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Contents

Poetry
Intermezzo : Marc Awodey
Trickle Down : Mark Johnson
The Wake : Richard Fein
In Their Hands : Stanley Worthington
The Sentinel : Jean Blackburn
Chitzen Itza : David Bolduc
Haiku : Neca Stoller
This Night (Themed) : Shaun Allan
Frost : Debbie Panks

Fiction and Prose
The Legend Of Murkey Woods (Themed) : Karen Mossman
Outside (Themed) : Shaun Allan
Genocide : Nikki Coffee
8:30pm (Themed) : Lesley Alberts
Old Roger (Themed) : Jean Blackburn

Serial
Down by the River - Part 6 : Karen Mossman

Intermezzo

Purple is the voice of evensong
intermezzo over unsung phrases of day
when orchestra tunes and turns the page

then stage belongs to a deep nocturne
intermezzo over unsung phrases of day.
Silence is briefly the sweetest song;

then stage belongs to a deep nocturne
sung by birds that have nested and gone.
Silence is briefly the sweetest song

played by oboes without any reed
sung by birds that have nested and gone
of declining stars in rising dawn;

played by oboes without any reed.
When orchestra tunes and turns the page
of declining stars in rising dawn
purple is the voice of evensong.

Marc Awodey ~

Trickle Down

Quite early this morning,
Awakening from a dream of my grandmother
As a young and ticklish woman,
I saw my life, all lives, as drops of water
Trickling down a rough, stone wall.
Pulled by the gravity of death, they ran willy-nilly,
Some fast, some slow,
Never knowing, just as water cannot know,
Which way the bumps and grooves in the rock guided them.
And yet amid this random flow there is a pattern.
For the source, direction and destination are the same,
And though the drops cannot escape the wall,
Their endless play upon it shapes present paths
Into all possible futures.

Mark Johnson ~

The Wake

Along the flyway where the antarctic wind
scales the icy Andean peaks then plunges
on to the Patagonian plains, a moment exists
between the birth of the guanaco calf and its nursing.
At that moment the impatient gales clasp and trip
the calf's uncertain legs. Now the mother keeps
her vigil alone for the herd has moved on. With
kind intent she hovers with her tempting teats inches
above the calf. Her camel-like neck cranes above
the grass while the sun settles below the mountains.

Dawn, and during the night nature has ministered
its only cure, an end to suffering. The time of the condor
has arrived. But she still patrols, though
the finger-like shadows of splayed feathers patiently
hover over her.
One alights. She charges,
feathers flutter, but simultaneously another carves
a ration of meat with its beak. Again she charges, and again,
makes her futile paces as piece by piece her calf
is lifted skyward to feed other young.

Sunset again, exhausted, hungry, she browses the grass,
nudges her calf, waits, browses again and then
once more raises her neck
to search the windswept horizon
for the herd.

Twilight, and she moves on to rejoin the living.

Richard Fein ~

In Their Hands

Voices fade to black.
Stainless steel bares bloody sternum.
Beethoven drowning splintering bone.
Cavity eased apart like old parchment.
Murmurs greet this virgin heart.

I sleep on.

Beneath the radiant flare,
Cut gives way to blip.
In freshly crushed ice,
Life's core is still.
No beat. Nor tremble.
Not black. Not white.

I sleep on.

Seamstress fingers, unsheathe vein
From cabbard limb.
Then deftly clamp and
Stitch the artery to vein.
One jolt into a soulless heart
Springs the rhythm of life.

I sleep on.

Darkness dissolves to light.
Tentacle sprouting from
chest and mouth.
Voices swirl inside the head.
Soothing hands reassure.
I live. I survive.
I am awake.

Stanley Worthington ~

The Sentinel

Looking up the hill I see a gnarled oak silhouetted
against the darkening sky, one branch pointing like a finger
to God, the other casting a protective shadow over the garden.

Not tall but squat sinking into its bowl like folds of skin
on an elephant's foot, a strange shape, young branches
struggling from the trunk with a strong will to survive. The
tree was here long before man designed his little paradise.

