https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01NBL861D/ref=sr_1_8?ie=UTF8&qid=1482263717&sr=8-8&keywords=z+poetry

"I don't DO links, direct. If you would like to cut & paste this link, then maybe enter it in your own browsers, I would really appreciate it!

This will take you to Z Publishing's new anthology of Nature Poems , of which I am well chuffed to say, THREE in there are of mine!

The price of both the paperback version, and that of the KINDLE on-line digital version, are both VERY reasonable!

Well worth investing in!!!...."

***************

And here is yet another in my occasional series *SPOTLIGHT on TALENT*

This time it is the King of the 'Drabble' format of writing, Neville Hunt.

I'll let him tell you about himself in his own words.

*************

"I write mostly short stories <10,000 words (because I lose interest and most of my writing is done in bursts of concentrated activity.) and 'drabbles', ultra short stories of exactly 100 words excluding titles. I also write short length stories for a family competition run twice a year.(I have three brothers and we are fiercely competitive when it comes to this aspect of our lives.) I have won this competition several times now, the latest in fact being only last month!. I have also submitted to the Costa Coffee annual short story competition. (I wasn't shortlisted!)

I publish my drabbles on Drablr.com, an international social media site dedicated to this form of expression. I have been doing this for little over a year and in that time I have been awarded Drabble of the Week 11 times, about which I am pretty chuffed. At the current time I have published over 270 drabbles on Drablr.com and have submitted another to this year's Readers Digest 100 word story competition. I have heard nothing from them, so I assume I neither won nor was shortlisted. The 100 word discipline is great for helping sharpen your wordsmithery and forcing one to find simple synonyms for the complex. It helps you to come to terms with weilding the red pen!

Our extended family has self-published an anthology of some of our short stories, roughly three from each writer.If anyone is interested it is called 'The Jarmany Short Story Collection' as is available on Amazon Kindle.

One of my stories is attributed to Charlotte Fredericks, a pen name of mine.I started to write under that name to enable me to submit more than one entry to our family short story competition, Yes, that's a measure of how competitive we are.! I explained her away as a love-child of our grandfather, Charles Frederick Hunt. I was the only one she made contact with. Grandfather Hunt didn't write short stories, but he told tall tales!"

************

*Thank you for those insights, Neville!

He is, as I have said before, a member of the Stevenage Writers Group, and can be contacted through them via their email or website.*

******************

As I have intimated elsewhere, 'Turf Wars’ is eventually going to be a much more complex piece of work of prose than I am usually inclined to write, having been primarily a poet for the proceeding part of my ‘career’ as a writer.

TURF WARS

“FUCK!”
The utterance of this single expletive was the direct result of Tommy Tucker treading on the toy bone that his dog, Towser, had left discarded on the kitchen floor. The bone being hard plastic and the floor covering being linoleum allowed said article to slide uncontrollably in a sideways direction under the pressure caused by Tommy’s foot being exerted on it. This event had the knock-on action of causing Tommy to momentarily lose his balance and pitch forward wildly. In a desperate attempt to prevent himself lurching headfirst into the sink, he instinctively extended his right arm in order to possibly steady himself against the draining board. But the angle was all wrong and his outstretched hand instead of making contact with the cold steel of said structure did in fact land hard and fast against the spherical outline of his old aluminium kettle which had only a minute or so before finished coming to the boil.

“Shit!” said Tommy. It may be noted at this point that Tommy was nowadays considered as a man of very few words. Well that at least was the opinion of most people who in fact had very little reason to know the actual man to any real extent. Those of the rest of the populace of Pin Green, and The Oval shopping precinct in particular, all well knew of Tommy Tucker. The fact that he was now a pensioner hadn’t seemed to have mellowed him one iota. In fact he had become even more bigoted as the years took their measure or toll on him.

Tommy had lived in the vicinity of the Oval for all of the sixty-eight years of his life so far. He had been born in one of those three-storey houses in Vardon Road. This was just around the corner to the flat above the butchers in the precinct where he now lived alone since his wife had died several years ago now, six to be precise. I say he lived alone, but of course he still had Towser, his Staff-cross terrier. Nobody really knew or could quite define exactly what the Staff part of him was originally crossed with but whatever it was, it didn’t do anything to dampen his ferocity or general bad temper. People say that a dog can take after their master or is it the other way around? Either way it is true to say Tommy & Towser were well paired.

