Golden Anniversary.

As the flag reached the top of the pole, the uniformed official lifted both arms upwards and outwards in the salute of the Planetary Supervisors Association. A resonant roar built to a crescendo and he bowed his head as two star class fighter rockets flashed overhead, their titanium based wings sucking in the sun’s glow and throwing it as diamond like sparkles to pattern the watching crowd.

The noise faded into the distance and he turned back to the podium and adjusted the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, I first saw that happen when I was six year’s old and the noise made me cry for hours.” He pushed his uniform cap backwards letting the light touch his lined brow. “Now, I welcome you to the golden anniversary of the population of this planet. I shall not dwell on the reasons for the demise of earth and the nuclear havoc caused by warring nations in their Middle East. Awareness of what occurred is both taught to our children and analysed by adults on a daily basis.”

He touched the mask that hung suspended in front of his throat. “When America first discovered Planet 650/Alpha, we had no idea that simultaneously Unified Europe had developed an inter planetary transit vehicle. Fifty years ago a fleet of ten of these tpts as we call them left a ravaged, war torn earth for here.” He paused, holding the mask across his mouth for a while. Then as a murmur of approval spread through the crowd, he smiled. “Not quite identical to earth’s atmosphere, but an occasional three second burst from this little baby and we can manage fine.” He opened his arms and shrugged. “Okay, our sports activities must all take place indoors. Never made any difference for darts and snooker players, though.” He waited for the laughter to die down. “Fifty years. And yes, today is more than a golden anniversary. It is a celebration of fifty glorious years of living on this planet.” The applause ran for several minutes until he raised his arms. “As you all know, we have decided 650/Alpha is not the most appealing title for our world. The competition to find an acceptable designation has now finished and we have chosen fifty possible conclusions from which to select.”

He pointed to the office on his left from where a group of uniformed personnel were walking across the grass. In front of them six children encircled a teenage girl in a green flowing dress and carrying a brightly coloured box. As they reached the podium, the children formed a half ring around her. Dipping her head in acknowledgement, she extended the box towards the speaker. With a smile he shook his head. Then, holding a finger to his lips, he turned to the lad closest to him, took his arm and led him to the box. Bending his head, he whispered to the youngster who looked embarrassed. Then he plunged his hand into the box and removed a card. As the crowd clapped and cheered, he scurried back to his place and stared at his feet.

“My friends,” the official held the mic and stared at the card. A smile spread across his face. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is our world, our environment, where we live…”

A voice shouted from the third row of the audience, “Get on with it then.”

Laughter erupted and the official dipped his head before laughing back. “I reckon you all know what was in my speech. I only have one word for you and that is..” He paused, then coughed gently, “…Rebirth. That is the new name for our planet, Rebirth.”

A chorus of approval swelled into cheers and shouts of joy. The little boy who’d chosen the card ran to his mother who sat at the front of the audience. The official nodded wisely; the two fighter rockets roared overhead again and the newspaper editor wondered whether to use ‘Born again’ or ‘birthday’ for his morning headlines. Perhaps, he thought, why not just Golden Anniversary.

LIFE IS NOT QUITE FINISHED YET

“You’ve ripped it up and thrown it to the birds,” I said. My legs felt a little weak and I knew my head was shaking from side to side. “But, Lady Margaret, that was your tax form for next year. It needs to be sent to the Revenue by next Thursday at the latest.”

“I had no bread in the house,” she replied. She bowed her head and looked at me over the rim of her glasses. “The birds seemed excited by the wind. They were swooping in and out of the courtyard. So I just took a tiny corner and threw it to them. A crow swept down and caught it, took it up to the top of the first floor window and then dropped it.” A smile lit her face making her look like an eager child. “Three sparrows then chased the scrap of paper as it swirled round the edge of the sheds. I thought they were going to fight each other for it. I took the tax form and ripped a few more pieces off.” Lady Margaret made tearing gestures with her hands and then flung her arms in the air. “I kept throwing them upwards. The birds had so much fun hunting them.”

