Darkness into Light

Roger Noons

a port and lemon dear, please

The familiar butterflies arrive, a cocktail of anticipation laced with trepidation; crushed ice along my spine. The darkness calms me, but only slightly. I squeeze my eyelids together, chin up; whisper my usual prayer. Saying those first words, I rock slowly backwards and forwards on my heels. There is activity around me, but no-one speaks. I am ignored, which is my preference. I take deep breaths, shuffle my feet and following a tap on my shoulder, I tweak the waist band of my skirt and tug down my right knicker leg. As soon as I feel the smack on my bum, I march out into the light. Blinking rapidly helps me focus and when I hear the laughter and applause, the ice melts and my heart warms. I bow and wave, lap up the cheers; I am at home in the brightness; I feel the warmth. More blinking to flutter my lashes and coyly turn towards the spotlight. Full of adrenaline I scurry across the stage.

    ‘Now then Jack, when are you going to take that cow to market?’

Nativity Play Auditions

Dawn Knox

Mulled Wine

“You got through the Nativity Play auditions again this year then, donkey?”

“Mmmm hmm. The director said I had stage presence. And nice eyes… So you’re back in the cast then, sheep?”

“Yeah, the director said I behaved really well in the stable scene last year. Unlike the cow.”

“Oh yes, I remember. What a mess she made. Such a shame she turned her back on the audience. If she’d been facing front, it wouldn’t have hit the human actors.” 

“No, it wouldn’t have dribbled off the front of the stage towards the audience either. That woman with the delicious looking flowers on her hat was quite hysterical.”

“I remember.”

“The new cow looks okay, though.”

“Mmmm hmm… Apparently they were going to introduce some different animals to the stable scene this year but one of the human actors is allergic to pork… and shellfish.”

“So, no pigs then… Or prawns.”

“No. S’pose not.”

“On my way to the auditions, one of the turkeys asked me to put in a good word for him. He told me he’d always dreamed of being on the stage. He’s a bit full of himself in my opinion. Strutting about barging the other birds out of the way.”

“Yes, I know the one you’re talking about. But there wouldn’t be any point recommending him for a part. Those turkeys are a flighty lot. No tenacity. It’s the same every Christmas… they keep swanning off. One minute they’re flapping about in their field. The next they’re gone.”

“What a shocking lack of commitment to Christmas.”

“Mmmm hmm.”

About the author 

 Dawn’s third book ‘Extraordinary’ has just been published by Bridge House Publishing. She has stories published in various anthologies, including horror and speculative fiction, as well as romances in women's magazines. Dawn has written a play to commemorate World War One, which has been performed in England, Germany and France. www.dawnknox.com

 

Career Prospect

Roger Noons

a small glass of camel’s milk.

 

‘So Aaron, you will be leaving school in six weeks time and I’ve been asked to talk to you about what you will do. Have you any ideas?’

    The lad shook his head.

    ‘Well, to start with, what’s your father’s job?’

    ‘Looks after camels.’

    ‘Might you like to follow in his footsteps?’

    ‘No way. Don’t like camels, horrible smelly things. Always spitting and far … doing nasty things.’

    ‘But you like animals, don’t you? Your teacher told me you always take the class hamster home during the school holidays. ‘

    ‘I like him. He’s funny, strokes his whiskers a lot and wheels round and round.’

    ‘Would you like to work with animals?’

   The lad nodded.

    ‘What about sheep? I know a shepherd, perhaps he’d take you as an apprentice.’

    ‘Yeah, I quite like sheep.’

    ‘Shepherds have dogs to help them. Nice friendly dogs.’

    ‘That sounds good,’ Aaron beamed.

    ‘There’s no glamour mind you, it can be many hours of hard work, particularly during lambing. Although it is thrilling to watch lambs gambolling around the fields. But you’d never be rich or famous.’

    ‘That’s all right.’

   ‘After all, nothing exciting or memorable ever happens in or near Bethlehem.’

Strangers in the Seasonal Night

Alan Cadman

 

Strong Black Coffee

It only happens when it’s dark. I can sense they are out there, but never hear them. This puzzles me; we have a squeaky gate in front of our house that opens out onto a long drive laid with crunchy gravel. A friend of mine is a crime prevention expert; she thinks it’s an excellent idea. I remember her saying, 'They don’t like to make any kind of noise. In and out, as quick as they can, that’s their policy.'

            It works well when our ‘postie’ arrives. Hinges squeal then gravel crunches as intended. When the letterbox flap is raised, cards and letters bounce off the mat; this is followed by a thud that seems louder than a door banging shut.

            So how come they are so elusive? Some December nights I’ve even peered through the bedroom window, a mug of strong black coffee in hand, to see if I can spot them. I’ve seen cats jumping fences and a fox skulking round a wheelie bin, even a badger scurrying across the lawn, but never that lot. Is this the modern way that some of our neighbours post their Christmas cards?

