IT HAPPENED AGAIN

Julie listened to her Grandma rambling on. As she talked she held an ornate pink trinket box covered with gold flowers to her breast.

"Grandma you always hug that box. What's in it? You said you would tell me at the right time."

"Fm going back in time to World War Two. It was a 2Tl birthday present from my husband." She lifted the lid. In it was a gold wedding ring, a R.A.F. badge and a photograph of a handsome young man. " These things are all I have to remember him. He was killed three months before I had our daughter."

Many years later Grandma went on holiday to Egypt and was taken to where her husband was killed. The place was desolate. There was no movement or sound. It was eerily quiet. She was in the dessert where her husband had fought General Rommel. Commander of the Afrika Korps. He was buried nearby with hundreds of other young men. A man stood smoking his pipe and his dog was nearby. He was the Warden of the War Cemetary.

Grandma was now an eighty year old smartly groomed lady. She slipped off her coat as she waited for her grand daughter and great granddaughter. She was at The Ant Restaurant in Hexham which is a popular place, filled mostly with women chatting whilst waiting for their lunch to be prepared. The swish of the expresso machine combined with clinks of crockery and music playing were in the background.

She looked around and it was like watching a film or a dream.The women she could see in the cafe doing things were different parts of her. She knew exactly how it felt to be all of them. She was that innocent girl sitting opposite her first love. How delirious she felt. In love with the magic of it. She was the radiant young mother so happy to have two children. She was the busy housewife, her days full of giving love on demand. Her grand daughter arrived. How distraught she was. How well she understood her story. It had been the same searing pain for her. Unbearable grief. How could she live without him? They looked at each other for several moments.

Her grand daughter's husband was in the Army. He had been killed in Afghanistan by a roadside bomb. History had repeated itself.

Sobbing, the young and the old women held hands in their grief.

Stella Rutherford.

_______________________________________ __________________

FAMOUS LAST WORD

'Lovely day, Dick.'

A voice, muffled within a sleeping bag grunted, 'Good.'

We were in Scotland to climb Ben Nevis. Not as mountaineers, merely friends using a tourist route to the top of Britain's highest hill.

Glen Nevis camp site was buzzing with activity. We showered and carried out the manly ritual of preparing a full English breakfast that would sustain us for the day. It was far too much food for a task you could do pushing a handcart. Finally, dressed in Gortex and expensive dubbined boots, we lifted rucksacks on to our backs, both sacks packed with enough gear to climb Everest, after which we left the site feeling smug, hoping to be identified as real climbers risking our lives on rickety ridges.

Sun shone from a high pressure April sky as we crossed fields leading to the rock-strewn highway, winding its way to the top. A straggling procession was ascending, so we would have to wait for a chat with returning pilgrims. Instead both of us withdrew into a semi meditative state, heads down, staring at the path minds ready for blister pain.

A quotation came to mind, in which a mountaineer was asked why he climbed mountains. The reply was. 'Because they're there." It's strange how we admire somebody who climbs a mountain, only to clamber back down, yet we ridicule stamp collectors and train spotters. At least they are left with tangible trophies.

My muse was broken as a couple came into view. They had reached their day- trip limit and were returning to Fort William for fish and chips. The lady was wearing a flimsy floral dress and four inch high heels. She complained that going up was hard but returning almost impossible. The mountainerte left, picking her way over slippery rocks, squealing...

I will not bore you with rock by rock description as they are very much alike, instead we will fast forward to scree slopes below the summit.

Unfortunately temperature differentials had created a thick fog at the snow-line, we should have called it a day, returning to our tent, regaling those who would listen with lies about clever compass work in adverse conditions but we moved forward, crunching on indented footprints, walking into a cotton wool cloud.

The summit plateau was reached and we strode forward, intending to find the old observatory but forward is confusing in fog. We referred to our compass but without reference points and the inability to trust our own judgement we were lost. The air was still and not a voice could be heard, which led to confusion.

Confusion is closely related to panic that made me freeze and Dick to bound forward. It was illogical but maybe he was working on the premise that all routes led down. My friend had covered ten yard before I realised the north face, with its sheer drop could be close. The compass confirmed he was moving in that perilous direction and my famous last words were, 'Dick. Stop, come back!'

A few more crunching steps, a scream then silence, causing my last anguished word to be. 'Crap.'

John Frostick

SOMETHING I WISH I HADN'T SAID

Larry Johnson was a well known actor. He had returned from a tour around major European cities, Paris, Berlin and Brussels. The tour had been a success but he was exhausted He had also been in comedy serials on the T.V. but was taking a well earned rest in the Dominican Republic with a party of friends.