She’s never quite sane, I thought sinking into an armchair. I’d been her financial adviser for longer than I could remember, but this was the first time she’d done anything like this. Well…. there was last year. I was just in time to stop her sending a letter to the taxman asking if he minded if she sold just a few nick nacks without telling him so she could change the bedroom carpets.

And the year before that she’d filled in all the tax forms in code. When I challenged her, she said, “I thought it would give the poor bloke a bit of excitement in his working day. To make it slightly easier for him, I’ve included the key to the code as foot notes.

“Would you like a drop of brandy with your coffee?” she said. She banged the stopper on the table and took a sip from the neck of the decanter.

“I’d prefer just coffee please. Shall I make myself one?” It was safer to be self-sufficient in her house. I remembered the taste when Lady Margaret presented me with a cup of boiling milk sweetened to the point where the tea bag she’d added had refused to sink below the surface.

“You carry on my dear. I’ll find the rest of the papers.” She took another sip from the decanter, sighed deeply and replaced it on a silver tray on the sideboard.

Returning to the lounge, I heard the sideboard door bang shut. That meant the chocolate biscuits had arrived.

“Here we are, dear,” she whispered, looking round as though making sure no one else was watching. “Take three and unwrap them ready. If you don’t eat them all, I can wrap them up again after our game.”

Hand painted finches and gold sprays clung to the porcelain of a Royal Worcester bowl placed on the floor by the French windows. “Me first,” she said flicking three silver wraps into the bowl. “That’s three pounds you owe me,” she said as my screwed up foils flopped on the floor.

“I’ll knock it off your bill,” I muttered. “Did you keep any of your tax forms?”

“Of course. It was fun throwing it for the birds, but I kept this part safe.”

She handed me the page containing her signature and the date. “”Not much use on its own,” I said. “I’ll take this signature back to the office and trace it onto a new form.”

“The birds had so much fun chasing the paper. It made me laugh so much. I’ve been a bit worried since though. I’ve not slid down the banisters for the last two days.”

“Margaret!” That must be the first time I’d never used her title. “You are nearly seventy. You shouldn’t do things like that.”

We both started laughing together. I stood to leave and she grabbed the decanter and took a quick mouthful of brandy. “Life is not quite finished yet,” she said. “I’m hoping I’ve a long way to go and when you get to my age there is no point being too sensible.”

She poured some spirit into a glass and this time I did take a gulp of brandy before I left.

744 words March 2011

THE MAN ON THE BENCH

The man hitched his trouser legs up as he lowered himself onto the faded varnish of the bench. A deep sigh slipped through his lips and then his shoulders drooped causing him to look older than his sixty eight years. He stared across the park grass without blinking until, with a start, he shook his head as if to bring himself back to the present.

Then his right hand slipped into the pocket of his tweed jacket, moved around and carefully brought out a tiny crust of bread. A smile eased the stress of his lips and fingers, long like those of a pianist, rubbed the bread into crumbs that fell on the palm of his left hand. Taking a single scrap between thumb and first finger he held it out in front but slightly to his right and let the breeze gently transfer it to the concrete beneath his brown leather shoes.

He waited expectantly for a few minutes and then moved his chin to the left, pushing his lip upwards and distorting its shape to that of a child forced to kiss an elderly and unsavoury aunt. Then he made a gentle whistle punctuated by soft chew, chough puffs of air. His eyes scanned from side to side, and then opened wider as a robin hopped out from beneath the nearby rhododendron bush.

With its red breast held out importantly it moved closer in short bursts of speed. Its head flicked in both directions, making sure no other birds were threatening the territory, before grabbing the speck of bread. The man continued his bird song and the robin cocked its head to one side, leaving one sparkling eye staring at his source of food and entertainment. The beak opened and shut three times, but no sound came. Then as if feeling more attention must be grabbed, it fluttered off the ground and flew to the other end of the bench and back.

Another scrap of bread dropped to the ground and, more confident now it had definitely grabbed the man’s attention, the bird proudly thrust out its bright red chest to acknowledge the source of his lunch.