Bottled Christmas Spirit

Derek Corbett

single malt  

 

I remember that Christmas a couple of years ago as if it were yesterday.  The names of those involved in making the WW1 film, where at the end soldiers from both sides meet up to sing ‘Silent Night,’ was still scrolling on the screen when Amy, my son Jack’s fiancée at the time said.

‘It’s ‘Morecombe and Wise next. It’s a repeat, but still it’ll be a good laugh.’

That’s when my Mum asked where her Grandson was. I still remember the concerned look on Grandad’s face as her told her.

            ‘He left just a moment ago. Didn’t look to clever either.  I reckon it could have been the film.’

 Taking off her glasses she looked towards the lounge doorway.

‘I didn’t see him leave do you reckon he’s alright?’ 

That was enough to prompt Amy to get up and move towards the door announcing.

‘He’s ‘Post Traumatic thingy’ has been bothering him a bit today.. I’d better check.’

Even though it was twelve months since he’d had to retire from the Army, he was still trying to come to terms with his tours in Iraq and Afghanistan.  It had us watching him like a hawk which is why his Mum followed Amy out the room. 

Reappearing a few minutes later, Amy announced. ‘We’ve checked every room in the bungalow and his coat’s gone.’ 

‘Maybe he’s popped out for a walk round the Orchards,’ suggested his Gran.  Moments later, knowing the problem he was still trying to come to terms with.  His Grandad and I, Overcoats and Hats on with orders to find him, were hurrying across the bitterly cold yard.  Half way to the gate that leads out to, Pipp’s Apple and Plum Orchards, our family business Dad said.   

  

‘We don’t really need torches.’

             I guess that like me he was worried and felt he had to say something.  Even though it was obvious our presence had triggered the automatic floodlight system, making the yard brighter than daytime.  As we reached out to open the gate that led into the first field, the system timed out, leaving us in darkness.

Dad touched me on the shoulder and pointed towards the Packing shed as I reached for the torch in my pocket.

‘There’s a light in the shed Bill.’

              We walked quickly to the door and entered.  Although there was no sign of Jack, we did see the rope complete with noose hanging from a beam.

‘Jack,’ I called out, ‘you OK son?’ 

             It was stupid question really, what with his recent behaviour.  Immediately he appeared from one of the packing bays and stood there with an expression, somewhere between sheepishness and annoyance, on his face. Without saying a word his Grandad walked up to him and flung his arms around him. Immediately the lad began to cry.  I looked over the boy's shoulder and his granddad and I saw that like me, he had tears rolling down his cheeks.

 ‘What we going to do?’  I mouthed.

              Dad blinked and shook his head.

I knew I couldn’t take him back to his Mum in that state, so I suggested that we go and sit in the office for a bit. I switched on the electric fire and took out my almost full bottle of whisky from the filing cabinet. I whipped out three used mugs, and poured a generous helping into each.    

‘Now this is what I call Christmas spirit,’ joked Dad a little later as we sat around the desk sipping our Whiskey.  ‘Single Malt, your taste must have improved Bill, after the stuff you used to drink.’

Once again Dad was talking just for something to say, for when he ran the business up to a year ago; it had been his Whiskey we drank.  Then Dad suddenly looks at his Grandson and say’s.  

‘Do we have a serious problem Jack?’ 

             I thought it was being a bit blunt, but then Dad always was a bit of a straight talker. ‘Haven’t the people at the MOD place been able to help you?’ 

              Jack nodded without looking up.

‘A bit but I still get really bad days.'

‘And you reckon what you have out there, will answer your problem?’

‘I guess so,’ he mumbled.

‘OK, well I can see why it would be a solution, but before you go any further I’d like to tell you something about your family history, if you will listen.  Will you listen? I mean really listen?’

Jack nodded and looked up.  

‘Yes,’ 

‘Good.  Bill a touch more of that whisky, if you please.’

             Having no idea what he was about to say, I just added to the three mugs.

‘Nearly 100 years ago after the 14-18 punch up, your Great, Great, Grandad, came back from three years in the trenches.  Like you, he too had memories, as well as having lost some toes from foot rot.  When he got home he met and married your Great, Great Grandmother.  I remember her she was one strong minded woman. She talked him into renting and then buying a few fields, with some run down Apple and Plum trees in them. Time went by they had three sons and those fields became the start of the Orchards we work today.  Then World War II started and my Dad and his two Brothers were called up, my Dad was the only one to survive. Like you he came home trying to forget.  It was you’re Great, Great Gran and Grandad got him through it. He married your Great Gran and they had me. Against their advice, I too joined the army.  In fact I enjoy it so much I finished up with some special outfit helping the Yanks in Vietnam. Your Gran will tell you, how many times my nightmares have woken her.’

            ‘Then it was your Dads turn, unfortunately he came home from the Falklands not only with bad memories but also with half a leg missing.  You don’t need me to tell you how well he has come to terms with that.’  