Beside the old mill, the mill-wheel turns eternally with
the heavy splash of water falling into trays and recreating
its past glory when grinding corn fulfilled its purpose.

A stream wanders in gentle curves through sloping fields
to reach the newly created garden. It flows through the spine,
bringing water to feed plants as well as power to drive
machinery.

Along its bank grow different varieties of primula,
rhododendron, vibernam, hosta and rushes. The red brown leaves
and phallic flower spike of the majestic gunnera contrast
with the bright yellow king cups.

The water in different mood falls over a rocky ledge, divides
round a tiny island, home to a pair of wild mallard.

A tall willow with fine branches weeps green tears into
the passing water. Today the ground beneath her skirt is dark
and dank but in summer I would relish her cool shade.

At every turn of the path a there is a new picture to delight
the eye, created with contrasts and blending of form, colour
and sound, watched over by the old oak sentinel.

Jean Blackburn ~

Chitzen Itza

Courteous priests feathered green and gold
--statuesque macaws trailing copal plumes--
lead me through steaming drummed sunlight
on this blessed bridal day to join the gods waiting
hungry in the pool below.

David Bolduc ~

Haiku

twisted vines
whiten with the late winter-
grandmother's curls

Neca Stoller ~

This Night

This night is safe.

The air is light,
The breeze the same.
The darkness a soft, warm shroud
The sounds and the scents and the sights are calm.

This night is safe.

Up.
Up high.
The eyes tight, silver shards.
The lips tight, thin, deep red.
The features stone.
Crouching.
Waiting.
Breathing,
Barely.

This night is safe.

This night...

Shaun Allan ~

Frost

Its cold tonight,
my breath it steams like kettle mist,
A bitter cold around me drifts.
A silky sheet pulled across my skin,
It spreads a wave of cold within.
With reaching fingers, clawing out,
to touch, with ice all things about.

Debbie Panks ~

The Legend Of Murky Woods

It was a dark night with the moon hiding behind the clouds. The trees swayed, their branches stretching like claws ready to strike.

Marie Santhouse stood on the edge of the woods urging herself forward. Forward into the darkness and all the little creatures waiting to pounce.

It was a silly dare, one she was beginning to regret. It seemed so easy sitting in Hughie Johnson's loft with the gang.

"We dare you," they said, "to walk through Murky Woods at midnight."

She'd held her chin up defiantly. "Easy peasy. I'm not scared of nothin'."

The darkness enveloped her as she entered. Oh, how she wished she hadn't been so anxious to prove herself."

Armed with a torch and a compass, she was to travel north-easterly and should reach the other side within half an hour.

She was painfully aware of every sound, every movement, every breaking twig. She could sense and sometimes see eyes watching her. At the back of her mind the legend was ever present.

Alice Shawbridge was fourteen, the same age as herself. She had taken a short cut through the woods and had never come out again. There was much speculation about what had happened, but the truth was, the woods had eaten her, taken her and swallowed her whole.

Marie shivered and imagined the trees moving closer until she became entangled in their trunks.

Suddenly something flew at her from the left. She ducked, as another and another came. She dropped to the floor panic-stricken and covered her head. The bats wings made slapping noises like hands against skin. Frightened and shaking Marie curled up, her knees sticking into the harsh earth.

It took a few moments before she realised, they had gone. Opening her eyes she reached for the torch, but where was her compass? She couldn't lose her compass, it was her only way of getting out! Frantically she began searching through the dry leaves and stones. Little twigs caught under her finger nails, it was like the woods were attacking her. At last her fingers closed round the small circular object, she checked her course, shone the torch ahead and began walking.

All around her the trees whispered and leaves crunched under her feet. Every so often something moved and when she shone her torch there was nothing there. She was breathless and scared. The sound of her heart beating was reverberating in her ears. She began to run and the trees moved along with her. They didn't want her to escape. Another Alice, just like Alice, eaten by the trees, never to leave.

