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Editorial

Verbal Creation

20th August 2024


Recently, the word has taken on new life – literally, in the form of AI. As John said in Genesis, ‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God’. In the media constantly humans are worried, or not worried, or trying to get attention or money for column inches, about this creation of a knowledge-being, a communication-lifeforce, taking from and reassembling information to present to its human creators and compadres, or on which to base decisions for actions.


Just when it looked as if the written word was increasingly injured, suffering and off sick sometime in the early 2000s, with levels of literacy low, libraries underused, and visual media increasingly taking over, it received an unexpected boost from the digital world. Emails, text messages, and comments on written media such as Twitter, became paramount, and everyone needed to be able to write and respond to at least some basic level. Voice calls are now increasingly unpopular in comparison with written word-to-word communication.


I asked one of the major AIs (alongside myself, with my rather prescient initials of AI!) to write something creative in response to ‘Another Creation Myth’. I include what it wrote at the bottom for you to refer to.


The Song of Creation

Before time, there was only Silence. A vast, empty expanse, a void where nothing existed. In this stillness, a single note hummed, a vibration so subtle it was almost imperceptible. It was the seed of creation, a primordial sound.

From this note, a cosmic being emerged, named Lyra. Her form was made of starlight and melody, her essence a symphony of existence. Lyra yearned for company, a chorus to harmonize with her song. With a thought, she willed the universe into being.

She plucked strings from the cosmic harp, and from each note, a celestial body was born. The deep, resonant basslines formed the sturdy foundations of planets, while the soaring trebles became distant stars. The rhythm of creation pulsed through the cosmos, giving birth to galaxies, nebulas, and black holes.

Life, too, was a melody composed by Lyra. She breathed her song into the cosmic dust, and from it emerged the first beings. They were creatures of sound, their bodies vibrating with the harmony of the universe. They lived in harmony with the cosmos, their lives a continuous dance to the music of creation.

As time passed, Lyra’s song evolved. New notes were added, harmonies deepened, and dissonances appeared. The universe expanded and changed, a cosmic symphony in constant motion. But Lyra remained the eternal composer, her music the heartbeat of existence.

And so, the universe continues to sing, a breathtaking melody of creation, a testament to the power of a single note in the silent void.

Would you like me to expand on this myth, or perhaps create another one?