As I said, Tommy was born in the house in Vardon Road. A home birth, which was unusual to happen at that period, but the fact of the matter, was that his old man was out drinking in the pub when his wife’s waters had broken, so she’d asked a neighbour to call for an ambulance to take her to the maternity hospital over Hitchin as it was then situated. But Tommy wasn’t waiting to come into the world and the neighbour had to help with the actual birth before the ambulance finally turned up. Tommy reckons with the state of the NHS today, nothing has changed in the sixty-eight years since then. He could be right I suppose.

Tommy has opinions on all manner of things. In fact on ANY subject you care to mention, Tommy has an opinion about it. Not that he is biased mind you, as he will tell you himself if you challenge him on any point. He just doesn’t like the Blacks, or the Nancy-boys, ’queers’ or ‘poofters’. He once said, and I thought it an ironic turn of phrase at the time; “All this bleeding ‘cottaging’ malarkey nowadays, my arse, they should get back in the public toilet cubicles where they came from with their dirty raincoats.” Although he did add that there was not as much sexual graffiti on display on the cubicle walls as there had been in his younger years. And on that observation I would have to agree with him nowadays. Maybe the cleaning firms are more efficient today, who knows? I must have lived a very cloistered life when I was younger myself, as I never remember seeing a single person wearing a ‘dirty Mac’ in any public toilet I ever had the cause to use. On the subject of lesbians, Tommy believes that they are ‘a waste of womanhood, and all that they need to ‘cure ‘em is ‘a good seeing to’. And even at his age now, he believes he is just the man to do it! (He informed me once, “I can still get a ‘good hard-on, you know”).

Then there is the Government (which ever political party is dominant at the time), the ‘bloody local council’, the bus service, the state of the streets with the rubbish strewn all over them. (Of course while he is telling you this, he will be happily tossing his now-empty cigarette packet on the pavement!)

And whatever else you may think to discuss, DON’T mention ‘the rising costs of living today’. Then the tirade REALLY starts, and Tommy can and will go into overdrive. ‘Those bloody scroungers’, coming over here from God knows everywhere, receiving benefit payments that us British taxpayers have to foot the bill for. Getting houses provided for their whole families when they come here while we in this country have a homelessness problem. With many of our ‘own’ people being forced to live on the streets. In cardboard boxes, out in all weathers. (Although he believes that the Big Issue sellers are just a bloody load of scroungers themselves) And you should hear his views on the current situation at the Calais end of the Eurotunnel terminal!

He will go to great lengths to inform you how HE has to eke out his meagre State pension in order to pay the rent, council tax, heating and lighting bills, food etc. What he fails to mention is that he automatically gets a twenty five per cent discount on his community tax because he now lives alone in his flat after the demise of his wife. Due to his low stated declaration level of income, he gets the majority of his rent paid by housing benefit payments and the community tax allowance that he receives just about diminishes any real outgoing expenses in that area.

As to food bills, he was happy to tell me how he has this arrangement with the butchers business in the shop below his flat. He gets given ‘scraps & spoiled meat’, for the dog, Towser, ’of course’. But as he says, “It all goes in the pot, don’t it? Makes a lovely drop of stew for the both of us” The vegetables that he uses are mostly provided by a short walk down to the allotments in Grace Way, either by kind donations from some of drinking cronies down there, or if no-one is about he just helps himself to whatever produce is available at the time, whether he knows the allotment holder or not.

*Postscript *

The reference about Tommy having a home birth in the house in Vardon Road is what is known as ‘modern-day folklore’. If Tommy was to ever seriously think about anything or anyone but himself; he would realise that the situation could not possibly be factual. Sixty-eight years ago, the wonderful new town planning directives that would eventually actually become Stevenage New Town was hardly started being built in the older areas, Bedwell, Broadwater, Shephall to name but a few. Pin Green would be a while in coming still when Tommy first came on to this mortal coil.