"Here's a large envelope for you marked urgent," his wife Sandra said handing it to him. Inside was the script for a new adventure film.

"I've read the script and it isn't the type of person I like to play. It isn't suitable for me. I need romance. The character gets caught in an avalanche and does dangerous things. It's not my type of acting so I 'm sending the script back," Larry said. "Send a letter to my Agent. Tell him the script is unsuitable for me. I need more comedy with a little light romance. Stories more like Inspector Blackton."

Months later the film was made and it was a world wide success. It was the first James Bond film shown and was full of daring stunts, love affairs and lots of danger, beautiful scenery and outrageous puns.

"Turning down that James Bond script, which was a world wide success, was a big mistake. I wish I hadn't said it wasn't suitable for my personality. I would have found world wide fame and become a hero," Larry said.

The telephone rang. It was his Agent. "Are you O.K. Situation still the same?"

"Yes. I need to rest."

" O.K. fine. However there's a job for you in New York They'll pay you well, rent an apartment for you and drive you to the set and back. I won't pressure you. I know you're feeling tired but think about it. It's a very good deal and could even win an American award. You've got to think of the future."

"The answer is no. I'm not interested in going to America."

Stella Rutherford.

_______________________________________ _____________________

HYPNOCHROME: arriving at an idea for a futuristic Crime Thriller

These days on t.v., it seems that there's a growing amount of implausible science fiction - giving good s.f. a bad name. I would include the relaunched Dr. Who in that, but as it is my wife likes it, together with Heroes and this formed my none preferred weekend evening viewing for sometime. 'Heroes' is where everyone goes about their 20th century contemporary business and in their midst are the central characters with superpowers, and not just those of the Champions of the 60's -1 mean I saw one of them fly straight up like a rocket in the middle of a session on an electoral podium, with only the background explanation mat they had a genetic difference. Yet this was not significant enough for them to look any different in their inactive state. Plus the fact that none amongst the enormous variety of life on Earth exploit, as this example, a method of rocket propulsion which tends to suggest it is impossible. The nearest may be the flea and its enormous jump in relation to its size, but then this is more like spring loading, whereas this guy from other exploits and episodes, has a means of defying gravity. I see these tilings as more designed to show us how clever they are with CGI (Computer Graphics Interfacing) man anything else.

It was with my wife's preferences in mind that I started watching 'Fast Forward'. For her sake as she was late in the bath and I intended to bring her up to the minute when she returned to the living room, our 'pause live tv' device not doing that as an old scrapper (no scrap allowance though). Anyway this one is about something happening seemingly deliberate, by some evil genius, giving citizens a preview of their lives some months ahead. The chaos in their life plans seem to disrupt society, future affairs with the unlikely, policemen glimpsing future murder investigations and trying to stop events, also some with a blank - believing therefore they didn't have a future, and they can be dangerous - worse than just live-for-the-moment type people.

So then a bathrobed image walks across my view and almost before I had given my personal playback she said, 'Oh well that's no good then what's on the other side?' as she immediately started channel surfing. 'I thought you'd be ok with that, or at least give it a chance,' I responded. 'No! If s not exiting enough - too plain.'

I didn't need to do much more than pull a face, as she knows my view of Dr. Who, expecting you to accept a hospital building with folks looking out of the open windows finding themselves having been transported intact to the moon. I remember my remark too, 'Whey! Wonders never cease', and her's, 'Shut up you, your spoiling it!'

'Anyway,' she said presently, 'write yourself... what you might expect of such a story,'

Prompted I became, with thinking cap on in the echoey quiet of my soak in the bath (one of my best times and places for creative thought) and it wasn't long before it was there :-

In our world of one-per-desk/one-per- most home computing, and the ubiqitous internet, this must be a way to mass or indeed a selective hypnosis... and whilst I knew from two voluntary experiences at the Dentist, when I was kid that it worked, I was also aware of the apparent total takeover in stage hypnotism - getting people to appear to do anything and not remember.

So then hypnotism through the screen. It would have to be subliminal for it to be say recruiting assassins. Doesn't matter if they're caught - means they're one job only, but then they're most unlikely ordinary folk, and with no motive and no readily evident link... I know it means men only, but using colour blindness. Those colour dot images where normal vision sees one tiling and they see another - the instruction where to pick up the weapon and where to target! Having been lured by a self help or a club type website. That's where to do the hypnotic thing , triggered later - that's it!

Do they get found out? Maybe through a spouse of a female investigator, staring at the dot pic, realises its something her husband got tested on when he wanted to be an electrical apprentice in the old days, and failed the requirements. She brings him over to the screens with her colleagues permission, to hopefully prove something, and there he sees the instruction. Sure enough, medical records of the assassins show this, although not all, as there is no treatment and some may not have known of this chromosomal abnormality.