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Ephemera

Mary kicked at the sidewalk curb, feeling an electric thrill at the pink and white lights that raced up and down the side of her shoe. These new shoes were magic, her mamma said. She could run fast in them, so fast.
Mary jumped up and down, little hops like she was jumping rope and the shoes flashed bright.
Her mama stood next to her, watching little Mary while she talked in a hushed tone to a man who lived in Idaho now, two states away.
"No, Shawn. No, that doesn't work for me. And Mary doesn't want to see you."
Mary began to hum a little tune, one that sounded like Baby Shark but was better, because it was hers. She added a little extra high pitched wooooo's in between each pretend verse.
Suddenly her mamma grabbed her hand, pulling her in the direction of the pharmacy that read 'algreens', the neon W burnt out forever ago. W: Mary knew that letter. Her mamma told her it was an upside down M, and Mary pictured her name being something different when she somersaulted or rolled down a hill, the letters tossing and turning around just like her body did, forming new and strange words she didn't know yet.
They hurried in to the store, like they hurried everywhere, Mary's small lightning bug feet skipping to keep up. Turning down her favorite aisle, Mary felt her heart float, and she pictured the red Valentine's day card she'd made in school the other day go 'ba-bum, ba-bum' inside her chest. Lights came from behind every beautiful, colorful package. Fancy pretty ladies stared back at her, teeth in white rows and lips red like a stop sign, red like an apple, red like her wagon.
Her momma's feet stopped in front of her, and Mary was face to face with a beautiful row of glittering eye shadows. These ones were in shades of blue, green, purple. She reached out to touch them, to get a better look at their starry surface but her momma yanked her hand back.
"No, Mary."
No, Mary, no Mary, noMary. Some days nomary felt like her actual name. She hummed the ABC's to herself.
Far above her, her momma picked out the lip gloss and mascara she wanted, cheap but not too cheap, bold but not too bold.
They hurried to the cashier and then hurried home. Hurried through dinner--chicken nuggets for Mary, white wine for momma. The doorbell rang, and there was Grammy! Grammy, whose hugs were the best and always told the most fun bedtime stories. She dug around in the pockets of her puffy green coat, the only one Mary ever saw her wear, and passed her a butterscotch candy. Mary nabbed it and ran away, squealing with delight,. From a distance she heard, "I told you not to give her that shit, mom. I don't want her turning into a fat kid like half her classmates."
Her grammy scoffed, and Mary could picture the rolled eyes. "I'm not the one who feeds her chicken nuggets every night, Laura. A butterscotch candy won't make a difference."
"It's all she eats, mom. I can't get her to eat anything else," her momma's tone sharpened, like it had when Mary had accidentally knocked the fancy flower pot over and it had shattered. "I'll be back in four hours."
The door slammed, and Mary looked down into her little hand at the beautiful gold butterscotch candy and felt her tummy fill with guilt. She didn't realize her momma would be mad that she'd taken the candy. Suddenly she didn't feel like eating at all.
The rest of the evening was spent in the living room, Grammy watching Oprah while Mary played with her Barbies. The Barbies in Mary's land solved crime, floating around the living room investigating missing puppies and stolen newspapers, their long legs and permanent smiles convincing imagined neighbors to tell them secrets.
At bedtime Grammy told a story of a princess, one who got locked up in a castle by a wicked witch who was jealous of the princess's hair. The princess won, in the end, she escaped from the scary witch and married a handsome prince.
Images of a beautiful princess running through a castle in her long, pink dress floated through Mary's mind as she drifted off to sleep.
A crashing noise woke her up, and her room was dark and so was the world outside her window. Mary was not used to this, and her heart sped up.
"Momma? Grammy?" the words came out in whispers. Mary shoved her head under her blankets and grabbed Miko, the stuffed racoon that slept with her every night.
The air under the blankets grew warm with her breath, and Mary listened to the quiet house. Then, footsteps, her door opening, someone sitting next to her; her heart beat out of her chest.
"Mary, honey." It was her momma. A cool feeling of safety fell over Mary and she peaked her head out. Her momma looked strange in the dim light; messy hair and streaked lines on her face. She smelled funny.
"Momma?"
"Mary, the date was a bust. He was a rude prick and was ten years older and thirty pounds heavier than his profile picture. And he was the one who accused me of false advertisement, the bastard. My pictures are only from a year ago."
Mary stayed quiet. Her momma was talking loud, the words coming out weird and wrong and slippery.
"Your dad and I met when we were so young, and I gave him all of my youth, all of my beauty. All of my healthy years before I had you. Now I'm just an old hag with a kid and nobody wants that."
Mary felt tears sting her cheek. These words sounded mean, and it seemed like whatever happened to her momma must have been her fault.
"I'm sorry, momma."
Her momma leaned over her and kissed her forehead, then left; the funny smell almost overpowering and then gone.
A wretched feeling grew inside Mary. What had she done? She pictured herself like Barbie, trying to solve a mystery. How could she be better?
She slipped from her bed and walked across the hall to the bathroom, stepping up onto her stool to look into the mirror. Without the light, the vague shape of a monster girl stared back at her. Mary pinched her cheeks, poked her tummy, barred her teeth, looking for the part of her that was wrong. It was somewhere, it had to be. She just needed to figure out where so she could fix it.
She would be better. Tomorrow she'd find that butterscotch candy and throw it away so she wouldn't be like those fat kids at school and she'd learn to smile like those pretty fancy ladies at the store her momma liked. She'd float around the world like Barbie. She would be good, and her momma would be happy, and things would be ok.

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Ringing… The… Changes

Last week's competition

Featured Entry

by ajones
The key to the house is
under
the moss green stone


beside the pond where a thousand tadpoles were
scooped out
fed
and grown.




The outside tap is where the boy’s teenage trainers were kept fresh - kept bright
white
scrubbed before school, then muddied by night.








