A Modern Cromwell by Clive Gresswell, a frothy cappuccino.

 

Oliver Cromwell was sweating in the steel suit he wore seated on the Diaz in the time travel garden. It was a lovely day in May and the revolution had gone refreshingly well. Oliver had slipped forward in the time tunnel curious to know what had become of his great Parliamentary experiment. Unfortunately, with the advent of television, the internet and professional propaganda he did not like what he saw. Cameras were beaming Prime Minister’s Question Time onto the rear garden wall and Boris Johnson was in full flow. Ministers such as Jacob Rees-Mogg and Brandon Lewis were backing up their leader with shouts of ‘bravo’ as they nodded their heads sternly in agreement with the great man. Oliver recalled that the Parliament he had empowered was nothing like today’s poor substitute for the democratic body in action and then there was the whole Irish Protocol question. It seemed to Oliver that Minister’s today threw caution to the wind making hard and fast pronouncements such as if people were finding things hard going, they should get themselves better jobs. Perhaps the ones presently taken by the incumbent politicians, sprang to mind.

Oliver groaned, holding his head in his hands.  Had it all been for nothing? Despite the balmy weather he didn’t like the course the country was taking and was even contemplating slipping back to the 1640s and raising an army of time bandits for the early 2020s. Another Civil War would even things up a bit.

“I’m not even sure people would believe the corners people take with politics these days,” he muttered under his breath. Certainly, the Puritans would not have been able to stomach all the drinking and debauchery that went on. Oliver felt sick to his back teeth as he watched the television news focus on Parliamentarian after Parliamentarian breaking the unwritten protocols of good governance.

Oliver winced as he watched news item after news item glossing over embarrassingly corrupt behaviour that would even have cost many a  slovenly monarch his or her head.

There were even many similarities between now and then such as the advent of a looming trade war and the startling resemblance of Cromwell to the actor Richard Harris, who played him in the 1970 film.

Cromwell looked around him in the garden and decided it was time to grasp the nettle, go back through the portal and raise that army.

About the author

Clive enjoys writing metafictions and absurdist stories. He lives in Luton, UK, and is also a well-published poet. His latest poetry books are with erbacce-press. He has an MA and a BA in Creative Writing.

Airport

 

By Clive Gresswell

A black coffee

 

 

The Interlocuter of All Things Travel eyed Benjamine Jones’ passport suspiciously. Quite a few of the unvaccinated had smuggled themselves abroad recently and control really did need to be tightened. The Interlocuter was brought in by the Government seven-months ago specifically for that purpose. His sweeping powers included immediate indefinite incarceration in one of the airport’s isolation cells. Recently the newspapers, such as they were, had latched on to one or two cases where prisoners had just languished in their cells as if completely forgotten by the outside world.

The Interlocuter’s name was Ray Winston – not that he let anyone from the Border Force call him by that while at work. Everything inside The Service was very formal to prevent people from becoming too pally. That would only be embarrassing for those of superior rank, as Ray Winston knew only too well.

He demanded that Jones should be strip-searched in the antechamber by two of the guards. This was not at all unusual these days and Jones decided not to protest just yet, but to keep his powder dry, although he was not looking forward to the always intimate and thorough probing of the guards.

But as their hands began to pat him down Jones started to tremble. He began to shrug their hold off his legs as he stared directly into their faces.

“Just what do you want off me – I’ve been treble vaccinated. Surely that’s all you need to know,” he boomed his body betraying him as he became more and more unsteady on his feet.

“We’ll be the judges of that,” said the female guard whose hand slipped back to steady his legs.

“He must want you searched for a reason,” said the other.

“Maybe to keep his quotas up,” ventured Jones, struggling to keep his voice on an even keel.

The female guard swiftly slapped him around the face while the man rabbit-punched him in the stomach making him feel queasy.

“Now, that’s just how we treat our dissenters, if you don’t have a care,” said the man.