"No!" Marie cried, out loud, but the trees were purposeful. Out of the ground came their roots catching her toes and tripping her. She pitched forward, the torch flying from her hand and as it landed a stone turned and crunched out the light.

Winded, she lay stunned. It was all the time the branches needed as they clawed their way down. It had been a long time since they had felt a young ripe body. Encircling her waist they became excited. "Alice! Alice! Alice!" they seemed to chant.

Coming to her senses, Marie screamed: "No!" She would not be another Alice! With the suppleness of youth she jumped to her feet. Taking the trees unaware, their branches sprang back.

In a blind panic she ran towards a clearing, but her way was barred by an enormous oak tree. It's trunk as wide as ten men. As she crashed into it, she recoiled in horror. For there embedded in its bark was a face. The eyes wide in terror where the tree had preserved her.

Alice Shawbridge's mouth was open in a silent endless scream. A scream, that only Marie could hear as it blended with her own. She did not stop to find the compass or worry about her torch, she ran like her life depended on it, and it did.

Once more she hit something solid and it grasped her firmly.

"Hey, it's me, Hughie, you're out, you've done it!" Hughie Johnson was standing in front of her grinning like a Cheshire cat, his lanky frame surprisingly strong.

"I saw Alice," she gasped. "She's in the trees."

Hughie laughed, "That's why they whisper her name."

"You hear it too?" she asked with surprise.

"Everybody does, that's why the legend has it about the trees."

"But it's true, Hughie, I saw her," she said, as they walked across the field.

Just then a gust of wind blew over them. Hughie's grin faded as the wind became stronger. He caught her arm, but it was impossible.

"No, Hughie, no," she screamed above the noise. "It's pushing us back to the trees."

The police launched an investigation, but the town knew the truth. No bodies were ever found, but if you walk alone in the woods at night, beware of the trees.

Karen Mossman ~

Outside

I'm going Outside.

I'm leaving the warmth of my room, the sensuous ease of my chair. I'm going Outside. It's cold out there. Cold and damp and grey. The dust and muck of without, airborne assailants stabbing at my eyes, raking at my nose, infiltrating my mouth to clog my innards - to take me as their own, steal about in desperate anticipation. If I turn my face to the window, I can feel the winter air reaching out to me through the glass, clawing at my cheek.

I reach over to the mighty one - the Radiator. I turn it up full. Within seconds the battle is over, the Radiator, as I knew it would be, victorious - the cold banished to its netherworld of... Outside.

But I'm going out there.

I can almost hear, carried on the unseen, fury driven ghost of the wind, its cries, its Siren inspired lamentations luring me to my demise. And though I wish it were not so, though I yearn for another path, my doom is laid forth. I cover my ears to the call of the wind, but to no avail - it penetrates my defences, a haunting echo stripping me of the last shades of my sanity.

No.

It will not end thus.

My resolve hardens. No thoughts should I have for the safety of my physical being, for my soul is absolute. I will prevail.

I don my armour, in the futile knowledge of its inadequacies - my jacket offers little protection against the fearsome ruin I must face, my gauntlets less still. But I am unheeding.

I gather my wits, such as they are, and stand at the threshold of beyond. I do not look back as I cast myself over the brink of Chaos.

Hell of a time to run out of tea bags.

Shaun Allan ~

Genocide

It's become a "self cleaning oven" now the HOOD. There used to be a time when I could walk the street without a care. I knew my neighbors and I wasn't scared.

I was proud of my brothers and sisters. And people died of sickness or old age, not gun shots. They are getting younger and younger now the gang-bangers and I'm sad. Sad to see a generation lost, a genocide of my own "people". Can anybody tell me why?

The stores and shops on the corner are all boarded up. The older ones stay inside. The prosperous ones have moved far away...it's a jungle of wild ones now...a "self-cleaning oven...the HOOD, can anybody tell me why?

I'm sick of turning on the news and hearing that "another one bites the dust." Another one of my young black brothers...who could have had so much potential...who could have done something wonderful with his life...made a real contribution to this world...is now part of the earth as dust..can anybody tell me why? The HOOD has become a "self-cleaning-oven."