Later it got used for the dog’s mucky feet -
paw -
paw - good boy there’s a treat.
In the kitchen, the chicken tiles lived long - gone now but not forgotten.
And there’s the kitchen perch where I’d drink my tea every morning and watch
the Robin
Fox head watched over everything.
Every bowl of porridge
Every coffee time chat
Every biscuit tin steal
Every Saturday night stir fry with jazz record requests
Every one of Mum’s Sunday roasts - after the antiques roadshow, with tiny cups of sherry, with candles burning and Carla Bruni and
Cat Stevens. Then wash up with
The Archers.
It was where Dad came home from his conferences and emptied his bag of goodies. Where we got out the skeleton, inspecting it while eating dried fruit and nuts.
It’s where we did our maths homework
Where we ate Mum’s fresh jam tarts and fruit cake. Where we talked to our mates on the house phone.
Where we spun the lazy Susan. Where we watched the birds.


In the cupboard there are kitkats in the tin, and Crunchy Nut, and that’s where the Christmas decorations are up top, and
the dog towel below.


The kitchen door used to show articles about the dangers of smoking
Sorry Dad - we never took heed.




Mum’s room - butterflies petrified in their beauty.


Books
Piled
high
in
theirs.


Ready for duty - to build lectures -
Which were artworks in their own right.






































Into the hall where that big old bell would ring out every night - dinner’s ready! And eight feet would hurtle
down
stairs
Hungry


The porch (which once held a whole Mad Hatter’s tea party) was the hatch to summer -


the parasol,
Outside it we’d sit for lunch under who needs Italy?


Look out to the lawn where we played croquet,
ate strawberries on a picnic blanket, played badminton for days




shuttle
cock
every
the dog chasing


and frothing at the mouth.




Don’t eat the crab apples kids!


This garden is where the tiny strawberries grow, amid the rocks. The sweetest that I’ve ever known.




In the living room
there are many delicate sculptures and ming vases.
It is a test every morning and night to make sure the curtains open and close without something breaking. Somehow, they all made it through.


Sofas are for three bums atleast - and giant teddy castles. It’s where Mum hides the Roses, slipped far underneath and hidden by tassels.
The sofa is where we spent sick days
under a blanket
drinking hot Ribena, watching cash in the attic.
That fire warmed our feet a hundred times a year, where Pip would sit, too close, and peer into the flames. And then there were:
T
H
E


B
O
O
K
S
Who needs wallpaper when you have books?
Warmth, stories, talk, play- that room is where you taught us life every day. Wriggling snakes and flowery-seasony-things and being
all together.












Stairs
The
Up the stairs that we used
to whizz
down
with record bumpy
speed
in our sleeping bags.
























The bathroom - so baths
many


So many bums washed in that tub.


Mum always put the radiator on for bathtime, towels warmed, Sudocream at the ready, talcum powder


before beddy.
That day Princess Diana died and the rain it P
O
U
R
E
D




and Dad took us out on our bikes and I S O A R E D
straight on into
the river
Rode home with one welly - SHIVER
back to my Mum in the doorway
straight into the bath that day.










And my little room - where I grew and grew and grew.


Where I had every night - a once upon a time
and a happily ever after.


Where Dad sang twinkle twinkle little star on repeat for me
and Mum tucked me in so perfectly, over and over.


And in the summer, Pip would meow from the kitchen roof, and make that
giant leap in to me.






























Now Mum and Dad’s room, but
back then, Esme’s - filled with lovely pink things, flower fairy alphabet around the walls, then Ben Affleck instead, when teenager life called.


But when little, me and Mez, we’d sit for hours with raisins and apples and biscuits and my naughty little sister cassettes - under the cover of Esme’s duvet.
Real life called
but we did that instead.


That room is whereI learnt how to put mascara on
How to use Esme’s cut passport as a fake ID.












And when she left,
it felt so very very empty.














The big room, once Mum and Dad’s -
where we would only venture to sit like stars
in front of the big mirror to have our hair dried


or to come into the bed in the middle of the night, if we’d had a fright- a little one in for Mummy cuddles, one Dad out.


But now - the room is one long brilliant stretch of Mum.


It’s big, but not big enough for her pictures that seemed to bubble boil
and
over


into the space
once they had begun to cook.