Tommy’s father was one of the gangs of navvies, labourers, (that today are known as ground workers), bricklayers, carpenters, plumbers, electricians, etc, that were employed to build the post-war dream. As a self-taught ‘brickie’ that could lay several rows of bricks in a straight line in a quick period of time, he had got the job that would finally result in him being offered one of the many houses that he would be involved in building by the then newly formed Stevenage Development Corporation as fitting reward for all his sterling efforts. Back in those halcyon days, that was all the ‘qualification’ a man needed to gain meaningful employment.

He had brought his family over from County Sligo in the hope of being able to better themselves on the ‘gold-paved streets’ of London-town. Tommy was born at home, it is true, but it was in a shared, with yet another Irish family, ‘two-up, two-down’ terraced house, still bearing the scars of the bombings in the war. Like most other households at that time, bath-time consisted of multiple jugs of hot boiled water heated on the stove and poured into a large galvanised tub on a Friday night, maybe in front of the open fire, if enough kindling or coal could have been scrounged by fair means or foul. The rest of the week it hung on the back of the scullery door. The outside ‘lavvy’ was situated at the end of the garden, definitely making the use of it during downpours and cold days (and nights!) fuelled by necessity.

Tommy’s dad described it once as being ‘hell in the winter with your bum-cheeks often being stuck to the seat if you sat still longer than a minute, and the smell emitted from it in the summer months being ‘rich and ripe’ with a heat so hot that it even gave the swarms of flies’ suntans. “

Due to having a broken latch fitting that no-one in the house would take responsibility to fix, the gymnastics abilities and contortions need to both hold the door closed to prevent passers-by in the back alley from seeing in, while using a wad of cut-up newspapers held by a lump of wire, to wipe one’s arse were skills that could only be developed through constant practise.

This abode was situated in White Hart Lane; an actual mere spitting distance from Tottenham Hotspur’s ground itself. Maybe memories buried deep in Tommy’s subconscious of life there, fuel his life-long hatred of all that exists in the surrounding areas.

*********************

“You’re gonna ‘ave t’ be more careful where you leave your blinkin’ toys, Towser. I coulda broken me bleedin’ neck jist then. Looks like I‘ve done me ‘and in, as it is. Its orl gawn red and I can see it’s forming bloomin’ blisters on it now!”

Tommy was having this monologue with his dog while allowing a stream of water run copiously from the cold tap over his injured hand, while rubbing it with the other. Not exactly text book St. John’s Ambulance recommended procedure for treating burns, but Tommy never had done anything by accepted protocol so why should he be doing so now?

“This ain’t looking clever, me ol’ cocker. Think I’ll have to go up the ‘ospital’s casualty department wiv it. Wonder if Jono is about today? If he is, maybe I could cadge a lift off ‘im. Its gonna take bleedin’ ages going by buses from ‘ere, and I don’t fink the time it’ll take me to get there that way will help this swelling much, do you mate? I’ll jist give ‘im a bell to see if he can run me up there.”

Johnny (Jono) Tomkins could be truly described as Tommy’s best friend. Their respective mothers had taken them both to enrol in the same nursery class in the infant school all that time way back then. And their friendship developed from that time on. Looking back on it now maybe their ‘camaraderie’ wasn’t the best thing for the teachers to allow flourishing. They say that ‘boys will be boys’, but if there was mischief to be made, those two were the ones to do it. One ‘bright’ infant class teacher in her infinite wisdom had them sit next to each other in a desk near the front of the class, in order to ‘keep her eye on them’; so was the pairing of ‘Tomkins & Tucker – Troublemakers’ born on that fateful day. Over the ensuing years, many have had cause or reason to rue it.