I don't want to attend any more funerals..any more young men lying still, in death, in that casket...I don't want to see any more black mothers in grief and pain, loosing her only son, her eldest one, the future...the name bearer.

Why can't we just all get along? A now famous question. What happened to brotherhood? To love, to peace? They're doing away with each other, slowly wiping out the race, one by one.

Can anybody tell me why?

The HOOD has become a "self-cleaning oven."

Nikki Coffee ~

8:30pm

"Sshhh. You see them? Can you taste their scent? Does it make you hunger, desire... want? Can you feel their hearts beating? I can hear them from here - they're slightly out of sync. An almost romantic fraction of a second difference. Oh, how this feline form's senses are honed. It was a good choice, an excellent choice. For all our innate power, this creature's instincts are sensuously barbaric.

Ah, they are moving closer. You know, they are the dominant species here? Does that not strike terror into your heart? Ha! Oh, for a worthy adversary. You notice that they walk upright, that they cover themselves with the skins of other species? Such arrogance. It hints of sense of superiority over those around them. Perhaps they are, perhaps not. Perhaps, though, we should teach them that such arrogance only makes the lesson more sweetly significant. Should we, do you think, explain to them, as we dine, how erroneous their conceptions are - how their self-appointed sovereignty over their fellow creatures, only serves to prove that they are less than worthy to rule, more suited to be ornaments and food themselves. Perhaps not. They are not deserving of such benign justice.

Mmmm. They are almost upon us. Are you prepared, my friend? Excellent. Which would you prefer? The larger one? Ha! You may find that one somewhat tough. I believe it is called a male. Very well, then, if that is your choice. There is ample time for sampling other delights. The nights here are long, and we have a world of such meats to enjoy.

Come, let us feast."

Lesley Alberts ~

Old Roger

We moved into Orchard House on December the sixth, so our house warming party was nicely in time for Christmas. We invited neighbours, people who had helped us over the moving period and issued an open invitation to the folk at the church we had joined so it was hardly surprising that we did not know everyone who turned up. The old woman sat on the spinning chair near the fire with a basket of apples by her side. She was wearing a long black skirt, black long sleeved blouse with lace trimmings and a thick woollen shawl over her wispy grey hair. No-one else seemed to notice or talk to her. I was too busy looking after the refreshments and Harold was pouring the drinks so it was not until quite late that I had a chance to seek her out and by then she had vanished leaving the basket of lovely ripe apples behind. I asked several people who she was but no one seemed to know or have seen her.

Christmas came and went and we were invited to several parties and joined in the usual local activities. All the time I kept a look out for the old lady in old fashioned clothes wanting to thank her for her welcome gift. As time went by we ate the apples which were sweet and juicy and eventually forgot about her. We pruned the old apple trees in the orchard that gave the house its name and as a result had the best crop of apples we had ever had.

I did not think about our strange visitor again until the week before the next Christmas and we had another party. This time I knew all the people I had invited so was astonished when I came into the lounge to see the same figure sitting on the spinning chair by the fire, again with a lovely basket of apples by her side.

Upon doing some research I discovered that about three hundred years ago there was an old stone cottage set in the orchard of LLangrove house. An old couple called Roger and Sarah lived there for many years. Roger worked on the land, hedging, ditching and pruning the trees in the orchard. His wife made butter, cheese and cream in the dairy and helped in the big kitchen. It was her one great sadness that she did not have any babies of her own but Sarah always welcomed the local children into their homely cottage where they were given apples, apple juice, apple cake or scones or anything else made from home grown fruit. Adult visitors were treated to cider or thick syrupy apple wine. No-one ever went home empty handed.

Roger who was glum and morose, chided his wife and tried to discourage her from giving away their hard earned provisions. Sarah always took the attitude that God was generous in His bounty and she enjoyed sharing His gifts. One winter, just before Christmas in his seventieth year Old Roger took a chill and died. Sarah was devastated and although he had not been a warm companion she mourned him grievously. He had never been one for attending church, in-fact he had so offended the Vicar with his outspoken views on church matters that the Vicar at that time would not allow his body to be buried in the churchyard. A plot was dug in the orchard and they planted an apple tree over his head to mark the grave.