This time the man spoke properly but softly. “Hello, little one. How are you today?” The remaining crumbs floated down as he brushed his palm. “Let me find you some more.” His hand dipped into his jacket and came out with another fragment of toast. “Won’t you join me on the bench?” he asked, patting the wooden seat with his left hand and sprinkling titbits on the varnish

The robin stared uncertainly as though thinking to itself, ‘I normally only eat off the ground.’ It moved its head and stared with the other eye. Then with a flutter of wings, it rose into the air, made two circuits of the park bench and landed by the crumbs. It ate most of them and then fluttered upwards and hovered, almost dipping its wings in thanks, before flying onto a branch of the rhododendron.

The man smiled before twisting his lip to respond as the bird began its tick tick song. As the bird flew away he part lifted his hand in a wave. A movement in his peripheral vision made him glance along the path. His grin faded as a tall, grey haired lady came closer. She wore red slippers on her feet while a black and white printed skirt flapped behind her.

Reaching the bench she stopped, slightly out of breath, and turned to face him, placing her hands on her hips. “You silly old fool,” she said. “You should have told me why pieces of toast were always in your pockets?” She stepped towards him as he patted the clean end of the seat.

His arm moved to the bench top and, as she sat down, he stroked the back of her blue knitted jacket. Looking into each other’s face they both began to smile. Then, without speaking, the man on the bench leaned towards his wife and softly kissed her waiting lips.

THE GODDESS ISIS

The worship of Isis reached its peak in the 4^th century BC.A large temple was built on Philae, an island in the Nile where the original colour can still be seen on the columns in the hall there. After this time, the Isis cult spread through the Hellenistic world, appearing in Greece in combination with the cults of her son, Horus and father Osiris - Or Serapis in Greek. In the 1^st century BC Egypt became a province of Rome under Augustus and thus was used as a source of money and resources. The Roman domination strengthened the worship of Egyptian Gods throughout the Mediterranean world with easily identifiable gods and goddesses whose mythology provided a central belief of Life after death for a hard pressed population.

Isis was traditionally portrayed as wearing a headdress representing a throne (one of the hieroglyphs of her name) and carrying the ankh or symbol of life in her left hand and the sceptre in her right. This was drawn in the typical Egyptian manner with the head and the body from the breasts down at right angles to the viewer while the upper torso of the breasts and shoulders turned to face the audience. She was also frequently shown wearing the vulture headdress with a royal serpent on the brown. It is interesting here that the vulture is associated with the excarnation aspect of many earlier time periods and we thus have another reminder of the rebirth and regeneration aspects of Isis. In both of these forms Isis occasionally carried a lotus bud or the glyph of the sycamore tree giving aspects of regeneration again

Although Isis was one of the oldest Egyptian goddesses, her origins are uncertain. It is possible that she originated in Sinai, but she also may have been worshipped in Lower Egypt in the Delta area around Busiris which was one of the oldest known centres of Osiris worship. The cult of Isis became prominent throughout Egypt where she became a Goddess of virtually limitless attributes. Isis was known to the ancient Egyptians as Aset (or Ast, Iset or Uset) which can be translated as ‘Queen of the Throne’ or ‘female of throne’ hence the original headdress. However Plutarch suggested ‘knowledge’ was one meaning of her name, but a possible translation of a female of the flesh suggests that although she was now Queen of the Gods, she had once been mortal. Again we can trace the regeneration theme here and certainly this gives a very easy lead on to the Virgin Mary concept.

According to Martin Bernal in Black Athena there was a dominant Egyptian Priesthood which revolved around the symbolism involved with the murder of Osiris by his brother Seth. Isis carried the body back to Egypt for burial whereupon the enraged Seth or God of Destruction cut Osiris into 14 pieces. After retrieving the parts Isis performed the rite of embalming, by magically binding them with cloth strips, turned herself into a bird and by wrapping her wings around Osiris brought him to life. So we have a connection with the bird element as a symbol of life or the soul and the concept of eternal life or regeneration.

After the reincarnation of Osiris, he and Isis conceived Horus, the sun God. There is imagery of Isis suckling her son and she also guided women in childbirth with qualities of compassion and tenderness. It is interesting to note that without Osiris, it is possible that Isis would have no major significance and similarly with Dionysus and Demeter. Coming forward into our times the Virgin Mary would be insignificant without Jesus. So it could be argued that the matrilineal line of goddesses is already on the decline in its pure form. Mythological concepts and artistic improvements might be the reason for this. But something other than the Goddess, virgin or otherwise is now necessary for the regeneration of humanity.

