedalus shouted for him to stop, but Icarus just ignored his father. Icarus said, “Stupid old fart, as if he can stop me. He can’t tell me what to do.”

Icarus flew right up and touched the sun. The wax melted and his feathers burned and he fell down into the sea and he drowned.

As he did so a Native American Indian was paddling his canoe. When Icarus fell into the sea, he caused the sea to rise. The Indian was capsized and was violently washed up onto the shore. The tiny village was swamped and many people died. It was a tsunami the like no one had ever seen before, or since.

Josie Smith

What’s in a name?

Herbert Atkinson rolled over and yawned, experiencing, just for a moment, that incomparable feeling of being suspended between the warmth and drowsiness of sleep and the horror of wakefulness.

The horror of wakefulness came to him that morning in the form of his somewhat domineering wife, Agatha.

“Come along, Herbert, your breakfast will be getting cold. I want to tidy the bedroom.”

Herbert always acknowledged what an efficient wife and good cook Agatha was.

Since he had retired, he had hoped to help a friend who ran a travelling funfair that had really unusual attractions. Agatha had hoped for many jobs to be finished now that Herbert had more time. She had dreams of a large pergola where she could entertain her female friends with tea and scones.

The pergola was a task in progress and Herbert genuinely intended to finish it for Agatha’s Birthday in August. They were, at this time, struggling through May. Herbert was horribly aware that June and July were important months for Fred and his fair.

Herbert had a sudden inspiration—he would arrange a holiday with Agatha at Soulcombe! Where Fred was to be based for two weeks at least… When he mooted the idea to Agatha she was, at first, less than enthusiastic.

“Are you mad? We have commitments, Herbert.”

“Like what? If you mean your presence at the W.I., dear, you would be missed, I know. But the very fact of your absence could make them appreciate how valuable is your contribution.”

Herbert put all his persuasive powers into getting Agatha to agree and even to be mildly enthusiastic.

Herbert and Agatha arrived in Soulcombe on the 4^th of June, staying in a pleasant chalet with facilities. After settling in, Herbert suggested a walk along the promenade and there, at the far end, in a big field, was Fred’s Fair.

“Oh, look, Love, that looks interesting, we could have a look round this evening after a nice meal,” Herbert suggested.

“Ugh!! It looks a bit scruffy, don’t you think? Anyway, let’s have a little rest, then we can look later, after we’ve eaten.”

They went to a restaurant in a conservatory attached to a hotel where the ambiance and the service satisfied Agatha, and her mood was elevated when they were served their after-dinner brandy from a beautiful ornately decorated decanter.

After their meal they wandered along and were soon close to the Fair. Agatha looked up at a light which had just come on and said, “Oh dear. Did you see that, Herbert? There was a little fairy-like creature flying up to the light and it got frazzled. What a shame.”

Herbert gently shepherded Agatha into the Fair and a little old man, looking like an elf, welcomed them.

Suddenly Agatha was transfixed. “Look at that pool,”she said. There on the blue-lit pool was a lady riding on the back of a big fish which looked like a cross between an octopus and a porpoise. Further across the pool was a man in a sort of gondola.

Just then, Fred came along and welcomed them. Agatha remarked on the lady with the fish and Fred suggested, “Would you like to have a go, love? It’s quite safe—all plastic and mirrors, you know.”

“I would, please. I have always loved water activities.”

Fred called in the water rider, Mary who was pleased to show Agatha the procedure on the blow-up fish. Agatha was soon enjoying the activity, and when she finished Fred said, “I don’t suppose you would like to do the activity for a couple of weeks? You would be paid. You seem like a natural to me. Mary needs a break to go and see her parents. It would be a huge help to me. Tell you what, we are having a hog-roast tomorrow, so come and join in, and tell me what you decide.”

Later, Agatha said to Herbert, “That was such fun. I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed being on the water – but what would you do, if I was a Fair worker for two weeks?”

“Don’t you worry about me, love. I expect Fred would have a few little jobs for me to help with. It would be a really good way to spend our holiday.”

“Very well.” Agatha giggled quite girlishly. “I will have to have a different name, so that if anybody sees me they will not know it’s me.” She thought Mermalade would be a good name.

The next day they went back and told Fred their decision. Fred was overjoyed and said he had just the right fairy outfit for Agatha to wear. Herbert felt that this was stretching credibility but said nothing. There was a lovely little pony that neighed happily as soon as the moon appeared and the elfish man whose name was Alf went round bopping children with a rubber club then giving them a lollipop.