It was one of those classic ‘odd-couple, chalk’n’cheese’ pairing of relationships that always seem to end up working out so well. Tommy always was a sickly baby, even from birth. He’d been diagnosed with a reflux syndrome, so breast-feeding was an arduous exercise from the start. He suffered badly from outbreaks of colic as well... Many a night his mother could be found pacing the hallway with Tommy cradled tight in her arms, rubbing his minute back with a gentle circling motion, trying to alleviate his obvious distress. Walking slowly backwards and forwards along the narrow corridor which ran between the rooms shared by the two families living in the house. One eye on Tommy, one ear listening for any signs that she and her near nightly ritual should be unduly disturbing to the much needed slumbering of the other occupants. Most of the time, there wasn’t many complaints from the other sharing family. In fact most of what there was came from her husband, Patrick. She remembered that on one particularly bad nightly session, her fidelity had momentarily been questioned. Patrick had cried out, “Fer feck’s sake, Kathleen, can you no keep that brat quiet! Are you sure that he is mine? No of the other babbies had o’those problems o’ feedin’ and a ‘with the sleeping a ‘nights. Who have you been with? I need my rest if I’m to do a full day’s work a ‘morrow!” In the end she gave up trying to feed him from herself, and just gave him a made-up mix of warmed water and dried milk powder that the health centre gave her. Jono, on the other hand, was the kind of baby parents’ dream of giving birth to. Sleeping as he did from when his mother first put him down in his cradle at night. Then remaining in that blissful manner usually until after dawn had broken most mornings.

Some people would find it hard to imagine it happening today, but back then in Tommy’s early youth, tuberculosis was still prevalent, and Tommy contracted it. The frequent attacks and the time taken for convalescence played havoc with his early years schooling. Whilst the medications did eventually cure it, although he would tell you himself, he never really liked or got over the embarrassment he felt by the side-effects of the medication turning his pee bright orange! But the residual effect of the disease has left him with weakened lungs and even today is still asthmatic, and relies heavily on his inhaler in times of stressfulness.

And as if that was not bad enough, back in those dark days of infectious diseases, that other monster, polio, was doing the rounds. And in Tommy’s immune system’s weakened condition, he sadly fell afoul of that as well. This again didn’t exactly enhance a young lad’s social credence, in that for several of his formative years he had to wear a calliper, and today he still walks with a pronounced limp on his gammy leg. Both of these diseases, and maybe other genetic factors within his family tree, all probably accredited to his stunted growth development during his adolescence, leaving him unusually short of stature in his adult life. It really seemed at that time he was well on his way to be both physiologically and psychologically shaping up to be deemed one of Life’s losers.

As an aside, I find it frightening to discover that due to the scaremongering about the ‘dangers’ of mothers-to-be and young infants having regular immunisation against such diseases, and the subsequent drop in people having such treatments, many of those that we thought medical advances had finally eradicated, are in fact on the increase within certain areas of the population.

As I have intimated before all of this had a serious adverse effect on his education, and he failed his 11+ examinations abysmally, finally ended up attending the local secondary modern school. Or should I clarify that statement by saying that he was awarded a place at the school, but he in fact could rarely be found there over the five year period of expectation of accepted attendance of such an institution. He was much more likely to be found fishing over at the lake at Fairlands or climbing trees and lighting fires, down in the crater that was later to become the Canyon play centre. These covert fishing forays have culminated in his love of the sport, and nowadays he and Towser, on occasions, can be found bivouacking in his small tent whilst awaiting bites from the prized carp that roam the murky waters in various fishing venues.

As in all classic ‘Chalk’n’ Cheese’ situations, Johnny’s life couldn't have been more different.

(*To be continued ....)

*****************

'East Wind' - A refreshingly serious change of breeze blowing through the jaded landscapes of 'genre' driven publishing today!,

This review is from: East Wind: A deaf mute with secrets to reveal...from the grave (Kindle Edition)

Chris Ash's new novel is a masterpiece of intrigue. This book is cleverly crafted by someone well-versed in the art of serious story-telling.I have read some of the reviews posted so far, and have discussed at length with several other readers. Complaints that the story line is disjointed just goes to show in my personal opinion just how jaded many people's reading habits have become! Someone told me that they had read 30% of the book so far and thought they wouldn't bother any further. I informed them that the whole situation of Chris's approach could be likened to the completion of a jigsaw puzzle. At 30% he was just still laying out the pieces. At about 70% there were large areas of completion that gave one the hint of the general picture but the there were still areas to be defined. I found that in classic good story telling form there were multiple 'red herrings', twists and turns, characters and situations were not as one thought in the earlier part of the story unfolding. And with perfect form the story really was all explained in the last two pages as all good style 'cliff-hangers' should. I thought this a very cleverly crafted piece of writing from someone who has written for a living for a long time previous. This may well be Chris Ash's first attempt at writing a novel but I for one hope that it will not be his last!