Many links can be traced to the Greek traditions with Demeter and Dionysus showing a possibility that the Eleusinian cult of Archaic Greece was the descendant of Egyptian foundations. Egyptian faïence plaques of the style placed under the corners of temples have been found at Mycenae. According to Paul Foucart ‘there is no doubt that the centre of mystery traditions is the search for immortality and that this can only be achieved through dying.’ Ancient writers such Pythagoras, Socrates, Plato and the like would have learned of the concept of immortality from Egypt.

When the Egyptian pyramids and tombs were re opened by explorers in the 1900s, much interest was created in both symbolism and artefacts. The god and goddess connections and metaphors became very prominent in modern Hermetic mystery traditions. The regeneration through death imagery became a tool of ceremonial initiation. The candidate became Osiris who gave up his normal physical life to pass through various mental trials, often using the symbolism of a vault to communicate with higher forces and faced the equivalent of his own ‘dark night of the soul’. He would then be awakened by Isis. During the ceremony the neophyte would often assume poses representative of the various Gods as taken from scenes in the Book of the Dead. For instance, the sign of Osiris Slain (Standing with feet together, arms extended at shoulder height in the form of a cross), The Sign of the Mourning Isis (The right arm is pointed upwards keeping the elbow square and the lower arm pointed downwards, again keeping the elbow square, turning the head over the left shoulder looking down so that the eyes follow the left forearm), were particularly relevant. This particular posture is reminiscent of classical poses as, for instance, that of the Capitoline Aphrodite

Technically we are dealing with a similar process to the Christian rites of crucifixion and rebirth, but the rich imagery of the Isis, Horus and Osiris story is far easier to associate with in a symbolic and ritual form.

Isis is closely associated with Nephys, her sister, and together were often used to represent Upper and Lower Egypt and also acted jointly to protect both living and dead. So we have the Isis image revolving around life through death and rebirth over the entire period of its supremacy. But finally in 535 AD Emperor Justinian closed the Temple of Isis on the Island Philae and her image there gave place to that of The Virgin Mary.

N.B. This was originally written as a final essay task for a course at Keele University extra mural department to do with the Goddess in Art: The History of an Image.

WATER

This was the title for our creative writing group. Here is the story which is partly true

Pushing the door open I stepped into a damp clammy room similar to a film set from a horror film. Figures were vaguely visible in the gloom, each sitting in an arched seat cut into the wall. The faintest of lights showed that eyes were closed and each head was tilted to touch the tiled walls. Classical panels hovered between the figures and the roof like headstones still waiting the addition of a name. Four seats were vacant around the curved walls and as my vision became more sensitive I took my place on the moist surface.

This was the Aqua Meditation room. Part of our short break included an afternoon in the Luxury Spa with herbal and steam baths, sensory showers and saunas. According to the guide I was now, assisted by a refreshing scent of lemons, in an oasis of total relaxation where body and soul became one. My spirit was about to be uplifted and my mind invigorated.

Unfortunately at that moment the door opened, pushing a little extraneous light into the shadows and back lighting my son in law, John. He stepped forward, turned to his left, and then tripped over the outstretched legs of another worshipper. He lay embarrassed across the thighs of a more mature lady, his arms reaching forward to stop himself falling onto the floor. She smiled wistfully, her hand hovering as though wanting to stroke John’s naked back. No one else moved; they were obviously being deeply calmed in their inspirational meditation.

I tried to still my mind, breathing deeply and slowly, with my eyes closed. Rhythmically I counted to four on the in breath, held for four, breathed out, held again and then drew a deep gasp of desperation on the final count. I was told afterwards that I sounded more like a steam engine labouring up a hill with a long coal train.