All in all the two of them had the most enjoyable holiday in the crazy magical Fair and Fred was helped over a difficult spot.

Reminiscing later they both said they were amazed at how the interlude had happened.

Linda Dalzell

FLIGHT

The lad hadn’t expected his father to be concerned about the menu. He was the thinker, the fixer, the clever one – that was what the King expected from him: solutions to all kinds of problems, particularly delicate and unusual ones, the kind of problems about which not a word should be breathed – not even to his own son, which was why the son was never surprised when things happened that he hadn’t expected.

The king liked roasted meat, cooked on a spit, the fat hissing and spitting in the fire beneath, the smell rising to the gods… the lad’s father always mentioned that, and the King always smiled, but the lad’s father always winked at his son, when the King wasn’t looking, as if there was something funny about the idea, as if it wasn’t quite… true. But the lad never asked his father about that. He knew his father didn’t tell him everything, and he avoided asking questions because he didn’t want to appear stupid.

He listened, though, carefully, and remembered what he heard, mostly, and tried to make sense of it – and he’d heard his father talking to the cook before the feast, and requesting roast fowl, geese, if possible… not that much meat on them, the cook had said, but his father had said that wasn’t important, and his father had asked what happened to the feathers, when the birds were plucked, and the cook had given him a funny look, but his father had said he had a use for them, they wouldn’t go to waste, they needn’t be taken to the midden – and as he turned to go away, he’d asked where the bee-hives were, and the cook had told him. Not the kind of thing his father usually bothered about, these simple, everyday, practical things.

I could have told him, thought his son, if he’d asked me. But he never does ask me, because he never thinks I know. But I do know the things that interest me. And bees interest me, because they can fly! And they’re near, and I can watch them… Birds are off and up and away and gone – unless they’re just sitting around gossiping and squabbling, and I have enough of that in the court, where I don’t really have a place…

My father doesn’t really have a place here, either – except to fix things that have gone wrong. And the King doesn’t like that. I’ve seen. That big mace, the one they carry in before him, the one that came from his ancestors, the one that gives him the right to have his say, the one that sits in front of him at feasts, the one he turns towards the next person he allows to speak – only the head, never the handle – I’ve seen him run his hand over it, grip it, as though he’d like to heft it and find out how few blows he’d need to let my father’s brains out of his skull. That’s what he envies. That’s the power he doesn’t have. The power that’s inside my father’s head.

I tell my father this – sometimes, when I think he’ll listen. When we’re on our own – and when he isn’t thinking. Mostly, he’s thinking. Not just about how to solve the King’s problems. About other things. Things he doesn’t tell me about. Maybe he doesn’t want to worry me. Maybe he doesn’t think I’ll understand them.

But he knows that I observe. Observation he tells me is the beginning of thought. So I tell him what I observe. Some of it. Not all of it.

When I tell him about the King, he says The King is at the mercy of the gods. I ask how bad that is, and he says The gods can be outwitted. Prometheus managed to fob them off with the scent of sacrifices, with the bits that smell good and look good – but aren’t.

I tell him that the King is at the mercy of his daughters. He laughs, and tells me I have a sharp eye. Before that he says he was at the mercy of his wife. When he says that, he doesn’t laugh. His face takes on that stone look it gets when he’s thinking, or remembering the thinking he’s had to do in the past, going over it again and again, to see if he could have done it better, or if he could do it better in the future. I know. I’ve seen his old drawings. Strange things. Things I don’t want to think about. I’ve heard that roaring in the night, too, echoing through the buildings, coming from that new wing of the palace that he designed and built himself. You wouldn’t think he’d want to be a mason. Workmen cut the stones and piled them ready, and he made frames from wood, with wheels and rope, so he could move them and lift them. The workmen had built the outer walls, and put on a roof with great stone tiles across beams that rested on pillars, all evenly spaced, he insisted on that. But what went inside, he built. And the first thing you saw, if you peeped in through the bars of the bronze gate that closed the entrance, was a blank wall. There were no windows.

Like my father, then. No way to see inside. Sometimes, I think it would be easier if he really were a statue. I might know what to do then. What offerings to leave, the way you know with gods – or, if you don’t know, then the priest or priestess tells you. But my father’s not a god, which makes it harder.