**************

Here is more of Michael's story in his own words!
"When I published The Galahad Factor on Kindle they said they needed an author’s biography. Include anything unusual and interesting, they said, so I mentioned that my brother had been taken by a crocodile. After all, it’s not everyone who loses a relative to a croc. Someone asked me how this came about.
Well, it was a long time ago in the Colony of Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe. I was away at boarding school, as the custom was, when my brother and two friends decided to go fishing at Kariba Gorge in the Zambezi River. This was before the famous dam was even thought of, and the gorge was as wild and inaccessible a place as you could wish to find in Africa. There was no proper road, but one could get part of the way through the bush on the age old elephant trail beaten out by the great beasts during their centuries of seasonal migration. The modern road to the dam follows the same ancient route. My brother was in his early twenties, a tall and powerful man, as were his friends, all members of a local rugby club. At some point, probably bored with fishing, discussion arose and my brother, who was a strong swimmer, decided to prove he could swim across the river and back. Knowing that the current in the centre would be strong they fastened a rope around his waist as a precaution, with his friends ready to haul him out if necessary. But before he even reached the middle his head went under and an immense tug on the rope started to drag them irresistibly into the water. They held on desperately for as long as they could but finally had to drop it to save themselves. It was only years later when the area was opened up for the dam that it became famous for its population of large crocodiles. A big one can weigh several hundred kilos.
The repercussions of this sad affair caused my mother to become overprotective of her precious remaining chick. A qualified nursing sister, she was in any case somewhat dictatorial by nature. This affected me for years as I learnt to pay lip service while waging guerrilla willpower warfare, culminating in a confrontation of epic proportions. I worked on the family farm for a couple of years before seeking higher education and earned enough money to buy a car. Sent to town with explicit instructions to buy a particular small, safe, and thoroughly uninteresting model, I returned instead driving a second hand sports car, cream coloured with two beautiful red leather seats, wire wheels, and an enchanting exhaust note.
The Croc That Ate My Dog
Writing about a crocodile recently reminded me of the one that ate my dog. In those far off and long ago days in colonial Rhodesia, the Serui River made one boundary of our farm, immediately before its junction with the larger Umfuli. The Serui was quite small and usually stopped flowing at some time during the winter dry season. Our house overlooked the point where a rock outcrop formed a natural weir, which backed up a deep permanent pool perhaps twenty yards wide and several hundred yards long. In the season it was possible to cross the river by scrambling from rock to rock, and two of our assortment of dogs sometimes did this on moonlight nights to forage on the far bank. As there were neither people nor livestock in the vicinity, they did no harm and we did not worry about it.
In our pig section the dry sows between litters lived in a paddock not far from the river, where they could root around and do piggy things to their hearts content. The man in charge of them was a cheerful soul though much given to weekend inebriation, so when one sunny afternoon he reported seeing a crocodile there we could not believe it. We had never ever seen any trace of a croc in the Serui and doubted one would be so far from the water in broad daylight. There was no sign of it when we looked, but we moved the pigs to a more distant area just in case.
We found how wrong we’d been one evening a week or so later. Startled by the agonised scream of a dog from the river, we had hardly risen to our feet when the big Ridgeback came rushing in, trembling with fright. An immediate but wary search by torchlight showed nothing. It was scary, trying to search in the shifting shadows of the torch beams but though we called and called there was no sign of the Alsatian. She had totally disappeared, and a better search in daylight found nothing. It could only be a croc and we owed the pig man an apology.
Nothing more happened for two or three weeks, until one quiet morning I was told, very excitedly, that the croc was on the bank above the rocks. When I looked sure enough, there it was, a monstrous brute that could not have lived undetected in our pool for any length of time. It must have come up from the Umfuli, detouring hopefully past the pigs before snacking on our poor dog. Quite apart from the dog, we could not tolerate so dangerous a large predator on our doorstep; the farm workers often fished there in their spare time. I was on my own, everyone else being out for the day, and I had to take the opportunity while it offered. We were not into guns, and the only firearm in the house was a shotgun. I had no heavy shot, only AAA with pellets of about .22 calibre, which would have to do. Hardly the best weapon for a crocodile, and I would need to get very close. The rocks offered a hidden approach from further downstream, and it seemed fitting to attack it from where it had ambushed the dogs.
Clutching the gun and a pocketful of cartridges, I circled round and started climbing as quietly as I could, desperately afraid it would hear me and slide into the pool. Worried that it might hear the snap of the breech if I waited until I was close, I broke all the safety rules by clambering up with it loaded. Finally, trying to breathe quietly through an open mouth, heart thudding in my ears, careful not to clink the gun on a rock, I peered cautiously over the top. It was still there, only a few yards away and looking larger then ever, facing more or less upstream, three quarters turned from me with a clear view of the soft skin behind the front leg. I fired both barrels into this, and with a jerk the beast scrabbled in the sand for a second before it gained traction and splashed out of sight into the water. There was a great cheer and I looked around to see a group of workers jumping up and down in the distance, but I was too busy mopping my bloody nose to wave back. In my haste I had held the gun too carelessly for the recoil of both barrels.
The body surfaced two days later and with a great deal of effort we dragged it out. It was very heavy and was an effort for six or seven men to move. We had no means of weighing it, but it measured 12 ft 3 inches from snout to the tip of the tail. I wanted to open it up to see the stomach contents, but the workers were adamantly against that. They said that some organ, probably the gall bladder as far as I could tell, was very dangerous and would be a source of great evil if an nganga or witch doctor got hold of it. They insisted it had to be totally destroyed, so in the end it was ignominiously cremated without even a tooth as a souvenir."

