Mary Ann

Audacious would I call Mary Ann
Little minx quite aware of her charms
She smiled and flirted her way up
From mere office girl to bosses aide
Who probed and check us minion's work

Granted that she had got her degree
It was the way she'd spoken to us
At school she'd kiss each one for fun
Thinking she could control us now
As though that gift was some kind of deal

That was not the case with Thomas Bates
Left school and missed that gift of hers
Thought dating would be a good idea
The joke then made a terrible turn
She turned him down, and his fate was sealed

This all happened at the end of Spring
But I learned of it much later on
His corpse was found close to a farm gate
Meanwhile the culprit was rounded up
Young Mary Ann copped a fifteen year span

Image found at https://pixabay.com/en/business-lady-woman-girl-computer-3560922/

I wake up screaming

I wake up screaming only then
Do the ashes of the past
Drift slowly away

My heart's now thumping in my chest
Just what, where, and when was this
And why are you here?

Slowly it all comes back to me
I am free and rinsed clean
Was found not guilty

Funny that after all this time
Having got out of this mess
You still stir the pot

Will you never leave me alone?
Submitting me to all this pain
I only shot once

Image found at www.favim.com

The country cottage

We had just moved house into a country cottage to retire because it had beautiful views.

Downsizing meant we had a few pieces that wouldn't fit so we took a look at the old attic for a temporary storage place.

It was bare except for an old trunk shoved under the eaves shrouded with cobwebs.

My wife was delighted hoping to find treasures or secrets from the previous owners.

After some difficulty I managed to get the lid open to reveal its contents.

My wife screamed and then I realized that moving was not a good idea after all.

Image found at www.hookedonhouses.net

Death in Venice (with apologies to Thomas Mann)

Rosie was tired. She couldn't walk another step. Ben escorted her back to the Hotel room and without more ado she put her feet up, lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. Speaking as if drugged she murmured to Ben.
"You go for another explore if you want to, but I really must rest before dinner."

Ben secretly was quite pleased, he could cover much more ground on his own and they wouldn't be waylaid by the host of souvenir and trinket shops that seemed to be placed there just for Rosie's enjoyment.

It was their second night in Venice and they had both fallen in love with the place for different reasons. Rosie for the charming atmosphere of colourful lanes, bobbing gondolas and the ubiquitous shops. Ben on the other hand was absorbed by the people and the textures of the city. He marvelled at the oily reflections in quiet back street canals, the ancient crumbling facades of villas now long past their prime, and at the Venetians themselves, almost hidden in the crowds of tourists, going about their daily business, artisans at work, stall holders in conversation, and porters and boatmen constantly on the move, shifting the goods, luggage, food, wine and garbage that either had to be borne into the canalled city or borne out again. It was a city where no vehicle could enter and where boats and hand carts carried all. Over the cobbles, over the bridges, over the steps, out the present and into the past.

Ben had already taken a hundred shots on the camera, and he had no intention of stopping now. He slipped out of the hotel again and with his Pentax at the ready, wandered off the main shopping lanes, into the quieter, darker, more mysterious side of Venice. He snapped at the angled alleyways, the street signs, the prowling cats, the iron screens and the anonymous windows. He took pictures of churches, bridges, canal steps, statuettes of saints in niches, pigeons on ledges, and vistas that spoke of the city, its past and its people.

Ben got hopelessly lost. But he reveled in the feeling. It was as though the city was taking him over. He was slowly being absorbed into the paving slabs, the worn masonry, the crumbling tiles. The pastel colours all about him were a reflection of this satisfied feeling. He was really part of Venice.

The evening was drawing in. The shadows cast by the buildings were proving too much for photography. Yet as he turned again in to a another alley he found at it's end an opening that led out onto the smallest of docks off the Grand Canal. The old narrow stone steps, worn by feet for hundreds of years were polished smooth into concave shapes. The water of the canal lapped at the bottom steps and the view of the medieval palaces, lit now by the last light of the setting sun were quickly captured by Ben and stored away. He sat for some minutes on the steps as the darkness enveloped the city on the sea. He breathed in the scent of ocean, the sweet smell of decay in the wet stones and the occasional whiff of diesel smoke from the motorised boats still plying Venice's main thoroughfare.

The sun had set. He got up and turned back to the narrow entrance of the alley. The small courtyard away from the main canal was frightening now. It was gloomy and unfriendly. The interesting shapes of doorways, windows and arches were lost and the colours that gave it a beauty only a short time before were transformed into hideous greys and blues and blacks.