I opened my eyes and sat more upright in my seat. There were now eight of us sitting round the central font. Overhead was a huge convex milky glass screen suspended from the ceiling. As tiny drops of water hit the central bowl, the ripples were reflected upwards. Lines moved across its surface like clouds viewed through the windows of an aeroplane. I began looking for patterns but what came to mind were thoughts of creation and the primal swamps of early evolution. Perhaps this was how life began. Each movement represented a thought, communicated by intensity of shape, touched each other, and then returned from the centre to the perimeter only to reform but after another manner.

This was heavy stuff and I closed my eyes again letting the stillness calm me. A solitary drop of water lost its hold on the screen and plopped downwards, gently tapping my forehead before splitting in two and curving towards my cheeks. Was this a reflection of creation? Did a single atom slip from the swirling movement and begin a journey into manifestation.

I half opened my eyes to peer at the water movement again. Something was wrong. Three black spots floated before my eyes. I blinked. They were still there. I shook my head. Common sense cut in. Relief! Three tiny dark spouts protruded below the dome. I must have seen them before but had not realised this was the source of the tiny drops of water falling to make reflected patterns.

With a smile I scanned the room wondering if any one had seen the alarm on my face. I reached sideways, touched my wife, Norma’s fingers and gave a gentle squeeze. Her skin felt sticky and I put my hand back on my knee to see if my body was the same. This place was supposed to calm, not throw alarm calls around.

I breathed deeply again. The lady in the azure blue bikini stood and smiled round the room before carefully stepping over feet and moving to the door. The inflow of natural light reflected off her pale skin before the door snapped closed again. Perhaps it was as well she’d been almost hidden by the central water column, or my attention might have strayed.

I tipped my head back and stared briefly upwards before telling my mind to drift wherever it would. A gurgle murmured into my consciousness, burbling, babbling, bubbling as the water container emptied itself and the heavenly movements ceased. Then three loud plops echoed and the lines chased each other into and out of the centre again. I wanted my left eye to watch one direction and my right to track their return.

Another heavenly missile found its target on the tip of my nose, running down the side, past my mouth and trickling onto my chin. I looked at Norma and raised my eyebrows in query. She nodded. Carefully we stood, and squeezed past the chap with the moustache who’d just started to snore and opened the door.

It was amazing what could happen with water.

828 words

ON THE TABLE STOOD A CUP; IT WAS HALF EMPTY.

This was the theme for the months story for the U3A writing meeting.

It was a strange house. Nothing felt right. The front door looked as though it should open to the right, but instead it swung to the left. The tiles on the hall floor should have been a symmetrical pattern, but when your eyes studied them, your brain wanted to spin within your head and place them into a sequence that would have been wrong, yet would have stilled your mental activity.

Ian pushed the door with his elbow and expected a typical ghostly creak. But it hissed softly and moved exactly the right amount for him to step through. As his soft shoes struck the tiles a sound echoed upward as though he had wooden clogs on his feet. He shivered and wondered if he should be there at all.

“Andie. You in there?” he tried to shout but his whisper was no more than the wind hissing through a broken window in this old, decaying house. “Andie!” He tried again and this time his voice bounced back at him off the oak panels across the hall. Ian stared into the gloom, his eyes adjusting to the low light level. Something about the panels reminded him of the tiles. Standard panelled wall construction from a century or so ago, but if asked he knew he could never describe their size or count the number of wooden panels.

He touched the light switch and even though he knew it would not work, Ian flicked it down. He grunted at his own embarrassment and walked across the hallway to the four panel door on the right. It was slightly open and more light was visible beyond it.

Ian felt cold now and pulled his coat collar upwards. He knew if he turned and faced the outside door, he would probably run out and down the gravelled drive as fast as he could. But Andie must be here somewhere. Why had he let him come in on his own? His eyes flicked from left to right and back again.

The light in the room before him seemed brighter and the corner of a table was visible. Innocuous, he thought. Probably chairs, cupboards, usual kitchen paraphernalia from the last time the place had been lived in. A tiny sound stopped him entering the room. His mind couldn’t identify it though. All his conscious thought could reason was that it radiated out from a tiny spot in the centre of the cause. But despite the minuteness of the noise it had far greater implications than its essence.