“One good thing about having your Covid-Passport with you,” said the uniformed woman “Is that we can touch you where it hurts with impunity,” following which she planted a huge karate-chop on his neck.

Jones doubled up on the floor and lay there winded for a few moments until he was tugged by the hair and forced to stand up.

“There’s five new forms for you to fill in here, before you can leave. What time is your flight?”

“Six and I’ll never make it at this rate, is this all really necessary?”

“Highly necessary pigdog.”

The Interlocuter came into the room carrying a large carving knife which he brandished at the alarmed traveller.

“What do you want! I’ve had all my jabs. This really is beyond the pale. I’d give my right hand to help you now but…”

The interlocuter kneeled beside him, gazing directly into his eyes. The official blinked and some drool dribbled down his chin as he began to mark up Jones’ right wrist ready for the necessary surgery.

 About the author  

Clive enjoys writing metafictions and absurdist stories. He lives in Luton, UK, and is also a well-published poet. His latest poetry books are with erbacce-press. He has an MA and a BA in Creative Writing.

A Bit of Botany

 

By Clive Gresswell

a frothy, milky coffee

 

Boris the belligerent botanist furrowed his brow as he twiddled with a messy strand of his overgrown blond hair. He was focusing on the Date plants in his greenhouse. Normally he had them eating out of the palm of his hands, he thought, but things were looking perilously close to a rum-do he mused. He smirked at that play of words crossing his mind as it had been a series of rum-dos, as in the sense of boozy parties, which had led to this impasse he faced at work. Actually, he was glad to be left alone with his plants. At least he could talk openly and honestly to them. He smirked again and reached over gently to take a cutting from one of the more generous of the plants. Boris the belligerent was always pleased to be enjoying his gardening and it took his mind off having to deal with those bar stewards from the press. A little while ago he could do no wrong but now…now just like the dirty dogs they were they had started to bite the hand that fed them. Anyone would think he hadn’t done a sterling job both politically and otherwise in dealing with the Pandemic.

Boris’ wife, Barbara, hated the way he locked himself away in the greenhouse talking to his plants for hours on end. She was sure it wasn’t good for him and he spent more time talking to those wretched plants than he did talking to her. He even had names for each of them, often derived from Latin, as if they were his children or something. Whatever this strange little life was it wasn’t what Barbara had envisaged when she and Boris tied the knot.

There was an urgent knock at the door which pulled her out of her reverie. It was Colin Chancellor from next-door who wanted a word with Boris.

“Well, if you can tear him away from his plants, you’re a better man than I,” Barbara joked with Colin. She liked him and figured if he could pull him away from the plants that would be a fine thing.

Colin stood in the greenhouse his arms folded and eyed Boris up and down. Colin wore a frown and was holding a fistful of letters in his left hand.

“Listen Boris, I don’t need to tell you what these are do I?” he started.

As he hesitated Boris stared intently at him. He took a cutting and reached out to his neighbour.

“This should give you what you want,” he said a sense of pride still in his voice.

“It’s the Date when I plan to resign.”

About the author 

Clive enjoys writing metafictions and absurdist stories. He lives in Luton, UK, and is also a well-published poet. His latest poetry books are with erbacce-press. He has an MA and a BA in Creative Writing

Fatman and Bobin

 