This room is now filled with her -
She has coloured
it in.
Upstairs the boys lived


Lynx and hair gel, stale spliff smell,
Tim’s territory
alligator heads and Jim Morrison cassettes
hamster empire - long live Hercules!
Where Gabriel studied to start his path to medicine, first gruelling steps
Where Tim built matchstick kingdoms and read philosophy, where they both slept
and slept
and slept.
Later, this space was for me, when the others left I moved on up to the penthouse suite. And I learnt in that space about anger - hurled my radio at the wall,
I learnt about heartbreak, I learnt to study - and to plan
and to read books - properly
It’s where Pip and me snuggled all night, keeping the chilblains at bay.
I learnt about the magic of dusk from that window - hearing the starlings sing as the day closed, I was up high with the treetops there.
I went to sleep hearing owls.
I turned 18 there, and practised being an adult, in an utterly uncivilised way I learnt:
binge drinking
kissing boys
tiny skirts
the taxi number (still with me) - 2696969
How to go and to come back
I learnt how to be me
And from my window I could see……
The garden.

Where we picked so many gooseberries
and apples
and raspberries
and where the rhubarb
overflowed.


This is where the forget me nots sit over Rosie
Where the birds are, every season
where we used to pass messages
beneath the hole in the fence to the girls next door.


It’s where we hid army men
in the soil
it’s where a hundred pairs of socks were hung to dry,
getting bigger and bigger, and then less and less, over the years.






















And here is
Dad’s studio


it is filled with years of oil
of faces


There are always oatcakes.


There’s an old plastic bottle filled with fresh water
there are signs telling of impending doom and crisis


and there are bikes.
























And then there is the garage -
where we would sit sometimes on a Saturday
and listen to All Saints


Dad in his overalls, fixing
getting black streaks on his head, a spanner in his hand.




It was where the motorbike lived - that engine that we could hear from the living room when it roared up from the road, and then we’d know! Dad’s home!


And we’d turn off the tele
and reach for a book instead-
but we were so happy to see him,
Clunking
down the steps.






























And outside this house, along the way, are the woods, and the stream
and the horse fields.
And it’s like a dream to me now.


What a luxury that I had passage to them every day, with my dog and got to
crunch through the leaves
squish through the mud
ride bikes through the river and off to Jacob’s Ladder
or to where ever
we wanted to go.
















But the thing that always made it


home


is the orange sick bowl in the cupboard.
Used for every illness, and for baking delights, now it oozes with
Dad's sourdough.


And it will be in a cupboard in a new house soon,
and in that house will be the
same feet that have been treading these floorboards for years


and we will come to that house to see them
We will come with our children
and that will be home.

Home is where the sick bowl is.

Last Week's Winner!

Winning entry by safemouse
It’s four o’clock and I’m just back from school.
“Are you hungry?” Mum asks.
“Course,” I say.
“What tickles your fancy for sandwiches, then?”
“What you talking all posh for, mum?”
“I’m not.”
“You are, you’re talking different.”
“We’ve got peanut butter, sandwich spread, chocolate spread... Pâté too, if you like.”
I pull a face. “Mum, what’s happening? You always give me jam,” I say.
At this, my mother waddles over to an unfamiliar contrivance, silencing it with a decisive click.
"You little cow," she hisses. "You did that on purpose."

The cassette recorder was meant to fool Moira. She and hubby Phil run a weekly club for wayward children in the social care system and there my bruises caught Moira's eye. I claimed I got them playing netball, an intentionally ropey lie even a social worker could see through. I also declared my intention to abscond. Concerning, given my history of disappearing acts. And so this evening Moira is whisking me away. Mum isn’t fussed, as long as she can cling onto the child benefit.

Next thing, I’m dropping clothes and toys in a carrier.
"Leave them toys, they're share toys!" mum bellows through the stair rods. I put the toys down.