Ben walked warily back to another connecting lane. No warm lights shone in windows, no friendly sounds could be heard. He felt very much alone. Again his path turned and took him to another courtyard, but before he reached it he could hear voices. But the voices were not friendly. There was an argument going on. Ben paused a few feet back from the little square. Two men were there. They shouted. They gesticulated. They pushed at each other. One, a small dark man no more than twenty, was very angry. Ben could just see his black curly hair and the shiny olive skin of his face. He was young and handsome and his dark eyes shone in the remaining light, like fire. The other was an older man. Bigger build and balding. He sneered at the younger one and seemed to taunt him. Ben kept quiet, hoping they would settle it soon, so he could get back to a main route with tourists and lights and shops.

Should he walk by them? Hardly. The little square was so small he would have to brush by one of them, at the very least. He squeezed his body back into a corner to avoid being seen. His anxious breath came out in stifled gasps.

The argument had extended beyond the shoving and pushing. The younger man screamed at the other. Again the older man laughed off the abuse. With that the younger one with a speed that chilled Ben to the bone, drew a knife and lunged at his adversary.

The argument ceased.

The utter quiet of death filled the courtyard stones.

As the older man slumped to the ground the young man held him tight. He eased him down and as the other's life expired he cradled the man's head in his arms. When he was sure that it was all over he laid the body gently onto the flagstones, made a sign of the cross and pocketed his knife. He got up, brushed himself down and looked around before he took his leave. His eyes caught sight of Ben hiding in the alley.

Ben froze. He thought that as a witness he would not be allowed to live. His only escape was to return to the canal and to jump in. The young man studied Ben for barely a second. Took in his camera, his clothes and his fear. Their eyes met. Then slowly he shook his head.

He started to walk briskly away. Just before he disappeared he turned and called out to Ben, "Una bella morte."

'A beautiful death'.

Then he vanished into the night.

(Photo of Venice by Author)

