Robyn Hood

            The lady pushed her hair behind her ears and then slipped the incriminating photos back into the envelope. She knew of, but did not agree with the back-handers Jason had taken over the years; it was his infidelity and devious lies that cut her right to her core.

    “Damn you,” she muttered, and sitting forward looked from keyboard to screen as she attached the scanned images to the E. mail. Momentarily her manicured finger hovered over the mouse; she paused, took a deep breath and clicked send.       

*

            Councillor Jason Hood placed his Audi keys on the glass topped desk and took the post-it his P.A had stuck to the monitor. Don’t forget Robyn’s wedding anniversary present, table’s booked at Pierre’s 7.30 pm.

            Coffee in one hand and mouse in the other Jason navigated the cursor to the E. mail with, URGENT, in the subject bar.

    “What the …” he said, as he stared in disbelief at the images of himself and the wife of a prominent businessman in a compromising embrace, he read the text. Tomorrow, 7am usual routine, health suite, leave £10,000 in used notes in locker, swim, go to work, deviate from instructions your wife and newspapers will receive copies of images. Jason’s usual coolness of character left him as beads of cold sweat soaked his armpits. He felt sick to his stomach at the realisation that his rising political career was about to take a huge nose dive into oblivion if he did not act wisely. Robyn, well, he had to admit she still looked a charm on his arm, but he was starting to get quite bored of their marriage.

*

            Robyn put down her glass of Chablis and picked up her mobile from the table.

    “Jason?” Cheryl asked.

    “Yeah,” she said, then pressed reject.

Cheryl reached across and gave her friends hand a reassuring squeeze.

    “I’ll be fine, Cheryl, honestly”.

            Robyn sat back feeling relieved that she felt no guilt about the package containing ten thousand pounds she’d shoved through, ‘Night Shelter for the Homeless’ letter box earlier that morning.

            As they left the wine bar and crossed the road Cheryl heard her friend drop something, it hit the gutter with a clink before disappearing down the drain.

    “Robyn, you’ve just dropped something down the …”

    “Oh, it’s nothing, just a meaningless key I should have thrown out ages ago”.

Julian Clarke © 2017

Linked to Poets United

Reapers Wall

Written to: Fireblossom Friday writing challenge "The Distorted Lens"

follow this link for more details Imaginary Gardens

Reapers Wall

Today started crispy cold, but nice, as

weather warnings came on the car speakers.

The grit truck missed a patch of black ice and

slowly my world turned topsy turvey. You

stole my ride with your phosphorescent eyes

in the bright velvet darkness of night, and

I saw my life dance to the ice maidens

tune waved along with her slim finger tips.

A scribe in a white coat spoke in strange tongues,

as a quill wrote in transparent black ink

filling an empty scroll full of weird scribbles.

And all the while the Tappers kept tapping

tappity tap, tappity tap, all night

long under a meridian green moon.

I looked through your hot phosphorescent eyes

when something cold burned against my chest.

Stone by stone up went a charred wall to the

monotonous rhythm of, beep, beep, beep.

At the topping out ball the Tappers skipped

to the frantic swish of the reapers scythe.

But from golden fields with ears of rye corn

came a warm whisper, hang in there my love.

Through snow winters blue and red summer nights

I fought with an electrical maelstrom.

The reaper was grim and seemed to weaken

as the scribes apprentice knocked down the wall.

And there was the green moon on a white screen

as my lightning bolt swords flashed up his scythe.

And soldiers clad in green gathered around

and cheered me on in victorious song.

Now golden fields smelled fresh and soft as silk

as they brushed across my tormented face.

Julian Clarke © Sept' 2017 

Linked to Imaginary Gardens

Linked to Poets United for Sunday's Pantry

The Follower ( flash fiction)

The Follower (flash fiction)