by Clive Gresswell

tonic water

Holy-Furr Fatman said to Bobin. you mean we can’t go out if there’s any villains needing capture because of the pandemic. Then Fatman said it again. Just for effect and emphasis. You know like he and Bobin did with their speech bubbles like THWACK and BAM and so on and so forth and etc. Fatman decided he had to give Bobin a bit of encouragement man to eerr boy. “Well, there’s still lots of good things we can do indoors in The Fatcave,” he told his enthusiastic young side-kick. But his pep-talk was only half-hearted because he didn’t really believe it. Lots of the other comic superheroes were feeling pretty fed-up and sick too. Most were concerned that the Supervillains would ignore Government medical advice to stay indoors because of the pandemic. It was just asking for trouble to ban superheroes from the comic book streets when crooks such as The Poker, The Didler and even Dr Orange would just walk round grabbing whatever they wanted from the supermarkets, shops, chemists and restaurants. Holy Wow!, thought Fatman, it didn’t bear thinking about, but he didn’t say it aloud this time. Surely if they wore some sort of PPE under their super-costumes they could still help avert total riots and lawlessness. They could keep their distance and not touch members of the public and that would be fine thought the crusader. Bobin reminded him that his cape would need disinfecting when they got back to the Fat Cave at Clay Manor as there would be Covid all over it. Fatman shrugged and stuck his tongue out in a completely immature way then giggled. Bobin had noticed he’d been doing a lot of out of character things like this lately and he wondered once again, and not for the first time, if his guardian was fully Okay in the head. “Sure I am, don’t worry so much son. Lighten up. Live a bit dangerously,” Bobin heard Fatman say in his ear.

Bobin asked what they would they do if the villains started to rampage through Wratham or any other towns? “Would we go or would we stay now,” he said.

Fatman gasped. Either they or the villains might be carrying the virus anyway and it gave him a headache thinking about it all. Hopefully not with a fever or a cough. “I don’t know what to do for the best, which isn’t like me at all,” said Fatman who had suddenly changed stealthily into his Sam Wayne clothes. All of the other superheroes on seeing Sam in his plain clothes in a television charity special  shrugged and changed back to their own closely guarded secret identities too. Thick Rayson was thinking: “When it comes down to it they’re all a bunch of cowards now. No more heroes anymore.”

He started to write these words to a tune going round in his head for ‘Fatman The Musical’ which had been commissioned by some arts’ channel or other. Bobin was just getting into writing a new end in which there really were no more heroes.

About the author 

Clive enjoys writing metafictions and absurdist stories. He lives in Luton, UK, and is also a well-published poet. His latest poetry books are with erbacce-press. He has an MA and a BA in Creative Writing.

The Old Time Rhymer

 

by Clive Gresswell

cappuccino deep and frothy

Freezing up on the inside Dr Sloan Jones was always alone. He couldn’t exactly remember, but thought it was as long ago as last December, when he last mixed with any other Homo Sapiens. Naturally enough that was at his sister Ruth’s Christmas party. Even then he had to go through the humility of her warning him to be on his best behavior. Ruth watched him like a hawk as he mingled with her neighbors. He was so embarrassed it was almost as painful as being in labor, Dr Jones thought to himself.

This year he considered he wasn’t going to gatecrash. Even if it meant spending those special Christmas days, those wonderful giving days of joy, at home he was determined not to force his company on anyone else this festive season.

There must be a reason I’m so unpopular he told the vicar and the doctor. They grimaced and offered platitudes – not relinquishing that it was his attitude. How now was he to show his gratitude to others if they gave him no latitude, Dr Jones mused.

Once long ago, he had lived a different life, in a semi-detached with three children and a wife. She was called Gloria and for a while brought him constant joy and euphoria. But after several years of marriage, she ran off with a tax inspector from Leicester.

She took the children, and Dr Jones became lonely and bitter. But he was determined inside to show he was no quitter. Dr Jones gave up smoking but began drinking liquor. He got grumpier and grumpier and a good deal un-fitter.

He would see the kids briefly over the holidays and they always had the power to rejuvenate and amaze. He’d also find out what toys were the latest craze. Time had distilled the sting of Gloria’s betrayal, but the hurt was still deep and disturbed his sleep.

Dr Jones knew there were things the vicar and doctor had not revealed. He suspected they still saw Gloria in her new life and probably sided with her against him. But what was it he’d done?

He really didn’t know that the way he had to rhyme all the time drove others up the wall and was in no way benign.

 

About the author 

Clive enjoys writing metafictions and absurdist stories. He lives in Luton, UK, and is also a well-published poet. His latest poetry books are with erbacce-press