*Interesting, Michael, to say the very least! ...*

***************

'Letters to a Young Poet' - Rainer Maria Rilke

“In the deepest hour of the night, confess to yourself that you would die if you were forbidden to write. And look deep into your heart where it spreads roots, then answer and ask yourself, Must I write?”

“There is only one way: Go within. Search for the cause, find the impetus that bids you write. Put it to this test: Does it stretch out its roots in the deepest place of your heart? Can you avow that you would die if you were forbidden to write? Above all, in the most silent hour of your night, ask yourself this: Must I write? Dig deep into yourself for a true answer. And if it should ring its assent, if you can confidently meet this serious question with a simple, “I must,” then build your life upon it. It has become your necessity. Your life, in even the most mundane and least significant hour, must become a sign, a testimony to this urge.”
― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
“In this there is no measuring with time, a year doesn’t matter, and ten years are nothing. Being an artist means: not numbering and counting, but ripening like a tree, which doesn’t force its sap, and stands confidently in the storms of spring, not afraid that afterward summer may not come. It does come. But it comes only to those who are patient, who are there as if eternity lay before them, so unconcernedly silent and vast. I learn it every day of my life, learn it with pain I am grateful for: patience is everything!”
― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
“But perhaps these are the very hours during which solitude grows; for its growing is painful as the growing of boys and sad as the beginning of spring. But that must not confuse you. What is necessary, after all, is only this: solitude, vast inner solitude. To walk inside yourself and meet no one for hours - that is what you must be able to attain. To be solitary as you were when you were a child, when the grownups walked around involved with matters that seemed large and important because they looked so busy and because you didn't understand a thing about what they were doing.”