But I know ways to make the stone move. I tell him something he doesn’t yet know. I tell him that I’ve seen Ariadne spinning.

That makes the statue stir.

They say that my father’s statues can move on their own, that if they weren’t chained down, they’d be running and dancing all over the place – only at night, though, when they don’t think anyone’s watching. If people really thought the statues could do that, they’d smash them. Maybe that’s one reason why the King fingers his mace so often when he’s looking at my father. It’s not true, though, about the statues. It’s just a good story – maybe my father put it about, to impress people, or to scare them. Turning stone into flesh – that’s not something my father can do. You need magic to do that. And my father doesn’t believe in magic. His skill lies the other way: turning flesh into stone.

But he turns back into flesh when I tell him about Ariadne. I’d overheard him warning the King, when he built the big building with the bronze-barred gate and the blank wall, Don’t let your daughters spin he said, and the King had asked why not? And my father had invented a tale about the danger of pricking their fingers, claimed he’d seen something in a scrying-bowl. It was a lie. He doesn’t do that kind of thing. What logic can’t show him, he’s blind to.

The fool my father says the old fool. He wants women to spin, as if they’re not capable of doing anything else. And he doesn’t understand where a thread can lead…

I have his attention now, which is rare enough, so I tell him some more. I usually have an eye on Ariadne – not to spy, just for my own pleasure. Anyone who looks at Ariadne will have pleasure – unless they’re envious of her – but after a while even they’ll have to admit she’s more beautiful than they are. I know just how I’d like her to look at me. She never has looked at me, but that doesn’t stop me knowing how I’d like her to.

I tell my father that I’ve seen Ariadne looking at that young blond-haired Greek, the one who’s due to be sacrificed… well, that’s what everyone assumes is going to happen, but if a building doesn’t have any windows, then you can’t see what happens inside, and at least it stops the roaring for a while… and if Ariadne looks at you like that, then there’s only one way you can look back at her… and what might happen after that is something I’m old enough to have very lively dreams about. But I don’t tell my father that.

To begin with, a smile crinkles my father’s eyes, because the young Greek is from Athens, which is where my father’s from, I know, though he never talks about why he left. But before the crinkling even reaches his nose, the stone’s taken over again, and the eye-sockets have become deep with concern. Logic has told him what’s going to happen. Logic has terrible power. I’ve watched logic operating inside my father before. If statues do move, then it is by logic – by mechanism, by cause and consequence, not by their own will. Logic replaces will and feeling.

That was when he got up from where we were talking, and went to the cook. I followed – he didn’t notice, why would he? – and overheard. The cook queried the instructions – but my father is usually plausible, and people know that the King has given him authority, and it was a special feast. The King always gives a special feast to the people he’s about to sacrifice. An old-fashioned man, as my father said, keeping up the old ways, revering the gods.

But the gods aren’t everything. I know that. I know that because I listen and observe. I observe things that my father doesn’t notice, because he doesn’t think they’re important..

There are wolves round here. I hear them every night, howling. I think they talk to each other. Sometimes, I think I can understand them. They also talk to the moon. Maybe she’s their goddess. But one night, I heard a different kind of howl. I didn’t tell my father. He doesn’t hear these things. I couldn’t have explained to him how I knew it was different. I didn’t know. I felt.

So I went out to see, in the moonlight, and I found that the shepherds had set a trap, and a wolf was caught, and howling. And the other wolves weren’t coming to help. Why would that be? They’re a pack. They hunt together. Unless… I’ve heard about these things. They say it’s common up in Thessaly. That’s where the magic comes from.

So I freed the wolf, and watched it limp off, and noted the direction. And next day, I went up, and walked where I’d seen it go, and there was a little old woman in a hut, stones in a circle with a roof made of branches, and herb-smelling smoke, and when she saw me, she smiled and beckoned me in.

And that’s how I know things my father doesn’t.

The feast is going well. The blond-haired Greek seems strangely happy. Does he really not know what’s before him? He wants to share wine with the guards. I feel my father beside me stiffen like a statue. The King has had more than his share of wine, and seems to be enjoying the irony with cruel delight. He gives permission with a lordly wave. While the King is still making that gesture of permission, my father takes advantage of it to make our excuses, and we retire to our chamber at the top of the tower which we inhabit on our own. (Of course inventors live on their own, and others live as far away from them as they can – who knows what they might invent?!)