Pigs might fly

Just look at us in this photograph. That's Derek on the rocking horse, my rocking horse. Can you see the way he is leaning over towards me? He was trying to push me out of view. He always dominated me as a child, not any more though.
"Let's use the children's nursery", said the lady photographer, her commanding manner completely silenced mother who had planned on the Sun room.
She eyed both of us for a moment, then again without consulting Mother, who looked on in admiration at this woman's confidence, told Derek to mount the Rocking horse. I think it was all to do with the way we dressed. I was wearing button up boots a little straight tie at my neck, and was a quiet boy. Derek on the other hand, wore buckle shoes, a shoulder collar with a large tie belonging to Father at his neck. Clearly flamboyant just like her. He was a pushy little boy and had a cheeky manner which clearly endeared him to her. So he sat on my rocking horse.
I was instructed to rest my hand lightly on his leg, some sign of filial affection I suppose. He pushed me away several times but eventually gave in and consented to picture being taken, as you see it now.
For years Derek was the bane of my life. I don't say that we competed against each other, far from it. I tried desperately to avoid contact with him, but it was no good. As soon as we were out of sight of our parents, I would suffer the pinching and the pushing. I dreaded lest I ever got praised by aunties, uncles or friends; it would only result in a glare from Derek, then later true retribution would be loosed.
"Doesn't Billy look smart in his new school cap?"
My heart sank, please don't let Derek hear. But it was no good, he had. Later the cap was torn from my head and thrown in the bushes and I was given a punch.
"Your boys are so sweet, but Billy looks so sad."
I was sad indeed later when Derek had whacked me with a birch twig. I had learned not to complain, that would only bring admonishment for telling fibs.
"He's your brother, Billy, of course he wouldn't do that."
More often than not, Mother would plead, "Why can't you two boys play nicely together. Do try to be good, Billy."
I don't believe we ever played nicely together as Mother put it. I cannot bear to remember the indignities I was put to when we were alone together. I have never liked gardening because of the episodes with the snails and the worms...
I cannot for the life of me understand why my parents ignored the fact that it was always me that came running back with, grazed knees and elbows, cut fingers, a bloody nose and eventually a broken arm.
This last incident happened when were coming home from school, with Derek's friend Brian. They were laughing and joking, when Derek turned around to see me smiling at what they were saying. I don't remember what could have been so funny then, to allow me to be so careless. Derek stopped and strode back to where I was. He lifted his fist and I fell back on the grass verge to avoid him. He stopped, then jumped on me with both feet. Desperately I raised a protective hand, only to receive his full weight on that arm. I remember thinking at the time that something bad had happened to me but it didn't hurt as much as a slap in the face, or his special Chinese burn. This time however the pain didn't go away and I couldn't move my fingers.
Derek and his friend had gone on. I managed to stagger up and support the broken arm, with the other. Crying tears of hurt and anger, I stumbled home.
I never told what happened, when my parents discovered I couldn't use the arm.
"I fell out of a tree."
"You are so careless Billy, why can't you behave like Derek?"
Soon my possession of a plaster cast became as unwelcome as that inadvertent grin which had caused the broken limb. Now I only had one arm to defend myself.
So my tormented life as a child continued.
As a teenager I hardly ever spoke to Derek, but I knew by his looks at me he was still longing for the day when an opportunity would arise for some physical or mental abuse.
My first girlfriend as a teenager was Iris Watkins, looking back now, I can see her face. A round smiley freckled face, surrounded by a mass of curly brown hair. She seemed to like me, and I was proud to be with her. We walked home together from school and in Blackberry Lane out of sight of the houses I held her hand. She was warm and friendly and her mother always welcomed me in their cottage, plying me with drinks and home made cake. Then one day she was gone from my life for ever. Later I found out that she had called for me on the way to school and Derek had been at the garden gate. Whatever he said to her was enough to end our relationship.
Luckily our ways parted when we got jobs and I had to get a tiny flat in town where I worked as a clerk. For some years my life was free from his bullying. Those were halcyon days indeed. There was the Cricket Club, the local girls at the Town Hall dances and the exhilaration of being my own person. These were the best times in my life.
But it all had to end.
The first letter I received was a polite request for a bill to be paid, which the writer stated must surely be a result of an oversight. I was puzzled, I owed no money at all to anyone. Then before I had dealt with that one other demands came in. They became more impatient. The words 'unless' and 'legal proceedings', were quoted. Frantically I contacted the firms involved. Goods and services had been booked in my name giving my address, but had not been paid for. Every time the shop the shop had been given the instruction to send the account to me. In those days tradesmen trusted customers. I even called at the establishments concerned. My suspicions were clearly centering on Derek.
I had to confront him.
He no longer lived with Mother, so I wrote a postcard asking him to call on me that evening. I half expected him not to bother but at 8.00 p.m. precisely, my door bell rang.
He stood at the door. His eyes were laughing but his mouth sneered at me. Arrogant as usual he walked past me before I could ask him in.
"So this is where little Billy lives?"
Avoid confrontation. Act sensibly. Use reason. All these thoughts went through my mind.
"Derek let me come right to the point. These accounts that you have put in my name. I cannot pay them."
He looked quizzically at me, probably wondering what I would say next.
"I know that we have never got on." I went on. "But why on earth didn't you let me know you were short of cash, and we could have come to some sort of agreement."
"Short of cash!" he laughed. "Pigs might fly, I could buy and sell you ten times over."
This was probably true. He had a better job than I, and according to Mother he had now invested in some property. He was refusing to take the easy way out now and give up by saying it was all a silly game.
"O.K. then Derek. So what is it all about?
"It's all about making you squirm." He said maliciously. "You are such a fool, you need to be taught a lesson. It is so good to see you hurt."
With that he came over to me and pushed at my chest with his right hand. I fell against the fireplace. I reached out to steady myself against the mantelpiece. I missed and knocked the fire irons over and finished up in heap by the empty hearth.
He laughed and stepped forward to kick me as I was down. I picked up the poker to defend myself and jabbed at him as he came upon me. The tip of the poker pierced his thigh. A strange look came over him. It was a mixture of hurt and surprise. He looked around for something to hit me with but before he could find anything I got up on my feet and struck him . The poker this time hit him in the jaw. I have never felt such satisfaction. It was not just the hit, it was the way the jaw broke and the feeling transmitted through the poker to my hand. I was exhilarated. He could not utter a sound but attempted to cradle his face in his hands. I wanted to hear him cry out. But he couldn't, he was spoiling my game. I struck him again. A look of sheer terror now came to his eyes. Yes! Little Billy was fighting back. Now he was whimpering. He tried to avoid my next blow but still had to take it on the shoulder. He crumpled there in front of me. He was trying to scream but nothing came out, except a few bloody bubbles. He rocked himself unable to tend all of his injuries. So I hit him again, right across the temple. He gave up attempting to protect himself and said no more. It was all over for him.
I sat down exhausted.
All I could think of was that I would have to pay those bills now.
I stayed sitting quietly for some time. Derek didn't do a lot either. He was quite dead.
Then I got out the family photographs to look at. Just to see what we were like when we were younger. Now here is that one I was telling you about. The one where we are together with Derek sitting on my rocking horse. He shouldn't have should he? Because this little piggy did fly.

Black & white photograph found in a Trash & Treasure store by author

On the Scent (or the day I said Yes)