‘I suppose what I’m trying to say is that some things take a while to come to terms with.  But the choices we make to cope with them do not have to be made on our own. That’s what families are for, to help you make a choice or even to give us a shoulder to cry on.

Jacks Grandad, pointed towards the packing bays.

 ‘Out there, is one solution to your problem, unfortunately it doesn’t solve the problems of those that love you and are left behind.  Do you see where I’m coming from son?’ 

            Jack remained looking into his mug a moment before answering.

“I see what you mean.”

“You give your young Amy a chance, along with the rest of us.  After a while, God willing, you’ll wonder what it was all about, especially when the kid’s come along.” 

After that we sat for some time in silence finishing off the bottle.  Then Jack gets up and walks out to the packing bay.  Taking down the rope he undoes the noose, coils the rope, and hangs it on the usual hook as if he were tidying up after a day’s packing.

I’m not saying that the Christmas spirit and Dad’s blunt talking solved his problem, but it was enough to make him consider the options.  Later, we left the empty whisky bottle and three mugs on the desk and  returned to the bungalow. We went back into the house singing our own rendition of ‘Silent night’ we made the excuse we had been talking family business. 

I knew that I'd have to tell  Jack's Mum the truth; she was looking at me suspiciously.

            ‘Well you missed a bloody good laugh on TV.’ 

This year the family, now including Jack and Amy’s noisy three year old twins, will again be staying with us.  So I expect it will be another traditional visit to the packing shed for some single malt Christmas spirit, followed by carols.

 

About the author  

Derek Corbett retired from the Petrochemical Industry as an Engineer in 2004.  Having had a story (Natural Recycle) included in an anthology published by Bridge House Publishing in 2015 and some success at Writing club level.  He decided to see how his writing, that started as a hobby in 1984, would be received when attempting to get it published.

O Come All Ye Faithful

Alan Cadman

 

A sip of red wine

How long will it be, I wonder, before Jingle Bells is regarded as a carol? Only the other day a young lad, of primary school age, sniggered as he confronted me. ‘Is Santa and Jesus the same person, mate?’ 

I wasn’t surprised at all by his comment; I get asked all sorts of diverse questions in my line of work. What did astonish me was the way he called me mate in such an impertinent way. I just replied, ‘Have a nice Christmas,’ because I didn’t really know the truthful answer any more.

When I was in my teens, and of a more cynical nature, I used to delight in finding errors in the well-known story. I would deride the tale about shepherds tending their flocks on that night.  I asked my friends, ‘Have you ever been to Bethlehem in December? Let me tell you, from experience, it is very cold.’ 

Obvious facts would be punctuated with my opinions. ‘The climate hasn’t changed there for at least two thousand years. If the couple did go there it would probably have been in early autumn. At that time the temperature could have reached up to thirty degrees centigrade. That’s when sheep would have been on hills with their shepherds watching over them.’ I really did think I was the clever one.

As I grew older I became far less sceptical and began to bond more and more with the Christian faith. Now, in my mature years, I am questioning my beliefs. For most of my adult life I have always liked to be part of something special on Christmas Eve. I invite people round to my “house” to celebrate with a sip of wine and some music. Just turn up before midnight; the more the merrier has always been my motto. 

After much deliberation, especially how Christmas is valued today, I have decided that tonight is the last time I am ever going to be involved in this tradition. Not only that, I fear it will be my last time as a Christian as well. I finger my collar; look down at the vestments I am wearing. The pure white of my surplice, over the black cassock, gives me an unwanted air of superiority. 

My mouth goes dry as I hear myself reciting from Luke, chapter 2, verses ten to eleven. Everyone is now standing; organist ready to strike the first chord. I think of the young lad who asked me about Jesus and Santa recently. I bite my lip, as I nearly announce Jingle Bells instead of hymn number 196, O Come All Ye Faithful.

* * *

About the author 

Alan has been writing short stories for ten years. In 2011 he made the short list for one story and a prize winner for flash fiction. He also won first prize, of £100, in a poetry competition in 2013. The three accolades were awarded by the best-selling UK magazine for writers. His work has been read out on Internet radio and published in hard copy magazines and e-zines.

Emergency

Roger Noons

 

a pint of Worcestershire cider, from the barrel

 

 

‘Emergency, which service do you require?’

    ‘Will you send an ambulance please, to Valley Farm, Lindbridge, the field opposite the Woolpack pub. A chap was helping himself to my mistletoe, looks like he’s fallen off his ladder.’

 

    The senior paramedic, John, talking into a mobile phone, was watching his partner carrying out resuscitation procedures. Brings a whole new meaning to kissing under the mistletoe, he thought. When the partner shook his head, John switched off and walked back to the ambulance. ‘Thank God we’re close to the gate.’ he muttered, as he withdrew the trolley. 

 

    As soon as the man’s clothes were cut away, the pathologist identified a gun shot wound. ‘What’s the name of that farmer?’ she called out.