We must prepare to go says my father. I look at him. The guards will be drugged with the wine he says. The Princess will give the young Greek a ball of thread with which he can find his way in and out of the Maze I made – he will kill the Monster that lives in the middle of it, and run off with the Princess. And the King will not be happy. The prison I built for his wife’s son was supposed to be secure.

He need say no more. He says no more. He is melting wax that he got from the bee-hives, and coating my arms and covering them with the goose-feathers he begged from the cook. I note carefully what he does, and prepare to do the same for him. While I am working on his first arm, I mention Perseus, the slayer of snake-haired Medusa, the Gorgon, and how he flew. My father laughs. Fairy-tales! he says. Wings on his sandals? He’d hang upside down – if his feet didn’t slip out of them first!

Our wings are complete. We go on to the balcony that surrounds the tower. The eastern edge of the world has a rim of light. My father hesitates, though we can hear noises from below. The guards have awoken, discovered the flight of Ariadne and her blond-haired Greek lover, and what has happened in the building without windows.

For once, I feel I need to show my father the way. Soldiers are surrounding the foot of the tower, preparing to break in. How long before they fetch archers?

I tell my father that I will jump first – but he grabs my hand so tightly that it hurts. No he says, and I ask why. He says he has a memory of a boy, falling from a tower like this. I ask him if the boy flew. He turns his face away from me, but does not let go of my hand. Holding my hand is not something he does often. He tells me that the boy fell to the ground, and died, and that he was blamed for it. In one movement, he lets go of my hand, and throws himself off the tower.

I watch, as the air catches under his outstretched arms. His descent slows, then ceases. Already the wind, and the impetus of his leap, have carried him away from the tower, though not yet quite out of bowshot.

Now I launch myself into space, and begin to sense at once how the air itself rises beneath me and carries me upwards, I circle with it, rising, rising…

I take to this new world more readily than my father. For once in my life, I am in my true element. I rise. I soar. Far below, cautious, logical, ungainly, my father is looking up at me. I think he may be trying to call out to me, but already I am too high above him to hear him. He seems to be making gestures, but they interfere with his smooth flying, and remain incomprehensible. He seems to be sinking lower and lower. Does he want to drag me down to his level? Surely I have the right to be my own person?

What was bound to happen, happens. Is it just logic? Is it the envy of Helios? Whatever may be the cause, the effect is clear: the wax melts, the feathers are shed like a flower’s petals after it has bloomed, and the consequence is that Icarus falls out of the sky where he had felt, for once in his life, so much at home.

His father circles over the place where his son’s body was swallowed by the waves. He cannot beg Poseidon or any other of the ocean’s deities to return to him the flesh of which he was fonder than he ever showed, because he does not believe in them, or want to submit himself to them, and so he makes his slow, lonely, lengthy way to Sicily.

A bent old woman, outside her stone hut, has been looking at the sky since just before dawn, and seen it all. She limps down to the shore – her leg, injured in the trap, is mending – and looks out at the sea.

She sees a vessel on it that others do not see. She sees much that others do not see. One of these years – perhaps sooner than she wants – this vessel with its single crewman will come for her, as it will for all of us, whether we see it or not. At the moment, it bears one passenger, sprawled lifeless in the bottom of it, a boy, a young man, with the remnants of wax on his arms and a feather clinging here and there.

The vessel makes for the shore. She knows that there is an entrance here to the Dark River which flows down to, and through, the Underworld. She steps into the shallows, and blocks its passage.

What do you have there? she asks. A boy the ferryman answers. And how did he come to you? she asks. He flew the ferryman answers. The old woman laughs. Nonsense! Flew? A boy? You have made a mistake she says, and gestures with her staff into the boat, behind the ferryman, where his passenger is lying.

The ferryman turns round and looks. He could have sworn there was a boy there, a young man, that he had dragged from the sea – but now all he can see – and he has to peer to see it – is a colourful, but bedraggled, butterfly.

The old woman touches it with her staff. Its limp wings stiffen, one by one. It shakes itself. The ferryman can see the drops of water silver in the sun. The creature flutters up in a spiral, then makes for the old woman and settles on the shawl that covers her shoulders. It folds its wings neatly, becoming almost invisible. The pair turn away from the shore and begin a slow walk up the hill to a stone hut with a roof of branches and a dark doorway, while the ferryman resignedly poles his way into a different darkness, leaving magic behind.

Mike Rogers