I never met Rodney Bowles. No, that is not true, but when I did meet him we couldn't resolve our differences. For years our Writer's group had met at the Community Centre, it was cheapest place we could find. It cost us a dollar a head when we used the tatty room where we read our pieces and imagined we were Adelaide's Bloomsbury Set!
Rodney was the new Centre Administrator and I suppose when he looked through the books, the first thing he did was to increase all fees at the Centre in an attempt to get it to break even. We all thought that when he was appointed an efficient young manager would be an improvement. Several weeks later we all wished he was dead. Unfortunately I was the one that said it.
"Three dollars," I screamed at the November meeting. "That is utter extortion."
"Well I won't be able to come in future," said Maisie Wivel.
I nodded grimly, holding back a smile. 'No more drivel from Wivel,' I imagined the others saying. I deliberately averted my face so that I wouldn't catch their eyes and burst out laughing.
There was mumbling all round. Many of our group were on a pension and would find it hard. Meals of bread and scrape and starving cats and dogs were forecast. The pleaded with me to do something. So I said "Yes"
"The stupid man would be better off dead. I'll have to go to see him, and see if we can't get some sort of concession."
They all nodded in agreement.
In turn they echoed my sentiments, in a modified form.
"Best if he'd never come."
"Why didn't he stay where he was."
And the pathetic Winnie, who I am sure was slightly simple said, " I hate change. It unsettles me."
So it was that I decided to grab a meeting with him one evening after I had finished work. The evenings were drawing in and that night storm clouds scudded across a darkening sky. Rain was promised and that wonderful scent of dampened dust was already in the air.
"Keep calm, don't lose your cool," I instructed myself. Despite this my own vivid imagination had me thumping his desk, punching his nose and wrestling with him on the floor. As I had never met him, he was weak and ineffectual in my mind and easily succumbed to my superior strength and intellectual prowess.
The car safely parked, I strode towards the Community Centre. Rain was spitting down. The wind was blowing the tall pine trees and making them howl in protest. As I went in through the door a woman was leaving.
"Is Rodney Bowles in there?"
She had a folded newspaper over her bowed head ready for the rain. It shielded her face but in answer she mumbled something about a passage. I leaned toward her.
"Beg yours?"
"He's down the passage."
A waft of her scent engulfed me. I reeled back stifled. When I looked up again. She had hurried away, her high heeled shoes clip clopping on the concrete drive.
I went in through the open door. The passage was long and dark and lit only by the last rays of light from that stormy evening. The windows to the west glowed feebly while those to the east were already black. The offices were in darkness, so I made my way along the passage, one hand feeling in front of me. The passage turned then turned again. Already I had lost all sense of direction.
The wind whistled outside, a shutter banged and with eerie regularity a chain rattled. I stopped, straining to hear. I thought I could hear footsteps but it was only the wind.
Bang! A door slammed and I jumped.
"Excuse me," I shouted.
My call was echoed by the empty passages. There was no reply. On I went.
The passage way ended at a door. The door led into a large playroom. Huge mobiles in the shapes of animals hung from the ceiling. In the half light their grotesque shapes swung in the wind. Every now and then an animal face would leer at me then flick around again. The wind was coming from an open door leading into a garden. There outside the sound of the chains again could again be heard as a child's swing kept hitting it's supporting posts. The rain was heavier now. It splashed into the room and already the down pipes gushed their incy wincy spiders and water on to the garden area.
I strained my eyes in the dark. Was there somebody out there?
"Mr. Bowles, are you there?"
Nothing.
I peered out. Yes there was someone there. In the rain, slumped forward in a wheelchair, well that was a surprise, he was disabled. He didn't say a word.
"Is that you, Mr. Bowles? Can I help you in?"
Silence.
"Are you all right?"
Damn the man, I didn't want to get wet as well. I would have to go and help him after all.
Rodney Bowles was quite wet. He was quite dead too. A kitchen knife was stuck in his back.
Now tell me this. Why did I move him? He wasn't complaining about the rain, was he? But for some unexplained reason I thought it would be best to bring him inside. More comfy for him I suppose. So my fingerprints were on his wheel chair. Behind him as well!
So why did I touch the knife? Just don't ask me. Perhaps I thought he would get better without a boning knife between his ribs. He didn't.
Well one thing in my favour was that I called the police.
Wrong. It never entered my mind. I got the hell out of there as fast as my feet would take me. Pity I didn't think of all the clues I was leaving behind.
I was amazed at how quickly they wanted me to help with their questioning. They were up earlier than me the next morning, banging on the door at five thirty. Betty just turned over and went back to sleep, while I accompanied them to the station.
I'd like to say how helpful all my fellow writers were. They were able to quote my exact words of the previous Monday evening by rote. Every one of them.
"I believe sir, that your said of Mr. Bowles; 'Stupid man would be better off dead.' Is that correct?" The detective questioned me with grim determination.
Now, to be fair, they did listen to my explanation. They had my statement typed up, neatly double spaced. This I duly signed and they witnessed it. Forensic had a ball, my finger nails have never been so clean.
But you ask, what of the mystery woman? Sadly my description of her was incredibly vague. All I could give them was a folded newspaper, clip clopping shoes and an unidentified perfume. That's the trouble with men, they are not very observant. I could never remember what Betty was wearing, so why should I remember what a complete stranger had on in the dark, when I had gone to see Rodney Bowles, not her. So I agree that things don't look good for me. What makes it worse though, by saying yes, is that I didn't even get the fees reduced.