Moira turns up at a quarter to seven, her blotched face and sensible bob a stark contrast to Mum's dishevelled glamour.
“If I had the kind of money they throw at your lot we could play happy families as well,” mum says.
“No we wouldn’t,” I chip in. “It would just mean more shoes under the bed and more booze down Bernie’s gob.”
Mum’s hand flinches. “Less of your lip, young lady.”
Bernie is my step-dad. He’s a saint compared to mum but he also sold my Christmas presents down the pub on Boxing Day so he could buy some booze. He has his limits.
"You think replacing her mum is the answer? You'd do better puttin' her in a home,” my mum suggests.
Moira smiles tightly. "I'm sure we'll manage, somehow."
“You can’t turn your back on her,” my mother advises.
Moira nods politely.
“She’ll run circles round you. Just you watch her.”
"Mrs. Chaffinch," Moira sighs, "I appreciate your concern."
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” mum replies tartly.
“Ow, you pinched me,” I say to my mum.
“See, this is what she does,” my mum says as I rub the arm mum pinched while Moira wasn’t looking.
Moira gives mum a searching look. “Don’t you think it’s best this way?” she asks.
"Wait till she starts bunking off school. Or bringing home God knows what. You'll be begging to send her back before the summer's out."
"We should be going,” Moira says.
“See yourself out.”
“Have you got your things?” Moria asks me.
“I left my bag upstairs.”
“Go and get it then. I’ll wait in the car.”
Moira turns to my mother. “One thing’s for sure. I won’t turn my back on her. Not like you have.”
As I leave the house I look back to see if mum is upset. She isn’t. She never is. I swing my bag down the garden path. The gate squeaks the same old squeak; though my world is changing. The close-knit council houses ricochet with the sound of French bulldog. I climb inside the weird car Moira calls ‘Daisy’ with its dashboard gear stick and sliding windows.
“Is that all you’ve got?” Moria asks when she sees my worldly chattels, stashed in a VG Stores carrier. “We’ll have to take you shopping.”
“I don’t have any money,” I say.
“That’s okay. I’ll get a grant from social services,” Moira replies.

"You alright?" Moira asks, later, at the traffic lights. I’m looking at a healthy hand offering me Rothmans on a billboard.
“Yeah,” I say and gaze down at my shoes wiggling side to side.
"Here we are," Moira says, pulling into a driveway. "Home sweet home."

We’re in a pleasant suburban street, evening sun spotlighting the four storey house Moira and Phil live in with their young son. Moira opens the heavy front door with a latch key and nudges me forward. The house doesn’t reek of fags, like mine. It has the gentle aroma of furniture polish and fresh laundry.

“Go on through,” Moira says. Inside the lounge Phil is sat with Daniel on his lap and a colouring book and crayons. I’ve never seen a snapshot of family harmony like this.

“Daniel, say hello to Rachel.” Phil says.
“Hello,” Daniel says shyly.
“Hello Daniel,” I say.
“How did it go?” Phil asks Moira quietly.
Moira chuckled dryly. "Oh, you know. Lots of…”
“Verbal?”
“Verbal encouragement about what to watch out for."
“Mm,” Phil nods. Moments later I’m sat on a worn but opulent sofa. Though neither Moira nor Phil smoke, ornamental china pots brim with cigarettes.
“Would you like a cup of tea, glass of orange squash or something?”
“No thank you,” I say, not wishing to put anyone out.
“Let me show you your room,” Moira says.

It's an attic arrangement. Out of the way but welcoming. There’s a floral bedspread, a large wardrobe and sturdy drawers. The wall is plain but there’s thick carpet. The main thing is, I’m glad to be away from mum.

A few days later I’m in the car with Moira, and her Red Setter ‘Barley’, having walked him in Minster. My mum had a dog once but he used to walk himself and then one day a boyfriend of hers killed the dog and that was horrible.

Once we’ve pulled into a parking space in Canterbury Moira turns to me and says, “I understand this change will be difficult for you, even though you begged for it to happen. So if things get tough don’t feel bad or ungrateful. Come and tell me.”
“Okay,” I say. And I mean it.

Moira opens the window, in case the sun “feels like coming out”, and leaves Barley with a bowl of water. Then we go to Marks and Sparks.
She’s been given a £200 grant, a princely sum in 1975. She buys me a beautiful mohair jumper for my new start at Ellington Girl’s school, my first pair of proper jeans and wedge shoes (‘wedgies’) from Clark’s, which are the in-thing. I’ve always worn hand-me-downs that don’t fit, now I can't help but smile all day.

As the days pass I realise Moira isn’t half-bad. She is a bit hyper about housework, she doesn’t wear makeup, she always listens to your side of the story. In her own way she is trying to save the world.

In the summer holidays, two foreign students arrive as lodgers. Iranian Ahmed, French Claire, both in their late teens. It’s a busy, chatty house. The students are a welcome distraction from Daniel, who’s a brat.