They may have difficult getting to the 'Evil Genius', but interception and deprogramming is their first way to stop it.

There you are! A thriller, a bit of science which is plausible, what else do you need? After I covered this with my closest critic, as we lay back on the pillows in the dark, her reply wasn't negative. It was just light remarks really, in the form mild reassuring snores.

Mike Atkinson.

The Memory Book.

As soon as I got to the home and saw that Elisha's bags were in the hall, I knew that another fostering placement had broken down. In the office, the manager was dealing was a pile of paperwork. 'Do me a favour', he said, inclining his head towards the lounge, 'and see if you can find out what went wrong.'

We both knew what had gone wrong - she'd been seeing 'ghosts' again - but all I said was Tm just a trainee. I'm not sure I can...'

'You're a lot nearer her age that I am, and besides, she might talk to another female', he said dismissively, so I went to see if I could get any sense out of Elisha.

She was quite tall for a twelve-year- old, a bit overweight and probably none too bright, but she wasn't any bother really, apart from all the hysterical screaming about seeing ghosts. It had been decided that it was just attention-seeking, but no-one wants to put up with that in the middle of the night.

I remembered my training and tried to engage her by accepting what she said. 'So you've seen a ghost?' I asked.

'Yes'

'What does this ghost look like?'

'It looks like my Mum. It's how I remember her.'

'Why is that so frightening?'

'Because my Mum's dead.'

'Elisha, your Mum's not dead. You know that.'

'She is!'

'No, no, she went to Ireland, with a... a friend. You Gran told us.'

'She wouldn't have left. She wouldn't!' Elisha was almost shouting now.

'I know it's hard to think about that, but she probably thought you'd be alright with your Gran. She couldn't have known that your Gran was going to become so unwell.'

Elisha spoke slowly, as if explaining something to a child. 'She wouldn't have left because she couldn't manage on her own. She needed my Gran to help her take her pills and things.'

'But even so', I said, 'you can't possibly be sure that she's dead.'

'Yes I can' she said.

'How?'

'Because I killed her!'

I felt as if crystals of ice were forming under my skin. Suddenly, the interview was out of control and I had no idea how to retrieve it. I covered my ears with my hands to block out further revelations, but then I realized that I was the adult in that situation. 'That can't be true Elisha', I said firmly. 'You were just a little girl.'

'I was ten.'

Tell me what you think happened.' I was sure that I would be able to demolish any story she came up with.

'I was making toast with my Gran. We couldn't get the crusts into the toaster, but my Gran said that when she was a little girl, they used to toast bread on the fire. I wanted to try it, so we stuck a fork into a crust and tried to toast it on Gran's gas fire.'

'Did it work?'

'No, course not. But we had a great laugh.'

'Then what happened?'

'She came home.'

'Your mum?'

'Yes, her. She was... she was definitely drunk. And she'd been with a man. She had one of those marks on her neck. Gran had to try and calm her down.'

'How did you feel?'

Elisha seemed to be concentrating hard about on the question, then she shrugged.

'Did your Gran manage to calm her down?'

'Sort of. She could hardly stand, anyway, and she just collapsed onto the couch. That's when I did it.'

'No Elisha, you didn't do anything.' I was aware of the pleading in my voice.

'I did. She knocked a cushion onto the floor, and I picked it up. Then I held it over her face.'

'No Elisha. No! That didn't happen. You wouldn't have been strong enough.'

'She was very drunk. She put her hands up to grab the pillow, but she couldn't pull it off.' Elisha's hands were kneading the fabric at the hem of her school shirt, and then she let them fall limply into her lap.

I took a deep breath, but the air didn't have enough substance to fill my lungs. My voice sounded high and strained, even to myself.. 'So Elisha let's get this straight. You killed your mother, and then what? The body just disappeared. Is that what you're trying to tell me?'

'Things don't just disappear.'

'I know that but...'

'Well why did you say it? You think I'm stupid, but I'm not! What do think my Gran would do? Call the police?' Elisha paused briefly, as if waiting for an answer, then said flatly, 'She knew what I'd done, all right, so she called my Uncle Joe.'

'Is he the one who...'

'Yes, him. He won't say anything. When he gets out he'll want to stay out.'

'What did he do?'

'He said that they should bury her, so they wrapped the... my Mum... up in an old curtain. Then they put it in the back of Joe's van. They were gone ages, and when they came back they said that they had done it. Buried her. I didn't know where at the time. They never said. They told me I had to forget all about it, but my Gran never forgot.'

I tried to work out what she'd said. 'You didn't know at the time?' I asked.