The tree grew strong and vigorous. In the Spring it was covered in delicate pink and white blossom. In the Summer it gave shade under its branches for Sarah to sit and spin or knit while she sang to her dead husband. The children would come as well to rest play or listen to her gentle voice. In the Autumn the apples grew ripe, the rosiest and sweetest apples in the village. In the Winter when all the apples and leaves had fallen, mistletoe could be seen growing in the fork of the top most branches. Old Sarah tended the tree with all the love she had been wont to bestow on her late husband.

When the time came Sarah would not let anyone else pick the fruit but when it was nearly ready to eat she went every day to see if it was ripe. At last the day came when the apples were ripe and fell to the ground. Old Sarah took her basket and went down to the orchard to gather them up. Old Roger rose from his grave and tried to frighten his old wife away but the apples were so tempting that she was not so easily distracted and stooped to harvest them where upon Old Roger gave her a kick and she was seen hopping and skipping back to the cottage but not before she had filled her basket. Time and again she went back to fill her basket, she made apple jelly, apple cake, apple pies, cider and apple wine. She was always very generous with the fruit, giving away more produce than she ever ate herself. So this happened every year until the time came when she was no longer able to go down to the orchard to gather fruit and tease the ghost of her man. Finally she too died and in respect of her last wish she was laid under the old apple tree beside her husband.

As the years passed the tree grew more gnarled, twisted and neglected until at last it became completely overgrown and people forgot the old couple who had lived in the stone cottage in the orchard. The cottage too became derelict and the land sold to build modern houses. The only relic of the past was the name 'Orchard House' which was given to the new house standing on the site of the old.

Jean Blackburn ~

Shelby arrived at the trailer, breathless and soaked to the skin. Ricky gave her a blanket and a towel. She took off her wet clothes while he made hot coffee.

"I don't belong here," she said pathetically. "I don't belong out there either. They thought I was odd, too. Only Mary-Jo knew, only she really understood what it was like."

He handed her the coffee and she sat down next to him.

"Whoever you are, Mary-Jo loved you," he said gently rubbing her shoulder.

She leaned into the welcome nook of his arm. The coffee warmed her. He didn't speak and she closed her eyes. The rain pelted loudly outside. The wind began to howl. Shelby fell into a troubled sleep.

When she awoke some time later, she saw Ricky sound asleep beside her.

Clutching the blanket, she got up and poured herself some of the now lukewarm coffee. The night was very quiet, the weather having subsided.

The image of Mary-Jo was so clear in her mind. Her stomach churned. Memories of Rawden haunted her. Awful images of her Pa... Abruptly she turned, and in the darkness she could see he was watching her.

"You remind me of Mary-Jo standing there like that," he spoke quietly. "You feel better?"

"Yes," she said, "but the coffee's lousy," she attempted to smile.

He got up. "I'll make some more."

"I'd offer to do it, but ..." She indicated her hands holding the blanket together. "I don't suppose you have something I could wear? Mine are still damp."

"Sure," he said, pulling open a drawer and handed her jeans and a jumper.

"What did Mary-Jo tell you about me?" she asked as she changed quickly.

"She said you see things."

"Did she really think I walked out on her?" she asked, sitting on the bunk again.

Ricky shrugged. "I was angry when I said that. I just know she missed you. She talked a lot about you."

"When my Pa got into one of his drunken rages he used to hit me. Rawden thought I was his to use whenever. Mary-Jo said she needed me, but it was me that needed her. She was the only one who didn't want from me. She never had a bad thought about anyone, although she had more cause to than most."

Ricky handed her some coffee and she drank immediately from it. "I'm not a freak, y'know."

"I never said you were." He leaned against the wall, sipping his coffee, watching her. She imagined him standing there looking at Mary-Jo.