One day Moira sends me upstairs and asks me to put clean towels in the students’ rooms. I go into the airing cupboard, which has floor to ceiling shelves laid with flannels, towels and bed sheets all neatly folded, not just thrown in a heap.

I put the towel on Claire’s bed and then I notice the notes in her bedside cabinet fanned out like a deck of cards. So I pick one. Later at the bureau de change, 10 francs become 8 pounds.

A few days later I do the same thing. At dinner, Claire has a face like thunder but says nothing. She's completely off her food and asks to be excused. I do the washing up with Moira.

“Is something the matter with Claire?” I ask.
“She’s fine,” Moira explains, scooping Pedigree Chum into a dog bowl. “She lost some money and she’s a bit upset about it.”
“I saw her money in her room, but I didn’t touch it.”
“I know. It wouldn’t be much good to you, anyway. It’s French.”
Claire rushes into the kitchen. “I know she did it. She was the only person in my room.”
“No, look. I’m not having this. She always get the blame and it’s not happening under my watch,” Moira says.

Claire starts crying, which makes me feel bad. Now I just want to fade away. Ahmed lingers in the background grinning at the friction in the air. Only Barley really understands. He’s a rescue dog who now wants for nothing but is wolfing his food down as if might be snatched away at any moment.

As I shuffle off towards the lounge Ahmed asks, “Do you want to go the cinema?”

We go see Tommy. I’m looking round hoping my mother is not there. No word of a lie, she got my sisters to send letters in to a ‘mother of the year’ competition the cinema was holding and they won and got free cinema entrance for a year.

Ahmed’s hands start to wander just as Ann-Margret starts writhing in a sea of baked beans.
“If you don’t stop I’m going to head butt you and you’ll have to tell Moira why your nose is bleeding,” I say. I feel for Ahmed, he’s a long way from home, but I’m 10 years old and ‘rulez is rulez’ as Moira says, when she’s being matey mummy. The film is rubbish. At least as far as ten year old me is concerned.

Later, Phil says I’m welcome to play anything I like on his hi-fi. He has a Garrard record player I call ‘Gerald’ and there are two records I make Gerald play all the time. Breakfast in America by Supertramp and Changes by David Bowie, both expressing the feelings swirling inside me. A young person is so carbonated with hope and dreams. Shake us and we fizz up.

One day I’m home earlier than expected and I walk in on Phil having sex with another social worker, Trish, who wears make up.

“Oops, sorry,” I say and walk out. I try make everything seem normal by putting Crackerjack on the tele and eating Monster Munch loudly. Soon after that I go stay with Moira’s Dad.

Her Dad is lovely. And I thought Moria’s house was fancy; this is something else. Every day he takes me somewhere. Go-karting, horse riding, walking in the woods. I see where Moira got the idea of filling china pots with ciggies. Later on, Moira’s Dad smells cigarettes on me and buys me my own, Player’s No 6. Moira goes bezerk.

And back in Ramsgate things aren’t the same. One day I’m on my period. “I’ll give you your pocket money early,” Moira says. But up to then pads were something she covered. I’m a special case with a file full of misadventures that began with hospitalization at 2 years old. I’m well known to the police, various schools and care homes. Foster-carers get a large bonus for taking me on. Why the sudden pettiness?

Then one day Moira has a miscarriage. “I think you need to go to another family,” she says.

I cry buckets all night. I really thought Moira and Phil were different.

And so off I go to another house. In the hallway it’s like tunnel vision. Unsmiling foster kids peering. The air smelling of damp clothes. And a woman says, “We don’t have no runaways here. I keep the door locked and I keep the key.” But kids that run away don’t walk through doors, they climb through windows.

So then it’s just the familiar squeak of the garden gate. I’ve a feeling in my gut about seeing mum but I mega miss my sisters. Bernie answers the door, pissed.

“Hello trouble,” he says, cheerily.

Mum barely looks up from the TV screen. “Back again, are you?” she says, like I’ve been out for a pint of milk. But it’s all an act. I know how this plays out.

The atmosphere is a sickly truce. Mum chain smokes while I trade gossip about my adventure for my mother’s attention amidst the canned laughter of the television, the excited babble of my half-sisters and a neighbour’s barking dog.

Featured Entry

by Alex Fleet
Simon reached up with the rope as it rose, then as it slowed he readied himself to pull it gently down.