The title of this page is an acronym for Storytellers, Wordsmiths, Authors, Novelists & Scribes

The Stevenage Writers group's website blog can be found at http://stevenagewritersgroup.blogspot.co.uk

And they can be contacted by email at stevenagewriters@gmail.com

Ghost Story

My job takes me around the country. When the day is finished, I know nothing better than to find a quiet pub and sit down with a beer and talk to people. Over the years, I've heard some interesting tales. Here's one of them.
Work had taken me to the first new town in the country. Leisure had taken me to a nearby village, and something wonderful – a pub with a built-in Chinese restaurant. After a good meal, I settled myself down at the bar and joined in the chit-chat.
At first it was nothing out of the ordinary. The local football team, in one of the lower national divisions, had won convincingly on the Saturday just past. This being the Monday after, the local people were, understandably, rather happy.
Eventually, though, the conversation drifted onto more unusual topics.
One gentleman arrived, ordered a rum and coke - “just a little ice, please” - and sat next to me. Bill was in his early thirties, jeans and sweatshirt, somewhat overweight. We “Good evening'd” each other, and both followed the man holding the floor, who was talking about ghosts, and how impossible they are.

They can't exist,” Ted, in his sixties and portly, said. “There's never been a scientific gadget made that can detect a ghost. And all the talk of photographs of ghosts? Well, the Cottingley fairies were convincing at the time, and they turned out to be a hoax.”
Bill cleared his throat; just loud enough to get everyone's attention.
“I've seen photos of a ghost. And I reckon they were real.”
“Really?” Ted replied. “And how would you know they were real?”
“Because I was there when the photos were taken, and I couldn't see the ghost myself. Do you want to hear the full story?”
Heads around the bar nodded. Ted was a popular soul, but he did get pompous at times. The chance to see him silenced for a while got everyone interested.
“Okay,” said Bill. “This goes back a few years. At the time, I was dating a girl called Mary, and she wanted to go away for Christmas. I used to live in Scotland, so I took her up there. A house on the coast, a few miles north of Oban. We were nearly broke by this point, so Mary was wandering around the grounds of the house taking pictures.
“I'd been inside clearing up after breakfast. After that, I walked out and joined her. Mary actually looked quite nervous, so I asked her what the matter was.
“Mary told me that there was a ghost following her around. It was a guy with a beard, but he looked like he was wearing an over-the-shoulder dress.”
“A ghost of a man in a dress?” Tom sounded incredulous. “Are you serious Bill?”
Bill answered, “I explained to her that the original highland kilts were nine feet long, and designed to wrap around a person completely as a sleeping cover. When worn, they were wrapped around the waist and slung over one shoulder.”
Tom was still doubtful. “This was in the daytime?”
“Yes, about ten thirty in the morning from what I can remember.”
“I thought ghosts only came out at night,” Tom guffawed.
Fred, the barman, intervened. “That's because you frighten them away!” When everyone had stopped laughing, Fred asked Bill to continue. “This sounds interesting, Bill. I want to hear more about the bearded one.”
Bill looked round the bar. Everyone, including Tom and myself, were nodding. Bill took a deep breath.
“Mary snapped another couple of pictures. She said the ghost was right in front of her, crouching in the grass. I looked at where she’d pointed the camera, but I couldn't see anything. I never can see things like this. Mary could, though.
“After a while, Mary finished her picture-taking, and we wandered off. I asked her for a detailed description of the ghost. She told me that it was a bit taller than me – I'm a six-footer – and it had a long cloth draped round it, and think wild hair with a bushy beard. I said again about the kilt design, and she seemed happy with that.”
Bill reached for his rum. “Bear with me. My throat's dry, and I need a bracer for the next part.” He swallowed his drink in one gulp, ordered another from Fred, and sipped that one before he started talking again.
“Fast forward several months. We'd gotten home from Scotland, and Mary had finally sent the films from the holiday off to be developed. When the prints and negatives arrived, we sat and chatted over the memories.
“I was looking at the ones from the garden, and something caught my eye. I asked Mary if she remembered the ghost she saw, and did it look like this. I gave her what I could remember of the description, which was most of it.
“Mary nodded. That was exactly what it looked like.
“I pointed front and centre of the photo and asked her if that was the ghost just there.
Tom laughed. “And it was?”
Bill looked quite serious. “From the way the colour drained from Mary's face it was. She went ashen.”
“So one photo had a printing error on it?” Tom asked cynically.
Bill swallowed half his drink. “No, four did. And they were clearly visible on the negatives as well.”
At this point I asked a question. “Bill, you said that Mary went really pale. How else did she react?”
“Well,” Bill replied, “Mary went through all the pictures slowly. She put all the ones with the ghost in to one side, and then found the negatives of those prints. She got a pair of scissors, cut out the negatives with the ghost in, and put them in a pile with the photos. After that, she held them over her ashtray and burned each and every one of them.”
“And after that?” I asked gently.
Bill laughed. “After that, she forbade me to ever talk about the episode again. And she never mentioned it herself.”
Bill look at the clock. “I have to go!” He finished his drink and left quickly.
©David Cleave.