'I do now!' she said in triumph, and before I could stop her, she ran out and rummaged in one of her bags. When she came back, she handed me a piece of yellowed newsprint. I didn't want to read it, but I had to. A man walking his dog in the woods had found some human remains. The unknown woman had been buried in a shallow grave, but the body had probably been disturbed by animals. It was impossible to tell how she had died. An appeal was made to the public for help, but the only clue was the piece of fabric she was wrapped in, which had a distinctive pattern of a blue trellis with yellow roses intertwined through it.

Suddenly, I could see what must have happened. She had found out about the discovery and had woven a fantasy around it. She hadn't realized that her attempt to get attention could mean that she had to spend the rest of her childhood in a children's home.

I left her sitting there and went to the office to report on our conversation, but the manager wasn't much interested. He handed me a few photographs and an album. 'Be a love and stick these in for me', he said.

The album was Elisha's memory book. All the young people had them. They were meant to help them keep track of where they've been and who's been looking after them. I flicked through Elisha's. There wasn't a lot in it, but I was suddenly curious to see what her mother -'the ghost'- looked like. I found one of the two of them sitting on a blanket, probably in the grandmother's garden. Elisha was smiling dutifully at the camera, but her mother was staring into the middle distance. I was just about to close the book when I noticed something that made me gasp out loud. They weren't sitting on a blanket. They were sitting on an old curtain or bedspread, which had an distinctive pattern of a blue trellis entwined with yellow roses

Joyce Phillips

_______________________________________ _____________________

Tantalising by Janette Alexander

My two friends and I were meeting for our the first shopping expo since the festive season. The afternoon jaunt always included a pot of tea for two, one coffee and three danish pastries, in our favourite store. Heading towards the large glass doors we paused to pity the once vivacious 'models' now looking cold and lonely in the empty windows. Covered in dust cloths with the undignified word, 'sale' running in red vertical strips the full length of the cloth, they posed against a back- drop bereft of colourful displays. In all, a clear statement that it was definitely the end of the festive season.

We laughed as we remembered our last meeting. One of our trio had pulled us to a halt as we passed the festive window, crying 'Oh, how tantalising!' We paused to look at the Christmas window^bedecked with sparkling garlands. Shining gold bobbles and silver spheres swung lightly in a shimmering profusion. Rainbows of ever- changing hues from overhead strobes encompassed the scene, a gimmick that emphasised the wonder in the display of the 'sooo,' expensive toys. It most certainly was tantalising.

'Tantalising? That wasn't the words I'd use.' I’d thought as I’d observed young mothers, exhausted from tugging ineffectually at wailing off- springs, screaming the pre-Christmas chant, 'But, I want…' noses glued to the window. 'Sorry, definitely not tantalising, but pure and simply, harassing !'

Between munching on our weekly iced buns, my friends and I'd discussed the window's contents, and the unbelievable range of expensive toys, to that of our children's generation.

Laughing, we reminisced at their thrill on discovering Santa had been, leaving an orange, an apple, a bar of chocolate, and a shilling, or, if dad had a Christmas bonus, a whole two shillings, in their stocking, and of course the traditional favourite comic annuals from mum and dad. But the great excitement came in discovering Santa had really delivered the dream toy, as requested in their letter to him.

Memories flowing, we talked of the happiness of clearing up, and folding away where possible for re-use, gift paper ripped open by the hands of children eager to find out what relations and friends had sent by way of necessary bits of clothing or simply, some small toy, in order to swell the load of gifts filling the pillow case. Then came the big family dinner at Granny's. This was a tune of further exchange of little gifts, and a chance to compare Santa's present with the cousins.

The treasure chest of memories emptying we'd shared wonderful- past memories. When it came to the one, when our kids, their great day over, hot water bottles, safely wrapped in their woollen blankets warming their beds, they'd snuggled down in their new night clothes, eye lids dropping as they fought sleep, and how our hearts bursting with love, tenderly, we'd kissed flushed cheeks, as we bade them.' Sweet dreams,' our own eyes had become just a little bit too sparkly, we'd blown our noses, while nodding to each other as we longed for Christmases past.

Retracing our steps, we'd looked again at the ultimate in Christmas windows. Somehow it hadn't seemed so tantalising, in fact it was downright sad. Somewhere in its futuristic display it had it lost the theme of Christmas, and sorry, while we'd appreciated the hard work and long hours put in designing it by the window dressers, - no doubt to earn the cash to buy such gifts- all it had said to us was. 'Welcome to the festival of "Hard sell," designed specifically to give the lets get rich manufacturers and retailers, a very merry Christmas. Walking away agreeing, just as we did again, to- day, that our trip that day down memory lane over our cuppas and 'iceds' had been far more tantalising.