He could feel the bell pause as it balanced above him in the darkness of the bell loft, then as the bell lost momentum at its highest point and started its rotation downwards again, he gently pulled to help it in its fall. He could feel the weight of the bell as it swooped its circular route around its shaft, heard the clang of the clapper against the ancient iron sides of the bell, then it was slowing again as it approached its zenith from the other direction, before swooping again in its ever-lasting demonic dance. The other bells swung in co-ordination and together they were ringing the changes, ancient melodies which sang out across the rooftops of the village and beyond, their sound carried on the gale over the woodland and dark fields downwind.

On the flood plains east of the village, Jake stumbled in the darkness to herd his sheep to safety, before the waters came, borne by the swollen river. The cold rain stung his bare face and knuckles and with it came the snatched suggestions of the bell-ringers’ tune, the eddies of the wind playing with the sound amongst the trees, teasing the listener with a half-recognised song that disappeared as quickly as it was heard, with the rush of a gust from another quarter.

Jake knew the melodies by heart, however, and hummed with the tunes as they appeared and disappeared with the wind, for he was a bell-ringer himself. Normally he would be pulling the bells tonight, but tonight his sheep had won his attention. Once before he had ignored the flood warning and the next morning found his flock washed up, sodden corpses strung along the barbed wire fence of another farm a couple of miles downstream. As the bells sent their sound upon the wind, he could feel the rope in his hand, the weight of the bell in the muscles of his arm, the coolness of the air in the bell-tower upon his skin, the smell of the ancient dust in his nostrils: he could feel his brain working as it sought to perfect the connection between himself and the others. Jake found himself pausing, his eyes closed as he imagined himself not here but in that bell-loft across the fields. He knew he could ring with his eyes closed.

In the bell-tower, Simon’s whole being concentrated on the rope in his hands, the bell above him, and the movements and sounds of the other ringers and their bells. He could see each of them, their body language predicting exactly when their bell would chime.

Then the lights went out. There was a sudden frisson of tension in the air: in the darkness a disembodied voice bellowed out: “Carry On”. They were in tune with each other: they knew they could carry on. The commands continued as before, as they pulled in the darkness, ringing the changes, changing key and melody, progressing to the next piece without pausing. They had played in competitions, won awards, were proud to be able to continue this centuries old tradition in an ancient stone building hundreds of years old, with bells some of which were also centuries old, bells pulled by arms of countless men who had passed their years sometimes from their youth to their old age, then passing the honour onto the next generation, down the endless passage of time measured by the steady ticking of the cobweb-covered iron clock above them on the south facing wall of the church tower, watched warily by the crows swooping amongst the ancient trees of the churchyard. Another storm of thousands through the years would not stop these players, despite losing their light due to the power cables being parted in some distant part of the parish.

Jake squelched through the mud, sending his whistles to Jack his friend and four-legged assistant who hurried the sheep across the field. Jake’s eyes, attuned to the darkness, could see the outlines of Jack and the sheep in the gloom. Then suddenly, something felt wrong. Straining to see what was going on, he could make out that the sheep weren’t suddenly running at full speed across the field: they had slowed, and Jack was moving around them in a different way.

And a new sound came to Jake’s ears, above the wind and the rain and the church bells: water. The sound of water running, a different sound to normal. Jake took a few further paces, then found he was wading. This was not normal. As he stood there, he felt the water rise up his wellies and he had to consciously stop a feeling of panic. The field was flooding, and fast. He knew where he was: Jack and the sheep were on a higher part of the field, fifty metres away, heading downwards towards the corner of the field, separated from Jake by a lower part of the field which must now be under water. And Jake was on a high spot in the centre of the field, surrounded by low marshland, lower all around than where he stood. He was effectively marooned.

He had to choose between saving his sheep, and his dog, and himself.

In an anonymous office in a city miles away, an alarm bell rang. A phone call was made, a voice mumbled something about a canal bank giving way, sending a tidal wave of water across the countryside. A mini-tsunami.

In a hedgerow bounded by a barbed wire fence, along which the sodden corpses of sheep hung in grotesque shapes, a phone rang. Caught up in the branches, reflecting the light of a clear morning following a night of heavy rain, the phone’s display showed Jake’s wife’s face and telephone number. The phone rang unanswered.
My Notes

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