Ian shook his head. The eeriness of the place was getting to him. “Andie!” he shouted again and an echo whispered back to him louder than he knew he’d shouted. “Damn. Where the hell is he?”

“Is he, is he?” retorted the emptiness as he pushed the door open and stepped into the kitchen.

The amount of light increased as a full moon flicked its beam thought the leaded light window. A tattered lace curtain fluttered in the draft through a broken panel and made strange patterns on the pine housekeepers cupboard. Ian glanced round the room expecting to see other cupboards, shelves, perhaps a cooker.

No. Just a scrubbed top pine table towards one end of the room and a slat back chair pushed away as though someone had suddenly stood and moved away. Exactly in the centre of the table stood a cup. Royal Doulton Countess Ian muttered as he saw the green pattern on the rim. He went to turn it over and confirm the make when he realised there was liquid in it. Half full, he thought, or should it be half empty.

The tiny sound he’d heard before caught his attention. Stepping back from the table he slowly turned round. He knew something about the noise was going to be really important. Then as it sounded again Ian knew what it was. He looked at the half empty cup. As another droplet popped downwards, Ian flicked his cigarette lighter into life and looked at the liquid. Then holding the flame upwards towards the ceiling he saw the red stain soaking through the ceiling.

A footstep sounded in the hallway and Ian spun round. The door creaked. Slowly it moved, squealed in anguish and then closed with a grunting thud. A figure leaned back against the oak panels on the door. Its clothes were old fashioned, not of this century or world. Ian couldn’t see the full features, but the face looked gaunt, drained of blood. A malicious leer spread across its lips. The voice was hollow, unearthly. “Come upstairs Ian. Andie’s waiting for you to join him. Take my hand.”

The room was icy cold. The figure was growing in size. “Andie wants you up stairs. It will be peaceful then. You can feed the house.”

Ian moved backwards. He drew his arm back to break the window glass. He could dive through……

.

Curtains swished back and daylight flooded the room. “Wakey, wakey, Ian. You had a bad night? Your blankets are on the floor.” His mother smiled down at him. “It’s a lovely day outside.” She placed a cup of tea on his bedside table. “Sorry it’s half empty. We’re short of milk.”

872 words Sept 2010

A COLLEGE CHRISTMAS

The college quad was dark and foreboding apart from one tiny bulb that glowed dimly in the porter’s office. Three hundred of us stood, shuffled our feet and made occasional muted comments to friends. Many of us wore the hoodies of the day, a dark blue duffle coat with a college scarf. Since the scarves were mainly for ornamentation with both ends dangling to our waists, they did little to keep us warm.

A bell rang, the sound tinny and muffled, but everyone tensed as the door of the chapel corridor creaked and a hand appeared, palm upwards, either in supplication or to check if it were raining. Then footsteps sounded on the cobbles and figures edged slowly through the opening. No one was recognisable in the darkness until a stooped figure with wide shoulders paused and lifted both hands. He pivoted sideways as two lanterns moved forward and past giving an eerie glow to his face. It was the principal and his wide shoulders were his cape of office. Another two lanterns glittered in the air and I became aware that the choir had softly begun chanting as they moved forward to take up their position.

The four students who carried lanterns on long poles moved to either side of the entrance gate and stood like guardians around the choir who in turn seemed like courtiers protecting the principal. He muttered some thing totally incomprehensible in Latin while the choir master, the only one in white robes, and who looked like a picnicker attacked by flies, lifted his hands and began waving. As ‘O little Town of Bethlehem’ echoed round the stone building I realised he was conducting.

A shiver ran up my body and I thought just how beautiful and magical this ceremony was. The male voices on the still air had lifted the college into another world. It was our own microcosm of tranquillity. Then the first snowflake drifted down and hung suspended in the air as our male voices played with Silent Night. By the time the choir finished their solo verse with “Christ the Saviour is born”, we all had our own powdery white decoration and the lanterns were a twinkle of movement.

Finally the principle mumbled his usual blessing and we turned for the entrance to our accommodation blocks. No one spoke, just the occasional sheepish grin as we shook the snow from our clothes and walked the long corridor. All would change in the main Christmas party soon to begin, but none of us would forget what we’d just experienced.