    Sally’s heart raced as her quickening footsteps echoed off the graffiti covered walls of the pedestrian underpass. She almost fell as she changed direction to avoid discarded condoms and syringes lying on the ground.  Sally could hear the heavy sound of footsteps a little way behind and caught a glimpse of a blue jacket with a flash of red as she glanced over her shoulder. And then she was out . . . out of the underpass and into the grey afternoon; but it felt like sunshine after her ordeal. Sally slowed to her normal pace and after catching her breath she said “Thank God” as she entered the High Street. It was full of Saturday shoppers and groups of teenagers milling around. Flustered and still a little panicky Sally said “Excuse me” to an elderly couple on one of the many benches. “Ok if I sit here?”
“Hello dear” the old lady replied, “Of course you can.” She said, putting her bag on her lap and shuffling along the seat.
    And then Sally saw him again. There was no mistake. “Oh shite” she said, under her breath as she recognised the blue quilted puffer jacket and red scarf the man two benches down was wearing. She fumbled in her bag and found her mobile “Where’s my purse?” she said “No, where the hell is it.”  In quite a state Sally started to text her boyfriend and all the while she discreetly kept looking over at the man as he took the Guardian newspaper from a plastic carrier bag. “Oh my God” Sally muttered to herself when she saw the black patch over his left eye partially covering an angry scar. He adjusted his hat to sit at an angle; it reminded her of how hitmen wore them in prohibition movies. He opened his newspaper and Sally grimaced, argh that’s gross she thought as she saw the deformity where his left hand little finger should have been.  She glanced down at her mobile - I'm being followed - send. Sally pulled her coat tight about herself as she clutched her phone in one hand and folded her arms tightly across her chest as the man reached down into his plastic bag; he stood up and started to walk towards……

© Julian Clarke 2017

Man in the moon

This is one that I'm re visiting from 2015, I thought it rather apt as today the moon is about 30,000 miles closer to earth than normal.

***************

The evil witch jealous of our love cursed you to a life on the moon. I caught a glimpse of you while you looked down in the light of its silvery halo. I wanted to hold you one more time and play with your soulful mind. And then you were gone as dark clouds of the night obscured my view of you.

Unshackling the chains of my earthly bonds I climbed the tallest tree. The lunar light back lit the cloud showing off its silvery lining. I heard you cry from way up high, a silvery thread has come lose, catch it as the cloud sails by.

Nearer and nearer drifted the cloud as the thread unravelled to the ground. But to my dismay the dark witch of the night started sewing with all her might. A gust of wind blew the cloud away as the dark witch made her final stitch. I could see a tear in the corner of your eye as you slowly came back into view. I sat in the top of the old oak tree my heart aching, Oh what can I do.

From the bough of the old oak a deep voice spoke, you once saved me from the woodman’s axe. To you, my dues I shall pay now climb onto my broad green leaf. A little unsure I held on tight as the night sky kept changing hues. With a shiver of his trunk the old oak said, good luck and fare thee well.

How the wind blue and carried me away. Up and up, swirling around right up to the stars I flew. You reached out and took my hand and pulled me into the white light of the silvery moon.

We skipped and danced upon the dusty ground, and then I looked and found I was alone. I crawled to the edge and saw you on the leaf floating all the way back down to home. To break the curse you had to return to earth and seek the white witch who dwells in the Spring Lands. For only she could break the spell and send the evil curse down to the depths of hell.

But meanwhile on a bright night if you look to the skies in June, you may just see a rugged face. For now; I am the man in the moon.

©Julian Clarke 2015


(to be continued with part 2 at a later date)

Dilemma

        Redundancy hit hard, really hard. Everything gone, being a somebody, the cars, the golfing trips to Spain. But Carol walking out with the kids, now that hurt. Could life get any worse?
    “You have a good day” the warden at the shelter for the homeless said.
    “Yeah, whatever” I muttered. 
        The wheelie bins stank of waste food, vomit and urine, but the old adage one man’s trash is another’s treasure. The first two rubbish bags did not live up to that, but the third,         “jeepers” I said, as I closed the canvas bag and briskly walked away. And then the dilemma started, the internal conflict. Hand it into the police, or not.

*

        The weeks passed and despondency had set in. 
    “Tony Johns?” I looked up from my cold mug of tea.
    “Yeah” I said, “what now?”
    “If you would come with us please” the policeman said.
        The detective inspector looked me in the eyes and said “the stolen property and jewellery is very valuable, and also of great sentimentality too” 
     “So what has that got to do with me?” 
     “Actually quite a lot” said the detective inspector, 
I could not believe I was hearing this “you’ve got to be joking”
        The woman in the azure suit walked over from the window and smiled “No Tony he is not joking and yes it’s of great sentimental value” I was starting to feel the winds of change when she said “my family can’t thank you enough for handing in our property and we would like you to accept this reward by way of thanks” 

*

        The reward enabled me to turn my life full circle, but I had no desire to be top dog with a flash car. And so here I am just trying to give something back.
“Be lucky” I said locking the door behind the last person to leave the shelter for the day. 

Julian Clarke © 2017