"I see things, that's all. Pa told me he sees things too, only he drinks to blot it out. He was drunk the day he beat up Mom. Mary-Jo and I were hiding in the closet. We were ourteen years old. Rawden arrived. Pa had passed out. We were crying. He said he could fix it to look like an accident just so Pa didn't get into trouble."

Ricky looked away in disgust. Shelby hung her head in shame. "We didn't know what he meant until it was too late."

"He wanted you and Mary-Jo in return, didn't he?" There was a fire burning in his eyes. Shelby cringed from it.

"We were plum scared, we had to do it." Shelby thought of the burning shame she felt. Mary-Jo felt no shame, she was confused - didn't understand what he was doing to them.

Ricky looked at her through dark brooding eyes. She could hardly meet them. They were all-absorbing, enveloping her with guilt.

"Did you see who killed her?" he asked. Shelby couldn't answer, but got to her feet and looked out at the dawn breaking.

"She was scared, Ricky, real scared, she couldn't say no to him."

"Who was it, Shelby?" he demanded, grabbing her arm and spinning her round. "It was Rawden, wasn't it?"

"I don't know!" she cried, the pressure of his fingers biting into her arms. "I could never see! But I... I..." she was on the verge of tears.

Ricky shook her, urgently. "Tell me, tell me who you think it was!" She was sobbing openly now.

"My Pa, I think it was my Pa. I don't know why, I don't understand..." She stopped abruptly, frightened at the rage she saw in his face.

"The son of a bitch, I shoulda' guessed. Why didn't you know? You see, don't you?" he demanded angrily.

"He was so drunk," she sobbed, remembering his accusations as he threw her out of the house. "He thought I was her." Everything fell into place now. How could she have done it? How could he do it? She buried her hands and sobbed.

In an anguished rage, Ricky knocked all the pots and pans to the floor. The noise was terrifying. He turned and slammed out of the trailer.

Running after him, Shelby begged him not to do anything stupid. He stopped in his tracks.

"Why, because he's your father? Didn't he beat you? Didn't he kill your mom? Why are you shielding him?"

"No, Ricky," she desperately clung on to his arm. "Listen to me!" He shook her off. She caught him again and forced him to stop. "Listen! Mary-Jo wouldn't want you to do anything in anger."

"What do you know, you left her, remember?" He strode on, his body taut with fury. How could she stop him? Did she want to stop him? What alternative was there? The Sheriff?!

Running after him again, Shelby knew she could not let him do it. Not for her father's sake, or her own, but for Mary-Jo. She would not want him to jeopardise his life for her.

Running faster than she thought she could, she struck him in the back, knocking him forward, where he stumbled, winded.

Falling on top of him, she yelled, "I won't let you do this!" They began to roll as he tried to break free, she clung on.

A cop car sped past, its siren blaring.

"This is for Mary-Jo, not you!" she screamed, thumping him as hard as she could.

"Goddamn you!" he yelled, fighting her off as they slammed into the side of a rock.

When they reached her house, two cop cars were outside, their lights still flashing. Ricky had calmed down, but had insisted they go over there and confront him, anyway. He reminded her that with it all out in the open, she would be free of the sheriff.

"What's going on?" she asked Mary-Jo's mother who was clutching her shawl tightly round her shoulders.

"God forgive him!" was all she would say.

Shelby ran into the house in time to see them taking his body down from the kitchen rafters. Rawden Hughes looked at her, and for the first time he looked genuinely sad.

"Well, Shelb., it seems he's confessed to the murder of Mary-Jo McDonagh. Phoned her mother, he did. He also mentioned something about his Annie-Clare, too."

Shelby stared at the blue contorted face of her Pa. She couldn't remember when he stopped being her father. She felt no sorrow, just shock and a tremendous relief. It was over, she was finally free.

Ricky put his arm around her shoulders and took her outside into the fresh morning sunlight.

"There's a train at noon," he whispered into her ear. "If we catch it, I see no reason for us to come back here again."

Putting her arm round his waist Shelby nodded and smiled to herself. This was what Mary-Jo would have wanted.

Karen Mossman ~