freedom costs money

More Sohail poetry.........

Fragmented relics contract.
Embryonic orb ablaze ruptures wintry expanse.

Stranded
on spacetime
canvas. Fused into
mosaic of dimensions.
Existing within a particle of

Phillip John Mitchell walked slowly down the centre of the road, he was naked, his flesh black with soot and smoke, and red with blood, his head ached on one side and his brow felt wet. Smoke and flames wrapped him in their silent embrace before the wind chased them away, the scene cleared briefly, and he saw he was not the only one; others were moving, trying to stand looking about them in dazed and calm acceptance. Then wind turned back on itself and the scene was gone, there was Mitchell, the road, and that far away ringing in his ears that was all he could hear…

Chapter 7

On his knees with his head against the wall Jeffrey could only listen to what went on around him. His hands were held behind his back with a plastic tie. It was twenty minutes since it had been confirmed from inside the contaminated zone that yes, it was just a case of cows falling from the sky and not the next 911. Gloria had been attempting to negotiate his release with the medic who was tending to her head wound.

Another contribution from Sohail!

Lying among the corpses of the forgotten,
I awoke to find birds, teacups, planets and stars
In constant motion

The humans that I met would dissolve into teardrops.

The Zero Hour, a random Chapter.
DCI Brecon Beacon looked out of the window of the luxury suite of the Cheshire Prussian Hotel, on the expensive side of Park lane. Outside the sun was barely making itself known despite the fact that it had been up for 23 minutes, by Beacon’s watch. Dull, half-hearted rain threw itself limply against the pane of glass and below maybe a hundred reporters pushed and shoved around the entrance to the Hotel. Four overwhelmed policemen were patiently loosing their voices shouting for the photographers to get back. Press, can’t lock ‘em up, can’t beat ‘em up…

Thought I'd submit this on behalf of my friend Sohail who lives in Manchester. He's just started writing poems again. This makes me happy!

Composed of mysterious atoms.
Part of nature’s brutal beauty.

She said "It's not enough to be here, when you're not

With your mistress your music"

She said "It's not enough that you try to make clear, if

I leave you alone you might lose it"

Go I won't let you

Is it too crowded there?
To get closer?
To my fair share?
Does it suit you?
To love a stupid boy
Who controls you
I lost the only war
With no soldiers

So here's an empty room
And yet it's full of

Detective Inspector Aaron Cardigan peered over Sergeant Finial’s shoulder at the fuzzy monochrome image that the computer monitor displayed. It showed a back street overshadowed by vast neo-classical buildings without windows; an estate car was parked in the street, tailgate open. Finial clicked onto the next image: it showed a man struggling under the weight of what looked like a urinal. It was a urinal. Whether he was unloading it from the car or loading it was unclear; he seemed about to drop the heavy urinal. Thank god he didn’t, mused Cardigan.

The following is one of a series of articles published in Apropos, the parish magazine of Rimmington Mains throughout 1978 and 1979; entitled On The Rocks, they were one man’s lament for the loss of the Britain of his youth, a Britain that he thought ought not be lost. The author, Major Laurence Alamein, was something of a war hero, fighting in North Africa under Montgomery (he captured an airstrip practically single handedly using only a Mills grenade and a captured Axis motorcycle) and later became Managing Director of Shoshone Oil. He died at Armley in 1985.