"We want you, we want you ... for a new recruit ..."

"The Triple M is proud to welcome its latest new member of the team, Fiona Hunt, book reviewer extraordinaire and the author of the blog, Titchs Reads. http://nuttymum303.tumblr.com She is also known to many writers of all genres in her own right (or should that be WRITE?) http://nuttyreads.blogspot.co.uk
Great to have you onboard!"

…………….

'Afore Bannockburn'

"This is a piece writing in reference to a 'Burns Night' challenge.

It is going to be a W.I.P. and is being 'written in the round', in order that readers can observe my thinking process, warts'n'all! ...."

**********

Clad in only his dampened tartan kilt,

Coloured with woad, and woven in the colours and markings of his clan.

Drenched by his breaching of the burn

In his flight from the English forces.

Afeared o' forming a fire,

Lest it's light gave away

The positioning of the place

In which he was now hiding.

Cold, wet and shivering,

Robert the Bruce lay close to dying

Of his wounds and the cold, cold weather.

************

'Swimming with Swans'

*Dedicated to all fellow Cobs & Pens, and young cygnets everywhere*

There are many ‘Ugly Ducklings’ out there.
Fledgling cygnets thinking they are wearing coats
Still made of feathers stubby and brown,
Previously only used to waddling with unsteady steps.

And using only a guttural noise
While still learning the words and sounds
That Language makes.
Living out the ‘winters’ of their lives,
In isolated clumps of cold and lonely weeds.

Desperately scribbling their precious thoughts away
Unsure to show their works, afraid of what others might say.
Until some swans espied them,
And very soon agreed that they were very fine ‘swans’ indeed.

The ‘Ducklings’ all said,” Who? Me? A ‘Swan’? Oh, go on!”
And people said, “Yes, you are Swans. Come and look in our lake,
And you will see.”
So the ‘Ugly Ducklings’ looked, and they saw, then they said,
“I am a Swan! ... Wheee!”

No longer do they walk with a waddle,
Or talk with only a quack.
And wear their fledgling coats
Made of feathers stubby and brown

But now they move with a glide,

Sing with a whistle,
And each has a snowy white back.
And a head held so noble and high.

Who is an ‘Ugly Duckling’?
“Not I!”

*With acknowledgements to Hans Christian Anderson, and Danny Kaye.*

*******************

'Pinched from the Poet's Pouch'

An exercise in the use of Alliteration.

A Poet is a person
With a Pencil,
(Or maybe a Pen!)

Who writes words
That very often rhyme.
(But not always!)

This is the reason
Why Publishers print
People's poems

In Paperback books
Or whack'em on the
World-Wide-Web!

***************

Yet another artiste worthy to be mentioned in the 'Spotlight on Talent' series is Godwill Masiwa."

Godwill is a Zimbabwean poet. An album featuring some of his poetry set to music was first released in 2010.and was recorded at the Ingwe studios in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe. It was entitled 'Human Prayer'.

The title poem was first written about thirty-five years ago and is as true now as it was back then. It was felt at that time the Aids scourge; and the general depiction of Africa as a whole on the international news channels necessitated the production and releasing of the album.

A favourite track of mine from the album is 'Do you smell a rat?'

I have taken the liberty to add it here, I give full credit to Godwill's ability to present his sharp and piercing sense of social comment on the injustices rampant at that time.

More of his work and commentary on Life can be found on his website http://www.mysubtleworld.com

i personally wholeheartedly recommend you visit it sometime soon.

'Do you smell a rat?..'

People make ideas, honey is made by many bees.

The economy is sustained by many, power is based on plenty

But Africa should depopulate.Do you smell a rat?